Hello there! I decided to create a master list of my works (even though I barely have any) just to organize it if ever someone wants to read(?) them.
Bluelock
A Day With Choki🌵
synopsis: you take care of nagi's pet cactus named "choki" as he went on his blue lock journey.
genre: fluff
content warnings: a few curse words
relationship: Nagi Seishiro x Reader
wc: 436
Hoping
synopsis: after a few years of not seeing each other, a unexpected reunion resurfaced the feelings buried long ago only to once again fall apart.
pairings: NAGI SEISHIRO X READER, NAGI SEISHIRO X MIKAGE REO
genre: modern au, pining, unrequited love, angst/hurt no comfort (not really)
wc: 730
Rest Up Well
sometimes your presence itself could be your biggest contribution to someone's life.
pairings: Nagi Seishiro x Reader
genre: fluff
word count: 366
DC
You Can't Take One Without The Other
Pairings: Damian Al Ghul & Twin!Reader
Content Warnings: mention of the word "abuse", nothing major, and not proof read
Word Count: 646
Gachiakuta
A Friend to an Average Joe
Just some headcanons on what it's like being Zanka's friend and a ficlet as to what led to the two of you becoming friends.
Pairings: Zanka Nijiku & Reader
Relationship: Platonic
Content Warning: Spoilers for Zanka's backstory
Word Count for the ficlet: 682
Word Count for the headcanons: 218
How to Cradle a Broken Boy
No matter how much of a shit heap of a world he lives in, Rudo will always find comfort in the warmth of his mother.
Pairings:
Rudo & Maternal Figure!Reader
Regto & Reader
Relationship: Familial
Genre: Angst & Fluff || Hurt/Comfort
Content notes/warnings:
Mentions of bullying
I used "Mother" but referred reader with gender neutral pronouns. Please do let me know if I miss any!:3
I tried to like not use [name] or [reader] to see how it goes. Hope it's not too confusing
I am yet to fully grasp the characters, so apologies for any ooc actions
Word Count: 1,307
authors note: I don't use the name Y/N ever in my fics because I don't like it, so you have a placeholder name: Muni Iruma. I never describe your features in this fanfic apart from the fact that you're a girl, so you can just replace the name with whatever your OC is. Also, this is a tad bit of an old fic, so I'm sorry if the writing style is annoying. I tried rewriting some parts, but I got lazy.
Scaramouche and Kunikuzushi were… interesting to grow up with.
Interesting.
You were friends with Kuni first.
You met him in Pre-K. It was so long ago that you don’t even remember picking him, or him picking you.
He was, in all honesty, your only friend.
He held your hand during nap time while the teacher pretended not to see. She called it “excessive affection” and laughed because she thought it was cute.
Kuni would pick you up before you sat in ant piles, kiss your paper cuts, peel ladybugs off the playground equipment with two cautious fingers so you could both watch them crawl.
He was quiet, but he was gentle.
Scara was the polar opposite.
You didn’t meet him so much as he noticed you.
He saw you in the sandbox with Kuni, laughing while you buried your shoes and tried to convince Kuni to eat sand. He’d never seen you before, despite being in the same class as him, but seeing his twin brother hanging out with some cute girl made something weird and too familiar go through him.
Jealousy, pure and undiluted.
Kuni was always first at everything. First to walk, first to read, first to get gold star stickers on worksheets.
Bright, smart, the “better” twin.
Ei loved Kuni more. Scara knew that even at a young age.
He hated them both for it.
You’d hold hands with Kuni during nap time, every nap time. You’d share crayons, and he’d tug you back when you wandered too close to the road outside the playground gate.
He was always careful with you. Scara watched all of that, simmering.
One day during nap time, when your fingers were laced with Kuni’s, and you were half asleep, Scara walked past your mat, “tripped,” and stomped on your hand.
Hard.
You heard the crunch of bone more than you felt it at first. Then the pain hit, and you screamed, loud. The teacher rushed over, and Kuni sat bolt upright, eyes wide.
It turned into a whole production. Tears, ice packs, phone calls. Scara was in the time-out corner with his arms crossed while the teacher scolded him, asking why he would hurt a girl like that, what was wrong with him. He just shrugged, face blank.
You cried, Kuni comforted you, of course. It was dramatic.
It was also just the beginning.
Scara is the type of boy who has a crush and responds to it by destroying everything within a two-meter radius, including the girl.
Back then, people flocked to Kuni because he was quiet, nice, and good at everything. They flocked to Scara because he was louder.
Scara was fun, outgoing, and extroverted.
Kuni thought before he did anything.
Scara never thought at all.
Scara would lie to classmates, “Kuni’s the boring twin,” he’d say on the playground, while kids listened. “He doesn’t know how to have fun. You’ll just turn into a loser if you want that as your best friend.”
And everyone believed him without a second thought.
Scara came into your orbit by force. He sat next to you at arts and crafts and kicked your chair. He’d steal your crayons, tell you that you didn't need them because your drawings sucked.
He was the class bully… and you were the next victim.
Bullies observe and use whatever makes their victim flinch.
He found out how much spiders scared you by accident when one crawled up onto the table and onto your worksheet, and you almost passed out.
After that… it became a game.
He’d push you into spiderwebs, hands on your shoulders, laughing while you shrieked.
He would pretend to drop spiders on your head, watch you crumple, and then smirk when you realized he was just lying.
He kicked ant piles toward your legs, threw sand in your hair, stole your snacks, and the list goes on.
And somehow, stupidly, you started putting yourself closer to him than Kuni.
Because for every mean thing he did, he would do something else. Sit on the curb with you afterward and let you cry while he patted your back. He’d kick anyone else who laughed at you. He’d snap at any boy who dared to call you a crybaby.
“Shut up,” he’d tell them. “Only I get to make her cry.”
Then, he’d shove a strawberry milk into your hands without looking at you, cheeks pink. “Stop crying. It’s annoying.”
Even though he was always the reason.
You eventually started to develop a crush on Scara, not because he was kind. Only because every time he’d bully you? He’d do what Kuni always does, comfort you after, and you’d forget about the mean.
By first grade, you and Scara were “dating,” in the way that meant he would sit next to you at lunch and play house with you at the playground. He asked you out at recess by stealing your hairclip and saying, “If you want it back, you’re my girlfriend now.”
And you said yes, smiling sweetly when he carefully placed the hairclip back onto your hair.
Kuni had you first.
Scara stole you from him with all the entitlement of a boy who decided something was his.
Twin rivalry.
You never stopped being friends with Kuni, but it didn’t matter. Scara had won the only game he cared about.
He had you.
You’ve been dating Scara for eleven years, almost twelve. You're both eighteen now… and this is just how your life is.
You wake up in your stupidly pink room, in your stupidly pink pink bed that is practically drowned in Sanrio plushies on the side. And, like most mornings, there's a heavy weight against your back.
Scara.
He’s sprawled behind you, one arm over your waist. His body is warm, not cold… human.
He’s wearing a dark hoodie and red flannel pajama pants. His red eyeliner from last night is still on, obviously smeared, with dark circles under his eyes; his hair is a mess, as usual.
You stare up at the ceiling, trying to wake up, then you tilt your head back a little. “Scara,” you murmur.
He doesn't move at all. It's not surprising; he's a heavy sleeper. But it's so ridiculous compared with his twin brother Kuni, who never gets any sleep because he's a light sleeper who wakes at the slightest touch.
You twist in his hold, rolling onto your back, then onto your other side to face him. Your legs tangle in the sheets, your knee coming up to rest against his thigh, and you try again, louder. "Scara."
He lets out a low and rough groan that almost sounds like a growl, because he, like most people, hates waking up.
His eyes open, unfocused, finding your face through the blur of sleep, and without a word, without even being fully conscious, he leans in and presses his mouth to yours.
It's lazy and clumsy, a half-awake kiss. He kisses you like he's seeing if you'd pull away first, daring you to. He kisses you like he's daring you to pull away first. You don't. You kiss him back, your fingers brushing his jaw, your mouth moving against his in the slow rhythm.
He pulls back with a soft click of both of your mouths, his eyes already half shut again. “Morning,” he rasps.
“Good morning,” you say, voice still carrying sleep.
He lets his head fall back on the pillow, one arm folding under it. The other stays around your waist. You wiggle out just enough to reach for your phone on the nightstand, and you can already see the fuck-ton of notifications you got overnight and well… right now.
Scara watches you, totally unimpressed, but also trying to stay awake.
You open TikTok first, clicking on the OOTD video you posted yesterday, already checking at the numbers.
3.2 million views.
I mean, it’s not really surprising, you do have 10 million followers on TikTok.
You check the comments, and most of them are people calling you a doll or a princess, asking for links or a makeup tutorial, or threatening to steal your closet or trick you into leaving your window open.
You smile, scrolling through them, and you hear Scara huff beside you.
"Of course," he mutters, voice still scratchy with sleep. "First thing you do when you wake up is worship the algorithm."
You grin, eyes not leaving the screen. "Good morning to you, too, influencer boy."
He rolls his eyes and reaches over you, snatching the phone from your hand.
“Hey,” you protest, pouting.
He ignores you, swatting your hand away when you try to grab it back, and squints at your screen, scrolling through the comments with his thumb.
You give up trying to get it back and just lie on his chest, looking at what he's seeing from below.
"'I want to be her,'" he reads in a high, mocking voice. "'I'd kill to be in her room, or her house.'" He scrolls. "Please. You'd cry the first time you saw Dottore's basement. Shut the fuck up."
You giggle at his commentary as he continues scrolling.
“‘Drop the blush routine.’ Yeah, drop dead,” he mutters. “Half of you don’t wash your pillowcases.”
"Stop bullying my followers," you say, even though you're laughing into his chest.
Scara goes to your follower list and clicks on his profile. He has 15 million followers, most of his TikToks are those stupid viral dances, thirst traps, and horror movie commentary.
He’s big on anything horror, especially the backrooms. He’s a moderator on the Reddit community for the backrooms and a mod on the Discord server.
But he’s not one of those gross mods that stay in their room all day rotting. If anything, he never stays still; he's just lazy in the morning like every other person on earth.
He only follows 2 people on TikTok: you and Kuni. Sometimes he follows Sora or Childe, then blocks them the second either of them pisses him off.
He’s already doomscrolling through Kuni’s recent TikToks on your phone. Kuni has more followers than you and Scara, 20 million. He posts similar content to Scara's; his comments just have more girls thirsting over him than Scara's, even though the fans can’t tell them apart.
"Disgusting," Scara says quietly, staring at Kuni's follower count. "They have no taste."
“You’re just jealous,” you sing.
He tosses your phone back onto your chest. “Of what?” he scoffs. “Being liked? No thanks.”
You clutch your phone and roll your eyes because you know he is jealous of Kuni. He always is… A little. Not enough to admit, plenty enough to show.
It does go both ways at times…
The twins share everything, even resentment.
You roll out of bed before he can drag you back in.
You and Scara go downstairs still in pajamas, holding hands. The staircase is wide, the banister carved with intricate detail, the foyer all-white marble, and the ceilings high. Your house is too big, even with four teenagers and a mad scientist in it.
Dottore’s voice is the first thing you hear.
“…you cannot possibly get detention for ‘implied arson,’ Sora. Do you even hear yourself?”
Kunikuzushi is already at the kitchen island when you round the corner. It's normal for Scara and Kuni to come over for breakfast and dinner every day. They're your next-door neighbors, which makes the commute approximately 45 seconds if Scara walks slowly and 15 if Kuni's hungry.
When Ei abandoned the twins at 13, Dottore stepped in before CPS could get involved and became the closest thing to a parent they've ever consistently had.
She left on a business trip, saying it’ll only be 2 weeks… It’s been years.
Kuni is already ready for school; he's always ready before everyone else. His hair is perfect, not a strand out of place, and his eyeliner is clean, unlike Scara's smudged remnants. He's holding his phone up, camera on, filming because he's always filming. Right now, the camera is aimed at Dottore, who's absolutely gutting Sora, and Kuni's expression is pure delight at this perfect content.
He's in a white t-shirt with one of those vintage MMA alternative designs on it, a black long-sleeve layered underneath, baggy shorts with a studded belt, silver chains hanging off the side, and designer sneakers that cost more than some people's rent.
Sora is on the other side of the island, slouched so low in his chair that he's practically horizontal. His blue hair with black streaks is messy, but he's dressed, which is more than you'd expect at this hour. Blue MMA shirt, black zip-up jacket, denim jeans, chains, rings. He's tall, unlike Scara and Kuni, unlike you, despite being your twin brother. He got Dottore's height gene, that shithead. He looks like a teenage, punked-out version of your father, which is kinda funny when they stand side by side.
He’s also currently getting absolutely annihilated.
Dottore’s at the stove, sleeves rolled up, holding a coffee mug in his hand, while he cooks at the same time.
He looks like any other overworked single father making breakfast… If you ignore the faint smell of the lab that never quite leaves him.
"Mun," Sora says first, spotting you, his voice flooding with relief so tangible you could bottle it. "Finally. Come tell Dad it wasn't that serious."
"Which part?" Dottore says dryly, not looking up from the stove. "The part where you brought a lighter to school? Or the part where you told a teacher you were 'testing how fast the curtains would light up.'"
"It was a joke," Sora complains, his arms crossing over his chest, his jaw setting in a way that looks exactly like Dottore when Dottore is pretending he's not angry. "I didn't even light it."
Kuni shifts the camera between Sora and Dottore, whoever's talking, but it stays on Sora the longest because his reactions are better content. Sora's expressions go through entire emotional arcs in the span of one sentence.
Fans love anything, even personal lives.
“It’s only funny to you until someone dies,” Dottore replies, plating eggs without looking.
Sora rolls his eyes at how dramatic he believes his father is being, which is impressive considering Sora is the most dramatic person in this house.
You snicker, because watching Dottore get mad at Sora instead of you is one of life's purest pleasures.
Scara squeezes your hand and lets go to make a beeline for the coffee maker.
“Morning,” Kuni says, lowering the phone just enough to give you a soft smile. “You look cute.”
You’re literally in your pajamas and bed hair. He says it like you’re in a couture gown.
“Shut up,” you mumble, but you smile back.
The phone shifts to catch Sora's sulk in the background, Dottore's half-turned profile, everything. Kuni tilts the angle when Scara steps into frame with his coffee.
“Good morning, internet,” Kuni says lightly. “What you just witnessed and are currently witnessing is ‘Zandik trying to raise four feral children alone.’”
“Don’t call me that on camera,” Dottore says mildly, not turning around.
“You think I’m keeping this audio?” Kuni replies. “Relax, Dad 2.”
Scara snorts into his mug.
“Dad,” Scara parrots, leaning back against the counter, mug in hand, and you and Sora both visibly cringe every time he calls Dottore that because it sounds wrong coming from him, and he knows it and does it on purpose. “Can I skip school today?”
“No,” Dottore says.
“See,” Scara announces to the invisible audience. “Abuse.”
Kuni laughs softly behind the camera; it sounds real, not at all like the fake polite one he uses at school.
“Abuse is when I have to sit through another meeting with your principal,” Dottore says. He finally turns, setting a plate of eggs and toast on the island. “Eat, all of you. Muni, you especially.”
You slide into your usual stool next to Kuni. Scara claims the one on your other side, crowding you in between them the way it always is, your elbows bumping theirs, your space shared without negotiation.
You’re always in the middle.
Kuni taps your elbow once with his phone, a silent “look here” cue. You glance up automatically.
He mouths 'say hi'. You roll your eyes, but you waggle your fingers at the camera anyway.
“Say good morning, chat,” Kuni says, angling toward Scara next.
“Good morning, parasites,” Scara says without even looking at the camera.
Kuni just smirks, leaning in to mutter, “They love when he’s like this.” He says it quietly enough that the mic probably won’t pick it up; he’ll edit it out if it does.
“Because they’re sick,” Scara answers anyway, thanks to his acute hearing.
You eat your eggs, and let their voices wash over you.
Dottore is still listing all of Sora’s academic crimes in the background. “Another detention means another meeting I have to go to. Do you know how many grants I could write in the time I spend listening to that woman mispronounce my name?”
"Tell her to call you Doctor Z," Scara suggests, grabbing a piece of toast off your plate without asking, his hand already halfway to his mouth by the time you gasp. "Lean into it."
“I’m not a rapper,” Dottore says. “And stop stealing your girlfriend’s food.”
You hide your smile in Scara's coffee mug, the one you just stole from him mid-sip, bringing it to your mouth as he looks at his empty hand and then at you, and he rolls his eyes, way too tired to do anything about getting robbed.
Kuni swings the camera toward you for a moment. Catching the way you and Scara keep stealing each other's food back and forth like it's a sport, the way Sora kicks Scara's ankle under the island as he storms out of the kitchen, and the way Scara kicks back harder without looking, his foot connecting with Sora's shin hard enough that Sora swears from the hallway.
Clip farm.
An hour later, you’re back in your room, dressed.
Kuni made up your bed for you; he even arranged your abomination of plushies. You change in your walk-in closet because you have 2 teenage boys in your room. You pick out a black polka-dot babydoll dress and pair it with a light pink cardigan. White socks with frills because you apparently lost your favorite leg warmers.
You step out to see Kuni in your pink gaming chair, editing footage from a week ago from some abandoned mall you 3 filmed at. Kuni’s good at editing out what could get… well, Scara canceled. The fans love how mean and sassy Scara is, but Kuni can’t let them see everything, because that’s not a good look.
Scara’s on your bed, already dressed, probably dressed up in your room when you went into your closet. He’s in a dark Deftones tee, a grey long-sleeve shirt under it, baggy jean shorts, and a studded belt. And he’s wearing expensive sneakers, scandalously on your bed. His eyeliner is purposefully smudged now, hair messy, but artfully so.
He pats on the bed, and you plop down to sit in front of him, he’s already doing your hair like he always does every morning.
He parts your hair with his fingers, quick and slightly rough, separating strands into sections and working small portions into micro braids. He ties off the ends with pink bows, pulling them from the little bag of hair accessories you keep on your nightstand.
The braids are not perfectly even. Some are thicker than others. Some bows are crooked, and you can feel at least one section where he definitely grabbed too much hair and just committed to it instead of fixing it.
It doesn't matter, you love it.
Kuni glances over from your PC, eyes scanning the back of your head. “Do you want me to fix it when he’s done?” he asks. “Unless you want someone taller than you at school to see how uneven the braids look at the top.”
You glare at him. "I like it when he does it."
Scara smirks behind you, his fingers still working. "See," he says. "She has taste."
"Interesting word choice," Kuni murmurs, already looking back at the screen.
Scara finishes the last braid, tying it off with a tug that's aggressive enough to make you squeak, your head jerking back slightly.
“Done,” he announces.
You get up and stand in front of the mirror to check his work. It looks good. The braids are different sizes, and one bow is definitely at a weird angle, but it's distinctly his. You can tell the difference between Scara's braids and Kuni's braids by feel alone, and you prefer the version that isn't perfect.
Kuni is visible behind you in the reflection, his eyes tracking over your face, then down, then back up in a quick assessment. He looks away the moment he notices you watching him watch you.
Scara gets up from the bed and walks behind you, looking at himself in the mirror. "I'd fuck me," Scara says conversationally.
"You'd fuck drywall if it looked back at you," Kuni says without looking up from the computer.
"Correct," Scara nods. "I have standards, but I also have issues."
You giggle, sliding your rings on from the dresser, the ones you're too lazy to put away in their actual box.
You’re comfortable in this little triangle. Too comfortable.
"Time," Kuni says, checking his phone. "We gotta go. I wanna stop and get coffee on the way."
"We have coffee here," Dottore says, walking by your doorway with convenient timing.
“I want overpriced bean water, Zandik,” Kuni says back.
Dottore mutters something about ungrateful children in the hall.
Scara grabs his keys off your nightstand, spinning them around his finger. "Let's go ruin someone's day."
Scara’s car is… expensive.
It’s a black sports car, sleek, always clean, with dark leather seats. Bought with Ei’s money, of course, while she’s probably on some other continent pretending her sons don’t exist.
They use her money like it’s nothing.
You sit in the passenger seat like always, Kuni and Sora in the back. Kuni's already on his phone, doomscrolling through notifications. Sora's looking out the window with one earbud in, detached from the rest of the car.
Scara backs out of the massive driveway one-handed, his other hand on the wheel, vapes once, exhaling out the window.
“Don’t blow that shit in my face,” you say.
“I’d never,” he lies.
He turns on the radio, then immediately plugs in his phone instead. Deftones playing in the car, bass thrumming under your feet.
You lean your head against the window for a second, watching the houses glide by. The neighborhood is all glass and stone and pretend modesty. Manicured lawns, security cameras, and cars that cost more than some people’s houses.
"The comments on our newest YouTube video are already feral," Kuni reports from the back, his voice carrying over the music. "Someone said they'd pay money just to watch you sleep."
“Block them,” Scara says.
“I pinned it and asked them how much,” Kuni says.
You snort, then try to cover it when Scara glares at you.
Traffic is light. It never takes long to get to school; the distance between your house and the gates is mostly psychological anyway.
Sora gets out of the car before Scara has fully parked. He’s already sliding into some friend group by the front steps by the time you get your seatbelt undone.
You climb out, Scara comes around the front of the car to you, and your hands automatically find each other.
Kuni slams the back door shut and stretches, his shirt riding up, a pale strip of stomach flashing before it falls back down. He catches you looking, gives you a tiny, knowing smirk, then pretends it never happened.
The halls are always loud in the morning.
You and the twins stop by your lockers. Theirs are on either side of yours, Scara on the left, Kuni on the right. It’s not assigned that way, obviously. Things just... get arranged around them.
Always in the middle.
You spin your combination, pulling out the lock once you get it right. The inside is covered in stickers, small Polaroids, and a crooked, printed-out screenshot of one of your Instagram posts where someone wrote an entire essay in the comments about how "people like you shouldn't be allowed to exist."
You kept it because anyone who writes a full paragraph of hate instead of just blocking you deserves to have their dedication immortalized.
Scara leans his shoulder against the metal next to your locker, his eyes scanning the hallway with narrowed eyes. Kuni's scrolling on his phone again, his screen angled away from anyone passing who might try to peek.
A girl walks by, whispering to her friend, her eyes flicking to Scara with the quick, nervous glance of someone who wants to be brave enough to look twice but isn't.
“She looks like she reeks of cheap hairspray and daddy issues,” Scara says, voice low enough only you and Kuni hear.
Kuni just hums. “Her dad’s in jail,” he says casually, not looking up from his phone.
You glance at him, eyebrows pulling together. "How do you even know that?"
“She cried about it in the counselor’s office last semester,” Kuni says, glancing at you just once, and back to his phone. “Thin walls.”
Scara’s mouth curls. “Hot,” he says. “Her dad’s a criminal? Cute. My girl’s dad is a monster scientist, too. Maybe they’d get along.”
You elbow him lightly in the ribs.
Another girl walks by.
She keeps her head down, shoulders pulled in, wearing a plain outfit and a cheap backpack, which she holds by the straps with both hands. She walks like she's trying to compress herself into a smaller version of her body, as if she takes up less space, fewer things can happen to her.
Scara starts laughing before she’s even out of earshot.
"Oh my god," he says under his breath, head tilting. "Look. It's her."
You follow his gaze.
Right.
Her.
Last week, after school, she waited by the side doors, her face red and her hands shaking so badly that she almost dropped her phone. She confessed to Scara in a breathless little speech that he "seems misunderstood" and that she "likes him even if other people think he's scary."
He stared at her for a full ten seconds. Then he said, "You 'like' me? You can't even hold your binder without shaking. You'd piss yourself if I actually touched you. Go crush on someone who gives a fuck."
She burst into tears right there, out loud. Now she walks faster whenever she feels his eyes on her, every day, taking the long way around when she can.
Kuni looks up from his phone, tracking the back of her head as she disappears around the corner. "No way," he says, his grin building slowly. "She still comes in the same door."
“Yeah,” Scara snorts. “You’d think after last week, she’d transfer schools after bawling her eyes out from a rejection.”
Kuni's eyes stay on the end of the hallway where she vanished. "You were so fucking rude,” he says, but it’s toned like a compliment.
"She cried on my shoes," Scara says, crossing his arms. "What the fuck was I supposed to do, hug her?"
"She told you she's liked you since ninth grade," Kuni reminds him, his smile widening. "Almost 3 years of crushing on you just to get called stupid to her face. That's impressive."
"She started it." Scara narrows his eyes, ragebaiting himself in real time, working up an indignation that nobody asked for. "Coming up to me with that shaking little voice like I'm going to suddenly forget who I am and start holding hands behind the bleachers."
He mimics her, pitching his voice high and wobbly. "'I-I just think you're actually really kind inside. I can fix you, Scara…'"
He barks out a laugh at his own impression. "If you think I'm kind, you deserve permanent brain damage."
Kuni actually laughs out loud at that. “Did you see her fucking face?” he says, leaning his shoulder against the locker, phone forgotten at this point. “She did that ugly cry. The full lip wobble, red nose, losing oxygen thing.”
“She sounded like a broken vacuum,” Scara says. “If I had to listen to that for more than thirty seconds, either kill me or I’d kill myself.”
"She probably went home and journaled about it," Kuni muses, his head tilting. "Wrote something like, 'today he showed me his true self.'"
“Yeah,” Scara says. “And his true self thinks she looks like she smells like wet cardboard.”
Kuni hums, his expression settling into something thoughtful. His eyes are still at the end of the hall.
"She's not even that ugly," he says. "Just… weak. Insecure. Which makes her even more unattractive. It's pathetic. Liking someone who's mean to you on purpose? Imagine having that little self-respect."
The words sit in your chest a little wrong… You try to ignore it.
Scara exhales, amused. “If you’re going to throw yourself at a red flag, at least pick one with a chance of catching you.”
“She would fold if you raised your voice at her in the wrong tone,” Kuni says. “I kind of want you to tell her you and Muni fucked in the stairwell she studies in. Just to see if she cries again.”
“She’d probably thank me,” Scara says. “She’d be like, 'at least he was honest, and talked to me.’”
You stay quiet. When they get like this, mean almost at the same frequency, it feels like stepping into a current. You don’t want to talk and draw attention to yourself; it’s stupid.
Kuni sighs suddenly and leans into you. His head drops onto your shoulder, his cheek pressing against the fabric of your cardigan.
It’s casual; he’s always been like this. He does it to his “friends” too, boys and girls alike, draping himself around them, hugging them from behind.
Touch is his favorite knife.
You lift your hand without thinking and scratch your fingers lightly through his hair. He closes his eyes for a second, leaning into it the way a cat leans into a hand, then straightens up, and he's back to his phone.
Scara watches, head tilted slightly. He doesn't say anything. He's always known his brother to be touchy. He knows Kuni would cling to a lamppost if it let him, and the way Kuni touches you isn't any different from how Kuni touches anyone.
So it really doesn’t bother him.
… It should.
The bell rings.
"First period," Kuni says, pushing off the locker, reaching for your hand in one smooth motion. "Come on, Muni. Let's go pretend we care."
Scara makes a face. "Enjoy. I'm going to go harass Mr. Delgado until he moves my seat back next to Sora."
“He separated you because you wouldn’t stop tag-teaming your classmates,” you remind him.
"And yet," Scara says, cupping your face in both hands, tilting your chin up so he can look down at you, "I suffer."
He leans in and kisses you on the lips. Quick, firm, in front of anyone watching. "Text me when Demi pisses you off."
"Ughhhh, why did you remind me she's in my first period?" You groan, already dreading it. "And she won't, anyway."
"You're cute when you lie," he says, already turning, already sauntering down the hall.
You and Kuni head the other direction.
You sit in the back of the classroom, always. It's better in the back for a lot of reasons, but the real reason is simple: it's easier to cheat, and Kuni lets you copy his work.
Well, that’s the polite version.
In reality, he slides his notebook on your side of the desk, answers already done and perfect, and if you even think about not writing them down, he’ll fill in your sheet himself, copying your handwriting.
The teacher drones at the front about something unimportant. You couldn't care less. Kuni cares for you, and that's enough.
The seat in front of you is occupied by Demi.
Fucking Demi.
Demi is one of those girls who always looks like she’s on her way to yell at a manager. Bleached blonde hair that was blonde when she was younger, but she can’t cope with her natural blonde hair turning brunette, so she bleaches it instead. You hate the smell of her cheap perfume, her lashes that always look too thick for her eyeshape, you tried to tell her, but she’s a bitch.
She is bratty, mean, and cheap.
She is also very obsessed with your boyfriend.
Demi has had a crush on Scara since approximately the second grade. She wants him like it’s her job. She flirts in circles, laughs too loudly around him like a pick me, calls you “bestie” in the same minute she whispers to him that he “deserves better.”
You have tried to be her friend because you’re nice, and you hate only being around boys. You were raised to be pleasant; she clearly wasn’t. You held her hair back once at a party when she threw up in the sink.
She was still a bitch in the morning.
She is also annoyingly one of the only people at school who actually recognize that Scara and Kuni are two different people, rather than some interchangeable twin package.
She only wants Scara.
It would be almost flattering if it weren’t pathetic.
Demi flips her hair over her shoulder at one point, letting it fall on your desk on purpose. You wipe it off and ignore the urge to use scissors next time she flips her hair.
"Did you see his story last night?" she whispers to the girl beside her, not even pretending she doesn't know you can hear. "He was in Muni's room again. I swear, I'll make my room look like hers so he'll never leave. Ever."
You stare at your worksheet, trying not to cringe.
Kuni taps his pen on his paper twice, causing you to glance sideways at him. His profile is blank, but his eyes are on the back of Demi’s head.
Your phone buzzes against your thigh. You slip it out, holding it low under the desk.
Group chat: “Rotten Family”
Participants: Sora, You, Kuni, Scara.
Sora:
I passed by demi in the hall before class
why the fuck does she smell like a vape shop and a goodwill bin combined
Scara:
because god hates us
You bite back a laugh, trying to keep quiet, thumbs already flying.
You:
she’s in front of me again. kill me please
Kuni's screen lights up on his desk, bright in your peripheral. He doesn't bother hiding it because the teacher is facing the board and Kuni has never been caught doing anything in his life.
Kuni:
i could “accidentally” spill my coffee on her later
Scara:
do it
record it if she cries
that would make good content
Sora:
why can’t we just beat her ass already
equal rights equal fights
You:
no :(
be nice
Scara:
no :)
You glance up and see Demi shifting in her seat, digging in her bag for lip gloss.
She pops the cap, swipes it on with that practiced little pout, still facing the front. She doesn’t turn around, she doesn’t even look at you. She probably thinks she’s winning something just by existing in the same school as your boyfriend.
Kuni's knee bumps your thigh under the desk. You glance at him. His eyes slide to yours, giving you the tiniest are you seeing this shit look, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to not laugh.
As if she can feel his attention, Demi finally half turns in her chair.
Not toward you, though. Toward him.
“Kuniii,” she says, the name stretched into something sugary. “Do you have a pen I can borrow? Mine’s like totally dying.”
You watch her, annoyed, because of the way she says his name, her cheap lip gloss, the way she’s ignoring you like you aren’t literally right there.
And also because what the fuck does she mean by her pen dying? She’s just saying anything these days…
You expect Kuni to say no. Tell her to ask you, ignore her, something. He's the school's golden boy, but he's never really liked Demi. She's been orbiting you and Scara for years, and Kuni usually treats her like she's ambient noise.
But it's not his real one. Not the one from this morning in the kitchen when Scara called Dottore "dad." This is the soft, pretty one. The one he uses on girls he's decided are worth playing with.
"Of course," he says, his voice warm, dropping just slightly. "Anything for you."
He slides his pen forward over the edge of the desk, and his fingers brush hers when she takes it. On purpose. His fingertips linger on her knuckles for half a second longer than any pen exchange has ever required in the history of borrowing pens.
You knit your eyebrows, confused.
Demi knits her eyebrows too, a little thrown, then recovers with a smile.
“Thanks,” she says, twirling the pen between her fingers. “You’re like, the only reliable guy in this class.”
Am I?" Kuni says, his head tilting, his eyes not leaving her face, holding eye contact. "That's cute. I thought you only had room in that brain for one Raiden twin."
You stare at her face, not even trying to be subtle about watching her reaction, and she doesn't glance back at you. She's avoiding you so thoroughly that it's almost its own form of acknowledgment.
Demi laughs, too high, too breathy. “I-I mean… Scara’s just so different,” she says. “You’re more like… safe.”
Kuni’s smile gets bigger.
“Safe,” he repeats. “I can be unsafe if you want, sweetheart.”
You almost gag at the pet name.
Demi twirls a strand of bleached hair around her finger. "You're suchhh a flirt," she says, leaning closer to him. "I didn't know you talked like that off camera."
"You've never asked," he says, and he still hasn't broken eye contact, not once, not even to blink. "Next time you're done staring at my brother, you should try actually looking at me."
The implication is gross, blatant.
Demi eats it up. She giggles, her lashes fluttering as she says, “Maybe I will.”
You aren't jealous. That's not the feeling in your chest. You're uncomfortable, which is different. What do people do in uncomfortable situations?
Go on their phone.
You drop your gaze, already opening the group chat.
You:
why is kuni flirting with demi right now
Scara replies almost instantly.
Scara:
LMFAO what
Kuni's phone buzzes on the desk next to his notebook. He ignores it. He doesn't flinch, doesn't glance at it, still smiling at Demi like she's something he might step on or something he might keep… It's hard to tell.
You reach over and silence his ringer because you know the group chat is about to go off.
You:
she turned around to borrow a pen and he’s giving her the princess treatment
this is so fucking weird to watch
Sora:
say the word and i’ll dump my food at lunch on her
Scara:
nah let him
she’s just as lame as every other girl in this school
first they slobber over me, then the second i tell them to fuck off they act like any twin is good enough
You:
i dont think she even cares its kuni
she’s doing it to piss me off
Scara:
it’s just kuni
why would that piss you off??
whatever
let her audition
she’d never get picked anyway
she’s a background extra with main character delusions
Another message pops up, Scara clearly on a roll.
Scara:
tell her if she wants attention she should try a personality instead of lip gloss
i could spit in a cup and it would have more depth
You choke on a laugh, covering it with a cough.
Sora:
bro i’m actually mad now
why do you get all the roaches in your class
mine just smell like axe body spray
Scara:
because god hates her more than us
balance
You steal a glance at Kuni.
He's still leaning forward, elbow on his desk, chin resting in his hand, looking at Demi like she's genuinely interesting, and the act is so convincing that if you didn't know him, you'd believe it was real too.
"So," he says to her, his voice dropping into something quieter, almost conspiratorial. "When are you going to stop wasting your time on someone who only knows how to be mean to you and try someone who might actually make you feel good about yourself?"
What?
That being the first thing you hear when you decide to listen again is insane.
Demi’s lips part. You can see the moment the words register, the way her eyes widen just slightly, the way her body leans forward half an inch like she's being pulled. “I’d… have to think about it,” she says, and she's clearly loving every second of this.
“Think fast,” he replies, “I get bored very easily.”
She giggles again, turning back to the front as the teacher calls for attention, clutching the pen he gave like it’s more than just a pen.
Let’s hope she doesn’t pull a Yuri from DDLC…
You glance at your phone again.
Scara:
you okay, muni?
or do i need to start a fire drill and drag you out of there
You:
i’m fine it’s just gross
she’s not even trying to hide that she’s doing this to get a reaction
Scara:
she’s been trying to get a reaction out of me since we were 10
only reaction she’s ever getting is me praying she trips down the stairs
Sora:
amen
You exhale and slip your phone back into your pocket.
imagine Lohen with a partner who is a baker with healing abilities!
You are a sweet, kind baker who lives on the outskirts of Mondstadt! Your home is also your workplace, your bakery! It's a cozy, welcoming environment and most of the knights of favonious visit to relax and enjoy your pastries!
But your pastries contain a special ingredient! No. It's not poison. It's your healing magic! Since you aren't on the battlefield with others, you wanted to incorporate your healing ability in a helpful way, and since you loved baking, you decided to combine the two together!
Everyone in Mondstadt was aware and grateful for how lovely you were!
And.. everyone included that one guy.
Vice Captain Lohen of the 5th company.
You had no issues with him, but you've heard the rumors about him. He was a sadomasochist who always has a taste for blood and battle.. They talked about him like he was a campfire story or urban legend! You haven't met him yourself, but surely those rumors were just rumors. Right?
That was until you got to see him first-hand.
It was another peaceful night at your home, and you were just finishing with closing the bakery for the night! But you begin to hear strange noises from outside. It was unexpected and unnerving considering that this rarely happens, but when it does.. it doesn't mean anything good. So, you took a small peek out your window to see what was happening. And what you saw was... something.
It was Lohen! And he was fighting a horde of monsters by himself! Oh my goodness, he could get seriously hurt! Or worse!
You ran to the kitchen to grab a knife and ran to the scene as fast as you could! Hopefully Lohen was okay and you weren't too lat-
Ah-
It looks like he dealt with the horde by himself, all the monsters are down! You looked a bit ridiculous with the knife in your hand.
But Lohen looks bruised up! You ran to him and offered to patch his wounds with ointments and your special cream puffs and he accepted your offer!
Bruises and all, Lohen was smiling, he had a real goofy smile too.. does he not care about his wounds? Or is he used to this?
You sat him down and began to clean his wounds gently, during the cleaning, the two of you begin to talk! You asked him why he was fighting a bunch of monsters at night.. he responded: "I was going on a nightly stroll! Nothing out of the ordinary! These cream puffs are amazing by the way! I like the tingling sensation it gives.. hehe."
Lohen didn't want to admit it out loud but it felt so, so.. good. And your pastries were divine! He didn't know that they could also heal his wounds! He's so happy that he got to meet you, even if it was like this! You were so kind and gracious to him!! What a sweetheart! Your like a bunny surrounded by a bunch of wolves..
So this was the famous baker everyone was talking about! What a silly way for the two of you to meet! Maybe he should lure a horde of monsters in front of your bakery so he can come in and save you!! Then afterward, you can take care of him.. he wants to feel your warm. Soft fingers trail over his burning wounds again and again!!
𝒞ospℓαყer!𝐵oყfriend (𝒮cαrαmouche & 𝐿ohen) x AFAB!𝑅eader
꒰ 𝑀ODERN 𝒜U ꒱
🕸️️๋࣭ ⭑ Summary: Your boyfriend looks exactly like Scαrαmouche in real life, and he's built a massive TikTok following from cosplaying him. One day, while he's filming, you see Lohen's burst animation leak and lose every functioning brain cell you have. He notices. So he does what any normal, well-adjusted person would do… fucks you in the Scαrαmouche cosplay until you forget Lohen's name. And when that doesn't fully work? He shows up in a Lohen cosplay you didn't know he ordered, in your bedroom, just to prove he can still be the one you fall apart for.
Warnings (cw) .ᐟ cracking in cosplay ꒰ roleplaying ꒱, blindfolding, degradation, rough sex, near-blackout from choking, creampie ꒰ a lot... ꒱ , oral ꒰ f and m receiving ꒱, mild cnc undertones ꒰ consensual roleplay framing ꒱, established relationship, manhandling, suspended 69 position, aftercare, lohen nation vs scaranation...
Word count .ᐟ 16k+
𖦹.`` ꉂ🕸️ Author's note: This is a concept I had for a fat while (like years, not just months) bcuz of those TikToks of ppl dating a cosplayer and they'd flex about it, and I finally, finally put a cosplayer x reader into writing. Thank you to my wonderful, smart, gorgeous bestest friend @vvalentiqq, who helped me with this, especially with the crazy ass sex positions, so props to her!! And this, as always, is cross-posted onto AO3.
"Ugh, quit blinking, you keep making me mess up, Kuni!" You snap, yanking your boyfriend by the jaw closer to you.
He opens his right eye, the one you already applied eyeliner on, and glares, his eye rolling before closing back again. "I'm not blinking, and I'm staying perfectly still. It's your fault if you mess up, not mine. Don't get mad at me that you're shitty at this."
You take a deep breath, repressing the urge to slap him hard in the face, because you know it's useless. Your boyfriend lives to ragebait the shit out of you. You don't say anything in response; you scoot closer to his standing frame, your feet dangling off the bathroom counter as you continue working on his left eye.
"Do you want the wing straight up or straight out?" You ask, pausing with one hand on his jaw, and the other on his cheek, with the eyeliner hovering right above his lashline.
Kuni opens both of his eyes this time, stares straight at you, and rolls his eyes at your question like it should be obvious, "Neither? Obviously." He narrows his eyes, crossing his arms as he adds, "When have you ever seen me with that? You're my girlfriend, you're supposed to know that it goes out slanted. Not up, not straight. Slanted."
You narrow your eyes back at him, tightening your grip on his jaw in retaliation, "How am I supposed to know when you're ultra specific about everything and change your answer every time I ask? Two days ago, you told me to make it straight."
He flicks his eyes to the side like he's side-eyeing some invisible camera, and his eyes look annoyingly perfect when he does it. With the base shadow on his lids and the dark smudge along his lower lash line, and the contacts he doesn't need to wear.
His natural eyes are blue, but he insists on wearing indigo colored contacts because it's "more accurate", and you've learned not to argue with him about Scaramouche lore because you will lose. Every single time.
He glances back at you, his tone dry, "I told you that because last time was Xiao, not Scaramouche like today. Obviously. How many times do I need to say it for you to understand?"
You glance at him, copying his dry tone, "Just one more time, and I'll poke this pen through your eyelid. You wouldn't need someone to do your eyeliner by then."
He gives you a challenging smirk in response, "Do it, then. You wouldn't get that far to do any actual damage. I'll sue you and use the settlement money to hire someone who can actually do eyeliner."
You don't dignify that with a response. You tilt his head back with your grip on his jaw, angling it so you can drag the liner across his lash line in one smooth stroke.
You smile involuntarily when it comes out clean and matches the other side perfectly. It always comes out good when he stops being a little bitch about it… which is never, but today sufficed that never.
"The other side matches," you say, leaning back to check your work, watching as his eyes open slowly like he's unsure if you're done or not. "Perfect, like always, because I did it. Not you."
He scoffs, stepping back and moving toward the bathroom mirror, examining just what you're calling 'perfection'. You watch as he tilts his face to the left, then right, and as he leans in, he narrows his eyes.
The eyeliner is actually the last step of a much longer process. This part, the eyeliner, takes ten minutes tops. The puppet joints took an hour.
Every time he cosplays Scaramouche, Kuni sits in front of his vanity mirror with a palette of dark shadow and a thin, angled brush that he uses to paint puppet joints onto his own skin.
Knuckles first, every finger, dark, then his wrists, then his belows. He does his shoulders himself too, twisting in the mirror to get the angle right on the backs of them, and the concentration on his face while he does it is almost scary.
He's already head-to-toe in cosplay, minus the hat. As cringeworthy as it is to say, your boyfriend does look like Scaramouche reborn, and it's not just because of how accurate the clothes look on him, or how invested he is in cosplaying him. He looks exactly like Scaramouche would if he were real and not 3D.
The height… the weight… even his fingers match Scara perfectly. Skinny and long, the puppet joints make him look more biblically accurate.
He hates wigs, absolutely despises them, and as any person who finds their 'celebrity lookalike', or any 'lookalike' in general, he dyed and cut his real hair to match Scaramouches.
His hair is naturally black, and after an abnormally long hair appointment, the hairdresser was able to cut and style Kuni's hair to match Scaramouches without looking like some botched bowlcut.
"It's not a bowlcut," Kunikuzushi told the hairdresser, probably 4 times, just to get his point clear, "It's a mullet, mixed with a hime-cut in the front, and don't you dare forget the lighter colored streak in the back."
You remember being told that day to stick around, not in the waiting room, but in a chair beside the table your boyfriend was getting his hair done at. You had to get up at least 9 times to reassure Kuni that the hairdresser was getting the back right.
And after that day, after every time he put on his cosplay for this character that he's so obsessed with… he didn't look like your boyfriend anymore.
But you don't really complain.
"It's… acceptable," Kuni says to his reflection, the tiniest praise for the war you just went through, while doing his eyeliner.
You hop off the counter, tossing your hair back, while holding eye contact with his gaze in the mirror, "It's perfect, actually. You're welcome." You poke his arm from behind, giggling at the way he makes a disgusted face in response. "I love you too, you ungrateful man."
He doesn't respond to that; he just walks out of the bathroom and into his room.
He's already in the corner when you step in, adjusting his tripod and ring light, and you know the drill by now. Stay out of frame, stay quiet during takes, and entertain yourself until he's done being internet famous.
You grab your phone off his nightstand and settle onto his bed on your stomach, feet up, pulling up Genshin Impact. It feels like a chore to open this game up now, but you have to, for that stupid free constellation event where you have to complete your commissions and spend 120 resin.
You spawn in Nod-Krai, already moving your joystick to run towards the crafting bench, planning to craft your resin into condensed resin, but to your dismay, you already have 5 crafted resin from the previous days you tried this trick.
Domains it is.
You can hear your boyfriend in the background recording the same TikTok, over and over, trying to get the perfect take while you're teleporting to a random domain. It's annoying, and all you can focus on while you wait for people to join your world.
Once people join your world, and you start the domain, you move on autopilot. You don't really pay attention, probably fighting air every now and then, until a notification pops up from the top of your screen.
Even though you're in a co-up domain, your thumb his the notification before you can even finish reading.
The video loads, and it's what seems to be some sort of POV shot. It's like you're some enemy Lohen just knocked flat, because the view is from below, on the ground. His hand reaches down and grabs you, or the camera's face, dragging you to his height, and you spot his other hand raising a weapon, but you aren't even focused on the weapon… you're focused on the face he makes.
A grin with manic eyes, the expression of someone who doesn't just enjoy violence… someone who's aroused by it.
It happens so quickly that you watch it again, on loop. You watch the jaw grab again, the way he yanks whoever it is upward, the way his grin widens before the hit. You screenshot the maniac grin on the 4th loop… then watch it play through again.
Your thighs press together.
You scroll to the comments after the 7th rewatch, needing to see if everyone's losing their minds as hard as you are.
@scaramouchewho okay so we're all in agreement that lohen is what scaramouche COULD have been if hoyo let him be unhinged, right?
@kuniscaraworshiper everyone in the lohen tag better remember who paved the way. Scaramouche is the ORIGINAL unhinged short king… y'all are so disrespectful
@touchinggrassfearsme i just want lohen and scara to kiss… then me at the same time next… then they can kiss each other again after THEN THE SAME THING AGAIN
@mpreglover6769angie GET PREGNANT GET PREGNANT
You laugh seeing this comment, and when you tap on it, you're left with…
(This comment has been deleted.)
@lohennation BREED ME LOHEN. BREED ME. TEASE ME. USE ME. DEGRADE ME. oh and scara can watch ig… (yes i changed my user because of this video)
@wanderermybeIoved, you people don't know one thing about Scaramouche, and I don't want people talking about him when you clearly don't care about his character development or lore. He's more than just a "hot angry guy." Lohen fans (who just became fans of him less than an hour ago, mind you) wouldn't survive 5 minutes of scara's actual story because their reading comprehension is lower than a 4th grader's due to their goon-rotted brains.
@fatuiworshipper the way Lohen is just Scaramouche if he wasn't busy being sad all the time. he's happy to be evil… that's so hot
You scroll back up and watch the burst animation again. Your thighs squeeze together, and your bottom lip is caught between your teeth. You've watched this video at least 20 times now, and around the 10th time, your underwear became a wet, sticky mess.
"Hey."
You don't hear him, you don't even flinch.
"… Hello??"
Nothing.
"Did you actually die? Should I call someone or check your pulse first?"
You don't hear your boyfriend because you're still on that Lohen video, grinning at some dumb comment of yet another person leaving scaranation for lohennation.
"You've been ignoring me for like ten minutes," Kuni says from across the room, and you can hear the shift in his tone, the way it goes from casual annoyance to genuine irritation, "what is so interesting about your phone that you can't look up for even a second?"
You look up from your phone before he can accuse you of cheating, which technically, in some tiny way… You kinda were.
He's standing by his setup, ring light off, his phone in his hand with his arms crossed. His expression looks like he's in between choosing to be mean about it, or letting it slide. He looks annoyed enough that he won't let it slide, and 10 minutes is a long time, unless he was just exaggerating.
"…Hi." You say, sweet and innocent, still lying on your stomach, still with the phone in your hand as you glance at it just once, like a random comment, before looking back at him, not fully engaged.
His gaze drops to your phone in your hand, then lifts back up to your face. The corner of his mouth lifts with slow, unbelieving amusement, like your delayed little “hi” is almost too stupid to be real. "Welcome the fuck back. Where did you go?"
"Remember Lohen from that one quest in Mondstadt?" You don't wait for a response, voice breathier than intended because your brain is still stuck on that video, "His burst animation just got leaked…"
You watch as your boyfriend's face changes into reluctant curiosity that fights with the irritation of being ignored. He walks over to his bed and drops down next to you. "Really? Show me."
You sit up, holding your phone out, and he just takes it, angling the screen toward himself. You watch his face as the animation plays, how his jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly, and his gaze cuts back to you once it's over. "It's okay." He says, tone devoid of any emotion you can pick up on.
"Just… okay? Kuni. Did you see the grab, the way… the way that the angle is like a POV, like that's you, he's grabbing… the way he just, his hand goes like-" You mimic the way Lohen's hand, holding the weapon, goes from behind and towards who he's about to stab.
Kuni glances at your hand, then back at your face, your phone still in his hand. "Mhm. I saw the exact same video as you." His tone feigns nonchalance.
You drop your hand, continuing to yap while not reading the room, "And the grin… Kuni, the grin? It looks like he's about to-"
"I said I saw it." He hands your phone back, using his own to open TikTok, scrolling through his feed with such focused intensity that it doesn't do a good job of hiding how little he cares about this. "People are going to lose it over this."
"They already are, have you seen the comments?" You're already scrolling through them on your phone, looking for one that doesn't say anything about Scaramouche, but it's practically impossible. "Everyone's saying-"
"I know what they're saying, I don't need to see the comments to know." His thumb flicks through posts, and you can see his jaw working, yet again. "Same shit that infected my feed when Lohen was in that quest, and people barely had info on him. 'Scara's done.' 'We're switching.' Like their loyalty has a shelf life of milk."
He keeps scrolling through his TikTok feed, and annoyingly enough, every video that comes up is about Lohen. He's talking, ranting about character depth versus surface-level hype, something about Scara's arc having actual emotional complexity while Lohen is, "just a boy with a violence kink." He is making good points, but you aren't fully paying attention.
You're still scrolling through Twitter, lying back against the pillows, reposting mindlessly on fan art that already exists of Lohen, and trying not to laugh at the posts comparing Lohen to Scaramouche.
He turns his head to you, and he stops talking, because he notices your attention is elsewhere. You don't notice the sudden silence because your brain is so far inside your phone that the real world doesn't exist right now.
His lips touch your neck, a soft, tiny kiss with the warm press of his mouth against the spot below your ear, and he shifts closer. His hand lands on your thigh, his thumb drawing a slow line along the inside where the hem of your sleep shorts sits.
You tilt your head up slightly, giving him access without giving him your attention, as your gaze is still on your phone. Your body just responds to him on autopilot because of months of this exact pattern, him kissing your neck while you doomscroll, except this time you're scrolling through posts and posts of his… replacement.
His tongue touches the skin at your neck, a quick and wet drag followed by his teeth grazing that same area. His fingers itch higher under your shorts, pushing the fabric up your thigh.
"Kuni, not right now, I'm looking at something-"
He cuts you off with a "Mmhmm," not stopping at all because just a second after, he's sucking on your neck. His fingertips graze the edge of your underwear, tracing the elastic back and forth, back and forth. It's light enough that it could be an accident, but what he's doing to you is clearly intentional.
You're still scrolling even as your boyfriend, in cosplay, is practically making love to your neck, and his fingers… they slide down from the hem of your underwear, to where your slit is, through the fabric.
You let out a soft, quiet, "Mm…" moan, still not looking up. The only reply he gets is the little sound you make and the wetness between your legs.
His middle finger traces your clothed slit in a lazy back-and-forth, that's designed for teasing and nothing else. His mouth is still at your neck, and he bites softly at it while that Lohen video coincidentally pops up on your feed again. Involuntarily, your hips shift up against his hand while your eyes are still glued to the screen.
His fingers slide up from your slit, back up to your waistband. You let out the tiniest whine, but that whine turns into your breath catching when his fingers dip beneath your underwear and make direct contact through your folds.
"You're so soaked," he says against your neck. His tone makes your thumb pause just as you're about to click on the comment section. His cadence shifted into something that sounds less like your boyfriend and more like the boy he's currently cosplaying as. "And it's not because of me. It's hard to believe a pixel on a screen could make you this turned on… but I guess anything's possible with someone like you."
You feel his middle finger circling your clit, slow and teasing, not giving you anything that you want while you watch that video on loop, again. The pattern of it doesn't stop, but the desperation and need to have him stroke you properly makes your hips twitch, and your focus shifts from your phone to his hand, and only his hand, at an alarming rate.
"It must be embarrassing," he starts, the same condescending drawl Scaramouche's voice has, and it fits in his mouth uncannily well, "getting this worked up over a character animation. Over something that can never," the same index that was teasing at your clit pushes inside you, knuckle deep, and you clench around it, "touch you."
He's quick to add a second finger, his ring finger, because one isn't ever enough for you. He curls them upward, finding that spot he mapped ages ago. Your phone screen goes dark from inactivity.
He doesn't leave any achy part of your cunt unoccupied, especially if his thumb is currently being useless. His thumb finds your clit, and he rubs in circles while his fingers curl inside you. The dual stimulation makes your mouth fall open, and your phone falls out of your hand. Your phone hits the side of your stomach and falls down face-first beside you.
"There it is," he says against your skin, pressing a kiss to the mark he left on your neck. "Phone's finally down. Took you long enough."
He pulls his fingers out, and before you can even whine about it, he shifts on top of you, sliding down between your legs. You look down at him, and the visual of Scaramouche slipping under the covers and pulling at the waistband of your shorts is doing something to you that ten replays of Lohen's burst animation could never replicate. Because this is actually real.
He's sliding your shorts down when you mistakenly whimper out, "Kuni…"
He stops, hands pausing on the fabric at your knees. "Mm… no. That's not my name tonight." He pulls the shorts off completely, tossing them wherever without looking in his room, and his fingers hook into your underwear next.
"It's Scaramouche. That's who you're looking at… That's who's touching you. And, that's the only name I want to hear coming out of your mouth. Not Kuni, and definitely not Lohen. If you even try saying his name, I'm cutting your tongue out." He drags your underwear down your thighs, his eyes never leaving your face. "Scaramouche. Understood?"
You nod, too distracted by what he was saying to even realize you're bare from below, and you realize that the moment his mouth is on you.
His tongue drags flat across your clit, and you let out an involuntary, unfiltered moan at the contact. You'd care about his neighbors hearing if his mouth wasn't making you forget that other people exist.
It feels like he's reformatting your brain as he eats you out. Like every lick is deleting thoughts about Lohen and replacing them all with himself. His tongue works on your clit in patterns that make you let out dumb, uncontrollable moans. Two fingers slip inside you without warning, curling against your spot, and you can't help but grab onto his hair, that perfectly styled, dyed Scaramouche hair, and hold on.
Your hips twitch up, grinding into his face while your head tips back. "H-aah… f-fuck… Sca-"
He pulls back from your clit, fingers still working inside you, but at an even faster rhythm, "Louder than that."
You listen, brainless, doing whatever he says, "Scara… Scaramouche, I'm… hah… s-so close…"
He dives back onto your clit, mouth sealed on it, making you cum embarrassingly fast with his fingers curling inside your spongy walls. Your thighs shake around his head, and your grip on his hair tightens as you grind onto his face, clenching around his fingers. He goes slower once the aftershocks are over, and when you finally let go of his hair, completely out of breath, he pulls his mouth off your clit with a wet pop.
He wipes his chin with the back of his hand, the cosplay sleeve dragging across his face from his cosplay. The sight of that is so absurd and so hot that you almost cum again from that visual alone. The puppet joints look slightly faded on the two fingers he was fucking you with, and somehow that makes it worse.
He grabs one of the detached sleeves and slips it off his outfit. You watch him, brain still sluggish from the orgasm, fold it into a thick band, and you furrow your brows, confused. "What are you…"
"Scaramouche wouldn't let you see him lose composure." He slides up from between your legs, wrapping the fabric around your eyes, tying it behind your head before you can even protest. You can't see anything now, just darkness, and the sound of his breathing close to your face. "So you don't get to either."
You feel him move back and settle between your thighs, sliding them apart. You're still so sensitive from your orgasm that feeling his cock suddenly press against you makes an involuntary whimper slip out. He wastes no time slipping in, but he does it slow, stretching you open inch by inch, and you grab fistfuls of his sheets because the fact that you're missing one of your senses is making everything amplified.
"Oh my god…"
"Say my name," he says, and he feels deep enough inside of you that you can't tell how much more of him there is. You only know the stretch, the pressure, and how full you already feel.
A faint moan slips out of you before you manage, breathless, "Scara…"
"Yeah?" He says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, he knows you can barely think. "Too full to say it properly?"
Your fingers curl helplessly in the sheets. "Sc… Scaramouche…"
He starts moving, and because of the blindfold, every thrust feels amplified tenfold, so much deeper. His hands are gripping at your hips hard enough to bruise. You feel him closer, by your ear, voice still in character, "You think some new character is going to replace me?" He puncuates the end with a hard thrust, and your mouth hangs open with a gasp.
"Some battle maniac with a grin? Pathetic. I've been your favorite since 1.1," another thrust, and it hits you deep, he grinds into that same spot, "and no amount of leaked animations is going to change that."
"I know… hah… I know-"
He pulls back just enough that you feel the loss of him even though he's still inside. Your hips chase him up, a needy whimper spilling out because you don't feel him moving anymore, and you wonder why. You feel his hand leaving your hip to pull the blindfold off your eyes.
Light hits your pupils, and you squint, disoriented, and the first thing you see isn't him. It's your phone, held inches from your face, bright and open on the password screen. In a flash, your phone's unlocked from just your face, and just as fast as that happens, he turns your phone back to him.
"Wha… what are you doing?" You're still catching up, blinking through your vision that's trying to adjust, even more now that a phone was shoved up in your face. He's swiping through your apps with one hand while the other pins your hip to the mattress. His cock is still inside you, not moving at all, and it almost feels painful with how much you're craving him to.
He pulls up Twitter, looking at your feed first before checking your reposts, because of course, the first thing that comes up is someone reposting that Lohen burst animation for the millionth time, like people haven't seen it already. He scoffs, tapping on your profile picture on the side, and looking through your reposts.
"This one says," he starts, scrolling with his thumb, his tone almost bored as he reads your reposts out loud, while he finally starts grinding into you, but it's slow, painfully slow. "I would let Lohen degrade, breed me, use me, and rearrange my insides until I pass out… You liked that one, reposted it from the same account that has your face on it. How dense can you be?"
You face heats up realizing just how embarrassing that is, only after doing it a while ago, "That's… that was just a joke-"
"Let's go to your replies tab and see if you did anything other than mindlessly repost whatever you saw," you watch as his thumb moves across your phone, he shifts his hips forward in a slow grind that makes your breath hitch, "Oh, so you did comment on something… that's it? Three fire emojis and a fucking… crying emoji? That's your contribution to the discourse? Really? Was your brain rotting that badly that you couldn't even type words?"
You don't even try to come up with a coherent response for that, and he doesn't wait for one. He throws your phone somewhere on his bed and leans down, propping himself up on his forearms on either side of your head, and the closeness of him in full cosplay makes your breath catch in your throat.
"You know what's funny to me?" His eyes never leave your face as he rolls his hips, still a slow grind that drags his cock against your walls in such a way that keeps you in between being able to think and not. "You have a cosplayer. An actual, real person who dresses up as your favorite character and fucks you in it. And instead of appreciating that… you're reposting about a character that doesn't even have a release date yet."
A weak protest slips out before you can stop it. "I do appreciate-"
"Do you?" He thrusts hard this time, and it makes your back arch, your hands flying up to grab his shoulders as he continues at the same deep pace, watching your face change with every thrust. "Because I'm literally inside of you in a Scaramouche cosplay right now, and 20 minutes ago you were eye-fucking a burst animation while I was standing 12 feet away."
Your face burns, "That's not…" You swallow, trying to gather a thought that doesn't sound pathetic, "That's not fair, he's just a character, you're-"
"I'm right here." Another deep thrust, his hand slides up to cup the side of your face, tilting it so you're looking directly at him. At the eyeliner you did for him, the contacts, and the hair you even helped style. "And I'm the closest thing to a fictional character you're ever going to get. So maybe," he grinds into your spot, and your eyes roll, "act like it."
Humiliation and want feel like they're tangling so tightly that you can't separate them anymore. You can't even form a proper response for that, only being able to muster out a, "F-fuck… Scara…." as your fingers curl harder into the sheets.
"Mm." He keeps the angle, keeps rolling into that same spot, watching as it makes you go stupider quicker while his thumb traces your cheekbone. "You know what you should repost? A video of this. Me, in cosplay, between your legs. See how many likes that gets compared to a leaked animation."
Your brain decides this is the moment to let something slip. Completely irrational. "A lohen cosplay would probably get more likes because he's… trending." You don't even mean it as a dig; you say it in the normal, supportive tone you always give when he talks about content, while getting dicked down.
And the second those words leave your mouth, everything goes silent. He stops, completely. Cock buried inside you, and his hand on your face tightens. His thumb presses harder into your cheekbone. His expression doesn't change, but his eyes do. It's this flat, cold look you can see even with the contacts, and the silence stretches long enough that you realize what you just did.
You scramble to backtrack, "I didn't mean-"
"No, don't backtrack now," he cuts in, voice eerily calm, tilting his head like he's studying any new reaction you'd make, "You sounded very sure of yourself a second ago. I want the same answer you gave before you realize I didn't like it."
You sink back into the pillows, head shaking, "Scara, you know that's not what I meant…" but you stop at the end when you see the look in his eyes darken.
He lets go of your face and pulls almost all the way out to slam back in, both of his hands gripping on the backs of your thighs, pushing them apart. He's fucking into you at a new pace that's faster and rougher than anything before this, every thrust feeling like a point he's making without words.
"He's an animation," he says between trusts, his voice strained, but he's still in character. "He doesn't feel like this…" A thrust so deep it pushes you closer to the headboard. "He doesn't sound like this." Another one, harder, and the sound that comes out of you is almost unrecognizable.
"And he doesn't know that if he hits this angle," he shifts his hips and nails your spot dead-on, and your vision whites out at the edges completely, "you make that exact face."
Your legs are shaking around his grip, your hands grasping at anything, his shoulders, his arm, the sheets, the only thought in your mind is him, the body between your legs trying to prove a point with his entire being.
Then, your phone lights up next to your head. It's a Twitter notification, something about Lohen, and the timing is so cosmically cruel. He sees it, and before you can even squint to see what it's about, he scoots back, letting your head fall off the pillow. You look at him, confused, completely innocent to the change of position that's about to happen.
His hands leave your thighs to grab at your hips, and in one inhuman motion, he lifts you off the bed almost entirely. Your back leaves the mattress, the entire room feels like it's tilting as he hauls your legs over his shoulders, your full weight being suspended against his body. His hands grip the front of your thighs, your arms scrambling for anything, and they end up gripping at the backs of his thighs. Your head is still on the mattress, and your arms, but everything else is up in the air.
He's about to fuck you upside down.
You yell out of panic, "Wha… SCARA-"
"You were about to check your phone." He says, voice unbothered like he isn't holding you in the air with his dick buried inside of you. "While I'm inside of you… While Scaramouche is inside of you." He adjusts his grip, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs, and slides his hips back before slamming into you hard, forcing himself so deep that you see white. "Do I not have your full attention?"
Even as full, and thought empty as you are, you still try to defend yourself, "You do… hah… You do, I wasn't-"
"You were reaching for it," another hard slam, and you cry out, your nails digging into the backs of his thighs. "Your hand almost moved. Almost. You were going to look at a notification while im fucking you."
He fucks into you, over and over, your legs dangling on his shoulders, the angle hitting something so deep inside of you that your body doesn't know how to process it apart from going completely boneless.
You're limp, even being fucked upside down. Your muscles gave up, and now you're just a body he's holding in the air and fucking into.
Your weight being nothing to him, your pleasure being everything.
"Scara… Scara, oh my god, I can't… f-fuck… I can't-"
"Can't what?" His voice is annoyingly steady, controlled, even though he's holding you up and thrusting into you with a force that should effect both of you, but it seems like you're the only effected one. Moaning sounds that aren't even words anymore, just vowels and air. "Can't think? Good. You shouldn't be thinking. The only thing in your head right now should be my name, and the fact that no pixel on a screen," he thrusts up, sharp, and the sound you make is practically a scream, "has ever made you feel like this."
Even with your mind blank, you can process his words enough to know that he's right. Because he's here, and real, and holding you in the air and fucking the coherence out of your skull. "SCARAMOUCHE- fuck, please… please don't stop-"
His pace only grows faster, his grip on your thighs tightening in such a way that you know it will end in bruises when you wake up tomorrow. You cum with the lower half of your body, suspended in the air. Your body locks up, ankles rolling, feet clenching around his shoulders as the orgasm rips through you in waves so intense that you can't even keep your eyes open, can't even suppress or care for how dumb you sound.
You can do anything except convulse around him while he holds you through it like you weigh nothing.
He cums exactly five seconds after, the way your walls clench around his cock not letting him pull himself back any longer. He buries himself deep with one final thrust up that pins you against his hips. You feel every pulse of it, hot and thick, filling you up as his fingers flex on your thighs.
There's so much that your body can't contain it, even in this position, you can feel some of his cum leak around where he's still inside you, dripping down between your ass cheeks.
He holds you there for a moment, catching his breath and you still catching yours, and then he finally sets you down. He moves back, lowering you, and you bounce back on the sheets, still out of breath, gasping, legs shaking, cum pooling more properly between your thighs now that you aren't in the air.
He's already pulling at the cosplay before his breathing even levels out.
"Finally," he mutters, yanking at the chest piece with the urgency of someone escaping a straitjacket, "I can take this stupid fucking thing off."
The outer layer comes off first, and he gets out of bed to toss it onto his desk chair without looking. Then the arm pieces, what's left of them, since one sleeve is still tied in a crumpled blindfold shape somewhere in the sheets. He pulls the one he's wearing off and throws it on top of the outer layers on the chair.
He's left in the sleeveless undershirt, the tight black one that sits flush against his chest and shows the puppet joints he spent way too long on at his shoulders. The shadow has smudged from the sweat, the edges bleeding where the lines used to be clean.
"I was literally cooking alive in that," he says, working at the fabric that sits on his hips next, "do you know how many layers this cosplay has? About four. Four fucking layers in a room with one fan and a broken AC because Ei cares more about being at work all the time than actually caring about a home she's barely at."
You don't respond because you are, at this moment, a puddle of a human being with no functioning brain cells and shaking legs. You're lying exactly where he put you down, staring up at the ceiling, legs still open because closing them feels like an exercise right now.
He glances at you once the majority of the cosplay is off, just the undershirt and shorts, and he gets quieter. He disappears into the bathroom that's connected to his bedroom and comes back with a warm, damp towel.
He sits on the edge of the bed and pushes your thigh to the side, wiping between your legs without saying anything. His movements are careful, clinical, almost, like the same precision he gives his cosplay goes into this too.
He cleans the cum off your inner thighs, the crease where your thigh meets your hip, folds the towel to the clean side, and gets the rest.
You flinch at the contact, still sensitive, and his other hand presses flat against your lower stomach to keep you still. "Stop squirming."
"But… It's sensitive," you say, finally, voice weak.
"I know it's sensitive. I'm the one who made it sensitive. Stay still."
He tosses the towel onto the bathroom floor when he's done, then goes to his dresser, pulling out a sleep set and underwear that are yours. A cropped top and matching shorts that somehow migrated into his drawer because you're here more than your actual house.
He comes back and slides the underwear up first, lifting your hips with one hand to pull them over your ass. Then, the shorts come next, doing the same motion he did for the underwear. He grabs the top next, and this part requires sitting you up, and you're not cooperative.
You're practically dead weight.
He pulls you up by the arms like a ragdoll, gets the shirt over your head, and guides each of your arms through the sleeves. You keep going limp on purpose, and it's irritating him. "You're not helping," he says, which isn't a helpful remark on his part.
You can't do anything but let out a tired, annoyed sigh, voice moving slowly as you say, "I can't feel my legs, Kuni."
He pauses as he's trying to pull the top down, giving you a sideways look, "That's a you-ca n't-help problem, that's a you-won't-help problem. Your arms should work fine."
You give him a fake, straight smile, shrugging at a languid speed, "They don't, actually. You broke those too when you held me upside down, and I had to hold onto your thighs for dear life."
He scoffs, dropping you back against the pillows, and you sink into them, boneless, dressed, clean, happy that you've trained him well enough to do this much after sex, because it pays off every time.
He pulls the covers out from under you, and this time you actually scoot to give him space to tuck them over your body. He grabs both of your phones and plugs them in, then walks to his closet to take the top off and replace it with a plain black t-shirt, and tugs on a pair of grey sweats. When he's done, he always backs toward the bed to get into the covers beside you, but you stop him.
"Kuni, can you please get me water?" You ask, with a tiny pout.
The exhale he lets out is so deep it could qualify as a controlled breathing exercise. He stands there for a full three seconds, covers still bunched in his hand, staring at you with the expression of a man who wants to only pass out in bed and rot.
"You couldn't have said that before I walked toward the bed?"
You look up, pretending to think, mouth curling up when you glance back at him, "I wasn't thirsty before you walked toward the bed."
He rolls his eyes, his hand coming up to rub his fingers at his temple in annoyance at all of this, "That doesn't even make sense."
You clasp your hands together, pouting, again, putting on a sweet expression just to mess with him further, "Please?"
He drops the covers and leaves the room. You hear his footsteps down the hallway, and they're loud enough that you know he's being loud on purpose.
Because Kuni doesn't make noise when he walks unless he wants you to know he's annoyed.
His house is massive; you spend 99 percent of your time in his room, so you actually get jumpscared every time you leave it. The hallways are long, or probably longer than an apartment floor in general, with marble flooring and clear walls with art on them that his mother picked out and he's never looked at once.
The kitchen is insane. Countertops that stretch for what feels like miles, a center island bigger than your own bed, and appliances that look like they belong in a once luxurious restaurant. Every surface is spotless because the housekeeper comes three times a week, and Kuni is already a clean freak on his own, so the combination creates a kitchen that looks perpetually unlived in.
He opens the cabinet, grabs a glass, fills it from the filtered tap, and when he turns around, his mother is sitting at the island.
She's been there the whole time, apparently.
Ei is on a barstool at the center island, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of red wine in her right hand and her phone in her left. Her hair is long and ink-black, pin-straight, falling over one shoulder, and in the dim kitchen light, she looks less like a person and more like a portrait someone painted and forgot to hang.
She looks up from her phone at the sound of the glass filling.
Her eyes move over him, at the messed-up hair, the contacts he forgot to take out, and the faded puppet joints still visible on his knuckles.
And also the fact that he's getting a glass of water at one in the morning in a post-sex haze that he thinks isn't obvious but is extremely obvious.
"You're still awake," she says, her voice carrying that same low, unbothered tone that makes everything she says sound like an observation.
"You're home," he replies, matching her energy beat for beat, turning off the tap without looking at her. "When did your flight land?"
"Three hours ago." She takes a sip of wine. "I didn't want to interrupt."
The silence that follows is loud. He knows what that means, she knows that he knows, and neither of them will say it directly because everyone in this family treats emotional honesty like it's some disease.
"Right." He grabs the glass and turns to leave as fast as possible.
"Kunikuzushi."
He stops, but he doesn't turn around, his grip on the glass tightening.
"Eat something tomorrow. The fridge is stocked." She pauses to take a sip before continuing, "And take your contacts out before you sleep. They'll irritate your eyes."
He stands there for a second, then another, then another, then walks away without responding. And his footsteps down the hallway are quieter this time. Not on purpose.
He gets back to his room and shuts the door behind him with his foot. He walks up towards the bed and reaches over to hand you the glass. You take it, sitting up slightly, drinking half of it in one go while he stands there watching you like you just made him walk a marathon for a cup of water.
"Happy?" He asks, pulling the covers back.
You roll your eyes and hand him back the glass. He sets it on the nightstand and gets into bed, lying flat on his back. You immediately roll onto his chest like a magnet, your cheek pressing against the cotton of his t-shirt, and you can hear his heartbeat, still a little fast, coming down.
His hand finds your hair, starts that absent, repetitive thing he does, threading his fingers through the strands over and over. You press closer to him, tangling your legs with his under the covers, and his arm tightens around your back.
You close your eyes, and his fingers never stop moving through your hair.
He doesn't tell you he loves you; he never does first. But his thumb traces a slow circle against your scalp, and his breathing evens out underneath you, and he doesn't move even when your weight goes fully dead against his chest.
That's how you know.
You're in your room today, not at your boyfriend's house like you usually are. You do like being in his room and hanging out with him constantly, but it's also constantly exhausting. Some days, you'd just prefer to be… alone.
Your room is the complete opposite of Kunikuzushi's aesthetic. Light beige walls so you can hang up cute pink miscellaneous things on your wall without them clashing. A fluffy, soft, pink bed that used to be a canopy until you woke up to a fat spider next to your face, as if it was their bed too. Plushies… lots of them, on your bed, some kept on a large shelf you bought to store the expensive anime figures Kuni always buys you. Long story short, the general vibe of your room makes you seem like someone whose entire personality is soft and sweet.
You're lying on your stomach on the bed, phone in hand, scrolling through the fallout of the Lohen leak from 3 days ago. The internet has still not calmed down… if anything, it's worse.
@scaranation4LIFE scaranation we STAND. Every character had their tiny moment of fame… our show lasted four years. FOUR. We were even on the news… lohen's gonna last one patch and you're all going to be crawling back
@lohenxscarabeliever i don't want lohen OR scara… i want them BOTH to ruin my life SIMULTANEOUSLY. Why is this so hard to understand
@wanderersfavoritebuttplug scara… I’d never replace you for that sadistic twink (maybe) (we’ll see)
The comments are always talking about the same thing, at least every comment section under a Lohen Twitter post, as the diehard simp, the one who wants Lohen and Scara to fuck each other, the one who wants to cuck Scara in front of Lohen, and the very few actual loyal Scara fans.
… You feel like you're a bit of both.
You're deep in the comments, simultaneously looking at edits of Lohen on TikTok, then taking a Twitter break, then TikTok, when at some strange point, your bedroom door opens.
You don't look up, you assume it's Kuni because your parents aren't home, and you gave him the key ages ago. "Hey, Kuni," you say, still scrolling, legs swinging behind you, "if you're here to yell at me about using your newest Flower Knows palette before you did, it's not that big of a deal-"
You stop because when you look up, what you see is something you'd never, ever expect from a surprise visit from your boyfriend.
Kunikuzushi is standing in your doorway in full-on, perfectly accurate, as always, cosplay. But it's not Scaramouche, or some other male in the game… It's Lohen.
Your phone hits the mattress.
The character you've been losing your mind over for 3 days, the one you've seen on your phone screen a genuinely convincing number of times, is here, in real life, standing in your pink bedroom doorway.
"When did you-" your voice comes out strangled, your mouth feeling dry, and your throat feeling so tight that you cut yourself off. Your eyes scan the cosplay, again and again, confused at why he didn't tell you about this. Especially ordering a unique cosplay of a character that hasn't even fully come out. "When… when did you order this??"
He grins, a toothy, sharp-eyed grin that looks nothing like Scara's smirk. It's so strangely accurate to the expression Lohen would make, and you wonder if he's spent the last 3 days practicing for this.
"I've been tracking you all day," he says, and his voice is different than normal, more confident, louder, less… restrained on what's deemed as good. "You've been hard to pin down."
He crosses the room, and your body does something it doesn't do with Kuni. It tenses out of something close to fear, but closer to not knowing what's coming next. His hand grabs the front of your tank top and yanks you off the bed. You yelp in a way that's higher, more startled, more genuinely caught off guard than anything Scara has gotten out of you in months.
"Nervous?" He questions, his grin widening, and his fists twist in your shirt, pulling you closer, until your chest is against his. He can feel your heartbeat… at least you assume he can, because you can hear it going haywire through your ears to the point that you'd believe it's audible even if he wasn't this close.
You deny because you hate admitting things to him when he's acting smug, even though anything you could say would be utterly pointless, as your face and the way you're barely moving prove his point way too well. "I'm not nervous…" You try a distraction, any, "Are you really wearing a wig, Kun-" but it gets cut off quicker than you can even finish the last word.
"Your heart feels like it's about to explode out of your chest." He leans in, his mouth next to your ear, and his voice drops, but he still keeps the edge of it in character, "What's different? You let Scaramouche do whatever he wants to you. But Lohen shows up and suddenly… You can't even talk?"
You knit your eyebrows, staggering to say anything that sounds like you're not any less dumb, "That's… it's different, you're usually-"
"Usually what? Predictable?" He pulls back to look at you, and you glance up and down at his cosplay once more, and it's even more annoyingly perfect up close. You seriously don't know how he does it; he even looks good in a wig, even though he hates them. "You know every move Scaramouche makes before he makes it. You're comfortable with that, and that's boring." He says it like an insult, and his grin drops suddenly, his eyes not leaving you once as he says, "I'm not comfortable. Are you scared of me?"
You answer a simple, "No." But the way you still haven't moved on your own since he appeared at your door proves without words otherwise.
"Liar." He shoves you, and you fall back before you can catch yourself on the bed, bouncing on the pink sheets, your tank top riding up slightly in the process. "Your voice had the tiniest crack in it."
He's on top of you before you can sit up, his knee between your thighs, his hand going to your jaw… and he does it.
The burst animation.
His fingers close around your jaw as he lifts your face toward his, slow, and the grin is right there, a perfect replica of the video you've watched on your screen more than 100 times.
"There's my favorite prey," he says, holding the pose for three seconds, and instead of reaching his arm back and stabbing you, he leans in to kiss you.
It's violent, that's the only word to describe it. Non ceremonial, just teeth, tongue, and a lot of force by him. His hand is still gripping your jaw, controlling the angle, and also making sure you don't pull away so soon. You make a sound into his mouth that's between a moan and a whimper, that's even more vulnerable than anything you've made during sex when he cosplays as Scaramouche.
He pulls back, unbuckling one of the belts on the cosplay, a strap that's a part of Lohen's design, and he wraps it around your wrists, binding them above your head against the bed.
"Every battle maniac needs a sparring partner," he says, tying the knot with one hand while the other shoves your tank top up above your breasts. "And you looked at me like you volunteered."
He strips your shorts, then your underwear, and he doesn't bother about being sweet with it. He yanks them down your legs and throws them somewhere behind him, and then his hands grip the backs of your thighs, and he pushes them up toward your chest.
Mating press, that's what he's doing.
Your knees are at your shoulders, your hips are tilted up, and he's on the bed, kneeling over you. His weight is driving your thighs down, folding you in half. Your wrists are bound above your head; you're just completely open and trapped.
"L.. Lohen…" You whimper out in the voice of both someone in awe, and in the tiniest fear of what's coming next.
"Hmm." He unzips his pants, frees his hard cock from his underwear, which he slides down just enough, and positions himself at your entrance, and he pushes in.
The first thrust is the full length of him burying himself deep inside you in one stroke; the angel of the mating press makes it feel deeper than it should. His cock presses against your cervix, and the sound that leaks out of you is closer to a sob than a moan.
"AH- oh fuck oh fuck oh-"
"Too much?" He asks, and his grin, that fucking grin, is right there, his face inches from yours because the mating press puts him on top of you… over you, covering you entirely.
"N-no, just- hah-" You get cut off with the way he pulls back and slams back in, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull, before just fully closing.
"Not convincing." He pulls back, again, slamming into you harder than the last one, like he's powering up his thrusts, and your back tries to arch off the bed, but his weight is pressing you flat, and you have nowhere to go. You feel his hands at your face. "Your eyes are watering."
You open your eyes back up to look at him, head shaking, even though you do feel something hot and wet sliding softly down your cheeks. "You're lying, they're n-not-" You're studdering from the way he's repeditely fucking into you, especially hitting your deeper spots on purpose when you try speaking, but he cuts you off anyway.
"They are." He leans down and licks a tear off your cheekbone. The act is so different from the way he's currently fucking into you, brutally, and you're turning incoherent faster than ever, moans spilling out uncontrollably as the sound of his hips plaping against your ass fills the room.
"You cry for Scaramouche because it feels good. You're crying for me because you don't know what I'm going to do next." Both of his hands leave your face; one goes back onto your thigh, the other finds your throat. "And that scares you… Doesn't it?"
His fingers close around your neck, and he doesn't choke you the same way Kuni does during normal sex. This version is different, new, something you've never felt before. Lohen's choke. His fingers press into the sides of your throat, squeezing the muscles, not your windpipe, but the tissue around it. The difference, the way this feels new, is because it feels like it's designed to hurt, not to just cut off air. The pain is sharp, and you can still breathe, technically, but every inhale aches, and the compression makes the blood rush to your head in a way that amplifies every sensation that a blindfold never could.
You can't move your hands, even as they itch to grab or instinctively hold at his wrists, you're reminded that they're bound together by his belt. Your moans just get more amplified thrust after thrust after squeeze, "Nghh- Lohen… hah…"
"You can barely even say my name." He squeezes harder, his thumb pressing into the hollow of your throat, and the pressure pushes you right to the edge of too much. "Scaramouche gets full sentences out of you… Full moans… Full 'please'. But me?" He thrusts deep, grinding, holding himself inside you while his hand tightens on your throat. "I get syllables… Half-words… or just plain denial over anything I say. You're so nervous you can't even beg for anything properly."
He fucks you into the mating press until your thighs are shaking against his hands, and your voice is hoarse from the sounds he's pulling out of you. His hand stays on your throat. The pressure of his squeeze fluctuates a lot, from him tightening when he thrusts hard, loosening when he grinds slowly, a cycle of both pain and relief that keeps you permanently on the edge of too much without ever crossing into too much.
Because Kuni knows your body, he knows how much it can take. He pushes you close enough to passing out that your vision darkens at the edges, your mouth falls open, your eyes lose focus, and then he loosens his grip and lets the blood rush back.
And the gasp you take is almost an orgasm on its own. "Please- hah… please, I can't… too much-"
"You can handle it, you just don't know it yet." He squeezes your throat and fucks into you hard enough that a plushie falls off the bed. The grin on his face is still, still beautifully intact, and it's the most terrifyingly perfect thing you've ever seen from this close.
"You know what's funny? You were scared when I walked in. Nervous. Couldn't even talk to me." He leans down until his lips brush yours, his hand still on your throat. "But you're not trying to stop me, are you? Your hands are tied, your legs are pinned, and we have a safeword you could've used at any point, and you won't, because you and I both know this is exactly the type of 'too much' that you crave."
You cum with his hand on your throat and his cock buried so deep you can feel him in your stomach. The orgasm hits different in a mating press, so much more intense. Your walls clench around him in rhythmic pulses that you feel in your entire pelvic floor, and he fucks you through it, his pace not slowing, his hand not loosening.
And by the time the aftershock fades, you're boneless, twitching, and making sounds that are barely human.
He cums inside you, you feel the heat of it, thick, pulsating, his hips pressing flush against yours and staying there while his cock throbs. His hand finally loosens on your throat, and his forehead drops against yours.
His breathing is ragged, and it's the first time you've ever heard him lose the composure of the character, and for one second, between the last pulse and first exhale, it's just Kuni.
Then the Lohen grin slides back. He stays inside you for a moment more, his cock still twitching with the last of it, before pulling out in one motion that makes your body clench around nothing.
You feel the immediate emptiness, the warmth of his cum already starting to leak, but you don't get to process that because his hands are on your hips and he's flipping you.
Your stomach hits the mattress, your face presses into your pillow, and the shift of his cock inside you during the rotation makes a wet, obscene sound that you both pretend not to hear. Your wrists are still bound with the belt, and they're now pinned beneath you. You feel him reach under you, fingers finding the leather, working the buckle loose with one hand, while the other grips your hip to keep you from sliding forward.
The belt falls away from your wrists, you roll them instinctively, flexing your fingers, and before you can even appreciate the freedom, you feel the belt loop around your neck instead.
He pulls it taut from behind. He doesn't choke you with it just yet; he just lets it sit snug against your throat with his fist gripping the trailing end like it's some sort of handle.
"Ass up," he says, and you barely get your knees under you before he gives up on waiting and pulls your hips back toward him.
He slams in at a rough, fast, punishing pace. The sound of his hips against your ass is echoing off your room in a rhythm that makes your plushies at the edge of the bed vibrate, causing a couple of them to fall.
He uses the belt as a way to anchor his thrusts while he rails into you with a force that has your fingers twisting in your sheets, and your neck being forced to arch back.
"Fu- oh my g-god, Loh-" You can't even finish his name, it just dissolves into a broken moan as he hits your spot from this angle. The deepness of the backshots makes your toes curl against the bedsheets.
He keeps going, his pace not slowing down at all, and you're too far gone that you barely register it when his rhythm stutters for a second, especially when you hear him mutter something under his breath that doesn't sound like Lohen.
"This stupid fucking…"
Your brain is somewhere between your legs; the only sound that's audible and coherent to you is the sound of his hips against your ass, and your endless moans.
He thrusts hard, and you let out a whimper, your fingers flexing on the sheets, and your feet coming up, clenching, then dropping again. But between the next few thrusts, you catch pieces of something that doesn't match the character he's trying to play.
His voice sounds like it's shifting, not into Scara like it's some muscle memory he has, but into Kuni, your boyfriend, sounding genuinely irritated about something that has nothing to do with sex.
"I swear to god, it keeps sliding," he mutters, and his grip on the belt loosens for a second as his other hand does something behind you that you can't see. He does another hard thrust, and your face falls against the pillow now that he isn't yanking on your neck. But he doesn't pull you back, choke you, or do whatever you expect him to do.
He complains.
"This is the last time I'll wear a wig. The last fucking time. I told you I hate these things and you always ignore it and tell me to suck it up when it's a character that isn't him-" a thrust that makes your spine arch, "and now I have gross, synthetic hair scratching at my face, and I'm going to lose my mind."
You're barely processing any of this, still, it all sounds like fragments to you that don't make sense because of the thick haze of being fucked into your mattress.
He grunts, clear frustration, and you hear something that sounds like a clip, or whatever mechanism that's keeping his wig attached to his actual hair, and his pace slows down enough that curiosity overtakes the pleasure for one stupid second.
You turn your head.
And it's Kuni behind you, one hand still on the belt at your neck, and the other holding the Lohen wig that he just pulled off his head. His real hair is back, dark indigo, messy, slightly matted from the wig cap he also tore off. He hasn't noticed you looking yet; he's too busy glaring at the wig with genuine contempt.
He's out of character, fully, completely, for once mid-fuck. He never breaks character, and something comes over you… Maybe it's the absurdity of the visual, maybe it's because you're fucked stupid enough that impulse control is just completely gone.
Maybe it's because the opportunity is just too perfect to pass, and you've seen that TikTok audio one too many times.
You gasp, loud, dramatic, your voice coming out in that exaggerated, scandalized tone that you know he's going to hate, "he's BALD. He's bald, and he's torturing people who have HAIR!"
The silence that follows lasts exactly one and a half seconds.
His eyes snap to you, and you're looking at him over your shoulder, half of your face pressed into the pillow, and you're grinning. That kind of stupid, shit-eating grin that you know is about to have severe consequences.
His expression goes through several stages in rapid succession. Disbelief comes first, processing it comes second, then recognition of the reference, and on the last and final stage, something dark and focused appears that makes your grin falter just slightly.
He throws the wig, and it hits your vanity mirror, sliding off somewhere that you don't care to watch, and his now-free hand shoves your head back down into the pillow. It's not gentle. His palm is flat against the back of your skull, pressing your face into the fabric, and your giggle gets muffled by cotton.
"You think that's funny?" His voice drops back into Lohen's, but it's rougher now, meaner, the edge of genuine irritation soaking through the character because you made a dumb joke while he was inside of you. "You think you're clever?"
You're trying to respond, but your face is pressed into a pillow, and his hand is keeping it there. What comes out next is a muffled, "Mm srrhyy-" that dissolves into a yelp when he slams into you so hard your knees slide forward on the sheets.
"Every prey animal thinks it's funny right before the teeth close." He fucks into you at a pace that's brutal, and way faster than anything before. Each thrust is showing you further into the mattress while his hand keeps your head pinned, and the belt around your neck pulls tight from the motion. "You want to make jokes? I'll give you something to scream about instead."
His other hand leaves the belt to grab at your hip, yanking you back onto his cock with every thrust, and the force of being pushed down and pulled back simultaneously has you making sounds into the pillow that are just broken, raw sounds. Your hands claw at the sheets above your head, your back arching down, while your ass stays up, and you can feel his fingers digging bruises into your hip while the belt drags against your throat.
"Mmph- wait, f-fuck, I'm sorryyy, I was k-kidding-" you manage between thrusts, your words slurring against the pillow, saliva starting to collect at the corner of your mouth because your jaw won't close properly. "Loh-hen, please, 'm sorry, I didn't m-mean-"
"You have a funny way of apologizing," he grinds out, and his hand on the back of your head shifts, his fingers curling into your hair and pulling your face just barely off the pillow, enough that your moans aren't muffled anymore. "Usually, people apologize without laughing. You're still smiling about it, I can hear it in your voice."
He's not wrong. You are still smiling, with tears in your eyes, getting absolutely destroyed because the image of your boyfriend ripping off a wig mid-sex with that look on his face will live in your brain rent-free forever. "Liar… 'M not smiling-"
"You are." A thrust so deep your smile actually drops because your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open around a moan that's more of a wail. "There… fixed it."
His other hand releases your hair and goes to his own head. You can feel the shift in his movements, slightly distracted, one-handed thrusts that are still devastating but less focused as he runs his fingers through his real hair, fixing it through the vanity mirror on the far side of your room.
Because even while he's railing at you, Kunikuzushi will not be caught dead with bad hair.
He's multitasking, fucking you into the mattress with one hand on the belt, and styling his hair with the other… the worst part is, he doesn't even slow down.
He pulls the belt back just enough that you're forced to arch your spine, the pressure on your throat lifting your chest slightly off the mattress, and the angle change makes his cock hit differently, shallower but dragging against your front wall with every stroke, and the sound that comes out of you is embarrassingly close to a squeal.
"Ah ah AH, oh m-my god, oh my god, right there, don't- nghhh don't move from that, please plea-hease..." Your words are tumbling out in a slurred mess, your brain is completely out of your control, and your hips are pushing back against his on their own because the angle is too good.
He cums with a groan, pressing into the back of your shoulder, biting down on your skin through a moan he clearly didn't want to let out. You feel his cock pulse inside you, the heat spreading, and his hips grind forward in small, lazy rolls as he empties everything. His hand goes slack on the belt, and his forehead drops against the space between your shoulder blades.
He stays there for a second, breathing, then he pulls back, letting go completely of the belt, and you fall forward because he was the one pulling your practically limp body against him. Your ass is up in the air, and you feel him slide out, and the gush of cum that follows is immediate. It's thick, warm, spilling out of you and down between your thighs.
He sits back and watches it, you know, because you hear the sheets shift, and you can tell by the way he doesn't move or speak, just watches the mess he made ooze out of you.
His thumb presses against your entrance at the rim, and more cum leaks out around the pressure, sliding down in a slow trail toward your clit. "Look at that," he murmurs, his voice back in character for Lohen, in an amused, fascinated tone. "You can't keep any of it in."
His other hand comes up and spreads you open with his thumb and forefinger, holding your folds apart, and you can feel the cool air hit the mess inside you. You feel more of his cum spill out from being exposed. You bury your face deeper into the pillow because the visual you can't even see is somehow still the most embarrassing part of this entire night.
"Lohen, don't just… stare at it-" You mumble into the pillow, voice a bit pitchy as your thighs try to close, but his knee is in between your legs before you can even try to hide.
"Why not?" His thumb traces through the cum leaking down your folds, collecting it, spreading it in a slow circle around your clit, and your hips jerk at the contact because you're so overstimulated. "It's mine, I put it there, and I'll stare at it for as long as I want."
He leans down, and you feel his breath warm against your swollen, sensitive skin. Then you feel his tongue, a single slow lick from your clit up to your folds that collects everything in its path. You let out a sound that's halfway between a moan and a sob, your fingers crushing at the sheets. His mouth seals around your clit and sucks one, hard, before pulling off with a wet pop that's so loud it echoes.
"Ahh- hhah, that's... you c-can't just do that and stop..." You whine, your hips chasing his mouth, but he's already sitting up, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
"I can do whatever I want." He says, like it's a fact, and his thumb pushes inside you lazily, scooping cum out and watching it drip off his finger before sliding it back in. "And right now I want to watch you try to keep it together while I play with the mess I made."
He does this for longer than is reasonable. Sliding his finger in, pulling it out with cum on it, pressing his thumb against your clit, watching you flinch and twitch and moan into the pillow while your body can't decide if it wants more or if it wants him to stop.
When you finally lift your head enough to look back at him, your vision is blurry, and your cheeks are wet, and your hair… let's not talk about that. But his hair, however…
It's perfect.
His actual hair, styled in Scaramouche's cut, falls over his forehead in a way that makes him look like a character rendered by someone who accidentally released him into the real world. He fixed it while he was fucking you, which means at some point of the most brutal backshots of your life, your boyfriend was simultaneously running his fingers through his hair to make sure it looked good.
And it does, it looks like Scaramouche wearing Lohen's clothes, the dark blue and silver of the cosplay framing his face differently than Scara's outfit does, and the combination of his real hair with Lohen's costume is somehow hotter than either one on its own.
"Your hair…" You start, breathless, head tilting, staring at him.
"I know." He doesn't elaborate, and for a second you did forget just where his fingers still are, but then you get instantly reminded when his thumb circles your clit again. His expression is annoyingly smug for someone who was complaining about a wig 4 minutes ago.
He slides back into you without warning, and you gasp, your head dropping back down, because you're still so unbelievably sensitive. Even though he did slurp some of it out, you still have his cum inside of you, and the re-entry just pushed every bit of the leftovers deeper. He does exactly two, slow thrusts from behind, enough to hear the wet sound of it, and enough to feel you clench around him involuntarily, and then he moves.
His hand wraps the belt tighter around your neck and pulls backward toward him. Your upper body lifts off the mattress as the leather digs into your throat. And at the same time, as if he's some pro multitasker, his other hand hooks under your thigh, and hauls you up.
The room tilts as he rearranges your body like you're a doll getting repositioned on a shelf.
He sits back on his heels, then further, his legs extending toward the foot of the bed, and he pulls you down onto his lap with your back against his chest. His cock is still inside you, and the angle of his cock in your folds shifts as gravity does the work of seating you fully onto him. Your weight pushes him impossibly deep.
"Oh my- f-fuck..." Your head falls back against his shoulder, your mouth open, eyes unfocused on the ceiling. You can feel him everywhere. The depth of this position, your full weight on his lap, is the kind of full that makes your brain actually go blank.
The belt is still around your neck. He grips the loose end in one fist, his other hand settling on your hip, and he snaps his hips up.
It's different from behind, and the mating press, and just any position he's ever tried with you. Every thrust pushes up into you while your own weight pushes down. The collision of both forces means he's hitting your cervix with almost every stroke. The belt pulls at your throat in time with his rhythm, and it's like a constant tug that keeps you slightly alert. He's using it as a leash while he fucks up into you.
"Lohen… Lohen, oh my g-god, that's so… hhh…" Your hands grip his thighs behind you for leverage, your nails pressing crescent moons into his skin through the dark fabric of the cosplay pants. Every thrust forces a sound out of you that you didn't choose. The sound ranges from breathy moans to hiccuped whimpers to full, unfiltered whines that bounce off your bedroom walls.
"Mm, good girl… Keep saying my name just like that." He says against the shell of your ear, his grin pressing into your hair, and his hips don't slow down at all while his free hand leaves your hip to cup your breast, squeezing it through your bunched-up tank top.
Then, suddenly, the pace changes. It slows like someone pressing on the brakes. The frantic upward thrusts melt into something grinding, deliberate, circular. His hips roll instead of slamming. His hand on the belt adjusts, and you can feel the leather pulling higher on your throat, the pressure shifting from the side of your neck to the front, directly on your windpipe, cutting your air down. It makes the room tilt and your head go light.
"Lohen is fun. I'll give him that."
Your walls clench around him so hard that you feel his breath catch, a tiny fracture in his composure that he covers immediately. The shift from Lohen's energy to Scara's is like someone swapped an entire soundtrack mid-song, same instruments but a completely different vibe.
"But fun is temporary." His hips roll in that slow, calculated grind that's purely Scaramouche. The one that doesn't just find your spot but sits on it, presses into it, with the exact amount of pressure needed to make your eyes cross. "Chaos without control is just noise."
He thrusts so deep that your vision goes white at the edges and your mouth opens around a shameless sound you can't hold back. "I'm not noise." He pulls the belt tighter, your air growing thinner as your head feels floaty and warm. "I'm the only voice in your head that stays."
"Scara…" It comes out of your mouth before he can ask for it, before he can demand it, your body just defaulting to the name it knows and has moaned out more times than you can count. Just the same as muscle memory.
"There she is." His voice sounds satisfied in a way that Lohen's never was. It's settled, fully sure, like something just got confirmed that he already knew. His thumb traces the edge of the belt for exactly one second.
Then his pace goes feral, the leash yanks tight, and you can feel the grin return against the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin. The whiplash of Scara's controlled grind slamming into Lohen's chaos makes your entire body jerk against his chest.
Then he goes back to Scara, slow, precise, the belt adjusting to hit your windpipe just like before, and your vision goes soft and dreamy.
Then Lohen, again, fast and reckless, the belt pulling to the sides, sharp and painful. Your vision snaps back, too clear… too much.
Then Scara.
Then Lohen.
The switches accelerate, and you're caught between two different rhythms that you don't even have time to get used to either one before it switches back and forth, and you're left shaking, trembling, your thighs quivering helplessly on either side of his.
"You feel so fucking good-" you can hear Lohen's signature grin in his tone, his hips snapping up hard enough that you bounce on his lap, "You think you can handle more?"
And then, like a light to a switch, Scara's back, his thrusts slowing into a grind that feels torturous. "Of course you can't… You never could. You just pretend."
"Mm… mmnhh, I c-cant, it's too much," you're babbling, the words coming out in disconnected fragments that don't form a single coherent thought, "both of you at the s-same time… I can't… my brain… can't…"
Your body is trying to process two characters and one cock, and one belt on your throat that keeps changing how tight and how rough it's being pulled, and the gravity pinning you down, and his hands on you everywhere. "Please jus- hha, pick one, p-please, I can't think when you keep switching, I-"
"No." It doesn't sound like either character he's playing as he says that, almost himself. "You don't get to pick, you get both."
You cum on the fault line. On the exact millisecond where Lohen's chaos collides with Scara's control. The two rhythms are crashing together inside your body like a wave hitting a wall. The orgasm rips through you so hard that your vision actually blacks out for a second.
Your walls seize around him in rhythmic, violent clenches, your back arching against his chest, the belt pulling taut as your body contorts, and the sound you make is raw, unformed, the kind of noise a person makes when their brain short-circuits.
He cums with you, his groan is buried in the crook of your neck as his teeth bite down on your shoulder. The belt goes slack in his hand, and his hips stutter up as he fills you again. You feel every pulse of it, hot and thick, and his hands grip your hips hard.
His breathing is ragged against your neck, not in character, just Kuni, just like before, catching a breath he doesn't need to catch because the adrenaline is still making his body do human things.
He lets go of the belt and unloops it from your neck. The leather slides off your skin, leaving a warm, raw line that you'll see in the mirror tomorrow. His hands settle on your hips, gentle, all the urgency gone.
He turns you around, rotating you by your hips without pulling out. Your legs swing around until you're facing him, straddling his hips. When your eyes meet his, it's your boyfriend looking at you, Kuni, with his makeup smudged, his real hair messy and falling into his eyes, wearing another character's clothes with his own face underneath.
He grinds up into you, slow, not thrusting, just rolling his hips with his cock still inside you, his cum still inside, and the wet sound fills the quiet room.
He kisses you, a slow kiss where his hand cups the back of your neck. His tongue slides against yours, and your hands find his face, holding his jaw the same way you hold it when you do his eyeliner. Your fingers on his cheekbones, your thumbs at the corners of his mouth… the grip is so familiar that your chest aches with it.
He pulls out, the gush of everything between you spills onto his thighs, and you whimper at the loss, your hips chasing him involuntarily, still kissing him, before settling.
He leans back, lies flat, and looks up at you. "Sit on my face." He instructs, his hands already going for his bottoms, shoving the waistband down with both hands, lifting his hips, and kicking the pants and underwear off in one motion that sends them somewhere on the bed. He settles back onto the mattress with his cock resting against his stomach and the rest of Lohen's cosplay still on his upper half.
You're still on top of him, and you start to move toward his face, swinging your leg over to straddle his chest, and just as you're about to lower yourself down facing the wall, he stops you.
"Other way." His hands catch your hips, holding you in place before you can settle. "Face my cock, not the headboard."
You turn, shifting on your knees so you're facing his legs instead, and the second your thighs are on either side of his face, his hands pull you down. He doesn't ease you into it, his fingers dig into your hips and yank you flat on him. His mouth meets your cunt like he's been starving for it. His tongue is on you immediately, flat and broad, licking through the mess of his cum and yours that's still leaking, and the groan he lets out against your folds vibrates through your entire lower half.
"Ah- oh my god, Loh-" Your hands brace against his stomach, fingers splaying across his chest, your body jerking at the contact because you're still so overstimulated that even his breath against you would be too much, let alone his entire mouth sealed to your cunt like he's trying to milk you dry.
He doesn't let up; his tongue pushes between your folds, lapping at the cum he left inside you, alternating between long drags up your clit, and pointed flicks that make your thighs clamp around his head. His hands keep your hips pinned to his face, and every time you try to lift yourself even slightly because it's too much, he pulls you back down harder.
You look down past his stomach, past his lips, and his cock is right there. Hard again, flushed at the tip, twitching every time you moan. It looks helpless, which is a stupid word to use for a dick, but that's what it looks like.
Just lying there… hard… neglected, pulsing at nothing while his mouth does all the work on you. The visual of that all, combined with the way his tongue just circles your clit makes your mouth water and your body move on its own.
You lean down, lips pressing against the tip, soft, barely any contact, and you feel his hips twitch upward at even that little touch. You open your mouth wider, about to take him in, settling your weight forward onto your forearms on either side of his hips, and then his hands move.
They leave your hips, and you feel them slide down your back, his arms wrapping around your torso, his palms pressing flat against your shoulder blades from behind, and before you can even register the shift in grip, he lifts you.
Your knees leave the mattress, your thighs slide up his shoulders until they're hooked over them, his arms anchored around your back. You aren't straddling his face anymore; you're suspended above him, upside down, your entire lower body held up by his arms, and your upper body hangs between his legs with his cock directly in front of your face.
"KUNI- what the HELL-" Your hands scramble for something to hold, and the only thing available is his back, his sides, your fingers digging into whatever part of him you can reach. "Stop putting me upside down!! How are you even this strong??"
He ignores you, his mouth is still on your cunt like the position change was nothing, like rearranging your entire body didn't interrupt the rhythm of his tongue.
Your thighs are wrapped around his shoulders, your calves pressed against the sides of his head, and his arms are locked around your lower back and hips, creating a cage of muscle that keeps you from falling. Your stomach is pressed against his chest, your breasts squished between your body and his, and your face is hovering directly over his cock with your hair hanging down.
He doesn't pause to let you adjust; his tongue pushes inside you from below, curling, and the moan that rips out of you vibrates against his inner thigh because your mouth is right there, inches from his cock, and you can't even hold back the sound.
You take him in your mouth because his cock is right there, hard, flushed, leaking from the tip, and this is the only logical response you can think of.
Your lips close around the head, and you can hear, feel, his groan vibrate against your clit from below. The sensation travels through you, making your thighs tighten around his shoulders, and you take him deeper in response, your jaw stretching as you slide down his shaft.
His hips start moving, and he's fucking up into your mouth with thrusts that push his cock past your tongue and into the back of your throat. The angle of being upside down makes your gag reflex hit differently, sharper, your throat constricting around him with every push.
"Mmph-" You gag around him, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth and running up toward your nose because gravity is working against you, and your eyes water as he pushes in deep enough that your lips press flush against his base.
He pulls your hips down against his face at the same time, grinding your cunt onto his mouth, and the dual sensation of his tongue on your clit and his cock in your throat creates a never-ending loop.
Every sound you make around him vibrates through his cock and makes his groan against you, and every groan he makes against you vibrates through your clit and makes you moan louder, and the cycle just keeps building on itself until neither of you is making sounds that qualify as human.
Your hands grip the backs of his thighs, nails biting into his skin, your only anchor while the rest of you is suspended in the air, getting destroyed from both ends. His arms tighten around your back whenever your body jerks too hard, keeping you steady, and the strength required to hold you like this while simultaneously eating you out and thrusting into your mouth is something you'll think about later, when you have brain cells to think with.
His tongue circles your clit and then seals over it, sucking hard, and your entire body arches in his grip. Your moan around his cock is muffled and obscene, a wet, gargled sound that would be embarrassing if you had any shame left, and the vibration of it makes his hips stutter up so hard you choke.
"Mmngh-" Spit drips down your chin, or up your chin technically because you're upside down, and his cock slides out of your mouth for a second while you cough and gasp, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his shaft.
He doesn't give you a break. His mouth doesn't leave your cunt, his tongue pressing harder, faster, relentless, and your mouth finds his cock again through the haze, taking him back in because even choking on him feels better than the alternative of not having him in your mouth.
His hips roll up in longer strokes now, less frantic but deeper, and you can feel the tension building in his thighs, the muscles tightening under your fingers. His arms squeeze around your back, pulling your hips down harder against his mouth, and his tongue works your clit in tight, focused circles that are designed to break you.
Everything builds at the same time. His cock pulsing heavier against your tongue, your walls clenching against his mouth, the pressure in your core climbing toward something massive, and his breathing getting faster against your cunt, his groans getting louder, less controlled, desperate in a way he only gets when he's close.
You cum first, barely, by maybe a second.
Your walls seize, and your thighs clamp around his shoulders, and the orgasm crashes through you in a wave so intense your jaw locks around his cock. The constriction of your throat, squeezing around him, plus the vibration of your moan, plus the way your entire body shakes in his grip, is what sends him over.
He cums in your mouth with a groan so deep you feel it in your spine. His hips push up one final time, his cock pulsing thick against your tongue, and you swallow around him because there's nothing else to do in this position, the cum sliding down your throat (or up, gravity is still confusing) while his tongue works you through the last aftershocks.
His arms loosen, not all at once, because if he did, you'd drop violently onto the bed. He eases the tension gradually, lowering your hips back toward the mattress, and you let his cock slip from your mouth with a wet sound that you're too brain dead to be embarrassed about.
"Put me down," you mumble against his thigh, your voice wrecked, your arms shaking. "Please, Kuni, put me down before I die in this position, and you have to explain it to my parents."
He lowers you down carefully, his hands guiding your hips and legs until your back is flat on the mattress beside him. Your head is at the foot of the bed, and your feet are near the pillows, but you don't really care because you're horizontal and alive, and that's enough.
He sits up, looks at you sideways on the bed, completely destroyed, and he doesn't say anything. He just moves you, his hands sliding under your back and your knees as he repositions you properly to put your head up against the pillows where it belongs.
He's quiet when he cleans you up this time, zero commentary about you squirming, no dry remarks about sensitivity, just the warm cloth from the bathroom, careful movements between your legs while his other hand stays on your hip to keep you still when you flinch.
He brings new clothes from your dresser, a pair of underwear, which goes on you first, slides up your legs, then shorts, then a top he pulls over your head and feeds through your arms without asking for your cooperation because he's already learned you won't give it.
He doesn't talk the whole time, which is unusual, because Kuni always has something to say, always has a complaint or a remark or a correction. But right now he's just doing it quietly, focused, tucking the hem of your top down with his fingers before standing up and walking toward your closet.
He changes into the pajama pants and black shirt he keeps in your drawer, and he pulls the Lohen cosplay off in pieces as he does it, dropping each part onto the chair by your desk.
"I'm never wearing that thing again," he says, pulling the top layer of Lohen's outfit off his shoulders with a grimace, his tone flat and final. "Whoever designed this character hates the human body. It feels like it's over 6 layers, especially with the long-sleeve, the cape thing… everything." He drops the last piece and kicks it under the chair. "Scara's cosplay isn't even that heavy because Scara was designed by someone with common sense."
You watch him from the bed, half-lidded, sinking into the pillows, your body so heavy that you feel like you're melting into your own mattress.
He walks back and pulls the covers up, sliding in beside you without ceremony. The second he's horizontal, you're already moving toward him, pressing your face into his chest, your hand curling into the front of his shirt, and his arm wraps about your back.
He kisses your forehead, soft, and then the bridge of your nose when you lift your face up enough, then the corner of your mouth. It's small, quiet presses of his lips against your skin that feel nothing like Scaramouche or Lohen. These are Kuni kisses, the ones he gives when no character is being performed.
The ones he probably doesn't even realize he's giving because they come out of him the same way breathing does.
He tips your chin up with his finger, and his eyes are just blue. Not indigo contacts, not the ones he wore for the Lohen cosplay, just his natural, stupid, annoyingly pretty blue that you fell for before you even knew that you cosplayed.
"Who do you want?" He asks, his voice low, and it's the softest you've heard it all night.
You look at him, at the messy hair, at the body who dyes his hair for a fictional character and hates wigs and complains about having to style his hair everyday and who buys you an abmormal amount of primogems, and probably would get you c6 r5 Lohen the minute he drops because he does that for every character, even when he gets jealous when you simp for a character that you don't just ask him to cosplay like any other logical person dating a cosplayer.
"Kuni," you say, and your voice is small and sure. "Just Kuni."
His mouth twitches, and you can see the shape of a smile trying to form before he catches it and pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin and pressing his lips to your hair.
"Good answer," he murmurs into your scalp, so quiet that you almost miss it.
You close your eyes, your face against the fabric of his shirt, and you're asleep before you can respond. He stays awake for a minute more, his hand moving through your hair in slow repetitive movements. He stares at the ceiling fan, and he doesn't say anything.
He doesn't need to.
I have a Discord now! 18+, for readers, writers, and anyone who wants early wips and a place to chat!! (link)
When (y/n) surfaced, it was like drifting up from deep water, slow, heavy, resisting every instinct to breathe.
At first there was only warmth. A steady pressure around her fingers. A low, rhythmic sound that pulsed through the fog, not quite words, not quite music.
Then light. Too bright. Too much.
Her eyes fluttered, opening only a sliver before closing again, lashes trembling. Everything felt wrong. Pain existed, but muted, wrapped in something that filled it. She tried to swallow and her throat burned.
She heard chanting first.
Her grandmother’s voice, old and steady. The words were familiar, ancient prayers to Eyes.
A hand tightened around hers.
Mo’at’s chant broke for the first time in what felt like forever.
“She wakes,” her grandmother said softly, as if afraid to scare her back into sleep.
(y/n)’s brow furrowed faintly.
Her lashes lifted again, this time staying open just long enough for the world to start stitching itself together.
Her mother. sat at her side, shoulders hunched forward as though she hadn’t moved in days—because she hadn’t, eyes closed and hollow with exhaustion. One hand clutched (y/n)’s.
(y/n)’s lips parted. Her voice scraped out of her chest, barely a sound. “Mom…”
Neytiri jolted upright, a sharp breath hitched out of her as she leaned in, both hands coming up to cup her daughter’s face with trembling care.
“I am here,” she whispered urgently, voice breaking around the words. “I am here, my daughter. You are safe. You are safe.”
(y/n) blinked slowly, trying to focus. Her mother’s face looked thinner. Older. Like someone who hadn’t slept properly in a very long time.
“It hurts,” she murmured faintly, confusion flickering through her eyes.
“I know,” Neytiri said immediately, lowering her forehead to her daughter’s. “I know. Do not speak. Mama is here.”
Only then did Jake stir.
He had been sitting in the corner on a low stool, back curved, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed forward as if he’d fallen asleep mid-prayer, dark shadows carved beneath his eyes.
Neytiri’s voice, cut through his exhaustion like a blade. “Jake.”
His head snapped up.
For a split second, he looked lost, disoriented, afraid. Then his eyes found the bed.
Found her.
Awake. Neytiri brushing her hair back and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.
His breath left him in a broken exhale. He stood so fast the stool tipped over behind him, clattering to the floor, but he didn’t notice. He crossed the space and dropped to his knees beside the bed, hands hovering uselessly in the air like he didn’t trust himself to touch her yet.
“Hey,” he whispered hoarsely. “Hey, baby girl.”
His voice cracked completely.
(y/n)’s eyes shifted toward him, slow and heavy, but when she recognized him, something softened in her gaze. “Dad,” she breathed.
Jake let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. He pressed his forehead gently to the edge of the bed, eyes squeezed shut as his shoulders shook once, before he pulled himself together.
“You scared the hell outta us,” he said softly, trying to smile. “You’ve been… you’ve been asleep a long time.”
Weeks. They didn’t say the word.
Neytiri brushed her lips across (y/n)’s forehead, over and over, .
Mo’at’s hands rested lightly over her granddaughter’s legs, her chest, checking,, thanking Eywa for what had been returned.
“You are back with us,” her grandmother murmured.
(y/n)’s eyelids drooped again, exhaustion pulling her under. Her grip tightened weakly around Neytiri’s fingers.
“I’ll be right here when you wake,” Neytiri whispered and (y/n) shut her eyes.
The haze burned away slowly.
Pain came first. Deep, raw, everywhere. It pulsed in her shoulder, her side, her back. It felt like her body had been taken apart and stitched back together wrong.
(y/n) gasped and tried to move.
Her body screamed in protest.
“No—” Neytiri said instantly, hands firm but gentle as she pressed her daughter back against the bed. “Easy. Easy, ma’yawntu. Do not move.”
(y/n)’s breath hitched, a soft, broken sound. “It hurts,” she whispered, voice hoarse like she’d been screaming for days.
“I know,” Neytiri murmured, leaning over her, one hand cradling her cheek, the other bracing her shoulder so she wouldn’t try to sit again. “I know. But stay still or you shall make it worde.”
(y/n) blinked hard, eyes unfocused, trying to piece together where here was. White lights. Strange smells. The low hum of machines. Her mother’s face too close, eyes red-rimmed, lashes clumped with dried tears.
“How…?” she croaked. “How did I get here?”
For half a heartbeat, Neytiri froze.l as she relieved a living nightmare. Hunting. Her daughter’s screams on the wind. Blood-curdling. A sound no mother should ever hear from her child. Neytiri remembered the way her heart had dropped into her stomach, the way her body had moved before her mind could catch up. The flash of teeth. The impossible weight of her daughter going limp in her arms. The blood, so much blood, slicking her hands, soaking her forearms.
The moment (y/n) had stopped breathing.
Neytiri swallowed hard, throat tightening until it burned. She forced the memory down, deep, where it could not surface and drown her.
“It does not matter,” she said softly instead. Too softly. “You are here now. You are okay,” her voice trembled despite her best efforts.
(y/n) frowned scrunching up her face from the pain, whimpering. “Mama…?”
Neytiri brushed her thumb under her eye, catching a tear she hadn’t felt fall. “Do not worry about it,” she said, and leaned down, pressing a kiss forehead gently to her daughter’s. “Please. Rest.”
Neytiri’s chest tightened. “He will be here soon,” she promised immediately. “Your brothers and sisters are worried sick. But I am here. I am not leaving you. Not ever.”
Her hand slid down, fingers lacing carefully with (y/n)’s.
(y/n) nodded weakly making a small whining noise, eyelids fluttering. “Everything hurts,” she whispered, frustration and fear bleeding into her voice. “I can’t— I can’t make it stop, please make it stop.”
“I know,” Neytiri said again, and this time she didn’t try to be strong. She leaned closer, wrapping her arm protectively around her daughter’s shoulders, careful of the wounds, holding her the only way she could, hoping that her warmth and love could relived even an ounce of the pain.
(y/n) squeezed her mother’s fingers, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Mama…”
“I am here,” Neytiri whispered fiercely, kissing her hair, her temple, anywhere she could reach. “Rest. Even if you cannot sleep, rest. I will watch you.”
The pain didn’t go away. It still roared, sharp and unrelenting.
“Please mom, it hurts,” she shuddered in sobbing breath. Neytiri sat on the edge of her bed, heart breaking at the sound of her daughter’s painful cry as she helped her daughter sit up and pulled her into her chest. One of (y/n)’s arms went around her, trying to pull her closer so that her mother could try and hide her from the pain.
Her breaths came out in shudders and Neytiri was about to lay her back down, “no,” (y/n) sobbed, “please mama,” she said in a voice so small it didn’t sound like (y/n) for a second. Neytiri just nodded, she wanted her mother to hold her and Neytiri would continue to hold her until the pain stopped or she lost the strength to stay awake.
The questions had started since the first day (y/n) hadn’t come home.
They hadn’t stopped since.
“Where’s (y/n)?”
“When is she coming home?”
“Is she with Mama?”
“Did she go somewhere without us?”
Jake tried to answer without answering. Tried to smile without lying outright. Tried to keep the knot in his chest from tightening every time Neteyam asked just a little too carefully, every time Lo’ak pretended not to care but hovered near the biolab anyway, peering in to see if his suspicions were correct, every time Kiri went quiet and listened to the forest like it might whisper the truth to her.
A week sof it.
Weeks of worry buzzing through the mauri like a trapped insect.
Mo’at finally took pity on him.
“Go,” she said, her voice gentle but firm as she ushered the younger ones away with practiced ease. “I will keep them busy. You belong with her.”
Jake didn’t argue. He didn’t thank her. He was already heading towards his wife and eldest daughter..
Neytiri was sitting on the edge of the bed, one arm wrapped around their daughter, holding her upright against her chest. (y/n) was tucked into her like she was trying to disappear into her arms, her face pressed into Neytiri’s shoulder, body curled tight.
“She’s in pain,” Neytiri said quietly without looking up.
Jake nodded, throat closing. He could see how rigid (y/n)’s shoulders were, the way her fingers dug into Neytiri’s arm like she was afraid of falling apart if she let go.
“I’ll get Max,” Jake said immediately. “The painkillers must’ve worn off.”
He took one step, then stopped, he needed to see her. Really see her.
“How’re you doin’, kiddo?” he asked softly, crouching so he was eye level with her.
(y/n) turned her head just enough to look at him. Her eyes were glassy. Tired. Her lip trembled as she sniffled as if she were about to start sobbing.
“It hurts,” she whispered, her breath shuddering. “Everywhere.”
Something inside Jake cracked.
He remembered dropping to his knees on the biolab floor when Norm shouted that they had her—that she was breathing again. The sting in his palms where they’d hit the ground. The scab still healing on his knee from where he’d gone down too hard, too fast, relief knocking the strength right out of him.
He remembered standing there afterward while Norm and Max explained the damage in careful, clinical words, midsection, leg, shoulder, like naming the injuries would make them hurt less.
He reached out, then hesitated—then gently cupped her cheek knowing anything more would make her hurt more. She leaned into his touch as she looked up at him with glassy eyes that screamed at him to make the pain stop.
That nearly broke him.
He pressed a kiss to the side of her head. Trying not to let this undo him, trying to be strong for his daughter who already being so, so brave.
“I’m gonna get you something for the pain,” he said softly, forcing a lighter tone through the tremor in his chest. “How’s that sound, huh?”
She nodded against him. “Okay.”
Jake brushed his thumb through her hair. “I’ll be right back. Promise.”
As he stood, the image flashed unbidden, her blood on Neytiri’s arms. Too much red. The look on Neytiri’s face, a look so desperate and fragile as if her own heart was bleeding out in her hands… his was as well.
He shoved it down hard.
She’s here. She’s breathing. Don’t fall apart now.
“I love you,” he said quietly.
(y/n) rasped “Love you too, Dad.”
Jake turned away before the tears could spill.
The memory of her bleeding out would haunt him for the rest of his life.
But not today.
Today, he would get her through the pain.
Max came back quickly, Jake right on his heels.
The relief on Jake’s face when he saw the vial in Max’s hand was immediate, like he’d been holding his breath for far too long and had only just been allowed to exhale.
“Alright,” Max said quietly, already checking the IV line, movements calm and practiced. “This should take the edge off. She’s been fighting the pain pretty hard.”
(y/n) watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, awareness flickering like a candle in a draft. She didn’t say anything, just tightened her grip on Neytiri’s arm, knuckles paling.
Neytiri pressed a kiss into her daughter’s temple. “It is alright, my heart,” she whispered, voice soft and steady despite the way her heart was still hammering in her chest. “Let it take you. Mama is here.”
Jake stepped closer on the other side, crouching so she could see him. He brushed his thumb gently along her cheek,. “Just gonna help you sleep, kiddo,” he murmured. “No more hurting for a bit, okay?”
Max injected the medication slowly.
Almost immediately, the tension in (y/n)’s shoulders began to ease. The tight line of her mouth softened. Her breathing, which had been rapid, started to slow, each breath sinking deeper into her chest.
Her eyes fluttered.
“Dad?” she murmured faintly.
“I’m right here,” Jake said instantly. “Not going anywhere.”
“Mama?” she whispered, voice barely there.
Neytiri cupped her face in both hands, thumbs brushing away the dampness at the corners of her eyes. “I see you,” she whispered back, tears slipping free now despite her efforts. “Rest now. Mama will be right here when you wake up.”
(y/n)’s gaze drifted between them, unfocused now, the world slipping away. Her fingers loosened their grip. “So tired,” she breathed.
“I know,” Jake said softly, leaning in so his voice was the last thing she heard. “Sleep, baby girl. We’ll be right here when you wake up.”
Her lashes finally fell.
For a moment, they both stayed perfectly still, until her breathing evened out completely, deep and slow, the tension fully leaving her body for the first time since she’d woken.
She was asleep.
Neytiri let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and pressed a kiss to her daughter’s hair, lingering there. Jake rested a hand on (y/n)’s shoulder, so her could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing beneath his palm.
Max quietly adjusted the monitor and stepped back, giving them space.
Neither parent moved.
Max and Norm waited until (y/n) was fully awake again before continuing the tests and a little more healed.
She lay propped slightly on the bed, eyelids heavy. Neytiri sat close, fingers laced with her daughter’s, murmuring softly to her in Na’vi. Jake stood on the other side, arms folded tight across his chest, every muscle wound too tight.
Max moved carefully, methodical, voice gentle. “Hey, kiddo. I’m gonna ask you to do a couple things for me, alright?”
(y/n) nodded faintly.
He checked her pupils, her grip, her reflexes, everything above the waist responding as expected, fingertips, abdomen, then spine.
Max paused.
Just for half a second.
Jake noticed. Parents always did.
Max straightened slightly, keeping his voice light. “Okay. I need you to wriggle your toes for me.”
(y/n) frowned in concentration. “I am,” she said after a moment, confused. “I think.”
Jake’s stomach dropped. Oh god no.
Max crouched lower, eyes on her feet. “Try again. Really focus.”
She closed her eyes, jaw tightening, brow furrowing with effort. “I’m… I’m doing it,” she insisted, uncertainty creeping into her voice now. “I can feel them. I think.”
Nothing moved.
Max didn’t look at Jake at first.
Then he did.
Just a glance.
Jake’s heart slammed so hard he thought it might break through his ribs. Please no.
Norm stepped in smoothly, redirecting. “Alright, that’s enough for now. You did great,” he told (y/n) reassuringly. “We’re going to give you something to help with the pain and let you rest again.”
“But—” she started, frowning.
Neytiri squeezed her hand gently. “Rest, my daughter ,” she said softly. “You have been so strong.”
The medication went into her IV. Within minutes, the tension eased from her body again, consciousness slipping away. Neytiri stayed with her, smoothing her hair, humming under her breath.
Max and Norm quietly motioned for Jake to step outside.
The door slid shut behind them.
Jake didn’t speak at first. He couldn’t. His mouth felt dry, his tongue thick, as though the words might choke him if he tried to force them out.
Max broke the silence. “She’s stable. That’s good. Waking up was a very good sign.”
“Cut the crap,” Jake said hoarsely. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Norm exchanged a glance with Max before answering carefully. “There’s swelling along her spinal cord. Given the trauma she took, it isn’t unexpected.”
Jake swallowed. Hard. “Is she paralyzed?”
The word felt wrong in his mouth. Poisonous.
For a moment, the world seemed to stretch thin and silent. Seconds ticked by that felt like entire lifetimes as he waited for their answer.
“Yes,” Max said quietly. “Right now, she is.”
Jake’s knees nearly gave out, the whole world felt like it was spinning.
“But,” Norm added quickly, “we believe it may be temporary. The swelling is significant. If it reduces as her injuries heal, she may regain movement in her legs.”
May.
Jake barely heard the rest. His ears were ringing, his pulse roaring in his head. All he could see was a younger version of himself—trapped in a body that wouldn’t move, staring at a ceiling he’d memorized because there was nothing else to do. The anger. The despair. The way life had shrunk to four walls and a chair.
Not her.
Not his little girl.
Max touched his arm briefly. “We didn’t want to tell her yet. Not until we know more.”
Jake nodded numbly.
They left him there.
The moment they were gone, the dam broke.
Jake slammed his fist into the wall—once, twice—hard enough to dent the metal. Pain shot up his arm, but it barely registered. He slid down until he was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, face buried in his hands.
“No,” he whispered, voice breaking. “No, no, no…”
This would destroy her. Hunting. Running. Flying. The forest. Her whole world, gone.
Just like his had been.
Hot tears spilled through his fingers. He couldn’t stop them.
Footsteps approached.
Neytiri.
She knelt in front of him immediately, eyes searching his face. “She is asleep,” she said softly. “The pain has eased.”
Jake looked up at her, tears streaking down his face, chest heaving. “Neytiri…” His voice cracked completely. “She’s paralyzed. She can’t walk.”
Her breath hitched, but only for a heartbeat.
“That is not her fate,” Neytiri said firmly, hands coming to cradle his face. “Do not speak it into truth.”
“That’s not a life,” he whispered desperately. “You don’t understand—”
“I understand loss,” Neytiri cut in sharply, eyes blazing now. “I understand pain. And I understand Eywa does not write paths so simply.”
“Neytiri—”
She pressed her forehead to his, silencing him. “If you despair, she will feel it,” she said fiercely. “If you break, she will break. You are her father. You must hope—for her, if not for yourself.”
Jake squeezed his eyes shut, shaking.
“She’s just a kid,” he choked. “She had everything ahead of her.”
“And she still does,” Neytiri said, voice softer now but unyielding. “This is not the end of her life. It is only a turning.”
She pulled him into her arms, holding him as tightly as she could. Jake clung to her, shaking, burying his face against her shoulder.
“Go,” she said softly. “Sit with her. I will go home and tend to our other children. They will be frightened. They will need me.”
Jake didn’t argue. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight.
“She is lucky,” Neytiri continued, even as her voice trembled. “Not many live through what she did. That is what I hold onto. That is what gives me hope… even when seeing her in pain tears my heart in two.”
Jake met her eyes. In them, he saw his own fear reflected back, raw, aching, unending . He nodded once. He felt exactly the same.
Neytiri squeezed his hand, then turned away before her resolve could crumble.
Jake waited until she was gone before moving.
He went back into the room quietly, like he was afraid even the sound of his footsteps might hurt her. The biolab was dim and still, filled with the soft hum of machines and the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing.
He pulled the stool closer and sat down beside her.
Her hand lay limp against the bedding, wrapped carefully in bandages and bruises blooming beneath her skin. Jake took it gently, cradling it in both of his.
It fit so differently now.
His chest tightened as memory after memory came rushing in, her tiny fingers wrapped around just one of his when she was little, toddling beside him through the village. The way she used to swing their joined hands when she walked, proud just to be going wherever her dad was going. How she’d look up at him and ask endless questions about everything.
When did you get so big? he thought painfully.
His thumb brushed over her knuckles, careful not to disturb her. The thought hit him like a physical blow, no more walking side by side through the clan, her hand warm in his as he carried out his duties. No more wandering paths together while she talked and talked and talked.
A tear slid down his face and dropped silently onto the blanket.
“Please,” he whispered, voice barely sound. “Not my little girl.”
She hadn’t lived yet. Not really. She hadn’t flown enough, run enough, laughed enough. She hadn’t seen all the places she was meant to see or become all the things she was meant to be.
Jake squeezed his eyes shut as the memories of his own past surged up unbidden—the chair, the helplessness, the way the world kept moving while he was left behind. The looks of pity. The frustration. The anger. The way it hollowed him out.
I know how hard this is, he thought desperately. I know what this does to you.
And the idea of her carrying that weight, his fierce, kind, endlessly giving daughter, was unbearable.
He bent forward, resting his forehead against the edge of the bed, still holding her hand like it was the only thing left in the world.
“You’re stronger than me,” he murmured, tears slipping free now. “You always have been. But you shouldn’t have to be. Not yet.”
Her fingers twitched faintly in his grasp, maybe just a reflex, maybe something more, and Jake clung to that tiny movement.
He straightened, wiping his face with the back of his hand, forcing himself to breathe. He would not let her wake up to despair. He would not let her feel his fear.
“Dad…”
The word came out barely there, more breath than sound, but Jake felt it like a hand around his heart.
Her hand lifted weakly from the sheets, fingers trembling, searching. Jake caught it without thinking, warm and solid, guiding it to her chest.
Right over her heart.
Her fingers curled there, clumsy and unsure at first, then tightening as if she’d found exactly what she was looking for. Her other hand followed, sliding up to clutch his wrist, anchoring him there. She held on with surprising strength for someone so small and so hurt.
A faint smile touched her lips.
The one she got when she realised she had him all to herself. No siblings to compete with, no duties pulling him away. Just her. Just dad.
Jake swallowed hard, blinking fast, holding her there like he could shield her from everything if he just didn’t let go. He leaned down until his forehead rested against her knuckles.
“I’m here,” he whispered, voice thick. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes fluttered, unfocused again, but the smile lingered. Her grip stayed firm, like some part of her knew her dad, her hero was right there.
Neytiri had faith. Faith that eywa had a path and plan for their daughter.
And Jake, who had lost so much once before, who had learned how fragile hope could be, chose, in that moment, to lean into hers.
He looked down at his daughter, at the layers of bandages wrapping her torso, her shoulder, her leg. At the rise and fall of her chest, slow but steady. At the machines humming softly, doing their part while Eywa did hers.
They were so damn lucky. The Thanator should have killed her. The forest itself could have taken her. Any one of those wounds could have been the end. And yet—she was here. Breathing. Holding his hand. Smiling like she’d won some small, secret victory just by having him close.
Jake pressed a gentle kiss to her hair, careful of the pain he knew waited just under the surface.
“Rest, baby girl,” he murmured. “I’ll be right here when you wake up again.”
Her fingers loosened only slightly as sleep reclaimed her, but she didn’t let go entirely.
Jake didn’t either.
Jake and Neytiri sat on either side of the narrow bed, the low hum of the biolab filling the quiet spaces between them. (y/n) slept fitfully, lashes fluttering, breath shallow but steady. Every so often her fingers twitched in her mother’s grasp.
She’d been waking like this for days now, brief, drowsy moments where her eyes would crack open, unfocused, before the medication pulled her back under again.
No signs of infection.
The swelling had begun to ease.
The stitches were holding.
Her shoulder looked angry, red and swollen, but clean.
On paper, she was improving.
In reality, Jake had never felt further from relief.
Neytiri brushed her thumb gently over their daughter’s knuckles, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. Her jaw was tight, her ears angled back in a way Jake knew meant she’d been holding something in for too long.
“I want to take her home,” Neytiri said quietly.
Jake didn’t answer at first. He stared at the lines bandages along (y/n)’s abdomen, at the sling supporting her shoulder, at the way her body looked too still beneath the blankets. His mind immediately leapt to everything that could still go wrong.
“The wounds could still get infected,” he said finally, voice low. Careful. “We’re not out of the woods yet. If something turns—if the swelling comes back, if there’s a complication—this place is better equipped to handle it. Especially…” He trailed off.
Especially her spine.
The words lodged in his throat like a shard of bone.
Neytiri turned to him sharply, her eyes flashing. “This place smells of fear,” she hissed softly. “Of metal and sickness. This is not healing.”
Jake exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Neytiri—”
“She needs the forest,” Neytiri continued, her voice trembling now, not with anger but conviction. “Fresh air. The sounds of home. And my mother will be there. Mo’at is Tsahìk. She has healed warriors far worse than this.”
Jake hesitated. He could hear it the unspoken accusation beneath her words. That these sky people tools hadn’t saved their daughter.
That maybe Eywa’s will had.
“I’m not saying your mother can’t help,” he said carefully. “I’m saying this—” he gestured helplessly around them, “—this might be what keeps her alive if something goes wrong. If the injury to her spine—”
Neytiri’s hand shot out, gripping his arm hard. Her eyes burned into his.
“Do not hide behind fear,” she said.
Jake swallowed. His gaze flicked back to their daughter’s sleeping face. She looked so peaceful like this. Too peaceful. Like she didn’t yet know what she had lost.
“She doesn’t know yet,” he said quietly. “The medication—even when those tests were run she was still drowsy. She hasn’t asked. And when she does…” His voice cracked, just barely. “I don’t know how to tell her.”
Neytiri’s grip tightened.
“You will not tell her alone,” she said simply.
Jake looked at her, the exhaustion etched into her face. At the dried tear tracks she hadn’t bothered to wipe away anymore. At the fierce, unyielding love that had carried her through holding their daughter while her heart had stopped beating.
“She’s our baby,” Jake whispered. “I can’t—”
“I know,” Neytiri said, softer now. She reached out, placing her free hand over his. “But she is strong. Stronger than you think.”
He shook his head, eyes shining. “That doesn’t make this okay.”
“No,” Neytiri agreed. “But taking her home may be what she needs.”
(y/n) stirred then, a faint sound escaping her throat. Both parents froze instantly, leaning in. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, glassy with sleep and medicine. She blinked slowly, her gaze drifting until it landed on them.
“Ma…” she murmured, barely audible.
Neytiri bent instantly, cupping her face, her voice soft and soothing. “I am here, my heart. Rest.”
(y/n)’s brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering before her eyes slid shut again. Within seconds, she was asleep once more.
Jake let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Neytiri straightened, meeting his gaze.
“We cannot protect her from this,” she said. “Not with silence. Not with these walls. She will feel the truth whether we speak it or not.”
Jake nodded slowly. He knew she was right. He hated that she was right.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
Neytiri squeezed his hand.
“And then,” she added leaving no room for argument , “we bring her home.”
Jake looked down at their sleeping daughter, his chest aching with love and dread in equal measure. “Okay,” he repeated.
Max stood with his arms folded, eyes flicking from the monitors to Jake and back again. Norm hovered nearby, the concern written plainly across his face.
“You’re sure about this?” Max asked gently. “Jake, we’re not trying to scare you, but you need to understand what could go wrong. Infection. Pain management. If her swelling spikes again…”
“I know,” Jake cut in, voice low but steady. Too steady. “I know all of it.”
Norm stepped in, softer. “Home is less controlled than here. Less sterile. If something happens—”
“Neytiri thinks this will help her,” Jake said, finally looking up. His eyes were red-rimmed but clear. “She thinks being home, breathing forest air, hearing her siblings… that it’ll give her something to hold onto. And I trust her.”
There was a beat of silence.
Max exhaled. “Alright then.”
They moved with practiced precision, medication tapered, lines unclipped, the IV removed with gentle hands. The machines quieted one by one until the room felt strangely empty without their hum.
“She’ll wake up in a bit,” Norm said. “Pain will be there. But manageable.”
Jake nodded.
When they stepped back, he leaned down and kissed the top of his daughter’s head, careful, reverent, as if she were made of glass. “Hey, baby girl,” he murmured. “We’re taking you home.”
Neytiri watched, eyes shining. When Jake lifted (y/n) into his arms, she followed close behind, one hand never leaving her daughter’s back.
The marui was warm and dim when they arrived, firelight flickering softly against the woven walls. Mo’at sat near the hearth with little Tuk in her arms, humming low as she rubbed small circles into the child’s back.
A space had already been prepared, soft hides layered thickly, a place made with intention and care.
Jake lowered (y/n) gently, adjusting her until she was settled. Tuk wriggled down immediately, toddling toward her big sister with a hopeful chirp.
Before she could get close, Neytiri scooped her up, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Not now, my little one,” she murmured. “Would you like something to eat?”
Tuk nodded solemnly, already distracted, and Neytiri carried her away.
Mo’at rose then, slow and sure, her eyes sharp and assessing. She knelt beside (y/n), peeling back wrappings just enough to inspect the wounds. Her fingers were warm as she applied a thick green paste, the scent sharp and earthy. As she worked, she whispered prayers under her breath.
Jake hovered nearby, unable to sit, unable to look away.
Mo’at glanced up at him without pausing. “Something troubles you, Jake Suli.”
His breath caught. For a moment he looked like he might not speak at all.
“She—” His voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “She’s paralysed. She can’t walk.”
The words sounded wrong in the marui. Too heavy. Too cruel.
Mo’at’s hands stilled for just a heartbeat before continuing her careful work. When she looked up again, her gaze was steady, unwavering.
“She lives,” Mo’at said simply. “That is no small thing.”
Jake’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him. “I know. I just—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “She’s just a child.”
Mo’at reached out and rested her hand over his. “And still here. Eywa has not set an easy path for this one.”
She met his eyes. “I will do everything I can for my granddaughter. One miracle at a time.”
Jake nodded, blinking fast. He stayed there, standing guard beside his daughter, watching Mo’at work, listening to the soft crackle of the fire, clinging to the fragile, stubborn hope that Neytiri was so sure in.
Just a glimpse, bandages, stillness, their grandmother mother seated at her side.
His face lit up on instinct. “She’s back!” he said, relief breaking through his worry. “(y/n)’s back!”
Before any of them could rush forward, Jake stepped in front of them, gentle but firm, arms spreading just enough to block the way.
“Easy,” he said quietly. “Easy, guys.”
They all froze.
Kiri peered around him, eyes wide. “Why can’t we go in?”
Jake crouched down so he was level with them, his voice dropping to something calm and steady. “Your sister needs rest right now. A lot of it.”
Neteyam’s ears flattened slightly. “Is she hurt?” he asked. His voice was careful, like he already knew the answer. “Is that why… why you and Mom didn’t tell us anything?”
Jake didn’t lie.
He nodded once. “Yeah. Your big sister’s pretty hurt.”
Lo’ak swallowed. “Like… really hurt?”
Jake reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Enough that she needs quiet. And sleep. And time.”
Kiri twisted her fingers together. “Is she gonna be okay?”
Jake met her eyes, then Neteyam’s, then Lo’ak’s. He could see it there. the fear, the guilt.
“She’s going to get better,” he said firmly. “She just needs us to help her do that.”
“How?” Neteyam asked.
Jake smiled softly. “By being good little brothers and sisters.”
Lo’ak frowned. “That’s it?”
“For now,” Jake said. Then, brighter, clapping his hands once, “Which means—you guys are officially on play duty.”
They hesitated, still torn between worry and wanting to be close.
Jake nudged them gently away from the marui. “Come on. We’ll stay close. I’ll even join you.”
That got their attention.
“You?” Lo’ak perked up. “Like—actually play?”
Jake smirked. “Careful. I’m still Toruk I can handle any game you throw at me.”
Neteyam cracked a small smile. “You’re it.”
Jake laughed under his breath. “Oh, I knew you were gonna say that.”
Jake deliberately started a simple game, something loud enough to keep their focus but not so close it would disturb l their sister.
Neteyam kept glancing back over his shoulder.
Jake noticed.
He rested a hand briefly on his son’s head. “She’s okay I promise,” he said quietly. “And she knows you’re worried. Best thing you can do right now is give her something good to wake up to.”
Neteyam nodded, jaw tight.
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll be good.”
Jake smiled at that and launched himself into the game with exaggerated enthusiasm, making a show of stumbling and groaning until Lo’ak burst into laughter and chased him.
From the marui doorway, unseen, Neytiri watched for a moment.
She saw Jake keeping them close. Keeping them busy. Keeping their fear from growing.
And for the first time since they brought their daughter home, she let herself breathe just a little easier, she glanced at her daughter and shut her eyes tight, ready for a difficult conversation when she woke up.
(y/n) woke like she’d been dragged up from the bottom of a river.
Her head throbbed, deep, pulsing, the kind of ache that made light feel sharp even with her eyes closed. Every breath made her throat feel scratchy . Her body burned, not in one place but everywhere at once, like she’d been set alight and then forgotten.
She groaned softly and tried to push herself up.
Pain exploded through her midsection and shoulder. She hissed, sucking in a sharp breath as her muscles screamed in protest. Her arms shook, strength failing almost immediately, and she slumped back down onto the furs, heart hammering.
Eywa… everything hurt.
It felt like she’d been asleep forever. Days. Maybe longer.
Fragments drifted back from what she could remember through the haze, bright lights, unfamiliar voices, Max, the pressure of hands as they moved her, Norm’s voice calm but tight.
Wiggle your toes for me.
The memory made her chest tighten.
She hadn’t known then if she’d done it or not. The medicine had sunk her to a bottom of a river which made everything slow and far away.
Now it wasn’t.
Her eyes fluttered open fully. The marui came into focus, warm firelight, familiar woven walls, the smell of home and herbs and smoke.
Her heart stuttered with relief, and then dread.
Slowly, carefully, she focused inward.
Move.
Nothing.
Her brow furrowed. She tried again, harder this time. She willed her legs to respond, to twitch, to do anything.
There was nothing. No pain. No movement. No sensation at all.
Her breath hitched.
She tried again, desperation flooding her veins. Her feet might as well not exist.
Her chest constricted, air suddenly too thin.
“Mom,” she croaked, voice hoarse and breaking. “Mom!”
The word tore out of her, sharp and terrified.
Neytiri heard it instantly.
She was at the hearth, hands busy with dinner, when the sound cut through her like an arrow. She dropped everything and ran, heart already in her throat.
“I’m here,” Neytiri said urgently as she knelt beside her daughter. “Ma’yawntu, I’m here.”
Outside, Jake heard it too. He froze mid-sentence, the other children clustered around him. “Wait here,” he said quickly, already moving. “All of you—stay.”
They crowded the doorway, eyes wide and scared, as Jake ducked inside.
(y/n)’s eyes found her mother immediately. For the first time since the attack, they were clear, no longer dulled by medication or drifting sleep. Fully awake. Fully aware.
Jake’s breath caught at the sight.
“Hey,” he said softly, moving closer. “Hey, baby girl.”
Her voice trembled. “I feel… really sore.”
Jake nodded, forcing his own voice to stay steady. “Yeah. That makes sense, you were chewed up by a thanator.”
The thanator.
She could barely recall what happened.
She swallowed. “How—how did I get away from it?”
Neytiri brushed damp hair back from her daughter’s face, her fingers gentle. “I was hunting nearby and I heard you,” she said quietly. “I came.”
Jake’s lips pressed together. I was so happy when you woke up, he wanted to say. So scared when you didn’t.
Instead, he just watched her, memorising the way her chest rose and fell.
(y/n)’s gaze flicked between them.
“Why,” she asked, barely above a whisper, “can’t I feel my legs?”
The air went very still.
Neytiri’s hand tightened slightly in her daughter’s hair. Jake felt his chest constrict, every instinct screaming to lie—to tell her it was nothing, that she’d be fine, that this would pass like a bad dream.
But they couldn’t.
Neytiri met Jake’s eyes for half a heartbeat. He nodded, barely.
“We need to tell you the truth,” Jake said gently.
(y/n)’s throat worked. “Okay,” she choked out, not liking where this was going.
Neytiri spoke, her voice soft but unflinching. “The thanator injured your spine. There is swelling.”
Jake continued, carefully. “Right now… your legs aren’t responding. Norm says it may be temporary. When the swelling goes down, movement could return.”
(y/n)’s eyes widened. “May?” she echoed, fear cracking through the word. “So… will I ever walk again?”
Jake hesitated. The silence was answer enough.
Her eyes darted between their faces, searching desperately. “You’re lying,” she said suddenly, shaking her head. “You have to be lying. Please—tell me you’re lying.”
Her breath came fast, shallow.
Neytiri pulled her gently closer, wrapping her arms around her daughter’s shoulders “We are not lying,” she said quietly.
(y/n)’s face crumpled, a sob tearing free before she could stop it. Her hands fisted weakly in Neytiri’s clothing, terror and grief crashing together.
Before the sob could turn into something wild, Neytiri shushed her softly, rocking her just enough to soothe.
“Hush,” she murmured. “Eywa has not laid an easy path before you, my daughter. But she has not abandoned you.”
(y/n) shook in her arms. “Are you sure?”
Neytiri faltered—just for a fraction of a second.
Jake saw it. The impossible weight of that promise.
He gave her a look, silent and aching.
Neytiri chose hope.
“Have faith in Mama’s words,” she said, voice firm despite the tears in her own eyes. “Have faith. When your body heals, you will walk again.”
(y/n) nodded shakily, clinging to her words like a lifeline. She cried quietly into her mother’s shoulder, each sob smaller than the last, trusting that’d she’d be right..
Jake glanced back toward the marui, eyes lingering on the quiet shape of Tuk sleeping in her woven basket, her tiny chest rising and falling in soft, steady breaths.
He turned back to his eldest.
“There are some people who’ve been missing you,” he said gently. “They want to see you.”
(y/n) followed his gaze.
At the entrance, half-hidden and very much not subtle, were her siblings. Neteyam stood stiffly, trying to look brave. Lo’ak hovered just behind him, clearly fighting the urge to bolt forward. Kiri clutched the edge of the doorway with both hands, eyes shining.
They’d heard everything.
(y/n)’s throat tightened. She nodded once, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand, trying to pull herself together.
Jake raised his voice just enough. “Alright. You can come in—but gentle. She’s still hurt.”
That was all the invitation they needed.
They rushed her in a loose cluster, stopping just short of piling on top of her at the last second.
“Does it hurt?” Kiri asked immediately.
“What happened to your leg?” Lo’ak blurted.
“Are you gonna be okay?” Neteyam asked, quieter than the rest.
(y/n) tried. Eywa, she really tried.
She answered what she could, voice wavering but steady enough—“Yeah… it hurts,” “Mom came,” “I’m okay”—until her vision blurred again and her lower lip started to tremble because she wasn’t okay, she felt like screaming at them all to leave her alone.
Neytiri stepped in instantly.
“That is enough,” she said softly but firmly. “Dinner. Then bed. Your sister needs rest.”
There was protest but one look at their mother’s face and they obeyed, backing away reluctantly, eyes still fixed on (y/n) as if afraid she might disappear the moment they turned around.
Jake leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “Good job,” he murmured. “You did really good.”
He started to rise to help Neytiri, but her hand shot out and caught his wrist.
“Please,” (y/n) whispered, eyes shining, tears threatening to spill again. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Jake didn’t hesitate.
He sat back down immediately. He took her hand carefully, like it was something precious and fragile.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Whatever you want, baby girl. Dad’s here.”
(y/n) had grown up running. Climbing. Tracking. She was useful, helpful, strong. She had always been moving, always doing. When people praised her, it was for what she could do. When she helped the clan, they smiled. When she was learning fast and kept up with her parents lessons they nodded with approval.
What was she, if she couldn’t move?
She stared at her legs, lying still, and the fear finally found words.
“Dad?” Her voice was small again, thin around the edges.
Jake leaned closer instantly. “Yeah, baby.”
She swallowed. “Do you… do you think I’ll walk again?”
He didn’t answer right away, not because he didn’t care, but because he cared so much it hurt to breathe.
Before he could speak, her next words came out in a rush, trembling.
“And—if I don’t… will you still love me?”
The fear in her voice knocked the wind out of his lungs and shattered his heart. She was asking if she still had worth.
He shifted closer, careful of her injuries, and cupped her cheek gently so she had to look at him. His voice didn’t waver, not even a little. “Hey. Hey. No. Don’t ever think that.”
She searched his face, terrified of what she might find.
“Of course we’d still love you,” he said softly. “Of course. Baby girl, you could be a bug—and I’d still love you. A weird little bug with too many legs, and I’d still be like, yeah, that’s my kid.”
A shaky breath escaped her. Despite herself, the tiniest hint of a smile tugged at her mouth.
“You’re my daughter, my little girl,” he continued, thumb brushing away the tear slipping down her cheek. “Not because you run fast. Not because you can hunt. Not because you help everyone. Just because you’re you.”
Her grip on his hand tightened, like she was holding onto not to just his hand but the truth of his words.
“And your mom?” he added gently. “She doesn’t love you for what you can do either. She loves you because you are her heart.”
(y/n) hesitated, then whispered, “Do you think… Mama’s right? About Eywa having a path for me?”
“Do you trust your mother?” he asked quietly.
She paused. Just for a second. Then she nodded. “Yeah.”
He smiled, soft and sure. “Then there’s your answer. Your mom’s never wrong about you.”
She let out a slow breath, some of the tightness easing from her chest. Okay. If Mama believes it… then maybe she could too.
“Okay, Dad,” she murmured, fingers still curled around his hand.
Her eyes fluttered, exhaustion finally winning. She shifted just enough to settle more comfortably, holding on like she was afraid he might vanish if she let go.
Jake stayed perfectly still as she drifted back to sleep, her grip loosening but not letting go completely. He thought he could handle anything parenthood would throw at him.
He was not prepared for this.
The mauri was quiet at last.
All children slept, Neteyam sprawled half off his mat, Lo’ak sleeping in an odd position, Kiri curled close to Tuk’s basket with one hand resting protectively on her little sister. The only sound was the soft crackle of the fire and the slow, careful rhythm of Neytiri’s breathing as she moved around their eldest.
She checked every bandage again. Adjusted the sling. Reapplied a thin layer of paste where the skin looked angry.
(y/n) slept, pale and exhausted, one hand still curled like it expected to find her father’s hand again.
Jake stood nearby, watching.
When Neytiri finally straightened, he caught her eye and tilted his head toward the entrance.
She followed him out into the cool night air, the bioluminescent glow of the forest pulsing softly around them. The moment they were far enough away that no small ears could hear, Jake stopped.
His shoulders were tight. His jaw clenched.
“You shouldn’t have said that,” he said quietly.
Neytiri stiffened. “Said what?”
“That she’ll walk again.” His voice cracked despite his effort to keep it steady. “You gave her hope you can’t promise.”
Her eyes flashed. “I gave her faith.”
Jake ran a hand through his hair, pacing a step before turning back to her. “Neytiri, I’ve lived this. I know what it’s like to wake up and not feel your legs. I know what it does to you. If she never walks again—if that hope dies—” He swallowed hard. “—it will break her.”
Neytiri stepped closer, fury and fear braided tightly in her chest. “And what would you have me tell her?” she demanded in a hushed hiss. “That her fate is sealed? That this is her life now? That she should mourn herself before she has even begun to heal?”
Jake stopped pacing. “I would have you tell her the truth.”
“I did tell her the truth,” Neytiri said firmly. “That Eywa has not finished with her.”
“What if Eywa doesn’t give her back her legs?” Jake asked, voice raw now. “What if this is it? What if our baby girl is stuck like this forever?”
The words tasted like poison in his mouth.
Neytiri didn’t look away.
“Then she will still live,” she said. “She will still be our daughter. She will still be strong.”
Jake shook his head, anguish spilling through the cracks. “You say that like strength just happens. Like it’s easy.” He laughed bitterly under his breath. “I wasn’t strong. Not at first. I was angry. I was broken. I hated myself. And I was a grown man with training and sheer dumb luck. She’s a child.” His voice dropped. “What if she’s not strong enough?”
For a moment, Neytiri’s expression softened, not with doubt, but with fierce understanding. She reached for his face, pressing her forehead to his.
“Then we help her,” she said quietly. “We love her so fiercely that she finds her strength in us.”
Jake’s breath hitched.
“She will draw it from our hope when she has none of her own,” Neytiri continued. “From our faith when hers falters. From the way we look at her and see not what she has lost, but all that she still is.”
She placed a hand over his heart.
“Our daughter has walked difficult paths since the day she was born. This is not a punishment. It is not the end. It is a test—of her, yes—but also of us.”
Jake’s eyes burned. “I’m scared,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “I’m terrified of what this will do to how happy, beautiful little girl.”
Neytiri’s voice softened. “So am I.” She cupped his face, thumbs brushing away the tears he hadn’t realized had fallen.
“But I will not let that fear claim me,” she said. “Not when she needs me to believe. Not when you need me to believe.”
Jake exhaled shakily, then pulled her into his arms, holding her tight. “I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “I shouldn’t have doubted you.”
She held him just as tightly. “You are her father. Your fear comes from love.”
They stood there together for a long moment,, gathering strength before returning to the quiet of their sleeping children.
(y/n)’s breathing hitched in her sleep. It was small, barely more than a whisper. “Mama…”
Neytiri was already moving.
She lay down beside her, turning onto her side so she could face her daughter without jostling the bandages or the sling. One arm slid over (y/n)’s shoulder, her hand rested lightly on her chest, palm flat so she wouldn’t put weight on the wounds.
“I am here,” she whispered, so softly it barely disturbed the air. “Mama is here.”
(y/n)’s brow furrowed, her breathing uneven for a moment, lashes fluttering as if she were caught between worlds. Neytiri’s thumb traced slow, steady circles against her collarbone, grounding, familiar. The rhythm of it was the same one she had used when her daughter was small.
Gradually, the tension drained from (y/n)’s face. Her breathing evened. Her body stilled again, sinking back into sleep.
Neytiri did not move.
She stayed there, eyes open, watching every rise and fall of her daughter’s chest, counting breaths the way she had in the biolab, the way she still did when terror crept too close. Each breath was a victory. Each one a prayer answered.
Across the mauri, Jake settled himself against the support post. He took watch without a word—because of course he did.
His gaze kept drifting back to them.
He tilted his head back slowly, resting it against the beam behind him, eyes squeezing shut.
Please, he begged silently. Please. Please. Please.
Let my baby girl get through this.
The words looped in his mind, over and over, filling every crack where fear tried to seep in.
Please let her wake up stronger.
Please let the swelling go down.
Please let her legs move again.
His throat burned.
Jake opened his eyes again, forcing himself to stay present, His daughter slept. His mate held her. The fire crackled low and steady.
A/n I’ve written over 38000 words between Parts 1 - 6 damn!
A Worried Daughter
At first, (y/n) couldn’t quite name what was different.
It was little things. Mama sitting down more often. Pauses where there hadn’t been pauses before. Neytiri’s hand resting at her stomach a little longer after standing, her breath just a touch heavier when the day warmed.
So (y/n) noticed and began hovering without meaning to. Fetching things before they were asked for. Sitting nearby when Neytiri worked instead of running off to practice with her bow. Watching her mother the way she once watched the forest for danger, alert, careful, protective, worried that something was wrong.
That morning, Neytiri rose before the others, slipping from the marui with practiced silence. The basket brushed softly against her hip as she stepped into the cool predawn air.
She had made it no more than a dozen steps before she heard it. Bare feet. A quiet scramble to catch up with her.
Neytiri turned just in time to see (y/n) tugging on her own arm wrap, hair still half loose from sleep. “Wait—Mama,” (y/n) whispered loudly, jogging up to her. “You didn’t wake me.”
“I meant to let you sleep,” Neytiri said gently, already smiling.
(y/n) ignored that and reached straight for the basket. “I’ll carry it.”
“It is not heavy—”
“I know.” (y/n) took it anyway, settling the strap across her shoulder.
Neytiri reached out and took her hand. “Come, then,” she said softly. “You may walk with me.”
(y/n)’s fingers curled around hers immediately.
They moved through the forest together as the light slowly bled in—cool blues giving way to green and gold. Neytiri pointed out fruit ready to gather, roots to avoid disturbing, branches to step around. (y/n) listened intently, nodding, asking questions she’d never asked before.
“Does this one mean it’s ripe?”
“Why do we leave those?”
“Can I remember this spot for later?”
She carried the basket without complaint, even when it grew heavier. When Neytiri stopped to rest for a moment on a fallen log, (y/n) pretended not to notice—but she slowed too, sitting close, shoulder brushing her mother’s arm.
“Mama,” she asked quietly after a while, “can I come with you more?”
Neytiri glanced down. “You already do.”
“I mean… like this,” (y/n) said. “Early. Helping. I can be quiet.”
Neytiri lifted her hand and brushed her thumb over her daughter’s cheek, affection soft but steady. “You are already learning,” she said. “And I see you.”
(y/n) beamed at that, the kind of smile that still belonged to a child—but one growing fast.
They finished gathering together, basket full, hands stained with fruit and sap. On the walk home, (y/n) leaned closer, still holding Neytiri’s hand as if afraid to let go.
And Neytiri let her.
Just a little longer.
Before Neytiri could even set the basket down, (y/n) was already moving.
She knelt by the low work surface, hands quick and careful as she began cutting the fruit they’d gathered. Not messy, not rushed—measured. She separated what was ready for breakfast and what could be saved, wrapping the rest neatly in leaves the way Mo’at had shown her.
“(Y/n)—” Neytiri started, reaching for the knife. “I can—”
“No,” (y/n) said gently, not looking up. “I’ve got it.
That stopped Neytiri cold.
(y/n) finished slicing, arranged the fruit, then stood and tugged on her mother’s wrist inistently. “Sit. Please.”
Neytiri allowed herself to be guided down, a little surprised, a little amused, and more than a little undone.
(y/n) placed a small portion in her mother’s hands first. “You didn’t eat yet.”
Jake, now half-awake, watched the exchange from where he sat rubbing sleep from his eyes. Neytiri lifted her gaze to him.
They shared a look.
Yes, they would have to talk to their children soon.
Yes, especially their worried about eldest daughter.
Neytiri’s thoughts were pulled back to the present when (y/n) glanced toward the corner of the marui and frowned. “The water jug’s empty.”
“I can—” Neytiri began again.
“I’ll do it,” (y/n) said immediately, already standing.
She reached for the jug, and scurried off before her parents could stop her.
Jake shifted closer to Neytiri, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “She’s worried about you.”
Neytiri exhaled slowly. “I know.”
“She’s been watching you for days.”
“I know,” Neytiri repeated, quieter now.
Neytiri stared down at the fruit in her hands, appetite suddenly gone. “She should not feel like she has to do this,” she said finally. “She is still a child.”
Jake leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “She is. But she’s always been willing to do more than what’s asked of her.”
Neytiri closed her eyes briefly. “She is carrying worry that is not hers.”
Jake swallowed. “Yeah she’s a smart kid, too smart.
When (y/n) returned, the jug sloshing lightly, Jake stood and took it from her. “Thanks, kiddo.”
She smiled, relieved. “Did you eat mama?”
“Yes,” Neytiri said. “Because you made me.”
Satisfied, (y/n) sat near her siblings as they finally stumbled awake, handing them fruit, nudging them when they complained, scolding Neteyam for stealing Lo’ak’s piece.
She looked smaller again then. Just a child.
But Neytiri couldn’t unsee what she’d seen.
And as Jake poured the water and watched his daughter chatter softly to her siblings, he leaned closer to Neytiri and murmured, “We can’t wait too long.”
Neytiri nodded. “We owe her truth.”
After breakfast, when the younger ones were distracted, Neteyam busy showing Lo’ak something important he’d found, Kiri humming softly to herself, Neytiri touched (y/n)’s shoulder.
“Come,” she said gently. “Bring your bow.”
(y/n) didn’t ask questions. She simply nodded and followed, grabbing her bow on the way out.
They moved through the village and down toward the stream, the morning light filtering through leaves, the forest alive but unhurried. Neytiri chose a familiar spot where the bank curved gently and the water ran clear and slow. She sat, folding her legs beneath her, and (y/n) settled beside her without hesitation.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
(y/n) leaned into her mother’s side,. Neytiri rested her arm around her shoulders, thumb brushing slow, absent circles against her arm. The world felt quieter here.
Neytiri broke the silence first.
“You have been watching me,” she said softly. Not accusing. Just true.
(y/n) nodded against her side. “You’re more tired,” she said. “You sit down more. You don’t run ahead anymore.”
Neytiri smiled faintly. “That is because there is more life growing inside me.”
(y/n)’s head lifted slightly. “So… you’re really okay?”
“I am,” Neytiri said. She turned her head, pressing her temple gently to the top of her daughter’s. “Your worry is misplaced, my heart..”
(y/n) was quiet, absorbing that.
“You will simply have another younger brother or sister,” Neytiri continued. “Someone small. Someone loud. Someone who will steal your things… again.”
That earned the tiniest huff of a laugh.
“But,” Neytiri said, voice softening, “it warms my heart that you want to take care of me. Truly. You have a good heart.”
(y/n) frowned slightly, the way she did when she didn’t like the direction a conversation was going.
“But you do not need to,” Neytiri added gently. “That is not your burden to carry. You are allowed to be a child.”
(y/n) pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes fierce in a way that always made Neytiri’s chest ache. “But I want to,” she said, stubborn and sincere. “I love you, Mama.”
For a moment, Neytiri couldn’t speak. Her throat tightened, eyes burning as she pulled her daughter closer, forehead resting against (y/n)’s hair.
Such love.
So pure.
So unconditional.
“I see you,” Neytiri said at last, voice low and steady despite the emotion behind it. She tipped (y/n)’s chin up gently. “And I love you for it. But you must let me be the mother, hm?”
(y/n) hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Okay.”
They sat there a while longer, listening to the water, the forest breathing around them. Neytiri pressed a kiss to the top of her daughter’s head, holding her close.
Neytiri rose smoothly to her feet and brushed the leaves from her leggings. She glanced down at her daughter, eyes warm and thoughtful.
“Come,” she said lightly. “Let us go to the river. You can show me how you have improved your fishing.”
(y/n)’s head snapped up, eyes bright with excitement. She knew, somewhere deep down, that her mother didn’t to teach another lesson. Neytiri had watched her fish enough times to know how skilled she’d become. But the invitation wasn’t really about fishing.
It was about time.
(y/n) beamed and immediately took Neytiri’s hand, her grip small but confident. She adjusted her pace without being asked, mindful of her mother, matching her stride instead of racing ahead like she usually would.
“I know a good spot,” she said proudly. “The water bends there. Fish like to hide in the shade.”
Neytiri smiled. “Lead the way.”
They reached the riverbank where the current slowed and curled around smooth stones. Without waiting for instruction, (y/n) set her bow down and gathered dry twigs and bark, hands moving with quiet certainty. She knelt, arranged the kindling, struck spark to tinder, and coaxed the flame to life.
Neytiri sat nearby, arms resting loosely on her knees, watching.
(y/n) rose once the fire was steady, wiping her hands on her leggings before retrieving her bow. She moved toward the water with practiced care, bare feet steadiness purchase on slick stones, body low, breath controlled. She paused at the bank, eyes scanning the surface.
Neytiri’s gaze sharpened, pride swelling in her chest.
(y/n) drew her bow in one smooth motion. No hesitation. No wasted movement.
The arrow flew.
(y/n) waded in without fuss, retrieving the fish and dispatching it cleanly before returning to shore. She laid it on the fire, already reaching for her bow again.
She didn’t look back for approval.
And somehow, that made Neytiri’s chest ache even more.
She watched her daughter repeat the process, each shot precise, each movement confident.
Neytiri could see it clearly now, not just the child she still cradled in her arms at night, but the hunter she was becoming. Strong. Focused. A protector. A warrior, a leader, if she chose it.
A mighty hunter.
When (y/n) finally glanced back, Neytiri met her gaze with quiet pride.“You have grown very skilled,” Neytiri said.
(y/n)’s smile softened, something shy and pleased flickering across her face. She padded back over and sat close, leaning lightly against her mother’s side as the fire crackled and the fish cooked.
For a while, Neytiri said nothing more.
She simply sat there, watching the river flow, the fire burn, and her daughter, still young, standing on the edge of the woman she would one day become, the vision was like a reflection on the river, disappearing as soon as it appeared.
Neytiri slowed as they passed through the village. Her hand rested lightly at (y/n)’s back, guiding her without pressure.
That was when Tarsem’s voice cut through the noise. “Hey—(y/n)!”
He stood a short distance away near one of the practice racks, one hand lifted in a half-wave. Kxani leaned against a post beside him, tail flicking lazily. Sa’ley crouched near the ground, plaiting something with quick fingers. Ralu hovered close, arms crossed, expression already sharpening the moment he realized who Tarsem was calling to.
(y/n) slowed, instinctively glancing up at her mother.
Neytiri followed her gaze. For a heartbeat, Neytiri said nothing. Then she squeezed (y/n)’s shoulder gently and lowered herself just enough to meet her daughter’s eyes.
“You may go play,” she said calmly. “But always be cautious.”
(y/n)’s face lit up, relief and excitement flickering across it in equal measure. “I will,” she promised, already stepping away.
Neytiri straightened and added, voice carrying just enough to reach the group, “And you—” her eyes flicked briefly to Ralu, sharp as an arrowhead “—will treat my daughter with respect.”
Ralu shifted, bristling. Tarsem nodded immediately. Kxani gave a quick, earnest dip of her head. Sa’ley paused her braiding and looked up, thoughtful.
“Yes, Neytiri,” Tarsem said quickly.
Satisfied, Neytiri stepped back, folding her arms as she watched (y/n) jog over to them. She didn’t leave right away, deciding to watch a little longer.
(y/n) stopped just short of the group, hands on her hips. “What do you want?”
Tarsem rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly less confident now that she was closer. “We were going to head toward the river. Practice. You’re… uh—good with a bow.”
Kxani smiled faintly. “Better than all of us.”
Sa’ley nodded. “My mother says I should not go far today. But the river is close.”
“Please,” he Ralu scoffed, not even bothering to lower his voice. “It’s just luck. A demon can’t have real skill, just mistakes that haven’t caught up yet.”
The air went still.
Kxani’s ears flattened. Sa’ley glanced sideways, already bracing. Tarsem opened his mouth—too slow.
(y/n) stopped dead and turned.
Slowly.
“And when will your skills catch up with you? Or is running your mouth really the only thing you’re good at,” she echoed, tilting her head.
Ralu tried stammering out a reply.
She mocked his bumbling and mumbling “What? Your only skill abandon you? Because you sound like a bumbling baby, should we start treating you like one poor wittle Ralu,” she mocked.
Tarsem didn’t hesitate, stepping between them hands up before she further tore down Ralu’s pride. “She’s coming,” he said flatly. “If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
Ralu glared, jaw tight, but he didn’t argue. Not this time.
(y/n) studied Tarsem for a long moment, searching his face for the lie she was sure lived there. Whatever she saw, or didn’t, made her huff softly.
“Fine,” she said. “But if he starts being stupid, I’m not responsible for what happens.”
Kxani snorted. Sa’ley hid a smile behind her hand reminding herself to behave.
Ralu scoffs.
(Y/n) glares at him, “go on, get used to making that sound because it’ll be the only thing anyone will hear out of you once I snap your bow in half and jam it down your throat until you choke on your stupidity.”
Tarsem grinned despite himself. “Fair enough, your choice Ralu.”
From across the clearing, Neytiri watched as they turned and started off together, her daughter walking at their center, head high, bow already in hand. She didn’t intervene. Didn’t call her back.
But she stayed where she was until they disappeared between the trees. Even she was stunned and winced a little when her daughter snapped at Ralu with the ferocity of a thanators growl. Her daughter truly was growing fangs and her words had a bite to them. Neytire then turned and started down home, glad that her daughter was now starting to push back.
The Example
The moment they were home, Neytiri ushered Kiri away with a gentle hand on her shoulder, already talking about fibers and patterns and which vines bent best without snapping. Jake barely caught the end of it before she disappeared into the marui with their daughter, leaving him standing there with his boys and a quiet sense of alright—my turn.
“Bows,” Jake said simply.
Neteyam’s ears perked immediately. Lo’ak groaned.
They headed out to the practice clearing just beyond the trees, the ground worn smooth by years of footsteps and missed shots. Jake set them up in a line, targets already marked into the bark of an old, dead tree.
Neteyam stood straight, shoulders squared, bow held a little too stiffly. He watched Jake like every word mattered.
Lo’ak, on the other hand, rolled his shoulders, twirled his bow once, and smirked. “I got this.”
Jake shot him a look. “Uh-huh. That’s what you said last time.”
He moved behind Neteyam first, adjusting his grip with practiced hands. “Alright. Breathe. Don’t rush it. Draw smooth.”
Neteyam nodded hard, as he pulled the string back. His shot went wide, close, but not quite there. He frowned. “Sorry.”
Jake clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Don’t apologize. You’re listening. That’s the important part. You’ll get it.”
Neteyam reset immediately, taking the correction without complaint. Slower this time. More deliberate.
Lo’ak loosed his arrow without waiting.
It hit the target—but off-center.
Lo’ak grinned anyway. “See?”
Jake sighed through his nose. “Yeah. I see you’re lucky.”
Lo’ak scowled. “It still hit.”
“So does a thrown rock,” Jake shot back. “Doesn’t mean it’s good form.”
Lo’ak drew again, jaw tight. “I don’t need—”
“Lo’ak,” Jake cut in sharply. “Lower your elbow. You’re muscling it.”
“I’ve got this.”
Jake’s voice hardened just enough to stop him mid-draw. “You don’t. And that’s okay. But acting like you do is how you stay bad at it.”
Silence fell between them.
Neteyam swallowed and adjusted his stance, clearly trying harder. His arrow struck the center ring, not a bullseye, but close enough that his face lit up like he’d just won a war.
“I did it!”
Jake smiled, pride softening his features. “Yeah, you did. Good work, son.”
Lo’ak glanced at the target, then at his own arrow still stuck wide. His shoulders slumped just a fraction.
Jake caught it.
“Look,” he said, lowering his voice. “This isn’t about being better than your sister. Or faster than your brother. It’s about putting in the work.”
He handed Lo’ak another arrow. “Now—again. This time, listen.”
Lo’ak hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he adjusted his stance the way Jake had shown him.
The shot wasn’t perfect.
But it was better.
Jake nodded once. “That’s it.”
Neteyam beamed. Lo’ak didn’t, but he didn’t argue either.
Jake was about to speak again when a familiar crunch of footsteps sounded at the edge of the clearing.
Spider stepped out from between the trees, bow already slung over his shoulder. He hesitated for half a second, then lifted his chin.
“Uh—Mr Sully?” he asked. “Can I practice too?”
Jake glanced over his shoulder, then nodded once. “Yeah. Grab a spot.”
Spider’s face lit up instantly. He hurried over, taking the far end of the line, careful not to crowd anyone. He moved with the quiet awareness of someone who knew he was always a guest here, welcome, but still watching where he stepped.
Jake paced slowly in front of them now, hands on his hips, eyes sharp. “Alright. All of you listen up.”
Neteyam straightened. Spider did too. Lo’ak crossed his arms but didn’t look away.
“You wanna know why your sister hits what she aims at?” Jake said, voice even but firm. “It’s not because she’s special. It’s not because she’s lucky. It’s because she never cut corners.”
Lo’ak rolled his eyes. “Here we go…”
Jake shot him a warning look but kept going. “She practices even when no one’s watching. She listens when she’s corrected. She doesn’t rush just to prove something.”
Spider glanced sideways, curious despite himself.
“She hunts with her mother at dawn,” Jake continued. “She gathers water without being asked. Helps your grandmother. Helps your mother. And when she messes up?” He shrugged. “She fixes it. Doesn’t argue about it.”
Lo’ak’s ears flattened. “So what, we’re just supposed to be her?”
“No,” Jake said immediately. “But you should follow her example.”
Neteyam nodded earnestly. “You would be better with a bow if you practiced more, little bro.”
Lo’ak whipped around. “I’m just saying—”
“Ma Jake.”
Neytiri’s voice carried across the clearing, calm but unmistakable. She stood just beyond the trees, Kiri at her side, fibers draped over her arm.
Jake lifted a hand in acknowledgment. “Keep practicing,” he told them. “All of you. Ten more shots.”
Neytiri inclined her head once and disappeared again, Kiri trailing after her.
The moment she was gone, Lo’ak exhaled loudly. “It’s always (y/n)’s this and (y/n)’s that,” he muttered. “(Y/n) does everything right. (Y/n) wakes up early. (Y/n) never messes up. Bla bla bla.”
Spider glanced at Lo’ak, unsure if he should say anything. Neteyam frowned.
“She messes up,” Neteyam said quietly. “She just doesn’t quit when she does.”
Lo’ak scoffed. “Easy for her.”
Spider shifted his grip on his bow, then spoke up hesitantly. “She helped me once,” he said. “Didn’t even tell anyone. Just… showed me how to adjust my draw.”
Neteyam nodded. “That tracks.”
Lo’ak’s jaw tightened, “whatever let’s just keep practicing.”
They shot in silence for a few minutes. Neteyam focused, methodical. Spider careful and precise. Lo’ak loosed arrows faster than the others, frustration creeping into his movements.
One went wide.
Lo’ak cursed under his breath.
Lo’ak let the bowstring slacken with a sharp snap and lowered the weapon, jaw tight.
“Let’s just go home,” he muttered. “I’m tired of missing every shot.”
Neteyam hesitated, arrow still nocked. He glanced at the target, then at Lo’ak. He didn’t argue, but the silence said enough.
(y/n) wouldn’t have missed. And if she had? She would’ve stayed. Stayed until her fingers burned and her shoulders ached and the shot finally landed true.
Lo’ak didn’t look relieved—just tired.
They walked back through the trees, the late afternoon light filtering down in warm bands. Lo’ak kicked at roots as he went. Neteyam followed a step behind and Spider followed them.
When they reached the marui, Jake spotted them returned, pulling Neteyam aside and placed a hand on Neteyam’s shoulder.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Walk with me a sec.”
Neteyam stiffened, then nodded.
They stopped just outside, where the others wouldn’t hear. Jake crouched so they were eye level.
“You did good today,” Jake said first. “You listened. You adjusted. That matters.”
Neteyam’s ears flicked back. “I missed too.”
“Yeah,” Jake agreed calmly. “And you kept trying. That’s the part I care about.”
Neteyam swallowed, then nodded.
Jake’s voice softened. “I need you to keep practicing. And I need you to help Lo’ak keep practicing too.”
Neteyam frowned slightly. “He doesn’t listen.”
Jake sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I know. But you’re his older brother. He watches you.”
Neteyam shifted, the weight settling in his chest. “What if I mess up?”
Jake held his gaze. “Then you mess up. And you try again.”
He hesitated, then added, “If you don’t know how to lead him with a bow yet… take a page out of your sister’s playbook.”
Neteyam blinked. “(y/n)’s?”
Jake nodded toward the marui, where Neytiri’s voice drifted softly, busy with the evening tasks. “Help your mother. Carry water. Watch your siblings without being asked. Show Lo’ak what doing the work looks like, even when it’s not fun.”
Neteyam straightened instinctively. “Yes, sir.”
Jake smiled faintly. “That’s all I’m asking.”
The Storm
The riverbank blurred beneath their feet as they ran.
Sunlight flickered through the leaves overhead, dappling the ground in gold and shadow as (y/n) sprinted ahead, bare feet pounding against packed earth and roots. Tarsem was right on her heels, laughing, close enough that she could hear his breath behind.
“You’re slowing,” he teased, gaining on her.
“No I’m not,” (y/n) shot back, forcing her legs to move faster.
Her chest burned. She sucked in air through her nose, then her mouth, trying to pull it deeper, fuller. It didn’t quite work.
She refused to stop first.
They skidded to a halt near a bend in the river, Tarsem laughing hard, hands braced on his knees. (y/n) bent forward too, palms on her thighs, pretending she was just catching her breath like everyone.
Her chest hitched once. Twice. She slowed her breathing on purpose, staring at the water until the tightness eased just enough.
Tarsem straightened, still grinning. “I win.”
(y/n) looked up at him, despite the way her lungs still felt like they were wrapped too tight.
She smirked. “Oh yeah?”
Before he could react, she shoved him square in the chest.
Tarsem yelped as he went flying backward into the river with a splash loud enough to send ripples racing across the surface. Water soaked him instantly, darkening his hair and clothes as he sputtered, sitting upright.
“Hey—!”
Ralu didn’t miss the opportunity.
He lunged forward, shoving (y/n) hard in the shoulder. “Got you!”
She went in with a shriek, cold water swallowing her up in a rush. She surfaced laughing, sputtering, slick hair plastered to her face.
“That was cheap!”
Kxani and Sa’ley exchanged a glance and identical grins.
They shoved Ralu together.
He went under with an undignified splash, popping back up cursing as water streamed down his face.
“Oh you’re dead,” he growled.
The river exploded into chaos.
Water flew everywhere, hands scooping, feet kicking, bodies crashing into each other as laughter echoed off the trees. Tarsem splashed Sa’ley so hard she squealed and retaliated, Kxani ducked under and grabbed Ralu’s ankle, nearly pulling him off balance.
(y/n) went after Tarsem again, shoving him back with both hands. He stumbled, then grabbed her wrist and pulled her with him, both of them going under briefly before resurfacing, gasping and laughing.
“Traitor!” she accused, wiping water from her eyes.
“You started it!”
They splashed until their arms ached and their sides hurt from laughing. Eventually the energy burned itself out, the river calming as they drifted back toward the bank one by one.
They collapsed onto the grass, soaked and breathless.
Tarsem lay on his back staring at the sky. “Worth it.”
Kxani rolled onto her side, flicking water at Ralu with her toes. “You fight like a floundering fish.”
Ralu snorted. “Says the one who got dunked twice.”
(y/n) sat with her knees pulled up, arms wrapped loosely around them. Her breathing took a little longer to steady, short at first, then slower as she focused, eyes fixed on the water. She tilted her head back slightly, letting the cool air help, pretending she was just tired like the rest of them.
Sa’ley noticed first. “You okay?”
(y/n) glanced over and flashed a grin. “Yeah. Just smoked you all.”
Tarsem laughed and nudged her foot with his own. “Next time I’m pushing you in first.”
She snorted. “Try it.”
A gentle breeze blew into her face, breathing in deeply. Once. Twice. Her smile faded, ears twitching.
“…wait,” she said quietly.
Tarsem turned to her. “What is it?”
The air had shifted, gone sharp,, Cold air threaded through the warmth of the afternoon, crawling under her skin. The birds had gone silent. Even the insects had quieted, like the forest itself was holding its breath.
“Rain,” (y/n) said. Then, more urgently, “A storm is coming .”
Ralu scoffed. “It’s just a storm—”
A distant crack of thunder cut him off, low and angry, rolling through the ground beneath their feet. The sky to the west had darkened unnaturally fast, clouds stacking on top of each other in bruised purples and sickly greens.
They all jumped to their feet.
Kxani swallowed. “That’s… bad.”
Sa’ley looked up, ears flattening. “My mom said if the wind smells like and the clouds glow green like that, you run.”
(y/n) didn’t hesitate. “We need to leave. Now.”
They broke into a sprint.
The first gust hit like a shove, nearly knocking Sa’ley sideways. Leaves tore free from branches overhead, spiraling wildly. Another thunderclap split the sky, closer this time, too close.
Rain came down hard and sudden, thick drops that stung as they struck skin. Within seconds it was a downpour, the kind that blurred vision and soaked through everything.
“We’re not gonna make it home!” Kxani shouted over the wind.
(y/n) scanned ahead desperately, heart hammering. The forest was changing fast, branches whipping, trunks groaning under the strain.
“There!” she yelled, pointing.
The tree was ancient, massive, its trunk split and raised, roots thick as walls, clawing up and over the ground like ribs. A slab of stone had wedged itself between two of the largest roots long ago, creating a narrow hollow beneath. The wind screamed around it, but the space beneath looked… sheltered.
They dove for it.
One by one they scrambled under the roots, pressed close together as the storm truly unleashed itself. Rain lashed sideways now, wind howling so loud it felt like it vibrated in their bones. Thunder cracked overhead again and again, the air flashing white with lightning.
(y/n) crouched low, bracing herself against the rock as another gust tried to rip the breath from her lungs.
“Eywa,” Sa’ley whispered, eyes wide. “My mom is going to kill me.”
Ralu let out a shaky laugh. “If the storm doesn’t do it first.”
Tarsem shook water from his braids, then glanced at (y/n). “You alright?”
She nodded, even as her chest burned a little from the sprint. She focused on slow breaths, steadying herself. “We should be fine here. Just… gotta wait it out.”
The storm raged on, relentless. Time stretched.
Somehow, miraculously, Tarsem managed to coax a small fire to life between the rock and roots, shielding it with his body while (y/n) fed it dry bark she’d found. When the flame finally caught, weak but real, a collective sigh went through the group.
They huddled closer, steam rising faintly from soaked clothes as the warmth crept back into their fingers.
Eclipse began to fall outside, the sky dimming even further, the world turning strange shades of blue and violet beyond their shelter.
Kxani stared at the fire, then muttered, “So… whose parents do we think are the angriest?”
Sa’ley didn’t hesitate. “Mine. Definitely mine. My mom is already convinced I’ll die doing something stupid.”
Ralu snorted. “Please. My dad once grounded me for three weeks because I came home muddy.”
Tarsem glanced sideways at (y/n), eyebrow raised. “Your turn.”
(y/n) leaned back against the root, watching the flames dance. “My mom will be worried first,” she said honestly. “Then angry. Very angry.”
“And your dad?” Kxani asked.
She huffed softly. “Dad’ll pretend he’s calm. Then he’ll give the lecture. The long one. The one where you think it’s over and then it just… keeps going.”
Tarsem winced. “Yeah. That sounds brutal.”
They braced as a sudden, violent gust of wind tore through the hollow and snuffed the fire out in an instant, embers scattering and dying against the wet stone. Darkness slammed down around them, thick and complete, broken only by the constant flash of lightning beyond the roots.
“Oh—Eyea—” Kxani gasped.
They pressed closer automatically, shoulders knocking, arms tangling as the temperature dropped fast. The roots groaned overhead, rain hammering the stone so hard it felt like the tree itself was being beaten.
Another crack of thunder detonated right above them.
Sa’ley whimpered and curled in on herself. “I—I want my mom.”
No one teased her. No one even pretended to be brave.
They all wanted to go home.
(y/n) shifted without thinking, pulling Sa’ley closer into her side, one arm wrapping around her shoulders while Tarsem did the same from the other side. The group became a tight knot of bodies, knees drawn up, backs against roots, sharing what little warmth they had.
Lightning struck again, blinding white, so close the ground jumped.
They all flinched hard.
Ralu sucked in a breath, voice tight. “Okay. Okay. If we die out here—” he swallowed, then blurted, “—I’m sorry.”
Everyone froze.
He turned his head slightly toward (y/n), eyes wide even in the flickering light. “For calling you a demon. All those times. I was a jerk.”
(y/n) snorted softly. “I’m not sorry for bruising your pride,” she said flatly. “You were a major jerk.”
Ralu let out a shaky laugh. “Fair.”
That earned a few breathless huffs of laughter from the others.
Another lightning strike hit so close it felt like it split the world open. The boom that followed shook dirt loose from the roots above them. Kxani yelped, grabbing Tarsem’s arm.
“This storm rolled in way too fast,” she said, voice trembling. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know,” Tarsem said quietly, jaw tight. “Sometimes that doesn’t matter.”
(y/n) stared out into the sheets of rain, eyes narrowed, listening—always listening. The forest was chaos now. No rhythm. No patterns. Just fury.
“We’ll have to wait it out,” she said firmly
Sa’ley sniffed, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I’d rather be grounded forever than be here.”
“Same,” Ralu muttered. “I’ll clean fish for a year.”
(y/n)’s lips twitched despite herself. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep you hate cleaning fish.”
They huddled tighter as another wave of cold wind tore through the hollow, the cold rain finding every gap. The warmth of home felt impossibly far away now.
Sleep took them one by one, curled tight against roots and stone, breaths evening out despite the storm’s fury.
All but (y/n).
She sat still, eyes half-lidded, counting the time between thunderclaps the way her mother had taught her. Her mother. She would do just about anything to have her here, to be held tight and be assured that it was going to be okay. She barely knew what to do without her. She wanted her mom, she didn’t care how mad she’d be, she wanted to go home so much it made her heart ache.
Then she saw it.
Not clearly. Just a distortion in the lightning’s flash, too tall, too solid to be rain. A shadow where there shouldn’t have been one.
Her heart kicked hard against her ribs.
She strained her ears, filtering out the roar of rain, the scream of wind.
There.
A heavy step. Careful. Measured.
Another flash of lightning.
The shadow shifted closer.
(y/n) nudged Sa’ley first, fingers brushing her arm.
Sa’ley stirred, confused, about to speak but(y/n) clamped a hand gently over her mouth and shook her head once.
Then Ralu. A sharp elbow to his side.
He jolted awake, breath hitching. “What—”
She raised one finger. Be silent.
Ralu swallowed the rest of his words, eyes darting as understanding dawned.
Tarsem next. Then Kxani.
All five were awake now, huddled together, hearts pounding so loudly it felt impossible the forest couldn’t hear them.
(y/n) leaned in, voice barely a breath. “Something’s out there.”
Another low sound rolled through the storm.
A growl.
Kxani’s face went pale in the lightning. “Eywa…” she breathed. “That’s a—”
Another flash.
This time the shadow stretched long and unmistakable across the roots, massive and predatory.
“Thanator,” Kxani whispered, voice shaking.
Sa’ley’s nails dug into (y/n)’s arm. “What—what do we do?”
(y/n)’s mind raced. What would mom do. What would mama say to do? The wind was in their favor, for now. The rain was heavy enough to drown their scent, muffle sound. But here, under the roots, they were trapped prey.
“If it comes in here,” (y/n) murmured, “we’re sitting yerik.”
Tarsem nodded grimly. “It hasn’t caught us yet.”
“Which means we move,” (y/n) said. “Slow. Out. Now. The storm will hide us—I hope.”
“You hope!” Ralu hissed quietly.
Another growl, closer this time.
Lightning split the sky.
The shadow shifted again.
“Go,” (y/n) breathed.
They slipped out from beneath the roots and into the storm.
Rain lashed their faces, wind tearing at limbs, thunder cracking so close it rattled bones.
Then a roar ripped through the night.
“RUN!”
They bolted.
Mud sucked at their feet, branches whipped across faces, roots threatened to trip them at every step. The forest became a blur of darkness and white-hot lightning, every breath a burn in the lungs.
Behind them the ground pounded. Heavy. Fast.
Too fast.
(y/n) glanced back once and saw it clearly now, a massive shape tearing through the storm, eyes burning, jaws snapping as it gave chase.
“DON’T STOP!” she screamed over the wind.
Sa’ley stumbled. Tarsem caught her, hauling her upright without slowing. Ralu slipped, hit the ground hard, (y/n) skidded to a stop, yanking him up by the arm. “MOVE!”
The Thanator roared again, closer, too close.
(y/n) veered sharply, dragging them toward thicker brush, forcing a sudden change in direction. The rain masked their scent, the chaos of the storm scrambling the trail, but they couldn’t outrun it forever.
She spotted it then.
A steep drop ahead. A ravine swollen with stormwater, roaring and wild.
“JUMP!” she shouted. “JUMP!”
They didn’t question her.
They leapt.
Bodies hit water hard, the current wrenching them apart instantly, dragging them under, spinning them through darkness and noise and cold and behind them, on the edge of the ravine, the Thanator skidded to a halt, roaring its fury into the storm as the river stole its prey away.
The forest swallowed the sound.
Missing
Rain came down in sheets so thick it blurred the edges of everything, lightning split the sky open again and again, thunder rattling the bones of the marui. Neytiri stood at the entrance, unmoving, rain slicking her braids flat against her shoulders, eyes fixed on the dark line of trees beyond the village.
She counted the seconds since eclipse had fallen.
(y/n) should have been home by now.
Neytiri told herself, over and over, that she had taught her daughter well. That her eldest knew how to read the wind, how to listen to the forest when it went quiet, how to find shelter. She knew (y/n) would not be foolish. She would not panic.
Minutes stretched into something heavier. Longer. Every crack of thunder felt like a blow to her chest.
Jake appeared beside her, his silhouette dark against the flashes of lightning. He watched her for a moment before gently taking her arm, guiding her a step back beneath the shelter away from the cold winds and rain.
“Hey,” he said quietly, keeping his voice calm on purpose. “You’re gonna scare the kids.”
Neytiri didn’t look at him and kept her gaze to the paths (y/n) would walk to come home. “She is not home.”
“I know,” Jake said. He swallowed, “I’m worried too. But you standing out here like this, Neteyam’s watching you. Lo’ak’s already pacing.”
Neytiri’s fingers curled into fists. “It is past her curfew.”
“I know.”
“She is out there,” Neytiri said, finally turning to him. Her eyes burned brighter than the lightning. “In this storm. Alone.”
Jake nodded once. His jaw was tight, so tight it ached.
“I hate it,” he admitted. “I hate every second of this.”
Neytiri took a step toward the weapon rack, fingers already reaching. “I will get my bow.”
Jake caught her wrist gently but firmly. “Neytiri listen to me.”
She spun on him. “Do not stop me.”
“In this storm,” Jake said, forcing the words out slowly, “we won’t find tracks. We won’t hear anything over the wind. We’ll be blind out there.”
Her breath shook. “She is my daughter.”
“She’s mine too,” Jake said softly.
For a moment neither of them spoke. Thunder rolled overhead.
Neytiri’s shoulders trembled, not with fear, but with the effort of holding herself together, to not rush into the storm and tear the forest apart to find her daughter. “I should go,” she whispered. “I should bring her home. No matter what it takes.”
Jake wanted to say me too. Wanted to grab his rifle, his knife, anything, and tear into the forest screaming her name.
But fear made him think instead of act.
“I need you here,” he said quietly. “If she comes back hurt, scared—she’ll look for you first.” He glanced towards his other children huddling together, flinching at each clap of thunder, “they need you as well.”
Neytiri’s gaze flicked toward their other children huddled together, unaware of the storm raging in their parents’ hearts.
She looked back at Jake.
The plea in her eyes nearly broke him.
Neytiri loved her children with her whole being, fierce, consuming, unyielding. There was no part of her that wasn’t screaming to go after her daughter .
Their daughter who was only 9.
Jake felt the same scream clawing at his chest.
He forced himself to breathe, to be calm.
“I’ll go,” he said.
Neytiri’s head snapped up. “MaJake—”
“I’ll go to the river. High ground. Listen for calls. Look for shelter spots she’d choose.”
“You could be lost too,” she said, voice breaking despite herself.
He stepped closer, rain-soaked and resolute. “I know.”
Jake lifted a hand and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there a second longer than usual.
“She’s strong,” he murmured. “She’s smart she’ll be okay. His voice dropped. “But if she needs help… I won’t forgive myself for staying here, I’ll find her for both our sakes.”
Neytiri’s hand came up, gripping his shoulder hard. “Bring her home,” she whispered. “Please.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “I will.”
Lightning split the sky as Jake turned toward the storm, disappearing into the rain-soaked darkness, while Neytiri stood at the edge of the marui, heart split between her children and the forest that held her firstborn somewhere beyond sight.
Jake moved through the village at a hard, purposeful pace, rain .Shapes emerged from the darkness, other Na’vi parents of the other children, tense and restless, gathered beneath overhangs of the trees.
He wasn’t the only one.
He slowed when he recognized them, Tarsem’s father, broad-shouldered and soaked through, jaw clenched tight; Kxani’s mother, pacing in tight circles, whispering prayers under her breath; Sa’ley’s parents, standing shoulder to shoulder, their hands linked so tightly their knuckles had gone white. A few others hovered nearby, bows slung, all of them looking into the forest as if their children would walk out of it at any second..
“She’s not home either,” Tarsem’s father said before Jake could speak, voice rough. “None of them are.”
“I know,” Jake replied. He didn’t soften it. There was no point. “That’s why I’m here.”
The group shifted closer instinctively, forming a rough circle around him. Fear had stripped rank from the air, this wasn’t olo’eyktan and clan. This was parents worried for their children.
“They likely went fishing when the storm hit ,” Kxani’s mother said. “Downriver.”
Jake nodded once. “That’s what I was thinking.”
Another father spoke, voice strained. “In a storm like this, they would have looked for shelter.”
“Exactly,” Jake said. He gestured toward the dark line where the river cut through the forest. “We search riverbank first. If they were caught out there, They’d hunker down somewhere close to the river on their way back here.”
Thunder cracked overhead, close enough to make several of them flinch.
“We don’t have time to scatter,” Jake continued, already slipping into command. “We search in groups of two or three. Follow the river both ways. Call out, but listen more than you shout. If they’re sheltering, they’ll answer.”
“And if they’re in trouble?” one of the mothers asked quietly.
Jake met her eyes. He didn’t lie. “Let’s just hope for the best, that we find the kids safe and sound.”
Bows were lifted. Knives checked. Faces set into grim determination.
Another parent exhaled shakily. “Eywa watch over them.”
His thoughts flicked instantly to (y/n), to her instincts, her caution, the way she listened to the forest like it spoke directly to her. If anyone could keep the others alive until help came, it was her.
He straightened. “ we meet back here in 2 hours Let’s move.”
They broke apart into their groups, slipping into the storm like shadows, heading for the river’s roar.
As Jake turned toward the downriver path, lightning flashed again. Hold on, baby girl, he thought fiercely. I’m coming.
The river was a roaring, a swollen thing beside them, churning brown and violent as the storm lashed the forest. Wind shoved at their chests, rain stung their eyes, and every step felt like walking uphill through mud. Jake hated how slow they had to movehated how every instinct screamed to run faster, to tear through the trees no matter the cost.
Tarsem’s father stayed at his shoulder, breathing hard, face set in the same grim way, frustrated that they couldn’t move any quicker.
They checked every possible shelter as they went, overhangs of stone, hollowed trees, the lee side of massive trunks. Most were empty. Too exposed. Too small.
Then Jake stopped so suddenly Tarsem’s father nearly ran into him. “Here,” Jake said, voice tight.
The tree was massive, ancient, its roots arched high above the ground like ribs. A slab of rock had wedged itself between two roots, blocking the worst of the wind. The space beneath was dry compared to the storm outside, protected from the worst of the weather.
Jake dropped to a knee. Footprints.
Small ones. Several sets. Pressed deep into the mud beneath the roots, where the rain hadn’t fully reached. “They were here,” he said hoarsely.
Tarsem’s father crouched too, fingers brushing the ground. “All of them,” he confirmed.
Jake’s heart leapt, then twisted painfully. Where were the kids?
Their tracks led out from the shelter, smeared and hurried, cutting back into the storm.
“Why would they leave?” Tarsem’s father asked, fear creeping into his voice now.
Jake followed the trail a few steps, and then froze.
In the churned mud just beyond the roots was a print. Massive. Deep. The rain had softened the edges, but there was no mistaking it.
Thanator.
Jake stared at the print as if it might vanish if he didn’t acknowledge it.
“Oh no,” he breathed.
Tarsem’s father swore softly, rising to his feet. “They were forced out.”
Jake’s mind raced, assembling the scene in brutal clarity. The storm would have masked their scent. The kids huddled together until they had no choice but to make a run for it.
His chest constricted so hard it hurt. Jake ran the direction the tracks were going in, they needed to find the kids quickly.
Tarsem’s father didn’t argue. He just broke into a run beside him.
They pushed through the forest as fast as they could, branches and wind whipping at their faces, mud sucking at their feet. The thanator’s prints were the only thing deep enough that the rain couldn’t wash it away, hard to read but the direction was clear.
Then, abruptly, the trail vanished.
The storm had erased it completely. Nothing but churned earth and falling water.
Jake skidded to a stop, breathing ragged, rain dripping from his hair and lashes. He turned in a slow circle, searching for anything, broken branches, disturbed undergrowth, something.
“Damn it,” he whispered.
Tarsem’s father came to a halt beside him, chest heaving. “Which way?”
Jake closed his eyes for half a second, forcing himself to think past the panic clawing at his throat. “We keep going in this direction it’s the only lead we have.”
Tarsem’s father nodded sharply.
Jake didn’t respond. He was already moving again, muscles burning, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break his ribs.
Hold on, he begged silently, every step a prayer. Just hold on a little longer. Dad’s coming.
They skidded to a stop at the edge of the ravine.
Rain poured straight down into it, vanishing into darkness below. Wind howled through the gap, whipping spray back up into their faces, they could hear the rush of water below. The ground here was torn up, but the storm had scrubbed it nearly clean.
Jake’s heart dropped.
“No,” he muttered, scanning frantically. The ravine yawned wide and unforgiving, a sheer drop broken only by the flood below “They wouldn’t come this way.”
Tarsem’s father wiped rain from his eyes, voice tight. “If they were running blind—”
Jake shook his head sharply. “(Y/n) wouldn’t lead them here. She’s too smart for that.”
But doubt crept in anyway, cold and sickening. What if fear had pushed them wrong? What if the storm had disoriented them? What if the thanator was too close and they had no choice but to—
Jake turned back toward the forest, already taking a step. “We need to go back. Start again from the last clear print—”
Then he froze.
Because over the roar of the rain and the wind, faint but unmistakable, he heard it.
Voices.
Jake sucked in a sharp breath, spinning back toward the ravine. He held up a hand, silencing Tarsem’s father, and tilted his head, listening with everything he had.
There it was again.
Voices on the wind.
“They’re close, let’s move,” Jake said running into the wind.
Tarsem’s father moved to the edge beside him, peering over, eyes wide. “Eywa….”
The Raging River
They hit the water hard, it was cold and violent, the current ripping the breath straight out of their lungs. The roar of the storm was nothing compared to the sound of the river in the ravine, swollen and furious, dragging them downstream faster than their legs could find purchase.
“Sa’ley!”
“Kxani!”
“Tarsem—!”
Voices tore loose in panic, half swallowed by water as they tried to call out to each other.
Ralu came up sputtering, eyes wild, and saw Sa’ley flailing just behind him. He lunged, fingers scraping before catching a thick tree root jutting from the ravine wall. He wrapped one arm around it and the other around Sa’ley, hauling her in with a grunt as the current tried to rip them apart.
“Hold on—don’t let go!” he shouted, voice cracking.
They clawed their way up the side of the ravine, soaked and shaking, barely making it to the top of the ravine before scrambling to their feet and running downstream along the edge, screaming the others’ names into the storm.
Below them, the river kept hold of the others..
(y/n) went under.
One second she was fighting the current, the next the water yanked her beneath the surface. Darkness swallowed her whole. Her lungs burned. Panic clawed at her chest.
She kicked, thrashed, but she didn’t stop. She broke the surface with a choking gasp, sucking in air just in time to see the ravine wall rushing past.
She swam for it.
Her fingers scraped the rocky side of the ravine. Slipped. Caught again.
She tried to pull herself up, and slid, skin burning as the current tore her loose.
“Kxani!” Sa’ley screamed from above. “There’s a ledge—there—!”
Kxani saw it at the last second, a narrow stone shelf just above the waterline. She lunged, slammed into it hard enough to bruise, and pulled herself up. Tarsem came past her,.
“I’ve got you!” she yelled.
She caught his wrist. Almost lost him. Then dug in and pulled, muscles screaming as she dragged him onto the ledge beside her. They collapsed there together, gasping, shaking, alive.
That was when Jake and Tarsem’s father burst out of the trees.
Jake took in the scene in one heartbeat, Sa’ley and Ralu safe above, Kxani and Tarsem on to the ledge below, the river still raging and (y/n) was clinging to a crack in the ravine wall downstream, fingers white, body plastered to the stone. The water slammed into her legs, trying to peel her away.
“(Y/n)!” He yelled.
His voice caught her attention. “Dad!” she cried, raw and terrified. “Dad—help me!”
The sound of her voice hit Jake like a spear through the chest. “I see you!” he shouted back, already moving. “Hold on! Don’t let go!”
Tarsem’s father grabbed Jake’s arm. “I’ll get the others—”
“Get them out!” Jake snapped without looking away. “I’ve got her!”
(y/n)’s grip slipped.
Just a little.
Enough to make Jake’s heart stop.
“Dad!” she screamed, pure panic now. “
Jake didn’t think.
He jumped.
Cold slammed into him, brutal and unforgiving. He surfaced long enough to see (y/n) go under again, arms flailing, then he dove, forcing his body through the current with everything he had.
He caught her by the wrist and swam to the surface one arm locked around her waist “I’ve got you,” he gasped, voice breaking. “I’ve got you, baby.”
She grabbed onto him with a sob that tore straight out of her chest, fingers digging into his arm as if she might never let go again.
Jake kicked, muscles screaming, dragging them sideways toward the ravine wall. His fingers found stone. Roots. He hooked his arm around them, hold (y/n) up against him as the river tried to rip them both away.
Jake used every ounce of strength to push her upwards. She grabbed whatever she could and began to climb out, her father close behind her.
The climbed out the ravine and (y/n) turned to her father who barely had time to catch his breath before (y/n) slammed into his chest, shaking violently, coughing water,. Jake wrapped both arms around her, holding her there like he could will the world to stop hurting her.
“I’ve got you,” he repeated, over and over, forehead pressed to her wet hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m here. Dad’s got you.”
Jake kneeled down to her level one arm locked around (y/n)’s back, the other rested on the top of her head as the storm raged around them. Her entire body was trembling with uncontrollable shakes that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with fear finally catching up to her.
“Hey… hey,” he murmured, voice low and steady even as his chest felt like it was caving in. “Look at me, baby girl.”
She tried. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the rain, her breaths coming in short, uneven pulls. He brushed wet hair back from her face.
“Anywhere hurt?” he asked softly. “Head? Arms? Legs?”
She shook her head, then hesitated and nodded once, small and uncertain. “I—I’m okay,” she whispered. Her voice broke on the last word.
Jake pulled her back into his chest immediately, hand pressing between her shoulder blades. “It’s okay,” he said firmly, like he needed her to hear it in her bones. “It’s okay. Dad’s got you now. I’ve got you.”
She clutched at his chest piece , fingers fisting tight, like if she loosened her grip even a little the river might come back for her. Jake rested his cheek against the top of her head, eyes squeezing shut for half a second.
Too close. That was too damn close.
He lifted his head and raised his voice toward the other side of the ravine where Tarsem’s father was with the other children. “You guys alright?”
There was a pause—just long enough for his heart to spike again—then Tarsem’s father’s voice carried back through the rain.
“We’re okay!” Tarsem’s father shouted. “Everyone’s here! Wet—but okay!”
Jake let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Good,” he called back. “Head back to the village. We’ll meet you there.”
“Be careful!” someone yelled.
Jake didn’t answer right away. He shifted his weight, careful, deliberate, then rose to his feet with (y/n) still wrapped around him.
“Up you go,” he said gently.
She didn’t argue. She climbed onto his back automatically, arms looping around his neck, legs locking around his waist. Jake reached back and hooked his arms under her thighs.
“You good?” he asked.
She pressed her face into his shoulder and nodded, her breath warm against his skin.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Don’t let go.”
He started moving along the ravine edge, feet careful on the slick ground, every step measured. The storm still howled, rain stinging his face, but his focus narrowed to one thing only, the weight of his daughter on his back, alive.
She sniffed, voice muffled. “Dad… I was really scared.”
“I know,” he said immediately. “I know you were.”
His grip tightened just a little. “You did good. You stayed with your friends. You thought fast. And you’re okay now.”
She nodded again, smaller this time, her body finally starting to relax against him as the adrenaline drained away.
Jake swallowed hard, jaw tight.
Never again, he thought fiercely.
A familiar shape moved g through the curtain of rain, tall and unmistakable, Jake’s stride slower than usual, careful. And on his back, small something small clung to him, her arms looped tight around his neck.
Her breath caught painfully in her chest.
Relief hit her so hard her knees nearly buckled.
Neytiri ran from the shelter of the marui, bare feet splashing through puddles as the last of the storm poured down around her. “MaJake!” she called, voice breaking despite herself.
Jake looked up, eyes locking on her, and for the first time since he’d found their daughter, his shoulders sagged just a little. “I’ve got her,” he said quickly, already lowering himself so he could set (y/n) down. “She’s okay.”
The moment (y/n)’s feet touched the ground, Neytiri was there.
She pulled her daughter into her arms with a force that left no room for air, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed flat between her shoulder blades. (y/n) made a small sound, half sob, half breath, and melted into her, fingers clutching at her mother’s beaded chest piece like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
“I have you,” Neytiri whispered fiercely, rocking her. “I have you. Eywa, I have you.”
Jake stepped aside to give them space, chest still heaving, rain plastering his hair to his face. He watched as Neytiri turned, already moving, already in mother mode.
“Inside,” she murmured, shielding (y/n)’s body with her own as she ushered her out of the rain. “Come. Come, my heart.”
Inside the marui, the fire was still burning low and steady, its warmth a sharp contrast to the cold soaked into (y/n)’s bones. Neytiri guided her down beside it, crouching immediately.
She took one look at the shaking running through her daughter’s body and clicked her tongue softly. “You’re cold,” she muttered. She grabbed a dry cloth and began rubbing gently but firmly, drying rain from (y/n)’s arms, her hair, her face.
She lifted her daughter’s chin with two fingers, forcing her to meet her gaze. “No,” she said quietly but unmistakably. “No apologies. You are home. That is all that matters.”
She wrapped a blanket around (y/n)’s shoulders and pulled her closer to the fire, sitting behind her so she could draw her back against her chest. One arm wrapped around her middle, the other continued to dry her hair, fingers gentle and familiar.
Only then did Neytiri begin to truly check her, hands moving with practiced care. Arms. Shoulders. Legs. She pressed lightly here and there, watching for flinches, listening to every change in her daughter’s breathing.
“Are you hurt?” she asked softly.
(y/n) shook her head. “No… I’m just cold but I was so scared mama, I should have been out there, I—.”
Neytiri stopped her. Neytiri closed her eyes briefly, pressing her forehead to the back of (y/n)’s head. “I know,” she whispered. “Mama knows.”
Neytiri held her gently as the last of (y/n)’s energy vanished and she fell fast asleep.
Jake finally stepped closer, hovering near the fire, his own clothes soaked and muddy were gone in place of dry ones. He knelt across from them, eyes never leaving his daughter
“It was close Neytiri,” he said quietly, voice rough. “A damn Thanator came after then and they jumped into a flooded river… we would have lost her if I didn’t get there when I did.” That image would be seared into his mind forever, he just couldn’t shake it, one moment slower and she might have let go, one moment later he might not have found her in that brackish water.
Neytiri looked up at him then, eyes shining with unshed tears. “But you did get to her in time, that’s what matters.”
Jake sat at her side and draped his arm around her shoulder, his other hand brushed (y/n)’s cheek.
Everyone was safe, sound and warm
Sick
When (y/n) woke again, it was to a dull, aching chill that seemed to live in her bones. She shivered despite the fire still glowing low inside the marui. Her throat felt raw, her head heavy, and when she tried to sit up, the world tilted unpleasantly.
Neytiri noticed immediately. “You are wa,” she murmured pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. Her brow furrowed. Not hot bit the wrong kind of warmth. Neytiri brewed a bitter-smelling tea from crushed leaves and bark, coaxing (y/n) to sip slowly.
“Drink. Little sips,” she instructed, brushing damp hair away from her daughter’s face.
(y/n) obeyed, though her eyes fluttered with exhaustion. “… I’m okay,” she mumbled, more habit than truth.
Neytiri didn’t answer that. She rubbed warmth back into her daughter’s hands instead, humming low under her breath, a steady sound meant to to soothe.
For a time, it seemed enough.
But as eclipse crept in, darkening the world beyond the marui, cooling the air further, something shifted.
(y/n)’s breathing changed first. Shallow. Faster. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, like she couldn’t quite pull in enough air. Then came the heat sudden and alarming.
Neytiri pressed her palm to her daughter’s forehead again and sucked in a sharp breath.
“Ma Jake,” she called, voice cutting through the evening calm, fear finally breaking through her control. “Ma Jake!”
Jake was there in an instant.
“What—?” he started, then stopped when he saw (y/n)’s face, flushed, eyes glassy, lips parted as she struggled to breathe evenly.
“She is burning,” Neytiri said, her voice tight. “This is not right.”
Jake dropped to his knees, his hand hovering for half a second before touching (y/n)’s forehead himself. The heat shocked him.
“Okay. Okay—” he said quickly, already lifting her into his arms. “We’re going. Now.”
(y/n) barely stirred as he carried her out into the cool night, her head lolling against his shoulder, breath hitching. Neytiri was beside him the whole way, one hand gripping Jake’s arm like letting go would undo everything.
The biolab lights were harsh and too bright.
Norm and Max were on their feet the second the doors slid open.
“What’ve we got?” Norm asked, already reaching for gloves.
Max leaned in, scanning vitals, frowning as numbers appeared. “That’s high. Way too high.”
(y/n) stirred weakly, a small whimper escaping her throat. Neytiri moved closer, stroking her cheek, whispering softly in Na’vi, meant to soothe her.
They worked quickly.
Blood samples. Chest scans. Fluids started through an IV. Norm’s expression grew serious as he studied the results.
“Early-stage chest infection,” he said finally. “Probably from the storm exposure. Cold, wet, stress—perfect setup for it to hit fast.”
Jake’s jaw tightened. “Is she—?”
“She’s gonna be okay,” Norm said firmly, meeting his eyes. “We caught it early. Antibiotics, fluids, rest. But her system’s working hard right now.”
Neytiri listened, tense and unmoving.
She didn’t like the machines. Didn’t like the needles. Didn’t like how small her daughter looked under the bright lights.
“She needs her grandmother,” Neytiri said suddenly, voice unwavering.
Jake glanced at her. “Neytiri—”
“I will not argue,” she said softly but fiercely. “My mother.m is Tsahik”
Jake nodded immediately. “Go. I’ll stay with her.”
Neytiri was gone within seconds.
When Mo’at arrived, she took one look at her granddaughter, fever-flushed, breathing shallow, and her face hardened She touched (y/n)’s forehead, then Jake’s arm.
“She walks close to the edge tonight,” Mo’at said calmly. “But she is strong.”
She began to pray at once, low, rhythmic words to Eywa, hands moving with practiced certainty. She placed prepared herbs near (y/n)’s chest, brushing them lightly across her skin.
Neytiri knelt beside the bed, eyes never leaving her daughter.
“My poor daughter ,” she whispered.
The monitors began to tell a different story as the night wore on.
(y/n)’s breaths came shorter, her chest working harder for each one. The fever refused to break completely, dipping and then climbing again like it was testing the limits of her small body.
Max frowned at the screen. Norm stood very still, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed in thought. “This isn’t tracking like a normal infection,” Max said quietly. “The antibiotics should be stabilising her by now.”
Norm glanced at (y/n), then back to the data. “It’s worsening instead.”
The word sat heavy in the air.
He turned slowly toward Jake and Neytiri. “I need to ask something. It might sound strange.”
Jake straightened. “Ask.”
“Has she ever had trouble breathing before?” Norm said. “Not sick—just… exertion. Running. Sleeping.”
Jake opened his mouth, then stopped.
Neytiri spoke first, voice low. “Yes. I have seen it. When she runs hard, she must stop sooner than others or it takes her longer to catch her breath. At night sometimes… she wheezes.”
Jake’s head snapped toward her. “You took note of that?”
“I have kept a close eye on her for awhile,” Neytiri said softly. “I worried. But she would recover. I thought it was nothing.”
Norm exchanged a look with Max.
“Jake,” Norm said carefully, “does asthma run in your family?”
The word landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Jake froze.
“…My brother,” he said after a moment. His voice sounded distant, like it was coming from far away. “Tom had asthma. Bad when we were kids. Inhalers. Hospital visits.” He swallowed hard. “Na’vi don’t get that.”
Mo’at, who had been silent until now, tilted her head. “Some children of the People struggle for breath,” she said calmly. “Often when young. Many grow out of it well before (y/n)’s age.” She studied Jake. “Is this a sky-people sickness?”
Norm nodded slowly. “It is. And it’s genetic.”
The room went very quiet.
Jake felt like the floor had dropped out from under him.
“So this is my fault,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Neytiri turned sharply. “No.”
But Jake couldn’t hear it “She gets sick, nearly dies in a storm, and now this—because of my DNA,” he said, voice cracking. “Because I brought this into her.”
Norm stepped closer, firm but gentle. “Jake. Listen to me. This isn’t about fault. It’s about information.”
Max chimed in, calmer, precise. “If she has asthma, it explains everything. Why the infection worsened. Why exertion hits her harder. Why cold, stress, and rain triggered this.”
Mo’at placed a hand on Jake’s arm, grounding. “You gave her life,” she said simply. “You did not choose her struggles.”
Jake dragged a hand over his face, eyes burning. “So what do we do?” he asked. “What do we do to fix this?”
Norm took a breath. “You manage it.”
“Can you cure it?” Neytiri asked, tension coiled tight in her voice.
Norm shook his head. “No. But we can control it. Reduce flare-ups. Keep her breathing stable.”
He gestured to the equipment. “For now, we’ll treat the infection aggressively, stronger antibiotics, oxygen support. And if this is asthma, we’ll need to introduce bronchodilators. Inhaled meds.”
Neytiri frowned. “Must she take this medicine always?”
“Possibly,” Max said. “Especially when sick. Or running.”
Jake looked back at his daughter. His poor eldest daughter. His baby girl.
(y/n) lay small and still beneath the blankets, lashes damp, chest rising with effort. And all this time, she’d been fighting her own lungs. He hadn’t noticed how could he have not noticed, what if all this time—
“I pushed her,” Jake said quietly. “Races. Hunting. Keeping up with everyone else.”
“You did not know,” Mo’at said gently. “And neither did she.”
Neytiri reached for Jake’s hand and held it tightly. “She is strong,” she said, fierce and certain. “This does not make her weak..”
Norm nodded. “Exactly. She can still hunt. Fly. Live fully. You just… adapt.”
Jake let out a shaky breath. He couldn’t believe this, one small genetic connection was passed from his human life onto his children and it may change his daughter’s life for good.
“Okay,” he said, voice rough but steadying. “Tell me what she needs. Tell me everything.”
Norm gave a small, reassuring smile. “That’s all we need from you.”
(y/n) stirred faintly. A soft sound escaped her throat, more breath than voice.
Neytiri leaned down instantly. “I am here,” she whispered. “Mama is here.”
Jake rested his hand over his daughter’s, warm and trembling.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Always.”
The fever didn’t vanish all at once.
It loosened its grip slowly, like a tide finally pulling back after hours of battering the shore.
(y/n)’s breathing evened out first still shallow, but no longer frantic. The heat in her skin faded to something manageable. The monitors softened their insistent beeping, settling into a steadier rhythm.
And then her eyes fluttered open.
For a moment, the world didn’t make sense. Everything felt heavy. Distant. Like she was underwater.
“M…mom?” she rasped, the word barely more than air.
Neytiri was on her instantly.
“I am here,” she said, voice breaking as she cupped her daughter’s face in both hands. “I am here, my heart.”
(y/n) blinked again, eyes struggling to focus. Shapes sharpened. Light hurt a little. And then “Dad?” she whispered.
Jake leaned forward so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. He took her hand carefully, like she might shatter if he held too tight.
“Hey,” he said softly, voice thick with emotion he didn’t try to hide. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m right here.”
Her gaze drifted between them, confused, tired, but aware.
“You’re… both here,” she murmured.
Neytiri pressed her forehead gently to her daughter’s temple, tears slipping free despite herself. “We did not leave,” she said. “Not for a breath.”
(y/n)’s fingers curled weakly around Jake’s. “I… It felt like I couldn’t breathe,” she said quietly, more statement than fear now.
Jake swallowed hard. “I know,” he said. “You scared us real good.”
She frowned faintly, “sorry,” her voice was no louder than a whisper.
Both of them spoke at once.
“No.”
“Never.”
Neytiri brushed damp hair back from her daughter’s face. “Do not ever apologize for being hurt,” she said firmly.
(y/n) looked tired again, eyelids drooping, but there was something different now. The fog had thinned.
“I feel… lighter,” she said. “Not so hot.”
Jake nodded, squeezing her hand gently. “Your fever broke. That’s a good thing. A really good thing.”
She let out a small, shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “So… I’m not dying?”
Jake huffed softly, pressing his forehead briefly to her knuckles. “No, kiddo. Not today.”
Neytiri smiled through tears. “Eywa still has plans for you.”
y/n)’s lips curved just a little. “
Jake leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We’re gonna help you breathe easier from now on,” he said. “Things might be a little different. But you’re gonna be okay.”
She nodded faintly,“Okay.”
Neytiri shifted closer, careful of the lines and monitors, and gathered her daughter as much as she could into her arms without hurting her.
“Sleep now,” she whispered. “We are here when you wake.”
(y/n) didn’t argue.
Her eyes slipped shut again, peaceful this time. No gasping. No tremors. Just slow, steady breaths.
Jake exhaled shakily, relief finally crashing over him now that he knew the fever was broken and she’d be okay.
“She’s really awake,” he whispered, almost afraid to believe it.
Neytiri nodded, tears still shining but her voice steady with certainty. “Yes,” she said. “Our daughter is getting well again .”
At seven, (y/n) learns the rhythm of the morning before the forest fully wakes.
She slips from the marui just as the sky begins to soften from deep blue into the pale greens of dawn. A jug almost too big for her in her hands. The air is cool against her skin, damp with night mist, and she moves quietly.
She grips the jug carefully, both arms wrapped around it as she pads down the familiar path to the stream. The water is cold when she dips the jug in, biting at her fingers, but she doesn’t complain. She watches the surface settle, waits for the bubbles to clear like father taught her, then fills it properly so no grit or leaves cloud the water.
On the walk each step is cautious. No rushing. No spilling. She remembers the time she tripped and soaked herself head to toe and cried harder than she’d ever admit now. Today, she makes it all the way back without losing a single drop.
She sets the jug just inside her parents’ marui, right where her mother will see it when she wakes.
She doesn’t linger.
Instead she grabs her basket, turns on her heel and scurries off toward her grandmother’s marui, basket bumping lightly against her hip, excitement buzzing in her chest.
Mo’at’s herb storage is quiet and shadowed, smelling of earth and dried leaves and smoke. (y/n) crouches in front of it, peering inside. She knows these bundles. Knows how they’re meant to look.
Her brow furrows.
She spots it quickly, the root storage was running low. Grandmother must have used them yesterday. Carefully, (y/n) the digging stick and slips back outside.
The forest feels different when she’s here for to help her grandmother, not play. She walks with purpose now, eyes scanning the ground, remembering exactly where Mo’at showed her the plants grow best.
She kneels and digs slowly.
Once, she rushed. Once, she tugged too hard and ruined the roots, snapping them where they shouldn’t be broken. Mo’at hadn’t scolded her but instead taught (y/n) patience.
So today she is patient.
She loosens the soil first. Brushes it away with careful fingers. Frees the root inch by inch until it comes away whole and intact. She exhales in quiet triumph, placing it gently into her basket.
By the time she has enough, her knees are muddy and her hands are streaked with dirt, but her smile is proud.
At the stream, she washes the roots thoroughly, swirling them in the water until the last clinging soil releases.
Then she heads back.
Mo’at is awake when (y/n) returns, already seated, calm and steady as the forest itself. A small bowl of food waits nearby, steam curling into the cool air.
Her grandmother looks up and smiles, Mo’at couldn’t always keep up with young (y/n)’s endless energy and with 3 younger children to look after neither could Jake and Neytiri so with no one asking (y/n) found ways to busy herself so she didn’t feel the ache of being left out
“You were early,” Mo’at says.
(y/n) beams, setting the basket down carefully in front of her. “I saw you were out of river-roots grandmother . I got more. I didn’t break them this time.”
Mo’at’s eyes soften as she inspects the roots, nodding once in approval.
“You remembered,” she says simply with a proud smile.
That single sentence fills (y/n) with warmth.
Mo’at gestures for her to sit, and (y/n) does so immediately, legs folding beneath her as she accepts breakfast with both hands. She eats eagerly, hunger finally catching up with her now that she was done.
As she chews, Mo’at reaches out and smooths a hand over her hair, grounding and familiar.
“You are learning patience,” her grandmother says. “That is not easy. Especially for one who wishes to grow quickly.”
(y/n) ducks her head, a little embarrassed but pleased all the same.
“I just wanted to help,” she says quietly.
Mo’at hums in acknowledgement. “And you did.”
(y/n) finishes the last of her breakfast quietly, legs tucked beneath her as Mo’at tidies the herbs she brought back. For a moment she just sits there, content, until a thought clicks into place and her eyes widen.
“said yesterday she’s running out of straight branches,” (y/n) blurts out suddenly. “For her arrows.”
Mo’at pauses, turning to look at her granddaughter with mild surprise.
“And you remembered that?” she asks gently.
(y/n) nods, already pushing herself to her feet. “She needs the archer’s wood. The ones that don’t bend when they dry.”
Mo’at studies her for a long moment, this small girl with dirt still under her nails, already cataloguing needs that most children never notice. Too thoughtful. Too aware. At her age, (y/n) should be chasing insects, laughing too loud, getting scolded for climbing where she shouldn’t. Instead, she is planning.
“Do you remember where the archer’s thicket grows?” Mo’at asks.
“Yes,” (y/n) answers without hesitation. “But I might need to go farther today. The near ones have too many new shoots. They’re not ready yet.”
Mo’at exhales softly through her nose, a mix of pride and quiet concern stirring in her chest. So knowledgeable… too knowledgeable. But she does not say it aloud. She knows better than to clip the wings of a child who is already teaching herself to fly.
“Then go,” Mo’at says instead, reaching out to straighten the strap of (y/n)’s basket. “But be careful. The forest is kind only to those who respect it.”
“I will,” (y/n) promises seriously.
She slips out of the marui and into the village, morning light filtering through woven canopies and leaves overhead. As she passes between huts, elders begin to notice her.
A tall, older Na’vi woman steps into her path first. Her skin is a deep, stormy blue, her hair braided thick with silver beads and pale feathers that clink softly when she moves.
“Little huntress,” Eylanra says, with a kind smile, she was one of the elders known for her skills in weaving. “If you are going into the forest… bring me some hidden fruit . The kind that only ripen where the light barely reaches.”
(y/n)’s eyes brighten. “I know where those grow.”
Eylanra smiles thinly. “Do that, and I will help you weave a new chest piece. Something lighter. Better for moving.”
“Yes!” (y/n) says without hesitation, already adding it to her list.
A few steps later, another elder calls out to her. This one is shorter and broad-shouldered, his ears nicked from old hunts, his hands always smelling faintly of smoke and spice. Taru, the clan’s cook, squints at her with amused interest.
“If you find moon scarab eggs near the creek stones,” he says, tapping his chin, “bring them to me. I’ll show you how to cook them properly so they don’t taste bitter.”
“I can do that,” (y/n) replies earnestly.
“Careful,” Taru chuckles. “They have a mean bite.”
“I’ll be careful,” she repeats, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She continues on her way, basket growing heavier with invisible promises. As she passes the outer edge of the village, the whispers begin again, soft, sharp things meant not to be heard but never quiet enough to disappear.
“Demon child.”
“Sky blood.”
“Bad omen.”
(y/n)’s steps falter for half a heartbeat.
Then she lifts her chin and keeps walking.
She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t cry. The forest ahead is louder than the whispers behind her, and she chooses to listen to that instead, the rustle of leaves, the call of distant creatures, the hum of life that does not judge her.
As the village fades behind her and the trees close in, (y/n) adjusts her basket.
Cautious of the Dark
The farther (y/n) walked from the village, the quieter the forest became, not empty, never empty, but watchful. The archer’s thicket should have been easy to find, a familiar bend in the trail where the ground dipped and the young trees grew straight and proud.
But when she reached it, her heart sank.
The thicket had been worked recently.
Clean cuts marked the stalks, neat and practiced. The best branches were gone, taken by older hunters.
(y/n) crouched, running her fingers over a fresh cut. Too smooth, she thought. They were here this morning.
She didn’t panic. She didn’t pout. She simply adjusted her plan.
“If the forest takes one path away,” her grandmother always said, “it opens another.”
So (y/n) turned away from the thicket and headed downslope, toward the tangled roots where the light filtered thin and green. The hidden fruit grew there—round, faintly glowing, tucked beneath a crust that was hard to break, after some difficulty she reached the fruit inside She twisted them free carefully, placing each one into her basket so they wouldn’t bruise.
From there, she moved toward the creek stones, where the water ran shallow and clear. Moon scarabs clung to the undersides of smooth rocks, their shells catching the light like pale embers. (y/n) lifted stones slowly, one by one, letting the water settle before reaching in. A sharp nip caught her fingertip and she hissed quietly, shaking her hand once before steadying herself again.
“Careful,” she whispered to herself, echoing Taru’s warning.
She gathered the eggs, nestling them into a leaf pouch.
She knew one other spot archers thicket grew close by, but it was in a darker part of the forest. A part that only hunters ventured ino, a part that was teeming with life but also danger.
She thee caution to the wind as she made her way there.
She stopped and listened as she came to the edge of the shadow this place cast.
The forest had changed.
The birds were gone.
Not silent, absent.
Her spine prickled.
(y/n) froze, every sense stretching outward the way her mother and grandmother had taught her. She scanned the undergrowth, the trunks, the spaces between roots where shadows pooled thick and heavy.
That was when she saw the prints.
Thanator.
Huge. Maybe a day old.
The ground was torn where its claws had sunk in, the scent sharp to her untrained nose. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t scream. She didn’t run, not yet.
But just ahead was untouched archers thicket.
She darted over the thanator tracks and into the shadows of the forest.
Her movements became quick and silent, fingers flying as she snapped free only what she needed, no more, no less.
There was a tingle along her spine.
Something was watching her.
She felt it the way prey feels the shift in the air just before her mothers arrow made its mark..
She froze.
Listened for the sounds of the forest to try and steady her racing heart, tried to smell for danger but what if what was hunting her was down wind.
(y/n) turned and ran.
Not blindly, but fast, light on her feet, retracing her steps with practiced precision. Branches snagged at her hair, leaves slapped against her legs, but she didn’t slow. Her heart thundered so loud she was sure it could hear her.
Behind her, something moved.
Heavy.
She didn’t wait to confirm it.
The moment the trees thinned and the light brightened, (y/n) burst through, not stopping until the sounds of the deeper forest faded behind her. Only then did she duck behind a fallen log, chest heaving, fingers clenched tight around her basket.
She waited.
Listened.
Nothing followed her into the light.
She glances over the log and into the shadows of the forest. Something moved where she once had been and cold yellow eyes stared out of her, its low growl made her shiver as it returned into the deeper forest.
Not because it couldn’t pursue her.
But because it didn’t need to.
Clutching her basket tighter, (y/n) stood and started back toward the village, steps quicker now.
The forest had let her go.
This time.
3 out of 4
Neytiri woke to the hush that came just before dawn. She slipped away from her younger children carefully, instinctively reaching for the water jug beside the entrance of the mauri.
Her hand stilled.
The jug was already full.
Neytiri frowned, eyes moving immediately to the small space where (y/n) usually slept.
It was empty.
Neytiri’s chest tightened, not fear, not yet, but a sharp awareness. She stepped outside and scanned the clearing. The forest was waking slowly, light creeping in thin bands between leaves. No sign of her eldest.
She has already gone, Neytiri realized.
She inhaled slowly, steadying herself. (y/n) had been doing this more often lately, far too eager to help. Neytiri didn’t like it. Children were meant to sleep until the sun warmed the ground, meant to play and laugh and chase each other, not rise with hunters and gatherers.
Still, she pushed the worry aside and set about starting breakfast. Fish wrapped in leaves, fruit sliced small enough for little hands. The rhythm helped calm her thoughts.
Behind her, Jake shifted groaning softly as he woke.
“Mmm… morning already?” he muttered.
Neytiri didn’t look at him at first. “The jug is full.”
That got his attention he didn’t full it and Neytiri wouldn’t bring it up if she didn’t fill it.
Jake sat up, blinking. “Full? I didn’t—” He stopped, eyes following hers to the empty spot. “…Where’s (y/n)?”
“She has already left,” Neytiri said, her voice tight but controlled. “Before dawn.”
Jake scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling. “Of course she did.”
Before either of them could say more, the quiet shattered.
Neteyam stirred first, four years old. He rolled, kicked, and promptly thumped his foot against Lo’ak, who popped upright with an indignant squawk.
“Stop it Neteyam,” Lo’ak complained.
Kiri blinked awake beside him, hair a wild mess. “Why is it loud?”
Jake sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Good morning to you too.”
He got up and scooped Neteyam up before the situation could escalate, bouncing him lightly until the grumbles turned into a sleepy giggle. Neytiri moved in tandem, settling Kiri and Lo’ak near the food, murmuring soft words and smoothing hair from their faces.
As the children ate, Neytiri watched them with a practiced eye, but her gaze kept drifting back toward the forest paths.
“She should be playing,” Neytiri said quietly, once the little ones were distracted with fruit. “Not fetching water. Not rising before the sun like an adult.”
Jake nodded, more serious now. “Yeah. She’s… trying too hard.”
“She is still a child,” Neytiri added, a hint of steel beneath the worry. “And she is carrying burdens that are not hers.”
Jake glanced toward the trees again, jaw tightening. “I’ll talk to her when she gets back. I promise.”
Neytiri studied him for a moment, then nodded once. “You must.”
Home Again
It was well past midday when (y/n) finally came back home.
The sun was warm overhead, filtering through the leaves in shifting gold patterns, and her arms were full, almost too full. A small woven chest piece hung carefully over one arm, the fibers still fresh and tight. Her basket bumped against her hip, the scent of scrambled moon scarab eggs drifting up with the steam still trapped beneath a leaf cover. Bundled under the basket were neatly cut archer’s branches, stripped and ready.
“I’m home,” she called, clear and proud.
No answer from her parents they were busy with Lo’ak and Kiri.
“(y/n)!”
Neteyam wrapped his arms around her knees, nearly knocking her over. She laughed, instinctively setting her basket down before crouching to hug him back.
“Hey, little brother ,” she said, ruffling his hair. “Did you behave?”
He grinned. “Yes. Maybe.”
That was when Jake turned.
He took in the basket. The chest piece. The branches. The dirt smudged on her calves. His jaw tightened.
“Where have you been?” he demanded, voice sharp with worry that came out sounding like anger.
(y/n) straightened immediately. “I was in the forest.”
Jake crossed the clearing in three long strides. “You left at dawn.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“You didn’t tell anyone.”
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not the point.”
She shifted her weight, thinking carefully. “First I helped Grandma, she needed roots she was low on. Then I went to get branches for Mama’s arrows. Two elders asked me to gather things too.”
Jake’s brow furrowed. “Elders?”
She nodded. “Taru helped me cook the eggs. And Eylanra said if I brought her hidden fruit she’d help me weave this.” She lifted the chest piece a little. “For Mama.”
Jake opened his mouth, then closed it again.
But (y/n) wasn’t finished.
“Oh—and Dad?” she added, suddenly serious. “There are thanator prints in the dark part of the forest. East of the stream. Fresh. You should tell the hunters.”
That did it.
Jake’s eyes flashed. “What we’re you doing there?”
She hesitated. Just a fraction. “I needed archer’s branches.”
“That place is dangerous,” Jake snapped. “What were you thinking going anywhere near it?”
“I was doing what Mama taught me,” (y/n) said quietly. “I watched the wind. I listened. I didn’t linger. I left fast.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Jake said, voice rising. “You don’t go near thanator territory. Ever. I don’t care why.”
Her shoulders drooped a little. “Yes, Dad.”
Jake exhaled hard. “You’re grounded.”
She nodded once, accepting it without protest. “Okay.”
Without another word, she gathered her basket and moved toward where Kiri and Lo’ak were playing, sitting down to help Neteyam stack stones. She didn’t cry. She didn’t argue.
But Neytiri had seen everything.
She hadn’t spoken while Jake scolded her, hadn’t interrupted, hadn’t stepped in, but her eyes followed (y/n) closely as she went. And then Neytiri turned her gaze on Jake.
Sharp. Displeased.
Jake felt it like an arrow between the shoulders.
Neytiri didn’t say anything,!she simply walked past him and knelt beside her eldest.
“What did you bring home, ma yawntu?” she asked softly.
(y/n)’s face lit up instantly.
She scrambled up, nearly tripping over the basket in her excitement. “Mama! Taru helped me cook these, look!” She lifted the leaf, revealing the eggs. “They’re still warm. And I made this for you.” She held out the chest piece carefully, eyes shining. “And I got the branches you needed.”
Neytiri took everything in, really looked. The even weave. The cleanly cut branches. The pride in her daughter’s posture.
“Thank you,” Neytiri said, voice full and sincere. “These are beautiful gifts.” She then cupped (y/n)’s face gently. “But you should not have gone into that place. It is dangerous.”
(y/n) nodded. “I know. But I did what you taught me.” Her voice softened. “I escaped.”
Neytiri stilled.
She listened as her daughter quietly explained, the prints, the pause, the moment she’d felt watched, the way she’d doubled back, how she watched yellow eyes watch her from the shadows and how she’d waited until the forest felt right again before moving.
When (y/n) finished, Neytiri pulled her into a tight embrace.
“You are brave,” she murmured into her hair. “And clever.” But that was too close, she thanked Eywa for her daughter’s coming home safe.
She leaned back, resting her forehead against (y/n)’s. “You are not grounded.”
(y/n) blinked. “I’m not?”
“No,” Neytiri said firmly. “Go practice with your bow.”
A grin spread across (y/n)’s face like sunrise.
“Yes, Mama!”
She darted off, already reaching for her bow, lighter than she’d been all day.
Neytiri rose and turned to Jake.
“We will talk,” she said calmly.
Jake swallowed. He already knew he was in trouble.
The Talk
Neytiri waits until the children are distracted only then does she turn to Jake.
Her voice is low. Which somehow makes it worse.
“We need to talk.”
Jake exhales slowly and nods. “Yeah. I figured.”
They step a little away from the marui, just far enough that the conversation is theirs alone. Neytiri folds her arms.
“Our daughter,” she begins, “is seven.”
Jake frowns. “I know.”
“She wakes before dawn,” Neytiri continues, eyes fixed on the forest rather than him. “She fetches water. She checks my mother’s stores. She gathers food and materials for others. She listens for danger. She thinks like a hunter, like a healer, like an adult.”
Jake opens his mouth, then closes it again.
“She does these things,” Neytiri says, voice tightening now, “because she believes she has to.”
Jake rubs a hand over his face. “She’s just trying to help—”
“No,” Neytiri cuts in, finally turning to him. “She is trying to be seen.” Her heart breaking because she was equally guilty.
That lands.
“She is learning,” Neytiri continues, “that if she is useful, if she is quiet, if she causes no trouble, then maybe we will have time for her.”
Jake’s chest tightens. “That’s not—”
“She believes,” Neytiri presses, “that we are too busy.”
Jake looks down at the ground, shame creeping into his expression.
“Today,” Neytiri says softly now, dangerously soft, “this conversation could have been very different.”
Jake’s head snaps up.
“She walked into the forest alone,” Neytiri says. “She saw thanator prints and still finished her task because she believed it mattered more than her safety. Because she believed we needed her to do it.”
Jake swallows hard.
“We could have lost her today,” Neytiri says. “And she would have thought it was her fault. That she failed us.”
Jake’s voice comes out rough. “I grounded her because she went near where she shouldn’t.”
“You grounded her,” Neytiri replies, “because you were afraid.”
Jake doesn’t deny it.
“But fear without listening,” she says, “teaches the wrong lesson.”
She steps closer to him now.
“She did exactly what I taught her,” Neytiri continues. “She watched. She listened. She escaped. And when she returned, she told you about the danger so others would not be hurt.”
Jake nods slowly. “I know.”
“Do you?” Neytiri asks. “Because what she heard was not I’m glad you’re safe.”
Jake’s shoulders sag.
“She heard,” Neytiri says, “You are a problem.”
Silence stretches between them.
Jake finally speaks. “I didn’t realize how much time she spends away.”
Neytiri’s eyes flicker, sad, not angry. “That is the problem.”
Jake exhales shakily. “I keep telling myself there will be time tomorrow.”
Neytiri nods once. “And tomorrow keeps coming.”
She gestures toward the direction where (y/n) would be practising with her bow.
“She is growing faster than we think,” Neytiri says. “Not because she should, but because she feels she must.”
“I don’t want her to think she has to earn our love,” he says quietly.
“Then show her,” Neytiri replies simply.
She softens then, placing a hand on his arm.
“She is still a child,” Neytiri says. “She should be playing. Laughing. Making mistakes with us there to catch her.”
Jake nods, eyes damp. “I’ll do better.”
Neytiri studies him, then nods once. “You will.”
She turns back toward the marui, but pauses.
“And Jake,” she adds.
He looks at her.
“Next time she brings you a warning about the forest,” Neytiri says, “thank her first.”
Jake lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I will.”
He almost lost her today.
He won’t forget that.
Demon
She stands with her feet planted just the way her father showed her, she draws. The arrow flies—a little left of center. Not perfect. Good, though.
Behind her, four kids linger.
Tarsem leans against a tree, taller than the rest, already carrying himself like someone who expects to be listened to. He watches quietly, sharp-eyed, arms crossed. Kxani sits nearby, legs folded, braiding and unbraiding a length of grass while tracking every shot with thoughtful interest. Sa’ley lounges on a rock, relaxed, quick to smile, the kind who would rather laugh things off than start trouble.
And then there’s Ralu.
He snorts loudly when the next arrow misses wide. “Ha! You see that?”
(y/n)’s shoulders stiffen, but she reaches for another arrow anyway.
Ralu grins, cruel and loud. “Guess demons don’t shoot so well after all.”
That gets her attention.
She turns slowly, bow still in her hand. “What did you say?”
Ralu smirks. “Demon. Sky-blood. Everyone knows.”
Her grip tightens, not on the string, but on the bow itself.
“My dad was a dreamwalker, he has demon blood,” she snaps, voice sharp and steady. “He’s Toruk Makto. And I’m his daughter.”
She steps closer, chin lifted. “If you’ve got a problem with me, say it to my face.”
Sa’ley shifts uneasily. “Ralu… maybe we should just leave her alone.”
Ralu scoffs and marches forward anyway, puffing up like he’s already won. “What’s the demon gonna do? Cry?”
He doesn’t even finish the sentence.
Crack.
(y/n)’s fist connects square with his nose.
The sound echoes.
Ralu staggers back, stunned, hands flying to his face. Sa’ley bursts out laughing. Kxani covers her mouth, eyes wide. Even Tarsem snorts, trying and failing not to smile.
Ralu flushes red with humiliation. “You—!”
He lunges forward, swinging wildly.
(y/n) doesn’t flinch. She plants her foot and shoves him hard in the chest.
Ralu goes down again, landing flat on his back with an oof.
She stands over him, breathing hard, eyes blazing. “Maybe,” she says coolly, “you should cry to your mommy.”
Sa’ley is laughing outright now. Kxani shakes her head, grinning. Tarsem watches (y/n) with something new in his expression.
Ralu scrambles to his feet, furious and embarrassed, but he doesn’t come any closer.
(y/n) turns back to her target, shoulders squared.
She nocks another arrow.
This one hits dead center.
Problem
By the time Jake helped Neytiri get Neteyam, Kiri, and Lo’ak settled, fed, washed, and no longer climbing over each other like viperwolf pups, his head was already pounding.
He took a breath, rolled his shoulders, and went looking for (y/n).
He didn’t have to search long. The sound of arrows striking wood carried through the clearing where the younger ones practiced. There she was, feet planted, posture careful, bow steady despite hands still small for it. She loosed an arrow, missed the mark by a handspan, adjusted, and tried again.
Before Jake could call out to her, someone else stepped into his path.
A tall Na’vi woman with sharp cheekbones and tightly braided hair blocked his way., Teylanra, Ralu’s mother, known in the clan for her rigid sense of order and her habit of letting judgment sit permanently on her tongue. Ralu stood beside her, arms crossed, nose red and faintly swollen.
“Toruk Makto,” Teylanra said stiffly. “Your daughter struck my son.”
Jake closed his eyes for half a second and sighed, a long, weary sigh that came from deep in his chest.
Jake opened his eyes, gaze steady. “I said I’ll handle it.”
Teylanra sniffed but stepped back, tugging Ralu with her. Ralu shot (y/n) a glare over his shoulder, one part smug, one part embarrassed.
Jake walked into the practice clearing.
“(y/n).”
She turned instantly. Her face lit up for a split second, thinking her was going to help her practice maybe even take her tracking to put her skills to use, her hopes then fell when she saw his expression.
“What happened?” Jake asked.
She hesitated. “Ralu—”
“Did you hit him?” Jake interrupted.
Her jaw tightened. “Yes.”
Jake exhaled slowly. “Why?”
She swallowed. “He called me a demon.”
Jake’s expression flickered, anger, pain, but his voice stayed firm. “That’s not an excuse to hit someone.”
Her shoulders slumped. “He does it all the time.”
“I know,” Jake said. “And I’ll deal with that. But we don’t solve words with fists.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again.
Jake stepped forward and gently took the bow from her hands.
“No more bow practice today,” he said. “You’re grounded. No scurrying off at dawn. You go home.”
Her eyes filled instantly.
“Yes, Dad,” she whispered.
She didn’t argue. She didn’t shout. She turned and ran.
Jake watched her go, heart sinking like stones in the river.
She burst into the marui in tears, barely seeing where she was going before she slammed into Neytiri’s legs and wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist.
“Mama,” (y/n) sobbed, face pressed into her. “Why can’t I do anything right?”
Neytiri dropped what she was doing instantly and knelt, pulling her daughter close. She felt the shaking in her small body, the way she clung like she was afraid of slipping away.
“Oh, ma yawntu,” Neytiri murmured, stroking her hair. “Come here.”
She tipped (y/n)’s chin up, thumbs gently wiping tears from her cheeks.
“You did not do nothing right,” Neytiri said softly. “You are learning.”
“But Dad took my bow,” (y/n) choked. “And Ralu hates me and everyone thinks I’m bad and I just—” Her voice broke completely.
Neytiri pressed her forehead to her daughter’s. “Listen to me.”
She waited until (y/n)’s breathing slowed just a little.
“You are not bad,” Neytiri said firmly. “You are strong. And brave. Sometimes… strength needs learning too.”
(y/n) sniffed. “I tried.”
“I know,” Neytiri said.
She stood, taking (y/n)’s hand. “Come. If you cannot practice with your bow today, then we will make arrows instead.”
Her daughter blinked. “Really?”
“Yes,” Neytiri said, a small smile breaking through. “That is not punishment. That is time together.”
(y/n) leaned into her, arms wrapping tight around her mother’s waist again. Neytiri kissed the top of her head and guided her toward the work space, already reaching for shafts and feathers.
Outside, Jake paused just beyond the marui.
She looks up from where she’s seated with (y/n), feathers and arrow shafts spread around them, her daughter’s head resting against her chest. Neytiri doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.
She just gives him a look.
It says, The younger three are settled. I have this. Go away for awhile.
Jake hesitates, then nods once, reluctantly. He backs away, giving them space, even though every instinct in him wants to stay. Before he turns, he meets Neytiri’s eyes again. There’s no anger there. Just a quiet, unyielding protectiveness.
This moment belongs to mother and daughter.
Jake leaves.
Neytiri resumes her slow, steady movements, binding feathers to arrow shafts with practiced hands. (y/n) sits tucked into her side, knees drawn up, fingers worrying at a loose thread on waist cloth. She’s quiet now, but it’s the fragile kind of quiet, the kind that breaks easily.
After a long moment, (y/n) speaks.
Her voice is very small.
“Mama?”
“Yes, ma yawntu,” Neytiri answers immediately.
(y/n) swallows. Her eyes stay fixed on the arrows. “Does… does Dad hate me?”
Neytiri stills.
Her heart clenches so hard it almost steals her breath.
She turns fully toward her daughter and gently lifts (y/n)’s face so she has no choice but to look at her.
“No,” Neytiri says at once. Firm. Absolute. “Never.”
“But he’s always mad,” (y/n) whispers. “And I keep getting in trouble. And today he took my bow and—” Her lip wobbles. “I try really hard.”
Neytiri cups her cheeks, thumbs brushing away the fresh tears.
“He does not hate you,” Neytiri repeats. “Your father loves you more than his own breath. Sometimes he forgets how small you still are. Sometimes fear makes him loud.”
She presses her forehead to (y/n)’s. “But his fear comes from love.”
(y/n) sniffles. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
“I know,” Neytiri murmurs.
She pulls (y/n) fully into her arms, rocking her gently. “Listen to me, my little one. You do not have to be perfect. You do not have to be brave every moment. You do not have to carry the weight of this family on your shoulders. She kisses her daughter’s hair. “You are allowed to be a child.”
(y/n) curls tighter against her. “I just want him to be proud of me.”
Neytiri closes her eyes, pain and love twisting together in her chest.
“He is,” she says softly. “Even when he does not say it well.”
She shifts them so (y/n) is cradled properly in her lap, just like when she was smaller, and begins braiding a feather into one of the arrow shafts, letting the rhythm calm them both.
“You are my first,” Neytiri continues. “My heart. Nothing you could ever do would change that. Nothing.”
(y/n) lets out a shaky breath and nods.
Neytiri wraps both arms around her and holds her there for as long as it takes, until the tears fade, until the tension leaves her small body, until (y/n)’s breathing evens out again.
Outside, Jake sits alone for a while longer.
A Walk
The sky is deep violet when Jake comes back.
Eclipse light spills through the leaves, painting everything in silver and shadow. Dinner simmers softly over the fire. Neytiri is turned away, focused on the food, but she sees him out of the corner of her eye when he stops at the entrance of the marui.
He doesn’t say anything.
He motions for (y/n) to follow him.
(y/n) looks up from where she’s sitting, still close to her mother. For a heartbeat she hesitates then gets to her feet and follows.
Jake turns and walks a little way from the marui, toward the edge of the clearing where the trees open and the sky feels close. He stops where the eclipse casts them both in half-light.
He crouches so they’re eye to eye.
For a long moment, he just looks at her.
“You scared me today,” he says finally. Not angry. Honest.
(y/n)’s shoulders tense. “I said sorry—”
“I know,” Jake cuts in gently. “This isn’t about sorry.”
He reaches out and rests a hand on her shoulder, grounding, steady.
“You’re brave,” he continues. “Braver than most grown warriors I know.”
Her eyes flicker with something like hope.
“But bravery,” Jake says, voice calm and firm, “doesn’t mean you go anywhere you want.”
She nods slowly.
“There are places you can go,” he says, drawing an invisible map in the air between them. “And places you can’t. Not alone. Not yet.”
She swallows. “Because… I’m little?”
“Because I don’t want to see you hurt,” Jake says simply.
He exhales, gaze lifting briefly to the darkened sky. “Today, when you talked about the thanator, when I realized where you’d been, I wasn’t mad. I was scared.” He looks back at her. “Scared of losing you.”
Her eyes widen.
“I don’t yell because I hate you,” Jake says quietly. “I yell because the idea of this world taking you from me?” He shakes his head. “I can’t let that happen.”
(y/n) steps forward without thinking and presses her forehead into his chest.
Jake wraps an arm around her immediately, holding her close.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” he murmurs into her hair. “You don’t have to be grown already. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
She nods against him, fingers clutching his shirt.
“I love you,” Jake says. “Always.”
She peeks up. “Even when I mess up?”
“Especially then,” he replies.
He straightens slightly, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Now, be up early tomorrow.”
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
“Really,” Jake says. “We’ll put that practice to use. You and me. Hunting together.”
Her smile is bright enough to rival the Sun.
“Okay, Daddy.”
Jake squeezes her once more, then releases her. She runs back toward the marui, lighter than she’s been all day.
Jake watches her go.
Behind him, Neytiri smiles quietly, saying nothing, because she doesn’t need to.
A/n: I hope everyone is enjoying my little fixation on this genre of avatar fanfiction
The Oldest of Four
A year later, the marui feels smaller somehow.
Not because it truly is, but because life has filled every corner of it.
Neteyam is steady on his feet now, curious and loud, always trying to copy whatever Jake is doing. Kiri is still small, still quiet, watching everything with eyes that miss nothing. And now there is Lo’ak.
Tiny. Loud. Demanding. Impossible to ignore.
Jake and Neytiri move like they’re constantly in motion, hands always full, voices always calling one child or another. Someone always needs feeding. Someone always needs settling. Someone is always crying.
And (y/n) is four.
Old enough to understand that her parents are tired.
Old enough to see the strain in their shoulders.
Old enough to decide, quietly, that she will not make things harder.
She plays on her own more often now.
She lines up her toys neatly. Puts things back where they belong. If Neteyam grabs something from her, she lets it go instead of protesting. When Kiri fusses, she brings her a leaf or a feather the way she’s seen Neytiri do. When Lo’ak cries, she winces but doesn’t complain about the noise.
She tries very hard to be good.
Jake notices first.
He sees it in the way (y/n) stops herself from asking to be picked up. The way she waits until spoken to. The way she looks at Neytiri, hesitates, then turns away instead of tugging on her hand.
That hurts.
Neytiri notices later, in quieter moments, when (y/n) curls up near the wall instead of her lap, when she goes to bed without asking for a story, when she nods and says “okay, mama” even when her eyes are tired and sad.
One afternoon, Neytiri finds her sitting cross-legged near the doorway, carefully braiding grass together. Neteyam and Kiri are napping. Lo’ak is finally asleep against Jake’s chest.
(y/n) doesn’t look up right away.
“What are you doing, ma yawntu?” Neytiri asks gently.
(y/n) glances up, then back down. “Nothing.”
Neytiri’s chest tightens.
She crosses the space in two strides and kneels in front of her daughter, taking the small hands into her own.
“You are always good,” Neytiri says softly. “You do not need to be quiet or small for Mama to love you.”
(y/n)’s lip wobbles despite herself.
“But you busy,” she says, voice small. “Baby cry. Mama tired.”
Neytiri pulls her into her arms immediately, rocking her gently. “Yes,” she admits. “Mama is tired. But never too tired for you.”
(y/n) presses her face into Neytiri’s shoulder, clinging for just a second longer than usual.
That night, Jake insists on putting Lo’ak down himself.
“Go,” he tells Neytiri quietly. “Take her.”
So Neytiri lies beside (y/n), tracing slow patterns on her back, whispering stories of the forest and the sky. (y/n) listens with wide eyes, slowly relaxing.
“Mama?” she asks sleepily.
“Yes, baby.”
“I still your baby?”
Neytiri kisses her forehead, her heart aching with love. “Always.”
(y/n) smiles, small, relieved, and drifts off to sleep.
Outside the marui, Jake watches for a long moment, then looks down at Lo’ak in his arms.
They’re stretched thin, he knows that.
But their firstborn is still right there, trying so hard, loving so deeply.
And both parents silently promise themselves the same thing,
They will not let her disappear into being “the good one.”
Not ever.
They needed to try and make time for her.
The Distance
The clearing is bright with afternoon light, other children clustered together, laughing, chasing each other, weaving clumsy crowns of leaves. (y/n) approaches with her small bundle of feathers
“Can I play?” she asks, hopeful.
One of the children hesitates. Another glances back toward the adults.
A woman straightens and calls sharply, “Come here.”
The child leaves at once.
Another parent reaches down, grips their child’s wrist, and pulls them away without a word. Their eyes flick to (y/n), quick, uneasy, unkind.
Whispers follow.
Too soft for a child to understand the meaning.
Too sharp for a child not to feel.
“…demon…”
“…sky person blood…”
(y/n) freezes.
Her chest tightens in a way she doesn’t have words for yet. She looks down at the feathers in her hands, then back up at the empty space where the other children were just standing.
She turns instinctively toward her parents.
Jake is helping Neteyam with something, crouched and focused. Neytiri is settling Kiri, murmuring softly, her back turned. Lo’ak fusses in Jake’s arms.
They don’t see.
Not because they wouldn’t care but because they were busy.
(y/n) stands there for a moment longer, trying to be brave, trying to be good. Her shoulders droop just a little. The feathers slip from her fingers and scatter at her feet.
She doesn’t cry.
She just turns away.
Her small feet carry her through familiar paths without thought, past the hum of the village and into quieter ground. She knows exactly where she’s going.
Mo’at’s marui smells like herbs and earth and
The old tsahìk looks up as (y/n) steps inside, taking in the slump of her shoulders, the careful way she’s holding herself together.
“Come,” Mo’at says gently, already opening her arms.
(y/n) walks straight into them and presses her face into her grandmother’s chest. The tears come then,silent at first, then shaking.
“They no play,” she whispers. “They say mean word.”
Mo’at’s jaw tightens.
“What word, child?”
(y/n) hesitates, then says it quietly, like it might hurt less if she doesn’t say it loud.
“Demon.”
Mo’at’s arms close around her firmly.
“No,” she says, voice steady and sure. “That word does not belong to you.”
(y/n) sniffles. “Why they say it?”
Mo’at strokes her hair slowly, thoughtfully. “Because some hearts are small. And small hearts fear what they do not understand.”
(y/n) pulls back just enough to look up at her. “Mama say I good.”
“You are,” Mo’at replies without hesitation. “You are loved.”
She presses her forehead to (y/n)’s.
“Eywa does not make mistakes,” Mo’at says.
(y/n) leans back into her grandmother’s hold, the tension easing just a little.
“Can I stay?” she asks softly.
Mo’at smiles, rocking her gently. “As long as you wish.”
The Forest
Neytiri takes (y/n)’s hand before the questions can start.
Not back toward the marui.
Not toward the noise.
Into the forest.
The light shifts as they walk, leaf-shadow and gold dappling the path, the air cool and alive. Neytiri moves slowly on purpose, matching her daughter’s shorter steps, never pulling, never rushing.
“This way,” she murmurs.
(y/n) walks close, fingers curled tight around Neytiri’s hand. Her other hand brushes leaves as they pass, but her eyes keep flicking up, checking, always checking, that her mother is really there, wondering why her mother suddenly had time for her, wasn’t she busy?
They stop near a fallen log thick with moss.
Neytiri crouches and gently lifts (y/n) onto it, settling beside her. She points to the ground beyond, where movement stirs low and careful.
A viperwolf pack moves through the undergrowth, quiet, coordinated. One larger wolf pauses, turning its head back. Two smaller ones scramble to keep up, bumping clumsily into each other.
(y/n) leans forward, fascinated.
“Why they not scary?” she whispers.
“They are,” Neytiri answers softly. “But they are also parents. Watch.”
One of the smaller viperwolves trips. The larger one stops immediately, nudging it back to its feet with a gentle push of its muzzle before moving on.
“They take care,” (y/n) says slowly.
“Yes,” Neytiri agrees. “Even hunters have families.”
They sit in silence for a moment, watching until the forest swallows the pack again.
(y/n)’s voice comes small and careful. “Mama?”
“Yes, ma yawntu.”
“Didn’t… didn’t the babies need you more?”
The question lands heavier than its size.
Neytiri turns fully to her daughter, studying her face, so earnest, trying so hard to understand, to make space for everyone else.
She cups (y/n)’s cheek gently.
“You are not something that can be replaced by need,” Neytiri says. “You are not less important because others are small.”
(y/n) frowns. “But I big now.”
Neytiri smiles softly. “You are growing. That is different.”
She pulls (y/n) into her lap, wrapping both arms around her, rocking slightly the way she did when (y/n) was even smaller.
“You will always be my baby,” Neytiri says, firm and unshakable. “No matter how tall you grow. No matter how many others come after.”
(y/n) presses her forehead into Neytiri’s chest, breathing her in.
“I okay,” she says quietly. “I just… miss you.”
Neytiri’s arms tighten.
“I know,” she whispers. “That is why we are here.”
Neytiri points out insects, birds, the way the wind speaks through the leaves. She answers every question.
Tomorrow
The promise is always the same.
“After this, sweetheart.”
“Tomorrow, okay?”
“Just one more thing and then we’ll go.”
(y/n) nods every time.
She stands very still when Jake says it, hands clasped behind her back the way she’s learned to do when she’s trying to be good. She doesn’t tug on his arm. Doesn’t interrupt when someone else calls his name. She just waits for the moment when he’ll turn back to her and say now.
But someone always calls him.
A runner with clan news.
A dispute near the hunting grounds.
Neteyam crying.
Kiri needing to be fed.
Lo’ak pulling something he shouldn’t.
And just like that, Jake is already walking away, still talking, still promising over his shoulder.
“Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow never comes.
By the third time in a row, (y/n) stops reminding him.
She sits near the edge of the marui and watches him go instead. Her toy ikran lies forgotten beside her, one wing bent where she’d been holding it too tight. She picks at a loose thread with quiet focus, jaw clenched in a way no child her age should know how to do.
Around her, other children play, but when she edges closer, the games shift away. Mothers call their kids back. Hands tighten. Eyes linger too long.
She hears the word again
Not shouted.
Not even said to her face.
“Demon.”
(y/n) freezes, pretending she didn’t hear. Pretending it doesn’t sting.
She looks for Neytiri, but her mother is busy too, balancing babies. There’s love in Neytiri’s eyes when they meet, but no time to stop. No moment to kneel and gather her up.
So (y/n) does what she’s learned to do best.
She goes alone.
She wanders toward the trees at the edge of camp, small feet careful on familiar paths. She doesn’t go far, she knows the rules, but far enough that the noise fades. Far enough that no one is watching.
She sits by a stream she’s not supposed to visit alone, dangling her feet over the edge. The water glints in the light, soft and inviting. She pokes at it with a stick, watching ripples spread and vanish.
“I was gonna come here,” she tells the water quietly. “With Dad.”
The stream doesn’t answer.
She makes up a game instead. Pretends the stick is a spear. Pretends she’s on patrol. Pretends she’s brave and important and not waiting for anyone.
But every now and then, her eyes lift, hope flickering, expecting to see Jake jogging toward her, breathless, apologetic, smiling like there you are.
He never comes.
By the time the sun shifts, her shoulders slump. The game loses its shine. She curls her toes into the dirt and hugs her knees to her chest, smaller now, quieter.
When she finally trudges back to camp, no one notices she was gone.
Jake is knee-deep in discussion, brow furrowed, hands moving as he talks strategy. He doesn’t see her pause behind him, doesn’t see the way her mouth opens like she might say something—then closes again.
(y/n) walks past him without a word.
She goes to her sleeping place, curls up with her toy ikran, and presses her face into its worn fabric. She doesn’t cry loudly. She’s learned not to.
Later that night, Jake will remember.
It always happens when it’s too late, when the camp is quiet and the day finally releases him.
He’ll think, I was supposed to take her to the stream.
He’ll feel the twist in his chest and promise himself he’ll do better tomorrow.
But by then, (y/n) is already asleep, clutching her toy like a lifeline, learning, slowly, painfully, that love doesn’t always mean time… and that if she wants to play, she’ll have to learn how to do it alone.
Her Treasure
When (y/n) is five, the toy ikran is already old.
One wing is crooked where Jake stitched it back together badly. The paint is faded. The tail tassel is frayed from being dragged everywhere. It smells faintly like smoke, forest sap, and her, because she sleeps with it every night, presses her face into it when the world feels too loud or too lonely.
It isn’t just a toy.
It’s her treasure.
She’s sitting on the ground near the marui, carefully lining up stones and leaves like they’re obstacles in a flight course, making soft whoosh noises under her breath as the ikran “flies.” She’s so focused she doesn’t notice Neteyam until a shadow falls over her game.
He’s bigger now. Louder. Curious in the careless way little brothers are.
“What’s that?” he asks, already reaching.
(y/n) tightens her grip instantly. “Mine.”
Neteyam frowns. “I wanna see.”
“No,” she says, sharper than she means to. “You’ll break it.”
That’s all it takes.
He grabs for it anyway.
There’s a brief, clumsy tug-of-war, small hands, bigger hands, and then the sound snaps through the air.
Rip.
The stitched seam along the wing gives way completely. Stuffing spills out like pale moss. The wing hangs uselessly, torn nearly off.
For a heartbeat, everything goes silent.
(y/n) stares.
Her chest tightens so hard it hurts. Something hot and awful surges up before she can stop it.
“WHY DID YOU DO THAT?!” she screams.
Her voice is raw, cracked, nothing like her usual quiet. She jumps to her feet, clutching the ruined ikran to her chest like it’s bleeding.
“I TOLD YOU NOT TO TOUCH IT!”
Neteyam’s face crumples instantly. He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t even understood. Tears spill over as he starts crying, loud and startled, backing away like she’s struck him.
Jake is there in seconds.
“What happened?” he demands, already scanning for danger, then he sees Neteyam sobbing and (y/n) shaking with fury and heartbreak.
Jake’s jaw tightens. He turns to (y/n), voice firm, authoritative.
“Hey. That’s enough. You don’t yell at your brother like that.”
(y/n) looks at him like she’s been hit.
“But—Dad—he broke it,” she says, voice trembling now, not angry anymore. “He broke my ikran.”
Jake exhales, already kneeling to Neteyam, wiping his tears. “It’s just a toy. I can make you a new one.”
The words land wrong.
(y/n)’s hands clench in the torn fabric. Her throat closes.
“I don’t want a new one,” she whispers.
Jake doesn’t hear the way her voice cracks. He’s focused on calming Neteyam, on the crying, on the disruption.
“Sweetheart,” he says distractedly, “it’s okay. It’s just stuff.”
She stares at him.
Just stuff.
The nights she held it when he didn’t come.
The days she played alone with it by the stream.
The comfort she carried when no one else noticed she was missing.
Her eyes burn.
“But I love that one,” she says, louder now, desperate. “You made it for me. It’s mine.”
Jake finally looks at her properly, and sees the tears spilling down her cheeks, the way she’s holding the broken toy like it’s the last thing keeping her together.
His expression softens, guilt flickering, but the moment has already slipped.
“I’ll fix it,” he says gently. “Okay?”
(y/n) shakes her head.
“No,” she whispers. “It’s broken.”
She turns away before he can stop her, curls up against the marui wall, back rigid, shoulders shaking as she cries silently into the ruined ikran.
Neteyam’s crying fades. Something distracts him. Life moves on.
But (y/n) stays where she is for a long time, fingers tracing the torn seam, memorizing the shape of what she’s lost.
That night, Jake finds her asleep with the broken toy tucked under her chin, tear tracks dried on her face.
He sits there longer than usual, heart heavy.
He didn’t just scold his daughter.
He dismissed something that mattered because he didn’t know how much she mattered to it.
Not A Baby
Over the next few days, Neytiri notices the absence before she understands it.
(y/n) no longer drags the little toy ikran behind her through the marui.
It isn’t tucked under her arm when she sits by the fire.
It isn’t clutched to her chest when she curls up to sleep.
Neytiri feels the absence like a missing heartbeat.
One afternoon, while tidying the storage chest near the back of the marui, her fingers brush against familiar fabric. She pauses. Opens the lid properly.
There it is.
The toy ikran lies folded beneath spare cloth and dried leaves, its torn wing carefully tucked in as if someone tried to hide the damage. The stitching is ripped clean through.
Neytiri’s chest tightens.
She lifts it gently, as though it might still feel pain.
“Eywa…” she murmurs.
She closes the chest softly and goes looking for her daughter.
(y/n) is outside, crouched near the edge of camp, poking at the dirt with a stick. Her back is straight, too straight for a child her age. She doesn’t look up when Neytiri approaches.
Neytiri sits beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touch.
“Where is your ikran?” she asks softly.
(y/n) freezes.
For just a second.
Then she shrugs, a little too quickly.
“I don’t need it.”
Neytiri tilts her head. “You loved that ikran.”
(y/n) presses the stick harder into the dirt. Her jaw tightens.
“It was a baby toy.”
The words are flat. Practiced.
Neytiri watches her carefully. “And?”
(y/n) finally looks at her. Her eyes are dry, but there’s something sharp and guarded behind them that wasn’t there before.
“I’m not a baby anymore.”
There it is.
Not anger.
Not tears.
A decision.
Neytiri reaches out instinctively, fingers brushing her daughter’s arm. “Ma yawntu—”
(y/n) pulls away.
“I don’t need baby things,” she says again, louder now, as if repeating it will make it true. “Babies cry. Babies need toys. I don’t.”
Neytiri’s throat tightens painfully.
“You are still my baby,” she says, firm but gentle.
(y/n)’s shoulders tense.
“No,” she says quietly. “You have other babies now.”
The words hit harder than any accusation.
Before Neytiri can answer, (y/n) stands abruptly.
“I’m gonna go help grandmother,” she says, already turning away. “I don’t need toys. I don’t need help.”
She walks off with stiff determination, chin lifted too high, small hands clenched at her sides.
Neytiri stays where she is, staring after her.
That night, Neytiri kneels by the chest again. She takes the ikran out, smoothing the fabric, pressing her thumb gently over the torn seam. She considers fixing it, she could. She’s mended worse.
But she stops herself.
This wasn’t about the toy being broken.
It was about something else breaking quietly inside her firstborn.
When (y/n) sleeps that night, Neytiri curls around her without waking her, arm tucked around her small back.
(y/n) shifts in her sleep, instinctively pressing closer.
Neytiri closes her eyes, holding her a little tighter.
You should not have to grow up this fast, she thinks fiercely.
Not in your own home.
Being Helpful
Mo’at liked taking (y/n) with her into the forest in the early hours, before the heat settled and before the clan fully woke. The light was softer then, filtered through layers of leaves, dappling the ground in pale gold and green. It was quiet enough that every sound mattered, the call of birds, the rustle of small animals, the steady rhythm of their footsteps.
(y/n) walked close to her grandmother’s side, a small woven basket looped over her arm. She tried very hard not to skip, even though her feet wanted to. Mo’at noticed, of course. She noticed everything.
“Slow, little one,” Mo’at said gently, not unkindly. “The forest teaches best when we listen.”
(y/n) nodded quickly, lips pressed together in concentration. She slowed her steps, eyes wide as she watched Mo’at kneel beside a low-growing plant.
Mo’at parted the leaves carefully. “This,” she said, touching the plant with two fingers, “is for fever. The root, not the leaf. You dig too deep, you kill it. Too shallow, it does nothing.”
(y/n) crouched beside her, peering closely. as if committing it to memory.
Mo’at smiled faintly and handed her the digging stick.
(y/n) took it with both hands and dug, too fast, too eager. Dirt scattered. The root snapped.
Her shoulders slumped immediately. “I broke it,” she whispered, bracing for disappointment.
But Mo’at did not scold her.
She simply gathered the root and put it in the basket. “We can still use it,” she said calmly. “The forest forgives mistakes. But only if we learn from them.”
(y/n) blinked. “You not mad?”
Mo’at shook her head. “No. You are trying to grow before your bones are ready. That is not a crime.”
(Y/n) looked up at her, confused about what she meant.
Mo’at pointed out bark that eased pain, berries that strengthened the blood, leaves that soothed wounds. (y/n) repeated each lesson aloud, sometimes mixing them up.
“This one is for—sleep?” she guessed once, pointing to the wrong plant.
Mo’at corrected her without impatience. “No. That one quiets the heart. Sleep comes later.”
(y/n) frowned, then nodded, trying again. Sometimes she got it right, and her face lit up with pride so bright it made Mo’at’s chest ache.
At one point, (y/n) wandered a little ahead and grabbed a handful of berries, holding them up eagerly. “Grandmother! These!”
Mo’at’s voice sharpened just a fraction. “Stop.”
(y/n)’s hand froze midair.
Mo’at moved quickly, taking the berries and dropping them to the ground. “Those burn the mouth and stomach. Never touch what you do not know.”
(y/n)’s eyes filled instantly, guilt and fear tangling together. “I just wanted to help.
Mo’at knelt and lifted (y/n)’s chin gently. “And you did help,” she said softly. “By learning today, not by hurting yourself.”
The tears stopped, replaced by a fierce nod.
They sat together on a fallen log to rest. Mo’at sorted their gathered herbs while (y/n) watched, legs swinging, exhaustion finally creeping into her small body.
“You carry much for one so young,” Mo’at said quietly.
(y/n) tilted her head. “I gotta help. Mama busy. Baba busy. Babies need help.”
Mo’at closed her eyes for a moment at that. When she opened them, her hand rested warmly on (y/n)’s back.
“You will a big help ,” she said. “But not all at once. Even the strongest trees grow one branch at a time.”
(y/n) leaned against her grandmother without realizing it.
Mo’at allowed herself a small smile.
An Accident
It really was an accident.
(y/n) is trying to be careful, moving slow, stepping around baskets and tools the way she’s been taught. She even holds her breath as she passes the sleeping area where Neteyam, Kiri, and Lo’ak are finally down for their nap. The marui is quiet for once, the kind of quiet that feels fragile.
Her foot catches the edge of a low stand.
She barely has time to gasp before it tips.
The sound is sharp and final, wood knocking stone, a rattle of beads.
Three small voices cry out at once.
(y/n)’s heart drops straight into her stomach.
“I—” she whispers, already turning, already reaching as Neteyam’s cry rises, Kiri’s follows, Lo’ak’s joins in like an echo.
Jake is there instantly.
“What happened?” he snaps, exhaustion threading his voice.
“I didn’t mean—” (y/n) starts, words tumbling over each other. “I was careful, it just—”
Jake looks past her at the now-awake, wailing babies, then back at the overturned stand. His shoulders sag, then stiffen again.
“Seriously?” he says, sharper than he means to be. “They just went down.”
(y/n) flinches.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “It was an accident. I didn’t—”
Jake rubs a hand over his face, jaw tight. “I know. I know.” Then, firmer, “Go. Go to your grandmother’s. I’ll talk to you later.”
The words feel heavier than a scolding.
(y/n) freezes for a second, eyes stinging. She nods once, swallowing hard.
“Okay,” she says quietly.
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t cry. Just turns and walks out, small shoulders hunched like she’s bracing against something invisible.
Jake watches her go for half a second too long.
The babies are still crying. Neytiri is already soothing them, moving with practiced ease.
Neteyam is handed a small toy, immediately distracted. Kiri’s cries soften as Neytiri murmurs to her, tail. Lo’ak quiets last, curling into the familiar warmth of his mother’s side.
Only when the marui is calm again does Neytiri turn.
She doesn’t raise her voice.
She doesn’t need to.
Her eyes find Jake, sharp and steady, and he feels it like a spear between the ribs.
“When,” she asks quietly, “was the last time you spent time with your eldest daughter?
Jake opens his mouth. Closes it again.
Neytiri doesn’t give him space to fill the silence.
“Do you know how often she is not here?” she continues, voice low but burning. “How often she is with Mo’at. Or alone. Or wandering the forest because she does not wish to be in the way.”
Jake shifts, uneasy. “Neytiri, I—”
She lifts a hand, stopping him.
“We are teaching her something,” she says. “Every day. With every promise you make and do not keep.”
“We are teaching her that we do not have time for her.”
A beat.
“Especially you.”
That one lands.
Jake exhales sharply. “That’s not fair.”
.“Is it not?”nShe moves to a storage chest near the wall and opens it. From inside, she pulls out the small, battered toy ikran, its torn wing carefully folded in, its fabric dulled from love and use.
She holds it up.
“How long,” she asks, very calmly, “did it take you to notice she no longer carries this?”
Jake stares.
The answer comes too slowly.
His chest tightens as realization crashes down, nights she curled up without it, days he walked past her without seeing what was missing.
“I… didn’t know it was gone,” he admits quietly.
Neytiri’s jaw tightens.
“She loved this,” she says. “She slept with it. She carried it everywhere. When she felt alone, she loved it because you made it for her.”
She lowers it carefully, like something fragile.
“And when it broke, and you told her you would make a new one, she heard something else.”
Jake swallows. “What?”
Neytiri meets his eyes. “That what she loved was replaceable.”
Silence stretches between them.
“She told me,” Neytiri continues, voice softening but no less fierce, “that she is not a baby anymore. That she does not need toys. Or help.”
Her voice breaks just a fraction.
“That is not something a five-year-old should decide.”
Jake drags a hand down his face, guilt heavy and immediate now. “I never meant to—”
“I know,” Neytiri says. “But intention does not matter when the wound is already there.”
“She is trying to disappear so we do not notice how much she needs us.”
Neytiri places the toy ikran into Jake’s hands.
“Go,” she says firmly. “Not later. Not tomorrow.”
Jake looks down at the torn toy, then back at her.
“Go be her father,” Neytiri finishes. “Before she learns how to stop waiting for you.”
Jake nods once, sharply, throat tight.
She wasn’t where Jake sent her. She wasn’t with Mo’at.
Jake already knows where to look.
The stream murmurs ahead.
He spots her immediately, small figure on a flat rock near the bank, back to him, arm moving in a steady rhythm as she throws stones into the water.
She doesn’t turn when he approaches. She knows it’s him. She always does.
Jake stops a few steps behind her, heart tight in his chest. For a moment he just watches, how stiff her shoulders are, like she’s barely holding herself together.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says quietly.
(y/n) pauses, then throws one last stone harder than the others. “Hi.”
He comes closer and sits beside her on the rock.
“I messed up,” Jake says simply.
She shrugs, eyes fixed on the water. “It’s okay.”
It’s the same answer she’s been giving too often lately, and it hurts more than if she’d yelled.
Jake exhales and pulls her gently into his chest, wrapping both arms around her before she can pull away. For half a second she stiffens, then she melts into him, small hands hugging him back.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into her hair. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve kept my promises. That’s on me.”
(y/n)’s face presses into his shoulder. “You busy,” she says softly. “I know.”
“No,” Jake replies immediately, tightening his hold. “I was distracted. That’s different. And I don’t ever want you thinking you don’t matter because of that.”
He leans back just enough to look at her, thumb brushing gently under her eye.
“I love you,” he says, voice steady but thick. “Always. You’ll always be my baby girl. Nothing changes that. Not ever.”
She looks at him then, searching his face like she’s checking for cracks. He reaches behind him and pulls something out.
The toy ikran.
He holds it up carefully, like it’s fragile, not just fabric, but memory.
(y/n)’s mouth tightens. She shakes her head. “I don’t need that baby toy anymore.”
The words hit him right in the chest.
Jake doesn’t argue. He just nods slowly. “Okay,” he says. “If you don’t need it, that’s okay.”
Her eyes flicker, surprised.
“But,” he adds, a spark lighting in his voice, “how about we make something else, together?”
That gets her attention.
She tilts her head. “Like what?”
Jake smiles, really smiles, the kind she hasn’t seen in a while. “How about… a bow?”
Her eyes go wide. “A real one?”
“A real one,” he nods. “Your size. Just yours.”
She inhales sharply, excitement bubbling up but is still cautious. “Tomorrow?”
Jake shakes his head. “No.”
She blinks, confusion crossing her face.
“Right now,” he says firmly. “We’ll go find the wood together. Shape it. String it. And after that, I’ll teach you how to fish.”
She stares at him, disbelief warring with hope.
“You promise?” she asks quietly.
Jake lifts his hand. “On my life.”
Something in her finally lets go.
Her smile comes back, slow at first, then bright and full, like sunlight breaking through cloud. She launches herself at him, arms flinging around his neck, laughter spilling out as she squeezes him tight.
“Daddy!” she giggles.
Jake holds her close, eyes closing as he presses his forehead to hers.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s go make you something that lasts.”
And for the first time in a while, (y/n) believes him.
They come back home as the light is changing.
The forest is painted in deep blues and soft purples as the eclipse settles in, bioluminescence beginning to glow beneath their feet. Jake emerges from the trees with an armful of wood and cord, laughter still lingering on his breath.
(y/n) is in his other arm, perched on his hip, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.
“Again!” she laughs, tugging at his collar.
Jake chuckles, shifting the bundle of materials. “Careful, kid. If I drop this, your bow’s gonna be crooked.”
She giggles harder, wrapping her arms around his neck as they step into the clearing.
Jake sets the wood and sinew down carefully near the fire, then lowers her to the ground. She barely touches down before she’s already running.
“Mama!” (y/n) calls, skidding to a stop in front of Neytiri. “We went to the stream and Dada says we’re making a bow and it’s gonna be mine and he say I can fish and—”
She runs out of breath mid-sentence.
Neytiri smiles softly, crouching to her level. She listens to every word, every excited hand gesture, every breathless detail, her full attention anchored on her daughter.
“That sounds like a very good day,” Neytiri says warmly, brushing a strand of hair from (y/n)’s face.
(y/n)’s excitement ebbs just enough for the tiredness to catch up with her. She yawns.
Jake notices immediately. “Someone’s tired.”
She doesn’t argue.
Instead, (y/n) wanders back and leans into his side, pressing her cheek against his hip. Jake smiles and gently settles down beside Neytiri, pulling (y/n) into the space between them.
She sighs contentedly, eyes fluttering shut.
The eclipse deepens, the forest glowing softly around their family.
(y/n) murmurs something half-asleep, fingers grabbing at Jake’s chest.
“Bow tomorrow,” she whispers.
Jake presses a kiss into her hair. “Tomorrow,” he agrees.
This time, he means it.
Her Bow
“Dada,” she whispers urgently, tiny hands patting Jake’s cheek. “Dada. Wake up.”
Jake groans, rolling onto his back and squinting at the dim light filtering into the marui. “Mmm… sun’s not even up yet.”
(y/n) climbs right onto his chest, sitting there like a determined little statue. “You promised.”
That does it.
Jake exhales, defeated but smiling, and pushes himself upright. “Alright, alright. Okay, sweetheart. Let’s make your bow.”
Her grin is instant and blinding.
They’re outside minutes later, the forest still cool, dew clinging to leaves. Jake lays out the materials he gathered the day before, carefully chosen wood, sinew, cord. (y/n) sits cross-legged beside him, hands folded in her lap like she’s attending something very important.
“This one,” Jake says, holding up a branch. “Feel it.”
She presses her palms to it, nodding seriously.
“Strong,” he nods. “But flexible. That’s what matters.”
She watches everything, how he trims the bark, how he tests the curve. He lets her help where he can: holding the wood steady, handing him tools.
At one point she frowns fiercely. “It crooked.”
Jake chuckles. “It’s supposed to be. That’s how it bends.”
From the marui, Neytiri watches.
She doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t call out. She simply stands there, arms folded loosely, heart full and aching as she watches her mate keep his promise, watching their daughter lean into him, confident and bright.
By midday, the bow is done.
It’s small, perfectly sized for (y/n), polished smooth. Jake strings it carefully, testing the tension once, twice. Then he holds it out.
“For you,” he says.
(y/n) takes it with reverence, fingers curling around the grip like it belongs there. She lifts it, aiming at absolutely nothing, eyes narrowed in intense concentration.
“I love it,” she breathes.
Jake ruffles her hair. “You should. You helped make it.”
She beams.
A moment later, Jake stretches and rolls his shoulders. “Alright. I gotta go take over from your mama for a bit.”
(y/n)’s face falls for half a second.
“But,” he adds quickly, “you should go show your grandmother what you made. She’ll wanna see.”
That fixes everything.
(y/n) straightens proudly, clutching her bow to her chest. “Okay! I show her!”
She turns, then pauses, runs back, and throws her arms around Jake’s neck.
“Love you, Dada.”
Jake hugs her back tight. “Love you too, kid.”
She runs off toward Mo’at’s marui, bow held high like a treasure.
Neytiri steps closer as Jake watches her go, slipping her hand into his.
“She waited a long time for this,” Neytiri says softly.
Jake nods, eyes never leaving his daughter. “Not anymore.”
Not the curious ones, she’s used to those. Not the amused smiles from elders who remember her learning to walk or tumbling into the dirt. These looks are different. They linger too long. Slide away too fast when she turns her head. Tighten mouths. Stiffen shoulders.
She doesn’t have words for it yet, only a feeling that crawls up her spine.
She stays closer to her mother.
Neytiri feels it immediately.
Voices murmur nearby, low and careless in the way adults speak when they think children do not understand.
“…that one—”
“…sky people blood—”
And then, sharp and ugly, a word that cuts through the air.
“Demon.”
“Demon blood.”
(y/n) doesn’t know what it means.
But she knows it isn’t kind.
She looks up, confused, brow furrowing, eyes searching for her mother’s face. “Mama?” she asks softly, unsure. “Why they say that?”
Neytiri stops.
The world seems to still around them.
Her ears flatten. Her spine straightens. One arm comes around (y/n) instantly, lifting her up against her chest as if the ground itself is no longer safe.
She turns away instead, carrying her daughter away, placing her body between (y/n) and every staring eye.
(y/n) twists slightly in her mother’s arms, looking back over Neytiri’s shoulder.
“Did I do bad?” she asks, small voice wobbling. “I didn’t mean—”
“No,” Neytiri says immediately, tightening her hold. She presses her forehead to (y/n)’s hair, breathing her in. “You did nothing wrong. Ever.”
They walk until the sounds of the clearing fade.
(y/n) rests her cheek against Neytiri’s collarbone, fingers clutching the beaded cord there. She doesn’t cry, she’s more confused than hurt, but the unease lingers.
“Why they look at me funny?” she asks after a moment. “I look like you.”
Neytiri’s hand slides protectively over her daughter’s back, then unconsciously to her own belly, rounded now, carrying new life. The second child stirs faintly beneath her palm.
“Some people fear what they do not understand,” Neytiri says carefully. “That does not make them right.”
(y/n) thinks about that, then nods solemnly. “Okay,” she says only half understanding what her mother meant.
She leans her head back against Neytiri’s shoulder, already drifting toward sleep as only a child can, secure in the belief that her mother will always carry her away from anything cruel.
Neytiri kept walking.
Waiting
The biolab is usually exciting to (y/n).
There are blinking lights, soft hums, shiny tables and she’s not supposed to touch, and Norm, who always lets her sit on the counter just once if she promises to be careful.
But today, she doesn’t climb.
She sits on the floor with her little ikran toy in her lap, wings drooping just like how she felt. She nudges it half-heartedly, then stops altogether.
Norm notices right away.
He crouches nearby, pretending to adjust something while watching her from the corner of his eye. She’s quiet, too quiet. No questions. No imaginary games. No laughing at her own jokes.
That worries him more than tears would.
“Hey, kiddo,” Norm says gently. “You okay?”
(y/n) nods. Then shakes her head. Then nods again.
Her lip trembles.
“Where Mama?” she asks softly. “Where Daddy go?”
Norm’s chest tightens.
“They’re… helping someone,” he says carefully. “They’ll be back.”
She hugs the ikran toy to her chest, fingers curling into its fabric wings. “Mama gone long,” she murmurs. “Daddy gone long too.”
Norm sits beside her this time.
“I know,” he says quietly. “But they didn’t forget you. I promise.”
(y/n) doesn’t answer. She just scoots closer to the wall and sits there, eyes fixed on the doorway like if she watches hard enough, they’ll appear.
Time passes slowly.
Then, footsteps.
The door opens.
“Hey, Norm—”
(y/n) looks up.
Her eyes go wide. “Daddy!” she cries.
She’s on her feet in an instant, ikran toy tumbling forgotten to the floor as she runs straight into Jake. She crashes into his legs and clings there, arms wrapped tight, sobs breaking free like she’s been holding them in for hours.
Jake drops to his knees immediately, scooping her up.
“Whoa—hey—hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, holding her close, one hand firm on her back.
She buries her face in his shoulder, crying hard now. “You gone,” she hiccups. “Mama gone.”
Jake closes his eyes, guilt hitting him full force. “I know,” he says softly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Norm quietly steps away, giving them space.
Jake rocks her gently, rubbing slow circles into her back until her sobs ease into sniffles. He pulls back just enough to look at her tear-streaked face.
“Hey,” he says gently. “You wanna know why Mama and Daddy had to go?”
(y/n) nods, thumb already finding its way toward her mouth before she remembers she’s a big girl and pulls it away.
Jake smiles a little, then asks softly, like it’s the most important question in the world. “Do you wanna go meet your baby brother?”
She blinks.
“Baby… brother?” she repeats.
Jake nods. “Yeah. Mama had him. He’s here. He’s okay. Mama’s okay.”
For a second, she just stares at him, processing.
Then her eyes widen again, this time with wonder.
Jake laughs quietly, relief washing over him. “Yeah, you’ve got a little brother.”
She throws her arms around his neck again, this time laughing through leftover tears.
“Go see!” she says urgently. “Now! Daddy, now!”
Jake chuckles, holding her close as he stands.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s go meet your brother.”
As they head for the door, (y/n) looks back once, spots her ikran toy on the floor, and points.
“Bring him too,” she orders seriously. “Baby need ikran.”
Jake grins. “Wouldn’t dream of leaving it behind.”
Her Little Brother
The mauri is quiet when Jake brings (y/n) in.
Not the empty quiet she felt at the lab, but a soft, careful quiet, like everyone is holding their breath together.
Neytiri sits propped against woven mats, exhaustion etched into every line of her face, and yet she glows. Her arms are wrapped around something impossibly small.
Mo’at sits close beside her, one hand resting protectively on Neytiri’s shoulder.
Jake lowers (y/n) to the ground.
She takes one step.
Then another.
Her eyes are locked on her mother.
“Mama?” she whispers, uncertain, like she’s afraid to get in trouble if she speaks too loud.
Neytiri lifts her gaze, and her face softens instantly. “Come here, my little one,” she murmurs.
(y/n) pads closer, slower now, her excitement tangled with awe. She stops right at Neytiri’s knee, staring.
There’s a baby.
So small. So quiet. Wrapped in Neytiri’s arms, with skin darker than hers and tiny fingers curled into fists.
“That him?” (y/n) asks in a reverent whisper.
Neytiri smiles, tired and radiant. “Yes. This is your brother.”
(y/n)’s brow furrows as she processes this. “My brother?”
“Yes,” Neytiri says again. “Your brother.”
(y/n) glances at Mo’at, seeking confirmation. Her grandmother nods solemnly.“He has waited to meet you,” Mo’at says gently.
(y/n) looks back at the baby, then at Neytiri.
“Can I… touch?” she asks, holding her hand awkwardly in the air, unsure.
Neytiri adjusts her grip, careful, then nods. “Gently.”
(y/n) reaches out with one finger and touches the baby’s tiny hand.
Neteyam stirs.
His fingers uncurl and wrap, just barely, around hers.
(y/n) giggles.
Neytiri’s eyes shine.
“That means he knows you,” Mo’at says softly.
(y/n)’s chest swells with something big and new. She looks up at Jake, eyes wide.
“He my brother,” she declares.
Jake laughs quietly, kneeling beside her. “Yeah. He is.”
She looks back at her mother. “Mama tired,” she observed.
Neytiri chuckles under her breath. “A little.”
(y/n) thinks about this, then carefully climbs up beside her mother, curling against Neytiri’s side. Neytiri shifts just enough to make room.
(y/n) leans her head against Neytiri’s arm, watching her brother’s tiny chest rise and fall.
“Baby name?” she asks.
“Neteyam,” Neytiri answers.
(y/n) tries it out slowly. “Ne-te-yam.”
The baby makes a soft sound, barely more than a breath.
(y/n) beams.
Mo’at smiles, eyes warm.
Jake watches the three of them, mother, daughter, son, feeling something settle in his chest.
For the first time since leaving (y/n) at the lab, she looks whole again.
Not confused.
Not worried.
Just… home
Her Little Sister
(y/n) sits cross-legged on the woven mat, her beloved, battered toy ikran clutched in her lap. Her grandmother watching close by as Neteyam slept in his basket. She watches her parents very carefully as Jake steps inside first, followed by Neytiri.
Neytiri is holding another bundle.
(y/n)’s eyes narrow immediately.
She looks from the bundle… to Neteyam sleeping nearby… then back to the bundle.
“…Why,” she asks slowly, suspiciously, “is there another baby?”
Jake bites the inside of his cheek.
Neytiri does not even try to hide her smile.
“This,” Neytiri says gently, lowering herself to sit, “is Kiri.”
(y/n) scoots closer, squinting hard at the tiny face. Kiri is even smaller than Neteyam was than when he came home.
(y/n) pokes the air near Kiri’s foot, then pulls her hand back.
She sighs deeply.
“But… she can’t can’t even play with me,” she says, disappointed.
Jake snorts.
Neytiri laughs outright.
“She will,” Neytiri promises. “In time.”
(y/n) crosses her arms, clearly unconvinced.
“Why you keep bringing babies,” she mutters. “They just… sleep.”
Jake reaches over and ruffles her hair. “That’s kind of their thing right now.”
(y/n) looks between Neteyam and Kiri again,
Then she leans in close to Kiri’s ear and whispers very seriously,
“You gotta hurry up. I wanna play.”
Kiri stirs, makes a tiny sound, and her fingers twitch.
(y/n)’s eyes go wide.
“She moved,” she whispers urgently, grabbing Jake’s arm. “She moved. She heard me.”
Jake chuckles. “Guess she did.”
(y/n) beams at that.
She carefully crawls up beside Neytiri, pressing herself into her mother’s side, resting her head just under Neytiri’s arm the way she always does. Neytiri shifts automatically, holding both daughters without hesitation.
(y/n) stares at Kiri a moment longer, then nods to herself.
“Okay,” she says finally. “She can stay.”
Neytiri kisses the top of her head.
Never Too Busy
The marui was never quiet anymore.
There was always something, a baby fussing, Neteyam kicking his feet, Kiri making soft sounds as Neytiri soothed her. Jake and Neytiri moved in that careful rhythm of new parents again, hands always full, attention split without meaning to be.
(y/n) sat a little distance away on the woven floor, legs tucked under her, her well-loved toy ikran clutched in both hands.
She made it fly.
Low at first, skimming just above the mat.
Then higher, swooping around an imaginary tree she’d built out of sticks and feathers.
She made soft whoosh sounds under her breath.
Every now and then, she glanced over her shoulder.
Mama was bent over Kiri.
Dada was helping Neteyam settle.
No one was watching her ikran do its best dive yet.
(y/n)’s mouth wobbled just a little.
She stared for maybe two heartbeats, long enough for the ache to form, short enough that she didn’t quite know what it was, then she turned back to her game.
The ikran landed a little rougher this time.
She didn’t make the flying sound again.
Across the marui, Neytiri noticed.
Her eyes flicked to their firstborn, sitting just a bit too quietly, shoulders a little slumped, playing without asking for attention because she had learned, far too early, that sometimes the grown-ups were busy.
Neytiri’s chest tightened.
She nudged Jake gently with her foot and tilted her head toward (y/n).
Go.
Jake followed her gaze.
The moment he saw it what Neytiri meant, his face softened. Guilt hit him fast and sharp, but Neytiri gave him a look that said don’t think, just go.
He crossed the marui in a few long steps.
(y/n) noticed the shadow first.
She looked up just as Jake crouched in front of her.
“Hey, baby girl,” he said quietly.
She didn’t smile right away.
Her fingers tightened around the toy ikran.
Jake reached out and gently tapped its wing. “That thing still flies?”
She nodded. “It tired.”
“Yeah?” He grinned. “So am I.”
That got a tiny huff of a laugh.
Jake didn’t hesitate. He slipped his hands under her arms and scooped her up like she weighed nothing, settling her against his chest.
She melted into him instantly, arms wrapping around his neck, face pressing into his shoulder.
He adjusted her on his hip. “But how about this, me and you go for a walk. Just us.”
Her head lifted.
“Outside?”
“Outside,” he confirmed. “You can bring the ikran.”
She nodded seriously and clutched the toy tighter.
As Jake turned toward the entrance, Neytiri caught his eye. She had Neteyam in one arm and Kiri nestled against her chest, but her gaze followed them with unmistakable relief.
Jake gave her a small nod back.
He stepped out into the filtered light of the forest, the sounds softer out here, the world wide again.
(y/n) rested her head against his shoulder, watching leaves sway above them.
“Daddy?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah, baby.”
“You busy?”
Jake stopped walking.
He shifted her just enough to look at her face, thumb brushing her cheek. “Sometimes. But never too busy for you.”
She studied him like she was deciding whether to believe that.
Then she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his chest.
“Okay,” she said.
Jake keeps walking for a few more steps, letting the quiet settle again, letting (y/n)’s weight relax fully against him. He feels her breathing even out, small and warm against his chest. He didn’t like how unsure she sounded, he needed to cheer her up.
Then he grins.
“You know what?” he says casually.
(y/n) lifts her head. “What?”
“You’ve been a really good girl today.”
Her eyes widen just a little.
“And I was thinking,” Jake continues, lowering her back to her feet, “that maybe we could go play down by the stream.”
Her face lights up like someone turned the sun back on.
“Stream?” she squeaks.
“Stream,” Jake confirms.
Before he can say anything else, she’s already turning, toy ikran tucked under her arm, feet scrambling toward the familiar path.
“Wait!” Jake laughs. “What about a race?”
She freezes.
Slowly turns around.
“You race me?” she asks, incredulous.
“Yeah,” he says, dropping into a mock-ready stance. “To the water.”
Her grin stretches impossibly wide.
“Ready,” she says seriously, bending her knees.
Jake raises his hand. “On three.”
“One,” he says.
She rocks forward, already cheating.
“Two—”
She bolts.
“Hey!” Jake shouts, laughing as he takes off after her.
She runs as fast as her little legs can carry her, bare feet pounding the packed earth, laughter bubbling out of her like it’s been trapped all morning. Leaves whip past her face. Her ikran toy bounces wildly in her grip.
Jake stays just behind her, close enough that she can hear him, far enough that she feels like she’s winning.
“You’re fast!” he calls.
She squeals, pushing harder, arms pumping.
“I win! I win!”
The stream comes into view, sunlight glittering on the water.
She reaches it first and skids to a stop, throwing her arms up triumphantly.
“I beat you!” she declares.
Jake jogs up a second later, hands on his knees, panting exaggeratedly.
“Whew,” he says. “You got me. Guess I’m too old.”
She giggles, pure and bright, the sound ringing out over the water.
She toddles closer to the edge, crouching to poke at the surface with a stick, then glances back at him, checking, always checking.
Jake gives her a nod.
She smiles again and goes back to her game, completely absorbed now.
Jake watches her for a moment, chest tight but warm.
There it is, he thinks.
That laugh.
Jake watches her for a moment longer, crouched by the rock, until he can’t help himself.
He scoops her up suddenly, hands firm around her waist.
“Hey—!” (y/n) squeals, laughter exploding out of her as her feet leave the ground.
“Gotcha,” Jake says, grinning as he lifts her high and spins her around. The world blurs for her, trees, sky, water, all mixing together as she laughs so hard she can barely breathe.
“Daddy stop!” she giggles. “I dizzy!”
“That’s the point,” he says, spinning her one last time before gently putting her down and bumping her sideways.
She lands with a splash right at the edge of the stream, water soaking her legs and her waists cloth.
She gasps, then bursts into laughter.
“I fall!” she announces, sitting there in the shallow water like it was all part of the plan.
Jake laughs too. “Oh no. Are you okay?”
She squints at him suspiciously.
Then she stands up, dripping, and marches straight at him with all the seriousness a three-year-old can muster.
She plants her feet, drops her toy ikran on the bank, and throws herself at his legs with a fierce little growl.
“Oh no,” Jake groans, letting himself tip backward, arms windmilling as he collapses into the stream with a big splash.
She freezes for half a second, then laughs so hard she almost falls over too.
“I did it!” she cheers, pointing at him. “I push Daddy!”
Jake sits up in the water, hair plastered to his forehead, staring at her in mock shock.
“You totally got me,” he says seriously. “Remind me never to mess with you.”
She puffs up proudly, chest out, hands on her hips.“I strong,” she declares.
“You are,” Jake agrees, standing ,”but are you fast?” Jake takes off down the bank with exaggerated sneaking steps. “You can’t catch me,” he laughs loudly.
(y/n) gasps. “I can!”
She charges after him, little feet kicking up dirt. Jake lets her get just close enough before darting away again, laughing when she squeals in outrage.
“Too slow!” he teases.
Until she pounces and catches his tail, squealing, “I got you daddy,” laughing as she caught her breath.
In between the laughs is a yawn . She rubs one eye with the back of her hand, then straightens stubbornly like she’s not ready to admit defeat.
“I not tired,” she says, immediately disproving herself with a yawn so big it nearly tips her over.
Jake smiles, gentle and knowing.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You are.”
He walks back to her and crouches. “C’mere, kiddo.”
She takes two wobbly steps toward him before her knees give up and she leans straight into his chest. Jake scoops her up without breaking stride, settling her against his shoulder.
She sighs deeply.
“Daddy?” she murmurs, already half-asleep.
“Right here,” he whispers.
Her fingers curl into his chest piece. Her head tucks under his chin. By the time he turns back toward the path home, her breathing has slowed, she was out like a light.
Jake walks slowly, careful not to jostle her.
The forest hums around them, creatures calling, leaves rustling, but he tunes it all out, focused only on the small weight in his arms. He adjusts his grip once, cradling her more securely, and she lets out a tiny content sound in her sleep.
He presses a kiss into her hair.
First Flight
Jake watches the way (y/n) lingers near Neytiri’s side, close enough to touch, close enough to be reassured, but quiet in that way children get when they’ve been missing someone and don’t quite know how to ask for them back.
Jake could tell that (y/n) wanted Neytiri’s attention but didn’t want to take her away from her younger siblings.
“I’ve got Neteyam and Kiri,” Jake says gently, resting a hand on Neytiri’s arm, both glancing at their eldest . “I can handle a few hours. I promise. Go.”
Neytiri exhales slowly. She knows he’s right. Between their two new children, her attention has been split thin, and her firstborn has felt it. Neytiri looks down at (y/n).
“I see you, ma yawntu,” she murmurs softly.
(y/n) looks up, eyes widening as Neytiri crouches and gathers her into her arms. Instantly, (y/n) relaxes, arms looping around her mother’s neck, cheek pressing into her collarbone as if she’s finally been granted her greatest wish.
Jake smiles quietly and turns back to the others.
Neytiri steps out into the open and lets out a clear, melodic call.
A shadow passes overhead.
(y/n) gasps.
A great ikran circles down, wings catching the light, powerful and graceful all at once. The wind from her descent ruffles (y/n)’s hair, and she clutches tighter to Neytiri, half awed, half startled.
“Mama…” she whispers.
“This is Sa’ata,” Neytiri says softly, pride and affection in her voice. “She is my bonded.”
Sa’ata lowers her head, golden eyes studying the small child in Neytiri’s arms. (y/n) stares back, breathless, then very carefully reaches out and touches Sa’ata’s neck.
“She… big,” (y/n) says in awe.
Neytiri smiles. “Yes. But she is gentle.”
She mounts smoothly, settling into the saddle, then adjusts her grip so (y/n) is secure against her , one arm around her, the other ready to ride.
“Hold tight,” Neytiri whispers into her hair.
Sa’ata launches.
The world drops away.
(y/n) lets out a startled cry that turns into laughter as the wind rushes past them. Her eyes are wide, taking in everything, the forest shrinking below, the clouds, the vast open sky.
“We flying,” she says, awed.
“Yes,” Neytiri answers, voice thick with emotion. “We are flying.”
Eventually, Sa’ata banks toward one of the floating mountains, drifting down to land on a broad stone ledge carpeted with moss and glowing plants.
Neytiri dismounts and sits, pulling (y/n) into her lap. The world feels quieter here, suspended between sky and earth.
(y/n) curls into her, small fingers clutching at Neytiri’s beads.
“Mama?” she asks quietly.
“Yes, baby.”
“You go?”
The question is small, but it cuts deep the words meaning more than what she said, she was asking if the babies needed her more.
Neytiri cups her daughter’s face, pressing her forehead gently to (y/n)’s. “No,” she says firmly. “Mama is here. I will always come back to you.”
(y/n) nods, reassured, and rests her head against Neytiri’s chest. Neytiri wraps both arms around her, rocking slightly.
“I love you,” Neytiri whispers, not caring if (y/n) fully understands the words yet. “More than the sky. More than the forest..”
(y/n) sighs, content, fingers curling in Neytiri’s hair.
“Love you, mama,” she murmurs sleepily.
Neytiri closes her eyes, holding her firstborn as the wind hums around them, making sure, absolutely sure, that (y/n) knows she is seen, and deeply loved.
From the moment (y/n) turned one, it was painfully obvious to everyone.
She was a daddy’s girl.
One year old
At one, (y/n) was all wobble and determination to stay on her feet. She could stand on her own now, feet planted wide, tail flicking as she tried to keep balance. Walking was still optional, especially since she knew she had parents that would pick her up as soon as she made a sound.
Her preference? Her father.
If Jake sat down, she was on him.
If he stood still too long, small hands grabbed at his legs.
If he tried to leave the marui without her noticing, well, that was a mistake in her eyes, why should he leave when she’s right there wanting to be picked up
She had learned his schedule. Learned the sound of his steps. Learned that if she waited by the entrance at just the right time, she could intercept him before he escaped.
“Up,” she’d demand, arms raised, eyes bright.
Jake never won those battles.
He’d scoop her up with a laugh, settling her on his hip like she belonged there, which, honestly, she did. She’d press her face into his neck, fingers tangling in his hair or gripping his chest piece, completely content.
Neytiri would watch from across the marui, shaking her head fondly.
“She follows you like a shadow,” she’d say.
Jake would grin. “Smart kid,” because it was a win if he could tend to his duties as Oloektan and spend time with his kid.
12–18 months
As (y/n) grew steadier on her feet, she also grew bolder.
She began to follow Jake everywhere.
Councils? She toddled in after him.
Training grounds? She sat in the dirt and watched.
Supply runs? She insisted on coming, whether that meant walking or riding on his shoulders.
Jake learned very quickly that doing things one-handed while holding a toddler was a skill he’d have to master.
She liked sitting on his shoulders best, fingers curled into his hair, laughing whenever he ducked under branches just a little too late. Jake pretended to grumble, but he never told her to get down.
At night, if she woke crying, her dad was often the first one she called for.
“Dada,” she’d sob, reaching out blindly.
And he’d be there instantly.
He’d sit with her against his chest, rocking slowly, murmuring nonsense words until her breathing evened out. Sometimes she’d fall asleep with one hand clutching his finger, refusing to let go.
Jake didn’t move until she was fast asleep.
Neytiri would just open a singular eye and then go back to sleep, months she grew her daughter and now she was attached to her father’s hip… she’d come back to mama sooner or later.
18 months–2 years
By the time (y/n) was nearing two, her personality was impossible to ignore.
She was curious. Fearless. Stubborn.
And fiercely attached to her father and mother, her father much more often.
If Jake knelt down to work on something, she knelt beside him.
If he lay back to rest, she climbed onto his chest like it was her personal throne to pull at his face, poking his eyes, pulling his hair but he’d never stop her.
If someone else tried to carry her while Jake was nearby, she leaned away, eyes locked on him.
Jake pretended not to notice how proud that made him.
“She adores you,” Neytiri said once, watching (y/n) refuse to leave Jake’s arms.
Jake looked down at his daughter, who was busy patting his chest, tugging at his chest piece and babbling to herself.
“I don’t blame her,” he said softly. “World’s safer up here.”
He was more careful than he’d ever been in his life during those years. Watched where he stepped. Checked corners twice. Always knew where (y/n) was, even when she thought she was sneaky.
She’d wander only so far before turning, checking to see if he was still there.
He always was.
Those first two years shaped them both.
Jake learned patience he didn’t know he had. Learned gentleness that surprised him. Learned that leadership didn’t just mean protecting a clan, it meant protecting one small person who trusted him completely.
And (y/n) learned something just as important:
No matter how big the world felt, her father was always right there, arms open, steady, unshakable.
Mumma’s Treasure
Even though (y/n) was unmistakably a daddy’s girl, she was just as undeniably her mother’s treasure.
If Jake was her anchor, Neytiri was her world, even if she treated her dad as if he was the greatest gift she ever received. There was an exclusive love she had for her mama.
1 year old
At one, (y/n) still loved being carried, but when she wasn’t perched on Jake’s hip, she was under Neytiri’s feet.
Literally.
She followed her mother everywhere when she wasn’t with her father, tiny hands would brush against Neytiri’s calf or tail just to make sure she knew she was still there. If Neytiri stopped suddenly, (y/n) would bump gently into her legs and look up, blinking like oh—there you are.
Neytiri learned to move slower.
She would pause while weaving, letting (y/n) sit in her lap and grab at beads and fibers with clumsy fingers. When (y/n) tugged too hard and the whole weave shifted, Neytiri didn’t scold, she laughed, warm and surprised by the sound.
“You are curious,” she murmured, brushing a kiss over her daughter’s head. “Just like your father.”
(y/n) responded by trying to eat a bead.
12–18 months
As (y/n) grew steadier, Neytiri became more watchful.
She noticed every stumble. Every scrape. Every tired blink that meant nap-time was overdue.
If (y/n) fell and startled herself more than she hurt herself, she ran straight to Neytiri, arms up, face scrunched, tail stiff with indignation. Neytiri would scoop her up instantly, pressing her close, murmuring soothing words until the tears faded into hiccups.
“You are okay,” she would whisper. “Mama is here.”
And just like that, (y/n) was fine.
Neytiri carried her against her chest often, especially in the evenings, humming softly while the forest darkened. (y/n) would rest her head beneath Neytiri’s chin, small fingers curled into her mother’s necklace, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.
Jake once watched them like that and quietly stepped away, knowing better than to interrupt, he’d get his turn pretty soon.
18 months–2 years
By the time (y/n) neared two, her bond with Neytiri had deepened into something fierce as Neytiri began to take her out into the forest more.
Neytiri taught her gently, how to sit quietly, how to listen to the forest, how to be still. (y/n) didn’t always succeed, but she tried, watching her mother with wide eyes, eyes always filled with wonder.
If someone else reached for (y/n) while she was tired, she turned away and pressed into Neytiri instead. If Neytiri left the marui without her noticing, (y/n) protested loudly until she returned.
Neytiri pretended not to smile every time.
At night, when the forest grew cold, Neytiri curled her body around her daughter, tail tucked protectively, one hand resting over (y/n)’s back. She slept lightly in those years, waking at the smallest sound (y/n) made.
Jake noticed.
“She doesn’t need that much guarding,” he said once.
Neytiri didn’t look at him. “She is my first.”
And that explained everything.
Together those years were a balance.
Jake was the adventure, the laughter, the steady arms.
Neytiri was the comfort, the watchfulness, the unshakable love.
A daddy’s girl.
And her mother’s most precious treasure.
A scraped knee
She had been toddling after Jake, wobbly little legs pumping as fast as they could manage.
Jake heard the pitter patter of tiny legs and knew he had been followed once again from the mauri.
“Slow down, peanut,” Jake said over his shoulder, half-laughing as he walked.
That was when it happened.
Her foot caught on a root she hadn’t noticed. There was a tiny oof sound, a flash of flailing limbs, and then she went down hard on the packed earth.
For half a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then—
The wail.
Jake spun around instantly.
“Oh—hey—hey!” he said, already sprinting back. He scooped as quick as a toruk would pick up prey. “Whoa, whoa, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
(y/n) clung to his neck, sobbing, face buried in his shoulder. Jake glanced down and saw it, a scrape on her knee, red and angry, already beading with a little blood.
His heart dropped straight into his stomach.
“Oh no. Oh no no no,” he muttered, panic kicking in hard. “Neytiri! Neytiri!”
He took off at a run, holding (y/n) tight to his chest like she might shatter if he slowed down.
People turned to look. Someone asked what happened. Jake didn’t answer.
“Move—sorry—excuse me—” he said breathlessly as he burst into the marui.
“Neytiri!” he called again, voice sharp with fear. “Something’s wrong—she fell—her leg—”
Neytiri looked up and immediately reached for her daughter.
“What happened?” she demanded, already checking (y/n) over with quick, practiced hands.
Jake hovered, wide-eyed. “She tripped. She hit the ground. I think—her knee—she was crying—I didn’t know if it was broken—”
Neytiri gently shifted (y/n) so she could see the injury.
It was… small.
A simple scrape. A little blood. Nothing more.
(y/n), sensing the attention, sniffled dramatically and clutched Neytiri’s chest piece like she’d survived something terrible.
Neytiri paused.
Then she sighed, long, slow, and shot Jake a look.
“She is not broken,” she said, calm but amused. “She scraped her knee.”
Jake blinked. “That’s it?”
Neytiri dabbed the scrape with a cloth, murmuring softly to (y/n). The crying immediately downgraded to sad sniffles.
Jake exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a year and sank down beside them, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I thought—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head. “I thought I messed up. I thought she—”
Neytiri softened then. She reached out and squeezed his wrist.
“She fell,” she said gently. “She cried. She will heal.”
(y/n) chose that moment to look up at Jake with watery eyes and hold out her arms.
“Dada,” she whimpered.
Jake scooped her back up instantly, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got you. Always.”
Neytiri watched them, smiling to herself.
It was just a scraped knee.
But to Jake?
It was the first reminder that loving a child meant your heart would live permanently outside your body, and apparently, very close to the ground.
The Viper Wolf Incident
Neytiri laid (y/n) down gently in the shade. Her breathing was slow and even, lashes resting against her cheeks.
“Sleep, ma yawntu,” Neytiri whispered, brushing her thumb over her daughter’s brow. “Mama will be right back.”
She rose quietly and slipped away toward the river, trusting, just this once, her daughter would be find for a few moments.
She didn’t know (y/n) had woken.
At first it was only a small stir. Then curious eyes blinked open. The world felt wrong without Mama there. (y/n) pushed herself up, unsteady, and looked around.
“Mama?” she called softly.
No answer.
Her lip trembled. Then she saw movement—blue and familiar, between the trees.
Mama.
With hurried little steps, (y/n) followed.
She tried to walk quietly. She tried to copy the way Neytiri moved. She failed at both. Twigs snapped. Leaves crunched. She stumbled more than once, scraping her palms, but she kept going, stubborn and scared of being alone.
The forest grew thicker.
Darker.
The sounds changed.
That was when they appeared.
Low shapes slipped from the undergrowth—sleek, silent, eyes glowing faintly in the shade. Viperwolves. They circled slowly, curious more than aggressive, but their presence was dangerous.
(y/n) froze.
Her breath hitched.
She didn’t understand what they were, only that they were not safe.
“M…Mama!” she screamed, fear breaking through her voice. “Mama!”
The sound tore through the forest.
At the river, Neytiri felt it before she heard it. A sharp, cold spike of terror ripped through her chest.
(y/n).
Neytiri dropped everything and ran
Branches lashed at her skin as she sprinted, feet barely touching the ground, bow already in her hands. She didn’t think—she moved, every instinct screaming.
She burst into the clearing just as one of the viperwolves stepped closer.
Neytiri’s arrow flew.
Then another.
The viperwolves scattered immediately at her snarl, vanishing back into the forest as quickly as they had come.
Neytiri was on her knees in an instant, scooping (y/n) into her arms, pressing her close.
“I am here,” she whispered fiercely, hands trembling as she checked her over. “I am here. You are safe.”
(y/n) sobbed, burying her face into Neytiri’s neck, clutching her mother like she might disappear again.
“Mama,” she cried. “Mama.”
Neytiri held her tighter, rocking slightly, eyes closed as she breathed her in, warm, alive, unharmed.
For a long moment, she didn’t move.
Then she kissed the top of (y/n)’s head and murmured, voice shaking with restrained fury and fear, “You do not follow. You wait for me. Always.”
(y/n) didn’t understand the words.
But she understood the arms around her.
She clung harder.
And Neytiri stood slowly, daughter secure against her chest, already swearing to Eywa that she would never, leave her unattended again.
Neytiri sighed, so much like her father.
Neytiri found Jake near the edge of camp, cleaning his bow, movements slow and methodical. She didn’t speak at first, just stood there, holding (y/n) against her chest. Their daughter was finally calm again, thumb tucked into her mouth, eyes heavy but still glossy from tears.
Jake looked up and immediately straightened, something was wrong.
“What happened?” he asked, already reaching for them.
Neytiri let out a long breath, the kind that came after fear had burned through her system and left ash behind.
“She followed me,” she said quietly.
Jake froze. “Followed you?”
“I put her down to sleep,” Neytiri continued, voice tight but controlled. “I went to the river. She woke and tried to come after me. She does not know yet… that curiosity leads to danger.”
Jake’s jaw clenched. “What danger.”
Neytiri met his eyes. “Nanyang.”
Viperwolves. The word hit him hard.
His hand dropped from the bow.
“…Was she—”
“She is not hurt,” Neytiri cut in immediately. “I came in time. But she was surrounded. She was afraid.” Her grip tightened unconsciously around (y/n).
Jake scrubbed a hand over his face, pacing a step away and back again like a caged animal. “She’s just a baby. She doesn’t know—”
“I know,” Neytiri said softly. “That is the problem.”
She shifted (y/n) so Jake could see her properly, alive, warm, breathing. Jake reached out and brushed his fingers over her hair.
“She’s curious and does not know danger,” he murmured. “Just like me.”
Neytiri’s expression softened, but there was steel beneath it. “Curiosity will one day keep her alive,” she said. “But now, it could kill her. She does not know fear yet. She does not know what would hunt her.”
Jake swallowed. “That’s on us. We’ve gotta be tighter. One of us stays with her. Always.”
Neytiri nodded. “I will not leave her alone again.”
(y/n) stirred slightly, pressing closer into Neytiri’s chest. Jake leaned in and kissed the top of her head, lingering longer than usual.
“I don’t care how many warriors we have,” he said quietly. “She’s the most dangerous thing in this forest right now.”
Neytiri allowed herself a small, grim smile.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Because she believes the world is kind.”
Jake wrapped an arm around them both, pulling mother and daughter close.
And Neytiri let herself lean into him because for all her strength, the thought of how close she had come to losing her daughter still made her hands shake.
Her Mother’s Tail
(y/n) sat beside Neytiri, legs tucked clumsily beneath her, watching with rapt attention as her mother fletched arrows. The soft scrape of feather against shaft, the careful wrapping of sinew—Neytiri’s hands moved with practiced ease, calm and steady.
Beside her, (y/n) was anything but.
Her eyes followed Neytiri’s tail, graceful, swaying gently back and forth as Neytiri worked. It flicked once.
(y/n)’s head snapped toward it.
She leaned forward, tiny fingers stretching, missing by inches as the tail swished away.
A small, delighted gasp left her mouth.
Neytiri felt it immediately. She pretended not to notice, but the corner of her mouth twitched as she shifted her tail just enough to tempt her daughter again.
(y/n) squealed, laughter bubbling out of her as she lunged, crawling after it. She caught the very tip this time, gripping it triumphantly.
Only for Neytiri to gently pull it away again.
(y/n) laughed harder, falling onto her bottom, clapping her hands in pure delight.
Neytiri finally looked down, pretending surprise. “Oh?” she murmured. “Are you hunting me, little one?”
She flicked her tail side to side.
(y/n) shrieked with laughter and gave chase again, wobbling as she tried to grab it, her joy bright and infectious. Every time she got close, Neytiri flicked her tail just out of reach, careful never to move too fast.
The sound of her daughter’s laughter, high, breathless, joyful, filled Neytiri’s chest with warmth.
She paused her work, setting the arrow aside, and let her tail slow just enough.
(y/n) pounced.
She grabbed it with both hands, hugging it like she’d conquered a great beast, pressing her cheek against the smooth stripes. She giggled, breathless and proud.
Neytiri laughed then, soft, genuine, and bent down to scoop (y/n) into her lap.
“You win,” she said quietly, brushing her lips against her daughter’s temple. “For now.”
No
The day (y/n) learned the word no was the day Jake Sully realized he was outmatch.
Jake had been holding her on his hip while talking with Neytiri, rocking her absent-mindedly the way he always did. (y/n) was perfectly content there—one hand gripping his chest piece, the other resting against his chest.
Then Jake shifted.
“Alright,” he said softly. “Time to put you down, peanut.”
He bent slightly.
(y/n) stiffened.
“No.”
Jake paused mid-movement. “…what?”
He tried again, lowering her another inch.
“No,” she said again, clearer this time, tiny hands tightening in his shirt like claws.
Jake blinked. He straightened slowly, looking at her in disbelief. “Did you just—”
“No,” (y/n) repeated firmly, shaking her head for emphasis.
Neytiri bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Jake stared at his daughter, then at Neytiri. “She knows what that means.”
“Yes,” Neytiri said calmly. “And she means it.”
Jake tried once more, gently. “C’mon, I’ve gotta go—”
(y/n)’s lower lip trembled.
“Nooo,” she whined, voice stretching into a plea as she pressed her face into his neck, tail flicking anxiously.
Jake sighed, the long, defeated kind, and hugged her closer instead.
“Alright,” he muttered. “Alright. Five more minutes.
Neytiri laughed openly now.
It got worse
Soon, no became (y/n)’s favorite word.
If Jake tried to leave the marui without her noticing?
“No!”
If he set her down to grab something?
“No!”
If he took one step too far away?
“No—dada!”
She learned exactly when to deploy it too, eyes wide, voice small, arms reaching, all of it combined to make a sad little face that is the equivalent of driving a knife into her fathers heart.
Jake never stood a chance.
One afternoon, Jake was halfway out the door when he heard it behind him.
“No.”
He froze.
He turned slowly.
(y/n) stood there on unsteady feet, arms stretched toward him, expression serious and determined.
“No… dada.”
Jake exhaled, rubbed his face, and turned right back around.
Neytiri crossed her arms, amused. “She gets her persistence from you.”
Jake scooped (y/n) up again, shaking his head as she immediately settled against him.
“I taught her that word,” he said. “That’s on me.”
(y/n) rested her head on his shoulder, one hand gripping his chest piece.
Scolding and Discipline
(y/n) had done something small but worthy of correction, she knocked over a basket, grabbed something she shouldn’t have, wandered one step too far. Nothing dangerous, but enough that Neytiri told herself, she must learn.
So Neytiri knelt in front of her, calm and composed.
“Ma yawntu,” she said gently. “No.”
(y/n) looked up at her mother, blinking as she played with a bit of the wreckage she caused.
Neytiri kept her voice soft but serious. “You must listen. That is not for playing.”
For a heartbeat, it worked.
Then (y/n)’s lower lip began to wobble.
Just a little at first.
Neytiri’s resolve faltered.
The wobble deepened. Her eyes glassed over. Her tiny hands curled inward, chest hitching as she drew a breath that was definitely going to become a cry.
Neytiri’s face collapsed.
“Oh—no, no, no—” she whispered, instantly abandoning all thoughts of discipline.
Before the cry could fully escape, Neytiri pulled (y/n) into her arms, cradling her close.
“Hush, ma yawntu,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to her daughter’s. “Mama is here.”
(y/n) let out a soft, broken little sound and melted into her, face tucked into Neytiri’s shoulder, arms clutching tight like she’d been wronged beyond repair.
Neytiri rocked her gently, kissing her hair, whispering reassurances as if the world itself had nearly ended.
Across the marui, Jake had been watching the entire thing.
He crossed his arms, nodded once, and muttered under his breath “…Yeah. Same.”
Neytiri glanced up at him over (y/n)’s head, a little sheepish.
Jake just smiled, he knew the feeling, he could fight against that sad little face either.
Jake’s Attempt
Jake told himself he could do this. A father was a disciplinarian. Yes, he watched Neytiri try and scold (y/n) and his heart twisted when (y/n) began to cry. But she wouldn’t do that with him… right?
He had faced down gunships. Led warriors into battle. Stared down things that wanted him very, very dead.
Scolding a one-year-old could not be harder than that.
…Right?
(y/n) sat on the woven mat in front of him, legs splayed, hands suspiciously sticky. The overturned basket beside her was clear evidence of the crime. Whatever had been inside it was now scattered everywhere.
Jake crouched down to her level, adopting what he thought was a serious expression.
“Alright,” he said carefully. “We gotta talk about this.”
(y/n) looked at him. Blinked.
Then smiled.
Wide. Bright. Absolutely weaponized.
Jake hesitated.
“No,” he said, trying again, firmer this time. “You can’t do that. That’s not—”
(y/n) reached out and patted his knee.
“—okay,” Jake finished weakly.
She giggled.
Jake pinched the bridge of his nose and took a breath. Stay strong.
“Hey,” he said again. “Look at me.”
She did. Big eyes. Innocent. Looking at him as if she was his whole world.
Jake swallowed. “You can’t just grab stuff and dump it out. That’s… that’s bad.”
(y/n)’s head tilted.
Her lip trembled.
Jake froze.
“No—no, don’t do that,” he said quickly, panic rising. “I’m not mad. I’m just—trying to—”
The wobble escalated.
Her eyes filled. Her chin quivered. A tiny whimper slipped out.
“Oh shit,” Jake whispered.
The cry came fast and sharp, like she’d been personally betrayed.
Jake abandoned all plans of discipline instantly.
“Hey—hey—hey,” he said, scooping her up without a second thought, holding her tight against his chest. “Nope. Nope. I got you. Daddy’s here.”
(y/n) clung to him, face pressed into his chest, crying hard for exactly three seconds before calming as if nothing had happened.
Jake rocked her gently, kissing the top of her head, heart pounding like he’d narrowly escaped disaster.
Across the marui, Neytiri watched the whole thing.
She didn’t say a word.
She just raised an eyebrow.
Jake glanced at her, still holding (y/n) protectively.
“…I tried,” he said quietly.
Neytiri’s lips twitched.
(y/n) sniffed once, peeked up at Jake, then patted his face affectionately.
Jake sighed, defeated, and hugged her closer.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “You win.”
Comfort Toy
Jake did not know how to make toys.
Weapons? Yes. Traps? Absolutely. A workable shelter out of half a forest? No problem.
But a toy?
That took him three tries, two broken sticks, and a lot of muttering.
He used scraps, soft leather from an old strap, bits of woven fiber. The stitching was uneven, the wings were slightly different sizes, and the head… well. It leaned a little to the left.
Jake stared at it when he was done.
“…Good enough,” he decided.
When he handed it to (y/n), he braced himself.
She took it in both hands.
Paused.
Then her face lit up.
“Ik!” she chirped happily, hugging it to her chest like it was the greatest treasure she had ever been given.
Jake’s heart cracked clean in half.
From that moment on, the toy ikran became everything.
(y/n) carried it everywhere, dragging it by one wing through the marui, sleeping with it tucked under her chin, gnawing on its head while teething. If Jake tried to take it away to fix a loose stitch, she clutched it tighter and shook her head furiously.
“No.”
Neytiri watched her one afternoon, amusement softening her features. “She knows who made it.”
Jake glanced over. “You sure? Because it looks like a lopsided flying pancake.”
Neytiri smiled. “That is why.”
When (y/n) was tired, she pressed her face into the toy’s feathers and calmed almost instantly. When she cried, Jake learned that placing the toy ikran in her arms worked faster than rocking or singing.
One night, after a long day, Jake found her asleep with the toy clutched tight, one arm wrapped around its crooked neck.
He knelt beside her touched the uneven stitching with his thumb, and swallowed hard.
“Guess I did something right,” he whispered.
Neytiri came up beside him and rested her hand on his shoulder. “You gave her something,” she said softly. “She will always love that.”
Jake leaned back, watching his daughter sleep, the messy little ikran rising and falling with her chest.
Of all the things he’d made on Pandora,
This was the one that mattered most.
A Bad Word
(y/n) was sitting on the floor, happily playing with her lopsided toy ikran, when it tipped over and bonked her gently on the foot. She stared at it for a second, brows knitting together in deep concentration.
Then, clear as day
“Shit.”
Jake froze.
Slowly. Carefully. Like she was an unexploded bomb.
“…What did you just say?” he asked.
(y/n) looked up at him, proud as anything.
“Shit.”
Jake lunged.
“No—nope—nope, we don’t say that,” he said quickly, crouching down in front of her. “That’s a bad word. Bad. We do not say that.”
(y/n) blinked.
“Shit?”
Jake’s soul left his body.
“No,” he hissed, waving his hands frantically. “No, no, no. That word does not exist. Never heard it. Don’t know it.”
He glanced over his shoulder toward the entrance of the marui.
Too quiet.
Panic set in.
“Okay,” he whispered urgently, pointing at the toy ikran. “Say ‘ikran.’ Ikran. Can you say ikran?”
(y/n) smiled sweetly.
“…Shit.”
Jake buried his face in his hands.
“Sweetheart , I am begging you,” he muttered. “Please don’t do this to me.”
He tried everything.
He offered snacks.
He made funny faces.
He dramatically whispered “nooooo” every time she said it, hoping reverse psychology would work.
Nothing.
She thought it was hilarious.
Then a shadow fell across the entrance.
Jake looked up.
Neytiri stood there, arms crossed.
(y/n), delighted to see her mother, immediately perked up.
“Mama!” she chirped.
Neytiri softened. “Ma yawntu—”
“Shit!”
Silence.
Absolute. Dead. Silence.
Neytiri slowly turned her head toward Jake.
Jake didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
“…Why,” Neytiri asked very calmly, “did our daughter just say that word.”
Jake opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“…So,” he began carefully, “in my defense—”
Neytiri stepped closer.
“Do not,” she said quietly, “say anything else.”
(y/n) sat between them, completely unaware she had just destroyed her father’s life, happily chewing on the toy ikran’s wing.
Neytiri looked down at her daughter, her expression immediately softening. She knelt and gently brushed (y/n)’s hair back.
“No, ma yawntu,” she said firmly but gently. “That is not a word we use.”
(y/n) frowned, considering.
“…Ik.” She said holding up her toy.
Neytiri nodded, satisfied. “Good.”
Then she stood.
And turned back to Jake.
Her eyes narrowed.
“You,” she said.
Jake winced. “Yeah.”
“We will speak,” Neytiri continued, “about the words you teach our child.”
Jake nodded rapidly. “Absolutely. Totally fair. Hundred percent on me.”
She leaned closer, voice low and dangerous. “If she says that word again—”
“I’ll sleep in the forest,” Jake finished quickly.
Neytiri straightened and walked past him.
Jake sagged in relief.
Behind him, (y/n) whispered softly to her ikran,
“…shit.”
Jake winced.
Time with Mom
Neytiri took (y/n) down to the stream in the early afternoon, when the light softened and the forest hummed low and gentle. She carried a water vessel over one shoulder and her daughter on the other hip, (y/n)’s arm draped loosely around her neck, cheek pressed against her collarbone.
The stream was calm today, clear water slipping over smooth stones, catching the light in ripples. Neytiri knelt at the edge and set the vessel down, letting (y/n) slide to her feet.
“Stay close,” she murmured.
(y/n) immediately crouched and ignored that instruction in the most harmless way possible, reaching for the water with both hands, fingers splashing softly. She gasped at the coolness, then laughed, the sound bright and free.
Neytiri smiled.
She dipped her fingers into the stream and flicked a few droplets toward her daughter. (y/n) squealed and retaliated clumsily, splashing water back with far more enthusiasm than accuracy. Neytiri leaned away at the last second, laughing quietly.
They played like that for a while, gentle splashes, smooth stones passed from hand to hand, Neytiri guiding (y/n)’s fingers over moss and leaves, naming them softly, teaching without effort.
“This is stone,” she said, placing one in (y/n)’s palm.
(y/n) frowned at it, then promptly dropped it into the water.
Neytiri chuckled.
When (y/n) eventually tired out, she leaned back against Neytiri’s legs, gaze drifting, eyelids growing heavy. Neytiri lifted her easily and climbed onto the low, broad branch that stretched over the stream.
She sat, back against the trunk, and settled (y/n) against her chest. The water murmured below them, cool air brushing their skin. Neytiri rested one hand over (y/n)’s back, the other stroking slow circles through her hair.
(y/n)’s breathing evened out quickly.
Neytiri didn’t move.
She listened, to the forest, to the stream, to the soft sighs of her child slipping into sleep. She pressed her cheek to the top of (y/n)’s head, inhaling her scent, committing this moment to memory.
This small weight.
This warmth.
This life entrusted to her.
Snoring
Jake had been asleep for all of five minutes before it started.
A low rumble at first.
Then louder.
Neytiri’s eyes snapped open.
She lay there in the dim light of the marui, one arm still around (y/n), who had been sleeping peacefully against her chest just moments ago.
Then—
SNORRRRKKK.
(y/n) jolted, eyes flying open. She blinked, confused, then frowned.
Another snore echoed through the space.
(y/n) looked around.
Then slowly turned her head toward the source.
Jake lay on the other side of them, mouth open, completely unbothered, snoring so loud the whole forest could probably hear him.
Neytiri pinched the bridge of her nose “Unbelievable,” she muttered.
(y/n) pushed herself up on unsteady hands and stared at Jake with deep suspicion. She leaned closer, studying his face as another thunderous snore escaped him.
Her little brows knit together.
She lifted her hand.
Smack.
Right across Jake’s cheek.
Jake snorted awake, jerking upright. “Wha—what?!”
Neytiri stared at her daughter for half a second.
Then burst out laughing.
Jake touched his cheek, stunned. “Did—did she just hit me?”
Neytiri laughed harder, pressing her face into her hand. “She protects her sleep.”
Jake stared between them, then let out a breathy laugh of his own. “Yeah… fair.”
He shifted, rolling onto his side and covering his mouth.
(y/n) immediately relaxed, flopping back down against Neytiri with a pleased little sigh.
Neytiri kissed her daughter’s hair. “Good job, ma yawntu.”
Jake lay there awake now, wide-eyed and very aware.
“…I’m getting outnumbered,” he whispered.
Hide and Seek
Jake thought hide-and-seek was a great idea.
It was harmless. Fun. A way to burn off a little of (y/n)’s endless energy before her nap.
He crouched near the center of the marui, covering his eyes dramatically.
“Alright,” he called out. “Daddy’s countin’. One… two… three…”
(y/n) giggled and toddled off, clutching her toy ikran like it was part of the game plan.
Jake smiled to himself.
“Four… five… six…”
He peeked between his fingers just long enough to see the edge of her tail disappear behind a stack of baskets.
Easy, he thought.
“Seven… eight… nine… ten!”
He spun around. “Ready or not—here I come!”
At first it was exactly what he expected.
He checked behind the baskets. “Nope.”
Under the woven mat. “Nope.”
Behind the hanging nets. “Not here either.”
He chuckled. “You’re good, kiddo.”
He moved a little farther, checking behind a support post, then the low bench near the wall.
Nothing.
The smile faded, just a little.
“(y/n)?” he called lightly. “C’mon, I see you.”
No giggle. No rustle. No tiny feet.
Jake straightened slowly.
“Okay,” he said, louder now. “Game’s over. You can come out.”
Still nothing.
A flicker of unease crept in.
He checked again. More carefully this time. Behind the baskets. Under the mat. Inside the storage nook.
It’s wasn’t too long after the Great War that (y/n) was born, the first born child of Jake Sully and Neytiri.
The first time Jake Sully held (y/n) Sully, he was terrified.
Moments earlier, Mo’at had cradled the newborn with practiced reverence, checking her breathing, murmuring soft words of blessing, brushing a thumb over (y/n)’s tiny brow as if committing her to memory. When she handed (y/n) back, it was with a small nod, approval settled deep in her eyes.
Then (y/n) was back in Neytiri’s arms, skin to skin, mother and daughter breathing each other in. Neytiri had pressed her forehead to (y/n)’s, whispering softly in Na’vi. (y/n)’s cries had already begun to quiet there, soothed by the familiar rhythm of her mother’s heart.
Only then did Neytiri look up at Jake.
He was standing there like he’d been struck by lightning.
“Come,” Neytiri said gently.
Jake swallowed. “I—are you sure?”
Neytiri didn’t tease him. She didn’t smile. She simply guided his hands into place, firm and sure.
“Support her head,” she murmured. “She will feel your fear if you shake.”
That didn’t help.
Jake’s hands hovered for a second too long before Neytiri carefully placed (y/n) into them. The moment her weight settled against his chest warm, impossibly light, his breath hitched.
He froze.
Did not move.
Did not breathe.
(Y/n) was so small. Her skin still slick, her fists curled tight, her face scrunched in that brand-new way that said I have just arrived and I am not pleased about it. Jake could feel her heartbeat through his shirt, fast and fierce.
“Oh,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Oh… hey.”
(Y/n) made a small sound, less a cry, more a complaint, and shifted slightly. One tiny hand caught in his chest piece, fingers clenching.
Jake’s eyes burned instantly.
“I got you,” he said quickly, too quickly. “I got you, I swear. I’m not gonna drop you. I’m not—”
Neytiri’s hand covered his, steady and warm. “Breathe,” she said softly.
Jake obeyed.
Slowly, instinct took over. He adjusted his grip, one hand supporting (y/n)’s head just like Neytiri had shown him, the other firm at her back. The shaking in his arms eased, replaced by something heavier, something terrifying and profound.
Responsibility. It was now his job to keep this little life, his little baby girl, safe, happy and loved.
She turned her face toward his chest, pressing her cheek there as if she recognized him in some way that made no sense at all.
“I’m your dad,” he whispered. “I don’t know what I’m doing yet. But… I’ll figure it out.”
(Y/n) yawned.
Neytiri let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She watched them, this tall, awkward man holding their daughter like she was made of something fragile, and something deep in her chest stir.
And in that moment, Jake Sully, soldier, warrior, leader, knew with absolute certainty:
This tiny life in his arms was the most dangerous thing he would ever love, because he could feel it in his heart, there wasn’t anything we wouldn’t do for her. He would raze armies to the ground just so she would be happy, that’s what the feeling in his chest told him.
The moment she was in his arms and her eyes met his he knew that his little girl would have him wrapped around his little finger.
She was adored by her mother, she was told stories, sung too, basically if she even so much at hinted at crying her parents would come running.
She was always kept close by Neytiri, in a sling when hunting, in a basket whilst weaving and held on her chest while sleeping, Neytiri couldn’t bare being far from her for very long.
Neytiri was gentler than anyone had ever seen her. Always checking her skin for any warmth, her steady breathing, her cries, whether her little one was hungry or tired and spoke to her constantly since (y/n) always seemed to focus on the sound of her voice.
After Jake got over the hurdle of thinking that his daughter could shatter in his hands if he wasn’t too careful, he would jump at any sound she would make, his heart would jump into his throat every time she cried. He probably wore grooves into the mauri with the amount of walking he did with (y/n) in his arms to help her sleep, whispering to her.
Her parents rarely left her side.
When she slept someone was close by or was holding her close, one of her parents woke as soon as the sound of her steady breathings shifted.
Mo’at
When Mo’at first held her grand-daughter, properly held her, it was only after Neytiri had already done so.
Neytiri had barely let (y/n) leave her arms, skin to skin, breath to breath,before exhaustion finally softened her grip just enough. Mo’at waited. She always did. Only when Neytiri nodded, did Mo’at step forward.
She took (y/n) with hands that had delivered countless children, hands that knew exactly how much pressure was comfort and how much was too much. (Y/n) was still slick from birth, small and warm and loud, her cry sharp with life.
Mo’at studied her quietly.
Not her size.
Not her strength.
Her presence.
(Y/n)’s cry faded as Mo’at drew her close, one long finger resting against (y/n)’s tiny back. The baby blinked up at her, bright eyes unfocused but searching, and for a brief moment Mo’at felt something settle, like a thread pulled taut and tied.
“She is precious,” Mo’at said simply.
That was all.
In the weeks that followed, Jake and Neytiri began, reluctantly, to ask Mo’at to watch (y/n) for short stretches.
Just while Neytiri slept.
Just while Jake handled clan matters.
Just for a little while.
Mo’at never refused.
She kept her grand daughter close when she watched her, often seated beneath filtered light, humming low melodies that vibrated through (y/n)’s tiny body. She slept well in Mo’at’s arms, deep, untroubled sleep, one small hand curled around Mo’at’s finger.
When Jake or Neytiri returned, Mo’at would quietly report.
“She slept well.”
“She watched the light today.”
“She listened.”
Jake joked once, “She’s not even talking yet.”
Mo’at only smiled. “That does not mean she is not learning.”
Mo’at did not always witness (y/n)’s firsts. but she heard of them all.
Her first laugh.
Her first roll.
The first time she grabbed Neytiri’s hair and refused to let go.
Each was told to Mo’at in fragments, Jake half-laughing, Neytiri quietly proud. Mo’at listened with patience, storing the stories away as carefully as herbs in a pouch.
Sometimes, (y/n) repeated those milestones in Mo’at’s presence.
She rolled clumsily on a mat while Mo’at watched, then froze as if waiting for approval.
Mo’at chuckled softly. “Yes. Like that.”
(Y/n) kicked happily.
3 - 6 months
At 3 months she stopped being a sleeping baby and became aware of things. She watched everything.
If Neytiri moved her eyes followed if she heard her father’s voice a little further away she was used to her eyes would follow it, her brows furrowing as if trying to make sense of the noises.
She still didn’t like being put down for long she made that clear quickly, she cried in a way that didn’t mean she wanted something, she cried in offence as if deeply insulted that her parents had other things to do that didn’t involve holding her.
Neytiri began to quickly recognise that sound and no matter what she was doing, she would rush over to her daughter.
It was what she loved. The steady comfort of her mother, hearing her heart beat and voice. It seemed that (y/n) loved the sling the most, she always seemed to stir it Neytiri stopped walking, it was as if she loved the sway and rhythm combined with Neytiri’s voice.
She would watch her mother’s face intently and reach up to her face or try and grasp at her hair. It made Neytiri melt every time those little hands tried grabbing at her.
Jake was solid and steady.
She liked being tucked under his chin, her head resting against his shoulder, his larger hands supporting her back completely. Jake talked to her constantly, stories, rambling thoughts, things she didn’t understand but clearly enjoyed hearing.
If Jake stopped talking she’d make it known that she wanted him to continue.
She thrived on attention.
If both parents were nearby but talking to someone else, (y/n) made small sounds, testing the waters. If that didn’t work, she escalated to louder complaints. The moment either parent looked at her, spoke to her, or reached out a hand, she quieted immediately.
The First Laugh
Her first laugh caught them off guard.
(Y/n) was just past four months old, nestled against Jake’s chest while he sat cross-legged on the floor of the marui. She was alert, wide-eyed, one hand fisted in his vest, the other resting on his collarbone.
Jake was talking to her, nonsense, really. Half stories, half sounds. He made a low clicking noise with his tongue, then exaggerated it with a funny face.
(Y/n) blinked.
Jake did it again.
Her mouth twitched.
He froze. “Did you see that?” he whispered urgently toward Neytiri, who was nearby weaving.
Neytiri looked up just as Jake leaned closer and made the sound again, longer, sillier, paired with a ridiculous face.
She laughed.
Not a giggle. Not a breathy sound.
A real, bright, startled laugh burst out of her chest, sharp and delighted, like the sound surprised her as much as it surprised everyone else.
The world stopped.
Jake inhaled sharply, eyes wide as a smile crossed his face.
Neytiri dropped what she was holding.
(y/n) laughed again, louder this time, kicking her legs, clearly thrilled by the reaction. She grabbed at Jake, demanding more.
Jake laughed too, half a sob, half disbelief, and immediately repeated the sound and face exaggerating it even further.
She lost it.
Her laugh rang through the marui, echoing light and joy and something impossibly pure. Neytiri crossed the space in two strides, dropping to her knees beside them, hands flying to cup (y/n)’s cheeks.
“My little one,” she breathed, eyes shining. “You laugh.”
(Y/n) looked between them, pleased, so pleased, and laughed again, as if confirming it.
Neytiri laughed with her, a soft, broken sound full of wonder, pulling (y/n) gently into her arms. Jake kept one hand on (y/n)’s back, as if afraid the moment might vanish if he let go.
“That was it. That was the best sound I’ve ever heard.”
Neytiri pressed a kiss into her hair.
“Yes,” she said softly. “It was.”
Teething
One day she was her usual watchful, content self, happy to be held, babbling softly, gnawing on Jake’s fingers like a harmless little creature.
The next, she was miserable.
She cried more than she ever had before. Not the sharp, offended cry she used when she wanted attention, but a low, aching sound that came from deep in her chest. Her gums were sore, her jaw hurt, and nothing felt right.
She didn’t want to be put down.
She didn’t want to be passed around.
She wanted her parents, and she wanted them now.
Neytiri noticed the change immediately.
(Y/n) chewed on everything,cloth, fingers, strands of hair, then cried as if betrayed by it. Neytiri pressed a gentle finger along (y/n)’s gums and felt the swelling.
“Ah,” she murmured softly. “Your teeth are coming.”
(Y/n) responded by crying louder.
Neytiri gathered her up without hesitation, sitting with her cradled close, humming low and steady. She rubbed cool herbal paste that Mo’at had given her along (y/n)’s gums with care, whispering soothing words the whole time.
She calmed, briefly, then cried again, face scrunching up in frustration.
Neytiri didn’t flinch. She simply rocked her, patient as stone.
Jake was… less prepared.
He tried everything.
Rocking.
Walking.
Talking.
Singing (badly).
(Y/n) cried through all of it, fists clenched in his chest piece, face pressed into his chest like she was furious at the universe.
“I don’t get it,” Jake whispered helplessly. “I’m holding you. This usually works.”
(Y/n) screamed in response.
Neytiri gently took (y/n) back from him.
“She does not need fixing,” Neytiri said calmly. “She needs comfort.”
Jake watched, chastened, as (y/n) immediately settled just a little in Neytiri’s arms, still fussy, still unhappy, but no longer panicking.
“She likes you better,” he muttered.
Neytiri shot him a look. “She hurts.” And to prove a point she passed her to him and she sniffled a bit and still stayed calmed.
The nights were the worst.
(Y/n) woke often, crying softly, then loudly, then with heartbreaking desperation. Neytiri barely slept, soothing her again and again, pressing (y/n)’s face against her shoulder.
Jake took over whenever he could, pacing the marui with (y/n) tucked against him while Neytiri rested for a few precious moments.
She drooled constantly. She chewed on Jake’s fingers until he hissed and tried not to pull away too fast.
“Easy, kid,” he murmured. “I need those.”
(y/n) did not care.
Teething made (y/n) miserable.
But what it did to Jake was worse.
Jake had faced guns, beasts, war. He knew what to do when something was wrong, how to fight it, how to stop it, how to win. But this?
This was small. Slow. Unfair.
His daughter cried in his arms, face hot against his chest, fingers clutching his chest piece like she was holding on for dear life. Her cries weren’t panicked, they were aching, exhausted, hurt. The kind that made something twist painfully behind his ribs.
Jake tried everything.
He rocked her.
He paced.
He whispered.
He pressed his forehead to hers and begged under his breath.
“Come on, baby girl… please.”
Nothing worked.
(y/n) cried harder, jaw trembling, fists tight, drool soaking his chest. Every sob felt like a failure. Every whimper felt like something he should be able to stop.
But he couldn’t.
And he hated that.
At one point, Jake sank down onto the woven mat, still holding (y/n) , his shoulders slumping.
“I don’t know how to help you,” he whispered hoarsely, voice breaking just a little. “I’d take it for you if I could. I swear.”
She cried on, oblivious to his words but not his presence. She pressed her face harder into his chest, seeking comfort even as the pain continued.
That was the worst part.
She trusted him completely.
And he couldn’t make it better.
When Neytiri took (y/n) from him, Jake didn’t argue, he watched.
Neytiri didn’t rush. She didn’t panic. She sat down, pulled (y/n) close, hummed softly, applied cool herbs. She still cried, but less sharply, clinging to her mother as the world narrowed to heartbeat and warmth.
Jake watched from the side, jaw clenched.
“You make it look easy,” he said quietly.
Neytiri didn’t look up. “It is not easy,” she replied. “It is patient.”
That hit harder than anything.
Some nights, Neytiri slept sitting up with (y/n) against her chest, unwilling to put her down. When Neytiri finally needed rest, Jake took over, walking the marui in endless slow circles.
(Y/n) cried herself hoarse against him.
Jake let her soak his chest with tears and drool and misery. He didn’t care. He held her tighter, murmuring nonsense, keeping his voice low and steady because it was the only thing he could give her.
At some point, she’d go quiet, not better, just exhausted, and Jake would freeze, barely breathing, terrified of waking her.
He stayed awake long after.
One night, as (y/n) whimpered softly in her sleep, Jake brushed a finger along her cheek.
She stirred, eyes fluttering open just long enough to look at him.
Not confused. Not scared.
Comforted.
She sighed and settled again, pressing closer to his chest.
Jake swallowed hard.
That was when it hit him.
He couldn’t always protect her from pain.
He couldn’t fix everything.
But he could be there.
And sometimes, that had to be enough. He hoped it would be enough.
With her Grandmother
(Y/n) first smiled at Mo’at happened soon after she turned 4 months old.
Mo’at was holding her while Neytiri rested nearby, the marui quiet and warm. (Y/n) was awake but calm, eyes drifting lazily across the room. Mo’at spoke to her softly, not in baby-talk, but in a low, steady voice.
“You are growing,” Mo’at said. “You are learning who you are.”
(Y/n) turned her head.
She focused, really focused, on Mo’at’s face. Her brow furrowed, mouth serious, as if she were deciding something important.
Then…
Her face broke open.
A wide, sudden smile, bright and unmistakable, spread across (y/n)’s face, her eyes lighting up as she looked directly at Mo’at.
Mo’at stilled.
She had seen (y/n) smile before. Everyone had. But this was for her.
Mo’at’s breath caught just slightly. She did not laugh. She did not speak.
She smiled back.
Slow. Deep. Certain.
“There you are,” Mo’at murmured.
(Y/n) made a pleased little giggle and smiled again, clearly delighted by the reaction.
Mo’at Helping with Teething
Mo’at looked up the moment Neytiri entered, (y/n) red-faced and whimpering in her arms.
“Her teeth,” Mo’at said calmly, even before Neytiri spoke. “They are coming.”
Neytiri let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “She cries so much. I hold her and she still hurts.”
Mo’at stepped closer and held out her arms. Neytiri hesitated only a heartbeat before passing (y/n) to her. (Y/n) protested at first, one indignant cry, until Mo’at settled her securely, one steady hand warm against her back.
Mo’at worked with practiced care.
She prepared a small amount of cooling herbal paste, gentle, and dipped her finger into it. With slow, deliberate movements, she rubbed it lightly along (y/n)’s swollen gums. (Y/n) startled, then paused, jaw working uncertainly.
The crying softened into a low, unhappy sound.
Mo’at hummed under her breath, a deep, grounding melody that vibrated softly through (y/n)’s small body. (Y/n) leaned into it without realizing, chewing clumsily at Mo’at’s finger instead of crying.
“There,” Mo’at said quietly. “It will ache for a time..”
Mo’at showed Neytiri how to make the paste herself, how often to use it, how to tell when the pain was worst.
When Mo’at returned (y/n) to her, (y/n) pressed immediately into Neytiri’s chest, still fussy but calmer now. Neytiri resumed rocking her, fingers stroking through her hair.
“I hate that she hurts,” Neytiri said softly.
Mo’at’s voice was gentle but sure. “All mothers do.”
(Y/n) sighed, exhausted, her cries fading into uneven breaths. Neytiri kissed her forehead, holding her close as sleep finally claimed her.
6-9 months
By six months,(y/n) could sit on her own, wobbling but determined. She hated being laid flat now. The moment Neytiri tried, (y/n) would grunt and twist, clearly offended by the loss of autonomy.
Jake learned quickly to sit on the floor with her, long legs stretched out, (y/n) planted between them like a little sentry. She’d grip his fingers with shocking strength and try to pull herself forward, brows furrowed in concentration.
“She already looks like she’s planning something,” Jake muttered once.
Neytiri smiled. “She is your daughter.”
(y/n) loved attention at this stage, being talked to, sung to, admired. If either parent tried to step away for too long, she’d voice her displeasure immediately, a sharp, indignant noise that brought them right back.
Not much changed.
Crawling came late and messy.
(Y/n) didn’t glide smoothly like other babies. Instead, she dragged herself with fierce determination, one knee tucked, one leg flailing, palms slapping the ground as if she were personally offended by gravity.
Jake laughed every time. Neytiri corrected him every time.
“Do not laugh. She is trying.”
But when (y/n) finally reached Neytiri’s ankle and grabbed it like a victory prize, Neytiri scooped her up instantly, pride shining in her eyes.
(Y/n) beamed, absolutely convinced she had conquered the world.
Standing came before crawling properly.
(Y/n) would haul herself upright using anything, Jake’s leg, Neytiri’s kuru or tail, the edge of box mat. The first time she let go on her own, Jake nearly had a heart attack.
“Hey—hey—hey—!” he reached out instinctively.
(Y/n) wobbled… then dropped on her bottom, shocked but unharmed. For a moment she looked betrayed by the universe, then burst into laughter.
That laugh ruined both of her parents.
Jake melted on the spot. Neytiri picked her up pressed her forehead to (y/n)’s, laughing softly with her.
9-12 months
She had opinions. She liked being held, on her terms. If Jake picked her up, she leaned into his chest, fingers tangled in his chest piece . If Neytiri held her, (Y/n) pressed her face into her mother’s neck, calm and content.
She learned cause and effect quickly: drop something, watch it fall, stare expectantly.
Jake always picked it up.
Neytiri noticed.
Neytiri disapproved.
(Y/n) also learned how to charm. A single smile could undo discipline instantly. Jake was hopeless. Neytiri was… slightly better.
First Steps
(Y/n)’s first steps weren’t planned.
(Y/n) woke from her nap warm and groggy, cheek still pressed into the soft woven mat. For a long moment she lay there blinking, listening to the familiar sounds of the marui, quiet voices, the soft rasp of Neytiri’s hands working fiber, Jake murmuring about something unimportant.
She pushed herself onto her stomach with a small grunt.
No one noticed.
(Y/n) frowned, offended by this lack of attention. She planted her palms, rocked once, then twice, and dragged herself toward the edge of the mat. The floor felt cool under her hands. She paused, swayed, then reached up and grabbed the hanging edge of a low table.
Slowly, very slowly, she pulled herself upright.
Her legs wobbled. Her tail flicked hard for balance. She froze, eyes wide, testing this new feeling of being up.
Across the marui, Jake sat with his back half-turned, talking quietly to Neytiri. Neytiri nodded as she worked, unaware.
(Y/n) let go.
One step.
Then another.
Her foot slapped softly against the ground. She tilted forward, arms instinctively out, brows furrowed in fierce concentration.
Jake caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
He turned halfway. “Neyt—”
And then he saw her.
(Y/n) was walking.
She took another step, then another, wobbling but upright, moving straight toward them with absolute purpose. Neytiri looked up at the sudden silence in Jake’s voice and followed his gaze.
Her breath caught.
(Y/n) reached them and bumped gently into Neytiri’s legs, hands grabbing fabric for balance. She looked up, triumphant, as if to say see?
For a heartbeat, neither parent moved.
Then Neytiri dropped to her knees, hands flying to (Y/n)’s sides, lifting her as if afraid the moment might break. Her eyes shone.
“She walks,” she whispered, voice thick.
Jake laughed, one sharp, disbelieving sound, and then he was there too, hands cupping (Y/n)’s back, forehead resting against hers.
“Hey,” he breathed, half-laughing, half-choked. “Hey, baby girl…”
(Y/n) squealed, delighted by the sudden attention, completely unaware she’d just changed everything.
She kicked her feet, pleased with herself.
Jake wiped his eyes quickly and pretended no one saw.
Neytiri kissed (Y/n)’s temple and held her close.
And for the rest of the day, neither of them could stop watching the place where she’d stood up all on her own.
Who’s name would she say first
Jake swore it wasn’t a competition.
Neytiri also swore it wasn’t a competition.
It absolutely was.
They both knew (Y/n) was at the age where words were supposed to start forming. She babbled constantly, sounds that almost meant something, little strings of noise that made them both lean in every time like fools.
So, without ever saying it out loud, they started trying.
Jake always waited until Neytiri stepped away.
The moment she was gone, gathering water, speaking with Mo’at, fletching arrows, Jake scooped (Y/n) up and settled her against his chest.
“Okay,” he whispered conspiratorially, as if (Y/n) were in on it. “Just you and me.”
(Y/n) stared up at him, wide-eyed, fingers clutching his chest piece.
Jake pointed to himself, slow and careful.
“Da… da.”
He exaggerated the movement of his mouth.
“Da-da. See? Easy.”
(Y/n) blinked. Then she grabbed his chin and shoved it sideways with surprising force.
Jake laughed. “Hey—no cheating.”
“Da-da,” he tried again, hopeful.
(Y/n) responded by blowing spit bubbles and laughing.
Jake sighed. “Alright. Still counts as progress.”
Neytiri had her own methods.
When Jake was gone, she cradled (Y/n) close, swaying gently. Her voice stayed low and soft, steady as a heartbeat.
“Ma,” she murmured.
“Ma… ma.”
(Y/n) body relaxed immediately against her, tiny hands curling into Neytiri’s chest. Neytiri repeated it patiently, never pushing, never rushing.
(Y/n) watched her mouth. Studied it.
Sometimes she tried to copy the shape, tongue clumsy, sound falling apart before it became anything real.
Neytiri never showed disappointment. She only smiled and kissed her hair.
Days passed like this.
Jake got increasingly dramatic about it.
“She definitely almost said it today,” he insisted one evening.
Neytiri raised an eyebrow. “What did she say?”
“…a sound.”
“That is not a word.”
“She meant it.”
Then one quiet afternoon, Neytiri sat weaving with (y/n) in her lap. The marui was calm, light filtering softly through the leaves. (Y/n) fidgeted, tugging gently at the beads around Neytiri’s neck.
Neytiri didn’t prompt her. She just worked, humming under her breath.
(Y/n) tilted her head back, studying her mother’s face.
Her mouth opened.
“Ma-ma.”
The sound was clear. Undeniable.
Neytiri froze.
Her hands stilled. Her breath caught like the world had just stopped turning.
“Ma-ma,” (y/n) repeated, proud of herself.
Jake, halfway across the marui, snapped his head up. “Did—did she—?”
Neytiri looked at him slowly, eyes shining.
“She did.”
Jake stared at (Y/n), stunned. For a split second, something pinched in his chest.
Then (y/n) reached for him, babbling happily, clearly expecting to be picked up.
Jake gathered her into his arms without hesitation, pressing his forehead to hers.
“You little traitor ,” he said softly, smiling despite himself.
(Y/n) grabbed his nose.
Jake laughed. “Yeah, okay. I deserved that.”
Neytiri watched them, heart full, knowing the truth of it.
It wasn’t about winning.
She says Dada
Jake finally got his moment not too long after
Jake came home tired.
It had been one of those days, the kind that sat heavy in his shoulders, the kind where being Olo’eyktan felt less like leadership and more like carrying the weight of the whole forest on his back. His bow was still slung over his shoulder when he ducked into the marui, already exhaling like he could finally set the world down for a moment.
He didn’t notice the small movement at first.
Neytiri glanced up, a soft smile tugging at her mouth, but she said nothing.
Jake took another step inside.
Then something wrapped around his leg.
He startled, looking down.
(Y/n) stood there, tiny hands clutching his calf like he might disappear if she let go. She wobbled on unsteady feet, tail flicking hard for balance, and tilted her head all the way back to look up at him.
Her face lit up.
“Da-da.”
The word landed like a spear straight through his chest.
Jake froze.
“…what?” he breathed, barely daring to believe it.
(Y/n) grinned wider, let go of his leg just long enough to make grabby hands at him, opening and closing her fists urgently.
“Da-da,” she said again, louder this time.
Jake’s bow slid off his shoulder and hit the ground unnoticed as he dropped to his knees in front of her.
“Hey,” he said, voice breaking despite himself. “Hey—did you hear that?”
Neytiri laughed softly behind him, eyes bright. “She has been waiting for you.”
Jake scooped (Y/n) up instantly, lifting her like she weighed nothing at all. (Y/n) squealed, delighted, and immediately grabbed his face with both hands, fingers pressing into his cheeks as if she needed to make sure he was real.
“Da-da,” she repeated, right in his face.
Jake laughed, the sound sharp and wet all at once. He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes squeezing shut.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, baby girl. I’m here.”
(Y/n) patted his cheeks, fascinated, then said it again, sloppier this time, but unmistakable.
“Dada.”
Jake pulled her into his chest, holding her tight, one big hand cradling the back of her head like he was afraid the moment might vanish if he loosened his grip.
Neytiri watched them, heart full, saying nothing.
Jake kissed (Y/n) hair, then her temple, then her cheek, laughing softly every time she repeated the word like it was the greatest victory of her life.
And for the first time that day, the weight on his shoulders disappeared completely.
Nothing mattered except the small voice against his chest, saying his name like it was the greatest thing she knew.
A mishap
(Y/n) had discovered a dangerous new truth:
She could walk wherever she wanted.
Her steps were still a little wobbly, knees locking too straight, tail flicking wildly for balance, but she knew how to move now. One foot. Then the other. Hands out like she was holding onto invisible air.
While Jake and Neytiri were inside the marui, quietly arguing over whether (Y/n) had eaten enough and whether she needed another nap, their daughter toddled straight toward the entrance.
Sunlight spilled in.
(Y/n) paused, blinking at it like it was a personal invitation.
She took one step outside.
Then another.
The forest hummed softly around her, leaves whispering, insects clicking, distant calls echoing through the trees. (Y/n) made a delighted little sound under her breath and kept going, completely unaware that she was about to give two seasoned warriors a collective heart attack.
Inside the marui, Neytiri turned.
“Jake,” she said slowly. “Where is our daughter?”
Jake looked down.
Then around.
Then at the empty space where (y/n) should have been sitting, chewing on a strip of woven fiber and trying to eat it.
“…hey,” he said, already rising. “(Y/n)?”
Neytiri was on her feet instantly.
“(Y/n)!” she called, sharp and panicked now.
Outside, (y/n) stopped walking when a shadow fell over her.
She looked up.
Mo’at stood there, arms folded, gaze piercing, but the moment she saw who it was, her expression softened.
“Well,” Mo’at said dryly. “And where do you think you are going, little one?”
(Y/n) blinked.
Then smiled.
She held her arms up without hesitation, a clear pick me up gesture, tail swishing proudly like she’d just completed an important mission.
Mo’at sighed, but there was affection in it as she bent down and lifted her granddaughter into her arms.
“You walk now,” she murmured. “So you believe the world belongs to you.”
(Y/n) laughed, a breathy, delighted giggle, and patted Mo’at’s chest as if this was all part of the plan.
Mo’at turned back toward the marui just as Jake and Neytiri burst out.
Jake froze when he saw them.
“Oh thank goodness,” he breathed, running a hand over his head.
Neytiri was already crossing the distance, reaching out instinctively. “Mother she—”
“She wandered,” Mo’at said calmly, adjusting (y/n) on her hip. “Very confidently.”
(Y/n) chose that moment to wave at her parents like she’d simply gone on a short walk and was now being escorted home.
Neytiri scooped her out of Mo’at’s arms the second she was close enough, pressing (Y/n) tight against her chest, hands trembling despite herself.
“You do not do that,” Neytiri hissed softly into (Y/n)’s hair, voice shaking with relief. “You do not leave without us.”
(Y/n) blinked up at her mother, completely unbothered, and patted her collarbone.
“Mama,” she giggled.
That was it Neytiri couldn’t be upset with her.
Neytiri closed her eyes and held her tighter.
Jake let out a weak laugh, stepping closer and brushing his thumb over (Y/n) foot as if to confirm she was real. “She almost gave us a heart attack,” he said.
Mo’at raised a brow. “Get used to it.”
(Y/n) rested her head against Neytiri’s shoulder, perfectly content now that she was back where she belonged, utterly unaware that she’d just aged her parents about ten years in under a minute.
You were always the forgotten one. You were the eldest like Neteyam, so your father didn't focus on you, and you weren't the youngest so your mother didn't really focus on you, you had no interest in running a muck, so Lo'ak and Spider didn't hang with you, and you didn't want to be a healer so your grandmother was busy with Kiri.
You were used to being alone. You kinda liked it that way. But that didn't mean you wanted to die alone.
It had been like any other raid. Blowing up trains, taking weapons and valuables from the sky demons, it was normal until it wasn't. You felt it immediately hit your side. It sent you and your ikran down. Nobody noticed in the chaos.
You bit your lip, pulling your hand from your side as your gaze locked onto your red soken hand. "Fuck.. nononono..." you were fifteen, you didn't know how to deal with a bullet wound to the hip.
Biting down hard on a piece of cloth, you used the rest to tie it around your hip. It would make do till you got back to camp.
It was already dark. You didn't even know how long you sat there for. By the time you had arrived, the camp was in rest. Your family probably thought you were out by yourself like always.
You didn't want to be a burden. Grandmother had probably treated hundreds today. Why wake her to treat more?
Blood dripped from your side as you hobbled your way to your family's marui. Everyone was asleep, as expected. You bit your lip to hide your hiss of pain as you're laid down on your sleeping mat. Your vision blurred as you curled onto your side, one hand holding onto your wrapped side as unconsciousness took over.
It wasn't until halfway through the next day that your family noticed something was wrong. Tuk had wanted someone to play with. Not your mother's concern of where you had been, not one of your brothers telling you to come eat, you baby sister had been bored.
You were still curled up, your hand now limp, Tuk ran in, storming over to you. "(Name)! Wanna play... a.. game...huh.. what are you covered in..?" Tuk looked down at her hand that had just touched your side. It was covered in a sticky, red, and brown liquid.
"(Name), wake up!" Tuk shook you again, stopping after a few minutes of no reaction. The seven year old pouted, turning around. "Sa'nok! (Name) is ignoring me! She's pretending to be asleep, and I think she got into your paints"
Tuk whined, holding her blood covered hand out to her mother. Neytiri turned her head toward her youngest, her heart stopping. She snatched Tuk's hand, bringing it to her nose. A metallic smell filled her senses.
Neytiri scrambled up, running over to you. The trembling woman turned you onto your back, letting out a cry when you stayed limp.
"Jake..! Ma'Jake! Help me!" Neytiri cried out, pulling the cloth from around your hip off. The wound immediately started pooling blood. Jake came running. He didn't know what was happening, all that Neytiri was screaming.
Noise faded into the background as Tuk watched her parents scrambled around her older sister. She didn't know it yet, but she was the one to discover her older sisters dead body. You had been dead for hours. You hadn't slipped unconscious when you had gotten home. You had died.
(Name) Sully had died alone, thinking her family didn't love nor care about her.
What if you wrote metkayina child!reader that’s best friends with Tuk
Here you go, love, I changed it a bit if that's okay? I just got into a flow lol
Tuk stood with her hands on her hips, staring at her three other friends. The four seven year olds were standing around a bunch of rocks near the waters edge in Awa'atlu. You and two of the other kids were Metkayina. You were kids Tuk had become close friends with.
Tuk turned to Oi'el, a boy with long, curly black hair that he refused to let his mum braid. "Okay, Oi'el, you'll be the Sempul, and I'll be the Sa'nok. Pmli will be -" Tuk didn't even get to finish her sentence before Oi'el cut in.
"What? But I want (Name) to be the Sa'nok!" The boy whined, stomping his foot against the sand. Tuk shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest. "No! (Name) is the baby!" Tuk yelled, grabbing your hand. You, on the other hand, did not care. In fact, you were more interested in a pretty shell on the floor.
"Tuk, you're not being fair! You don't make the rules!" Oi'el yelled, reaching down to grab your other hand, pulling your attention from the shell. Pmli just watched, not wanting to get involved, knowing how both Tuk and Oi'el could be.
"(Name) was my friend first!" Oi'el cried, roughly pulling on your arm, which caused you to let out a small noise. Tuk's face scrunched up, a frown on her lips. "So!? That doesn't mean anything!" Tuk hollered back, also roughly pulling on your arm that she had a hold of.
"Ow! Let go!" You suddenly yelled, causing both children to stop and step back, letting you go. "I don't want to play anymore!" You cried out before running back towards the marui's.
A few hours later, you were lying on the floor, your head in your mother's lap as she gently brushed through your hair. "Oh, I'm sure they didn't mean to do anything wrong.. sometimes kids get rough." You pouted, fiddling with a bead in your mother's top.
You dug your toes into the sand as you stand in front of Tuk and Oi'el. The two looked guilty, fiddling with their fingers. Oi'el was the first to speak. "I'm really sorry, (Name). I didn't mean to hurt you, and I'm sorry for yelling at you, Tuk." The boy mumbled, looking down at the floor.
Tuk nodded before speaking. "I'm also sorry, I didn't mean to grab you, (name) and I'm sorry, Oi'el." You nodded. The three of you stood there in silence before you decided to break it. "So.. wanna play tag..?" The two other kids smiled and nodded. "Tag!" You pressed your hand into Oi'el's shoulder before you and Tuk took off, giggling as Oi'el screeched about how that wasn't fair and he wasn't ready as he chased after yous.
Ohh can you write a fic where reader is like the youngest, younger than tuk. And has like all na'vi features but is like obsessed with jake, lo'ak, kiri and spider's features but especially lo'ak's hand? Like she refuses anyone but him to braid her hair cos she likes the way his fingers feel on her scalp? Can she be born like after neytem died so she doesn't know how lo'ak feels about his hands but unknowingly like heals him?
For my mootie!! ^^ ngl I went a bit rogue with this sorry ml
Lo'ak hated his hands. He hated his face, the humanity in his features. Every time he looked down and saw those hands. His hands. He felt sick. He felt repulsed. Part of him hated his father for giving him these features, these hands. Hands like these killed his uncle, his grandfather, his brother. So why did you love them?
Why did you, little two year old you, love his hands, his haired eyebrows, his extra finger. Why did you refuse to let anyone but Lo'ak do your hair? Why did you want to hold his hand? Why did you whined until Lo'ak ran his hand up and down your back at night.
Every time you touched his hands, all he could think about was how these hands had held his brothers chest as he bled out. How could you love him?
You never met your eldest brother, Neteyam, when he was still alive. Your mother had found out she was pregnant with you just after the fight with the mangkwan. You had only met Neteyam through the spirit tree, but you had heard all the stories. 'Oh, Neteyam was a mighty warrior!' 'Neteyam was a true Na'vi, just like your mother!'
You knew Lo'ak was different from you. You didn't have that little finger on your hands. It made you mad. Why did Lo'ak get an extra finger? That wasn't fair!
It was late at night, Neytiri huffed as she tried to get you to settle, but you were having none of it. Lo'ak wasn't there. He had gone out late night fishing with A'oung and a few others.
"Ma.. Lo?" You said, rubbing your eye as you laid against your mother. "No, prrnen (baby). Lo'ak is busy." Neytiri said, reaching up to run her fingers through your hair, only for you to whine and push her away, lying down onto Lo'ak's sleeping mat. "Want Lo!" You screeched, making your mother sign.
As if on cue, Lo'ak walked in. A bag of fish over his shoulder, an exhausted look on his face. You sprung up, tears immediately welling in your large, yellow eyes as you practically wrapped yourself around Lo'ak's leg.
Lo'ak set down the bag of fish before pulling you back, crouching down to your level. You stood between his bent legs as he held your little waist. "What is wrong?" Lo'ak said. He sounded dull. "Want Lo." You said before adding a bunch of toddler gibberish. Lo'ak caught a few words in between the semi English and Navi languages.
"Scratches, head, lo." You plucked one of his hands off your stomach before placing it on your head. "Only lo do." Lo'ak felt his heart burst. Out of everyone. You wanted him. Him and his alien hands.
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