i took 357191027r6392936446322736432947372 psychic damage from the Makarov fic so you gotta write reader being rescued, healed, rehabilitated and loved by the task force. imagine them teaching reader to be their own person or letting him top without any commands or punishments. reader would be whining like a puppy who doesn't know what it's doing and would be so cute and fearful looking for reasurance when fucking into a task force member it would be so cute
lol idk dude. I was intending to do the fic as a one off to satisfy my puplay kink but it's now started to rot my brain even more lol. If I did continue it, I don't know if I'd want a happy ending or an angsty one (omfg imagine going through all the healing and rehab and experiencing love only for one word from Makarov to have you going back to him without question)
So tell me ya'll if you want me to turn the one shot into a longer fic lol, but for now here's some headcannons, ideas/ whatever and some porn
CW:NSFW, rough anal, Simon x reader with Price watching, dom/sub.
I can't imagine Hound would be happy about the 'rescue' considering everything and definitely would be resistant to rehab (Hound biting ppl and getting muzzled lol) that dogheaded asinine stubbornness coming to bite him in the ass. I headcannon Hound to have already been violent when he was under Price's command but Price kept Hound in check(if anyone's seen that young ghost and price comic with him being compared to a fighting dog it's kinda like that).
Makarov didn't need to do much and just played into the aggressive tendency to make Hound as they are now. The more violent the reaction hound would make, the more attention and praise he'd get. Also I'm just a sucker for dog like characters that are unhinged. That have no moral compass except for the one they're loyal to and will do whatever they ask.
So the task force members would have their hands full with Hound that's basically an aggressive fighting dog taken straight out of the pit. Also I'm still thinking whether the 141 would try to steer Hound away from the pup/dog like mentality Makarov conditioned them into, or if they would try to redirect it by calling Hound 'pup, boy' etc, instead of 'dog' like Makarov did.
Also the grief Price would feel to see the man he thought was dead turned into that would break his heart. I don't know if I'd want him to crack down on trying to rehab hound, or let a lot of things slide because he's scared of fucking you up more.
But also like rehabed fighting dogs turn out to be the sweetest animals and Hound just going from this 'I will bite your throat out' to just a gentle giant that's just happy to be able to touch or hug someone without needed permission. . . but he can still bite a throat out.
Also I 1000% swear that Makarov's a whore and would have trained reader to have enough stamina to fuck him all night long so the task force would get pounded into next year lol.
This is questionable cannon and non-confirmed lol you just got me brain rotting with the cute pup part and this came out. Rough and quick.
CW:NSFW
You feel like you will die; heat burns through your veins, sweat crawls down your skin and makes your hair stick to your forehead. Your hands grip Simon's bruised hips, holding them up for him as you pound into him. "Please-" You barely manage a small whimper, hiding your face in Simon's shoulder.
Simon's body quivers beneath you, limp and boneless, a wet hole for you to use. He's as sweaty as you, rough grunts and half-formed swears leaping from his lips every time your hips meet his ass in a bruising thrust. He's the closest to you in size, albeit still smaller, which makes it easier for him to take your size than the others. His insides are a sweltering heat around your cock, fucked into a loose sloppy hole that would gape if you pulled out, muscles still doing their best to squeeze you every time you nail his prostate.
It makes you feel ashamed how long it took you to find it. Mounting anyone but Makarov feels wrong, you're not sure how fast or how deep to go, this current rough pace making Simon the most vocal since you began. You feel him cum again, walls clenching tightly for the first time in a while as you force him into spurting what's left in his empty balls.
"Pl- sir, I- please, please," You can't help but hiccup, your nails leaving crescent bruises in his skin as you just pound him through his orgasm. It's his fourth one.
"What's wrong son?" Price's words barely get through the fog of need in your skull, more little whimpers splitting from your lips. "Don't you want to let go?" Tears blurry your vision, you can barely see his face from where he's resting Simon's head in his lap.
You can't cum. Your balls are so full they feel like they'll explode any second, cock throbbing to finally shoot your load but no matter how harshly you thrust into the willing hole beneath you. It feels like those times Makarov would put a cock ring on you, but worse, now it's your own body refusing to give you release. You haven't earned it.
"Please-" You repeat, because that's the best your mind can come up with, your hips stuttering as overstimulation stabs your nervous system like a knife. "I-please, fuck- I can't." You force out, forcing yourself to return to the punishing pace, your pelvis starting to go numb like it would a few hours into Makarov using you as a living dildo.
Price's fingers are disgustingly gentle as they curl into your sweaty hair, making you look up at him with soft pressure on your scalp. There's no bite to his touch, no pain, it's too good for a thing like you.
You'll thank what god exists that Price seemingly understands your problem, "Oh, son." You hate the hint of sorrow in his tone, you hate yourself more for how it makes your heart pound in your ears. "Here, let me" He whispers, his other hand sliding down to your naked neck.
The lack of any collars around your neck still disgusts you every waking moment, still makes you feel wrong, bad dog. His fingers wrap around your throat. They're too loose to be a proper collar, but it lets you breathe easier, his palm warm and big enough to completely cover the 'V.M' tattooed on your skin.
"Go on, that's a good boy." He whispers, "Cum for us." Price orders, kissing you so softly it disgusts you, like heaven wrapped in thorns.
You feel fresh tears spill down your tears as the dam not letting you cum is finally torn down. You hiccup your 'thank you sir's against his lips as you spill inside Simon. You can just distantly hear Simon groan as you dump your cum into his sloppy hole, muscles weakly fluttering around your cock as you roll your hips, fucking your cum deeper into him, just the act of cumming hurting almost as much as being denied, your balls aching with every spurt of cum.
You collapse on Simon, pushing the breath out of his lungs, as boneless as him. You don't struggle when Price rolls you to your side, your cock slipping out. Cum and lube gushes out from his hole like a firehose, flooding the small space between you two, his rim red and irritated, muscles weakly fluttering around nothing as they try to close.
You try to thank him but you slur your words into his skin, feeling the muscles in his abdomen quiver as you huddle closer and wrap your arms around him, your chest pressed flush to his back. You expect him to pull away, Makarov hated being vulnerable like this longer than he needed, but all Simon does is grunt and tip his head back so you can hide your face in the space between his shoulder and neck.
"You olright Simon?" Price asks, brushing a hand through your sweaty hair for a few seconds before you feel him softly wiping away your spend from you two.
"Fuck," Simon breathes out, voice scratchy and rough. "Are we sure Makarov's human?" His hand reaches up to scratch your scalp as you kiss one of the numerous bite marks you left on him. His skin is a canvass of black and blue bruises, your bite marks starting to clot across his body. "Shit, I can't feel my legs."
His words feel like a slap in the face, and you don't notice how you let out a small whimper, your hold tightening. This is it, you'll have to let him go soon, he'll order you to leave like Makarov always did.
"None of that son." Price's voice is calm in your ear, rubbing soothing circles between your shoulder blades. "You did good."
Simon hums, his fingers running lower to scruff you, "Mhm, yeah," His words are slurred, exhaustion weighing on both of you. "Best snog I've ever had." He grumbles, and you don't doubt he won't admit it in the morning, but for the moment, as you feel yourself slowly drift off to sleep, you let yourself enjoy the praise, the warmth of human touch, the care you can feel in both of them.
This is starting to feel nice.
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i will soften every edge, hold the world to its best | 3
summary ;; Sullys stick together. You learn the hard way what happens when you don't.
PART 2 | PART 4
pairings ;; dad!jake sully x reader, mom!neytiri x reader, sully family x reader
genre ;; pure angst and family feels
notes / explanations ;; descriptions of blood and violence incoming, beware! shout out to the ppl who predicted the stuff in this chapter LMAO
so um... i couldnt tag everybody who asked when i said i would... there's apparently a limit to how many people you can tag. please forgive me 😭 im not taking any tagging requests anymore since i cant do it. so sorry about that,,,, seriously
also, thank you so much for 1160 followers! i still cant fucking believe it... daddy issues solidarity 🤙🏻🤙🏻
“Hi there Corporal, you hear me? Yeah, I know you do. As much as I’m charmed by the fatherly love I could give you a big old sloppy wet kiss, we have unfinished business.”
Rain covered the rustling of clothes and the click-clacks of readjusted weapons as concentrated silence hung in the air, thick and heavy like the morning mist swallowing up the forest.
No answer.
What face could your parents be making right now? Heartbeat in your ears, you tried to hide your shame by looking down, but a jerk on your queue set you straight. the avatar holding you digging his gun sharper in your neck.
“What, cat got your tongue all of a sudden?” The leader’s stare found yours. “Let me give you a quick remedy.”
They’d linked your device into another for the sound to be relayed outside and the voice detection range could be wider, in other words, they wanted your father to hear what was happening to you. Your braid was yanked as if the one pulling it wanted to snap it right off your skull, no amount of training could stop the scream torn out of you — all the show just for him.
The line was deadly still, save for some rustling, crackling static that you could have easily mistaken for hissing.
A ghost of a smile shadowed the man’s face, he extended his rifle to tip your chin up. “Guess we’re gonna have to be louder than that to wake daddy up sweetheart.”
“Stop!” Father yelled, the unexpected timing of it made you jump. That earned him a group chuckle from the avatars around you. “Stop.”
He talked. He didn’t leave you to fend for yourself in this. Thank Eywa!
“That was fast,” the captor behind you said.
“Thought you’d have forgotten English by now, playing native.”
“...Quaritch?”
Quaritch. That awful, awful man from the stories your mother killed? Spider’s father? But… But he was dead. How could sky people know how to cheat death?
“In the flesh.”
Father’s voice wavered, you’d think he was scared if you didn’t know any better. “That’s impossible.”
“Back from the grave just for you, Jake.”
“Then I’ll just have to put you right back where you belong.”
The squad of avatars openly laughed at that, boisterous, confident, arrogant.
This was Toruk Makto they were openly mocking. None of them would last for one minute in front of him and yet—
“Quite the teary lovers reunion we’re havin’ here, but you got busy while I was gone, huh?” He looked down at you again, yellow eyes filled with mirth. “I have this tiny bird here we plucked right out of the air. Imagine my surprise to learn she’s yours. Is this the only one, or you got yourself a litter now?”
Silence again.
“What do you want?”
“Straight to the point as always.” The smug smile momentarily twitched into an unamused, withheld resentment. This man was nearing the end of his capacity to keep taunting. “I don’t think I’ll tell yet. You know I love to be a tease.”
Your ears rotated upwards in treacherous hope at your father's next words. “If you touch one hair on my daughter’s head I swear to god—”
“You exchanged your god for this shithole, Jake. Let’s not kid ourselves now.” Any hint of playing around was gone, now, eyes fixated on something on the ground ahead. “Your daughter will be my guest for a while. Think of it as summer vacation. Don’t worry, unlike the Na’vi, we’re very hospitable.” His thumb brushed over a button. “Until next time.”
“Fucking bastard—”
With one beep, the call was over. Quaritch was touching the band around his neck this time. “Iron Sky, Blue on Actual. We are standing by for extract, over.”
You began to tussle against the avatar behind your back. “No! No! Let me go!”
“Be advised. We're bringing in a high value prisoner.”
“Dad’s really gonna flay her alive this time, I can’t wait.” Lo’ak, positioned just behind the flap of the tent to not be seen from the outside as he peeked with one eyeball just in case, was watching his parents vehemently yell at each other in whispers that started out loud, but got hushed probably to not reach him and his siblings. Aggressive limb gestures were flying in the air, and at one point, his mom had tried to run off somewhere and was forcefully stopped.
Dad was currently pacing around like a wild animal with one hand permanently stuck rubbing his face, and mom turned away from him, holding her forehead. “They’re really going at it, huh?
Kiri was not amused with his insistence to breach their privacy. “What’s so interesting about watching this kind of thing?”
“Catharsis?” He remarked in English, feeling sophisticated. “You remember Spider talking about it? Purification and emotional cleansing through relief that you’re not going through the horrible tragedy, the character on stage is.”
“You’re normally so dumb.” Lo’ak bore his fangs at her matter-of-fact tone of voice. “Your brain only comes back on when it’s about chaos.”
“I’m petty, and what about it?” A tilt of his head to dare Kiri to ask for her point, then his attention was thwarted by an incomprehensible cry from his mother. She was pushing dad from his arms, furious like Lo’ak had never seen before as the upset man tried to hold her more. “Look at mom and dad breathing fire at each other! You think they’re discussing how to punish her?”
“Stop spying already skxawng, mom will be angry if she sees you. We’re supposed to be in bed.”
“Shut up, I’m trying to listen here!” His ears were tilting at every angle to make out any words that reached to him as nothing but a cluster of broken sounds. “Why did they have to go far?”
“Because they wanted to be away from peeping toms like you?”
“And you’re still here too, so?” Lo’ak gave his sister a meaningful look. “I know you wanna see too.”
“Ugh!” Kiri shoved out her tongue at him, eyes dead. “And it’s not funny, by the way! They are fighting. Stop being happy about it.”
He knew they were fighting about his older sister, and that she’d get all the heat and fallout from it the moment she was back. Lo’ak’s head was full of what he could get out of it, or what to ask her for in return for helping her out in her detention. So satisfying to be the sibling who wasn’t in trouble. He should do it more, actually. “It is funny when it’s not about me.”
“You’re sick for taking joy in another’s suffering.”
“Oh, I’m doomed, then.” Kiri took whatever fat was on his thin arm between her thumb and forefinger, and twisted. Lo’ak had to blink away the tears that rushed to his eyes, snatching his limb away from the displeased girl and pushing her away in return — he was annoyed at how much that hurt, why was that so damaging for no reason? “Yeouch! What the hell?”
“Will it kill you to practice mindfulness once in a while?”
He raised his voice’s pitch to mock the wobbly, ear-scratching whine of yours, and exaggerated his body movements to match, too. “I hate you!”
“Gross.” She tried to shove him, he caught her hands in the air, pushing her back and getting the spiteful annoyance of his sister as a result. “Dad was actually hurt by that.” Lo’ak’s eyes could roll down the hills by themselves the way that sounded, but Kiri, as always, was bothered so inexplicably. “I don’t like this. I have a bad feeling.”
That bad feeling was the herald of dad’s upcoming cranky ill-temper and what would follow after you inevitably had to come crawling back home with tail between your legs, Neteyam dragging you from the scruff of your neck. Lo’ak was refusing to sleep so he could enjoy the fight.
“Me personally, am over the moon, ikran duty is so gonna be off my hands. For months.” He halted at the idea that just went off in his head, tail swishing with the hype. “I wanna tell Spider. I’ll go get him.”
“Absolutely not. You sneak off now and they’ll laser-focus all the anger on you!” Kiri was pointing a warning hand at him, but slowly lowered it, one corner of her mouth twitching up. She was holding back amusement. “Hey, you know what? Nevermind, you can go. I want you to go. I have to see this.”
“Ha-ha.” Lo’ak’s tail stuttered, losing enthusiasm. “Attempted murder, much?”
“Guys, what’s going on…”
Upon the unexpected voice that wobbled its way into their conversation, they both looked down to see Tuk gripping her weaved blanket with one hand and dragging it on the floor as she made her way to them, the other rubbing her eyes one by one so sleep dripping from them would fly away.
“See, you woke her up! What do we do now?”
“You woke her up by yelling, why is it my fault now?”
“I didn’t, you—”
“Did too.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did n—”
“Guys…” Tuk pulled on Kiri’s hand, and the foreign object she was clutching the whole time distracted Lo’ak. It must have dug into the older one’s skin that she carefully picked it up to inspect. The ear pieces they took off before they went to sleep. This one was Kiri’s. “Neteyam’s calling. You didn’t hear…”
Grinning, Lo’ak snatched it up and skipped backwards and put it in his own ear, ignoring Kiri’s hushed yells to give it back now and the groans about ruining it with his stinky, cheesy earwax. He had to keep bouncing around, the girl was chasing him around the tent. “Bro! Tell her she’s sooo dead. Dad’s literally keeping guard in front of the tent—”
“Lo’ak, quit it.” Neteyam’s tremulous answer was harsh. Lo’ak’s smile wavered as he dodged Kiri’s arm and jumped over discarded cups on the floor, knocking over wooden spoons. “I need you to tell me what’s happening over there.”
“Aw, baby’s so scared to come back she needs to make a game plan first?” He laughed, slapping Kiri’s hands away. “I’ll only tell if she gives back my karambit knife.”
His older brother sighed, a bit too exasperated.
“Yeah, I’m not letting that one go and I’m also making it your problem—”
“Lo’ak, she isn’t here.”
He stopped dead in his tracks. “What?”
“She isn’t here. I couldn’t find her.” Kiri bumped into him, unable to stop herself at the right time to hit the brakes due to how abruptly Lo’ak had stilled. They’d almost tumbled over. “Dad told me to wait until he contacts her and I’ve been waiting for minutes. Now tell me what’s going on over there.”
“Bro, you’re serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be serious, skxawng!”
He turned to Kiri in disgusted discomfort, who had damn-near glued her own ear to his to hear better. “Forget months, I’ll be free for years. Dad’s not gonna let her take one step off the camp anymore.”
The girl would stomp her foot if she was a couple years younger. “What’s this about?”
And Neteyam would shake Lo’ak from the neck for ignoring him this long while he was fussing. “Tell me already you—!”
“They’re having a fight bro.” He leaned better to peep outside the tent. “Yeah.”
“She came back? Why didn’t you tell me?”
It was uncommon for Neteyam to completely disregard the previous input he’d been given. Lo’ak didn’t understand this level of anxiety. “Are you having a brain fart? Would we be having this conversation if she was here? It’s mom and dad who are fighting.”
It wasn’t that serious — on the contrary, his sister was quite simple to understand. She didn’t want to be found and had changed her place of hiding. End of story. The golden boy’s worrywart nature was keeping him from reasoning.
“Don’t be a smartass.” Lo’ak practically felt Neteyam’s want to land a loud smack on his back. “Were they only able to reach her, then? Is that why they’re fighting?”
“You’re asking me?—”
The older boy began to grumble under his breath. “This is why I called Kiri.”
Said girl’s ears perked up over picking her name from the static-surrounded line. Lo’ak snorted. “Ouch, bro.”
Kiri shook him from the elbow. “Me? What about me?”
“Great title for your autobiography.”
Kiri raised her arms to give him a beating and Lo’ak was already bolting away from anywhere near her vicinity. The siblings didn’t even take notice of the line with Neteyam going dark as they focused on their own play-scuffle for a while.
Until Lo’ak bumped into someone.
It wasn’t Tuk.
Shoulders pulled into himself, he turned around torturously freaked out to find dad standing there like a ghost, his tactical vest packed to the brim and gun hanging from his back the way they wore their bows.
The blue of his skin had faded into an ashier tone, amber eyes wide and bloodshot, the veins on the normally put together Olo’eyktan’s forehead were bulging, even a socially clueless person would pick up something was seriously wrong. He commanded cold authority of the battlefield simply by the way he stood, immediately triggering Lo’ak into soldier mode.
He took a few steps back, chin hanging low at the lightless, unblinking stare his father pushed down on him. “Sir.”
All the sleepiness that had Tuk unresponsive and nodding off through Lo’ak and Kiri’s push-and-pull was knocked out of her at the sight, she was now unnerved and frightened. “Dad?”
The man’s intensity was somehow eased by his youngest’s reaction, but he held back from taking her in his arms like he normally would to comfort her, didn’t even care to remark on how they were supposed to be sleeping — how they’d woken their little sister up, instead focusing on Lo’ak. “I want you all to listen well. Your mother and I are heading out for a minute and your grandmother will be with you soon — Neteyam is Oscar-Mike to come back here. Stay put and don’t go anywhere, understand?” His finger pointed accusingly at him. “Don’t cause trouble. Looking at you boy, what I’m saying here is Marine proof. I’m at the end of my wits here, don’t even think about slipping a tail out of this tent.”
The potent severity of whatever the hell was making him this agitated to the point of a voice so hoarse it was unrecognizable got the wheels in Lo’ak’s head whirring. “What’s happening, dad?”
“One child!” The thundering shout came down on him with the force of a falling mountain, making Lo’ak jump out of his skin. “I need one child of mine to listen to me without asking any questions today!” Dad’s voice broke when Tuk whined, he shut his eyes as if he was in physical pain, and flexed his jaw, shaking his head and pulling the girl in from her shoulders to soothe her. Still no direct hugging. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m sorry sir,” Lo’ak said immediately, distraught by the over-the-top reaction, hands unknowingly curling into fists by his sides. Whenever that sky people word ‘Jesus’ slipped from dad not having any control between the border of his two languages, the boy knew it was demanding gravitas. “I heard you CFB.”
“Good.” He thinned his lips. “Kiri, please.”
Lo’ak frowned at dad basically asking for her to play her brother’s keeper in Neteyam’s absence in two simple words.
She nodded. “I know dad.”
He caught a glimpse of his mother running in the distance, her father’s bow in her hand.
Just what was happening? What had you done?
Eywa, it had to be sky people.
Dad saw the realization in his face. “Stay,” he emphasized, one final time before he was also gone with the wind.
Lo’ak wouldn’t have obeyed if it wasn’t for his grandmother arriving just in time, keeping them busy with a story about the arrival of a wounded ikran with no rider.
You realized the gunshot wound puncturing your upper abdomen was there the whole time when the avatars put first aid and later slapped a rectangular sky people bandage on it that helped clotting or whatever it was called, the pain simply not being there had played a big factor in it with the body running on pure adrenaline.
(Crouching close to you, Quaritch had bragged, “We aren’t so bad after all, huh, sweetheart? It’s called civilization. Your daddy ever taught you about that?”
Civilization, your ass. They needed you. There was nothing well-meaning about what they were doing.
And the nickname had ticked you off, sullying the good memories of father, your head slammed into his nose in full power after a hiss.
“Now my daddy taught me that!” you spat in English as other avatars had tackled you. The man claiming to be Quaritch was smiling as he wiped away the blood trickling down his nose.
What was the point in trying to patch you up if they were going to do this, then?)
You were now a part of an elaborate trap to lure your father in. Bait. The worst position to be in. This was the kind of trouble Lo’ak would get himself in. It was too late to go back now, the mess you’d gotten yourself into had made itself known.
Think, think! How could you get out of this?
Within the unsleeping forest’s nightly noises chirping all around you, a specific call in the air halted your train of thought.
It was mom.
Your parents were here. But how? How did they know where you were, exactly? Dread and expectation pooled in your heart, coexisting in a nauseating mix.
Father must be thinking that you already caused so much trouble, they couldn’t know you were also hurt, you’d never hear the end of it.
But there was no time to think, the pain you should have been feeling was ebbing its way into your body, and she was calling in the night to inform you to get ready.
All hell broke loose when the man who held you tight from your queue was shot right from the back of his head with an arrow, collapsing right on top of you.
You couldn’t get away in time to not be crushed by his dead body and promptly got squished between the mossy soil and him, his gun was hurting you, the wound on your stomach getting in the way of you using your core to push the body off.
How many minutes had passed with you struggling to get him off as a hurricane of bullets roared, you didn’t know (it hurt, pain was climbing towards the threshold) — mom was able to break free from the weight of a whole AMP suit, as you’d heard as a child, a Na’vi was naturally strong, but you couldn’t even crawl out. Panic was a rope tightening around your ribcage as your breathing picked up
All of a sudden, the weight was gone, and the only remaining thing from it was the big gun left from the avatar you found yourself hugging for dear life, eyes wide as saucers. Before you could see whoever had done that, you got hoisted up right back on your feet and tried to run, only to be held tighter and pulled behind the trunk of a tree.
“Hey, it’s me, it’s me!” Clumsy, overwrought hands were cupping your cheeks and — and oh, it was your father.
You didn’t know whether to be afraid or cry from happiness.
Once he was sure you registered it was him by staring intently in your eyes with that edge of the softness you’d missed so much, his hold shifted to your neck and around your shoulders, and he gave you a look-over, checking for any wounds. Too bad what he was searching for was behind the gun you were holding. “Are you hurt?” He shook you when you were too stunned to answer. “Are you hurt at all?”
“No,” you shook your head automatically, it was weak against the explosions of bullets raining down all around you, but father had picked it up regardless, only focusing on you for the moment.
In the darkness, nobody could see the blood running down your body, that bandage had come out at one point.
“On my mark, we’re gonna run, okay?” He nodded to you, tomahawk axe in hand coated in a dark substance, commanding your full attention. “Follow me. Ready? Ready?”
You weren’t ready at all, stomach feeling like it was being stabbed at every heartbeat, but you couldn’t tell him that.
Instead, you ran like hell, moored by father’s taut clutch on your forearm pulling you forward to match his incredible speed dodging roots, bushes and branches.
Things stopped moving only when you were enveloped in mom’s embrace, consciousness almost flying off from the relief that washed over you. Kisses were peppered along your hairline and forehead, her mumbling your name in gratitude blending with your panting. Tears burned bitter in your eyes, but you couldn’t cry, not when father was looking at you like that, chest rising and falling. You instantaneously remembered why you were holding that gun at the intensity he was radiating, tail escaping between your legs and letting mom hold you.
At least this way he wasn’t able to objurgate you.
Over her shoulder, you saw three ikrans instead of two. Heart soaring, you were skipping towards him in pure astonishment in a heartbeat. “Hey buddy!”
His head lowered down towards you in bird-like movements. In this angle, it looked like he was giving you a razor sharp-toothed big grin.
“He brought us here,” your mother said. The hand you were going to pet the ikran with stopped midway at her dejected tone. “You have passed Iknimaya, I take it. On your own.”
You didn’t know what to say, feeling immense guilt at having made her this disappointed over it. If this was any normal situation, any normal fight at all, you would have shot back with, ‘Well father told me to do it.’
But you were tired.
Your pain threshold was being threatened, and you needed to get to your grandmother before any of your parents saw the situation you were in and this escalated into the worst fight you were going to get into in your entire life.
Father’s only response was a dead cold, “C’mon, we gotta get outta here.”
He didn’t talk to you after that. Not one word.
Squatting on an ikran’s back on a flight with an abdominal gunshot wound you were trying to hide was not an option unless you wanted to pass out midair and was looking for a free dive, so you were all but hugging the poor thing’s neck like a monkey, trusting him to follow your parents while you concentrated on mentally fighting to level out the pain.
Nonsensical as it was to believe the gun stuck between your ikran’s neck and your stomach was acting as a tampon to lessen the bleeding, you were concerned with how dumb it must have looked to father and mom, how incompetent they must think of you that their daughter didn’t even know how to ride right.
Got an ikran for nothing.
Would they be less proud of you seeing how funny it appeared, nevermind that it was to contain your pain all the while not trying to faint?
But no words were exchanged about it.
Father clamping up right after he’d made sure you weren’t hurt (yikes) had resulted in this awkward trip succumbing in total silence. They had sandwiched you between them, only necessary space for the ikrans to beat their wings freely left, so close that you could discern the scariest look on father yet, deepening the lines of age in his face while simultaneously expressing his barely contained desire to kill someone.
A ticking time bomb.
Forget speaking at all, but not only did he never address you until now, he didn’t even look in your direction for once. You knew because staring at him for five minutes straight for him to just acknowledge your existence had proven to be unfruitful.
And the tears involuntarily streamed down your cheeks with how utterly worthless and alone that made you feel, trapped in this agony you couldn’t help but hide because he’d think you didn’t deserve to complain after bringing it upon yourself. You would rather bite your tongue and bear the pain than stay dreading his reaction.
Yeah, no, he couldn’t know.
Mom was looking over at you every one minute to make sure you were okay after her ears picked up on your sniffles, arrows of worry shot from her side sinking down your skin every single time, and you hated to make her this way.
Your ikran kept comforting you through tsaheylu until you landed.
Father had promptly jumped down, agile and making haste away somewhere, passing you by and giving the cold shoulder. You all but slid off your own ikran, managing to make the gun stay where it should be, as you couldn’t help but weakly call out to him for one drop of consolation. “Father…”
He didn’t stop for you, quickening his steps, but his ears twitched, the tail beating the air ferociously halting and lowering before it returned to the previous motions, and those were the only indications that he’d heard it Lima Charlie.
The man just didn’t want to talk to you.
And you had to make yourself believe it wasn’t the emotional devastation that had you falling down, but the wound sucking out all your energy now that you had gotten to safety.
“Ma’ite?” Mom rushed to you. “Ma’ite, what’s wrong? What is it?”
“I’m okay, mom, it’s okay.” You were sitting on the floor, cross-legged. Thank goodness you still had the unbreakable willpower (and not the fear of Eywa put into you by father) to hold your shit together. “I’m okay. Just tired. My knees buckled. Weak, you know?” You swallowed, smiling. “I’m just… Just resting.”
Her gaze full of concern studied you, zeroing in on the gun you clung on for dear life against your stomach. Her hands lovingly brushed your hair, gripped your shoulders and elbows even though you were disgustingly clammy all over. It was grounding, anchoring within the ocean of pain washing over you in waves.
“Oh, why are you sweating so much? You’re freezing.” You clutched the gun harder in a panic when she grasped it, most likely to put it away. It was the wrong reaction to have, but you weren’t exactly in the position to function healthily.
Mom, as any other person would, got suspicious from it, her eyes flying up to your owlish ones — blanked out like a frightened animal. “You’re fine now,” she whispered, thankfully attributing it to how disturbed you must be, still not out of survival mode. “You are safe, my daughter. Mom is here.” She cupped your cheek, but every touch to your body hurt now, even when it was away from the gaping wound, still gushing blood, trickling down your hips and getting you scared that it’d be discovered once you stood up. “I’m here.” She searched your soul to know just why you were grimacing at her attempts of comforting. “I will take this now, you do not need it anymore.”
You snapped out of the gradually darkening gray haze mom’s lulling was laying you down gingerly into. “No, please don’t,” your breathing hitched. She was going to see. She couldn’t see. You had to avoid this somehow, as long as you could. Grandmother’s tent. You would make it, you had to. “I’ll… I’ll just sit here for a while, okay? I need to just… take a small break, and then I’ll… Can you go back? I’ll follow later. Father is angry, I don’t—”
“Nonsense.” Incredulous and enraged suddenly about something you couldn’t put a finger on, and before you could stop her, she tried to haul you up with her by gripping your upper arms — colors exploded behind your eyelids, getting you you to lose consciousness for two seconds, your vision flooding back in a starry kaleidoscope. When mom’s voice reached your ears, it was in staccato exclaims your ears were ringing too much to discern. She was shaking you.
You weren’t able to sit up straight anymore, leaning forward — mom had caught you, utterly confused and panicked at the same time. And then your head was lying on the crook of her elbow resting on her legs she’d tucked under herself. The moment you’d switched from sitting to straight up lying down was missing from your memories.
A baby being cradled. Yes, this is exactly what it was like. Gentle arms surrounded you amidst the pulsating sea of agony.
Your body was letting go, but your arms were vices around the gun, still holding that last line. Don’t let go. Don’t let go. They can’t know. Father will be so mad if he learns. “‘m okay… ‘st restin’…”
When your eyes cleared enough for the surroundings to be only a bit blurry, your mom was looking at the hand she’d just tried to take away the gun with, caked with your blood that had stained it, out of it and perplexed like she didn’t want to believe it.
Her gut-wrenchingly stunned numbness sent the misery clawing its way inside into overdrive, pulling your consciousness down to the earth from the clouds it was ascending to. “Not mine,” you forced out, but it came out as begging. Everything was falling apart. The plan was so simple, why couldn’t you do anything right? “Not mine. Please. Mom, it’s okay.”
“No…” Mumbling, she started sharply swaying back and forth, and with one brutally vigorous attack, she ripped the gun away from your arms, and hurled it away — then it was over. Your sob wasn’t due to the motion hurting you, it was all entirely for the broken wail of your mother at seeing the bloodied mess, tears spilling from her eyes as she reached down to press down at the pouring liquid. “No! No! Oh Great Mother! Why did you hide this! Oh, my daughter!”
“No, mom, I’m fine, it’s nothing. Not my blood. Not my blood, okay?” You reached up weakly and wiped at her cheeks with trembling fingers, your heart got crushed worse than the pain could beat you down at her grief — lungs constricting. Where was all the air? “I’ll get up. I’ll go to grandmother, don’t cry. Just resting.”
Frantically looking around, she yelled, “Jake!—” but her voice didn’t quite come out, breathy as if she’d been punched in the ribcage seconds prior.
A heartbeat’s worth of nothingness, after which you were full-on freaking out. Only one thought: Father will be angry.
“No!” You shrieked, and blood swelled in one strong pump against mom’s fingers. She looked down at you in anguish, pupils blown wide, arm tightening around you as if you were a flailing bird. “Don’t tell him! Don’t tell father! He’ll really kill me for this—”
“No, no no no,” she shook her head, frenzied, tone cracked from beginning to end. “Do not say that. Don’t you ever say that—”
But you were struggling in her arms, wanting nothing but to crawl away into a hole, no reason registering whatsoever, only instinct. “He’ll be so angry,” you begged, pleading, pink spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth. The sound of gurgling accompanying the words you forced your whole body to form. “You can’t tell him — you can’t! He already hates me!”
The more you thrashed around and kicked your legs, the more you bled.
“Please, Great Mother!” The more mom lost her mind, hissing and howling hysterically, crazed, hugging you tighter and rocking. “Jake! Jake! Ma’Jake!” She put her temple against yours. “Not my daughter, please, Eywa…”
Why was she being like this? It wasn’t that serious! You were okay!
Delirium claimed you hot as she kept calling his name and her unbreakable hold on you kept you in a cage of a mother’s despair. In your feverish mind, a threat to your life was coming. Weakness spread like wildfire around your body and chipped away at the pain, slowly picking it apart to replace it with drowsiness. “Don’t call ‘im,” you continued to repeat, over and over again. “I’m just taking a break. Don’t call him over. He’s gonna be angry. He’ll hate me. He hates me. Please, mom.”
The sentences slurred together, shortened, wilted away pitifully, your voice died down, tongue deteriorating into only echoing, “He hates me.” A withered away, old flute.
Your ikran was bellowing in the distance and you looked. The torches on cave walls were illuminating him and finally revealing to you his beautiful color scheme.
And then your father was here, falling to his knees right beside you, his glistening wide eyes flying everywhere around your body — tracing all the blood, hands hovering above you as if he didn’t know where to start piecing a shattered vase back together.
It was over.
Fully expecting the chastising you were about to receive to shake the floating mountains so bad the enemy would be able to spot you, you began to apologize — pride be damned, this battle be lost, you’d failed anyway. “Please don’t be mad,” you shuddered, meek and unsteady, tunnel vision flickering at the edges only perceiving him. “It’s my fault—I’m sorry—please don’t be angry—”
“Stop talking,” he ordered, rough and harsh, eyebrows knitted tightly, and out of breath — probably because of how hard he was trying to hold the anger back. You knew. That had to be it. “Don’t speak.”
Ah of course. This was only natural when he had refused to utter a single word at you the whole way, denying you the temporary comfort of a simple glance.
Even the hand he pressed down so ruthlessly firm on your stomach it might as well be a boulder pinning you down was meant to be punishment, the whines your unbreathing lungs couldn’t stop turned into yowls — you hadn’t even noticed your hands were wrapped around father’s wrist in an effort to push him away, scratching him, but he only added his other hand on top of the other in return.
“Hang on, sweetheart, I got you, please hang on a little longer,” he pleaded, but you were already too far gone, Eywa was cruel to have plugged your ears to the endearment you’d been dying to hear from him for so long, making the last things you were aware father said to you the fact that he didn’t even want to hear you talking.
And you fulfilled his wish.
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