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cheynovak · 1 month ago

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Cramped and Cranky

Pairing: Y/N (Butcher’s niece) x Soldier Boy (Ben)

Summary: Request: Y/N has more pain during her period after taking tempV. Nothing seems to help. So Ben offers a somewhat alternative solution.

��️ warnings⚠️ This story is NOT for everyone. 18+! MDNI! Sex during period, mentioning of blood.

This request is so old I forgot who asked me and I can't seem to find the conversation anymore. It's has been sitting in my drafts for soooo long, I'm glad I finally finished it. I have to be honest, I had no idea how to start this. Please if it's not your cup of tea do NOT read it. I hope the person who requested it finds it 🙈

English isn't my first language.

Please do not copy my work. Sharing, liking and comments are appreciated.

Read warnings before reading this story, this might gross some people out and it's totally ok.

You didn’t sign up for this.

Well, technically, you did. You agreed to help your uncle. Uncle Billy doesn’t ask for much unless it’s everything. And apparently, “everything” now included babysitting rhe most psychotic, narcissistic, 1940s man-child Supe in the country.

Soldier Boy was parked in front of the motel’s TV, flipping through channels like he owned the damn place. You were hunched in the kitchenette, gripping the counter like it might save you from the hellscape that was your uterus.

Temp V hadn’t just messed with your nerves and muscles — it had dialed your cycle up to demonic. You felt like your insides were staging a mutiny with knives.

“You okay?” Annie peeked in, concern knitted between her brows. “You look... pale. Have you tried working out? That sometimes helps.”

You whipped around, eyes flashing. “Working out? I can barely crawl to the bed, Annie. How the hell do you expect me to drag myself to a gym?!”

From the other side of the room, Soldier Boy chuckled low. “Well, there is another kind of workout, sweetcheeks. One where you don’t need to leave he bed."

Your face twisted in confusion — then realization.

You blinked. “Ew. That’s gross.”

Ben just shrugged, eyes still on the TV. “It gives the same endorphins as sports. Besides a little blood never hurt nobody.”

“Again, ew! No!”

“Moisture is moisture,” he replied with a smirk, finally glancing over his shoulder at you. “If you need someone to lend a hand... or anything else, just yell.”

You gave him a withering glare before locking yourself in the bathroom with the loudest door slam you could muster.

The next few days were hell. Pain. Cramps. Nausea. Temp V withdrawal. More cramps. Soldier Boy’s suggestive comments. You’d screamed into a pillow more times than you cared to admit.

But on day four, you cracked.

You stumbled out of the barhroom, sweat-slick and dead-eyed, collapsing next to him on the couch. Your body felt like it had been through war, and even the shitty motel couch felt like heaven.

Ben raised a brow. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” you muttered. “Feel like it too.”

He shifted slightly to make room. “You here to take me up on that offer?”

You snorted weakly, resting your head back. “Only if you promise I'm not gonna to die halfway through.

“Sweetheart, I invented halfway through.”You cracked a tired smile. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to.”

You shook your head, but you didn’t move. Not yet. You were too tired. Too sore. Too everything.

But for once, he didn’t push. He just turned the volume up and let you rest, the heat of him radiating against your arm.

Maybe, just maybe, this whole “babysitting” thing wasn’t entirely hell. Well not if he kept his mouth shut.

You sat there in silence for a long moment, eyes fixed on the screen but not really watching. Your body was a war zone, every nerve ending firing off like a bad fireworks display. Still, maybe it was the fever haze of pain or the desperation for anything to distract you that made you speak again.

“So... let’s just say someone wanted to... have sex while...” You gestured vaguely at your abdomen, grimacing. “You know. Theoretically, obviously.”

Ben slowly side-eyed you, his brow lifting. He reached forward and turned the volume on the TV down, a small smirk playing at the edge of his mouth.

“Theoretically?” he repeated.

“Yeah,” you said stiffly, arms crossed over your stomach. “Theoretically.”

“Well,” he started, casual like this was an after-dinner conversation and not completely unhinged. “Theoretically, it all stays the same. Boy meets girl..."

"Yeah I know the bees and birds crap Ben. I mean what about, you know the mess one might make." Ben shrugged. "Could put a towel in bed. Lay on top of that.”

Your expression twisted like he’d just suggested using a white couch. He noticed, of course. “Or,” he added smoothly, “the shower. Clean. No mess. No stains. Everything washes right off.”

You blinked at him. “The shower?”

He leaned back, one arm slung lazily over the couch, looking a little too pleased with himself. “Yeah. Hot water, slick bodies, less of the whole murder cleanup situation.”

You stared at him like he’d just done calculus in front of you. Then, suddenly doubling over with another sharp cramp, you grabbed your stomach and hissed through your teeth.

Ben didn’t move to help, just watched with a tinge of concern—and maybe, annoyingly, amusement. "You know way too much about this,” you groaned.

He shrugged one shoulder, all nonchalance. “A man learns things in seventy years. Some things stick.”

“You’re disgusting.”

He grinned. “And you’re the one asking me how to bang on your period, theoretically.”

You let your head fall back against the cushion, hand still clutching your stomach. “God, I hate that this is somehow the most helpful conversation I’ve had all week.”

Ben reached for the remote again. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents. And for you I'm free of charge."

You snorted. “Yeah, okay. Let me survive this uterus apocalypse first.”

“Take your time, sweetcheeks. I ain’t going anywhere."

---

Later that night, the TV was playing some rerun he wasn’t watching, and the dim lamp by the bedside barely cut through the motel’s perpetual gloom. Ben’s attention flicked from the screen when he noticed you get up slowly, one hand on your lower back, the other cradling your stomach, and shuffle toward the bathroom.

“Need a hand?” he asked, voice light, teasing.

You grunted something that sounded suspiciously like *go to hell* and closed the bathroom door behind you.

Ben didn’t move. Not right away. But he listened.

You stood there for a moment, just breathing, one hand on the sink’s edge, staring at yourself in the mirror.

The cramps hit hard again, a sharp, twisting pain that pulled a whimper straight from your throat before you could stop it. You hated being weak. Hated needing help. But the pain was relentless — and, annoyingly, the stupid Supe lounging out there might be the only one who could distract you from it.

“Ben,” you called out, voice tight and shaky.

There was silence. Then the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps.

The door creaked open a few inches. “Yes?” he asked, feigning innocence like he didn’t already know damn well what this was about.

You swallowed, trying to focus on anything other than how flushed your skin felt. “If we do this,” you started carefully, “if we try it, and I don’t like it—”

“We stop,” he finished easily, his voice softer than it had been all night. “Simple.”

You looked at him. Really looked. There was no smirk. No joke. Just heat behind his eyes and something unexpectedly patient.

You nodded once, lips pressed into a line. That was all he needed.

Without a word, he stepped inside and pulled the curtain back."After you."

You should’ve felt awkward dropping your towel. Shy. Something. But as the warm water ran down your skin and Ben stepped in behind you, tall and solid and radiating heat, all you felt was the faintest flutter of something else entirely—something that, for once, wasn’t pain.

“You sure?” he murmured, his voice close against your ear now, steam curling between you.

You took a breath, still clutching the edge of the shower wall for balance.

“No,” you admitted. “But I’m tired of hurting.”

The water poured steadily between you, steam curling around your bodies. Ben’s hands found your hips first — warm, steady, not rushing. You expected something crude, immediate. But instead, his touch was patient. Slow.

His fingers moved deliberately, rubbing small circles along your lower back, then upward between your shoulder blades. The tension in your body was impossible to miss — you were practically locked up, muscles clenched like you were bracing for pain.

“Relax,” he murmured, lips brushing against your ear. “You’re tighter than a damn vice, sweetheart.”

You huffed, half a laugh, half frustration. “Yeah, well... maybe if you hurried up I wouldn't think about it too much. ”

Ben chuckled, the sound low and rough against your neck. “That’s not how this works,” he said, planting soft kisses against your damp skin, trailing down the curve of your shoulder. “If you don’t ease up, it won’t help. Your body would just be fighting me the whole time.”

You exhaled, long and slow, eyes fluttering shut. His mouth, his hands — they were still gentle, still coaxing instead of taking. It was disarming in a way you hadn’t expected from him.

You didn’t even notice you were leaning into him until you felt his chest against your back, solid and warm, anchoring you.

Then his hand moved lower. Fingertips brushing between your thighs, slow, testing, teasing. You stiffened instinctively and your hand shot down, grabbing his wrist.

“Relax,” he said again, softer this time, voice more coaxing than before. “I got you.” You held your breath for a beat. Then you let go. And just like that, the pain didn’t feel so loud anymore and you focussed on his touch.

When Ben felt you were ready — really ready — his hand gently guided your hip, turning you toward the tiled wall. His voice dropped, commanding but low, not cruel, just... certain.

“Bend over,” he murmured. “Hands on the wall.”

Your body hesitated. Just for a second. Because this — this — was Soldier Boy. And this moment wasn’t supposed to be this vulnerable. Not with him. But his touch was steady, patient. His warmth surrounded you.

You did as he asked.

The first moment he pressed against you, it was strange — not painful, not intense, just... surreal. The kind of moment you never imagined you’d live through. You braced yourself, heart hammering — and then he started to move.

Slow. Careful. Gentle in a way you didn’t think Ben even had in him. And for some reason you need to feel more of him. Gradually you moved to stand up straighter, wanting to feel his chest against your back while he dipped in and out slowly.

“Good girl,” he murmured against your neck, one hand steady on your waist, the other tracing light, grounding circles along your breast. “You’re doin’ so good. Just breathe. Relax.”

The words. His voice. They did something.

You started to move without thinking, syncing with the rhythm he set — gentle, measured, built more around soothing than pleasure, though somehow, it gave you both. Every time his hips met yours, another layer of pain peeled away, like your body was finally letting go.

“Ben,” you breathed, barely a whisper. He kissed the side of your neck, still cooing in that low, reverent voice. “I got you, sweet girl. I’m right here.”

And for the first time in days, you believed it.

You weren’t just easing the ache in your body — you were finally letting yourself feel something other than pain. You moved for him. Grinding against him. Guided by the sound of his voice and the heat he left on your skin.

And for once, in the middle of a shitty motel bathroom with a literal war relic whispering soft praise into your ear, you forgot the pain.

And then — he shifted just slightly, angle changing, and hit that spot that made you see stars. You cried out, a broken, breathless sound that echoed off the tiled walls, sharp but laced with something sweeter. Relief. Release.

Ben stilled for half a second, then his voice came low, rough, but tinged with a little smugness. “That it?” he asked against your ear, lips brushing skin.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, yes… oh god, yes.” It came out like a prayer, desperate and grateful all at once.

He adjusted his grip on your hips, grounding you with strong hands as he started to move faster — not rough, but with intent. Purpose. Each thrust pushing you closer to the edge, until your thoughts scattered like ash.

Your hands slipped a little against the wall, knees weakening with every stroke. And then you were gone — falling over the edge with a shuddering gasp, hips stuttering as pleasure rolled through you like a wave.

Ben followed right after, a sharp grunt of breath at your shoulder. He pulled out fast, just in time, one hand guiding himself down as he spilled into the tub with a low groan, keeping his other hand steady next to yours on the wall.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just the sound of the water and your shaky breaths filled the space. You turned your head slightly, blinking back at him with your lips parted, legs still trembling beneath you.

He caught the look and softened — just barely — leaning in to press a kiss to your damp, overheated forehead.

“Take your time,” he murmured, voice gentle now. You nodded, still catching your breath, your fingers gripping the wall for one last moment of stability.

And for the first time in days, your body didn’t feel like a battleground.

The moment you walked out the bathroom you noticed the bed was semi made and a glass of wine on the nightstand. Ben was watching the tv but got up to guid you to the bed.

Instead of telling him to leave you alone, like you would have any other time, you held his arm will sliding into the bed. "I... I eh.." He smiled, a genuine soft smile and nodded, climbing in begin me.

You lay there in the quiet, wrapped in Ben’s warmth, his hand still gently moving over your belly. The pain had dulled to a low hum now, manageable, distant — and your mind had space to think again.

Maybe too much space.

“…Why’d you do that?” you asked, voice soft against the hush of the room. He didn’t answer right away. His thumb kept drawing slow, absent-minded circles.

“My ex,” you added after a moment, “he would’ve never. Not when I was… like this.” Ben scoffed under his breath — not at you, but at the idea of the guy.

You turned slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder

“Why would you?” you asked. “Why not be grossed out or weird about it like every other guy?”

Ben’s hand stilled for a second before he pulled back just enough so you could fully turn and face him. He was propped slightly on one elbow now, looking down at you, serious — maybe more serious than you’d ever seen him.

“Real men don’t give a damn if you’re shaved, if it’s that time of the month, or any of that bullshit,” he said, voice low, firm. “Your bodies? They’re incredible. You carry life. You bleed, you break, you keep going anyway.”

He touched your face, knuckles brushing your cheek.

“If a man can’t handle that — can’t respect it? Then he’s not a man. He’s a coward. And he sure as hell doesn’t deserve you, sweetcheeks.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how much weight his words carried — like he wasn’t just saying them to soothe you, but because he believed them.

Your fingers found the side of his chest, holding him there. You stared up into his eyes, the space between you almost buzzing with something new — something real.

Ben held your gaze, then leaned in, kissing you softer this time. Slower. And before you could even process it, he shifted, gently moving you onto your back, his body pressing against yours with care.

You felt him, hard and ready, But he didn't act on it — no rush, no teasing. Just heat and connection. Eye to eye. It was different now. He was different.

Or maybe it was you who saw felt something else for him. Something... deeper. More intimate. There was no pain this time. No tension. Just the soft sound of your breathing the quiet rhythm you fell into together.

Your fingers curled into his shoulder. He kissed you again. His forehead rested against yours, both of you quiet in the soft glow of the motel lamp, tangled together in the after heat.

You didn't move. You didn’t want to. You loved the weight the feeling of him close.

His hand brushed your side again, thumb stroking light, lazy patterns over your skin. There was something almost... reverent in the way he touched you now. Like he knew exactly how fragile this moment was, and didn’t want to be the one to break it.

You exhaled slowly.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said into the silence. He huffed, a soft laugh vibrating against your ribs. “You never took your time to get to know me.”

You glanced up at him, and he was already looking at you. That stupid cocky glint wasn’t there this time — just quiet intensity. “Still think I’m disgusting?” he asked with a half-smirk.

You smiled, lips quirking. “Maybe. But you’re disgustingly sweet, which might be worse.” He chuckled again and leaned down, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Don’t go spreading that around.”

You were about to reply when — *bang*. The motel door slammed open. Ben didn't flinched, groaning like a man who already knew what was coming.

You scrambled to yank the sheet up as a very furious, very loud voice filled the room.

“What the bloody hell is going on here?!” Butcher stood in the doorway, eyes wide, face a redder shade of fury you didn’t know humans could turn.

“Uncle,” you said flatly, heart pounding. Ben didn’t move an inch from where he lay with you, one arm still slung across your waist. The other holding his weight above your head.

“Billy.” He said in his grumpy soldier boy voice.

Butcher’s gaze flicked between the both of you — you, flushed and half-buried in sheets; Ben, looking smug and completely unapologetic.

His eye twitched. “You were supposed to babysit him,” he snapped at you. "You told me to watch him." You shrugged. “Technically, I still am.”

Ben smirked. “She did a thorough job.”

“Jesus Christ,” Butcher muttered, already turning to walk out, probably to punch a wall or throw something. “I’m gonna be sick.” The door slammed again, leaving the two of you in stunned, awkward silence.

Then you burst out laughing. Ben looked amused seeing you feel so good but most importantly without pain. "So," he said. "How about a movie and wine?"

You kissed his lips and whispered "Sounds perfect." Ben draped himself behind you facing the tv. He kissed your ear and whispered. "Just yell whenever it starts to hurt again. I place a few towels in bed."

You elbowed him and joked. "you’re disgusting".

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jewelleria · 1 year ago

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I don’t usually talk about politics on here, if ever. But it’s been almost six months since the conflict in the Middle East flared up again, and I’m finally ready to start. Here are some of my thoughts.

I say ‘flared up’ because this has happened before and it’ll happen again. Because, even though what's currently going on is absolutely unprecedented, those of us who live in this part of the world are used to it. Let that sink in: we are used to this. And we shouldn’t have to be.

But I use that term for another reason: I don't want to accidentally call it the wrong thing lest I come under fire for being a genocidal maniac or a terrorist or a propaganda machine, etc., etc.—so let’s just call it ‘the war’ or ‘the conflict.’ Because that’s what it is. Doesn’t matter which side you’re on, who you love, or who you hate.

This post will, in all likelihood, sit in my drafts forever. If it does get posted, it certainly won’t be on my main, because I'm scared of being harassed (spoiler: she posted it on her main). I hate admitting that, but honestly? I’m fucking terrified.

I also feel like in order for anything I say on here (i.e. the hellscape of the internet) to be taken seriously, I have to somehow prove that a) I’m “educated” enough to talk about the conflict, and b) that my opinion lines up with what has been deemed the correct one. So, tedious and unnecessary though it is, I will tell you about my experience, because I have a feeling most of the people reading this post are not nearly as close to what’s happening as I am.

How do I explain where I live without actually explaining where I live? How do I say “I live in the Red Zone of international conflicts” without saying what I actually think? How do I convey the fear that grips me when I try to decide between saying “I live in Palestine” and “I live in Israel”? I don't really know. But I do know that names are important. I also know that, due to the various clickbaity monikers ascribed to the conflict, it would probably just be easier to point to a map.

I haven't always lived in the Middle East. I've lived in various places along America’s east coast, and traveled all over the world. But in short, I now live somewhere inside the crudely-drawn purple circle.

If you know anything about these borders you probably blanched a bit in sympathy, or maybe condolence. But in truth, it’s a shockingly normal existence. I don't feel like I've lived through the shifting of international relations or a war or anything. I just kind of feel like I did when COVID hit, that dull sameness as I wondered if this would be the only world-altering event to shape my life, or if there would be more.

I've been told that, in order for my brain to process all the horrific details of the past six months, there needs to be some element of cognitive dissonance—that falling into a sort of dissociative mindset is the only way to not go insane under the weight of it all. I think in some ways that’s true. I have been terrifyingly close to bus stop shootings when my commute wasn’t over; I have felt my apartment building shake with the reverberations of a missile strike; I have spent hours in underground shelters waiting for air raid sirens to stop.

But. I have also gone grocery shopping, and skipped class, and stayed up too late watching TV, and fed the cats on the street corner, and cried over a boy, and got myself AirPods just because, and taken out the trash, and done laundry on a delicate cycle, and bought overpriced lattes one too many days a week. I have looked at pretty things and taken out my phone because, despite it all, I still think that life is too short not to freeze the small moments.

So I'd say, all things considered, I live an incredibly privileged life—compared, of course, to those suffering in Gaza—one filled with sunsets and over-sweetened knafeh and every different color of sand. One that allows me to throw myself into a fandom-induced hyperfixation (or, alternatively, escape method) as I sit on the couch and crack open my laptop to write the next chapter of the fic I'm working on.

But there are bits of not-normalness that wheedle their way through the cracks. I pretend these moments are avoidable, even if they’re not.

They look like this: reading the news and seeing another idiotic, careless choice on Netanyahu’s part and groaning into my morning coffee. Watching Palestinian and Jewish children’s needless suffering posted on Instagram reels and feeling helpless. Opening my Tumblr DMs to find a message telling me to exterminate myself for reblogging a post that only seems like it’s about the war if you squint and tilt your head sideways.

These moments look like all the tiny ways I am reminded that I'm living in a post-October seventh world, where hearing a car backfire makes me jump out of my skin and the sound of a suitcase on pavement makes me look up at the sky and search for the war planes. They look like the heavy grief that is, and also isn’t, mine.

Here's the thing, though. I know you’re wondering when the ball will drop and my true opinion will be revealed. I know you’re waiting for me to reveal what demographic I'm a part of so that you, dear reader, can neatly slap a label on my head and sort me into some oversimplified category that lets you continue to think you understand this war.

No one wants to sit and ruminate on the difficult questions, the ones that make you wonder if maybe you’ve been tinkered with by the propaganda machine, if you might need to go back on what you’ve said or change your mind. We all strive for our perception of complicated issues to be a comfortable one.

But I know that no matter what I do, there will always be assumptions. So, while I shudder to reveal this information online, I think that maybe my most significant contribution to this meta-discussion spanning every facet of the internet is this:

I am a Jew.

Or, alternatively, I am: Jewish, יהודית, يَهُودِيٌّ, etc. Point is, I come from Jews. And, like any given person, I am a product of generation after generation of love.

I'm not going to take time to explain my heritage to you, or to prove that before all the expulsions and pogroms, there was an origin point. If you don’t believe that, perhaps it’s less of a factual problem and more of an ‘I don’t give weight to the beliefs of indigenous people’ problem. But, in case you want to spend time uselessly refuting this tiny point in a larger argument, you can inspect the photos below (it’s just a small chunk of my DNA test results). Alternatively, you can remember that interrogating someone in an attempt to make their indigeneity match your arbitrary criteria is generally not seen as good manners.

Now, let’s go back to thathateful message (read: poorly disguised death threat) I received in my Tumblr DMs. I think it was like two or three weeks ago. I had recently gained a new follower whose blog’s primary focus was the fandom I contribute to, so I followed them back. I saw in my notes that they were going through my posts and liking them—as one does when gaining a new mutual. Yippee!

Then they sent me this:

I tried to explain that hate speech is not a way to go about participating in political discourse, but the person had already blocked me immediately after sending that message. Then, assured by the fact that I surely would never see them complaining about me on their blog (because, as I said, they blocked me), they posted a shouting rant accusing me of sympathizing with colonizing settlers and declaring me a “racist Zionist fuck.” Oh, the wonders of incognito tabs.

Where this person drew these conclusions after reading my (reblogged) post about antisemitism…. I'm not actually sure. But I greatly sympathize with them, and hope that they weren’t too personally offended by my desire to not die.

For a while I contemplated this experience in my righteous anger, and tried to figure out a way to message this person. I wanted to explain that a) seeing a post about being Jewish and choosing to harass the creator about Israel is literally the definition of antisemitism and b) that sending a hateful DM and refusing to be held accountable is just childish and immature. But I gave up soon after—because, honestly, I knew it wasn’t worth my effort or energy. And I knew that I wouldn't be able to change their mind.

But I still remember staring at that rather unfortunate meme, accompanied by an all-caps message demanding for me to Free Palestine, and thinking: the post didn’t even have any buzzwords. I remember the swoop of dread and guilt and fear. I remember wondering why this kind of antisemitism felt worse, in that moment, than the kind that leaves bodies in its wake.

I remember thinking, I don’t have the power to free anyone.

I remember thinking, I’m so fucking tired.

And before you tell me that this conflict isn’t about religion—let me ask you some questions. Why is it that Israel is even called Israel? (Here’s why.) Why do Jews even want it? (Here’s why.) But also, if you actually read the charters of Islamist terrorist organizations like ISIS, Hamas, and Hezbollah (among others), they equate the modern state of Israel with the Jewish people, and they use the two entities interchangeably. So of course this conflict is religious. It’s never been anything but that.

But I do wonder, when faced with those who deny this fact: how do I prove, through an endless slew of what-about-isms and victim blaming, that I too am hurting? How do I show that empathy is dialectical, that I can care deeply for Palestinians and Gazans while also grieving my own people?

There's this thing that humans do, when we’re frustrated about politics and need to howl our opinions about it into the void until we feel better. We find like-minded souls, usually our friends and neighbors, and fret about the state of the world to each other until we’ve gone around in a satisfactory amount of circles. But these conversations never truly accomplish anything. They’re just a substitute, a stand-in catharsis, for what we really wish we could do: find someone who embodies the spirit of every Jew-hating internet troll, every ignorant justifier of terrorism, and scream ourselves hoarse at them until we change their mind.

But, of course, minds cannot be changed when they are determined to live in a state of irrational dislike. In Judaism, this way of thinking has a name: שנאת חינם (sinat hinam), or baseless hatred. It's a parasite with no definite cure, and it makes people bend over backwards to justify things like the massacre on October seventh, simply because the blame always needs to be placed on the Jews.

So when a Jew is faced with this unsolvable problem, there is only one response to be had, only one feeling to be felt: anger. And we are angry. Carrying around rage with nowhere to put it is exhausting. It's like a weight at the base of our neck that pushes down on our spine, bending it until we will inevitably snap under the pressure. I’m still waiting to break, even now.

I wish I could explain to someone who needs to hear it that terrorism against Israelis happens every single day here, and that we are never more than one degree of separation away from the brutal slaughter of a friend, lover, parent, sibling. I wish it would be enough to say that the majority of Israelis (which includes Arab-Israeli citizens who have the exact same rights as Jewish-Israelis) wish for peace every day without ever having seen what it looks like.

I wish I could show the world that Israel was founded as a socialist state, that it was built on communal values and born from a cluster of kibbutzim (small farming communities based on collective responsibility), and that what it is now isn’t what its people stand for.

I wish the world could open their eyes to what we Israelis have seen since the beginning: that Hamas is the enemy, Hamas is the one starving Palestinians and denying them aid, Hamas is the one who keeps rejecting ceasefire terms and denying their citizens basic human rights. Hamas is the governing body of Gaza, not Israel. Hamas is responsible for the wellbeing of the Palestinian people. And Hamas are the ones who are more determined to murder Jews—over and over and over again, in the most animalistic ways possible—than to look inwards and see the suffering they’ve inflicted on their own people. I wish it was easier to see that.

But the wishing, the asking how can people be so blind, is never enough. I can never just say, I promise I don't want war.

When I bear witness to this baseless hatred, I think of the victims of October seventh. I think of the women and girls who were raped and then murdered, forever unable to tell their stories. I think of the hostages, trapped underneath Gaza in dark tunnels, wondering if anyone will come for them. I think of Ori Ansbacher, of Ezra Schwartz, of Eyal, Gilad, and Naftali, of Lucy, Rina, and Maia Dee, of the Paley boys, of Ari Fuld and of Nachshon Wachsman. I think of all the innocent blood spilled because of terror-fueled hatred and the virus of antisemitism. I think of all the thousands of people who were brutally murdered in Israel, Jews and Muslims and Christians and humans, who will never see peace.

My ties to this land are knotted a thousand times over. Even when I leave, a part of me is left behind, waiting for me to claim it when I return. But when I see the grit it takes to live through this pain, when I see the suffering that paints the world the color of blood, I look to the heavens and I wonder why.

I ask God: is it worth all this? He doesn't answer. So I am the one, in the end, to answer my own question. I say, it has to be.

Feel free to send any genuine, respectful, and clarifying questions you may have to my inbox!

EDIT: just coming on here to say that I'm really touched & grateful for the love on this post. When I wrote it, I felt hopeless; I logged off of Tumblr for Shabbat, dreading the moment I would turn off my phone to find more hate in my inbox. Granted, I did find some, and responding to it was exhausting, but it wasn’t all hate. I read every kind reblog and comment, and the love was so much louder. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 🤍

Source Reading

The Whispered in Gaza Project by The Center for Peace Communications

Why Jews Cannot Stop Shaking Right Now by Dara Horn

Hamas Kidnapped My Father for Refusing to Be Their Puppet by Ala Mohammed Mushtaha

I Hope Someone Somewhere Is Being Kind to My Boy by Rachel Goldberg

The Struggle for Black Freedom Has Nothing to Do with Israel by Coleman Hughes

Israel Can Defend Itself and Uphold Its Values by The New York Times Editorial Board

There Is a Jewish Hope for Palestinian Liberation. It Must Survive by Peter Beinart

The Long Wait of the Hostages’ Families by Ruth Margalit

“By Any Means Necessary”: Hamas, Iran, and the Left by Armin Navabi

When People Tell You Who They Are, Believe Them by Bari Weiss

Hunger in Gaza: Blame Hamas, Not Israel by Yvette Miller

Benjamin Netanyahu Is Israel’s Worst Prime Minister Ever by Anshel Pfeffer

What Palestinians Really Think of Hamas by Amaney A. Jamal and Michael Robbins

The Decolonization Narrative Is Dangerous and False by Simon Sebag Montefiore

Understanding Hamas’s Genocidal Ideology by Bruce Hoffman

The Wisdom of Hamas by Matti Friedman

How the UN Discriminates Against Israel by Dina Rovner

This Muslim Israeli Woman Is the Future of the Middle East by The Free Press

Why Are Feminists Silent on Rape and Murder? by Bari Weiss

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fixyourwritinghabits · 3 months ago

Note

Hello. I realize this might be overly personal for this blog but I was wondering if you had any advice for my situation. I'm trying to get back into creative hobbies like drawing and writing and while I made some progress with drawing I've really struggled with writing. It's been about ten years. I struggled with my mental health a lot when I was younger and essentially let my depression/anxiety and ADHD destroy all my creative ability. Logically I know the answer is to just write and write badly, but I'm preemptively disappointed and upset that what I write will be. Well. Shit. Or that I'll never improve. Or that I have no idea what to write. And when I do have an idea what to write it's all just gone from my head the second I sit down to write. So. Er. I guess I'm wondering if you have any advice or resources for people like me? Thank you :)

When you're juggling various different Back-Stabbing Brain issues, various pieces of writing advice - getting up at 5pm, forcing yourself to do it, etc - just doesn't work. For me, it's been a struggle to figure out even in optimal situations, so you're not alone. For me, the following is what worked.

Figure out your peak writing time.

Unfortunately, in our capitalist hellscape, you may not be able to use that time to your advantage. My peak time is from 2pm-5pm, right in the middle of work and fades right when I get home. Not ideal. But I can use that knowledge to take advantage of that time on my free days, and I can strategically time my breaks to do some writing. Or just write while pretending to work. Not that I would ever confess to doing that.

Taking the time to figure out when your brain is most willing to work with you is also very helpful. My brain will not work for writing after 8pm. It can, however, still do the dishes. Forcing myself to put off chores so that I can write is super hard thanks to my ADHD (which hates chores until I need to do something else), but I can combat that by making goal lists, scheduling my writing time (with set alarms on my phone!) helps me manage that.

Change location.

I can't get a lot of work done at home. I've tried. I've moved my desk around, I've locked down my internet browsers when writing, I have ignored the way my cat stares holes into my back to try to write. My brain, though, knows that the bed is right over there, we've got that pile of books to read, and oh hey, Tasting History has a new video. Also my cat wants to steal my computer chair and then get constant pets while in said chair because she is a princess baby. It's a losing battle.

What does work for me? Dragging my work to the library. Finding a cafe with enough space and quiet music to get some stuff done. Breaking out a foldable desk on the porch so that there is a closeable barrier between me and my distractions (the cats hate this option).

Changing location is something that works for me. If you have limited options, build barriers between yourself and distractions. Pile stuff on the bed so that it's not easy to give in and lie down for "just a minute." Close doors. Bribe your cats (or your kids). Use a standing desk - shifting your position can help lock down some of the ansty need to be doing something (my chair-stealing cat is more than happy to help with this).

I know of one writer who only gets work done by locking herself in her bathroom, because it's just enough change of scene to get her thoughts to settle. I know another writer who can only get editing done sitting in his parked car. However wacky, trying different scenarios to get something to work can really help.

Find the right tools.

The only way I can draft is by hand. It sucks and I have carpal tunnel, but my brain cannot type words into a blank screen. I need a pile of messy papers that no one else can read to work from.

I'm also very particular about what I write with. I use Uni Power Tank pens from Japan (because they're the only damn pen I've found that doesn't smear my left-handed writing), and I cycle through different types of paper I exclusively work with. Right now it's Five Star Reinforced Filler Paper with the triangle holes, not the round ones.

I don't know why this works, it just does. I've changed up what I've used over time, but as long as I'm consistent and not trying to write a chapter using differently-sized paper (insert scream here), I can get it done. Test out different tools and find what fits for you.

Organization isn't helping? Embrace chaos.

Jeff VanderMeer wrote an entire series on post-it notes, napkins, and on the backs of old bills. I wouldn't recommend that, but if a little chaos gets the job done, then do it. Spread a story across several half-filled notebooks. Map dialogue using only flashcards. Instead of waiting to sit down to get work done, scribble away while on a bus or on the move (safely, of course). Use a speech-to-text app to talk out your writing. Sometimes the more tactile you can make writing, the more you can break up those barriers keeping you from writing.

Try out different things! You'll eventually find what works for you

#writing advice #writing tips #encouragement #writblr #tumblr mobile loves deleting my damn links

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moomine · 6 months ago

Note

Dad swansea and reader x daisuke established relationship

black friday | daisuke

author's note: this is based on the q&a where the devs said swansea was a sneakerhead lol. i love love love the concept of dad-swansea sm!! it actually maybe sorta kinda has me brainstorming another series.. thank you for the request! (cover image credit)

summary: (daisuke x f!reader) (modern au?) The semester is over and winter break has just begun. You and Daisuke met on campus and have been dating for a while now. When it's time for him to finally meet your dad, Swansea, he insists on getting him something for the season.

word count: 2,661

warnings: no trigger warnings (all fluff here)! all characters are 18+

now playing: Drugdealer, Kate Bollinger - "Pictures of You"

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The mall was a bustling hellscape. Packed like sardines, people pushed and shoved as they tried to meander from place to place. The line for the shoe store wrapped around the corner, down a long, wide hall, and into the food court. You stood side by side with Daisuke, your coat rustling as you hugged yourself. A cold draft blew past as other customers came and went through the grand entrance, each time causing a shiver to rake through you harshly. Daisuke, who was previously twisting his silver rings out of an anxious habit, stopped and began running his hands up and down the length of your arms. The friction of his hands sent waves of much-appreciated warmth throughout your body. You looked up at him, a grateful smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

“Thank you,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Of course. It won’t be so bad once we get ‘round the corner.” Daisuke peeked over your head and past the line, peering ahead to see how much longer it would take. It was moving at a snail’s pace, and all he could think about was empty shelves. In the nightmare of worst-case scenarios running rampant in his mind, the sneakers he had been keeping a watchful eye on for months were already sold out. Daisuke’s brows furrowed as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing at the soft skin absentmindedly.

“Maybe we should have gotten here earlier,” you observed, glancing around at the line of people as it only grew larger. You turned back to your boyfriend with a sympathetic expression, features softening as you reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to do this. Y’know that, right? My dad will be happy just to meet you at all.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I absolutely do.” He laughed nervously, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and using his now free hand to run his fingers through his hair. “You’re, like, the most important person in my life. Your dad has to like me, he just has to. If he doesn’t I might straight up disappear. POOF! Daisuke’s gone, vanished into thin air.”

“You gotta relax. He’s gonna love you, I know he will,” you replied, leaning into him for a little extra warmth.

Daisuke held you tighter and shook his head apprehensively. “I just gotta make sure. I really, really want to make a good impression.”

“And you will! You wanna know how I know?” you asked, shifting under his arm so you were facing him. The line moved up and so did the two of you.

He nodded, eyes filling with admiration as his gaze fell from the line before you two to your face. God, he loved your face. No matter how hard he tried, he could never understand how a guy like him got so lucky. Daisuke knew he was a pretty good-looking guy, but you were gorgeous. Must have been his charming personality and impeccable sense of style.

“I know because you’re kind. ‘Cause you have a good heart and you care so much. My dad’s a good judge of character, he’ll see that.” Daisuke opened his mouth to protest, but you raised a finger and pressed it to his lips before he could. “Hey, I’m not finished. So what you don’t know what you want to be yet? You’re ambitious and talented, and you’ve got time. Don’t stress about that, ‘kay? He won’t care, I promise.”

“Can I talk now?” Daisuke asked, your finger still pressed against his lips.

“You may,” you replied with a playful grin, your hand dropping to your side once again.

“I know I technically don’t have to, but I’m gonna get these shoes and impress the pants off your dad,” he stated, all proud until he had the chance to process what it was he had said. “That didn’t come out right…”

You laughed, taking another step forward as the line continued to move up.

A couple of weeks had passed since Daisuke bought those sneakers. Finals season came and went, ushered out by the frantic wrap-up of the fall semester and the introduction to winter break. It was early December when the two of you finally drove back home, meaning it had finally come time for your boyfriend to meet your parents.

The entire way there Daisuke was a nervous mess. That anxiety only intensified the moment you were leading him to the front door of your family’s home. On top of the gifts he was already carrying, Daisuke had insisted on still carrying the bulk of your luggage inside as well. With one hand he held his presents to your folks, and in the other, he used to pull your suitcase behind him; your backpack was slung over his shoulders. He said it was about chivalry or something like that. As you stepped onto the front porch an onslaught of barking erupted from just beyond the door.

“Lucy! C’mon, old girl, that's enough!” your dad, Swansea, shouted from inside the house.

You turned to smile at Daisuke only to notice his attention was busy elsewhere. He looked down at the gifts in his arms, biting at his lips. After a moment he noticed you had stopped and his gaze drifted back to you, offering you a timid smile of his own. You reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, keeping it there as you began to rub small, comforting circles against the wooly fabric of his coat.

“It’s gonna be okay,” you whispered in a soft tone.

Daisuke looked down at the gifts in his hands, then back to you with a quick nod.

Now with his approval, you unlatched your keys from your belt loop and unlocked the door. As it swung open with a familiar groan, Lucy, your elderly border collie, came stumbling up to the doorway as she barked an excited ‘hello’. The dark patches of her fur were speckled with long, white hairs and her eyes held a little gray in them. She breathed heavily from her mouth, panting with her tongue hanging out. She looked from you to Daisuke, just as excited to see his new face as your well-known one.

“Hi, mama.” You knelt to her level, petting her head with one hand and scratching her chin with the other. “I’m home!” you shouted into the house.

The smells of garlic and onion wafted from the direction of the kitchen. Daisuke closed the door behind him, looking around the entryway with a curious eye. It dawned on him at that moment that he was standing in your childhood home. Over the course of your life, you had walked in and out of that very entryway countless times —going to school, coming home from your first job at that local coffee shop, leaving for prom or practice.

“Took you long enough,” Swansea called back as he made his way from the kitchen to the two of you. “I was startin’ to worry you wouldn’t make it in time for dinner.”

Swansea stood in the doorway of the kitchen, a red apron that read ‘Kiss the cook’ tied loosely around his torso —one of the many stupid Father’s Day presents your mom had gotten him over the years. You stood up quickly, racing to him with open arms. He eagerly took you into a tight hug, his clothes and skin smelling faintly of 3-in-1 soap and motor oil.

“Haha. How about a ‘welcome home’ or ‘I missed you so much’?” you said sarcastically as you pulled away from him.

“Welcome home, kid. I missed you.” Swansea’s normal gruff tone of voice was much softer as he spoke to you.

Daisuke stood awkwardly by the front door, still carrying your belongings as well as his own. You glanced over your shoulder with a wide smile and motioned toward him. “Oh! Dad, this is Daisuke. Daisuke, this is my dad.” You took a step back, allowing the two of them to get a better view of one another.

His eyes shot from Lucy, who was now lying at his feet, and toward your dad. Almost too quickly, Daisuke let go of the suitcase and took a long step toward Swansea. He extended his hand, ready to shake, and adorned a toothy smile. The gifts along his other arm wobbled as he reached your father, which he clumsily saved from falling at the last minute.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Daisuke said.

“That so? Looks like you got a lot on your plate, son.” Swansea took his hand, holding it firmly as he shook it. Daisuke did his best to match his grip, almost squeezing too hard. Swansea motioned with a nod to your luggage still on Daisuke’s person, along with the gifts in his arms.

“What this? Nothing I can’t handle,” your boyfriend replied, almost smugly. “These are actually for you. Well, and your wife.”

“I think we’re gonna go take my stuff upstairs,” you butt in, looking between the two with a slightly worried expression.

“All right then. Your mom’ll be home soon, dinner’s on in fifteen. I’m makin’ paella.” Swansea turned around with a skeptical look. “Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect. Thank you, dad!”

Once the two of you were upstairs, it became incredibly clear that Daisuke’s anxiety had intensified greatly. As the two of you walked through the threshold into your room, he let out a quiet sigh —both out of relief and distress. Over the semester, your room had become closer to a memory and now, as you returned to it exactly as you had left it, it had become an almost nostalgic sight. It was exactly as Daisuke had imagined. The pale blue walls were littered with band posters and pictures of you with friends from high school. You had everything you’d expect in a student’s room. In one corner, snugged away and smothered in soft blankets and pillows, was a full-sized bed. In another were a mismatched desk and dresser. Daisuke could easily see you sitting at that desk, engaging with one of your many hobbies or finishing up some assignments. The visual managed to make a small smile creep onto his lips, but it faltered quickly when he heard Swansea on the phone with your mother just downstairs.

“He hates me, I can already tell,” Daisuke said. He carefully set down your luggage as well as the gifts, tucking them away nicely on your desk.

“You don’t know that. My dad’s just like that with everyone at first, but he always warms up eventually. I promise.” You sat on your bed, pulling your shoes from your feet and tossing them in different directions.

To keep himself from pacing, Daisuke took a seat beside you before flopping back into the comforter. The plush blanket quickly engulfed him as he rested an arm over his eyes. With a little laugh, you laid down on your side next to him, caressing his face with your hand. It felt soft against his skin as you cupped his cheek. His arm fell back to his side as he leaned into your touch, letting out a content sigh at the comfort that alone brought him. His eyes trailed over your face with that same lovesick adoration he normally harbored while looking at you —a stare that said more than he ever could with words. He knew he would never get tired of looking at you.

“It’s going to be okay,” you finally said, pressing your forehead against his. “I love you.”

His eyes fluttered shut as he tried to melt into you. Like it was second nature, Daisuke tilted his head ever so slightly to the side and closed the gap between the two of you. Sparks of electricity tingled against your lips as he kissed you softly. Abandoning their posts, his hands found their proper positions —one on your hip and the other along the back of your neck— and pulled you closer. You couldn’t help but smile against his lips as he kissed you, your chest becoming light at his touch.

Reluctantly, he pulled away, keeping his forehead against yours. “I love you too,” he breathed, sounding far more relaxed than before. “So much.”

His gaze met yours once more, and it looked like he was going in for another kiss. Just as you felt his breath against your cupid’s bow, there was a knock at the door, followed by the sound of Swansea clearing his throat.

“C’mon, get your asses up. I’m makin’ you set the table before your mother gets home. I want it to look nice for her, understood?” Your dad looked between the two of you with that questionable face Daisuke was starting to become accustomed to. He then turned around, shaking his head from side to side.

Dinner was a surprisingly quick affair. To nobody’s surprise, Swansea’s paella was a hit —other than a couple of gripes from your mother who had grown sick of the dish. She fell in love with Daisuke from the first second she saw him, and she only loved him more when he got comfortable enough to talk. After everyone was finished eating, Daisuke insisted on helping clean up and he did so happily. While your mom stepped outside to smoke a cigarette, Swansea, Daisuke, and you sat in the living room as your dad began to open his gift.

Swansea tore into the wrapping paper, eyes going wide when he saw the brightly colored shoebox beneath. He looked up from the present in his hands, and his gaze fell to Daisuke with an expression of pure disbelief.

“Son, I-” he started before promptly getting cut off by you.

“Just open it, dad.”

Daisuke shifted beside you as Swansea discarded the rest of the wrapping paper. He leaned forward, elbows resting on either of his knees as he bit at his lower lip. Swansea ran his hand along the top of the box and slowly opened it. After lifting the tissue paper and getting a proper look at the sneakers underneath, Swansea turned to your boyfriend again.

“These aren’t easy to come by. How on earth did you get them?”

“I, uh- well, we camped out for them. [Name] told me you had been checking out a pair online for a while, and I thought I’d save you the effort,” Daisuke responded, running a hand along the back of his neck. “It was totally worth it. I got a super good deal on ‘em and everything.”

“Thank you.” Your dad just nodded with the faintest smile on his face. Although his words were simple, cut, and dry, it was obvious to you and Daisuke alike that he was truly grateful.

“Of course. I’m really happy you like them,” Daisuke said. He was practically glowing, beaming with pride as he looked from Swansea to you. He mouthed an oblivious ‘hell yeah’ in celebration.

Later that night while you were getting ready for bed, Daisuke ventured down the upstairs hallway toward the bathroom. Along the way, he passed your parents' room. Through the crack in the door, a narrow stream of light illuminated the otherwise darkened hall. Daisuke froze in place as he overheard your mom and Swansea talking from inside.

“So, what did you think of him? He’s just a delight. Isn’t he, hun?” Your mom questioned.

“Who? Daisuke?” Swansea replied. The springs within the mattress groaned as he eased himself into bed. “The boy seems like a good man. I like him for her. She needs someone who’ll help her loosen up. Poor girl is too damn high-strung.”

Realizing he probably shouldn’t eavesdrop, Daisuke rushed to the bathroom with a look of pride on his face. Your dad liked him. Better yet, Swansea thought he was good for you. That was a better gift than anything he could have hoped for.

#reader #x reader #reader insert #daisuke mouthwashing #mouthwashing daisuke #mouthwashing #daisuke mouthwashing x reader #mouthwashing x reader #daisuke x reader #daisuke #fem reader #curly mouthwashing #swansea mouthwashing #jimmy mouthwashing #anya mouthwashing

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lizardboiii · 18 days ago

Text

ALTERNATE ENDING

꒰ ft. Portgas D. Ace x reader

꒰ synopsis: if you see another person who looks identical to you, run away and hide. Portgas D. Ace is dead - that’s a fact. so how are you seeing those familiar obsidian eyes pierce through your window?

there’s not enough room for the two of us.

│cw: 18+, NSFW, f!reader, body horrorish, semi non-con, song fic if you squint, 100% ooc

│wc: 2.4k

│notes: short whip to start my writing up again, based off mandela catalogue (no relation to the original work just love the concept of alternates), lowkey not my best but we ball

│AO3 Link!

The business of hunting Alternates wasn’t for the weak. It was for the depraved. Those with an inkling for danger and a penchant for death. How else could one desire to right the wrong of original sin?

~Emotions, what are you doin’?~

You didn’t fear death. No, you embraced it - because you knew somebody had to get the job done. Somebody had to get their hands a little bloody. Somebody had to give the ultimate sacrifice.

You just never thought it wouldn't be you.

~Oh, don’t you know, don’t you know you’ll be my ruin?~

So, when “Fire Fist” Ace’s vivre card began to smolder and shrivel in the palm of your hand, you couldn't stop the sob that rocked your body to its core. You folded into yourself on your kitchen floor. Dirty fingernails scratching at porcelain tiles.

~You’ve got me crying, crying again~

A solo mission was always risky - but never for Ace. He always came back home. He always came back to you.

~When will you let this heartache end?~

・❥・

The funeral was beautiful.

Ornate floral arrangements of soft oranges and vibrant reds lined the path of the chapel. Their soft petals swayed gently from a light draft.

~Why does my heart go on beating?~

The large stained glass windows filtered in glowing rays of sunlight. Each beam seemed to have a mind of their own. They casted perfect pillars of light on old photographs and worn out memorabilia, highlighting the existence of a soul that no longer roamed your mortal world.

~Why do these eyes of mine cry?~

The priest spoke gently, offering comfort to friends and family. But it was all white noise to you.

~Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?~

You couldn't take your eyes off the mahogany casket in the center of the sanctuary. The largest stained glass windows surrounded it on all sides, illuminating the sleek wood.

It would have been picturesque if your dead husband wasn't inside of it.

~It ended when you said goodbye.~

・❥・

He haunted your dreams.

You could always see him out of the corner of your eye, standing silently just beyond view. He waited eerily still for your acknowledgement. Patiently baiting you to turn.

And you used too.

You’d snap your neck so fast in his direction you were sure you’d screw it off. Just maybe, if you were quick enough, you could get a proper glance. See those kind eyes that had left you so abruptly. Remember that large cheesy smile that used to greet you every morning.

But you never did.

He vanished within the depths of your mind at the slightest movement. It frustrated you. Made you angry, resentful, violent even.

How could he do this to you? He disappeared so easily, leaving you behind to suffer alone in your hellscape of a world.

He said he would protect you.

He said he would never leave you.

He said he loved you.

You stopped looking for the figure shrouded in shadows. However, that didn't stop the way he continued to creep into the folds of your brain.

It didn't matter if you refused to look his way anymore, he found new ways to torment you. His laughter seemingly echoed throughout your dreams. His voice whispered softly in your ear around every turn.

“I love you.”

You refused to sleep anymore.

You took on busy work just to keep your mind preoccupied. Scared that you’d close your eyes for a little too long if you allowed your hands to slow.

You bleached the tub till your nose bled.

~You are here and so am I~

Mopped the floors three times before starting up again.

~Maybe millions of people go by~

Scrubbed every plate-

~But they all disappear from view~

The porcelain ware in your hands slipped from your grip and shattered violently inside of your kitchen sink. Soapy bubbles splattered against your apron, seeping into the frilly fabric.

You couldn't move. Couldn't blink. Couldn't breathe.

Deep obsidian eyes pierced through the pitch black of the night. Their eerie glow manifesting right behind the glass of the small window above the sink.

…Ace?

~And I only have eyes for you~

The shriek that left your lips tore through your house with a lingering echo. You flung yourself away from the window, knocking down the small radio from the edge of the counter. The electronic box sputtered out a few more staticky notes before dying off.

Ace - no - that thing only grinned wider at your antics. It raised its first to the window, knocking softly.

“I’m home, Spitfire.”

Your stomach churned at the nickname.

This wasn't real.

This wasn’t happening.

Because you could never accept the fact that something outside of your window was wearing Ace’s skin.

・❥・

You had a lot of regrets in life.

You regret buying that shitty semi-automatic pistol.

Getting involved with alternates.

Letting Ace take his last solo mission.

Being born.

But most importantly…

You regret hiding in the closet.

You watched as a brawny hand slid between the crack of the door and its frame, sliding the wooden door open slowly. But instead of watching in horror, you could only stare at the hand in disbelief.

Every line, every vein, every scar…was the same. Alternates were often imperfect imitations. A cheap knock off. But something in the pit of your stomach told you this one was different.

This one…

Jaw-length curly black hair glistened brightly in the moonlight. A few thin strands stuck to pale skin dusted with childish freckles. Your eyes drifted down from unruly hair to the upper left bicep. In black ink, "ASCE" was tattooed vertically.

Was perfect.

Only at the sound of your gun firing did you realize you had it pointed at the alternate. The bullet whizzed past its head, taking a few pieces of hair with it.

The figure stood still for a moment. Its unusually kind eyes soaked in your form before it lifted a thick thumb to its cheek, swiping off the line of blood.

“Uh oh! Bad decision, Spitfire.”

You only managed to fire one more time before the hulk of an alternate tackled you deeper into the closet. Grunting, you fought against the humanoid. However, its bulky hands easily subdued your wrists before it kicked the gun through the open door.

You cursed and thrashed savagely in its hold, “You piece of shit! Wearing my husband's face like a coward!”

“Now, now…” The alternate continued to push you underneath it, pinning your hands above your head while a large knee wedged itself in between your legs. “Is that anyway to talk to your husband?”

You snarled, “You’re not my husband.”

It feigned sadness, its eyebrows pulled taught, “How could you say that, Spitfire? You don’t recognize me?”

Recognize? How could you not. Everything about it was exactly the same as Ace. From the baritone of its voice to the way its rough hands held you tightly - it was all Ace.

“You sick demon,” You slammed your legs into its chest and hips attempting to gain any sort of leverage. “You defile his image with your mere existence!”

The grip on your wrists tightened, shooting a searing pain up your arms. You bit your lip to suppress the scream on the tip of your tongue. Your soft cry was met with a sinister chuckle.

“Shouldn't you be a little more grateful?” The alternate leaned into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent, “I did everything I could to get back to you.”

Suddenly, sharp canines bit into the side of your neck. You grunted at action, clenching your eyes tightly shut. Yet, closing your eyes only seemed to make your predicament worse. You could feel the alternate lapping up the blood on your neck before it nipped its way up to your ear.

“Spitfire.”

You shuddered at its voice in your ear, husky and low. Then, it grabbed your cheeks in its grip harshly, forcing you to finally look at it. To peer into the endless voids it used as irises.

“I sold my soul for you.”

Your voice caught in your throat. You could only stare in horror at the face of your dead husband.

“...No.” You could feel your throat tighten, “You're lying.”

Sweet round eyes watched your face morph and shift between terror and sorrow. You clenched your pinned hands into fists, “My husband - my Ace - would never give up his humanity.”

Ace smiled softly, unmistakable dimples appearing on both sides of his mouth, “I’d give up anything to be with you.”

The lump in your throat pushed its way up, forcing a distraught sob from your mouth. You trembled in Ace’s hold. Shaking your head, you refused to accept the thing on top of you was really your husband.

Hot tears pooled in your waterline, “I don’t believe you.”

Ace cupped your cheek, swiping away a loose tear, “It's okay, Spitfire. I don’t need you to.”

You had little time to react before Ace switched his grip on you. Throwing your legs on top of his shoulders, Ace continued to pin your wrists with one hand.

With a toothy grin he slid the side of his face down the inside of your bare thigh, settling above your clothed womanhood. Eyes hooded, he met your panicked gaze with reverence.

“You're mine regardless.”

Frantically, you struggled against his hold, suddenly very aware that the dress you wore left little to the imagination in your current position. Ace only laughed at your slow realization.

Using his free hand to grab the fat of your hip, he kneaded at the tense muscle, “I missed having you beneath me.”

Your face burned at his words. Kicking your legs wildly, you tried to dissuade him from lowering his face any further, “Let me go!”

Ace merely snatched your left ankle in his grip, pulling you closer - holding you tighter. “The gates of hell couldn't keep me from you.” Blackened eyes pinned you to your spot, “Do you really think a little kick will?”

Growling, you refused to give up. Your right leg was still free. If you could just manage a kick to his head-

Your head flung back with a gasp as Ace abruptly swiped his tongue across your thin undergarments. The movement was slow and methodical. He took his time savoring the feeling of your soft lips beneath the cotton barrier.

You couldn't stop the involuntary shiver that ran down your spine. Back arched and toes curled, you could only hyperfocus on the pink appendage between your legs.

Ace smirked at your reaction, “Looks like you missed being beneath me too.”

His words felt like a knife to your heart. Ashamed, you tried to hide your face within the crook of your elbow, “No!”

Ace ignored your plea with a chuckle, preferring to bury his face into your cunt. You mewled as his nose dragged across your folds. The cartilage caressing your most intimate parts.

As soon as his nose uplifted his tongue descended, planting a tantalizing lick against your slit. Your hips lifted on their own, grinding against Ace’s mouth. You could feel him grin against you. His plump lips kissing your outer labia.

“So needy,” His hand traced down from ankle to inner thigh before trailing down to your cunt.

His thick fingers easily spread you open underneath your panties. Their rough pads brushing against your aching heat. You whined at the attention. His familiar touch was beginning to be too hard to ignore.

Peaking out of your elbow, you snuck a glance at the ravenette between your legs. Once you did, your mouth went dry. Ace’s eyes bore into your own like a mad man. Pupils blown, he watched your every move, savoring each little reaction.

You couldn't take your eyes off of him.

Enjoying your attention, he kept his eyes fixed on you as he began to suck against your clothed clit. A strangled moan left your lips at the sight. You knew you weren't supposed to want this, but the longer he swirled his tongue against you - the more you wanted him to rip off your soaked panties and taste the real thing.

As if he heard your prayer, Ace pulled the messy fabric aside and exposed your cunt to cool air, “You taste just like I remember,” He licked his thumb, “Sweet.”

You bit your lip as he dove back into you. His plush lips kissed your folds as his tongue flicked up against your clit, shooting sparks of pleasure down your spine. You lost your senses as he devoured you. Whining like a whore, all you wanted was to touch him back.

“Ace, please.”

His movements stopped abruptly. Black eyes caged your own with so much desire you weren't sure if he even heard what you said.

You mumbled lowly, “...wanna touch.”

Ace grinned ear to ear, nuzzling against your cunt, “You wanna touch me, baby?”

You swallowed thickly, “Can I?”

Ace answered by removing his hand from your wrists, freeing your arms. However, his newly freed hand only served to help him consume you further. Placing both hands on your hips, Ace pinned your cunt to his mouth, refusing to let up his abuse.

You gasped at the action, clawing at the floor, “Wait!”

Ace laughed boyishly, “I knew you’d come around, Spitfire.”

He didn't wait for a response before he inserted his tongue into your weeping slit. The soft flesh stroked your inner walls. Slow and steady, he fucked you open with his mouth as you spasmed in his hold.

You could feel the cord in your stomach building. Just a little more and you’d reach the peak you were after. Reaching up, you clutched soft black hair in your fists, pushing him down against your cunt.

Ace groaned against your folds. The vibrations sending waves of pleasure down your legs. You could feel your high approaching, a scorching heat bubbling within your stomach.

With one last swipe to your clit, your hips shuddered violently. You tugged on Ace’s hair pinning him in place. His mouth never letting up as you rode your orgasim through.

You sighed softly as your core untightened and your hands loosened. Breathed heavily, you released Ace exhausted and spent.

Finally, it was over. A chuckle above you made you tense.

“You really think this is over, Spitfire?”

Ace loomed above you. His hand trailed down his exposed chest, settling on top of the large bulge straining against his pants.

“I need my fill now.”

・❥・

#one piece #portgas d ace #portgas d ace x reader #ace x reader #one piece fanfic #one piece smut

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lietogirlsss · 1 year ago

Text

RIGHT SIDE OF MY NECK!

neteyam x fem!metkayina reader

✧ summary : a certain sully boy can't admit he's smitten by one of the daughters of the olo'eyktan, but why would he? he's calculated and discerning and she's everything he wished he was.

✧ warnings : swearing (that's pretty much it LMAO)

✧ author's note : neteyam's 15, reader is older than tsireya by a year or so, some much needed lo'ak and neteyam brotherly bonding (after the trauma inducing hellscape that was atwow), lo'ak talking like a regular teenage boy, and in honor of it being December again, may i present to you, a neteyam fic that has been rotting in my drafts since April 🤩

A gravelly groan escapes your lips as your hands managed to shield your face, almost to hide yourself from the undisputable truth that you, along with your sister Tsireya, and your older brother Ao'nung had been roped into the evident mess that was to teach the children of Toruk Makto the ways of the Metkayina.

You weren't as prejudiced as Ao'nung, sneering at the Sully children whenever he'd run into them, so meticulously influenced by your mother's dislike towards Skypeople, let alone the Omaticaya.

You weren't as welcoming as your younger sister, who had greeted them with big grins that only further accentuated her dimples and her devout willingness to help Toruk Makto's family in any way she could. While you had resorted to mirthless smiles and polite nods whenever you'd come across one of them, it was unnatural, yes, Ao'nung was quite unfair with his treatment towards them, yes, but Tsireya's overall cheer and joviality was something you could not for the life of you reciprocate.

You were fine with them being here, although you couldn't say the same for most of your people.

The only real thorn in your side was the oldest.

Neteyam.

Oh how your blood boiled whenever you'd spot him in the crowd. Always so eager to help, so eager to please, so perfect, so good, it made you want to punch the living daylights out of him... Well, only slightly, that may be an exaggeration. Your hate for him might be particularly irrational but valid in all the worst ways.

"Can't you tell them I've been bitten by something?"

"No." Tsireya snorts.

"I've slipped collecting coconuts and dislocated my ankle."

"Stop moving so much sister, or I will mess up your hair." Tsireya says. "You are lucky I am doing you this favor."

It was like he was so anxious about keeping up the golden boy facade, what a show off, you thought. Going out of his way to help any way he could, helping carry baskets of dried fish across the village, pushing heavy boats off to sea, weaving baskets, seeing to the ilus, even the tsuraks at one point. It infuriated you. What did he had to gain?

If there was one thing you despised, it was try-hards.

And Neteyam Sully was the bane of your existence.

"Oh!" You had exclaimed, snapping your fingers. "You can tell them I have fallen off my ilu and got ripped apart by an akula!"

Tsireya laughed. "Yes, like they would believe me."

With another scoff, you stare st your sister through the mirror, so engrossed in the braiding technique you'd requested for her to do on your hair. "I don't see why you're bringing me into your affairs sister, it is clear as day you only want to help out the Forest People because you like the way that boy kept looking at you yesterday."

Tsireya tugs at your half-finished braid, making you swear and rub at your head, bringing Tsireya some amusement out of this. "Now, be quiet, be still, let me do my job."

With a sour mood, you allow Tsireya to thread the shells you requested she put in, sitting up straighter. "Your job in being an absolute nag?"

Tsireya sighs again, feeling her slump in frustration behind you. "Do you think it is so easy a job for me to constantly deal with your attitude? You're older than me, it is exhausting!"

A smirk comes to your face as Tsireya knots your braid off. "Don't worry, all your efforts will be seen by Eywa, she might even make the boy tell you your hair looks nice today."

"Enough, Y/N." Tsireya says, standing up from her seat.

You stood as well, hooking your arm around Tsireya's as you left your pod. "Oh let me have my fun."

A dozen morbid thoughts suddenly flood Tsireya's mind. "If we do that I am afraid there will be nothing left of Awa'atlu when you are finished."

When you arrive, you immediately spot both the brothers sitting on the edge of the woven platform, their long legs dangling just above the water. They looked to be so immersed in a conversation that neither of them noticed you or Tsireya approach them, only when they were about 4 feet apart was when you clicked your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

"Oh great mother, is it just the two of you?" Says you, making both the boys stand up like springs.

"No, our sisters are coming, they aren't exactly good at being early to things." says the younger one, his eyes flicking to Tsireya every now and then, making you dizzy trying to hold eye contact with the boy.

"Hey, Tsireya." He finally says, nodding at her sister who laughs again. It took everything in you not to start dry-heaving in front of them.

"Why do you sound so disappointed?" Neteyam wonders, another smirk playing at his thin lips as he looks at you.

Your forehead creases. "I am nothing of the sort, what about you? What has gotten you so chipper?"

"Nothing all that special, really." He replied, not even convincing himself.

You heftily exhaled through your nose, moving away from the group and walking up on the platform, taking one of the seaweed bands on your arm to bunch your hair up just to get it out of your face. Once you'd pull your hair through the band the final time, you turned around just to see Neteyam's head turn away, almost like it was a chain reaction.

You placed your hands over the dip of your hips, facing the odd group. "Now, where has our dear brother wandered off to? It's almost noon and he is nowhere in sight."

This makes the rest of them look around for Ao'nung, even the two brothers who you'd assumed wanted nothing to do with him after your brother had showed his blatant contempt towards them after he'd ridiculed them during their arrival.

"He must still be with Rotxo and the others, we must be patient." says Tsireya.

Your mind remained closed, throwing your hands up in the air only for them to land on her hips with a thwack. "We both know Ao'nung does not move like the tide, he is too stubborn, too hard in the head ." you found yourself saying, prodding a finger at your forehead.

"Patience, sister." Tsireya admonishes calmly, making her way towards you as you placed your hands on the identation of your woven skirt. "We must not rush things, we allow things to come to us at their own pace."

"Alright, alright." you tell her half-heartedly.

"Hey! Sorry, are we late?"

You turn her head to spot the two Sully sisters jogging up to the beach, the youngest out of all of them went straight for Neteyam, watching as he scooped her up with no hesitation. "Where in Eywa's name were you two?" Neteyam wonders, eyeing his sisters curiously.

The older girl rolled her eyes, pointing her chin at the youngest. "Couldn't decide on which skirt she wanted to wear."

The little girl pouts. "I didn't know which one I wanted!" She protested, her ears drooping down.

"She had two to choose from." the older sister groaned. Eyes finding yours as her grin widens, you chuckle to yourselves, having sisters was never a dull moment.

You two had bonded over that when you first helped her with her chores, although she seemed reluctant at first she accepted. Neither of you got anything done as you both found that snacking on dried seaweed and exchanging stories about your lives proved to be more fun.

"Maybe he isn't coming." says Neteyam's younger brother, subtly inching towards Tsireya while keeping everyone under the impression that he was trying to find Ao'nung just like she was, but in truth, all he wanted was to stand beside her. Tsireya didn't pick up on it at all, being the oblivious person she was, but Neteyam did, quietly chuckling to himself as he puts Tuk down, watching as she sprints towards the sand at full speed.

You shook your head at the sound of Tsireya's giggles and walks off the diving platform as well, making your way towards the beach to stretch your legs, walking along the coastline trying to kill time. That is until something tugs at your skirt, you turned around to see who it was but then looks down to see Neteyam's youngest sister, proudly holding a small conch shell in her hands, beaming up at you.

"They look just like the ones in your hair!" She exclaimed, a gigantic grin spreading across her face as you crouched to her level, taking the shell from her hands to study it. "It's a light purple, you don't have any purple shells yet."

"You're right, I don't have any purple shells in my hair yet do I?" You say in genuine amazement, holding it up against the sun, feeling the little girl scoot closer to you, but the shell had suddenly started to sprout 6 legs and you dropped it, startled by the animal and by the little girl's scream, you watch as it scurries back into the water, gone forever.

You turned back to the little girl who was visibly upset, another frown slowly forming on her face before you placed your hands on the little girl's shoulders. "Hey, we'll find another one around here somewhere, don't be upset."

She huffed, her shoulders rising and falling. "I didn't know there was something inside it, I really didn't."

You shook your head. "Neither did I, we both didn't know." you assured the younger girl, cupping her round face as her frown slowly started to shift into a smile. "Look, if we need to do this properly and find shells for my hair, I'm gunna need to know your name."

"Tuk!" She says. "My name's Tuk!"

"It's very nice to meet you Tuk."

"Really?" She giggled as you nodded. "What about you? What's your name?"

You beckoned her closer with a simple gesture of your fingers as you whispered your name into her ear.

"You've got a very pretty name." Tuk whispers as well, hiding her face behind her hands as she giggled.

"So do you." You had whispered all the same.

Tuk then looks back at the diving platform, and then back at you. "Y'know I think my brother is staring at you."

"Oh yeah? Why do you think that is so?"

The little girl scratches her head. "I don't know, he only stares at things he thinks looks nice or looks weird."

You grinned. "Does your brother think I look nice or weird?"

Tuk blinks. "I don't think you look weird"

"Would he think that?" Ka'leia emphasized.

"Probably" Tuk replies honestly, looking back at the diving platform again. "Why else does he keep staring at you?"

It made you think, it made your mind spiral into the bottomless void of memories in which you had caught a pair of warm amber eyes catch yours, and every time you did it made your heart stutter, however unfortunate it may be. "I'm not so sure either."

"Neteyam's weird." Tuk deduced.

You snort. "Yeah, he's weird"

Silence settles between you, but not for long as Tuk takes your hand and pulls you up. "Can we go and find shells now? Then we can put them in your hair! Then you'll look pretty!"

"Am I not pretty now?"

"No, not really." says Tuk, swinging your interlocked arms back and forth as her wide eyes scanned the sand.

"No?" You wonder almost scandalised, "alright. " you nod.

You and Tuk spent a good couple of minutes digging holes on the beach to fish out the shells that had been buried underneath the sand, conch shells, shards of shells, fossils, rocks, bits and pieces of coral, if it was pretty enough for Tuk's standards she's adding it to her pile.

5 minutes later you're following her around with an armful of tiny shells, half the beach full of holes from Tuk and her makeshift shovel that had originally been a branch, with her screaming in delight when she's spotted another one, hurriedly running to you to add it in with the rest.

Lo'ak abruptly places his hands on Neteyam's shoulders, purposefully trying to scare him but Neteyam does not flinch at all. "Yo bro, you got a staring problem or something?" He wonders in English, stepping beside Neteyam to look out into the beach too.

"You done flirting with Tsireya?" Neteyam shot back.

Lo'ak huffed. "Pfft, me? Tsireya?"

"I know your tell, your tail's a dead giveaway."

Lo'ak laughs, punching Neteyam's shoulder, finally making the older boy turn to face him. "Yo! Shut your ass up!"

Neteyam chuckles. "No one else here understands English bro, we're fine!"

Lo'ak shook his head. "I'm not worried about the Metkayina, I'm worried about that devil right there." He says, pointing at the beach.

Neteyam looks at the direction where Lo'ak was pointing. "Who? Tuk?

"She's got spot on hearing, incredible memory," Lo'ak listed. "If I'd have known how much of a tattletail she'd be I'd have abandoned her in the forest when she was a baby."

Neteyam frowns, laughing. "Yes, and when I'd get home I'd find your extra finger in my stew."

Lo'ak grimaces, almost gagging as Neteyam wiggles one of his fingers at him. "Disgusting!"

Neteyam cackles loudly, watching as Lo'ak covered his mouth. "You're overreacting!" He tells him.

"Nah bro, you don't get to fill my mind with those kinda thoughts." Lo'ak says.

Neteyam places a hand on his back. "Face it baby bro, i'm in your head."

Lo'ak pushes it away, chuckling. "Lay off!"

"Will you two ever go a day without fighting eachother?" Kiri asks, giving them a look.

"Not sure," says Lo'ak. "But I wouldn't hold my breath."

Kiri rolled her eyes and Lo'ak turns to Neteyam again. "If Ao'nung isn't coming then we might as well fetch him, if you catch my drift."

Neteyam shakes his head, his braids swishing from side to side. "No, we will do no such thing."

Lo'ak half shrugs, already moving away. "Fine, if you won't then I will."

Neteyam grabs his arm, stopping his brother in his tracks. "Hey, what did dad say?"

He pretends to think. "Not sure, something about you being the next poster boy of the clan?"

Neteyam flicks a finger on Lo'ak's forehead, making the younger boy hiss. "No, you skxawng, he wants us to be on our best behavior, and I don't want to be stopping you from pulling another shitty stunt that'll get you in trouble."

"Fine," Lo'ak says. "I'll go check up on Tuk." He tells Neteyam unconvincingly, scratching the side of his head. "What's up with you and wanting to stay on the beach?"

Neteyam's jaw tightens. "There's nothing that's keeping me here except my promise to dad."

"Uh-huh" Lo'ak nods, eyes flicking to you and Tuk. "Nothing or no one?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Lo'ak frowns, pretending he understood. "She's pretty hot."

Neteyam pays him no mind, only scoffing.

"She still avoiding you?" Lo'ak asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yes, and I can't seem to find the reason why." Neteyam huffed.

Lo'ak snickers. "Maybe it's cuz you're coming off a little too strong."

"I don't know how else I can get her to talk to me without her insulting every fibre of my being or making up some excuse to leave, I've tried everything." He replies desperately, causing Lo'ak's eyes to go wide, a whistle leaving his mouth. "Damn that bad??? What the hell did you do to her to make you hate her this much?"

Neteyam rakes his face with dread. "I don't know baby bro, but you have no idea what I would do to find out the reason why."

His brother was too down-bad to be saved, Lo'ak knew that much, looking across the beach as he studies you with his little sister. Neteyam looks at his brother, his eyes seemingly trained on you as it flicks up and down, he slaps his brother's arm. "It's rude to stare."

"Yeah, go tell that to them." Says Lo'ak, pointing at a handful of Metkayin boys passing by, giving you stolen glances as they talked amongst themselves, chuckling and hooting.

Neteyam's eyes narrow into slits. "They're irrelevant, we must not let ourselves become like them."

Lo'ak glances at him, clearly unconvinced. "Yeah, okay, so stop looking."

"Fine, I won't." Neteyam replies quickly, watching Lo'ak turn around and walk to the edge of the platform. But he dosen't stop looking, he hated himself for it for it and the way that it was practically eating himself alive.

Wasn't it such a simple task? To turn his head around and look somewhere else? Well it should be, but Neteyam couldn't bring himself to pry his eyes away from you, you, oh Eywa. Your eyes were the colour of the sea, your hair shiny and black, your smile making his stomach twist itself into knots, your laugh making shivers run up his back, the way you dressed alone would make people turn heads, but your attitude was what drew Neteyam in.

You didn't feel the need to keep up this respectful facade, treat him like a guest because it was expected of you as the daughter of the Olo'eyktan, no, you treated him the way you thought of him.

You were rude, you were impolite, and you were blunt, because you didn't like him. You didn't feel inclined to tolerate him just like what was expected of you. He wished he was that brave.

"'Teyam! 'Teyam look what I got!" Tuk squealed as the pair of you walked up the diving platform carrying mountains of shells on your palms. "Y/N told me she and 'Reya could put these in my hair after diving lessons! Isn't that cool?!?"

"Oh Tuk, you didn't force her into braiding your hair did you?"

Tuk looks back at you for moral support. "But she said she would-"

"-Neteyam let her be, if she wants me to braid her hair then I'd be happy to" you had jumped in, siding with Tuk whose ears flicked upwards at her statement. "I hope it isn't too infuriating that I favour your sisters over you."

Neteyam wanted to scoff, but instead stifles it with a tight smile. "Nonsense, my sisters have that effect on everyone" He tells her, looking at Tuk. "Don't you?"

Tuk simply gives him a giggle, a swift nod, and then runs to Kiri, shouting her name over and over again before the older girl groans in acknowledgement. "Here," you say, handing him a conch shell with yellow and brown patterns ruminating on its surface.

"What's this for?" He wonders.

"Your sister practically dug up the entire beach, you deserve at least one." you chuckled.

Oh. He stares at the shell in your hands, then looks back at your face. "If I take this does this mean we'll be friends?" He asks, a sly smile breaking on his face.

"Oh you wish," You reply, smirking as you narrow your eyss at the boy. "Taking this won't change anything."

"Yes it does," He replies as a matter of factly. "this is the longest conversation we've ever had without you leaving or insulting me."

"No it dosen't," You shook your head, insistent. "I'll still hate you after this."

He hums. "I think I can live with that," He smiled. "I did get a gift from the daughter of the Olo'eyktan after all." He laughs when he hears you scoff.

You leave right after he takes it and right before he could say thank you. Walking off to find a basket to store more of Tuk's shells in.

Neteyam looks at the shell in his hands, about 2 and a half inches long, smooth, shiny, perfect, it was perfect. He loves it. He closes his fist, a smile breaking on his face before he could even relent it, a light purple tinting his cheeks as he places the shell in one of his pockets.

#avatar the way of water #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam sully x y/n #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #neteyam x you #atwow neteyam #neteyam x metkayina!reader #avatar x reader #avatar

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tozettastone · 3 months ago

Text

Okay, the results of my Bleach OC character poll specified: Hollow, needs a little treat, bad eyesight, causes catastrophic plot derailment.

Here's a very rambling draft (about twice as long as it needs to be lbr) of how that might begin. I've named her Espina Espinosa, but her name doesn't come up at all in this which I guess is part of how you know it's a first cut draft lol.

---

Sometimes, you just need a little treat to get you through the day. Or, in my case, the night: in hueco mundo, it was all night, all the time.

You know, I thought when I dropped out of my university classes in a wash of shame and humiliation that my life was basically suffering. It was as if, having forsaken my higher education, I was then destined to be trapped living in my one room in a sharehouse, and working stacking shelves forever.

Spoiler: it was not forever! It was barely six months! And then I got hit by a train, crossed over to the other side — which was apparently a fucking anime, by the way, more on THAT later — and lost years and years to scrabbling around in the desert like an animal. I didn't remember who I was until I emerged from the Forest of Menos as an adjuchas, trembling like a newborn foal and panicked about my weird undead body.

And then I knew what it really meant to say 'my life is suffering.'

Suffering was being a fully grown human personality stuck inside an undead lizard, living in a lightless hellscape and eating other undead animals just to survive. Supermarket shelves seemed less dire a fate, then.

The body grew more humanoid over time. Once I finally hit vasto lorde, the hunger was less demanding and the risk of regressing and losing my personality was eliminated. Vasto lordes did not regress. They just died.

...If something could kill one.

Today's reasons as to why I deserved a little treat were as follows:

My vasto lorde body was clearly designed by Kubo Tite. I was a nightmare of spiky armour and claws, with no real face, but god forbid I get around without built-in high heels and smooth, round, pendulous boobs. My adjuchas form had been a spined lizard. I was not even a mammal. Why did I need boobs? What were they for? Why were they the size of my head? Just the demands of the story in which I found myself, I was pretty sure.

I had minimal access to goods or services of any kind, because Hueco Mundo, right? And it was hard to stay long in the human world to get anything because just showing up tended to freak the shinigami out. Like, vasto lorde-class menos were nigh mythological, we were so rare, and even if I suppressed my presence so people on the ground couldn't sense me organically, shinigami researchers had instruments for this. Ugh.

I was constantly hunted by other hollows, especially powerful adjuchas on the look out for advancement. Eating a vasto lorde basically guaranteed they'd get the power they needed to become one. Today, one of them had left a nasty bite on my spiky tail and I'd eaten him, as he deserved. But it hurt, and I cried about it, because... I was still a giant baby who cried when I got hurt.

Bored, bored, oh my god, bored. So bored.

I'd broken my glasses, AGAIN, because I had no goddamn ears to keep them on, and my mask was a... challenging surface.

Most hollows somehow didn't seem to get bored in hueco mundo. They roamed the sands, ate each other, fought a lot, made occasional uneasy alliances, and napped.

But I had a very good memory of my last life, back when I was not an unrealistically buxom masked lizard woman, and all this shit was just a daydream from a manga.

I got so bored. I wanted something to do other than running away, lying down, or smacking weaker hollows.

So every... period of time? ... well, once I presumed the shinigami had stopped worrying about it, anyway, I took a little jaunt to the human world and treated myself. And, like, what was a little shoplifting if you were already dead, am I right?

I had a sweet tooth, and I liked jewellery and books. Hueco mundo was boring and lightless, but if you could curl up in a cave with a heavy duty flashlight, a pile of candy and a novel, you could just about pretend you were somewhere else for a while.

But visiting the human world and getting stuff was a pretty full-on operation. I had to pick places where there was enough ambient reiatsu to hide what leaked through my suppression, and there were not many of them. Then, it was often better to visit in the middle of the night, because if I tried to shoplift while surrounded by people — look, a vasto lorde has a lot of reiatsu and human beings are, on average, fragile. It was better to browse a dark shop after hours. And the last thing was: there was no optometrist in hueco mundo, because it was just kind of full of cannibal demons who wanted to eat me. I just had to stop by a chemist that stocked glasses and guess my prescription based on vibes. It sucked. A lot. And then when I inevitably broke them again, I stopped being able to read my little stash of novels and got quite sad.

So on that night, with my busted glasses and six Vampire Hunter D novels waiting in my cave, I decided I deserved a little treat and I did something kiiiiiind of stupid.

Despite knowing that it was exactly where the plot of Bleach was hiding.... I went to Karakura in Tokyo.

It wasn't as stupid as it sounded, you know. Sure, I knew they monitored for every garganta, yes. But I also knew that there was so much reiatsu in Karakura. If I crushed mine down enough, I was absolutely certain I could hide beneath the suffocating blanket that was Kurosaki Ichigo.

I opened my garganta for maybe half a second and slipped through with my reiryoku squished into a tiny ball inside my belly, so scrunched up it left my claws tingling with cold. From the sky, I pinpointed two pretty obvious locations: the Urahara Shoten and the hospital. Then, because I wasn't goddamn suicidal, I picked the furthest point away from both of them that still fell within the range of Kurosaki's spiritual pressure and made that my landing point.

There was a big labyrinthine train station, a bunch of warehouses huddling miserably behind it, and a series of cramped stores all piled in on each other lining the nearby streets, poised to catch commuters as they went by. A few of the bigger ones were still lit up from the inside, bright lights glowing out. But it was very late indeed, and almost everything was closed. The local 7-eleven was apparently open from 7 AM to midnight, a rarity even on the outskirts of this twenty-four hour city.

I couldn't find a good chemist, but there was one of those travellers' shops next to the station that stocked an array of low-prescription glasses, which would do in a pinch. I looked both ways — as though there were any cars on the streets at three o'clock in the morning, and as though any could damage me if they were — and scuttled up to the darkened window.

After a quick inspection to confirm the existence of glasses inside, I tapped my claws on the reinforced glass. It cracked, one long jagged line through the glass. I tapped again, and it shattered into a multitude of glittery pieces.

I hopped inside, heedless of the glass. My skin was next-level tough, even among hollows of my class.

Very likely the cameras wouldn't catch me at all, but what they would see is floating glasses, which wasn't necessarily much better for the humans' peace of mind. Ideally, I'd get this done and nobody would be any the wiser about any mysterious activities relating to a break in. I paced the shop, squinting around for cameras.

There was an alarm system in place. It was armed, so it started wailing about thirty seconds after the glass broke, flooding the dark street with noise. A few lights went on above stores, but mostly it remained dark — this wasn't a residential district.

There were two, blinking green lights from either end of the store, so I jumped up and ripped them both out of the ceiling, sending a rain of plaster dust down upon me to get caught in my spikes. Who knew what the owners would make of that, but probably they wouldn't automatically think it was a hungry ghost.

Glasses were stored neatly on a circular stand, ordered by strength — which, of course, I couldn't read, because I needed glasses. I plucked pairs at random and crammed my mask's eye holes up against five of them in quick succession. The fifth let me read the prescription information, so I decided that was good enough to be going on with.

My mask did not come off, obviously — trying to get out off hurt like all hell, and I didn't know if I needed to be an arrancar badly enough to go through with that — and it was covered in angular, stylised spikes, and I had wide useless little horns but no fucking ears. So my new glasses were sitting kind of lopsided, but as usual when I got a pair, I was excited about how much I could see with them.

The humming of a drinks fridge attracted me, briefly, on my way out, the way a fire attracts a moth. Did I want a soft drink? I did like the ramune ones with the little marble... And I could read the labels, which was a huge novelty.

I'd spotted a 7-eleven on the way, though, and I wanted to see if they had a slurpee machine. They were pretty rare in Japan, generally, but if they didn't have one I'd still be able to get a different sugary drink there.

I hesitated for a second, thinking about the wisdom of this plan. I should get out of here, probably, but... If I'm honest with you, my spirit rebelled. Did I truly not deserve a slurpee? A single fucking slurpee?

So, anyway, I broke into the 7-eleven. No, I didn't need to. Fight me. (But, er... don't, actually. I am a delicate flower.)

I stepped outside the store and — okay, listen, in my defence, the shop's alarm was really loud and I was busy clutching my slurpee in my clawed hands and marvelling at my semi-okay vision through the only-slightly-lopsided glasses I'd swiped. I did not immediately hear him, and I wasn't actually looking for shinigami using persquisa because I'd carefully marked where the Urahara Shoten and the Hospital were, and I had avoided them so carefully.

So, from my perspective, there was no reason to worry about shinigami, until I came out of the 7-eleven squinting at the text on the side of my slurpee cup, and then almost walked straight into one.

And not, like, a little one, either. It was a lot like being surprised by the sudden introduction of a spider — like, you know, if it's a little house spider, you might twitch, but if you turn around and see a twelve inch birdeating spider on the wall, you might actually just shit yourself.

Anyway, I slunk out of the seven eleven store, ignoring the alarm, completely absorbed in my slurpee, and then almost walked face first into Hirako Shinji.

He was actually perfectly recognisable from canon. He was about an inch shorter than me, skinny, and wearing a long grey coat, presumably because it was the middle of the night and cold enough to freeze your nipples off. (Still warmer than hueco mundo.) His blond hair really did fall in a perfectly smooth pageboy down past his chin, like it was all one meticulously styled piece. It probably wasn't. It was like my lizard tits: demands of the setting. Loads of people had hair that looked styled and required no styling.

Just in case you're wondering, on the Unexpected Spider Encounter Scale, Hirako was probably, like, one of those Colombian giant tarantulas.

I froze.

He stared at me.

A vasto lorde was scary shit in her own environment, so I was probably worth a stare. However! (A huge, flashing neon 'however'!)

A veteran shinigami captain was scarier.

Especially since I was a pretty weak vasto lorde, all things considered, and Hirako was... well, if I remembered right, he was not necessarily one of the weaker shinigami captains.

I was used to fighting adjuchas who were aggressive, hungry and bestial, and I mostly got around them by being like... marginally smarter than they were. I distracted them or trapped them.

I did not highly rate my ability to trap or distract Hirako. For one, he was an actual military officer.

For the first time I realised exactly how unfair Aizen must have been to his little arrancar army. Hollows were killers, but we weren't soldiers. Our only training was in appetence and its satisfactions.

I stared, frozen, at Hirako and blinked rapidly.

In hindsight, I would eventually come to understand what this looked like from his perspective: he came to investigate the unsteady flickering of hollow reiatsu and the alarm, but discovered a surprise vasto lorde — already so vanishingly rare as to be basically mythological — wearing lopsided reading glasses and clutching a slurpee like her life depended on it, outside the broken window of a 7-eleven at three in the morning.

"...I saw that, Hollow-san," he said slowly, looking at the broken window. His eyes drifted from the window to me and back.

I squeaked. My claws dug straight through the cardboard slurpee cup. "Um," I said, slowly. "Do you... perhaps... also want a slurpee?"

With both slurpee-clutching hands, I gestured towards the store and the source of the screaming siren.

Hirako tapped his zanpakuto on his shoulder, squinting at me like I was something new and strange and he had not quite settled on his opinion of me yet. I did not like that.

"Think I'll pass," he drawled. His Kansai Japanese was actually pretty new to me; there was no need for me to ever go to the Kansai region. What was even there? Osaka? Was there a Soul Society version of Osaka? "You came to the living world for a slurpee?"

I inched sideways so maybe my back could not be to the building and I could get a clear path of retreat by which to mcfucking book it down the street.

"As you see," I hedged, holding the cup out like it would protect me from him. It would absolutely not protect me. His zanpakuto would go through it, and probably also me, like fucking pudding. "Slurpee."

His facial expression was doing something super complicated. "That... might be the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"Well, it feels dumb now," I muttered.

The alarm seemed so so loud. I would have wrinkled my nose but, unfortunately, my face was covered in bone. Hollow problems.

"Look, Shinigami-san, isn't it a global chain? They'll have insurance for break-ins." Probably. "I'm just here to get my glasses and my slurpee."

"Insurance," he repeated. The sword went tap-tap-tap. I could see the tendon flexing in his wrist where the cuff of his shirt did not quite cover it. "Uh-huh. Sure. They got insurance. They're teaching you about insurance in vasto lorde school now?"

Vasto lorde school was just regular school, was the rub there: hollows were all just human souls, after all. Fucked up human souls, but just human souls. I didn't say it.

"You're giving everyone in a twenty kilometre radius nightmares," he pointed out, mouth tugging down.

In my defence, I simply couldn't prevent that, just like I couldn't prevent the yowling cats. Besides, what was one bad night's sleep? Nothing, honestly. Come on. Don't be such a coward!

"Sorry?" I offered. Obviously, I was not sorry, but his expression made it seem lke I should at least lie about it.

He opened his mouth to speak and gestured — with his sword. Seeing the zanpakuto swish in the air made me jump. My new glasses, absolutely predictably, flew right off my mask and hit the pavement with a heart-rending crack.

"No!" I gasped, and nearly dropped my slurpee on top of them. I crouched down to grasp at them but the lenses were, of course, already fucked. I couldn't see it very clearly, but I could sure feel the jagged cracks with my fingertips.

"No, no, no," I chanted. "Nooo."

In a flash, the horrible future unfolded before me: long periods of endless night, alone, unable to even pass the time with a book, stuck in a cave. It would be ages before I could creep into another human city with another garganta. My reiatsu suppression just wasn't good enough to hide from the technological sensors the shinigami used, and a vasto lorde in the human world put them on highest possible alert.

Karakura was probably the only exception, because Ichigo, but now there would be other shinigami here expecting me. If I tried to come back here, surely I'd be getting a face full of another vaizard, or maybe Urahara.

It all seemed so overwhelming. I really just wanted to have a slurpee and read my book. Didn't I deserve that much?

I made one of the more pathetic noises it's possible for a hollow to make, a sad little multitonal keen.

Whatever Hirako had been saying (to which I had naturally stopped listening, due to the tragedy that had befallen me) stopped abruptly.

"Are you crying?" His voice was unflatteringly incredulous.

I probably was, though. I patted my mask. It was kinda damp, yeah.

"No," I lied, with a highly telling warble in my voice.

#bleach oc: espina espinosa #my fic #oc fic #bleach fic #bleach

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