rare repost of something not translated by me (thank you DeCayK for translating!!!)
self-conscious: a light x l doujinshi
genre: crack(!!!!), nsfw
summary: L proposes that Light spend one full day with him in L's room for observational purposes. Light reacts to this idea with normal and proportionate daydreaming.
(HELLO thank you for reading this far!!! here is a bonus minicomic from the same doujinshi just for you.)
Can you do angst with aonoung x bratty reader please
Hurt//Homesick
Summary: You had never doubted your place in Awa'atlu, until one of Ao'nung's friends makes you question whether you even want to stay
Warnings: Insecure reader, comparisons to other people, Neteyam is sweet and caring, Ao’nung is kind of an ass
You are distracted by the squealing of passing children that run along the pathway that navigates throughout Awa’atlu. While you are inside Ao’nung’s marui using seaweed and reed fibres to create a new tewng for Tuk, Ao’nung is repairing a few of his spears. You are sitting in relative silence, other than the conversation that carried on between you, although you were doing more of the talking than he was.
There was a buzzing energy that radiates throughout Awa’atlu as the clan prepares for the Tulkun’s return. The bi-yearly event brings a heightened sense of excitement that is felt by every member of the Metkayina that celebrates the return of their spirit brother and sister. It’s an energy that feels magnetizing and inspiring, setting the precedent for the busyness that affects everyone.
You sit and weave a tewng for Tuk while you talk about what your family was doing, relaying the excitement that bubbled even in your own family. Even though you were not Metkayina, Lo’ak had met his spirit brother Payakan, and they had aided in the acceptance of your family to the Metkayina.
“Lo’ak is helping Tsireya gather herbs for the cooks in Awa’atlu in preparation for the clan feast, although we all know he is just trying to spend time with his mate.” The two of them have been attached at the hip since the conversation of the possibility of children had been brought up.
“While Lo’ak is with Tsireya, Neteyam has been aiding the hunters out upon the sea, gathering a plethora of meat for the clan wide feast—flat-snake fish, glider fin and hammerbrow will be brought back to the village to prepare for the First Breath ceremony with the Tulkun.” You continue talking while Ao’nung is sharpening the head of his spear and repairing the long hilt that has seen some damage.
“Do you think he will like me? Your spirit brother?” You finally set Tuk’s new tewng down in your lap along with the bone needle you’d used to hook the fibre. “Will I be able to meet him?”
“My spirit brother,” Ao’nung raises his head and looks at you with those blue eyes you so love, and a smirk that begins to form on his face, “will be there, yes.”
“So can I-” you ask again, preparing to press the manner because it is important to Ao’nung which means it is to you. The tulkun returning, meeting his spirit brother is something you want to experience. You want to be able to meet this tulkun that means so much to him, that will be apart of your life and not just Ao’nung’s.
But as you speak, Ao’nung is slow to answer—hesitating even for less than a moment, has your eyebrows furrowing. It’s the first of an unsettling stabbing that seeps into your stomach, delivering a sense of nausea. He cannot respond, he doesn’t have the time because there is a knock on the thick wooden pole that supports the entrance to the marui.
“Ma Ao’nung.” A voice calls out and your attention falters from Ao’nung to the Metkayina tutè that is standing there, looking into Ao’nung’s home.
“Me eylan.” Ao’nung responds to her earnestly, waving her in and with each step she takes, you are given a better look at her.
The Metkayina woman is beautiful and strong. She bears the marks of many tattoos that exemplify her accomplishments and her feats. She is made of from muscles and strength where you are soft and carry more weight than she does.
This woman carries a confidence that exudes from her every pore, aided by the deadly set of knives strapped to her thighs. Her hand is wrapped tightly around a spear, just as deadly as Ao’nung’s, and etched with an equivocal amount of etched marking into the wood.
It is clear that she is accomplished, that she is a skilled hunter and warrior, and that is already a vast difference to you. You are neither hunter nor warrior, despite passing your iknimaya.
“I came to see my longtime friend and I had heard that one of the daughters of Toruk Makto was around.” The warrior walks with such confidence; confidence that is met with beauty of the sea that is undeniable. “Although I was not expecting the daughter of Toruk Makto to be so…soft.”
Soft. That is how she describes you, like it is something to be admonished and is so unsuitable for the shores of Awa’atlu. The single word is deepening the jutting stab of unease that sinks further into your stomach. You clutch the tewng you are making Tuk with a tighter grip, aware that your skills as crafting would only make her point more obvious.
“Toruk Makto has a reputation for being a strong warrior, riding a beast like it was engrained in his heart from the moment he took his first breath.” The warrior continues to speak of your father like he is legend while she makes her way toward Ao’nung.
Ao’nung rises to his feet while you remain seated, and you watch with eyes that follow his every movement. Ao’nung greets her with a tight hug although it is friendly, it still makes you freeze into place. The two warriors are bound by experiences that you do not have, and a history that you could never replicate.
“My father is strong; he has always been strong.” You raise your voice though your throat feels tight and your heart begins to burn.
“And yet you are so soft.” She uses the word soft again, and this time you have not misheard—it’s as derivative as you first imagined.
“That is enough.” Ao’nung gives her a look, his friend and warrior, putting a front to the conversation, defending you but it doesn’t feel like enough.
“It is a joke, ma eylan.” She rolls her eyes and sets her spear down near Ao’nung before she joins him by his place near the fire and rests her hands upon her legs. The placement is subtle, yet it draws your attention to the tattoos on her legs, more accomplishments that she has earned. “I expected that the Omatikaya would have better senses of humour, like the Metkayina.”
“What are you doing here, ma eylan?” Ao’nung deflects and steers the conversation to something else, which should give you relief.
But relief is short lived, if you even felt it.
“I am here for you, Ao’nung. The tulkun are returning and we are meant to prepare. I wanted to invite you to go hunting with me. It would be nice to have my old hunting partner back.” She suggests, offers really, while looking at you from the corner of her eyes, eying the project you are working on.
You sit where you had before, clutching the tewng while you feel as if you are the outsider in a place where you should feel comfortable. You and Ao’nung were courting, you have been over to his family’s marui often, but now it felt tainted. Where you had once found comfort and bonding interactions with Pril and Tsireya, you found stale awkwardness. You found yourself at the tail end of a conversation that you cannot add to.
“There are already hunters out. Do you really need me?” Ao’nung slides the sharpening shone upon the blade, the sound of stone meeting metal hits your ears with the sharpness of breaking glass.
And the shards of glass begin to figuratively cut into the fine sinews of your heart.
“You are not busy, are you? Courting an Omatikaya must be different?” There is an air of teasing to her voice, which could have come off as playful, but you understand the subtleties.
When she mentions the courtship, Ao’nung turns his head and looks at you. Those blue eyes that you love study you, and you are left sitting there feeling like a small child who is being chided for things you cannot control. The differences between you and Ao’nung hadn’t seemed to be a problem, it wasn’t for Lo’ak and Tsireya. There was genuine acceptance of their relationship, but yours?
“I enjoy courting an Omatikaya.” Ao’nung smiles at you, subtle and gentle but it does not rise. “Ma yawne is very pretty is she not?”
“Yes, she is.” The compliment feels like a double-edged blade—complimentary but insulting in the same three words. “Cute. Young, pretty, soft-”
“I enjoy soft.” Again, Ao’nung comes to your defence, but it doesn’t feel like enough.
“The offer is open to hunt ma eylan.” The Metkayina stands once more and as she does, you look back over her and feel a sinking pit in your stomach.
She is imposing, she is confident in her strength as a warrior with muscles where you have softness. This woman is deadly even while not doing anything, and she is Metkayina.
You are made for the forest not the sea, you lack the agility to swim great lengths like they can. Your lungs are not built for holding your breath as long as they could, even as babies. Your skin is darker; your tail is thinner and so are your arms—where theirs are built for life in the water.
“I will leave you to sharpen your spear.” She stands and stretches, elongating her strength with minimal movement. She moves back toward the exit of the marui and turns her head to look back at you, blue eyes so close to the lovely shade of Ao’nung’s. “Your tewng is very pretty forest girl, not very practical for hunting. But I do not think you do much of that.”
When she leaves, you are struck in silence. Your fingers which were tightly coiled in the reed loincloth you’d been making for Tuk, tighten. Your throat feels just as taut as your fingers and your heart is becoming more painful than you had ever felt before. It is a sensation that just as easily makes it hard to breathe as it is to move, and you feel as if you are in a haze.
Ao’nung returns to sharpening his stone while silence wavers between you, teeming on the edge of awkward rather than comfortable. There’s a coil in your stomach, it adds another irritant that bothers one part of you, amalgamating into a rising emotional state. You try to clear the tightness of your throat and swallow heavily, urging yourself to speak so you can beat back the awkward silence.
“She is pretty.” That is what you start with, genuinely complimenting the warrior that was once here. It wasn’t as if you were lying, that Metkayina hunter was beautiful, just as so many women here were. It wasn’t just her beauty that made her someone to remember, it was the obvious skills marked by the thin black lines of tattoos that marked her skin.
Where she has many, you had none.
“She is a strong warrior, a good hunter. She is skilled with a spear and knives, capable of taking any kill with minimal damage.” Ao’nung does not raise his head while he speaks of his friend, but he continues to sharpen the spear. You don’t know if he is unaware of how you are feeling or if he thinks that it is insignificant and shouldn’t be taken seriously.
“She must be skilled; she has many tattoos.” You cannot return to making that tewng, you can’t. Not now, not while you feel as if you are going to be overtaken by some invisible force that threatens to swallow you whole.
“She is. That is a warrior who can take down any opponent in front of her, capable of defending herself without relying on anyone else. Doesn’t need to be coddled or protected.” Ao’nung defends her and with every word, your heart cracks a little more. “A Metkayina that I could trust with my life.”
As much as he is defending her, he is unknowingly comparing you to his friend. She is everything you are not, you are soft, you are spoiled and protected, you rely on others to defend you.
You would rely on a mate to keep you safe; she would not.
And with the comparison’s he is making, you feel a sharp sting of tears that build behind your eyes. It is coming and you know that you will be incapable of preventing the emotional tidal wave that will slam into you without giving an ounce of mercy.
She is Metkayina, she already has more skills than you in the water. She does not struggle for breath when she dives in the water below the surface, she does not have difficulty keeping up with the clan when she swims or hunts.
You are a princess, spoiled and protected. You may be a daughter of Toruk Makto, but you are no warrior. You passed your iknimaya, you have completed the tasks that makes you part of the Omatikaya, you have earned your place. But that hunter is right, you are soft where she is hard and strong, and strength is needed here.
Your throat hurts from the strain of trying not to audibly react, just as your eyes burn from the sting of tears that do not fall. Your hands finally move against the tewng but only to behind gathering your supplies and the bone needles. You try to be slow, to be subtle about why you have suddenly decided to leave instead of staying like you had planned before.
“Where are you going?” But as you gather things, Ao’nung has stopped sharpening his spear and turns to look at you. “We were supposed to spend time together; you demanded it like the little brat you are.”
He says it as a joke, but it stings like acid.
“I forgot that I promised Tuk I would help her make a necklace for our sa’nok.” You make an excuse and grab your things, piling them together hastily to get out of here as quickly as you can. “Oeru txoa livu, oe zene kä.”
“I was teasing you paskalin, do not get so upset.” Ao’nung tries to flash you a smile, to ease your emotional state with the usual taunting jabs he usually gives you. “You are spoiled you know-”
Spoiled. Bratty. Princess.
Soft.
Your feet carry you before you can react, and you are out of the marui with tears blurring your vision and your bottom lip trembling. You hear him calling your name in confusion, but you do not turn back, you won’t.
And you will not cry in front of him like the child his friend accuses you of being.
No—you will return to the safety of your marui, and then you will let your emotions go.
You do not expect anyone to be back when you are curled up on your hammock hugging your blanket to your chest. You think you are alone and that is why you are so open with your tears that roll heavily down your cheeks. It’s your anticipation that no one is around that leads you to openly allow yourself to embrace and feel the full hurt of the words that sink heavily into you.
You don’t expect anyone, but you hear Neteyam’s voice as he calls for you over your shoulder. You hear your older brother’s voice, and you feel his hand settling upon your shoulder, and you turn to look at him. He is crouching by the cushioned mat you are lying on, hairless eyebrows drawn together in concern.
“You’re supposed to be gone hunting.”
“Why are you crying?” Your statement meets his question, and neither of you acknowledge the other.
But when he sees you, sees the state you are in, his face hardens and a scowl rises to his face. There’s a tension in his jaw that is as visible as his teeth grinding is audible. His ears fall flatter to his head and his tail whips behind him with a force that speaks to his darkening mood.
“I’ll kick his ass.” Neteyam’s hand moves from your shoulder to brush your tears away, caring as your older brother is while leaning into the role of warrior.
“You don’t even know what happened.” You whimper, another rush of tears slipping down your cheeks as your bottom lip wobbles again.
“I don’t have to.” Neteyam shifts to sit by your side, a comforting and protective presence. “But tell me what happened anyway.”
“I don’t belong here.” Your voice is wavering and it cracks when you speak, relaying only the very basics of your feelings. “Neteyam, I want to go home.”
“Why?” The question is doubled in its intent—questioning why you don’t think you belong here and why you want to go home. “Pähemì oe, ma tsmuke.”
Speak to me, sister — might as well be tell me why I have to kick his ass.
“I am not Metkayina, I am not strong like them. I am…I am weak, Neteyam. I am-” a sob falls from your lips, your eyes become redder with the fresh waves of tears, and your body begins to tremble just as it had before. “-soft.”
“What are you talking about? Who said this?” Netayam leans forward, he brushes his hand down your braids to soothe you while you are breaking down in front of him.
“I am not a good swimmer; I am not a good hunter. I rely on others to protect me, and I am soft.” You relay everything the warrior friend of Ao’nung has said, while you feel your heart becoming piercing shards of glass ready to cut you into pieces. “I am not a good daughter of Toruk Makto-”
“Stop.” Neteyam speaks over you, he cuts you off and reaches for you again, to cup your cheeks and dry your tears. “Ftang, ma tsmuke.”
He tells you to stop while drying your tears again, brushing them away and speaking to you with the kind of tenderness that an older brother has for his younger sister. Neteyam has always been gentle with you and Tuk, all your family has, and that has never felt like a problem until now.
Until you stopped seeing their gentle treatment as something to crave and saw it as your weakness. As something you should be ashamed of.
“His friend came to see him; she called me soft. She said I was not what she expected a daughter of Toruk Makto to be, and that I was…” you stop yourself again and sink your teeth into your bottom lip, attempting to make it stop shaking. “I cannot swim like them, I am not strong like them, I am not a hunter or a warrior, I am not skilled with a spear…”
“Did he even defend you? He is going to be your mate, if one of my friends insulted my woman I would reach for a blade. Did Ao’nung-”
“Yes.” You speak over your brother, but your answer is weak. “But it is what he said, or what he didn’t say that…” you stop yourself from talking and let it a shaky exhale as your vision blurs again, and you are close to crying again.
Brat. Spoiled. Princess.
Soft.
“…I want to g-go h-home…” you stutter over your words as those hot heavy tears can no longer be controlled. “I want to go h-home where I b-belong.”
“Shh, mawey ma tsmuke.” Neteyam settled a hand on your cheek, brushing his thumb against your skin to wipe your tears. “If you want to go home then I will take you, I understand what it means to be homesick.”
Neteyam inches forward to hug you while you cleave to him, holding him tightly as you cry into your brother’s shoulder. You are completely breaking down against him while Ao’nung’s words, and the words of his friend, have become a slow acting poison that is eating at you.
“I want to go home. I want to go home.” You repeat yourself while he comforts you, while he rubs your back as you cry into him, seeking the tender familial comfort of your older brother. “Please, Neteyam, I do not want to be here anymore. I don’t belong here, even Ao’nung thinks so.”
Your older brother who protected you so many times before and chooses to protect you again. He doesn’t hesitate or try to convince you to stay, he can see how hurt you are.
“Tomorrow, I will take you home. If you want to go home, I will go with you. We can leave before the sun rises, we will take our ikran’s and we will return to the forest.” He brushes his hand down your hair, promising you an escape no questions asked.
No hesitation, no attempts at convincing you to stay. Because that is the kind of brother Neteyam is; your greatest ally even when you are in a frenzied state while your heart is breaking.
“Sempu and sa’nok-”
“-you passed your iknimaya, you are free to go where you want. Do not worry, tsmuke.” Neteyam reassures you again, just as he has before.
“Softness does not mean weakness. The ability to be kind, to be gentle and care as much as you do is not a weakness. It is your strength.” He settles his hand upon your shoulder, speaking to you like he is speaking to himself, or at least the part of himself that has also felt weak. “Do not let anyone darken your heart or your sunshine, not even your mate.”
You thank Neteyam and rest your head on his shoulder, your older brother’s sturdiness is just what you needed. But still, you confess your desire.
An intellectual? Yes. And never deny it. An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself. I like this, because I am happy to be both halves, the watcher and the watched. ‘Can they be brought together?’ This is a practical question. We must get down to it. ‘I despise intelligence’ really means: ‘I cannot bear my doubts.’ I prefer to keep my eyes open.
From Carnets by Albert Camus
(I do sometimes wish my mind didn’t watch itself quite so much!)
