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luxcuriousao3 · 8 months

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Broken Promises (Part 2)

Summary: You are Jake Sully’s daughter--- his first daughter, the one he left behind on Earth when he decided to venture to Pandora. Nearly twenty years later, the two of you are reunited. Where Jake sees a chance to make up for his mistakes, you’re more interested in ruining his life--- by any means necessary. Notes: It's finally here! The long awaited part two for this series. I hope y'all enjoy. I still have no beta reader, so please feel free to point out any inconsistencies, canon errors, and/or SPAG errors. To be added to the tag list, please like this post! If you are already on the taglist, there is no need to do so. Word Count: ~2.5k Warnings: swearing, violence, brief mentions of past child abuse, brief mentions of past domestic abuse, Reader is a deeply traumatized and flawed individual and this is evident by her immoral thoughts and actions (which I do not condone)

Part One On AO3

They brought you to their village, and when your father roughly tore the blindfold off, you looked around to see you were sitting in some sort of tent-slash-hut.

“Nice digs,” you said sarcastically. “Though the lack of solid walls is a bold choice, for a hunted man.”

Your father scowled at you, but you just grinned back cheerily.

“Brat,” he huffed as he turned away from you and towards his mate. You stuck your tongue out at his back.

“She is like a baby,” Neytiri said. Then, an indecipherable look flickered across her face. “Like you once were, Ma Jake.”

“I’m nothing like that little shit,” your father protested. “I mean seriously, who raised her?”

“Nobody,” you said cheerfully, trying to keep in your laughter. “My mom died pretty soon after my deadbeat dad abandoned us when I was a few months old.”

Jake Sully flinched.

“So you see,” you continued, reveling in his guilt. “It’s really dear old Daddy's fault I’m like this.”

“Maybe he had a reason for leaving,” he said, his voice quieter than you'd ever heard it. “Maybe he meant to come back.”

You rolled your eyes, annoyed by his little pity party. He clearly didn’t feel that bad about it if he left you behind for some alien pussy.

“But he didn’t, did he?” You asked, twisting the knife. “So it doesn’t really matter what his reasons were. He’s still a good-for-nothing deadbeat, and I’ll hate him all I want, thanks.”

Your father was quiet for a long moment, looking stricken. Then, he sighed, and his voice was visibly softer when he next spoke. It made you sick.

“Look, we don’t want to hurt you—” he started, but you cut him off.

“Oh, is that why I’m still bleeding like a vagina during that time of the month?” You asked, a single brow raised. Your father had the grace to look sheepish, at least.

“Right,” he said, turning to his mate. “Can you get your mother? We’ll patch her up before we start asking questions.”

Neytiri stared at him silently for several seconds, before turning and leaving the tent.

The quiet following her departure was tense and awkward— for your father. You were greatly enjoying his discomfort.

“How old are you?” He finally asked, seemingly incapable of standing in silence for another second.

“I thought the questions were supposed to wait until I wasn’t bleeding all over your tent anymore?” You asked dryly.

“The interrogation questions will wait. I’m just making small talk.”

“...with your prisoner?”

“Just answer the damn question,” your father snapped. You rolled your eyes.

“Fine, I’m twenty-five,” you said. Your father huffed.

“Bullshit. You don't look a day over twenty.”

“Six years of cryosleep will do that to you, yeah.”

“So you’re not really twenty-five. Cryosleep doesn’t count. That would make you what, 18? 19?”

“Guess it's true what they say about marines,” you mumbled under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear. “Dumb as bricks. Since when does twenty-five minus six equal eighteen? Idiot.”

Your father scowled again.

“You are such a little shit,” he spat, annoyed.

“Dead mom, deadbeat dad, we’ve been over this already.”

Before he could answer, an older na’vi woman entered the tent, Neytiri on her heels.

“You must be Momma ‘Tiri,” you greeted impolitely. “Tell me, just how disappointed were you when your daughter spread her legs for some alien dick?”

Neytiri’s eyes flashed, and she lunged forward as if to hit you— but your father beat her to it. His hand caught you clear across your face, making you head snap to the side. Your lip split, and you tasted blood, but it wasn’t the familiar coppery taste of human blood. No, it was something entirely foreign, and the reminder that you were walking around in a blue meat suit only soured your mood further.

“Rude,” you whispered. You always knew your dad was a deadbeat, but to learn he was abusive, too? Double whammy.

Suddenly, Jake Sully was in your face, all traces of sheepishness, sympathy, and remorse gone from his expression.

“If you ever speak about my wife that way again, I’ll rip your damn tongue out,” he threatened you, yellow eyes burning. You blinked, sucked on your fat lip, and then stuck said tongue out at him, taunting. He snarled, rearing his hand back to hit you again, and you closed your eyes, waiting for it. You doubted he’d bother with an open hand this time— he’d probably go straight for the closed fist, maybe knock out a couple teeth. Your human body was missing a couple back molars, courtesy of the ex that dear old Daddy reminded you so much of.

“Jake,” a stern voice said, and the faint whistling sound of something flying through the air stopped. You peeked an eye open to see your father’s balled up fist—aha, you were right!—mere inches from your face. You raised an unimpressed eyebrow and leaned back, out of its path. His eyes narrowed at you, but the voice spoke again, and he turned to look at Momma ‘Tiri, clearly disgruntled.

“What?” He barked. “You heard what she said!”

“She is a child,” Momma ‘Tiri said dismissively. You scoffed and rolled your eyes, but she ignored you. “We do not strike our children.”

“She’s not one of us, and she’s definitely not my child,” he snapped. You immediately descended into a hacking fit of coughs in order to cover your laughter. Your shoulders hurt like a bitch, though, so you stopped cough-laughing pretty quickly. Jake Sully didn’t even look at you. “And she said it herself, she’s twenty-five. That’s a full grown adult by Na’vi and human standards.”

“I thought cryosleep didn't count?” You asked innocently. Your father hissed at you. The only reason you didn’t start laughing again was because you were starting to worry about how much blood your meat suit had lost. You didn’t care about the fact that it was a very expensive meat suit, but if it expired before you managed to kill Jake Sully, your revenge would be that much harder to achieve.

“She is like a baby,” Neytiri said again, somehow still glaring at you while looking bored with the conversation and your very presence at the same time. If you didn’t hate her so much, you might be impressed. “Stupid and whiny.”

“A child,” Momma ‘Tiri repeated. She seemed thoughtful, now, looking between her daughter, your father, and you with shrewd eyes. Then, she shoved your father out of the way as she came towards you. “A child that needs healing. Leave us.”

“She’s dangerous,” your father protested. Neytiri continued glaring at you. You crossed your eyes at her. Her nostrils flared and she looked away. You smirked, victorious.

“She is not. Now leave, Jake Sully. I am Tsahik. Not you,” Momma ‘Tiri said, voice firm. You were kind of offended that she didn’t think you were dangerous, but if Jake left, it would be easier for you to escape, so you didn’t correct her.

Jake growled, but Neytiri grabbed his arm and dragged him from the tent without another word. You let out a sigh of relief, suddenly feeling way less tense now that Deadbeat Daddy was gone.

“Damn,” you said. “He really sucks all the joy right out of the room, doesn’t he?”

“Hmm,” the woman hummed noncommittally, and then kneeled down in front of you and started to cut off your shirt. You jerked backwards, ignoring the spark of pain in your shoulders.

“Woah there, lady,” you said. “At least buy me a drink first.”

Immediately after you said that, you realized that she was technically your grandma, albeit only by marriage and in the most convoluted way possible. Regardless, the thought made you shudder.

“Scratch that, that’s just wrong. And in a ‘no amount of drinks could possibly make this right’ way, too. Sorry, no second base for you. Or first. Just, no bases in general, got that? The whole damn field’s off limits.”

“Quiet, child,” Momma ‘Tiri said, clearly annoyed, before cutting the rest of your shirt off. You protested—loudly—but she just ignored you and started cleaning your wounds.

“Ouchouchouchouchie!” You whined dramatically, only half joking. It really did hurt, but mostly you just wanted to keep annoying her. “You’re so mean, Momma ‘Tiri.”

“I could let you die,” she offered, a single brow marking raised. You rolled your eyes but went quiet, and she hmphed. “As I thought.”

You behaved while she continued to patch you up, cleaning the wounds on both your shoulders and your hand before she wrapped them tightly. When she was done, she stood up and turned around to leave.

“Uh, hey! Momma ‘Tiri!” You said, still very shirtless. “You just gonna leave me looking like a freshly fucked whore? People might get the wrong idea about us, y’know.”

And what a weird, disturbing idea that would be, not that she knew that.

“My name is Mo’at, insolent child,” she said, looking down her nose at you. You just stared at her blankly, and she made a cat-like grumble before stalking off.

“Rude,” you muttered again. Awkwardly, you sat in the interrogation tent with your tits out, hoping that someone would bring you some clothes soon. The Na’vi seemed pretty casual about nudity, with the loincloths and the leaf necklace-bra thingies and all that, but you most certainly were not. Already, you'd seen more of your father’s ass cheeks than you’d ever wanted to. Frankly, it was traumatizing. You would need to wash your eyeballs in bleach, later.

Suddenly, the tent flap opened again and a younger, surprisingly human-like Na’vi came in. You blinked at her, trying to figure out what made her different from the rest, when you realized that her nose was, if not human, more human than the others, and she even had eyebrows. And in her hands, hands that had four fingers and a thumb, she was holding a leaf bra-necklace thingy.

“Who’re you?” You asked, voice harsh and unwelcoming. You felt exposed, unable to cover yourself with your hands bound behind your back, and her human-ness was throwing you off. “Why do you look like that?”

“I am Kiri,” she said, voice neutral as she walked toward you. She placed the necklace-bra on you, arranging it to cover your chest, and then stepped back to give you some space. “I am Mo’at’s apprentice.”

“You didn't answer my second question,” you pointed out, feeling only slightly better now that you had some sort of garment on, though not nearly as much as you would if it was a real shirt.

“My mother was an Avatar, like you,” she said, and you raised your brows. There was only one person that could be, and intel said she was dead. Then again, that was just her human body. If her soulless Avatar was still hanging around, you supposed some whack job could’ve snuck in and got freaky with it. You’d heard of worse things happening back home. At least Augustine’s Avatar wouldn’t have been technically dead.

You shuddered.

“The more I think about that, the more horrifying it gets,” you told her. She frowned at you and left, obviously offended. Oh well. It’s not your fault she was born under morally reprehensible circumstances.

A few minutes later, your father came back in, followed by Momma ‘Tiri—Mo’at, whatever—and baby ‘Tiri. Deadbeat Daddy and his alien mistress glared at you as Momma ‘Tiri came closer, holding a wooden bowl filled with black goop. She dipped her fingers into the goop and started to draw swirling symbols on you with it. You gagged at the awful smell, wriggling as you tried to get away from it.

“God damnit, Momma, you’re gonna make me stink!” You whined, annoyed and disgusted. The woman just gripped your leg tightly with one hand to keep it still, continuing to draw with the other. As you moaned and groaned, she drew all over your legs, belly, arms, and even on your forehead. You were too distracted by the awful stench to wonder what it was for.

“It is done,” the Tsa’hik finally said, standing up and stepping away from you. “Until the stain fades, she’s stuck in this form.”

“What?” You asked, immediately dropping the dramatics. Your voice was low and dangerous, intensely serious in a way you’d failed to be this entire time. The almost childish manic glee was gone, leaving nothing but the battle hardened woman behind. You knew the sudden change in your demeanor unsettled your father from the way he shifted, reaching down for the rifle strapped to his side.

“You really think we’d let you go back to your human body before we got what we wanted out of you?” He asked, voice just as hard and cold as yours. You wondered, for a brief second, if perhaps you'd gotten that from him. But then you mentally snarled at the thought, banishing it from your mind. The only thing you’d gotten from the bastard was daddy issues.

“And what is it that you want from me, Jacob Nathaniel Sully?” You asked with a blank face, leaning back in your chair as much as you could while tied to it. A slow, cruel smile spread across your face as you noted the way he flinched at his full name. “Yes, Jacob. I know your name. I know everything about you.”

You paused, letting the implicit threat hang in the air, waiting to see how your father would react— but he just stared at you, fists clenched at his sides, his breathing picking up ever so slightly. You tilted your head, interested.

“Twin brother to Thomas Xavier Sully, died 2148, son of Nathaniel Thomas Sully and Melinda Grace Sully neé Evans, died 2133 and 2136 respectively,” you continued. A look of grief flashed across your father’s face, and distantly, you knew you should feel the same. They were your uncle and grandparents, after all. But you didn’t. You’d never met them, and all you thought about when you said their names was that if they were alive, you wouldn't have grown up without a father. Or at least you wouldn't have grown up in the foster care system. But they were and you did, and that was the extent of your grief, if it could be called that. But Jake’s pain was like a drug to you, so you decided to twist the knife a little more, wanting another fix.

“And of course, father to—” you said with a sneer, relishing the look of horror that crossed his face when you spoke your name, the name of the daughter he’d abandoned. The sadistic glimmer returned to your eyes, and you decided to add a little… embellishment. “Died 2166.”

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