#jake sully

[aswilder97]

Chapter 10 of A House Made For Two is live. 🕯️

Act Two continues. The vigil holds — for now.

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[aswilder97]

The next chapter of Nothing Has Changed is up for members right now — the rest of AO3 and Wattpad get it Monday.

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[dillpixlespitz]

Fuuucckkk… 🫠

Jake Slutty 🫣

[just-another-idk]

Covers by @cofies-of-ntymsluvr and @whos-nin1 respectively

The Eldest

Sully family x eldest daughter reader An: Let AFAA begins

Part 53 > Part 54 < Part 55

Moving On

They landed their ikrans still half running on the rush of the fight, both of them breathing hard as they slid from the saddles and hit the ground. Lo’ak barely had both feet under him before Neteyam caught him in a headlock and started ruffling his hair hard enough to make him stumble.

“Skawng, let go.”

Neteyam only tightened his arm for another second, grinning, breathless from the flight, before finally shoving him away. Lo’ak wriggled free, laughing under his breath as he pushed his hair out of his face.

“It was cool riding with you, bro,” he said, still smiling.

Neteyam lifted his hand for a high four.

Lo’ak went to slap it, then pulled away at the last second on purpose just to be a pain in the ass.

Neteyam sighed and rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite in it. He was still smiling when he looked around, taking in the floating mountains, the ikrans, the world that somehow looked exactly the same even though it wasn’t.

He looked back at his brother.

“I gotta get back, bro,” Lo’ak said, and the sadness in his own voice surprised him.

Neteyam’s smile softened.

“Little brother,” he said, “tell me one thing before you go. How did I die?”

He looked down.

“You got shot.”

Neteyam went still.

Lo’ak swallowed. “We could’ve escaped. We were supposed to. But I made us go back for Spider.”

“Then we had to go back,” Neteyam said. “That’s not your fault.”

Lo’ak gave a short, humourless laugh. “Tell that to Dad. Tell that to (Y/n). We weren’t even supposed to be out there. I got us caught because I disobeyed orders.”

“That’s just you, little bro,” Neteyam said, and punched him lightly in the chest like he was trying to make it less heavy, like this was still just them and not a brother speaking to a ghost.

Lo’ak stared at him.

Neteyam shrugged, like if he had the choice again he would still make it. Still go back. Still follow Lo’ak into the kind of trouble that got people killed.

Lo’ak stepped forward and hugged him before he could think too hard about it.

Neteyam hugged him back.

And that hurt more than anything.

Because it felt real.

Like his brother was still here and none of it had happened and if Lo’ak opened his eyes in the right way maybe they would just be back on the beach, back in the village, back before the ship and the blood and the look on Neteyam’s face when he said he wanted to go home.

“I love you, brother,” Lo’ak said. Because he had told him that he wasn't his brother. Oh how he wished he could take him all back, wish he could have told Neteyam that whenhe was still alive. 

Neteyam huffed out a laugh against him. “Skawng.”

Then he stepped back, smiling, and there was so much love in it that Lo’ak almost couldn’t look at him.

“And go easy on (Y/n),” Neteyam said.

Lo’ak’s face hardened at once.

He looked down.

Neteyam rested a hand on his shoulder. “She’s mad, but she loves you. So do I.”

Lo’ak didn’t answer.

Because easy for Neteyam to say.

Easy for him.

He wasn’t the one having to walk back into that marui and feel (Y/n)’s glare land on him every five seconds like she was trying to burn a hole straight through his skull. He wasn’t the one being looked at like the whole thing was because of him.

Lo’ak disconnected from the spirit tree and swam for the surface, taking a deep breath the second his head broke the water.

The air felt colder out here.

And with it came the weight of everything all over again.

He killed his brother.

No matter what Neteyam said, no matter how many times he tried to shrug it off or twist it or spread the blame around, that truth still sat there in his chest like a stone.

He had dragged Neteyam back into that ship.

He had made the call.

He had chosen Spider.

And Neteyam had died.

Lo’ak punched at the water hard enough to send it splashing.

“Go easy on (Y/n),” he muttered bitterly.

Easy for him to say.

He wasn’t the one listening to her scream What the fuck did you do? in front of everyone.

He wasn’t the one hearing All they had to do was leave over and over like there had been some simple, obvious path out of that mess and Lo’ak had been the only idiot too stupid to see it.

His jaw clenched.

What did (Y/n) even have to be mad about?

Really.

She had chosen to jump onto that ship.

That had been her decision.

No one forced her.

No one dragged her there.

She had made that call all on her own, and if she got trapped, if she nearly drowned, if she ended up coughing blood and glaring at him like he had shoved her under the water himself, that wasn’t on him.

It wasn’t.

Lo’ak latched onto that thought and held it hard because the other one was worse.

The other one was Neteyam bleeding out on the rocks.

The other one was Dad looking at him like something had gone wrong too deep to name.

The other one was knowing that some part of him already agreed with her.

That he had screwed up.

That he had pushed and pushed and pushed until someone else paid for it.

So instead he got angry.

He could be angry at (Y/n) for acting like she was righteous when she was the one who had almost drowned.

He could be angry at her for making him the villain when she had launched herself straight into the same fight.

He could be angry at the way she got held and soothed and fussed over while he stood there with his brother dead and no one asking if he was okay.

He could be angry at the way she looked at him, like she knew exactly where the blame belonged and was just waiting for everyone else to catch up.

She didn’t get to do that.

She didn’t get to blame him for everything and then sit there like some tragic hero when she had made her own reckless choices too.

She didn’t get to glare at him like it was all his fault.

Not when a part of him knew that already.

Spider watched Kiri hold (Y/n) while she coughed and cried.

He stood there for a second and did nothing because he did not know what to do with the guilt crawling all over him, inside him, under his skin, making it hard to stand still and somehow harder to move. It felt like something was chewing through his chest from the inside out.

He could still hear what she had screamed at Lo’ak on the rocks.

All they had to do was leave.

And she was right.

That was the worst part.

She was right.

Neteyam and Lo’ak had gone back for him.

For him.

and Neteyam was dead because of it.

His stomach twisted.

(Y/n) had almost died because of it too.

He looked at her now, folded over in Kiri’s arms, coughing so hard her whole body kept jerking with it, every breath wet and ragged and wrong. Kiri was holding her like if she loosened her grip even a little her sister might slip away, one hand rubbing her back, the other braced around her shoulders while Tuk cried somewhere nearby.

Spider felt sick.

Because Lo’ak and Neteyam had chosen to rescue him instead of her.

And she had been trapped under that metal.

Pinned there.

Drowning while they went for him.

He dragged a hand over his face and it came away wet.

He hadn’t even realised he was crying.

All his life people had gotten hurt because of him.

Because he was human.

Because he was with the Sullys.

When he and Kiri were younger and the other kids had picked at him, picked at her for being with him, (Y/n) had stepped in every time. She had always been the one to shove herself between them and whatever was coming, sharp-tongued and mean enough to make people back off, and if they didn’t back off she’d make them.

She had defended him.

Always.

And Neteyam had died saving him.

And (Y/n) had nearly drowned because of it.

It pressed in on him from every side, thick and suffocating, like a massive boulder crushing him. His lungs felt like they couldn’t pull in enough air no matter how hard he tried, each breath shallow and tight and useless. His ribs ached, like something inside him was trying to claw its way out.

His stomach twisted so hard it made him feel sick, a nauseating churn that wouldn’t settle, that kept rising higher the more he thought about it—Neteyam, (Y/n), the sound of her coughing now.

His hands trembled at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he needed to grab onto something solid just to stay upright.

Guilt crawled under his skin, like it was burning through him from the inside. It made his throat tight, made his eyes sting.

It was crushing him

He walked, arms going around (Y/n) from the other side while Kiri still held her. He hugged her carefully, like if he squeezed too hard she might break apart in his hands, and the second he touched her she coughed again, hard enough to make panic jump through him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”

The words sounded pathetic the second they left his mouth. Small. Useless. Not even close to enough.

(Y/n) bent forward with another rough coughing fit and Spider tightened his hold on while Kiri rubbed her back harder.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, tears streaming down his face now because he could not stop them. “Breathe. Please, just breathe.”

“Slow breaths,” Kiri said tightly, holding her sister. “Big sister, breathe.”

(Y/n) coughed and coughed and coughed until Spider thought she might actually choke.

And every second of it felt like punishment. Like he should have to sit there and listen to what almost dying sounded like because this was his fault. Because Neteyam had gone back for him. Because Lo’ak had chosen him. Because (Y/n) had been left under that metal while they pulled him out instead. 

The fit finally started to ease.

Not by much.

Just enough that she could drag in a shaky breath and lift her head a little.

Her eyes were red and wet and exhausted when they found him.

“Why,” she rasped, voice ruined from coughing, “are you apologising?”

His face crumpled.

“Because Lo’ak said he and Neteyam went back to rescue me,” he said, the words tripping over each other in his rush to get them out. “And not you.”

More tears spilled down his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and his chest hurt so badly he had to force the next words through it. “The reason you’re like this is because of me. I’m sorry. I wish they’d gone back for you instead.”

He was admitting what part of him had already been thinking since the rocks.

That it should have been her. That if someone had to be left behind, it should have been him.

(Y/n) said nothing.

She just doubled over coughing again.

Spider and Kiri both caught her as her whole body jerked with it, Kiri mumbling softly under her breath while Spider held her upright and felt the guilt tear through him all over again.

Because he could say sorry until his throat gave out.

He could cry.

He could wish himself somewhere else, wish he had never been on that ship, wish Neteyam had ignored him, wish Lo’ak had left him there and gone back for his sister instead.

None of it changed what had happened.

Neteyam was still dead.

(Y/n) was still coughing blood into her hands.

And Spider still had to live with the fact that both of those things had happened because they came back for him.

After the funeral, Jake carried (Y/n) home.

She did not argue when he lifted her.

Did not tell him she could walk.

She only curled weakly against him, one arm hanging around his shoulders while he held her carefully against his chest and walked back toward the marui with the rest of their children trailing behind them in silence. Kiri and Tuk stayed close. Lo’ak hung further back. Spider came too, quiet and pale and wrung out in a way Jake did not have the energy to look at for too long.

Everything hurt.

His son was gone.

His daughter was in his arms and still not safe.

The family entered the marui one by one, all of them moving slower than usual, grief had settled into their bones and made each step heavier. Jake lowered (Y/n) near the hammocks while the others drifted to their own places.

Spider paused by Neteyam’s hammock.

Jake saw the boy stand there for half a second too long, staring at the woven edges and the place where Neteyam should have been, before finally climbing into it because there was nowhere else for him to go.

Something in Jake’s chest twisted so sharply it almost stopped him where he stood.

Neteyam’s hammock.

His son’s place.

And it wasn't his son filling it, but a boy as good as a son. .

Neytiri started gathering extra hides and pillows with hands that still trembled from the funeral, and Jake set (Y/n) down carefully on her side before the coughing could start again.

She was burning through what little strength she had left just staying upright during the funeral. Her cough was still wet, still deep, every fit sounding painful enough to drag straight through her ribs.

Her voice had gone hoarse from all the seawater and crying. Her skin felt chilled, which was a good sign, fever hadn't set in.

She looked exhausted in a way that went beyond tiredness, her body still fighting even though it had little to no energy left to keep that fight going.

She coughed into her hand and Jake saw the streak of blood in the mucus before she turned it away.

His heart lurched.

“How you feeling, kid?” he asked, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

(Y/n) swallowed hard, eyes glassy with exhaustion. “Sick.”

That one word came out rough. Hoarse.

She swallowed again and shut her eyes briefly like even that much talking had taken too much out of her.

“Nauseous,” she whispered after a second. “Head hurts.”

Jake’s heart ached for her.

She had swallowed half the ocean, been pinned in a sinking ship, drowned long enough that he had thought she was gone, and then buried her brother on top of it.

The nausea would be from all the seawater she had taken in.

The headache from oxygen loss, from crying, from everything her body had been dragged through in one night.

Neytiri brought over a bowl and another pillow. Jake shifted, placing the pillow over his lap before gently pulling (Y/n) back against it so she stayed on her side with her head supported. He wanted her propped up the way Ronal had said. Wanted her lungs to have every chance they could get.

The second he moved her, she coughed again.

A wet, painful fit that folded her forward.

Jake rubbed her back while she coughed into the bowl Neytiri held beneath her mouth, each sound making his whole body tense. He could feel the force of it through her ribs, through the way her shoulders jerked and her breath kept catching between each spasm.

Neytiri crouched in front of her and brushed damp hair back from her face.

“I’ve got her,” Jake said quietly.

Neytiri looked up at him, eyes red and swollen, her own grief still sitting in every line of her face.

“Get some rest.”

“Jake—”

“I don’t think I’m getting much rest,” he said. "I've got her."

It came out rougher than he meant it to, but there was no real edge in it. Only the simple truth that there was no chance in hell he was sleeping while their daughter was like this.

Neytiri hesitated, then nodded once.

Tuk clung to her side the moment she stood, and Neytiri took their youngest with her into the hammock, settling her close while still keeping her gaze fixed on (Y/n) as though she could not bear to look away for long.

Jake looked back down at the girl in his lap.

“Pumpkin,” he said softly, brushing a hand through her hair. “What were you thinking?”

(Y/n) shuddered and coughed again.

She tried to answer.

He saw it in the way her lips parted, in the stubborn little crease between her brows, but the breath she dragged in only triggered another coughing fit and Jake rubbed her back in slow steady circles until it passed.

“Shh,” he murmured. “Don’t speak. Just try and get some rest.”

He pulled a thin blanket over her after that, tucking it around her shoulders and down over her legs because Ronal had said to keep her warm. Even now she felt chilled beneath his hands, shivering every now and then despite the heat trapped in the marui.

Eventually the coughing eased enough for her eyes to drift shut.

Jake kept one hand in her hair, stroking it back from her face.

“It’s okay, pumpkin,” he whispered. “Dad’s here.”

But the words did nothing for him.

He could not get the sound of her voice out of his head.

The terror in it.

The way she had cried out for him in that ship.

The way her voice had gone small and scared when the water kept rising and she realised he could not get the metal off her. The look on her face while he held her head above the water and tried not to let her see how panicked he was, how helpless he was, how every second that passed felt like a countdown to losing another child right in front of him.

He could have lost his baby.

That knowledge sat in his chest like something alive and cruel.

He had seen her floating on the bottom of that ship.

She was limp in his arms.

That same awful stillness that had already become of Neteyam and thought, for one horrible moment, she was gone too.

His body remembered it even now.

The way his stomach had dropped so hard it felt like he might vomit.

The violent rush of cold through his arms and spine.

The pressure in his chest, like his ribs were being forced inward around his lungs until there was no room left to breathe.

The shaking in his hands.

The panic clawing up his throat.

Because there was nothing worse than failing a second kid.

Nothing.

And she still was not out of danger.

That was the part that would not let him settle.

The water in her lungs.

The blood in what she coughed up.

The way her breathing still sounded wrong.

Jake blinked hard when tears started burning at the back of his eyes. He looked down at her chest rising and falling against the pillow on his lap and counted the breaths without meaning to.

One.

Two.

Three.

Too fast.

Still too fast.

He slid his hand to her forehead.

Warm.

Not hot enough yet to call it a fever maybe, but warm enough that his heart gave a nasty, painful lurch anyway.

He was terrified of fever.

Always had been with her.

(Y/n) had never had a strong constitution, not the way some of the others did. Even when she was little she had always struggled more when sickness hit. Fevers clung to her. Infections lingered.

She pushed herself too hard and then paid for it in ways the others never seemed to.

Jake knew that. Had known it since she was small enough to curl against him while he sat awake through the night listening to her breathe and praying the rasp in her chest would ease by morning.

And now here they were again.

Only this time she had drowned first.

If she had not been so fragile, if her body had not already been struggling, he would have pulled her straight into his arms and held her there all night just to convince himself he could still shield her from something.

Instead he kept her propped on her side in his lap and watched.

Waited.

Listened.

She started coughing in her sleep not long after.

Just small at first.

Little catches in her breathing.

Jake rubbed her back immediately, her brow furrowed and another cough jerked through her chest.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”

The coughing grew worse.

Violent enough to wake her.

Her eyes flew open and she gasped, clutching weakly at the pillow while Jake held the bowl under her mouth and rubbed her back, steady and careful and trying not to let his own panic show as she coughed herself half awake against his lap.

When it finally eased she sagged again, exhausted, and Jake kept his hand between her shoulder blades until her breathing settled back into something closer to normal.

Then he stayed exactly where he was.

He did not lie down.

Did not even try.

Because every time the coughing stopped and she drifted back to sleep, his mind went straight to the worst place. To the possibility of the silence lasting too long. To the terror of glancing down and finding her too still. To the idea of her slipping away while he rested his eyes for one stupid second.

So he stayed awake.

Checking her breathing.

Rubbing her back when it caught.

Touching her forehead every so often.

Listening to every breath like it was the only thing holding him together.

And all the while the marui stayed quiet around him, his family grieving in their hammocks, his son’s place occupied by someone else, his daughter asleep and coughing in his lap, and Jake sat there in the dark with fear coiled so tight inside him it felt like barbed wire wrapped around his ribs, knowing that even after burying one child today, the night still was not done asking things of him.

He leaned down then, pressing a trembling kiss into his daughter’s damp hair, his lips lingering there as his eyes squeezed shut.

“Please,” he whispered, voice breaking . “Don’t take her too. Not her. I can’t— I can’t lose my daughter too.”

The words came barely more than breath, a quiet plea to anything that might be listening.

“Let her get through this,” he begged softly, his hand tightening protectively in her hair. “Please… I’ll stay awake all night if I have to. I won’t leave her. Just—just let her staylive.”

And he meant it.

He would not sleep.

Not tonight.

Not while her breathing still sounded wrong.

Not while there was even the smallest chance she might slip away from him too.

Sometime in the night, (Y/n) jerked awake coughing.

Not the small coughing that had been dragging at her lungs on and off all evening.

This was violent.

It tore through her hard enough to wrench her half upright before she even knew where she was, panic hitting her before awareness did. Her hand clawed at the blanket while the other pressed uselessly to her chest, like she could force her lungs to work if she just held herself together hard enough. For one awful second, she was sure she was back there—back in the dark belly of that ship, freezing water climbing up her body, metal trapping her in place, her wrists burning from where they had been bound. Her lungs seized with that same horrible certainty.

No air—no air—

Her chest hitched, stuttering, dragging in shallow, broken gasps that never felt like enough.

Her eyes flew open, wide and unfocused, but it didn’t matter—she couldn’t see anything past the panic clawing up her throat.

She tried to breathe.

It caught wrong.

Turned into more coughing.

Her chest burned. Her throat felt like someone had shoved a knife down it. Every attempt to inhale only made it worse, like her body was betraying her, refusing to give her what she needed most.

“Dad,” she choked out. “I can’t breathe—”

The words shattered into another coughing fit.

Tears spilled down her face before she could stop them, frustration, pain and fear mixing together as she folded forward over Jake’s lap. Her body shook with every cough, each one ripping through her chest and leaving her more desperate than the last. She could feel the mucus in her throat, thick and suffocating, and every time she tried to pull in air, her lungs only gave her scraps.

It wasn’t enough.

Her fingers clenched in the blanket. Her shoulders trembled. A broken sound slipped from her throat, something raw and helpless that she couldn’t control.

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t breathe.

Then—

Warmth.

An arm around her.

Jer dad.

It barely cut through the panic.

“Hey, hey, I got you,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, and something in her latched onto it instantly. “Come on, pumpkin. Slow it down. I got you.”

She cried harder at that.

Because she wanted to believe him.

Because she needed to believe him.

Because if he said she was okay, then maybe she was.

Her hand found his wrist without thinking, fingers curling tight around it. He was real. He was here.

Her dad was here.

Not the ship. Not the water.

Not that place.

He kept rubbing her back, firm and steady, guiding her forward the way Ronal had shown him.

“That’s it,” he said quietly. “Let it out. Don’t fight it.”

She tried.

Eywa, she tried.

But it hurt. Everything hurt. Her chest, her throat, her head—every cough felt like it was tearing her apart from the inside. Still, she followed his voice as best she could, coughing into the bowl, her breath stuttering and uneven.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know, pumpkin. You’re alright. You’re home. I got you.”

Home.

The word echoed faintly in her mind.

The coughing didn’t stop right away, but his voice gave her something to hold onto. Something stronger than the memory trying to drag her under again.

Piece by piece, she felt herself being pulled back.

The coughing began to ease.

Not all at once.

Just enough that she could catch small, shaky breaths between each one. Enough that the room stopped spinning. Enough that the ship in her mind started to fade, losing its grip on her.

She was still crying, quieter now, her body trembling with the aftermath, but the panic wasn’t suffocating her anymore.

But even as the panic loosened its grip on her lungs, something else took its place.

It settled deep in her chest, right where the coughing had been, but this didn’t ease with breath. It didn’t fade when she focused on her dad’s voice.

Why am I still here?

The thought slipped in quietly at first, almost drowned out by the sound of her own uneven breathing.

Why am I the one breathing?

Her fingers curled weakly into the blanket again, her chest tightening for a different reason now.

It should’ve been him.

Neteyam should’ve been here.

He should’ve been the one lying here, safe, breathing, alive.

Not her.

A fresh wave of tears slipped down her face.

Why did I get to live?

The question burned.

She didn’t deserve it.

He had been better than her in every way—stronger, braver, kinder. 

And she—

She had been the one who got caught.

The one who needed saving.

The one who almost died—should have died. 

And somehow, she was still here.

Still breathing.

While he—

Her chest hitched again.

He was gone.

Gone because he had gone after them.

Gone because he had tried to save them.

Gone because of her. Because she was foolish, because she got trapped under a piece of metal instead of making sure her brothers made it out. 

Her stomach twisted violently, guilt clawing up her throat, sharper than anything the sickness had done to her.

I should’ve died.

It would’ve been easier.

Easier than this ache that never left her chest.

Easier than waking up and remembering, over and over again, that he wasn’t coming back.

Easier than breathing when every breath felt wrong without him in the world.

Because why was she breathing and he wasn't. 

She swallowed hard, her lips trembling as another tear slipped free.

I’d rather be dead than feel this.

Because this—This wasn’t living.

This was just keeping on breathing. 

And she didn’t understand why she had to.

Why she was still here to feel it.

Why she had been the one spared.

Why him.

Why not me.

Jake smoothed her hair back from her damp face.

“There you go,” he said softly. “That’s my girl. Breathe with me.”

She focused on that.

Her breaths hitched and shook, uneven and fragile, but she tried to match him. In, out. In, out. Every time she faltered, his hand stayed there, steady and reassuring, guiding her through it.

She trusted that voice.

She always had.

Even now, when everything felt too much, she followed it like she had when she was little—when she was hurt, when she was scared, when she needed him to tell her she was going to be okay.

“Dad,” she rasped again, softer this time.

Jake leaned closer immediately. “I’m here.”

A sob slipped out before she could stop it as the last of the coughing faded into quiet, broken breaths.

“It should’ve been me,” she choked suddenly, the words spilling out raw and unfiltered. “I was there—I almost— I should’ve— not him—”

Her voice broke apart completely, guilt crashing over her harder than the coughing had. “He was better than me—he—he didn’t deserve—”

“Hey,” he cut in gently but firmly, pulling her closer, one hand coming up to rest on the top of her head. “Don’t—don’t think like that. Not right now.”

She shook her head weakly, tears soaking into his shoulder. “But it’s true—”

“No,” Jake said, quieter now but no less certain. His thumb brushed her hair back, grounding, steady. “No, it’s not. And we’re not doing that tonight.”

She let out a broken sound, still trying to speak, still trying to push the guilt out of her chest, but he didn’t let her spiral.

“Listen to me,” he murmured, pressing his forehead lightly against her temple. “You just gotta breathe. You just gotta get better, alright? That’s all you gotta do right now.”

She didn’t argue again.

She couldn’t.

She was too tired. Too overwhelmed.

So she just stayed there, crying quietly while he held her and kept his hand moving over her back in slow, steady strokes.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Eventually, the coughing faded completely, leaving behind only weak, shaky breaths and the exhaustion settling deep into her bones. She sagged back against the pillow in his lap, her body heavy and spent.

Jake wiped her face gently, his thumb brushing across her cheek again, softer this time.

Her eyes were already starting to close.

She didn’t fight it.

But she kept listening.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just rest.”

She focused on that voice until it was the only thing left.

Not the ship. Not the water. Not the fear.

Just her dad, right there beside her, steady and real, his hand still moving over her back every time her breathing hitched.

The last thing she felt before sleep pulled her under again was his thumb brushing her cheek.

And the last thing she heard—

“I’m right here, pumpkin and I always will be."

And that was enough.

Enough to quiet the storm in her chest, enough to soften the sharp edges of grief and fear just for a little while. Her breathing evened out slowly, still fragile but no longer desperate, each inhale coming easier than the last.

She drifted, caught somewhere between waking and sleep.

Her dad was here.

She might be okay.

She was okay—for now.

Jake kept rubbing her back as she drifted off again.

Her breathing was still rough, still catching every now and then in small wet sounds that made his hand pause until he knew she was going to take the next breath, but she was asleep.

Finally.

Her cheek rested against the pillow in his lap, lashes damp, one hand still curled weakly in the blanket like some part of her had not fully let go of the fear.

His heart hurt for her.

His poor baby girl.

Jake brushed his fingers through her hair, slow and careful, watching the way her face twitched every now and then as if sleep itself was not giving her much peace. He wished he could get through that thick skull of hers. Wished he could carve the truth into it if he had to, because none of this was her fault.

She had done everything she could.

She had almost killed herself trying to get them out.

Hell, she had given Quaritch a run for his money before he got the upper hand, and when Jake thought back to it now, even through the terror, even through the memory of his daughter going toe to toe with the monster who had hunted them across the sea, something in him still tightened with pride. She had held her ground. She had hit hard. She had fought like the warrior she was.

The warrior he turned her into. 

And it had scared the shit out of him.

But he had been proud too.

That was the thing about her that broke him sometimes.

She terrified him and made him proud in the same breath.

He looked down at her again, at the bruises, the damp hair, the exhaustion carved into her face, and his throat tightened.

He loved this kid.

Loved her so much it hurt.

Seeing her in this much pain, physically and somewhere deeper than that, hurt something in him too. Not the clean pain of a wound, but something that dug beneath his ribs and twisted until he almost could not breathe around it. He would have taken it from her if he could. From her. From Neteyam. From any of them. He would have split himself open and carried it all if it meant his children never had to feel a second of it.

But he couldn't.

He could only sit here and rub her back while she slept and hope her lungs kept working.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered, though she could not hear him. “Poor kid.”

A tear slipped down his face before he could stop it.

It fell silently, landing somewhere near the blanket covering her shoulder.

His hand kept moving over her back.

Then something else washed over him.

It came in the small rise of her ribs beneath his palm, in the warmth of her body against his lap, in the fragile little breath that slipped out of her and proved she was still here.

Still here to stroke her hair.

Still here to worry over.

Still here to whisper to.

Still alive

The feeling spread through his chest before he could stop it, sharp enough to hurt and warm enough to make his eyes burn all over again. He leaned over her slightly, just enough to see her face, and his thumb brushed carefully over her cheek.

His eldest wasn’t dead.

He's glad his eldest wasn't dead. 

A relief so strong it almost made him dizzy.

Jake’s hand stilled on her back.

His stomach rolled.

What kind of father thinks that?

His son was dead. Neteyam was dead.

His boy was gone, buried beneath the glowing reef, returned to Eywa while Jake sat here holding another child and feeling some awful, grateful thing clawing up inside him because at least it had not been her.

His mouth went dry.

It's what he meant.

He was just relieved she survived. Any father would be relieved. Any father would sit here and thank Eywa for the child still breathing.

It didn't mean he loved Neteyam less.

It couldn't

Jake swallowed hard, but the thought did not move.

It sat there.

At least it wasn’t her.

Jake felt sick.

His hand pulled back from her like he had been burned, then hovered there uselessly . He looked down at his daughter and suddenly every gentle thing he had done that night seemed to glare back at him. Holding his daughter. Watching her breathe. Begging Eywa not to take her too. Refusing to sleep because he could not stand the thought of her slipping away while he looked somewhere else.

And Neteyam—

Neteyam had begged to go home.

Neteyam had looked at him with fear in his eyes and Jake had lied to him because he had nothing else to offer.

His breath caught.

He had cleaned his son’s blood from his skin with shaking hands.

He had given him back.

And now he was here, still clinging to the child who had come back to him, feeling relief so sharp it had turned into shame.

A horrible realisation crept in slowly, and Jake did not want to look at it.

But it kept coming.

If one of them had to die...

His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

No.

He did not finish the thought.

Would not.

Could not.

But his body had already reacted before his mind could stop it. His chest had already loosened at the sight of (Y/n) breathing. His hands had already held her like losing her would have killed something in him too. Some hidden part of him had already whispered that if the world had taken one child tonight, at least it hadn't been his eldest

Jake dragged a hand down his face. .

Disgust crawled through him.

What kind of father was he?

What kind of father looked at one child dead and one child alive and felt relief sharpen around the living one like that? What kind of father let that thought exist for even half a second?

He looked toward the hammocks.

Kiri.

Tuk.

Lo’ak.

Spider in Neteyam’s place.

Had they seen this?

Had they always seen it?

The thought made his chest tighten in a different way.

Jake kept rubbing her back as she drifted off again.

Jake’s mind snagged on Neteyam , on the quiet steadiness of his eldest son, on the way he had always stood just a little straighter when Jake looked his way. Neteyam, who rarely asked for more than what was given. Neteyam, who had always made himself easy.

Had he known?

Had he felt it, that difference Jake was only now seeing? Or worse—had he died thinking his father loved him less, when that wasn’t true at all?

Jake’s throat closed around the thought. He loved them all. Every single one of them. There had never been less.

But love didn’t matter if his son hadn’t felt it.

 Did his boy die not knowing? The idea hollowed him out, left him staring at nothing for a moment, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his heart.

Jake’s throat closed.

Neteyam.

Did he die thinking he came second?

The questions hit like a blade sliding between his ribs.

Jake shut his eyes.

No.

Please, no.

Neteyam could not have thought that.

He couldn’t.

Jake loved him.

Loved him so fiercely it still felt impossible that his son was not in the room, not breathing, not shifting in his hammock, not rolling his eyes at Lo’ak, not quietly checking on (Y/n) because he was worried too.

Jake knew he had always had been softer with her. Quicker with her. More frightened for her. More forgiving.

His eyes opened and found (Y/n) again, asleep against his lap.

His first baby.

The child who had made him a father before he knew what the hell he was doing.

The one who had always gotten under his skin in a way he could not explain, because she was reckless and smart and under all of it, because she had been hurt too young, because every time she bled he felt like the world had personally come for him, because she was a lot like him, a miniature version he didn't clash with but was his best friend.

He loved his daughter. 

But maybe loving her had gone too far.

Maybe favouring her had gone too far.

The thought made him want to pull her closer.

It also made him want to pull away.

Jake sat there frozen between both instincts, his hand hovering above her back, unable to touch her for a moment because suddenly every touch felt like proof of something rotten in him.

That he had played favorites.

And that it was so obvious his other children felt it.

She shifted in her sleep and gave a weak little cough.

His hand dropped back to her instantly.

He rubbed her back before he could stop himself.

Because she needed him. Because she was still sick. Because no amount of shame changed the fact that his daughter was lying in his lap with injured lungs and blood in her cough.

But the guilt did not let go.

It sat beside the love now.

Poisoning it. Making him question every breath he counted, every stroke of his hand, every silent prayer that she would make it through the night.

Jake bent his head, tears slipping down his face again, and looked at his daughter like she was both miracle and accusation.

His eldest was alive.

His son was dead.

And some awful, buried part of him had been grateful for the order of those truths.

That was the part he did not know how to forgive.

His gaze dragged itself away from her at last, heavy and reluctant, and lifted toward the rest of the marui.

Kiri, curled in on herself, too still.

Tuk, small and quiet, clinging to Neytiri.

Lo’ak.

Spider, in a place that wasn’t his, filling a space that should have never been empty.

Jake’s chest tightened.

What if Neteyam had known?

The realization settled in slow and suffocating.

His attention had always snapped back to her. His worry had always burned hotter for her. His patience had stretched further for her.

And the others—

Jake swallowed hard, something cold creeping through him.

He couldn’t undo what Neteyam had felt.

He couldn’t go back and fix it.

But the others were still here.

His eyes flicked back down to (Y/n), to the fragile rise and fall of her chest, to the way his hand moved over her without thought.

He couldn’t keep doing this.

Not like this. Not if it meant the others felt less. Not if it meant repeating the same mistake.

His hand slowed. Then stopped. It felt wrong immediately.

Everything in him screamed to keep comforting his daughter, to keep take solace in the proof that she was alive, that she was breathing, that she hadn’t been taken too.

“She’ll be okay,” he whispered to himself, though it sounded more like a plea than a certainty.

She had to be.

Come morning, she’d be better.

She’d breathe easier.

He had to believe that.

Because if he didn’t, he’d never be able to step away.

And he had to.

Even if it felt like tearing something out of his chest. Even if every instinct in him screamed to stay right where he was.

Jake forced himself to sit back, putting space between them, even though his eyes never left her.

He’d still watch. Still listen for every breath. Still be ready if she needed him.

But from a distance.

Because the others needed him too.

And he couldn’t afford to fail them again.

He wouldn’t let his other children think they weren’t loved too.

Her breath caught.

No, no, no.

Her arms jerked upward on instinct, trying to move but they stopped hard above her head.

Locked.

Pain shot through her shoulders as she pulled again, harder this time, wrists twisting against restraints. Her body thrashed, legs kicking weakly, back arching as she tried to wrench herself free from the cuffs holding her pinned.

She tried to scream.

Nothing came out.

Only a broken rasp.

Her throat closed around the sound and the missing scream clawed at her from inside her chest as her lungs seized.

She couldn’t breathe.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her mouth opened wide, dragging for air, but every inhale came short and shattered, catching in her chest before it could fill her. The more she tried, the less she got. Her fingers curled above her head, pulling, twisting, fighting against tge bindings while her shoulders shook from the strain.

Get out.

She had to get out.

Had to get her hands free.

Had to move before they came back.

She tried shoving herself backward, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere but the wall, dark walls closed in around her. Her chest hitched again and again, each breath thinner than the last, until a wet cough tore through her and folded her sideways.

Her eyes darted wildly around the darkness, unfocused, searching for a way out, a weapon, her father, anyone. Tears spilled down her temples as she yanked her arms again, so desperate to be free that she did not seem to feel the way her own body protested, the way her ribs screamed, the way her lungs burned.

Another cough broke through her.

Then another.

Her body lurched with it, choking on air that would not settle, on something that kept dragging at the back of her throat. T

She tried to call out.

Tried to force the word up.

Dad.

But all that escaped was a strangled, breathless sound as she fought.

Her wrists strained above her head.

Her shoulders trembled.

Her whole body shook with the need to get loose.

Her eyes flew open.

For one second she did not know where she was.

Her head was resting in her father’s lap, the pillow warm beneath her cheek

 Her lungs seized before her mind caught up, and she came awake coughing so hard it dragged her half upright, fingers clawing at the blanket as mucus rose thick in her throat.

His hand was on her back before she could fall forward, patting firmly between her shoulders as she coughed and coughed, each fit tearing through her chest until she gagged and spat into the bowl he brought beneath her mouth.

“That’s it,” he said quickly, voice low and steady despite the way his heart kicked. “Let it out, pumpkin. I got you.”

She coughed up more mucus, blood-streaked and thick, then dragged in a broken breath that shook on the way in.

Her eyes darted around the marui.

The walls.

The hammocks.

The shadows.

Her father.

“Daddy?” she rasped, voice barely there, asking more than his name.

Asking if he was still there.

Jake’s chest clenched. “Yeah, pumpkin. Right here.”

She sat up with a weak, desperate motion and locked both arms around him, pressing her forehead hard against his shoulder. Jake caught her gently, one arm wrapping around her back while the other cradled the back of her head.

“Aww, pumpkin,” he breathed, rubbing her back as she sniffled against him. “I’m here.”

She stayed like that for a moment, trembling, still trying to breathe right.

Then her voice came small against his shoulder.

“Why didn't you get me out?”

Jake went still.

She swallowed, and he felt the movement against him. “You were right there… and then you were gone.”

His hand paused against her back.

She did not lift her head.

“Did you leave me down there?” she whispered.

Like Lo’ak did?

Jake shut his eyes.

“No, pumpkin,” he said, voice breaking around it. “No. I didn’t leave you.”

Her arms tightened around him.

“I didn’t have the fight in me to drag you out of there,” he admitted, the words scraping out of him. “I tried. I got you loose, but I lost consciousness before I could get us out.”

She went quiet.

He could feel her thinking through it, trying to stitch together the broken pieces of what she wasn't conscious for. 

“Your brother dragged me into an air pocket,” Jake said softly. “Lo’ak did. He didn’t know you were alive.”

Her fingers curled tighter against his shoulder.

Jake held the back of her head, thumb brushing slowly into her hair. “What matters is you’re out. You got out. We both did.”

She sniffled again.

“You’re safe now, pumpkin.”

She stayed quiet for a while after that, breathing unevenly against him.

Jake rubbed her back until the tremble in her shoulders eased a little.

“What did you dream about?” he asked carefully.

Her face pressed harder into his shoulder.

“The RDA,” she sobbed.

Jake felt his chest tighten.

That old scar. That old wound buried under everything else, disturbed again by the feeling of not being able to breathe. Drowning had not just hurt her body. It had reached back into every place the RDA had already hurt her and dragged it all up with it.

His poor baby girl.

Something inside his chest felt like it was breaking.  It His heart pounded painfully, each beat echoing with the same relentless thought, this was because of him. 

This scar would forever be carved into her mind, because he had failed to keep her safe. And now it lived inside her, festering, raising its ugly head whenever triggered her. He could never take this back or fix, no matter how tightly he held her.

The scars she carried were nothing but an accumulation of his failures to protect his children.

And Neteyam—

Neteyam was another failure now too.

His failure as a father.

His failure as a leader.

His failure as the man who was meant to keep them alive.

He was failing all of them.

(Y/n) began to cry then, really cry, the sound muffled against his shoulder but sharp enough to break something in him all over again. For a second Jake did not see the warrior who had fought Quaritch, or the eldest daughter who had thrown herself into battle, or the person she had grown into over the years. 

He saw his little girl holding onto him and crying. Needing her dad. 

“I’m so sorry, Dad,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry about Neteyam. I wish it was me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true,” she cried, pulling back just enough to look at him. “I was meant to protect my siblings. Instead I got trapped on the ship while Neteyam got shot. It’s all my fault.”

Jake grabbed her shoulders, firm enough to make her look at him.

“You listen to me,” he said, voice low and shaking. “It is not your fault.”

Tears slid down her face.

“But it is,” she whispered. “It should be Neteyam that’s here. Not me.”

“No.” Jake pulled her back into him as if holding her tight enough could force these thoughts out her head. Thoughts that were masking his heart twist like a wrung out cloth “No, don’t think that, baby girl. Don’t think that.”

The fear hit him so hard it hollowed out his chest.

It was a deep, sick drop through his stomach, a tightening under his ribs, coupled with a sudden image of her limp in the water.

He held her tighter.

Rocked her slowly.

Like she was little again. Like she had woken from a nightmare and all he could do was hold on until her breathing matched his.

“You did all you could,” he said, pressing his cheek to her hair. “Neteyam’s death was an accident.”

Even though some part of him did not believe that. Even though guilt sat in him like a stone.

He needed her to believe it.

“Pumpkin, it’s not your fault. You did everything you could.”

She coughed weakly against him.

Jake let out something caught between a laugh and a sob. “When you pulled that dumb stunt and fought Quaritch, I didn’t know if I was gonna have a heart attack or if I was proud of you.”

She gave a broken little breath against him.

“I am proud of you,” he said, voice thick. “So proud of you, pumpkin. Neteyam’s death was out of your control. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

Her shoulders shook.

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated. “Hear me?”

After a long moment, she nodded.

Jake cupped the back of her head again. “You are just as loved, (Y/n). Your mother and I wouldn’t know what to do if we had to bury you too.”

"So please stop saying it. You're loved so much pumpkin."

Her breath hitched.

“Love you, Dad,” she whispered.

Jake closed his eyes. “And I love you, pumpkin,” he said. “But you gotta stop trying to be a martyr. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you and I don't wanna see it cut short."* I can't see it cut short. *

She stayed tucked against him, quiet now except for the occasional broken breath.

“I didn’t raise you to die in battle for your siblings,” he said softly. “I raised you to be strong enough to defend them and yourself.”

His hand moved over her hair.

“It’s my job to protect you kids. Not yours.”

She nodded faintly against his shoulder.

“And I love you so much, pumpkin, that it breaks my heart you think it should’ve been you.”

For a while neither of them said anything.

Then she mumbled, exhausted, “I’m tired, Dad. I’m so, so tired.”

“I know, pumpkin.”

Her body sagged heavier against him.

“You go back to sleep.”

“You’ll be here when I wake up?” she asked.

Jake’s throat tightened. “Yeah, kid,” he said. “I will be.”

She settled back down onto the pillow in his lap and Jake kept one hand in her hair until her eyes drifted shut again.

He watched the rise and fall of her chest. Watched the faint twitch of pain in her face even in sleep. “I’m sorry, pumpkin,” he whispered.

Because his daughter needed him.

And so did his other kids.

As much as it hurt to leave her like this, as much as every instinct in him still wanted to stay planted there and never move again, he knew he could not keep making the same mistake.

This blatant favouritism had to end.

Even if pulling back felt like abandoning her.

Even if it hurt.

Even if she would wake and reach for him.

He had to be a father to all of them.

Not just the one his heart kept running to first.

No matter how much she needed him

Next >

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[just-another-idk]

The Eldest

Cover by @angeliquecho

Sully family x eldest daughter reader

Announcement: I'm running a competition, click on the link in the Masterlist Also if you're on the masterlist but the tag isn't working or spelt wrong can you please comment so I can fix it

An: Ty for your patience

Part 52 > Part 53 < Part 54

Until We Meet Again

Lo’ak watched as Jake helped carry (Y/n) into the marui.

She was alive.

Somehow.

Still coughing badly, still shaking, still breathing in those wet, ragged pulls that made her whole body jerk against their father’s hold, but alive.

Something in Lo’ak’s chest twisted.

He had been sure she was dead down there. He had seen the way Dad looked when he surfaced without her.

Had seen the way Mom broke all over again when she asked where (Y/n) was and Jake only shook his head.

He had believed it too, for those few awful minutes.

Believed she was gone.

So how was she here?

How was she alive when Neteyam wasn’t?

Jake lowered her carefully inside, settling her upright against him rather than letting her lie flat. She immediately folded forward with another harsh cough, one hand clutching at her chest and ribs like every breath burned. Water and mucus spilled from her mouth onto the floor and Neytiri gathered her hair back with one hand while the other rubbed slowly over her shoulders.

“Come on, pumpkin,” Jake said, patting her back as carefully as he could. “Talk to me.”

(Y/n) tried to answer and only coughed again, the sound thick and awful, and Lo’ak looked away because everyone was crowding around her now. Dad. Mom. Tuk hovering nearby with tears still on her cheeks. Kiri standing frozen at the edge of the room like she didn’t know whether to come closer or stay out of the way.

And Lo’ak stood there too.

Watching.

Not moving.

Not wanted.

His mind kept dragging him back to the rocks.

Look at this!

What the fuck did you do?!

All they had to do was leave. All they had to do was leave.

His jaw tightened.

Why did she get to blame him?

Why did everyone always get to blame him?

(Y/n) coughed so hard her body jerked forward and Jake caught her before she could fold too far, as Neytiri kept wiping the water from her mouth.

As if she was some hero.

As if she hadn’t jumped onto that ship too.

As if she hadn’t known exactly what she was doing when she rode Payakan straight into the fight with Si’riya.

Lo’ak’s hands curled at his sides.

He wanted to snap at her. Wanted to say that if she had encouraged Dad to fight the ship in the first place, maybe none of this would have happened. If she hadn’t stood there silent and scared while the Tulkun were being hunted, he wouldn’t have had to go warn Payakan. If she had done something earlier, maybe he wouldn’t have had to.

But everyone liked to say the messes he got into were his fault.

Always Lo’ak.

Always the screw up.

Never the golden daughter who ran headfirst into death and got praised for surviving it.

Ronal entered then, Si’riya just behind her, carrying a woven basket filled with healing supplies—cloths, herbs, salves—and the room shifted around the Tsahik at once.

“Si’riya explained what happened,” Ronal said, kneeling in front of (Y/n), her sharp eyes moving over her face, her chest, the way her breaths kept catching. Then her gaze dropped lower—and her expression hardened.

“Lay her forward slightly.”

Jake adjusted her carefully, and as Neytiri shifted the cloth around her shoulders, the damage became visible.

A large, angry gash stretched across (Y/n)’s back, torn and raw, blood still seeping sluggishly from it. Bruises bloomed dark along her ribs and shoulders, cuts scattered across her arms and sides—clear signs of a brutal fight.

Lo’ak’s stomach dropped.

Quaritch.

“She has been through more than drowning,” Ronal said sharply. Hold her still.

(Y/n) barely reacted as Ronal began working, exhaustion dragging her under even as pain flickered across her face. She coughed again, weaker this time, body trembling as Ronal cleaned the gash with practiced hands.

(Y/n) hissed faintly, fingers tightening in Jake’s arm.

“I know,” Ronal said, not unkindly. “Stay awake.”

She worked quickly, pressing cloth to the wound, cleaning away blood a thick herbal paste. Si’riya handed her strips of cloth, and Ronal began binding the wound tightly.

“Sit her higher,” Ronal ordered again.

Jake obeyed immediately, bracing (Y/n) upright as Neytiri supported her from the side. The movement made her cough again, wet and painful, her body jerking as she tried to breathe through it.

“Do not let her choke,” Ronal said. “Hold her forward.”

“I got her,” Jake said, though his voice sounded rough.

(Y/n)’s breathing was wet.

Lo’ak could hear it from where he stood.

That crackling, dragging sound every time she tried to pull air in, like her lungs were still half full of the ocean. She coughed again and gasped, her hand tightening over her ribs, face twisting with pain.

“It burns,” she rasped.

“I know,” Jake murmured, rubbing her back. “I know, baby girl.”

Lo’ak looked down.

No one said anything about her being reckless.

No one said she should have stayed put.

No one said she had almost gotten herself killed.

Ronal leaned closer once the worst of the coughing fit passed, placing one hand lightly at (Y/n)’s jaw to keep her attention while her other hand moved to her chest. “Look at me. Breathe.”

(Y/n) tried.

Failed.

Coughed again.

Ronal waited until she could draw in a shaking breath, then moved around behind her, Jake shifted slightly, and Ronal pressed her ear to (Y/n)’s back. The marui went quiet except for (Y/n)’s breathing and Neytiri’s soft murmurs.

Lo’ak shifted his weight.

His chest felt tight.

He hated the sound of her breathing.

Hated that some part of him was scared for her even while another part of him was angry enough to burn.

Ronal listened for a moment longer, then pulled back, face grave.

“She breathed it in,” she said. “Her lungs are wet.”

Jake’s hand stilled against (Y/n)’s back.

Neytiri’s ears flicked back. “What does this mean?”

“It means she is not out of danger,” Ronal said. “She is not to lie flat. Keep her upright, or on her side if she sleeps. Prop her up. Let her cough. Do not force her down if her body is trying to clear the water.”

(Y/n)’s eyes were half-lidded now, exhausted, but Ronal tapped her cheek lightly. “Stay with us.”

“I’m awake,” (Y/n) rasped.

“Barely,” Ronal said.

Jake looked at her with a fear Lo’ak had seen too many times today. “What do we watch for?”

“If she chokes on vomit or cannot clear what comes up, turn her to the side,” Ronal said. “If her lips pale, if she becomes too drowsy and difficult to wake, if fever comes, if the cough worsens or breathing becomes harder, fetch me at once. Keep her warm. Small sips only when she is settled enough not to vomit again.”

Jake nodded at every word like he was trying to carve them into his mind.

Lo’ak watched him.

Watched Dad hold her like she might disappear if his grip loosened.

Watched Mom keep touching her hair, her face, her shoulder.

No one had held Lo’ak like that.

No one had asked if he was okay.

He had lost Neteyam too.

He had watched his brother die too.

Did his tears not matter?

Did his chest not hurt?

Did no one care that he could have died too?

Ronal rose, one hand resting briefly on Si’riya’s shoulder as she turned to leave. Si’riya lingered near the entrance, looking at (Y/n) with something tired and guilty in her face.

“Wait,” Jake said.

Si’riya stopped.

Jake looked at her, his voice quieter now. “Thank you.”

Si’riya only nodded once, then followed her mother out.

For a moment no one moved.

Then Jake adjusted (Y/n) carefully, keeping her propped upright, his arm still braced behind her. Neytiri wrapped a dry cloth around her shoulders and continued drying the ends of her hair with shaking hands.

“We have...” Jake stopped, his voice breaking slightly.

Lo’ak looked up.

Jake swallowed. “We have to tend to your brother.”

The words made the room colder.

(Y/n)’s eyes opened more fully, grief moving over her face again, but she was too weak to say anything before another cough took her.

Jake kissed the top of her head. “Stay with your sisters.”

“I’m fine, Dad,” she rasped.

“No, you’re not, kid,” Jake said softly.

For some reason that made Lo’ak’s stomach twist again.

Jake looked to Kiri, Tuk, then finally to Lo’ak. “Get me, your mother or Ronal immediately if she worsens.”

Lo’ak nodded because he was supposed to.

Because Dad was looking at him now.

Finally.

But only to give him a job.

Jake and Neytiri stepped out of the marui, leaving them in the quiet with (Y/n)’s ragged breathing and the grief waiting outside.

Lo’ak stared at his sister.

She was slumped upright, eyes closed, body trembling, still clutching at her chest like breathing hurt—bandages wrapped tight across her back, blood slowly seeping through in places despite Ronal’s work.

He should have been relieved.

He was.

Somewhere.

But all he could hear was her voice on the rocks.

I should have never trusted Lo’ak to fucking choose the easy way out.

His throat tightened.

Maybe he had chosen wrong.

Maybe he had gone back for Spider and dragged Neteyam with him.

Maybe he had left her.

But she had chosen too.

She had chosen to jump onto that ship.

She had chosen to fight Quaritch.

She had chosen to play hero.

And somehow he was still the one standing there feeling like the whole family had already decided where the blame belonged.

Lo’ak stood near the edge of the marui and felt the anger keep building.

It was not loud at first.

It sat low in his chest, hot and ugly, twisting every time (Y/n) coughed, every time Kiri and Tuk looked at her like she might disappear, every time his parents’ voices drifted from outside where they were preparing to tend to Neteyam.

Neteyam.

His brother was dead.

His brother was lying outside and everyone was gathered around (Y/n) because she had almost died too.

Almost.

That was the part that kept digging into him.

Almost.

She had almost died and somehow that meant everyone forgot he had watched Neteyam die right in front of him, forgot he had been on that ship too, forgot he had saved Dad from that wreck.

(Y/n) began coughing again, rough and wet, the sound dragging everyone’s attention straight back to her.

Kiri rushed to her side with Tuk right behind her, both of them dropping down as (Y/n) folded forward, one hand clutching at her ribs while the other braced shakily against the floor.

“How much seawater did you swallow?” Kiri asked, worry breaking through her voice.

“Let’s not ask morbid questions,” (Y/n) coughed out.

Tuk wrapped her arms around her carefully, crying again as she pressed herself into her sister’s side. “You’re going to be okay, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’ll be—” (Y/n) started, then coughed hard enough that her whole body jerked.

More water came up.

Kiri quickly gathered her hair back, one hand rubbing between her shoulders while (Y/n) gagged and spat onto the floor.

“Fine,” she finally rasped.

Tuk started sobbing harder.

Tears slipped down (Y/n)’s face too, mixing with the water still dripping from her hair, but Lo’ak could not stop seeing her on the rocks, could not stop hearing the way she screamed at him like he was the only reason everything had fallen apart.

Like she had not been part of it too.

Like she had not made her own choices.

His jaw tightened.

“Hard to play hero when you’re choking on seawater, huh?” he said.

The marui went still.

Kiri’s head snapped toward him. “Lo’ak.”

(Y/n) coughed again, throwing up more water before she could even answer.

Lo’ak should have stopped.

He knew that.

Some part of him knew it even then.

But the anger was already moving now, already spilling out before he could shove it back down, because all he could see was Neteyam on the rocks and his sister screaming in his face and Dad pulling her back like she was the only one breaking.

(Y/n) wiped at her mouth with the back of her shaking hand. “Say that again—” another cough cut her off, sharp and painful.

“All that yelling on the rocks,” Lo’ak said, voice hardening, “and now you can’t even get a sentence out without coughing.”

(Y/n)’s eyes lifted to his.

For a second he saw it.

Absolute fury.

Even half drowned, half shaking, barely able to breathe right, she looked at him like she wanted to tear him apart.

She shoved herself to her feet.

“(Y/n),” Kiri warned, moving with her as she swayed.

Kiri caught her before she could fall, gripping her arm tightly. “Lo’ak, this isn’t the time for this.”

(Y/n) stood there breathing too fast, anger shaking through her so hard it almost looked like the only thing keeping her upright. Lo’ak watched her swallow it down, watched her fight another cough and lose, watched her drop back down because her body would not let her do anything else.

“You really are a fucking idiot,” she rasped.

Lo’ak’s ears pinned back.

“Fucking trying to start something when—look the fuck around, Lo’ak.”

So he did.

He looked.

Tuk crying.

Kiri holding (Y/n)’s hair back.

His parents outside with Neteyam.

The whole family ripped apart.

And somehow it still made him angrier.

He shrugged. “You had no issue screaming at me on those rocks.”

(Y/n)’s face twisted. “What’s it matter?” she coughed again, pressing a hand hard to her chest. “Nothing gets through your skull anyway.”

The words hit harder than he wanted them to.

“One fucking second, Lo’ak,” she said, voice raw now, and something in her expression shifted, grief cutting through the anger for half a breath. “One.”

He remembered then, because of course he did.

That day she sat with him and talked about losing everything.

That one second.

The one she said could take it all.

“That one second has come and gone,” she said, tears spilling again as her voice shook. “But instead Neteyam lost it all instead of you.”

Lo’ak froze.

Kiri looked between them, horrified.

Tuk sobbed against (Y/n)’s side.

Lo’ak felt the words go straight through him, and for one second there was nothing underneath them. No comeback. No anger. Just the image of Neteyam gasping, Neteyam saying he wanted to go home, Neteyam going still while Lo’ak knelt beside him and did nothing.

Then the anger came rushing back, because it had to.

Because if it didn’t, he would fall apart.

“Big talk for someone sitting there coughing up the entire ocean.”

“Fuck off,” she snapped. “You dragged Neteyam further into that ship and not me.”

Tuk started crying uncontrollably then, her small body shaking as she clung tighter to (Y/n), and that seemed to cut through something.

(Y/n)’s shoulders dropped.

Her face changed.

Not softened exactly.

Just exhausted.

“Now cut it out,” she said, voice quieter, defeated.

Lo’ak opened his mouth.

Her eyes snapped back to him.

“I really do suggest you shut your mouth,” she said, each word rough and thin from the coughing, “or I will do it for you, and I don’t want to do that. Not before we bury Neteyam.”

Another cough tore through her and Kiri pulled her forward quickly, rubbing her back as she choked through it.

Lo’ak stood there for one more second.

Then he turned and stormed out.

The night air hit him cold.

He walked to the edge of the marui and sat down hard, feet hanging over the water, hands gripping the wood beneath him until his fingers ached.

For a while he just stared at the sea.

Then the tears came.

He tried to stop them.

Tried to swallow them down.

Tried to be angry enough that they would not matter.

But they came anyway, hot and silent at first, then harder, until his chest shook and he had to press a hand over his mouth to keep the sound in.

Because Neteyam was dead.

(Y/n) hated him.

His dad had looked at him like he had broken everything.

And Lo’ak did not know how to fix any of it.

Spider came up quietly and sat down beside him, legs dangling over the edge just like Lo’ak’s.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

Then, softly, “I’m thankful you and Neteyam went back for me. I’ll never forget it.”

Lo’ak didn’t look at him.

Lo'ak swallowed. “It was my idea. It’s no one’s fault. I mean… we found (Y/n) trapped under a big scrap of metal, but I convinced Neteyam we should get you instead.”

"And I don't regret it."

Kiri’s hand settled gently on her shoulder.

“It’s not his fault,” she said softly. “And it’s not yours.”

(Y/n)’s head snapped toward her, something sharp and bitter rising in her chest.

It is his fault.

The thought burned through her, loud and unforgiving. Because he was the idiot who always thought he was untouchable, like bullets would just miss him out of sheer luck—until someone else paid the price for it.

And it was hers too.

For believing Lo’ak would listen. For thinking he’d follow the plan. For trusting that when they had a chance to leave, they actually would.

Her mouth opened, ready to argue, to say something—anything—but all that came out was a violent cough.

Pain ripped through her chest, folding her forward as her hand clutched at her ribs. Tuk clung tighter to her side, crying into her shoulder, and Kiri quickly gathered her hair back, holding it away from her face as she coughed and gagged, her whole body shaking with it.

“Kiri, please,” she rasped when she could finally force the words out, her voice thin and wrecked. “I don’t want to play who’s right and who’s wrong.”

She tried to breathe again.

It caught halfway.

Her face twisted as another wave hit, and she bent forward, coughing so hard tears spilled down her cheeks. Kiri rubbed her back, murmuring softly, but it didn’t help. Nothing could. Not really.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

She was going to bury her little brother.

Her baby brother.

The one she promised would make it home if he just followed the plan.

She could remember that look on his face, looking at her like he believed every word she said. Like if she made a plan, it would work. Like if she promised they’d get out, then they would.

She could still hear his voice. “I love you, (y/n). Please be careful.”

She hadn’t thought anything of it then.

Hadn’t realized that was the last time she would ever hear him say it.

Oh, Eywa…

That was the last time she had ever seen her little brother alive.

A broken sound caught in her throat, and she swallowed it down before it could turn into something louder—something she wouldn’t be able to stop.

It took everything in her not to get up and go after Lo’ak again. Not to drag him back in here and force him to look at what happened. Not to hit him until her hands hurt, because anger was the only thing keeping the grief from swallowing her whole.

But Tuk was still holding onto her.

Kiri was still beside her.

Neteyam was still dead.

And no amount of screaming would change that.

She pressed a trembling hand over her mouth as another cough rose, tears spilling freely now as she tried to breathe through everything she couldn’t say.

“I don’t want to fight,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I can’t. Not right now.”

Kiri’s hand tightened gently on her shoulder.

Tuk only cried harder.

Jake could still feel the panic in his bones as he and Neytiri left the marui.

It did not leave with him.

It stayed under his skin, in his hands, in the tightness of his chest, in the way every instinct in his body screamed at him to turn around and go back to his daughter. Her coughing followed him out into the late afternoon, wet and ragged and wrong, fading only because he was walking away from it, not because it had stopped.

That made it worse.

He kept seeing the pink foam at her mouth.

The way her body jerked every time she coughed.

The way Ronal’s face had gone grave when she listened to her lungs.

She is not out of danger.

Jake swallowed hard and kept walking, but every step away from that marui felt like another mistake.

She could worsen while he was gone.

She could choke.

She could stop breathing.

He could come back and find Kiri screaming for him, Tuk crying over her, Lo’ak frozen in the corner because no one had known what to do fast enough.

No.

His stomach twisted so violently he almost stopped.

I cannot lose another one tonight.

Neytiri walked beside him in silence, her grief moving with her like something heavy draped across her shoulders. Jake could feel her breaking too. Could feel that she also wanted to turn back.

One child dead. One child barely breathing. Their family split open in two directions and both of them impossible.

Because his instincts were screaming stay with your daughter.

But reality was waiting ahead of him.

His son was dead.

Neteyam was dead and needed him too.

Jake felt like he was being split clean down the middle. One part of him was still in that marui, sitting behind (Y/n), holding her upright, counting every breath, watching the colour of her lips, ready to call Ronal at the first sign of her slipping away.

The other part of him was walking toward the shelter where his son lay waiting to be washed, prepared, loved for the last time with hands that should never have had to do this.

Father of the child who might still die.

Father of the child who already had.

He did not know how to be both.

When they reached the shelter, Jake stopped at the entrance.

Neteyam lay inside.

For a second the world went quiet again.

There were people moving somewhere outside, soft voices, the water beneath the village, the low murmur of the clan giving them space. But all of it seemed far away as Jake looked at his son.

His boy looked too still.

That was the worst part.

Neteyam had always been steady, always watchful, always, one step behind or ahead depending on who needed him most. But this stillness was different. This was nothing like the boy Jake knew so well.

Jake’s throat closed.

Neytiri stepped in beside him and her breath broke again, small and wounded, and Jake glanced at her because he thought if he looked too long at Neteyam he might not move at all.

This was one of their last tasks as his parents.

To prepare his body.

To clean away the blood and salt and battle.

To make him ready to be given back.

All energy was borrowed.

That was what the People believed.

All energy was borrowed and one day it had to be returned.

Jake had always understood it as a teaching, as something beautiful in the way Neytiri said it, in the way the clan lived with it, in the way Eywa held everything together.

But now he had to give his son back.

His hands curled at his sides.

Something in him rejected it so hard it almost became anger.

Not my boy.

He could not give Neteyam away.

He could not return him like borrowed energy, like the years had simply been a gift that had ended, like Jake was supposed to bow his head and accept that this was the shape of the world.

His son was supposed to grow old.

Supposed to tease Lo’ak about being stupid until they were both fathers themselves.

Supposed to keep watching over Tuk, keep rolling his eyes at Kiri, keep making (Y/n) smile when things got too hard.

He was supposed to live.

And (Y/n) was in another marui coughing blood because of him.

Jake pressed a hand over his mouth, breathing hard through his nose as guilt rose up so violently he nearly gagged on it.

Because this was his fault.

All of it.

Quaritch had come for him.

The Tulkun had been hunted because of him.

The Metkayina had bled because of him.

His son was dead because the RDA wanted him, and his daughter was fighting for air because she had been raised to throw herself between danger and her siblings, because Jake had trained her too well, because he had taken a little girl and shaped her into something that he did not know how to change back.

Neteyam was dead.

(Y/n) might still die.

And Jake was standing there breathing.

He did not know how to live with that.

Neytiri moved first.

She went to Neteyam and knelt beside him, her hand trembling as she touched his hair. Jake watched her fingertips brush the braids back from his face with a gentleness that made his chest cave in all over again.

Then she looked at Jake.

Broken

Jake forced his feet to move.

He knelt on the other side of his son and stared down at him, his vision blurring before he blinked hard and reached for the bowl beside them. His hand shook when he picked up the cloth. Shook worse when he dipped it into the water.

For a moment he could not bring it to Neteyam’s skin.

He just held it there, dripping into the bowl, because once he started this would be real in a new way.

A father cleaning his dead son.

Jake’s face twisted, and he swallowed down the sound trying to climb out of his throat.

Then he pressed the cloth gently to Neteyam’s shoulder.

The water ran over blue skin, taking salt and blood with it.

Jake’s hand moved carefully—until his fingers brushed the torn edge of the bullet wound.

He froze.

The cloth slipped in his grip, water dripping unnoticed back into the bowl as his hand hovered there.

His breath caught hard in his chest, sharp and uneven, and for a second he could not move at all.

His son is dead.

Jake’s stomach twisted violently.

His fingers trembled as they hovered over the wound, then slowly, carefully, he forced himself to continue. He could not leave it like this. He could not leave his son marked by the thing that had taken him.

But his hands were shaking now.

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he tried to steady himself, but his breath kept hitching, uneven and shallow. His thumb brushed lightly along the edge of the wound, and the reality of it hit him all over again, heavier this time, crushing.

This is where it ended.

Jake’s vision blurred, and he blinked hard, but it didn’t help. The tears came anyway, slipping down his face as he worked, each movement slower than the last.

“I should’ve— ,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I should’ve—”

The words broke apart, useless.

Because he had been there.

And it still hadn’t been enough.

His hand pressed the cloth gently against the wound, cleaning what he could, but every touch felt like he was erasing the last proof that Neteyam had had lived.

His chest tightened painfully.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time, barely audible.

His fingers lingered there longer than they should have, unable to pull away, as if letting go would mean accepting it fully.

And Jake wasn’t ready.

He didn’t think he ever would be.

Jake kept his hands moving, cleaning his son, as if he needed to be gentle because his boy was tired and needed rest.

“I’m sorry,” Jake whispered.

Neytiri’s shoulders shook across from him.

Jake wiped another line of blood from Neteyam’s chest and he remembered the way his boy had coughed and spluttered, struggling to breathe as blood flooded his lungs.

He had known.

Some part of him had known.

The second he saw the wound.

He had known and still lied to him.

We’re going home.

Jake’s hand stopped.

His son had asked to go home.

And Jake had promised.

He dipped the cloth again because if he stopped moving he would break.

“I’m sorry, son,” he said, voice barely there.

He cleaned his son.

From his arms.

From his hands.

His hands.

Jake paused there, thumb brushing over Neteyam’s fingers, remembering them small and clumsy, gripping Jake’s thumb as a baby, then older, steady on a bow, steady on an ikran, steady on Lo’ak’s shoulder when his brother needed pulling back from another stupid decision.

His good boy.

His first son.

Gone.

Behind him, rushed footsteps and a cough broke through the quiet.

Jake’s head lifted at once.

His body went rigid.

Neytiri looked toward the sound too, both of them frozen for one terrible second, waiting to hear if there would be shouting after it, if Kiri would call for them, if Tuk would scream.

Nothing came.

Just silence.

Jake’s heart kept pounding anyway.

“She shouldn't be alone,” he said hoarsely, more to himself than Neytiri.

“Ronal will be called if she worsens,” Neytiri said, but her voice shook.

Jake looked back down at Neteyam.

Split in two.

His dead son beneath his hands.

His surviving daughter fighting to stay breathing .

He closed his eyes for a moment, jaw trembling, then forced himself to continue.

Because this was what he could do.

He could not bring Neteyam back.

He could not sit beside (Y/n) and count every breath.

He could not be in both places.

But he could clean his son.

He could do this last thing.

So Jake dipped the cloth again, wrung it out with shaking hands, and gently wiped Neteyam’s face, his thumb brushing carefully beneath his son’s closed eyes.

“You should have had more time,” Jake whispered.

The words broke apart at the end.

Neytiri reached across Neteyam’s body and placed her hand over Jake’s, both of them holding still over their son for a moment.

Jake bowed his head.

His shoulders shook once.

Then again.

But he kept the cloth in his hand.

Kept cleaning.

Kept giving his son every bit of care he had left, even as part of him listened for his daughter’s coughing in the distance, terrified that before the night was over, he would be asked to prepare another child.

Neytiri’s hands trembled as she dipped the cloth into the water.

For a moment she could only stare at it, at the way the ripples moved across the surface, so small and ordinary while her son lay still in front of her. Her body was doing what it was meant to do, kneeling beside him, reaching for water, reaching for cloth, preparing him with care because that was what a mother did.

But her mind would not follow.

Her mind stayed on his face.

On his closed eyes.

On the awful stillness of his chest.

Neteyam had always been quiet when he slept, but never like this. Never this still. Never with blood cooling on his skin and his braids damp with saltwater, never with Jake across from her looking at him like the world had ended and he had no idea what to do.

A sob tore out of her before she could stop it.

Then another followed, and another, until her shoulders shook with them as she pressed the cloth to Neteyam’s arm. She cleaned him slowly, wiping a with shaking hands, tears falling freely down her face and dripping onto his skin.

“My son,” she whispered, voice cracking.

She bent forward, breath catching in sharp, uneven pulls, trying to keep her hands steady, trying to do this one last thing for him, but the grief kept hollowing her out from the inside. It felt like something had reached into her chest and torn out part of her, leaving only a raw empty space where her son had been.

Her boy.

Her sweet boy.

Her child who would never open his eyes again.

She looked across at Jake.

His gaze was fixed on Neteyam.

Not moving.

Barely blinking.

He was holding the cloth in one hand, but his eyes stayed on their son’s face like if he looked away Neteyam would disappear completely. Neytiri reached across the space between them and laid her hand over his, needing something, needing him, needing any warmth that might make the pain hurt less.

It did not.

His hand was there beneath hers.

But it did not help.

Nothing helped.

She looked back at Neteyam and cupped his face carefully between both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks the way she had done when he was small.

But he did not lean into her touch.

Did not blink.

Did not breathe.

His eyes remained forever shut.

Neytiri’s mouth trembled.

She leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead, holding them there as if she could leave some part of herself with him, some warmth, some protection, some piece of a mother’s love that death could not take.

Her tears fell onto his face.

Great Mother, she pleaded silently, eyes squeezed shut against his skin. Hold my child.

Her breath shook.

Make sure he knows no fear. No pain.

Her hands tightened gently around his face.

Hold him for me until I can.

A silent sob broke through her.

Do what I could not. Take care of my boy.

A sound tore from her, raw and wounded, and then arms gathered her from behind, pulling her carefully back against a chest she knew as well as her own heartbeat. Jake’s arms wrapped around her and Neytiri finally broke fully inside them.

“Great Mother, why?” she sobbed, turning into him, fingers clawing at his arm, his shoulder, anything she could hold. “Why?”

Jake held her tighter, his own breath breaking against her hair.

“Why can’t you let me have my son?” she cried, the words tearing out of her with the kind of pain that had no shape, no end. “You gave him to me. Why must you take him so soon?”

Her body shook violently as she sobbed, grief ripping through her until she could barely draw breath.

“I am not ready,” she said, voice breaking into something small and helpless against Jake’s chest. “I am not ready to say goodbye.”

Jake’s hold tightened around her.

“I know,” he sobbed, and the sound of his voice breaking made her cry harder. “I know.”

His face pressed briefly against the side of her head, his arms locked around her like he was trying to keep both of them from falling apart.

“I can’t let him go either,” Jake said, voice thick and wrecked. “But he’s gone now, Neytiri.”

“No.”

Jake shook against her. “He’s gone.”

“No,” she said again, turning her face toward Neteyam as if saying it enough times might pull him back. “No.”

“You once taught me,” Jake said, and his voice cracked so badly he had to force the words out slowly, “that all energy is only borrowed, and one day we must give it back.”

Neytiri’s face twisted. “No.”

“We have to give him back, Neytiri.”

“But my son,” she sobbed.

“I know,” Jake whispered, his own tears falling now as he rocked her against him. “I know.”

“My son,” she cried again, reaching blindly toward Neteyam even as Jake held her, like some part of her still needed to touch him, still needed to prove he was there, still needed one more moment before the world asked her to let him go.

Jake shifted with her, letting her reach, letting her hand settle over Neteyam’s chest.

There was no heartbeat beneath her palm.

Neytiri made a broken sound and collapsed forward again, Jake going with her, his arms still around her as she curled over their son.

“I cannot,” she sobbed. “I cannot—.”

Jake pressed his forehead against her shoulder, his own body shaking now.

“I know,” he said again.

Neytiri held Neteyam’s face in one hand and Jake’s arm with the other, trapped between the son she had lost and the mate who was breaking with her.

And all she could do was cry.

Cry for the boy she had carried.

Cry for the son she had raised.

Cry for the child Eywa had given her and taken back before she was ready.

(Y/n) bit down hard on her tongue to stop herself coughing as they swam out with Neteyam.

The taste of salt and blood sat thick in her mouth.

Every breath still hurt. Her chest burned. Her ribs ached. Her lungs felt wrong, wet and raw and too tight, but she forced herself to keep moving beside the sled while her father guided the ilu towing it through the water.

Neteyam lay on it.

Wrapped and ready to be given back.

Her little brother.

The brother who had made her a big sister.

The brother who had always been stuck in her shadow and never once resented her for it, who had stood beside her through everything when the world had tried to wedge distance between them—but being siblings had always beaten all of that.

He was that same brother who had looked at her like she hung the stars when they were children, who had trusted her plans, her promises, her certainty, right up until the very end.

She kept one hand on the side of the sled as it glided through the water.

Lo’ak was on the other side of her.

Kiri and Neytiri were opposite them, both holding on too, while Spider moved close by on another ilu with Kiri.

(Y/n) did not look at Lo’ak.

She could not.

Not without wanting to finish what grief had started and tear into him until she had something else to feel besides this.

But she bit her tongue and held onto the sled and said nothing.

Because this was Neteyam.

Because this was her little brother’s last journey.

Because whatever rage was clawing at her ribs, whatever part of her still wanted to drag Lo’ak under and demand why, Neteyam would not have wanted this.

He would have wanted peace.

He would have wanted his family together.

He would have wanted her to let him go without poisoning his last goodbye with another fight.

So she stayed quiet.

Even as tears slid down her face and vanished into the water.

She would have given anything to be in his place.

Anything.

She was the eldest.

Fully grown.

Fully trained.

She had known exactly what could happen the second she and Si’riya launched themselves into that fight. She had made peace with it the moment she stepped onto that ship.

So why wasn’t it her in that sled?

Why wasn’t it her body being taken down to the reef when Neteyam had so much life left to live?

Neteyam, who was kinder than she had ever managed to be.

Neteyam, who was patient when she was harsh, gentle when she was cruel, steady when she was all jagged edges and bad instincts and the kind of anger that could rot a person from the inside.

He had been better than her in every way that mattered.

A better sibling.

A better son.

A better person.

(Y/n) had always known there was something wrong in her.

Something monstrous.

Not in the way the RDA was monstrous, not in the way Quaritch was, but something dark all the same. Something in the ease with which violence came to her.

Neteyam had no such nature.

He had been good.

So why was she still here and he wasn’t?

Why?

The question kept circling and circling until it felt like it might split her open.

The reef below them glowed gold when they reached it, long waving tendrils stretching upward from the seafloor and casting soft light over all of them. The sight of it should have been beautiful.

It only made her want to scream.

This was the end. 

The end of the time she had with her brother and it felt so painfully short.

Her whole body shuddered when they stopped.

Jake slipped from the ilu first, moving to the sled, and together they all helped guide Neteyam from it. Every touch had to be careful. Every movement slow. The water held him, but not enough to stop the finality of it.

(Y/n) reached out and cupped his cheek.

Cold.

Her lip trembled and she bit down on it hard enough to hurt because if she let the sob out now she did not know if she would stop.

“Goodbye,” she whispered.

The word barely made it out, she said it so softly no one else was able to hear it. 

Goodbye. Goodbye, little brother.

Her hand lingered one second longer, thumb brushing gently across his cheekbone.

Then she made herself move back.

Tuk swam to her side and reached for her hand, and (Y/n) held it tightly, so tightly Tuk whimpered a little and (Y/n) loosened her grip at once.

She dipped her head into the water as her parents took Neteyam down.

Jake and Neytiri guided him together, pushing his body deeper toward the glowing reef.

Tuk clung to her hand and watched too, small fingers shaking in (Y/n)’s grasp.

A cough rose in (Y/n)’s throat.

She swallowed it.

Held it back so hard it hurt.

She would watch.

She would keep watching.

She would not look away from him.

She wouldn't dare blink, she wouldn't dare miss a second.

This was the last time she'd ever physically see her brother.

Her parents let him go and Neteyam kept sinking, slowly,, until the golden tendrils reached him. They curled around him softly, folding over him, until her brother disappeared inside them.

Until there was nothing left to see.

That was when the cough tore free.

(Y/n) doubled over in the water, gasping as the first cough ripped through her chest, then another, then another. She jerked her head up out of the water, choking as she tried to drag in air, but it only made the coughing worse. She struggled to keep herself upright, treading water while her lungs seized and burned, the spasms so violent she could not pull a proper breath between them.

Tuk panicked and grabbed at her arm.

Kiri moved at once, one hand catching (Y/n)’s shoulder to steady her.

(Y/n) gagged and spat into the water.

The first thing that came up was seawater.

The second was streaked red.

She stared at it, chest heaving, and watched the blood bloom around her mouth before the ocean took it and pulled it apart into nothing.

Kiri’s hand tightened on her.

Tuk was crying again.

But (Y/n) could only stare at where Neteyam had disappeared beneath the glowing reef and think, with a kind of sick hollow certainty, that even now her body was failing in all the wrong ways.

It should have been her.

Not him.

Never him.

She pressed a shaking hand over her mouth as another cough broke through, tears blurring the glowing water beneath her.

She had promised her little brother they were going home.

And he had believed her.

She had lied to him. 

Jake caught her at the surface of the Cove of the Ancestors before she could dive.

His hand closed around her elbow fast enough to make her turn, and when she looked at him she saw the fear on his face before he had the chance to hide it.

“Don’t dive down there if you can’t hold your breath,” he said.

(Y/n) opened her mouth to argue and coughed instead.

The sound tore through her chest hard enough to fold her slightly in the water, one hand instinctively flying to her ribs as the burn flared up all over again.

Neytiri was at her side a second later, one hand rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades while the other steadied her arm.

“Your father is right,” Neytiri said softly.

(Y/n) coughed again, trying to catch her breath between them. “But—”

“(Y/n),” Jake cut in, gentler than his face looked, “you’re coughing because you drowned, kid. You swallowed too much water. You dive down there like this and you risk inhaling more.”

Neytiri cupped her cheek, thumb brushing lightly beneath her eye. “There will be another time.”

(Y/n) wanted to tell them there might not be.

Wanted to say that this was Neteyam, that she could not just wait for another time when this was the place he had gone, the place Eywa had taken him, the place she wanted to follow if only for a little while just to feel close to him again.

Instead another cough ripped through her.

She turned her head just enough that the blood hit the water and not Jake.

That frightened them.

Jake’s whole body tensed, his hand tightening on her elbow while Neytiri’s fingers slid from her cheek to the side of her neck, checking her, like she was making sure her daughter was still right there.

“Sit with your sister,” Jake said, and there was no room to argue in his voice now, only fear dressed up as steadiness. “I promise, once you’re better, you can come back.”

(Y/n) looked between them, chest heaving, eyes burning, and for one awful second she hated that they were right.

Hated that her own body had betrayed her so badly she could not even dive after her brother’s memory without coughing up blood.

But she knew they were right.

She would not make it down there without coughing.

Would not make it far before her chest seized and her lungs dragged more water in.

So she nodded once and let it go.

Kiri was waiting on the rocks when she climbed out of the water, wet and shivering and hollowed out in ways she could not explain. She lowered herself beside her sister and pulled her knees up, staring out at the sky where the light was beginning to change.

For a while she said nothing.

She only sat close enough that their shoulders touched and let the silence stretch.

(Y/n) tipped her head back and looked up.

And thought about Neteyam.

Tears slipped down her face so quietly she did not notice them at first.

Then she was thinking about the time she had broken all her ribs and Neteyam had held her up when even breathing hurt, one arm around her middle, face tight with worry.

It was very similar to how he held her up when she and Tisoha were shot out the sky. 

She remembered his arms around her, strong and shaking at the same time, holding her upright. 

He had held her up.

He had always held her up.

And now he was gone.

A sound escaped her.

Half sob.

Half laugh.

Because then she remembered the basket.

The old woven basket she used to shove both him and Lo’ak into when they were getting on her nerves, and how Neteyam would sit in there all offended while Lo’ak tried to climb out and she would just shove him back in again, threatening to leave them there until they learned how to behave.

Neteyam had hated it.

Or pretended to.

And later he would always laugh about it.

She pressed a hand over her mouth as the tears came harder.

She remembered him walking beside her while he practiced hunting, trying so hard to be serious, trying so hard to do everything right because he looked up to her back then in a way that had always made her chest ache a little. He wanted her approval. Wanted to impress her. Wanted to show her that he was getting better, stronger, faster.

She remembered him by the stream when they were younger, the two of them splashing each other while Lo’ak sulked because he had slipped on the rocks and blamed the stream for it.

She remembered Neteyam grinning at her from the water, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes bright and alive and so, so young.

She remembered the beach.

The one where he sat with her and begged her not to throw her life away, his voice so earnest it had hurt to listen to, because he had known her too well. Known the struggles she had. Known the way she would put herself between danger and the people she loved every single time if it meant they got to walk away.

Please be careful.

She had not been able to promise him that.

And now there would never be another chance.

The days she had with her younger brother were over.

No more walks.

No more Neteyam showing up beside her without asking because he had always somehow known when she needed company.

(Y/n) bowed forward, the sob finally breaking out of her as her shoulders shook. Kiri’s arm came around her at once, steady and warm, but it did nothing to stop the grief tearing through her.

“He’s gone,” she choked out, and the words sounded wrong in her own mouth, like they belonged to somebody else’s life. “Kiri, he’s gone.”

Kiri only held her tighter.

(Y/n) cried into her hands.

Because that was the cruelest part.

The world kept going.

The water still moved.

The sky was still there.

And Neteyam was gone.

Next >

By @sirscampi

By @loaf-with-jam

@animegamerfox @bynxi @whos-nin1 @liloumoreau5 @elliether @livingnotthriving @marija4674 @hannahriya @angeliquecho @lizzy91768 @18lkpeters @sirscampi @pitypinkabyss @merklefish @kitten-blog12 @akamenaruto14 @seawavesss @poppyw4 @frey-williams @saibaxoxo @fleeingreality @luzziii-luvv @verona-aliyah @th3realslimb1tch @nxstqlgia @nxstalgiaaa @gypsiegoop @pandaquick @user153639937 @beneaththetides @cantaloupesoda @7leo7 @any-maybe @kittsoraxx @eeorrrr @thekissoflife @the-official-disappointment @julietelysythr @crazylady20 @saltedcoffeescotch @taylor-munson @xoxojules86 @x-isha9 @valyriaa @jsp45 @buckybluebarnes @fleurlock @gvyknkj @nantii14 @pinkglittertaco @keencoffeefox @iris-xoxo-juhu @itsluvie

[whos-nin1]

Sey’ria ❤️❤️

[libraryafterdark]

Jake sully being taught to fish???

Jake sully being convinced by the kids to go and jump off rocks with them???

Fun times with Mr Sully👀👀👀

Teaching Toruk Makto to Fish

Ahhhh i love the ideassssss

Masterlist

The first time you met Jake Sully, he looked completely offended by a fish. You had been standing knee deep in the warm waters of the reef when you noticed the tall Omatikaya warrior glaring into the lagoon as though the fish had personally insulted him.

For the past ten minutes, he had tried everything. He lunged into the water, splashed after every shadow, and even muttered complaints under his breath whenever another fish slipped through his fingers.

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “You are aware they can hear you, yes?”Jake turned toward the unfamiliar voice.

“They can what?” “They feel the vibrations.” He blinked. “So… me yelling at them isn’t helping?” “It is helping.” His face brightened. “They are swimming away much faster.”

He sighed dramatically, rubbing a hand over his face. “I hate fish.” You laughed softly, the sound carrying over the gentle waves. “I think they dislike you just as much.” For a moment, Jake simply looked at you before shaking his head with an amused smile.

“You know, that’s not very encouraging.” “I wasn’t trying to encourage you.” “No?” “I was trying to stop you from frightening every creature in this lagoon.” Jake looked around at the completely empty water. “…Fair.”

You stepped beside him, letting the water ripple only slightly around your legs. “My name is Y/N.” “Jake.” “I know who you are.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right.” Everyone knew Toruk Makto. Everyone also knew about Neytiri.

It had been several years since her passing, yet her name was still spoken with respect throughout the clans. Jake rarely mentioned her, but sometimes you caught the sadness in his eyes when he watched the sunset alone.

You would never ask. Some wounds deserved silence. “You are trying too hard,” you said gently. Jake looked at the spear in his hands. “I’ve survived wars.” “I’m aware.” “I’ve fought thanators.” “So I’ve heard.” “I’ve flown Toruk.” “I know.” He looked back at the water.

“But these fish…” “They are winning.” “They’re absolutely winning.” A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. It was warm and genuine, and Jake found himself smiling simply because he hadn’t heard someone laugh like that around him in a long time. “Come here,” you said. He obeyed.

“First lesson.” Jake stood beside you. “What do I do?” “Nothing.” “…Nothing?” “You wait.” He stared. “I crossed an ocean for this?” You smiled.

“Patience is part of fishing.” “I’ve never been good at patience.” “I noticed.” For several minutes, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were gentle waves, distant ilu calls, and the breeze moving through the mangrove trees. Jake shifted his weight.

“My legs hurt.”

“It’s been two minutes.” “Longest two minutes of my life.” You chuckled again. Without warning, you reached over and gently adjusted the way he held his spear. “No.” Jake frowned. “What?” “You grip it too tightly.” “If I let go, I’ll drop it.”

“You won’t.” Your fingers rested over his for only a second before stepping away again. “There.” He looked down. “Feels strange.” “It feels relaxed.” “I’m not relaxed.” “I noticed.” This time, Jake laughed. A real one. The kind that made the corners of his eyes wrinkle. Somehow, you found yourself smiling too.

“There,” you whispered suddenly. A large fish glided silently between the coral. Jake’s muscles immediately tensed “Don’t move.” “I wasn’t” “You were about to.” “…Maybe.”

“Wait.” The fish drifted closer. Closer...closer.... “Now.” Jake thrust the spear. A splash erupted around him. He stared into the water. Then slowly looked up at you. “…Did I miss?” You looked at the empty spear. “Very impressively.” He groaned. “I cannot believe I’m losing to dinner.” You stepped beside him, lifted your own spear, and with one swift movement caught a shimmering fish.

Jake blinked. “Show off.” “I’ve had years of practice.” “I’ve had years of military training.” “And yet…” You held up the fish with a teasing smile. “The fish remain undefeated.” Jake laughed so hard he nearly dropped his spear.

As the sun slowly disappeared beneath the horizon, the two of you remained standing in the water, talking about everything and nothing. For the first time in years, Jake realized the ache in his heart had quieted, if only for an evening.

He wasn’t replacing the life he had lost. He never could. But somewhere between your laughter, the gentle waves, and his embarrassing inability to catch a single fish, he found himself smiling more than he had in a very long time. Watching him, you smiled too. Perhaps the reef had brought him there for more than just fishing lessons.