Description: Jake meets his son for the first time.
Content Warnings: Reader just gave birth, so verrry brief description of it.
Author's note: Just a cute little Jake fic to get me reacclimated after writing for other characters! Based on this request!
Through your sweat soaked skin, you could feel Jake’s hand on your head, cradling you like something precious as you cradled something even more so. You could not see Jake, only felt him. You were too transfixed by the miracle in your arms. It had only been moments since Tsahik had handed you the writhing, wrinkly, tiny infant, but you felt like you had held him forever. You smiled down at the baby boy, feeling his wonder through the bond.
Beside you, Jake looked on in even more awe at his son. “You did so good, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. Mo’at smiled faintly at the three of you before she made a quiet exit out of your kelku (home).
“That took strength I did not know I possessed,” you admitted.
“You’re so strong. You made it look easy,” he smiled, running a hand to smooth out the hair his kiss had just mussed.
“Thank you, Ma’Jake. It was worth it,” you said.
He had been with you every moment of the long birth, waiting for hours at your side to support and help you along the way. You had squeezed his hand so hard that you were sure he would have bruises, but he never complained. Not once.
“Nine months of waiting and now he’s here. This doesn't feel real, like it's all a dream that I don't want to wake up from,” Jake muttered.
“You will never have to,” you assured him, watching his golden eyes be transfixed on his family. “You should hold him,” you added, moving your arms toward him as an offering.
“Are you sure?” he asked you, looking conflicted. It was evident he wanted to hold his son, but he also knew that the bond with the mother was important.
“He is your child too. Neteyam is waiting to say hello,” you insisted.
Jake eased at that, reaching forward to gently take the small babe into his large hands. With both of Jake’s hands together, Neteyam fit longways nearly perfectly. Jake shifted his hand behind Neteyam’s head and settled him into his elbow closest to you. You reached out and ran your fingertips through Neyetam’s sparse, fine hair. The downy feeling soothed your nerves as your body still reeled from the shock of birth.
Your eyes had been locked on Neteyam’s cute face as he reacted to seeing his father for the first time and feeling the security of his arms. He would come to know, as you did, that they were the safest place to be.
You slowly disconnected your kuru from Neteyam’s, hating the empty feel of him not being on the other end, but knowing Jake needed to connect as well. You reached a hand to Jake’s back, fishing for the long, black braid you had redone only days ago. When you found it, you pulled it around his side and brought the ends to join them together. Your mate seemed to barely notice until the neural ends made contact.
Neteyam’s eyes grew wide as he felt his father down the bond. His mouth opened just the smallest bit and you realized that would be about as close as he would get to a smile for a while.
Jake on the other hand was beaming at Neteyam, his eyes growing glassier by the second until a fat drop of salty water fell down his cheek. Your tough marine was crying. You had only seen him cry once in the year you had known him and that had been a brief moment of grieving after Grace’s death. You hoped these were happy tears now.
"Hello, Neteyam, mighty warrior," Jake mumbled as he gently held Neteyam's tiny hand. You noticed that his own hand was shaking slightly. You knew Jake well enough to know that it was likely not fear, but excitement and adrenaline, causing the tremors.
“He’s perfect,” Jake muttered with unfiltered joy. You reached up a hand, cupped your husband's cheek, and swept away the tear with your thumb. “I feel him. He’s everything I hoped he would be and so much more.”
“He is Eywa’s gift,” you agreed.
“I think she saved the best one for us,” he said, running finger around the curve of Neteyam’s ear.
“The Great Mother does not have favorites …” you repeated what you had been told all your life, but suddenly doubted for the first time. “Yet, surely she has at least rewarded us. He is perfect,” you agreed.
Pairings: avatar! Lyle wainfleet x fem mangkwan! Reader
Summary: a tense encounter in the ash covered land sparks a connection between you and Lyle, through curiosity and combat training is when distrust, slowly turns into trust and safety.
Notes: I haven’t proof read it yet!
Warnings: weapon use, angst?(if you squint), Fluff (just a bit), slow burn undertones… let me know if i missed anything!
Word count: 1.6k
Part 2
The air was thick with smoke and ash, the remnants of the old forest clinging to everything.
The ground crunched underfoot, blackened and brittle from the volcanic eruption that had scarred this place years ago.
The scent of burnt wood and sulfur lingered, chard and metallic, mixing with the damp earthy smell of what little growth survived.
Quaritch’s voice cut through the haze as him and Varang stood toe to toe. “Touch me with that thing again and I’ll kill you.”
You tightened your grip on your weapon, jaw set. Beside her, waiting for her word, ready to protect your older sister.
Varang smirked, releasing a low breathy laugh. “You will kill no one.” She said, voice firm.
Quaritch’s mouth, curved just slightly when he spoke. “Drop him.”
A body hit the ground beside him.
Gasps rippled through the clan. Shouts rose. Weapons waved wildly as everyone was searching scrambling over jagged ash and scorched roots. “Where did it come from?!” Someone yelled, spinning in circles.
Almost immediately, your eyes find him.
His figure moving out of the shadows. Shirtless. Silent.
He was taller than most. Broader.
He emerged fully through the dusted air and into the sunlight. Muscles flexing with each step.
The faint sheen of sweat causing a glow that traces over every line of muscle, every scar.
He didn’t lower his weapon, not immediately. His rifle rests casually on his shoulder, the way he moves fluid and controlled. His eyes scanned through the clan, calculating, unyielding.
And then he stopped. Right in the center behind quaritch, right where a beam of sunlight fell across him.
You couldn’t look away. Your eyes traced the lean strength in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell.
Ash clings to him, smudged across his chest and arms, making him look forged from the ruin itself.
Your breath goes shallow.
You step closer without thinking, you stop a few steps from him, ash crunching softly underfoot.
Varang’s voice carries somewhere behind you, tangled up with Quaritch.. too distracted to notice you drifting off.
Your teeth baring just slightly as a warning slips from your throat.
A hiss.
Low and instinctive, a warning meant for predators that don’t belong.
He head turns then. Slowly.
His eyes find you with unnerving ease, assessing, like he’d already felt you watching. Like he’d been waiting for it.
You hiss again, shaper this time, tail flicking once behind you.
His gaze drags over your face before settling back on your eyes.
You step closer. Not rushed. Close enough now that the heat from his skin reaches you.
You begin to circle him slowly, letting your eyes roam. The sweep of his back, the lean line of his waist, noticing the scars, you moved quietly around him.
Then your eyes catch it. A Dark, intricate shape along his right arm. You pause mid step, tail flicking as your head tilts, examining it. Without thinking, you move closer.
Fingers brushing over his skin, tracing the lines of ink along his bicep.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Hes simply watching you . “Curious, aren’t you, buttercup?” His voice low, smooth.
You flinch away as you look at him.“You do not belong here.” You say, voice sharp. “And yet… you are here anyway. Why?’’ The corners of his mouth twitch, slow and amused.
🐾
Cold metal, unfamiliar in a way that makes your tail twitch.
The weapon is heavier than you expect when he places it in your hands. But heavier is the presence of him pressing so close.
He stands behind you, shirtless, arms flexing, tattoos twisting over muscle as he adjusts your grip. “Relax your stance” he says, voice low and steady, and you feel it rumble through the air around you.
“ i do not need this,” you mutter through gritted teeth.
He ignores the protest. “Steady,” he murmurs. His chest brushes your back as his fingers press lightly against yours, correcting your grip. His other hand presses against yours waist , adjusting your stance.
you hiss softly, low, warning. Your tail curling around his leg loosely, you grunt, trying to focus. “I have held weapons before.” You snap, though the heat creeping up your neck betrays you.
“Not like this,” he says, low and measured. “Relax,” he adds, lips barely brushing your ear. “Your shoulders are tense. You’ll throw the shot.”
“ I don’t need you to—“ you start, but he cuts you off.
“Stop fighting me,” he says, voice rough now. “Focus.” You inhale slowly, biting back your words as he steps back, watching you with his arms crossed.
You grit your teeth and adjust the way you think you should.
Breathe. Aim. Pull.
Miss.
Your jaw tightens. The air around you quiet now. You can feel his eyes on you.
“Again.” He ordered, voice sharp, commanding.
You fire again.
Miss.
Your fingers tremble. Not from the weight, from the frustration crawling up your throat and your ears flatten against your head.
Another shot. Worse than the last.
Then he’s behind you again, even closer, just enough the heat of his chest presses against yours back more firmly. Arms flexing while he positions himself over your shoulder.
His hands land on yours, steadying the gun and guiding your fingers on the trigger. “Breathe,” he murmurs, breath warm against your neck. “ don’t fight it. Control it… or it controls you.”
You let yourself lean back just slightly into the pressure of him, the solid weight of him pressing against your back, the presence of him anchor you.
“Now pull”, he says low, almost a growl.
You pull. The shot cracks loud and sharp.
Recoil jolts through your hands and straight into him. His hand tightens on yours, holding you steady.
Hit.
A grin tugs at your lips.
“Again.” He prompted, not moving away His hand slides over your wrist, to steady your aim.
Your pulse hammers as you squeeze… and the shot rings out, sharp and clean.
Another hit.
You laugh out, loud and messy. “ i hit it… twice!”
He doesn’t move back. Not yet. A smirk tugging at his lips. “Hmmm.. thanks to me.” His voice teasing “I did the work for you, buttercup.” He adds.
Your elbow swings back and it hits him square in the stomach. He grunts, caught off guard.
you don’t pause. Shots rang out again, crack after crack, every hit clean and precise. “This was no thanks to you” You grin as you examine to gun in your hand, exhilarated.
🐾
Jake sully was restrained, hands bound, shoulders tense. His head held high as the humans guided him forward.
The ship thrummed under your feet, metal vibrating faintly through your soles, reverberating into every bone in your body.
Lights over head glared harshly. Blinding. Reflecting off of every polished surface.
Humans crowed the outskirts that surrounded you. Snapping picture after picture, the flashes made your eyes sting, ears flatten, tail twitch in warning.
You felt exposed, small. You froze, overwhelmed, every instinct screamed to hide as you stood there but there was no where to go.
“Hey,” Lyle, called out and your head snapped toward him, his arm extended slightly. “Stay close.” His voice cutting through the chaos.
Instinctively, you made your way over, every step toward him felt magnetic.
When you reached him, your fingers wrapped around his arm without hesitation, holding onto it as if your life depended on it.
His arm was solid and warm, a stark contrast to the metal of the ship. He pressed slightly into you as you clung. “I’ve got you, baby.” He murmured voice steady and reassuring and everything faded in the back ground as you guys walked.
The humans around you breaking out into cheers, their fist pumping up in the air, smiles beaming across their faces.
you look up at lyle as he speaks. “Oorah,” he grins, looking down at you.
“Oorah.” You repeat quietly, head tilting at the foreign word before you break out into a smile.
🐾
The celebration rages around you.
Fire crackles along the ash-strewn village as the clan celebrates, shouting, stomping, dancing, victory in every movement.
You glance to the shadows, and there he is.. Lyle, muscles taut, stance casual, but eyes always watching, always alert.
You slide up to him, nudging his shoulder lightly. "You are part of the celebration too... but you stand like a stone" you murmur, voice teasing. "Come on... put something on."
He raises an eyebrow. "Something?"
You grab his hand, pulling him after you and into your makeshift hut from charred trees with a grin.
"Yes. This." You say, grabbing the loincloth you made for him. "And.. the paints. Your body should honor the victory.’
“The clan will love it. I will love it." You say, turning to face him.
His eyes catch yours, he smirks. "You want me to parade around like a warrior.. naked-ish and painted up."
"Yes.... That is what i want." You say, simply.
He exhales, mock groaning, but there's amusement in it as he shakes his head. "Fine." He says voice low.
Now, you’re helping him wrap the loincloth around his hips, tail flicking as you do.
The loincloth is in place, tied snugly. You step back just enough to take him in... shirtless, hips wrapped, the firelight dancing across his chest,arms and shoulders.
You lick your lips, tail flicking "Perfect.” You breathed.
He caught the glint of your gaze, smirk widening. “I see that look, buttercup.” He said, lowly.
“Quiet…’’ you roll your eyes. “now, i paint."
You dip your fingers into the red paint and you begin decorating his chest, shoulders, arms and stomach, accentuating every tattoo and scar.
His muscles flex under your touch, every movement deliberate and intimate.
You can feel his eyes on your face as your hands move, standing toe to toe.
He leans closer, chest pressing into yours. "You always get what you want." He doesn't wait. His hand cups the side of your face, thumb brushing along your jaw, and his lips brush yours, slow, testing.
Heat sparks along your spine. You hiss, low, teeth grazing his bottom lip as you kiss back, bold and claiming.
Finally, he pulls back slightly, foreheads resting together, breath hot and ragged.
