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#seriously. it was WILD. ALL CAPS.

griddlebait · 6 months

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sckl’s kudos hit the Funny Weed number. thank you to everyone who’s helped me achieve this milestone (genuinely though)

#sckl #sparking up in celebration #in all seriousness this is really cool and awesome. 420 (all caps) people liked my fic enough to leave kudos!#that’s wild!!#especially considering i expected it to get maybe 5 hits #🥹

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exhaled-spirals · 4 months

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« To mention the global loss of biodiversity, that is to say, the disappearance of life on our planet, as one of our problems, along with air pollution or ocean acidification, is absurd—like a doctor listing the death of his patient as one symptom among others.

The ecological catastrophe cannot be reduced to the climate crisis. We must think about the disappearance of life in a global way. About two-thirds of insects, wild mammals and trees disappeared in a few years, a few decades and a few millennia, respectively. This mass extinction is not mainly caused by rising temperatures, but by the devastation of natural habitats.

Suppose we managed to invent clean and unlimited energy. This technological feat would be feted by the vast majority of scientists, synonymous in their eyes with a drastic reduction in CO2 emissions. In my opinion, it would lead to an even worse disaster. I am deeply convinced that, given the current state of our appetites and values, this energy would be used to intensify our gigantic project of systemic destruction of planetary life. Isn't that what we've set out to do—replace forests with supermarket parking lots, turn the planet into a landfill? What if, to cap it all, energy was free?

[...C]limate change has emerged as our most important ecological battle [...] because it is one that can perpetuate the delusional idea that we are faced with an engineering problem, in need of technological solutions. At the heart of current political and economic thought lies the idea that an ideal world would be a world in which we could continue to live in the same way, with fewer negative externalities. This is insane on several levels. Firstly because it is impossible. We can't have infinite growth in a finite world. We won't. But also, and more importantly, it is not desirable. Even if it were sustainable, the reality we construct is hell. [...]

It is often said that our Western world is desacralised. In reality, our civilisation treats the technosphere with almost devout reverence. And that's worse. We perceive the totality of reality through the prism of a hegemonic science, convinced that it “says” the only truth.

The problem is that technology is based on a very strange principle, so deeply ingrained in us that it remains unexpressed: no brakes are acceptable, what can be done must be done. We don't even bother to seriously and collectively debate the advisability of such "advances". We are under a spell. And we are avoiding the essential question: is this world in the making, standardised and computed, overbuilt and predictable, stripped of stars and birds, desirable?

To confine science to the search for "solutions" so we can continue down the same path is to lack both imagination and ambition. Because the “problem” we face doesn't seem to me, at this point, to be understood. No hope is possible if we don't start by questioning our assumptions, our values, our appetites, our symbols... [...] Let's stop pretending that the numerous and diverse human societies that have populated this planet did not exist. Certainly, some of them have taken the wrong route. But ours is the first to forge ahead towards guaranteed failure. »

— Aurélien Barrau, particle physicist and philosopher, in an interview in Télérama about his book L'Hypothèse K

#quote #article #aurélien barrau #ecology #science #english #translation mine

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jiminiecrickets · 2 months

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MILK & TWO SUGARS. KTH / M!READER

summary. despite being your subordinate, taehyung relishes in his power over you.

wc. 4.9k

tags. boss/assistant au, dom top!reader, bottom!tae, tae films himself to tease you, oral (r. receiving), office/desk sex, unprotected sex, officemates-with-benefits (sort of)

[ requested ]

the train carriage rocks and rumbles, steel and electricity burning beneath your feet. you hover beside the moving join between carriages, counting down the number of stops until it reaches yours. aside from the not-so-inconspicuous journalist snapping pictures of you across the carriage, it has been a fairly smooth ride.

he's wearing a cap, staring down at the flip-out screen of his dslr, pointed just right in your direction. he's far enough away that the photos probably don't seem that creepy – not i-pretended-to-bump-into-you-for-this-picture creepy, at least – and he's not holding the camera low enough to angle your crotch as the focal point, which is more than you can say for some other journalists. sure, you may have had a wild youth, but you were square now – just a guy in a suit on his phone with a messenger bag strapped across your chest. the most interesting thing about you was the fact that a bouquet of purple and yellow flowers stuck out one end of your bag.

for all the other commuters knew, you were heading home to kiss your wife and your two-and-a-half kids. you would like to keep it that way, isolating yourself with earbuds playing a rotation of your favourite songs.

on your phone, your insanely efficient and ridiculously beautiful personal assistant has just stopped using capital letters and proper punctuation.

seriously where are you? your coffee's going cold :(

you huff. you told him to wait a while longer before grabbing it since you needed to stop by the florist, but he had always been strict about your schedule. if it wasn't on the document, it didn't exist.

a couple more stops to go, you reply, glancing out the windows to ensure you're not getting his hopes up. nine minutes.

can't you get here any faster?

no, taehyung. it's always going to be nine minutes.

despite his profile picture only being his initials – KT, matching at least four other people in your phone – he manages to inject a whole lot of personality into his next message.

then don't walk, desk jockey. what can i do to make you gallop? the bubble of three dots pops up. perhaps i can tempt you over with a carrot?

please stop it with the horse metaphors.

but you're the only one i wanna ride <3

you nearly choke on your saliva, hastily pressing your phone screen to your chest for privacy. you steel your nerves when your phone vibrates again, chasing away the heat crawling rapidly up your neck. you take a deep breath and glance down.

a video. you tap the play button and the window expands to take up your screen.

the first thing you notice is that taehyung's not wearing any pants. he's wearing everything but pants, and you even see a flash of his playful smirk as he tightens his tie when he glances down. he smooths it down, down his stomach, and leans back in a chair.

your chair.

holy shit. he's in your office.

he tucks one foot up onto the edge of your desk, polished pointed shoe pivoting as he makes himself comfortable. he rests on the point of his elbow, cradling his jaw with long slim fingers.

he wraps his slender fingers around his cock, revealing it from beneath the bottom of his crisp white dress shirt. only the bottom sliver of his face is visible, soft and shapely pink lips playing at innocence, tucked teasingly between his front teeth.

your music doesn't provide a buffer anymore. on instinct, you darken your screen and slam the mute button, thumb working at the phone's volume button in excess.

but, because you have terrible vices, you slowly edge the volume back up until his soft, breathy moans rattle in your skull like a marble inside a can of spray paint.

"hey, boss," he whispers, fingers rolling over his reddened tip, cock dark pink and shining in his grip. he plays at formality, straightening his jacket lapel with his free hand. his hand drops down to cup his bare thigh, golden and soft, and slides gently over his skin, back and forth – caressing himself the same way you do. he exhales softly, back arching. the chair's leather shifts audibly. "come grab your coffee, already. aren't you thirsty? i sure am."

dropping his leg, he pushes his shirt up around his chest, and lifts his phone above him with a sound between a hum and a moan. taehyung twists in your black leather chair, its tall slim shape highlighting the way he angles his hips to accentuate his waist and hips and the way his soft thighs fill up the seat of the chair.

you close your eyes for a steadying breath, shifting on the spot as the train pulls up to your station. thank goodness you had the epiphany to wear a dark suit today. it'd be a particularly awkward gossip piece for that journalist – yes, still there – if you'd worn something lighter.

"i'll be waiting, big boy," he coos directly into your ears, the breathiness in his voice and the flush to his cheeks letting you know just how long he's been in your chair.

he's going to be the death of you.

you weave your way through the station, hurrying down the stairs with your phone in a death grip, screen off. it pings when the pedestrian crossing lights turn green and your mouth goes dry at the sight of another video, described only by date and file type. you struggle to swallow.

on his knees, lovely round ass presented to the camera, taehyung pumps three fingers in and out of his slick hole, the shine of lube dripping down his thigh. his moans are quick and muffled by the palm over his mouth, his cheeks glowing pink with desire, and his hips jerk as he pulls his knees close together. his cock presses firmly along the seam of the back of his thighs.

hissing softly, he pulls his fingers out with a slick pop, lubricated until the knuckle. he glides his fingertips around his hole, showing himself off with a soft giggle, and rocks back on them until his cock twitches. it leaks as he fucks himself with them.

"ah...! get down here, already – my fingers aren't as thick as yours, baby. m-maybe i could still come on them, though," he moans slyly, the quick slick sound of his pumping fingers jolting shivers down your spine. "gonna fucking come on myself, come on your desk – every time you enter this office, you're gonna remember the way i made you feel."

he moans with a toss of his head as his hand quickens. his leaking cock pulses and he bounces slightly on his fingers, that little bit of friction from his cock bumping his thighs almost enough.

"what is it... that you said?" he grins back at the camera, dark eyes smoky and devious. "only angels have bodies like mine? well... white was always heaven's colour."

his lips part as his dark brow furrows, his grip tightening on the back of the chair as his hips tremble. his cock explodes with cum, spurting out in thick white ropes that splatter the backs of his thighs like the sweetest glaze. he spreads his jerking, trembling thighs, and his release slowly pools on the black leather between his knees. he pants softly, wordless.

in the silence of your earbuds, your head rings with the anticipation of your pounding heart, nearly sprinting the half-block down to the skyscraper with your last name printed on it. you push through the large glass doors carelessly – they're shatterproof, and they'll survive you shouldering your way through them.

on your phone, taehyung lets out a soft exhale that sinks claws into your brain. glossy white beads drip from the edge of your chair between his unblemished legs, and if that's not a scene of the divine, then you don't know what is.

shit. hastily, you pass the receptionists and slip into an empty elevator someone left behind. swiping your card, you punch the button for the highest floor, and survive the agonising seconds up, dumping your earbuds and phone unceremoniously into your bag.

the elevator dings, and you're shoving yourself through the tiniest gap the moment it appears with a problem in your pants and a problem at your desk.

lazily, taehyung grins, pink tongue swiping over his lips. one hand strokes his pretty cock under the desk, the motion of his arm perfectly clear.

"hey there, big boy," he purrs. "finally here for your coffee, right?"

you grunt noncommittedly, extracting the bouquet of flowers from your bag before dumping the bag on the loveseat by the elevator. you place it in a white vase and wiggle it back into place on the cute pigeonhole shelf.

you turn back to him, and he's standing now, leaning forward over your desk with that same silky smile. "done with playing uncaring? come over here, make me sorry. i've broken your rules, haven't i, boss?"

"you're a real piece of work," you growl, stalking towards him and yanking him away from your desk to survey the damage. time to put in a request for a new chair. you return your gaze to taehyung, who just smiles demurely at you and strokes the bulge in your trousers.

"a piece of art, don't you like telling me?" he teases, nudging your cock with his knuckles. his smile widens as your breath skips like a record player. he pushes you towards the end of your oak desk. "you liked my presents, did you?"

"presents? that was torture," you rumble, placing your hand on top of his head and fisting a handful of his hair. you tug firmly backwards and his eyes roll back briefly as he moans, hands faltering for just a moment as he fiddles with your fly – you smirk at the sight.

his lashes flutter as he regains control, pupils dilating as he gazes up at you from between your thighs. "but you liked them, right, sir?" he asks softly, almost nervously. he fishes your cock out and his breath hitches, his lower lip tugged between his teeth as he stares up at it.

"is the sky blue, dove?" you ask, softening your voice just for him. he melts like chocolate, pressing himself sweetly into you, and you let go of his hair to card it back from his large dark eyes, tucking the stray strands behind his ears. "but i won't say it didn't surprise me. i was on the train."

"your fault when you have a perfectly good car in the garage, sir," he says with a hum, and he kisses the base of your cock. he lifts your hand back to his hair and you guide his head towards the head of your shaft. with a soft moan, he's all yours again to eat and enjoy, those dark brown eyes almost gold in the late afternoon sun.

"i'll let that sass slide because you're usually such a sweet boy," you say softly, humming as he drags his warm tongue over the ridge of your tip. "good. suck."

he loves the way you talk to him with that voice – a voice like chocolate, sweet and thick and dark. he bobs his head, stroking what he can't fit, and he moans when you hit the back of his throat, filling his mouth and stretching his jaw wide. he works at your cock, tongue lapping at the veins, tracing them to your tip and back, and closes his lips around your shaft, gradually getting all of it down his throat.

he clasps your thighs, letting himself enjoy the heft and heat of your cock filling his throat, and his eyes slide closed, the tip of his nose brushing your pelvis. you exhale softly and pat his hair to watch it bounce back into place, tugging the loose beach curls between two fingers and letting them spring back. it's incredibly soft and silky for someone who's dyed his entire head honey blond for at least as long as he's been working for you.

you cup his cheek as he bobs his head, warm tight throat swallowing your cock, constantly squeezing and fluttering, and your hand shifts to his chin, fingers pressed against the bend of his throat where it meets his jaw. gliding your fingers lower, you can feel your cock sliding against the walls of his throat. when he pulls back until just the heavy tip rests on his tongue, you feel with reverence the way he swallows it down, following the movement of the tip of your cock with each finger it passes.

below, you watch in amusement as he jerks himself off, motions quick and shallow but involving the motion of his whole arm from the shoulder. he moans as he swallows your cock, and your head falls back as your cock throbs from the tight vibrations.

"fuck, taehyung, good boy," you groan, listening to him choke and gag on it as if he couldn't get enough. saliva coats your dick, and it drips down his chin. his parted lips allow him to moan and when he closes his lips around it, he redefines the word 'suck'.

his cheeks hollow, his eyes roll back, and he's so warm and wet around you that your control snaps and you yank his head forward, burying your cock deep in him. he whimpers so perfectly when he feels your cum sliding down his throat, swallowing rapidly. his lashes flutter as he pushes himself deeper and his lips press against your base, making you grunt sharply, fingers tightening in his hair.

even when your grip loosens, your uneven breaths steadying, taehyung keeps you in his mouth, feeling his own hot cum drip down his twitching cock. he doesn't stroke himself, doesn't pull away – just contents himself during the aftermath of his high with keeping his mouth full, blinking slowly like a cat at the hazy middle-distance.

you have to slide him off your cock and he protests, whimpering softly as his nails dig into your thigh. you wrap a hand around yourself, pumping it slowly, and taehyung stares on yearningly, licking his lips subconsciously when a bead of cum slides down your tip.

"do i need to look at what you've done," you ask, though your voice remains steady at the end like a statement. "pretty thing, we are in my office. that means no messes."

"doesn't feel as good as when you're in me," he rasps, leaning up and kissing the base of your cock. "please, baby? promise i'll clean up later."

"you can't always get your way through flattery," you chuckle as he stands, tilting and falling against you as if he belongs there, wrapped in your arms. one hand travels further down and cups his ass, squeezing the supple warmth of it. he moans airily.

"it's worked so far," he whispers. "go sit down, big boy. gonna ride you like you deserve."

"what, you're going to tease this gorgeous little ass and i'm not allowed to have a taste?" you tease, and taehyung grins, pressing chest-to-chest with you. "you're a cruel man."

he smiles, still panting softly, and presses his lips to the line of your jaw. "maybe later," he murmurs. "will you clean me up and take care of me afterwards?"

"depends on my mood, pretty," you hum, guided over to your seat and watching as he sets himself atop your lap. you squeeze his thighs, sitting up against his back.

"you're a chivalrous man, boss. you wouldn't force me to walk home with your cum dripping down my leg," he chuckles, placing his ass over your cock and grinding against it. he grips the armrest and turns his head over his shoulder to kiss you, the other hand coming up to grip your hair. "mm – fuck me already. wanna feel your cock fill me up like a whore – been waiting for ages to get you alone for this."

"you could always call me outside of work, you know?"

"but where's the fun in that?" he teases, and sinks down on your cock with a breathy relieved moan that makes you shiver.

holy fuck. he's so damn warm, so wet. for a moment your thoughts fizzle out into pleasant static shooting down your spine and out to your fingers and toes. just being with him, close to him, enveloped by his faint blue cologne, makes heaven an afterthought.

when you come to and open your eyes – despite not remembering closing them – you are met with taehyung's soft smoky gaze, his warm palm cupping your cheek. he smiles, breathless, as he leans in, closing his eyes and pressing your foreheads together. "you're handsome when you come."

after taking a moment to gather yourself, you frown slightly, shifting your hands higher on his thighs. no, you are most certainly still hard. "wishful thinking, much?"

"no, that was better than watching you come." he nuzzles into your cheek and jaw, then presses your foreheads together again with a soft roll of his hips. the action has you gasping and he slots his mouth against yours, taking advantage of the moment of weakness to slip his tongue between your teeth.

knowing he, your quiet, pretty little secretary, is the one to bring you down from your pedestal, fills him with insurmountable pride. smugness, too – a healthy dose of it. after all, the media made you into the country's most eligible bachelor, and still here you were, leaning into his touch like a soft college boyfriend. you've spent every waking moment since you turned eighteen having columnists nipping at your heels and biting into your clothes, your friends, your love life, and anything else they can twist into drama or some moral fault with you. he knows how high your walls are because of it and the fact that you decided to give him a chance, to let him help you, despite looking like every one of the scandalmongers who've ever hurt you, makes him proud.

you'd never truly lost that pureness about you, that faith in people's goodness that most lose the first time they're betrayed by those they love. that is a very hard thing to do when so many close to you have had some dark immortal want to leech out of you.

taehyung's getting ahead of himself. he can start thinking such things when you start calling him your boyfriend.

"i missed you," he whispers, breath hitching as the ridge of your cockhead catches on his rim. he reaches behind himself, guiding himself onto your dick, and his fingernails dig into your shoulder as he throws his head back with a breathless moan.

"yeah?" you murmur, because you can't ever stay upset at taehyung. "it's only been a few hours. fuck. mm – couldn't have known. maybe you should've sent me a few more videos of yourself."

he tries to gasp in offence, but it comes out too breathy, too pleased. he bounces on your lap with his creamy thighs bracketing yours. "pig. why do you want videos when you have the real thing right in front of you?"

"so i can remember you on lonely nights in foreign hotel rooms."

he scoffs, chuckling softly as he circles his hips, making you groan and tighten your grip on him. he cups the back of your head and pulls you in for a kiss. "give me a promotion, big boy. then your nights won't have to be so lonely."

"you and your silver tongue," you murmur, placing your hands on the curve of his ass, the tiny dip of flesh at the base of his spine. he arches into your touch with a soft sigh, clenching around you and enveloping you in his velvety heat.

"mhm. you know what my tongue can do," he teases, content to fill himself up with you and do nothing else for the rest of the day. he could sit here, pretty as a princess, for the rest of his life and he'd have no qualms about it.

you, however, have different ideas.

you hook your arms under his thighs and rise to your feet, swiping pens and papers clear of your desk and onto the floor with a clatter – he laughs – and you set him down on your desk, kissing his jaw and neck. you nip at his earlobe and he growls in warning playfully, yanking your hair to bring your throat closer to him. he sucks a hickey onto the sensitive skin, the sting giving way to pleasure far too easily.

he spreads his knees and leans back, grabbing your cock with one hand and bracing against the desk with the other, and slips you back inside him with a long moan of bliss. "y-you're so big..."

"don't stroke my ego," you chuckle, stroking his soft, smooth hips and thighs as you thrust hilt-deep into him, easier now that he's adjusted. "god knows it's big enough as it is."

"of course i have to. you're the – the top man." his breath hitches as your cock glides against his swollen prostate, dragging against it roughly with how tightly he's stretched around you. he swears he can follow the line of the veins when it rides against his gummy walls with a harsh thrust. "oh, fuck! baby!"

"that feel good, hm?" you murmur into his ear, the sweet decadence of it rolling over his brain like waves over the shore.

"yes," he moans, eyes rolling back as you press into him, a single shift of the angle of your hips enough to make his back arch and his mouth fall open. "yes, yes! ah, f-fuck, right there – right there, harder, don't stop..."

you know his body like the back of your hand. gripping his thighs until they dimple under your fingertips, you pull out until just the tip rests against his hole. with a snap of your hips, you bury yourself deep in his warmth, making him jerk and cry out. his cock spurts prematurely and he gnaws on his lower lip, squeezing his eyes shut to will down his budding high. his nails dig into your shoulders.

"i told you," he pants, glistening eyes raising to meet yours. "harder."

what your secretary wants, he gets.

your cock slams directly into his prostate and he gasps, whimpering softly as you set a quick, hungry pace. still unsatisfied, you push your mouth against his, tongue dipping between his lips to taste his coffee.

milk, two sugars.

he always had a sweet tooth.

his damp hair sticks to his temples, the perfect salon waves bouncing rapidly with each smack of your hips against his ass. he moans into your mouth as his cock jerks, swollen and heavy against his slim stomach. it bounces with each powerful thrust and he cries out, the sweet sound echoing in your office for anyone to hear.

he whines softly, a softer sound than he'd ever let anyone else hear. he claws at your shoulders and sides, panting against your lips and submitting to your demanding kisses with messy clouded lust. the slap of skin on skin only arouses him further and he grabs your tie in a white-knuckled grip, tugging your mouth down against his the moment it parts for air.

"close," he whimpers into the kiss, and his eyes flutter back into his skull as your cock punches the breath out of his lungs, fucking him faster, harder, deeper. he opens his eyes, half-lidded and dazed, as you sweep his hair out of his eyes, combing it back gently with your fingers.

you tug. he comes.

his velvety searing heat swallows you whole, animal in its hunger, and he digs his heels into your lower back, forcing your cock deeper in him until you have no choice but to follow him over the precipice, crashing over it like blue waves over white rock. his pleasure is engulfing, almost stifling despite his tenderness. he curls into your grasp, panting and nuzzling into the crook of your neck, and his hot, shuddering breath stirs against the fine skin of your collarbone.

when your hips slow to give him a moment of respite – surely he'd want one, you thought, barely able to eke out a gasp of your name – he instead takes the chance to chastise you.

"couldn't you have... finished... any faster?" he huffs, his chest heaving as he gulps down air between words. "you've a meeting in five minutes."

with your thoughts still lingering on the image of taehyung's bliss and the clandestine knowledge that he'd made a mess on your desk, you take a moment to respond. when you do, you're incredulous.

"wait, are you trying to keep me on schedule? now?"

"it's... it's office hours. i still have to do my job." he rolls his eyes, as if you aren't balls-deep inside of him. you remind him with a few shallow, gentle thrusts – he sucks in a shaky breath and tips his head back with a shake to let his bangs fall more comfortably over his forehead. "lord knows you're not the one keeping an eye on your timetable."

"we can talk about that later, and just reschedule that damn meeting. they'll wait for me." you press your lips to the dip just beneath his ear and he hums, lazily content. then, as if remembering that he has to play bad cop and not laze in the comfort of your touch, his eyes flutter open and his mouth thins into a straight line.

"you're making a bad habit out of this," he argues. there he is – your fiery assistant. if you looked at him now, you'd never know he'd just been making dirty videos with sultry smiles.

"the best kind of habit," you murmur, shifting your hips. his breath hitches and his grip tightens involuntarily on your shoulder, making you smirk. "don't worry, taehyung. i'll give you the rest of the day off. you need one – at least today because of me."

his frown deepens at your cheeky comment, even though his cheeks flush. "i don't take days off."

"you always say that, but what are you doing right now? working hard or hardly working?" you tease, sliding your hands up his thighs and hips.

"it's – different," he manages to gasp out, clicking his tongue when your nails drag over the veins of his messy cock. "stop that. you have a meeting, remember?"

you draw your hand back. "i was working when you sent me those videos. i seem to recall you were, too. this feels unfair."

"unfair?" he repeats. "you liked them. you always like them." he pauses. "don't you?"

"i'm not sure the other people on the train appreciate your beauty as much as i do." you kiss him and he hums, accepting your tongue into his mouth with a sigh of pleasure. "don't stop sending your videos."

"is that an order, big boy?" he whispers.

"yes, it is," you reply, and he smiles, brief and sweet. you pull out of him gently, rubbing the join between his hip and thigh soothingly as he moans softly through bitten lips. "now, you have an email to write. that meeting won't postpone itself."

he huffs, allowing you to help him down from your desk. he turns around, leaning over it to grab his laptop from the corner, and you press yourself into his back and ass, teasing your cock against his hole. the coffee he grabbed for you sits cold on the edge of your desk next to the pen holder.

"tell me what the email says," you murmur into his neck, caressing his stomach with one hand and teasing his nipples with the other.

taehyung's breath shudders as he nods, opening up the calendar and shifting the meeting to three days later. moving it a few hours means you look sloppy with your time management, and so does one day. three days looks like a choice – like you have better things to do with your time. these men don't have anyone else to go to, so they'll wait for you no matter what.

"your conference with mr ln has been moved to thursday, august twenty-first. please see attached—" he closes his eyes as your hand wraps around the base of his cock, gently squeezing. "p-please see attached a link to your updated appointment."

you shrug, peppering kisses over the freckles of his neck and shoulder. "good enough. send it."

he clicks send and closes his laptop, pushing it away as you lift him into your arms. he gasps and wraps his limbs around you, holding tight as you move him to the couch on the other side of the room. you hover over him as he pants softly, staring up at you with dark eyes and plump red lips.

"by the way, i've received message that your suit's been delivered to your home," you say with a soft smile. "you're going to outshine everyone at that stupid awards ceremony."

"you say that as if you won't like seeing me in it. you can fuck me in it in the car afterwards. you bought it, after all." his eyes glint dangerously. "maybe i'll wear a surprise under it – to celebrate your successes, of course."

you grin, filthy and boyish, and taehyung's heart flutters. "you've just made me very excited for that day. come grab coffee with me after work – we can test how much space i have in my backseat."

#top male reader #x male reader #male reader #dom male reader #dom reader #bts x male reader #bottom bts #bottom taehyung #taehyung x male reader #kpop x male reader #bts x reader #kpop x reader #bts smut #taehyung smut

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solarmorrigan · 10 months

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They aren’t high, but they might as well be.

It’s so late that it’s early, sitting in those odd hours of motionless night when exhaustion throws a ridiculous filter over everything and it’s an effort not to laugh loud enough to alert Robin’s parents to the fact that there’s an unauthorized boy in her room.

She and Steve have been lying side by side on her bed for the last hour, both knowing they should probably go to sleep if they’re going to wake up with enough time for Steve to sneak out and actually drive home safely, but they’re not quite ready yet. Instead, they’re content to be pressed together, shoulder to ankle, hands intertwined between them, content to feel the other secure and nearby.

Robin lifts their hands and uncurls her fingers, spreading them open like a star and prompting Steve to do the same, until their hands are pressed flat together with their fingers outstretched.

“Your hands are bigger than mine,” Robin says, looking at the way her palm fits into Steve’s with room to spare and the way his fingers extend past hers by almost a whole knuckle.

“Probably because I’m bigger than you,” Steve says, also lazily gazing at the way their hands fit together.

“Yeah, but they’re, like, way bigger than mine,” Robin insists. “You have really big hands.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “They’re not that big. You just have stubby fingers.”

“Rude. You just have giant hands.”

“I do not.”

“Like mittens.”

“No.”

“Banana hands.”

“You are literally the only girl who has ever said something bad about the size of my hands.”

Robin smacks her free hand against Steve’s chest. “Ew.”

Steve is laughing. “You started it.”

“Lies,” Robin says, taking Steve’s hand in both of hers so she can continue examining it. “Why are your nails so nice?”

Steve watches as Robin traces the tips of her fingers over the even cuticles and neatly trimmed ends of his nails. “Because I take care of them, and I don’t bite them, unlike some people.”

“I never bite your nails,” Robin says, smiling as Steve groans dramatically.

“That was terrible. You’re terrible.”

“Nope, you love me.”

“I can love you even if you’re terrible.” Steve turns his hand so he can catch one of Robin’s and look it over for himself. “You’ve been biting your nails a lot lately.”

Robin shrugs. “Stressed,” is all she offers; she doesn’t really have to say much more for him to get it.

Steve frowns, threading his fingers back through hers and squeezing. “You used to paint them, didn’t you? Like, to help you remember not to chew on them so much?”

“I did, yeah,” Robin says thoughtfully. “It’s been a while since I’ve even thought about doing that.”

“You should do it again. Give your nails a chance to heal,” Steve says.

Robin hums, as if she has to think it over. “Only if you let me paint yours, too.”

And maybe it’s the fact that it’s after two a.m., but all Steve does is shrug and say, “Yeah, sure.”

Robin sits up on the bed like Dracula popping up out of his coffin, turning to stare at him with her bedhead flying wild around her face. “Seriously?”

“You want me to say no?” Steve asks.

“Well I didn’t expect you to just say yes!” Robin says in a hushed yell. “I thought I’d have to argue you down.”

Steve grins. “Go get your nail polish before I change my mind, Buckley.”

He doesn’t have to tell her twice. Robin swings her legs off the bed and goes to her dresser, digging through her makeup case and returning with a handful of black-capped bottles.

“Pick your poison, Harrington.” Robin gestures to the array of colors.

Steve is slow to sit up, stretching and groaning before he turns to sit cross-legged in front of Robin. “You pick. I’ve never had my nails painted before, so we’ll have to go with your expertise.”

“Hmm.” Robin clasps her fingers together under her chin, tapping her lips with her index fingers as if this is the most serious decision she’ll ever have to make. Finally, her hand flashes out and grabs one of the bottles, holding it up and wiggling it for Steve to see. “How about a little navy blue, sailor?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he can’t tamp down his smile. “Why not?”

“Okay, gimme your hand.” Robin holds her hand out for Steve’s, palm up and fingers making grabby curls.

Steve puts out his left hand and lets Robin place it on her knee, fingers outstretched while he waits for Robin to shake the bottle of polish thoroughly and unscrew the cap.

“Try to hold still,” Robin instructs him, biting the tip of her tongue between her teeth in concentration as she applies the brush to his thumbnail.

Obligingly, Steve holds as still as possible, content to watch as Robin works her way from his thumb and onto his index finger, coating his nails in shining wet navy blue.

He pulls his hand away for a moment when Robin has to dip the brush back in the bottle for more polish, looks over her handiwork, and lets out a low whistle.

“Wow,” he says, putting his hand back down on Robin’s knee when she gestures for it. “You really suck at this.”

Robin lets out a surprised bark of laughter, narrowly avoiding streaking nail polish down the length of Steve’s finger. “Fuck off, I do not!”

“You kinda do, Rob,” Steve says, his voice full of warmth even as he denounces her skill with a brush.

“How would you even know?” Robin jibes. “You said you’ve never had your nails painted before.”

“I know the nail polish isn’t supposed to go over the edges of the nail,” Steve shoots back.

They both pause to look at the way the polish has been laid thick over the skin on either side of Steve’s nails and has even dribbled a little bit onto the tip of one of his fingers.

“Shut up. It’s a process,” Robin finally says, taking the brush to his ring finger.

“A process, huh?”

“Yes! You paint the nails, and then you use nail polish remover and, like, a Q-tip to clean up the edges.”

“Uh huh.”

“You’re just fussy, that’s all,” Robin pronounces, grinning at Steve’s little noise of offense.

“I am not fussy,” he insists.

“You kinda are, Steve,” Robin replies. “Anyway, I’d like to see you do a better job.”

“Deal,” Steve says, maybe a little too quickly for Robin’s liking. “I’ll do your nails next.”

“Well that, I have to see,” Robin says, putting the brush back into the bottle and motioning for him to switch hands.

True to her word, Robin quietly retrieves the nail polish remover and some Q-tips from the bathroom and neatens up her paintjob once she’s finished, and Steve appraises her work like a jeweler looking over and handful of gems.

“Not bad, Buckley,” he says, shrugging his lips.

Robin rolls her eyes. “What are you now, a fashion critic? Hurry up and paint my nails so I can make fun of you.”

Steve’s answering grin is unsettlingly sharp, but Robin still lets him pick the color. He settles on red—“To accent the blue, obviously”—and shakes the bottle before pulling the brush and starting on Robin’s left hand where it rests on his knee.

His strokes are smooth and even, not once straying over the edges of her nails, not even over the bitten, ragged ends, and he moves from one finger to the next with a kind of practiced ease.

“What the fuck!” Robin barely remembers to keep her voice down in her outrage. “Why are you good at this?”

Steve ducks his head, clearly holding in a laugh. “I used to paint Carol’s nails for her all the time.”

“Carol Perkins?” Robin asks, brows furrowed.

“Did I spend a lot of time with any other Carols?” Steve shoots her a look from beneath his lashes before turning back to his work.

“Why?”

Steve shrugs. “She tried to get Tommy to do it one day and he refused, so she asked me to do it instead, and… I dunno, I figured, why not? I did suck at it at first,” he admits. “But I think she just liked having someone’s focus on her for the time it took to do her nails. And I guess I just – like, it felt good, I guess. Taking care of someone else, even just in that little way. And I liked how the nail polish looked when I finally got it right.

“Any time we hung out at her house, she’d ask me to paint her nails for her, or she’d steal my mom’s nail polish if we were at mine. It was, like… our thing, I guess?”

For a moment, Robin sits in the knowledge that Steve and Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins had actually been friends.

From the outside, the three of them had looked like a toxic hurricane of derision and unfairly nice bone structure; they were rarely seen without looks of condescending amusement or lounging around being too cool for everyone else. It had been easy to think of their arrangement as some kind of superficial bond of mutual bitchiness, but at the same time, everyone distantly knew that Steve and Tommy and Carol had been a package deal since at least middle school.

Tommy and Carol had been the only two people Steve routinely hung out with, now that Robin thinks about it. People from basketball and swim and other hangers-on came and went, but those two had been fixtures. They’d probably been his best friends.

And midway through Junior year, Steve had left them.

He’d realized they weren’t who he thought they were, or maybe he’d realized they weren’t who he wanted to be, but the fact is that he’d left behind the two people he’d known the longest and had stepped uncertainly forward without knowing if he’d have anyone at all after that.

For a while he’d had Nancy. Then had come Henderson and all the other rugrats – but as much as Steve loves them, that isn’t quite the same as friends your own age, is it?

But now, he has Robin.

And she’s going to make sure that’s worth something.

“I can’t believe I’ve had some kind of professional manicurist under my nose this whole time,” Robin laments, grinning at Steve when he glances up at her with a huff.

“I’m pretty sure you have to get paid to be a professional. Are you gonna pay me for my services?” he asks.

“I will pay you in love and affection,” Robin declares. “Money can’t buy you these things, Steve.”

“That’s convenient,” Steve shoots back.

“Isn’t it? And I’m going to paint your nails yellow next time,” Robin says.

Steve glances to the side, where Robin’s collection of nail polish sits. “You don’t have any yellow.”

“I’ll buy some.” Robin shrugs. “I think it would look good on you.”

“And you just assume I’m going to let you paint my nails again.” Steve raises an eyebrow at her as he dips the brush back in the bottle to rewet it for the last couple of nails.

“Yep,” Robin says easily.

Steve looks back down, like he really needs to focus that hard on getting the nail of her ring finger just right, but she can tell he’s biting down on a smile.

“Okay,” he finally says, quietly.

“Okay,” she echoes back, giving him a sleepy smile when he glances up.

It’s late, and it’s going to be even later by the time they can go to sleep without ruining their nails, and in fact they’re probably not going to get any sleep at all, but somehow, Robin doesn’t mind.

Even being sleep deprived together with Steve is better than anything she can think of doing apart.

[Prompt: Comparing hand sizes]

#disclaimer: I don't know how big either of these people's hands are just roll with it #stobin #platonic stobin #robin buckley #steve harrington #stranger things #solar wrote #robin paints nails like I paint nails and she is valid <3

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lucysarah-c · 6 months

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No, 'cause… traveling with Levi is like traveling with an obsessive controller mixed with a dad, lmao. He would come up to you one day, "Let's go on vacation," and you agree, only to find out he meant it seriously and he had EVERYTHING planned.

Remember that scene from the manga where Levi complains that Erwin is always late, and the MPs will arrive before him? Well… this man, THIS MAN. He's NEVER LATE. And don't you DARE to ruin his schedule. He would be one of those who want to have all the time in the world to do the check-in at the airport. Don't ask me why, but he knows EVERYTHING; he has EVERYTHING. Your passport? He has it. Plane tickets? He has them. Luggage bags? He's carrying them, and he has already weighed them at home, closed them up, and used those compression bags to make sure everything is secure and optimizing space. The BOARDING DOOR? HE KNOWS WHICH ONE and WHERE it is.

Levi's conception of vacations is making sure that you two are SQUEEZING each FREE SECOND you have to enjoy. He wants to leave early, and he has all the places, locations, and activities you're going to do.

"I'm carrying your sunscreen, the water bottles, the different types of hand sanitizer, an umbrella if it rains, a cap to protect from the sun. And those cereal bars you like because your blood sugar always drops close to midmorning, let's go,"

Just TURN off your brain, okay? This man basically has everything. You've got to be the biggest passenger princess ever. Like it or not, so you better enjoy it.

"I think I-" you would say while tapping your pockets.

"Forgot your keys inside, yes, I picked them up for you," Levi finishes your sentence.

When I say he's the biggest "dad," like, you'd be on the street corner of this new city checking the Google map to be sort of "helpful," and he's there admiring the street and suddenly says "that direction, we take subway A intercept with the D and get down on the fourth station, let's go,"

You offer to check out a place to eat, and he has his "list of places per day" after he did an extensive research of which are the best places, etc. To the point that you're sitting down at this expensive restaurant, private table, best view of the city.

"I can't believe we got a spot here," you would say all mesmerized by the place.

Levi would look at you across the table, dead eyes, and say "can't believe? I put a reservation here over 7 months ago,"

And let's not even mention those wild nights at the hotel; he's prepared for everything. He brought your favorite lube, toys, condoms, etc. I told you, he's going to squeeze each second of that holiday to enjoy the most, and that includes squeezing each inch of your skin too, obviously.

Tag!: @humanitys-strongest-bamf @nube55 @nmlkys @jimoonbeau @fictiondrunk @notgoodforlife @justkon Wanna join my tag list? here!

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championofsanghelios · 9 months

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Caps

Wind: -looking through a book about the heroes of hyrule throughout history.- "Huh...I just noticed something. We're all wearing caps in these pictures and drawings." Hyrule: -snorts- "I lost mine in a volcano." Legend: -huffs- "Ravio borrwed my red one...then sold it at an elevated price." Twilight: "I think I chewed mine up at one point..." Time: -raises eyebrow at him- "I hope you did that as a wolf, and not as yourself." Twilight: -sighs- "Duh!" -secretly lying, he was actually drunk and very hungry- Warriors: -flamboyantly throws scarf over shoulder.- "Get with the fashion, dweebs. Scarfs are all the rage." Four: "Nuh-uh! Hoods are where it's at!" Wild: "Yeah, Hylia's Chosen has a scarf, you're just a copy cat!" Sky: -sad sigh- "My cap got blown off during a loftwing lesson...never found it." Wind: -gasps- "Yeah, I lost mine whilst sailing through a storm one rainy night...linebeck wouldn't let me go looking for it." Time: -hums thoughtfully- "Malon took one look at my old cap and gear confined it all to storage. I've never been able to figure out where she put them." Legend: -rolls eyes- "So I'm the only one who wears a cap here? Seriously?" Twilight: -smirking- "Aw, you feeling special now, Cappy?" Legend: -glowers at him- "Say that again, wolf boy, I dare you!"

#linked universe #incorrect linked universe quotes #lu time #lu wind #lu wild #lu sky #lu legend #lu hyrule #lu warriors #lu twilight #lu four

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mushroomgay · 10 months

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Abernethy Forest, Scotland, UK, August 2023

Chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius)

I've been hiking and wild camping in Scotland's gorgeous ancient woodland and have found SO many amazing mushrooms - I can't wait to sort through pics and post for you all to see!

Most excitingly though, I found LOADS of chanterelles, which I've only ever found one or two of before. I gathered a potful (more than pictured here, and still leaving most of what I saw) and they made an amazing addition to my campside ramen. Tonight some more will go in a pasta sauce, then I'm planning a risotto for the rest :)

These mushrooms are delicious and highly sort after. They can be recognised by their irregular caps, apricot smell, veins on the underside rather than true gills, and white flesh which can be seen when they're cut in two.

There are two main potential confusions to be aware of:

Jack o Lanterns (Omphalotus olearius) - these are similarly sized orange mushrooms which might be mistaken for chanterelles at first. However, they clearly have gills on the underside rather than veins. These fungi are poisonous.

False chanterelle (Hygrophoropsis aurantiaca) - these are a more plausible confusion, as the name suggests. They have true gills, but they look a lot like the veins of the chanterelle.

They can be distinguished from 'true' chanterelles by their yellow-orange flesh when they are cut open, their lack of apricot smell, their darker cap centres and more regular caps. The best way to distinguish them is to cut them in half - you will see the colour of the flesh, and also whether there is a margin between the cap flesh and the gills. True chanterelles do not have this, whereas false chanterelles will show that the gill is separate to the cap. Young chanterelles and false chanterelles really do look quite similar, so be careful! Luckily, false chanterelles aren't seriously poisonous - they produce the symptoms of mild food poisoning, and there are some dubious reports of psychedelic effects.

#fungi #mycology #chanterelles #foraging #wild food #edible fungi #Cantharellus cibarius #food #vegan #orange fungi #potential confusions

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steinwayandhissons · 10 months

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arctic monkeys and every time the word ‘love’ is mentioned

whatever people say I am that’s what I’m not

tonight there’ll be some love, tonight there’ll be a ruckus yeah regardless of what’s gone before

~ view from the afternoon

oh there ain’t no love, no montagues or capulets

~ i bet you look good on the dancefloor

all that’s left is the proof that love’s not only blind but deaf… yeah I’d love to tell you all my problem

~ fake tales of san francisco

she makes a subtle proposition, I’m sorry love I’ll have to turn you down

~ when the sun goes down

lady, where has your love gone, i was looking but can’t find it anywhere, they always offer when there’s loads of love around but when you’re short of some it’s nowhere to be found

~ no buses

well how can you wake up with someone you don’t love and not feel slightly phased by it

~ leave before the lights come on

favourite worst nightmare

it’s wrong wrong wrong but we’ll do it anyway cause we love a bit of trouble

~ balaclava

and those dreams weren’t as daft as they seem, aren’t as daft as they seem my love

~ fluorescent adolescent

there’s room for the trouble and there’s lovers to be had

~ this house is a circus

it’d be a big mistake for you to wait and let me waste your time, really love it’s fine, I said really love it’s fine

~ the bad thing

old yellow bricks, love’s a risk… houdini love you don’t know what you’re running away from

~ old yellow bricks

another roll around and another push and shove, further away from the idea of love

~ da frame 2r

the more you keep on looking the more it’s hard to take, love we’re in stalemate… you’re slacking love where have you been

~ the bakery

am I too quick to assume that the love is no longer in bloom

~ too much to ask

humbug

i had a hole in the pocket of my favourite coat and my love dropped into the lining

~ i haven’t got my strange

suck it and see

i wanna feel your love brick by brick

~ brick by brick

do you still feel love is a laserquest or do you take it all more seriously… when I’m not being honest I pretend that you were just some lover

~ love is a laserquest

your love is like a studded leather headlock

~ suck it and see

jealousy in technicolour, fear by name, love by numbers… crushing up a bundle of love

~ that’s where you’re wrong

before she showed you how to shake love’s steady hand

~ the blonde o sonic shimmer trap

your love’s not what I need, so don’t give it to me

~ evil twin

it’s not like I’m falling in love I just want you to do me no good… the look of love, the rush of blood

~ no.1 party anthem

love buckles under the strain of those wild nights

~ mad sounds

I heard that you fell in love, or near enough

~ snap out of it

love like locked horns, love like dominoes… love like thunder, love like falling snow

~ electricity

I know you’re nothing like mine cause she’s walking on sunshine and your love would tear us apart

~ you’re so dark

tranquility base hotel and casino

love came in a bottle with a twist off cap, let’s all have a swig and do a hot lap… but it’s alright, cause you love me

~ star treatment

when true love takes a grip it leaves you without a choice

~ golden trunks

pattern language in the mood for love

~ the world’s first ever monster truck front flip

I wanna stay with you my love, the way some science fiction does

~ science fiction

the dawn won’t stop weighing a tonne, I’ve done some things that I shouldn’t have done, but I haven’t stopped loving you once

~ the ultracheese

the car

lights out on the wonder park, your saw toothed lover boy was quick off the mark

~ jet skis on the moat

put your heavy metal to the test, there might be half a love song in it all for you

~ mr schwartz

#arctic monkeys #alex turner #listen this was purely out of curiosity #there are so many poetic and imaginative ways in which alex describes love #i just wanted a tangible record of every time he just straight up uses the word #i was surprised that humbug only had one mention and even that was a b side but when i was making this i realised that it was such a #lyrically dense and innovative album and descriptions of love were more elaborate and straightforward #*less straightforward #(might make a separate post about that)#also found that the other albums were quite consistent except the car #i found it interesting that most of the songs aren’t actually about the same kind of love like the earlier albums were #the earlier ones use love as a nickname and portray the physical embodiment of being in love #and even in tbhc it describes this feeling despite there being slightly fewer mentions #but the car seems more like a goodbye album… not even about breaking up… just goodbye which is very….#there’s no room for love in amongst the melancholia and introspection #and makes me wonder about his relationship with love at the moment #it seems very disassociated and immaterial like he has no interest in spouting poetics about love like he did before #and i hope he can rebuild that relationship #i could probably say more but im not going to bc this is getting way too long #cheers if you actually read this whole fucking essay #i spent way too long on this if you cant tell

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sashimiyas · 1 year

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In the Wild Grass

Summary: Osamu arrives at your roadside flower stand in need of a bouquet for his upcoming date. You flirt with him to get his loyal patronage and it works, maybe a little too well.

Content: roadside floral vendor reader; established entrepreneur Osamu; pining and poor timing; fluff; a reference to ATLA; a lot of references to Ghibli; even more wind imagery and references; Osamu’s love language is food; reader eats meat; reader has an aunt that they are very close to; discussion of death (metaphorically) by corporate means; a special appearance of mama miya in here because the miya family is everything.

Word count: 10.4k

A/n: this was originally inspired by roadside flowers by droeloe but got way too fluffy for the ambience. so we’ll do one summer’s day by sleepy tom which is like the lo-fi version of the ghibli one which is coincidental but still very fitting.

“I’m telling you, Auntie,” you catch the tablecloth every time you sway your foot, “the sales are at Taguchi, not West Food.”

The woman on the line gives a nasal hum, “no, I have the coupons right here! Weh-est food. That’s what it says.”

“Did you check the expiration date?”

“I did! It’s… oh…”

You stretch out your leg with a laugh that quickly stifles into a cough when the dirt you kicked up reaches the back of your throat.

She laughs into the phone that’s accompanied with the sound of crumpled paper. That’s what you’ve always admired about your Aunt. The woman never takes anything seriously, not even herself and you can only wish you can live life half as carefree as she.

“It’s okay.” You stop fiddling with the leaves of a bouquet in front of you once you hear her sing the words. Nothing good comes from Auntie singing and don’t ever, ever invite her to karaoke. With your back straightening, your fingers tighten around the phone the same time your eyes narrow. “Guess who is going to Taguchi to buy my corn dogs and umeboshi?”

“Not me!” you quickly say.

“Yes, you!”

“No.”

“It’s on your way home,” the final note hits sharp and forces you to pull the phone away from your ear.

“Yeah, but I’ll be tired. I’m working so hard–” she snorts at your statement, “–I am!”

“If you’re working hard, why are you talking to old lady me?”

“Because who else would…" you trail off.

He enters like the lead of a Ghibli movie.

A rickety truck announces his presence, but what captivates you is the image slowly revealed as he rolls down the window of his driver’s seat.

Your tongue hastens to lick your lips, “look at that.”

The wind billows through his hair as he pulls his truck over onto the gravel road. He makes a move to wave hi, charm lofty upon his cheekbones, but the breeze threatens to take his cap and he swiftly moves to tilt it back onto his head.

You vaguely hear Auntie whipping questions at you, but as the man swings out of his truck, all you can muster is a distracted hang on a sec before throwing your phone onto the table. He hustles to you as you stand up to greet him.

“Bless ya,” he says once he reaches you.

Now that he’s closer, you recognize the Ghibli charm is closer to human than magical. Handsome in all the right places and flawed in a perfectly relatable way. He’s got a stock face you swear you’ve seen on TV before but there are several stains on his shirt of various ages.

There’s a scar at his brow, a strike of land where hair doesn’t grow and you’re already picturing a backstory in your head. Did he grow up with a brother who he’d tussle and roughhouse with? Or was it a freak accident like his sweater getting caught in an escalator?

There are sparse patches of hair along his chin that imitate a rural map more than a suburban neighborhood but the way he speaks and the eye contact he holds is honest. With the trailing apron string hanging out from his front seat, you take it that working with people is what he does for a living.

“Are you in trouble?” a conspiratorial grin displays itself onto your lips.

He nods and it makes you chuckle, “yeah. I’ve got a date I’m running late for. Hoping this’ll help soften the blow.”

“With a face like that, no one could ever be mad at you.” He laughs instantly at your statement with a palm placed on his chest. His head bends backward as he closes his eyes and you cannot help but warm inside at the genuine reaction.

“Ya good at your job, ain’t ya?” He asks once he’s done. The observation surprises you, “flattering me so that if I get my heart broken, I’ll come back to ya so ya can raise my ego again.”

You grin, “I need to make money somehow.”

“Ya got me. Profit off my fuck ups, I’m begging.”

“Tell me the situation,” you say sagely.

He hesitates for a moment, picking up his hat to ruffle the hair underneath. He takes the back of his forearm to wipe the sweat that’s gathered at his temples and you witness a blessed second where his shirt ruches up to uncover a plump hip, soft and curving over the edges of his faded jeans like a perfectly formed roll of bread. It’s almost improper that you’re not biting into it.

“I’ve had to reschedule twice because things kept coming up,” he acknowledges your slight wince with a nod. At least he’s self aware. “Right? Hard to find someone with enough patience for me so I’m really hoping I don’t mess this up.”

You pick up a bouquet and hand it to him, “this should get them in your good graces.” He reaches for it but you pull back, eyeing him narrowly, “but the rest is up to you and that pretty face of yours. Make good use of it!”

“Ya really got to stop calling me pretty or ya won’t be able to get rid of me,” he mentions as the two of you exchange florals for currency.

Customer service toes the line with flirtation dangerously. A half true statement is far more enticing than blatant lies and calling this man pretty is the greatest half truth to exist because the word can hardly hold a candle to how attractive he really is. And usually, you’re better than this.

Usually.

“And what if I don’t want to be rid of you?”

He eyes you, mouth snapping shut as his gaze flutters from the bouquet in his hand and you.

“I need loyal customers like you to come back.”

You take one final look at him in all his Ghibli appeal. The wind kisses his hair once more, romance amplified by the swaying splotches of colors in his hand.

Then with a closed lip grin, he says, “like I said, ya got me.”

Your attention is rapt on him until he disappears with his truck into the distance. It takes a breath to still your heart and you bring your phone back to your ear.

All she says is, “who was that?”

He doesn’t come back. It’s unsurprising to say the least, though disappointing. Interactions are fickle and just because it was a good one doesn’t mean it has to happen again.

You’ve taken to daydreaming of sensible reasons why he hasn’t windswept his way back to your roadside stand. The date could have possibly failed but who could say no to a man like that? You’ve settled on a wild boar attack that’s neither life threatening or critical, but maybe has him houseridden for some time to heal. There’s that, a possible impromptu trip to the brother you’ve imagined him to have, or maybe he too has an aunt that has been piling her errands off to him.

“Which brand of corn dogs do you like?” Auntie has little patience for you. Being corndog-less and you deciding to procrastinate until the final day of sale has her quite irate over the phone.

“The one that’s on sale.”

“Yeah, there’s two brands.”

“I don’t know,” she’s probably throwing her hands up right about now, “the one that I eat.”

You purse your lips, staring intensely at the freezer section of Taguchi, willing one of the boxes to speak up and let themselves be known. The silence must unnerve Auntie because she gives in.

“I think it’s the red one.”

Neither of them are red and neither of you want to continue the conversation.

“Got it.” You open the door and play a small game of eenie meenie. It lands on one with purple packaging and you know little about color theory but you think it’s close enough. Purple is half red, isn’t it? You grab the box behind the first because it’s fresher and bid your aunt goodbye.

As you put your phone away, a familiar vision catches your eye. He registers you before you even recognize him.

“Fancy seeing ya here,” he greets all too familiarly with a cart full of items. You take a quick peek, notating the ungodly amount of mirin that clanks at the bottom of the trolley before picking your gaze back up at him. He’s handsome in fluorescent lighting too. Good for him, unfortunate for you.

“Hey, my most handsome customer,” you wince internally. What was that? You only hope it comes out in a doting kind of way like how the Aunties do instead of a creepy weirdo who spends their days stalking his socials.

(You have not stalked his socials. How could you when you don’t even know his name? What were you supposed to put? Hot guy in Hyogo with a black hat? Scrounge through recent Hyogo news until you find a recent wild boar attack? So yeah, you’ve not stalked the socials but would you if you had the resources? No comment.)

He shuffles in place, tongue riding the ridge of his upper lip as he picks up his hat and flips it backwards. Then he changes his mind a second later and turns the cap forward once more. Strands of hair escape from the circumference and it adds to the disheveled charm he’s got going on.

You can scratch out the wild boar attack because he’s looking better than ever. Especially with the way he’s grinning at you, cheeks spread so wide it’s almost morbid.

“Okay, calm down big guy. You’re competing against a couple of my uncles and a few farmers whose stray cows ventured further than they expected.”

He shrugs, unaffected. “I know a farmer and he’s a real handsome guy.”

You go to bite your lip, rolling your eyes at the same time and doing your best not to look amused. He’s so funny and cute and dammit, why couldn’t he have been roughed up by a wild boar even just a little bit? This interaction would have been easier that way.

“How’d the date go?”

That sends him for a loop. He sucks in a breath between teeth and your expression morphs into pity, “yeah, not so well.”

“What’d you do?” the affronted look he gives you is combated with a pointed stare, “I know it wasn’t my flowers that scared them away.”

“Definitely not ya flowers,” he ascertains and after a heavy dose of eye contact, his gaze falls to the contents of his cart and he shrugs, “just didn’t go the way I planned.”

His statement leaves something to be desired but who are you to know when you’re just the stranger that sold him a bouquet less than a week ago?

“Is it because you made them mirin soup? Because I can assure you that does not sound appetizing.”

You get another belly laugh from him and now you’ve made a game. You’re certainly not funny, but how many times can you make this attractive man laugh anyways?

“I’m telling ya, I can just about make anything taste good.”

“Oh really?”

You reckon this is his usual character as you gaze at him and the natural confidence he adorns. There’s a proud simper on his lips, one that dares you to take the bait. You step forward and you plan on saying something to egg him on, coast this flirtatious edge that started out easy because he was your customer but now, without the barrier of your floral stand, you do so for your own personal gain.

The contents slide in your carry and the box of corn dogs slips. The man tries to reach out, catch it before it falls, but he only grabs the corner, flipping it mid-air for it to land so spritely on the ground. It rolls a few steps away and you’re reaching for it immediately from embarrassment.

He has the same idea because he’s bending down with you, though much more graceful than your own movements. The rest of your armheld contents fall, and here you now are, hunched over and flustered in the frozen aisle of Taguchi.

You scamper around and grab onto everything before he can even help, a go for independence to save yourself from embarrassment.

“I’ve got it,” you reach for the bound bundle of leftover florals you brought in with you but his wingspan is longer, there before you are. The pads of your fingers graze the back of his hand. You retract at the sensation, like swirling your fingers in a freshly poured bottle of soda. There’s a desire that fizzes, thrums, beneath your skin and you know nothing good could come from exploring this feeling.

He’s dating. Doesn’t even matter. He’s a customer and you’re his romance provider.

He’s too busy picking it up for you that he doesn’t notice you staring.

You watch him inspect the flowers before handing it back. His hands twirl the stems between his fingers. Thick as they are, one index finger is bandaged with a design of the Little Twin Stars from the Sanrio franchise. You would have said something about it if you weren’t so deliberately focused on leaving the conversation.

“These for someone special?”

“Yeah.” The fluster makes you answer quickly, ducking your eyes away from him and snatching back your belongings.

“They’re lucky.” He stands up and you nod your head.

Internally, you’re elsewhere. It’s already been a long day, but now you’re trying to digest what just happened. The sensation is still present at the tips of your fingers. It feels like the dull burn after touching a hot pan, a throb that aches for the source.

“Yeah, uhm,” you gesticulate as you avoid eye contact with the man, “well, my Auntie’s been really craving these corn dogs so bye.”

Whatever response he provides is behind you, and when you get home, you decide to have a corndog for yourself as consolation.

(And one for Auntie of course.)

Your fingers struggle with opening the packaging, disgruntled at the thick cardboard it’s boxed in as the layers peel at your prodding. Then the bag slips from your fingers, the corndog tossed a little too harshly it rolls off the plate and onto the dining table. You fumble even with the microwave which is ancient, as old as Auntie herself where there are grooves at the “1” button and start. Your fingers shake as you stand dumbly in front of the appliance. They tap against each other, and finally alone with your thoughts and the hypnotic hum, you realize beneath the pads of your fingers is a quiet bubble searching for heat again.

Working a roadside floral stand is very tedious work. Auntie wouldn’t say so, but her word is worthless when you’re the one here and she isn’t. When you get in, you have to set up the table and if you don’t find paperweights made of large gravel within reach quickly enough, the tablecloth ends up flying off. The further it’s blown the more difficult it gets because you like to park on the edges of farmland. Cows consider cheap linen a premium option to grass it seems and you can’t sell bouquets without a cute little tablecloth. It may be a roadside stand, but it’s still a business. There are standards to uphold.

It takes precision, one that requires the use of your compass app on your phone to gauge the perfect spot among the beautiful wild grass, sweltering sun, and drying cow dung. Then with a snap of your chair and an open umbrella, you set your stand up lush with greenery and vibrance, from backyard to roadside.

The rest of the day is full of intermittent interactions, of school children with innocent crushes and lost tourists who buy flowers as payment. Your umbrella follows the rotation of the sun and when you get thirsty, you share a bit of your own water with your bouquets as well.

It’s a modest life. A simple one. A stress-free one.

“Welcome back!” The reminder is worth it. Your greeting is breezy and light, just like the sway of leaves on your bouquets. “Need more flowers?”

What is it with this recent weather here in Hyogo? It has him constantly looking like the main character of a movie with the way the sun casts a golden glow on half of his frame and clothes billowing the other. Who has blessed him with this benefit? The wind goddess? Because if so, what had you done wrong because all it lands you is dust in your eyes and hair stuck to your lips.

In an effort to remain polite and cordial and to retain your valued proclamation of a family-friendly business, your eyes glance down at the bag in his hands. There’s a large character on the bag, one that you recognize matches the cap he wears. It’s pleated neatly as if someone had taken care to avoid wrinkling the edges, careful in its presentation.

“Ya ain’t going to call me pretty this time?”

He effectively gets your attention at his statement, a goading simper on his lips when you catch his eyes that pulls an entertained glimmer in your own. It’s easy to get caught up in his presence, a drawstring pulling you loose at his easy words and you wonder really, who is standing at the vendor side of the table.

You pucker your face, an exaggerated expression that prickles the corners of his lips. It’s earnest and you almost lose yourself in wanting to smile at him. Almost.

“It’s not cute when you have to ask for it.”

“Wasn’t trying to be cute,” he mutters to the side. The confidence is replaced with petulance. You have little time to admire the way his bottom lip protrudes, a shiny shimmer lining the plumpest part of his lip, because he shoves the contents in his hands onto yours. It’s like if he didn’t, you would have declined him. The takeout bag lands dumbly in your arms as you stare up at him. You think it’s the residual warmth of it, the heft of it, meaning the contents inside must be hearty and fulfilling that leaves you speechless.

“Hope I can win some points with this, then.”

“This.”

“Lunch. I didn’t see ya have any last time I came by.”

“Oh, I just…” You look back at your little van. The door is brandished open, revealing the inside of the vehicle. There’s the thrifted seat covers Aunty got, blue plaid that isn’t quite your style but very much her price, and the groovy little flower pot you have taped to your dashboard that bobs its head at every swerve of a pothole which is your addition, very much your style. The small little trash can is hidden near the foot of your passenger side that’s accumulated at least two week’s worth of jelly pouches and stray bags of snacks didn’t seem to need much mentioning. So you gesticulate, feeling quite clumsy at your stand for once.

“Figured as much,” is all the man says to you. Then he taps the bag twice, eyeing your purposely, “and I told ya I can make a mean meal. Looked like ya didn’t believe me so I had to prove ya wrong.”

You pinch the swell of your lip with a canine, “you’re doing this out of imaginary spite?”

“Honor,” he corrects.

Your hand thoughtlessly moves to cover your left eye.

Then in a deeper voice, straight from the chest, “I must find the Avatar and restore my honor.”

“Ya think I’m like Zuko?”

The shriek you emit startles him. He takes an exaggerated step back with a palm as the first line of defense but you’re unperturbed because in the midst of his shock, is an entertained quirk in his lips.

“You’ve watched Avatar?”

He drops the hand now, fully grinning, “who hasn’t?”

“Points! You have all the points, you pretty, beautiful man with the very good taste.”

And though he’s the one who asked for it, he gets uncharacteristically shy when you finally say it. You pause, taking in the way a finger rises to brush his cheek as his chin dips to his chest. The movement taunts your own, as if a string is drawn from his chin to your chest as it constricts with a want that shouldn’t be there.

It all comes back, that breezy feeling as the wind picks up his hair again. The man places a palm flat to your table as you hover all your plant babies. They brustle under your care and you have to close your eyes when the flapping of nylon behind picks up. He shuffles himself to the side which softens the wind’s blow as he grabs onto your awning to hold it down. The two of you stay there under the wind’s torment. If you had your eyes open, you would have noticed that the man’s gaze never left you.

You run your hands across your face, the breath of a deep sign finally withheld from your chest when it’s over. See, you mentally think, assessing the damage to your goods. They’re slightly ruffled, not as quite picturesque, but no losses. You might have to redo a couple of bows or sell some at a discount if anything. And Auntie tells you this isn’t hard work.

“Thanks,” you grin at the guy who helped you through the small blustery storm, but quickly, you’re disarmed at the racing in your chest from the vision of him. He has arms up as he pulls back down the nylon that had been displaced. The muscles in his back flex against his tight shirt leaving you in an enchanted stupor. Ridges form in the large expanse, an eruption of new land, and suddenly you’re ready to put a hat on and call yourself an archaeologist.

His Ghibli appeal has gone off the ratings. Or maybe your mind has.

You clear your throat. He looks at you, torturously attractive, and you can’t meet him back.

“Flowers, right?” You sound lame so you play with an arrangement that’s gone astray. A red camellia is askew, far from the rest of its friends. You pick it up and dust the sticky pollen that’s painted its petals before returning it back to its rightful spot. “What’s the occasion this time?”

“Oh.” He mutters it so softly that you can’t help but glance up. He’s surprised, as if the statement is shocking. You want to reach for the feeling that it lights up in you, but against all desire, you let it snuff out into the small squall that has sprung into your stand.

“You can’t have just come here to drop me off food from,” and you pick up the bag to read the character, “the shrine?”

“Onigiri Miya.”

“Miya. Why does that sound so familiar?”

“It’s the best restaurant around.”

“No, that’s not it,” you’re too busy thinking of where exactly you’d heard that name to notice the way his face wilts. “I feel like I know someone or something. I just can’t remember…”

“Miya Atsumu?”

You snap your fingers, “yes! the volleyball player for… for uhm–”

“MSBY.”

“Yes! That’s it! My deskmate was obsessed with him. Oh my god, do you know him?”

Your delighted mood stutters at the cross of his arms. It’s the first time he seems unwelcoming, miffed even. His eyes fall to the table now, chewing on his cheek, and you notice the way his nose slightly flares when he breathes in.

“Oh no. Is he a conceited asshole?”

“Ain’t even the start of it.” The response is quick, as if defensive. Or maybe instinctive? He seems to know him quite well.

“Oh, don’t tell me. My deskmate is going to be crushed. I mean, the whole hand-fist thing he does on court is one thing, but it’s kind of sexy how he commands a crowd, you know? But I could totally see it. He does give horrible boss vibes.”

“Ya think Tsumu’s my boss?”

Now the man before you looks absolutely crestfallen. It aches you with the urge to apologize even if you don’t know what for.

“Hey, I’m—” you quickly cut your breath because is saying sorry even the right thing to do?

He shakes his head and picks an arrangement closest to him. “No worries. I’ll take these.”

He’s out before you even have a chance to reach for change, but before he goes, he doesn’t fail to remind you.

“Make sure ya eat.”

So you’re lying. Maybe working a floral roadside stand isn’t hard work. Maybe it’s just a lot of sitting and waiting and scrolling through social media and searching up wild boar attacks and going on deep dives of a couple of Olympic athlete’s socials. And when you finally reach the end, photos from 2014 that have an unpolished finish and grainy texture untouched by a PR team, one that you have to zoom with two fingers and a withheld breath, wary you’d accidentally like it, do you just sigh.

Because that’s it. You’ve finally hit the bottom of the seemingly never ending void of the internet and the last public photo of him to exist is from his and his brother’s graduation date.

So you call your deskmate for more information because if there were any resource to trust, it’d be him.

It’s not even hard to coax the details out. One small mention of the joint calendar you two shared, a quick, wasn’t your favorite athlete on there? Who was it again? and you’ve created a spiraling madness of all things Miya Atsumu.

“He’s a libra sun and he went to Inarizaki High where he was captain of the volleyball team in his final year. His official height according to the Olympic roster is 187 cm and his favorite food is fatty tuna.”

“Fatty tuna?” Your mouth waters instinctively at the bite you had snuck in while Auntie wasn’t looking. When the man had brought you lunch all those days ago, you don’t know who exactly he was trying to feed because the two of you had leftovers for at least two meals over. And that’s only because you had to beg Auntie to share.

“Yeah, specifically fatty tuna onigiri made by his brother.” A bubble of breath creates a blockade in your throat. You still at the mention of him. “His twin brother.”

“He has a twin?” you ask softly, so unconvincingly innocent but any reason for your deskmate to keep prattling on.

“Oh yeah, just as hot as Atsumu actually. He played volleyball too but decided he didn’t want to go pro. Atsumu talks about him in interviews all the time. He’s his favorite teammate…”

You want to listen, learn more about your customer that you’ve so frivolously flirted with, but your mind wanders to those hands. The ones with the sanrio bandaid idling behind the register at his shop as he looks at the readymade onigiri in the display case up front. Him in all his Ghibli grandeur, the tight black shirt, the hat, and the small sheen of sweat that covers the short hairs on his nape.

His hair sways from the wind despite him being inside. (It’s your imagination and not everything has to be realistically sound.) You can imagine him with one arm crossed and the other bent with his chin between the crook of his thumb, pondering what flavors of onigiri he should give you before heaving a sigh and taking a towel to wipe at his neck.

Of course he gives you a couple original onigiri. Popular in its simplicity, it’s easy to taste talent in the meager ingredients. But for you to receive a fatty tuna one, it seems purposeful. There’s meaning to his choices and it forces your heart aflutter, even if you might be making this all up.

“…but the best part of Miya Atsumu is how endearingly clumsy he is. There’s all these videos of him tripping on court. I’ve got to send you some. Hold on. I’ve got some saved here.” You hear clicking on their end and then he laughs. “Oh my god, I have to send you this interview too. I have so many videos saved. Do you want them all?”

“Yeah, yeah.” The response is mindless as you continue tapping your foot, playing with your tablecloth in the process. You’ll take any crumbs you can get since you doubt he’d ever come back to your stand after you’d offended him.

Ugh. If not for the overwhelming guilt you’ve been sleeping with, you can’t even believe you’d said that.Goose flesh bubbles on your arms that you physically have to stave off as you remember how your last interaction happened. You called his own twin brother his boss, completely undermined all the hard work he’d probably put in to get his business out there, and basically demoted him.

It shouldn’t be that big of a deal, you know. He was just a customer. But no matter how many times you tell yourself that, it never becomes more convincing.

Maybe that’s how it started and maybe that’s what made the flirting so easy, but it was the shy look he’d get whenever you called him pretty. And it was when he’d brought you lunch of his brother’s favorite. And the feel of his skin beneath your fingertips. And–

“I’ve got to go.”

You throw your phone to the side as you stand up, rigid with your hands behind your back. Your hands throw themselves behind your back as you fidget in your spot. Fingers pinch between each other, twisting and turning this nervousness that you have no idea how to hold because he’s back. Devastatingly as beautiful as ever.

Your lips roll inward because there’s so much you want to say but you can’t quite parse what you’re trying to express. Apologize, of course, but you also want to say you miss him. How appropriate would that be?

The metal clank of his truck door slamming closed pulls you out of your reverie. He approaches, a more serious look on his face than ever before and for some reason, his gaze falls downward at the dirty clouds of dust every step of his makes. It’s as though he cannot even look you in the eye.

To be deprived of something you’d always had, it turns idle hands into fists.

“Welcome back, Miya-san.” You bow to show your earnestness. When his shadow doesn’t come, you look up to see him stalled mid-step.

He looks at you in bewilderment. The pause is intensified by the way the wind blows. It sways his bangs as his tongue peaks out to moisten his lips. The cellophane wrapped around your bouquets rustles. You hold his gaze, hands still jittering behind your back, fiddling with unspoken words you can’t bring yourself to say.

Miya Osamu. With a name and a background not formed from your imagination, and finally, his presence real and in front of you, the desire swells. It slips between your fingertips and forms into something far larger than you can manage. Like hanging a hand outside of a moving car.

“Miya-san?” he repeats back to you but there’s this contagious grin on his features that lightens you inside. You have to bring your hand to your chest, tamping your heart in before it leaps out.

“I had to look you up. I’m sorry about last time, for calling Miya-san, er, Miya Atsumu-san–”

“Call me Osamu. Or Samu. Ya can leave Miya-san for my shitty brother.”

You wring your t-shirt into a fist at the idea, introducing yourself to him. He nods brightly at you when you do. “Well thank you, Osamu, for lunch last time. My Auntie and I enjoyed it very much and she agrees. You own the number one restaurant around.”

The ecstasy on his face is infectious. You have to smile too, though you know that you’re probably fueling an ego that is large on its own. It’s fine, you think. What’s life without a little indulgence?

“Well ya tell her that she’s welcome to stop by any time.” Then he gives you a pointed look, “and tell her that she should bring ya along. It’s only right that ya visit me next time around.”

You bow, not out of gratitude but only to hide your elation. “Thank you for your loyalty.”

“Like I said, ya got me.” He brings his thumb to rub at his jaw. This time, you notice he’s shaved. “Ya had lunch yet?”

You shake your head and he tells you to wait right there. You ask him where else would you go. Then he runs to his car, rummages through his front seat, butt bent over for you to see, and he quickly scurries back with another pleated bag in his hands.

“Mind if I sit here?” He points to an upside down milk crate that you use to hold your vases and you simply urge him on, sitting with him. “Ya should start bringing ya own food. Didn’t ya listen to me when I said ya should eat? It’s basically dinner time and I won’t always be available to stop by.”

“I bring snacks. Besides, I thought you said I’ve got you,” you flutter your eyes, annoyingly teasing. He entertains you with a small chuckle.

“Ya do. Favorite roadside stand around.”

“I’m the only stand around.”

He bends his neck back to laugh, “ain’t that right. Bit of a drive to get out here.” Then he pulls out the contents of his packed lunch. “Which one ya want?”

“The one that’s your favorite.”

To your surprise, he hands you a fatty tuna onigiri. You take it, wide-eyed and enamored. “Tell me why this one is your favorite.”

He looks at the onigiri in your hand with a fond expression, affection oozing from just his gaze. But his answer is despite that.

“No big reason. Just my favorite to make.”

What a liar. What an endearing, little liar that has you hiding your cheesy grin behind your hands.

“What?” he asks innocently.

You shake your head, “nothing.”

He speculates, ponders you with a side glance, before letting it go. “Well, mind telling me how ya ended up in the roadside business? Pretty peculiar if ya ask me.”

“I don’t think anyone asked you,” you mention wryly as you unwrap the clingfilm around your onigiri. He snatches it from your palms with a chuffed grin.

“Brats don’t deserve my food.”

“Hey.”

“Don’t ya pout at me with them puppy dog eyes. It ain’t gonna work.”

You blink rapidly, jutting your bottom lip forward. He holds your gaze and it’s a valiant effort. The poker face would fool you. If only he could he hide the breadth of his chest and the way it heaves at every passing second.

Still, he does not budge. So you succumb with a nod. The loss is not so bad when you get to see his victorious face, a smugness that only amplifies his boyishness, the small scar on his brow pulling taut.

“Fine,” you say as he tosses you back your onigiri. “It usually does.”

“Grew up with a soppy ass brother. I’m desensitized as it is.”

There’s more you want him to divulge, but you don’t press. Not when you had prodded in the wrong way last time. If he’s going to share pieces of himself, you’ll let him do it on his own accord. (And then maybe you might sneakily stalk him on the internet but who doesn’t?)

You unwrap it and allow your hands to follow the grooves of rice beneath the seaweed. You nibble at the top, let the wrapping melt upon your tongue with a burst of salt and umami. Spurned by the taste, saliva pools in your mouth.

He nudges you with his shoulder, almost completely knocking you out of your chair. He scoffs at what he believes is probably an exaggerated reaction but does he even realize how big he is? A granule of rice pops from his mouth and onto his shirt. He sweeps it off without a hint of embarrassment.

“Go on now,” he says to you, “tell me ya story.”

You take a bite out of the onigiri. It’s preciously held between your hands, handling it with care just as you assume Osamu had done in every step before this. At first, you’d done it just to gather your thoughts because though it’s not much of a story. It feels like a whirlwind of a lifetime since the start of your stand, but Osamu grows antsy. He starts bouncing his foot beneath him in small little movements so as to not kick up dust. So you hold off just a little longer, relishing the undivided attention he provides you.

“There’s not much to tell,” you reminisce of a past life, one that’s more regimented, one that abided by the hour of the clock than the pattern of the sun. “I was a regular corporate peon working in those multi-storied buildings with the business clothes and everything.”

The man gives you a look, as if he couldn’t even imagine you in corporate clothing.

“I can clean up nicely if I wanted to.”

“If ya wanted to.” He repeats knowingly, as if he’s suddenly in on a secret you’re privy to.

“If I wanted,” you reiterate. Osamu doesn’t threaten to taunt you any further so you continue. “I just did it because everyone does it. I respected my seniors, never turned down an invitation to drink after our shift, and when I was no longer the newbie, I extended the invite to the coworkers under me.”

The way you speak feels out of place, like you’re not telling your own story, but someone else’s. Which in reality, it’s true. That was a different person who lived that life and definitely not twho you are now.

“And as business cycles do, it lulled and I was laid off.” Osamu wants to say something, but can’t seem to find the words. So you save him by ignoring the silence and move along. “Working was my whole personality and I didn’t know what to do with myself afterwards. But is it weird? My boss told me the news and for some reason, the first feeling I had was relief. I was relieved I didn’t have to wake up at dawn again just to get ready. I could do whatever I wanted and wake up when I wanted and go wherever I wanted. But then the reality set in. This society is so structured that I had no idea what I even wanted with the freedom I had because everything is decided for you. You know what I mean?”

He only hums beside you, listening intently and allowing you the stage. It’s nice, you realize. Auntie, as supportive as she is, has a tendency to make you feel guilty even unintentionally. It’s hard to diverge from the paved path that society likes for everyone to follow and the journey has been rigorous. It may have led you to a backroad of wild grass and dust, but even then, you know you’d rather have that than the heavily trekked footpath of the soulless.

“You go to school and you take all these prep courses, go to club activities, and then you go to college. You’re expected to basically plan your life the moment you speak your first word and your parents and teachers all like to tell you you’re special when in reality, you’re just a number. I was a quota, not a name. I was defined by metrics and not really by who I was. It didn’t matter how many after work dinners I accepted or offered.

“I hated that. And I remember vividly the moment I realized it. It was the first time in a long time I ever felt strongly about something and the last time before that was watering flowers in my Auntie’s garden.”

“So ya Auntie got ya selling these flowers?”

You snort, remembering the fiery ire of your beloved maternal figure. You broke the news to her during a random session where she’d pulled out her karaoke kit to belt out an off-Broadway (off-off-Broadway. Like Broadway in a different country off) rendition of Let It Go from the famous children’s movie. You thought her good mood could compete over your complete disappointment and figured the sentimentality of it all would be convincing. It, unfortunately, had not been.

She had sung-yelled her lecture at you, feedback from the mic and all. Reminded you it was just a hobby and that hobbies do not make money. You did so anyways, worked like you had something to prove. You bought off her secondhand van that she had no use for anymore with a portion of your savings, roamed across cities, met and learned so many things, and eventually claimed your space here.

“Not really. She was so mad at me but she couldn’t say anything when she had more flowers than she could give out for free. I don’t have any talent growing them. Even arranging them required a lot of classes to get it just right. I’m still winging it most of the time, but I guess Auntie saw something in me that made her just accept it. Maybe like renewed vigor because even if it’s not her first choice, she’s still the one who leaves a basket out for me every day after her morning pickings.”

You look at the arrangements displayed before you and then at the onigiri in your hand, turning it over as you admire the handiwork he’d put in. “I never wanted to be a number ever again.”

“I get ya.” Osamu’s voice is pitched so soft you can’t help but look at him. His onigiri has been long devoured so he displays all his attention on you. You feel so seen, you almost feel just as shy as you would be if you were found naked in public.

“Everyone expected my brother and I to go pro. Volleyball.” He adds offhandedly, “and I think I wouldn’t have minded doing that if I had to. I could see a future doing it just because I’d already done it all my life. We started playing when we were young and I ain’t gonna lie, I was pretty good. Still am to be honest.”

“You’re very modest,” you note.

“Thank ya,” he supplies wryly. The two of you share a knowing look with tilted smiles though he’s far more beautiful when he does, wind charming his hair into a pretty tussle. “But I know I would have been doing it all for the wrong reasons. Tsumu’s in love with volleyball. I’m telling ya, he’d marry the sport if he could, and I love it, just not exactly like him. And we’d always been a set. They’d call us the twins of volleyball, but he was older and more obsessed. He was invited to this youth training camp while I just stayed at home and maybe I’m just like ya. I was tired of being a number but if I had to be, I wanted to be number one.”

Pride blossoms within you. It makes you grin at him. “The best restaurant in town.”

He gives a quiet, little chuckle. It’s very different from its predecessors. Small, contained, and fond. You hold your breath so you don’t stir it. “Yeah and mind ya, my brother hated the idea just like ya Auntie. We argued, made it everyone’s business because that’s just how we are, but eventually he came around. Not without a fight though.”

“Who won?”

Offense saturates his features, “course I did.”

“Maybe he was just being a nice, older brother and let you win.”

“Ya have no idea how Tsumu is and it shows.”

“Actually,” you point out, “my deskmate who’s obsessed with him says he’s clumsily endearing and that his favorite food,” you hold up the onigiri you’d been coddling with a satisfied smirk, “is fatty tuna. What a coincidence, right?”

Instead of being embarrassed, a single glimmer flecks his beautiful, slate eyes, “ya think ya so smart, don’t ya?”

“No, not at all. I’m actually very modest.”

You settle into a comfortable silence. His company is welcomed and he sits, eyeing the surroundings and your tablecloth and your awning, and he keens his neck to take a peek into the inside of your van while you chew on the onigiri he proffered.

You roll your final bite between your fingers before popping it into your mouth. “What else do you have planned today?”

The question has Osamu jumping up in his seat. It makes you almost tilt out of yours. He looks wide-eyed, like a fox who’d just heard a twig snap. Then eerily, he turns to look at you with that same helpless expression he’d first come with to your stand.

“I’ve got to make a dinner.”

“Oh.” The sentence is innocent, but the weight of it makes your stomach lurch. Its implication is obvious. He doesn’t say anything, only watches the way your expression changes so you do your best to school it back into something more controlled.

You had known this since meeting him from the very beginning. He was out dating and socializing and surely meeting very nice people that would be perfect life partners. You were never a contender, just the romantic means to a successful date.

“You better get going,” you urge by standing up. “You can’t be late for another date. Here, the flowers are on me this time.”

“Ya don’t need to do that.”

“It’s my treat,” you insist. “Which one would you like?”

He looks down to deliberate on his choices far longer than you expect. “I liked the ones that ya brought to the grocery store.”

It takes you a beat to even garner an inkling of what he’s talking about.

“Ya know, that one that ya brought for ya special someone?”

Special someone? Who in the world? It finally hits you that he’s talking about the corndog incident and the flowers you’d brought for Ito on behalf of your Auntie. She wanted to thank him for walking her to her car.

“Oh. You want something like that?” Those were more of an arrangement that spoke of gratitude, not romance.

He shrugs a single shoulder. “Something like that. They liked it, right?”

You nod and he shrugs again, pensive this time.

“Then yeah, something like that. Whatever ya recommend.”

It had been a decent day with only slim pickings left. You look at your display stand, mulling over your choices. Instinctively, you pluck an arrangement from the center and hand them to him. He looks it over. There’s a cute crinkle to the bridge of his nose when he dips his face near them.

“Ya sure I can have these?” he looks over to you with a cute quirk in his brow.

You nod and he gratuitously accepts. He walks away with color fluttering in his hands. What he doesn’t know is that he holds the hues of your heart.

They’re your favorite flowers.

There’s something ominous about the way Auntie holds onto the crook of your elbow. Her bony fingers dig in and the meat in your arms is not enough to soften her touch.

“Auntie,” you’re begging as your freehand tries to pry the grip of her fingers, “loosen up a little, geez.”

She only grasps harder, a click on her tongue as she provides you a stony glare, “you’re walking too slow.”

“It’s not going anywhere,” you remind her. “For someone with a bad hip, you sure are walking fast. Will you please calm down? You know I can’t lie to Dr. Sarada if she asks me if you’ve been overworking yourself. That woman is a saint.”

There’s no argument to be made because what you’ve just said is not a lie. The doctor is a walking patron, the embodiment of miracles and kindness. Auntie repays her by slowing down but with the small grumblings beneath her breath, you know she’s only doing this for her and not for you.

When the two of you arrive at the restaurant, it’s packed to the brim. There’s a small line out the door. Auntie starts complaining lowly again, saying if you’d walked faster then you would have avoided this. There’s hardly any true animosity beneath her tone, but you know she means her words even when you tell her that a few extra seconds saved would not have been enough.

You leave her on a bench nearby so she can rest her legs while you wait in line. Of course it makes sense for the best restaurant in town to have a line outside, and it’s not like you thought the claim was false, just maybe slightly exaggerated. The truth proves you wrong and after a half hour, you’re finally at the front of the line.

The hostess excuses herself for just a second so she can lead the group in front of you to a seat. She comes back to tell you that there should be another table ready in about ten minutes. Auntie won’t be happy, but once she finally satisfies her craving for Osamu’s food, it’ll be nothing but sweet hummings from her.

You busy yourself with a mindless game on your phone when you hear the call of your name. He’s even more devastatingly beautiful with the apron on. You wave shyly when you notice a woman at the end of the bar turn your direction. She smiles knowingly at you as Osamu beckons you in.

“Excuse me,” you mutter as you pass the hostess and stand awkwardly behind seated patrons. Osamu wears the same uniform, but this time with a towel around his neck. He moves to brush the tip of his lips, holding your gaze when he does. When he’s done, he reveals this delighted smile that has your heart shamefully stuttering.

This is no way to look at a taken man.

“Gotta be honest, I’m surprised to see ya.”

“Of course. I had to visit my…” you pause, because there’s no way you can call him handsome now without it being an awfully truthful burden. He looks on, so you finish lamely, “customer.”

Your name is uttered again but not by Osamu this time. You look to your left and find a middle aged woman eyeing you up and down. It’s nerve wracking and you almost wish you didn’t make eye contact so you could just pretend you didn’t hear her.

“Is that ya name?”

“Yes.”

She smiles with a sly look on her face that seems so familiar and it all makes sense when you hear Osamu again.

“Ma,” it’s a strained warning, soft, scared. Embarrassed?

You look at her again in a renewed light. When the sun hits Osamu just right, their hair color matches. Her easy to read expression reminds you of the candor you’ve witnessed in all these videos of Miya Atsumu your deskmate had sent you but the way she carries herself is all Osamu.

Atsumu is intense and commanding. From all the videos you’ve watched, even the squeak of his sneakers has a distinctive sound that forces everyone’s attention. The two Miyas in front of you attract flock with mellow waters. It’s a calm draw, an easy thing to sink into.

“Osamu, baby, grab another chair.” She strikes the tabletop beside her. The sound is sharp. “Ya come over here and ya sit by me. Pack in like a tin of sardines, why don’t we?”

“I came here with my Aunt,” you try to divert.

“Well what are ya waiting for? Grab her!” The woman gets up so she can scooch her seat closer to the other patrons. “Osamu, two chairs!”

It seems you and Osamu are both under the rule of a domineering maternal figure. Auntie is happy to find out her wait is over and even happier to notice that her seat is at the bar where she can watch the magic happen.

“The corndogs you got me could never compare to this.” Your nose scrunches at her unfair comparison.

“Ya’ve had my son’s onigiri before?”

“Only a sample because I had to share with this one.”

It was a mistake to sit in the middle. Where’s Osamu to act as a buffer? Your eyes flick to the back of his restaurant only to find a controlled madness of people and food and plates.

“I shared it with you.”

“Oh, don’t ya bicker now. I’m sure my baby will send ya home with a truckload if ya accepted.”

“Really?”

The polite laugh you emit hardly hides your true feelings. “Auntie, we don’t have enough fridge space.”

“Ya better fill up here then. I had Osamu start a special batch for the two of ya.” The Miya matron passes you a contraption that holds a multitude of small containers. “Ya need any sauces?”

You decline while Auntie graciously accepts. She busies herself with concocting her perfect complement to the food she’s about to eat while you settle in an uncomfortable silence. Osamu’s Ma won’t stop eyeing you with her knowing grin. You feel like a specimen underneath her gaze, finding things about you that you don’t even know yourself.

And because you’re searching for something to do, and not so much that you’re eager to impress the mother of a handsome man/stranger/customer/guy who brings you lunch every so often, you reach into your bag to pull out the small batch of florals you’d forgotten about.

The vision of your favorite flowers renews a sense of pride and confidence in you. You’re finally able to meet her in the eye and hand them to her in complete assurance.

“I brought these because Osamu always brings me something when he visits. To liven up the place but please accept this as gratitude. Thank you for sharing a meal with us.”

She twirls the flower by the stem with a honeyed expression. It’s wistful when she says, “ain’t ya a pretty thing.”

Something spurs on in your stomach because in the middle of her sentence, she decides to look at you. She breathes in deeply. The open end of her cardigan spreads as she does and then deliberately, with a low and slow tone, “ya know what. I’ve got to ask ya. What do ya think of my son over there?”

You flutter at her forwardness. Eyes follow her pointed finger to find Osamu’s back (the deliciously rippled back) turned to you, bent over something steaming. It seems your gaze must be telling because when you look back at the woman, she’s giving you a conspiratorial grin.

“He’s nice!” you deflect by naming an objective truth. Osamu is kind. He doesn’t have to continue his patronage, doesn’t have to bring along something for you to eat, but he always does. Every interaction you’ve had with him has been a good one.

“I think so too,” Mother Miya confirms. Then she props her head in her hands with an elbow bent on the table and provides you a lazy look. “Ya know he works too much.”

You look around. The restaurant is a blur of interaction. There’s a baby crying and two uncles gossiping over fish prices. It looks like there’s a group of students who’d meant to study but succumbed to easy conversation between each other. Employees weave through the crowds in practiced motions, quiet tables filled with the sound of indulgent chewing. It’s lively and so very human.

“It looks like it’s worth it.”

She smiles at your response, as if it was the correct reply to provide. “Ya really think that, don’t ya?”

“I do.” It’s impossible not to raise your inflection at her question. Of course you do. It’s not hard to see that this is where Osamu belongs. You try your best to imagine him in the same uniform that his brother dons, with a number and jersey on his back. It’s easy to slap his face on top of Miya Atsumu’s and change the hairstyle and color just a bit. With the way the athlete plays, you’re sure that Osamu could wear a similar presence on court.

But there’s something about the way he looks in apron and the way he fits behind a bar that’s beyond any Ghibli romance or appeal. He’s the reason, the source, the one who’d whisked everyone into his restaurant.

“Both of them are like that,” she takes a sip of her water before continuing. “I don’t know what I did but somehow I’ve raised two of the hardest working boys. Ya know he’s a twin, right? Ya want to see my other one?”

Osamu’s mother doesn’t even wait for your response, unlocking her phone to barrage you with an album full of her beloved children. You lean in closer to her shoulder so you can get a better look, eager to rid yourself of the attention she had on you.

Osamu was a very cute baby and a horribly awkward teen. He hardly smiled in pictures during high school so you’re happy to see the more recent ones where he is.

“This was us after Atsumu’s first pro game.” She zooms in on the picture, “that’s sweet Aran, their childhood friend.” Then swipes to the left so it’s only the twins on screen. They wear pride the same. That, you notice immediately. Then she zooms in closer onto Atsumu’s face, “doesn’t he look so happy?”

You hum. He does. The two of you admire his expression, but you spend more time trying to dissect the differences between the two. You’re so caught up in the moment that you don’t even realize Osamu’s set plates in front of you.

“Alright, he ain’t that interesting to look at.” He plucks his mother’s phone out of her hands with a grumble. Then turning to her, “I leave ya for just a second and ya causing trouble already.”

“Now ya know exactly how it feels. Don’t feel good, do it?” She looks at you, a teasing hushed into your ear. “The two of them gave me hell when they were younger. Ya don’t even know the start of it.”

“Ma,” Osamu whines again.

“Oh and this one,” she stands up to pinch his cheek to the point it looks like it hurts. Osamu squirms under her grip, the large man looking so small next to his mother. “He’s sweeter than he looks, I promise ya.” She moves to cradle his chin into the crook of her thumb, squeezing hard. “Gets a little moody sometimes and likes to curl in on himself like a fox in a dry patch of sun whenever he’s upset, but I’m telling ya, he’s a good boy.”

He reddens immediately and you can’t help but feel secondhand embarrassment for him, “Ma!”

“What?” she looks at him innocently, “ya don’t know how it broke my heart every time I heard ya dates didn’t go well. And then I find out it’s because ya late or ya wasn’t listening and I know I didn’t raise ya to be like that. I was worried ya was going to go gray in this restaurant all by yourself. Ya out here buying all these flowers but they end up on my kitchen counter instead. Of course ya had me worried.”

“Ma, no!”

“Ma, no, what?” Then she looks over to you, “you’re single too, ain’t ya?”

For all her behaved silence, Auntie finally decides to speak up. “They wish they weren’t.”

“Auntie!” It looks like you’ve joined the one worded whining.

She ignores you, looking at Osamu’s mom instead. “You should look at our karaoke history. Full of love songs.”

“That is mostly you.”

“Ya don’t have a special someone?”

Osamu’s voice makes you look up at him. Hopefulness is ladened upon his features; it makes your heart pang.

“Does my stuffed animal count?”

He smiles widely at you. It’s so stunning you feel like it’s only the two of you in the room. He looks down real quick then snaps his eyes back at you. “Ya had lunch yet?”

You shake your head, pressing your lips into your teeth to hide your joy. He takes his apron off in response, yells a quick farewell to his team. Then he grabs you plate, his other hand grabbing your arm, and ushers you out of his restaurant.

“Is this okay?” You can’t help but look back, feeling guilty. His Ma only waves you along, another knowing grin on her features as she scoots closer to your aunt.

Osamu looks at you completely chuffed. “Course it is. I’m the boss.”

Glass vases clink a chiming sound at every reverberation of your van. They’re heavy as you toss the crates in, the springs doing their best to compensate for the weight.

A bead of sweat falls down the corner of your eye, bending you forward at the minor sting. The wind picks up a cooling breeze and you know from the sound of crunching gravel, he’s arrived.

“You’re late,” you cast a teasing glare the moment you can open both eyes. The glare of the sun blinds your vision, but as he continues walking forward, he obstructs it.

Osamu shakes his head. “Think I’m right on time.” He picks up the last bouquet you hadn’t been able to sell. “These for sale?”

“50% off just for you.”

“Bless ya,” he smiles but still hands you full price, forcing the money into your grip when you try to decline. Osamu walks behind your empty table and begins swiping the foreign crumbs. You’d already taken off the tablecloth but the man brought his own. He lays out a beautiful Ghibli themed quilt he had tucked under his arm and places a picnic basket down.

“How are ya?” He continues to set the table without looking up. There’s cutlery and canned beverages and many, many tupperwares of food.

“Hungry,” you say as you pull out the second lawn chair you keep in your van now.

“Good because we’re just about to have dinner.”

He places the final touch, a vase of flowers he’d just bought right in the middle.

#reina.writeshaikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu x reader #miya osamu fluff #bless me this is so long #still ill 🙂

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monstersandmaw · 5 months

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Holy moly, folks, this one was supposed to be a 3k word story, ready to post in the middle of the month, and (a bit like the last one which was 12k) it morphed into nearly 15k of feels and fun... oof. Thank you so much to those who reassured me on Discord that it was ok to take a few extra days to make sure it was something I was happy to post. I hope you enjoy Celann the grumpy werebear...

Let me also just briefly take this opportunity to thank you for returning to Patreon to support me and for joining up since I relaunched in October. It means the world to me that you value and enjoy my writing enough to pay to have access to it once a month. Really, I cannot tell you what it means to me for you to give me this income and independence. I tear up just trying to explain it, even in words.

Anyway, apologies for the delay! I wish you a very merry festive season, and hopefully there'll be another little Christmas bonus for you too, as per the poll from a while ago. May 2024 bring you every happiness and blessing, folks. And here's to many more stories and characters to share and enjoy.

Content: gender and body neutral reader who is a healer/surgeon, a thinly-disguised Roman Empire/Iron Age Britain setting, a secondary character is seriously injured (no super-gory descriptions, only a brief catalogue of her injuries), a big, gruff and reserved loner werebear, brief brush with hypothermia from the reader, some good old 'cuddling for warmth', and some penetrative sex later on too.

Wordcount: a whopping 14,585!

Castle Rise Outpost, in the extreme, northernmost reaches of the Republic’s ever-expanding territories, was hardly the most illustrious or auspicious posting you could have hoped for.

As you and your tired horse plodded along the sandy track over the region’s high, wind-blasted heath, your heart ached for every last mile that stretched between there and your warmer homeland. It all seemed so far behind you now, but this was a new start and a new adventure as the surgeon and healer attached to one of the Republic’s vast network of military outposts, and you were determined to make a good life of it.

Gods though, this place really was desolate.

On your right, away to the east where the light was fast fading, a dense forest of gnarled and mossy oak trees looked as though it was spilling down from the rolling hills and tumbling inexorably down into the valley in a wild, green tangle, and below the treeline, a fast-flowing river cut through the landscape in a dark and sinuous ribbon. The water was rich with tannins from the falling leaves in the forest, and as the ebbing light caught it, you thought ominously of the colour of blood. Behind the forest, as the afternoon darkened towards the deeper hue of an early autumn evening, the far off shape of the snow-capped Highlands lurked on the horizon; their shape now black and foreboding as the stage background of a mummer’s drama.

The commiserations of your fellow graduates from the medical academy in the capital now rang in your ears as the wind picked up and you tugged the thick, woollen cloak further up around your neck to keep the damned weather out. The chestnut mare, your only constant companion for the hundred or so miles since the last major city, tossed her head and trudged on with her long, damp forelock dangling into her eyes and obscuring the white, asymmetrical blaze that dribbled down her ginger face towards her nose. She seemed half asleep on her feet, and you weren’t far off that yourself either.

A flock of rooks erupted out of a patch of dark elm and tall sycamore in the valley below on your right, tugging your mind back to the present. Your gaze tracked them as they sailed away like flakes of dark ash on the wind. Both you and the rangy mare shifted nervously, and you couldn’t help but remind yourself that the locals weren’t always friendly to the Republic’s advances further and further north. Stories of skirmishes and wild tales of shapeshifters and sacrificial magic swirled through the ranks of soldiers, but they were largely dismissed by those who had lived a comfortable life in the Republic’s neatly-planned towns and cities, with their hot bath complexes, intricate mosaics, and heated floors.

“Not long now, Copper,” you said, petting the horse’s mud-encrusted neck as much for your own reassurance as for hers. You’d named her for the vibrant colour of her coat, reminiscent too of beech leaves at the height of the season, but you’d been made to feel foolishly sentimental for giving such an ordinary horse a name like ‘Copper’ by the progressively rougher soldiers at the staging posts on the journey north.

The mare didn’t even flick her ear in your direction at the sound of your voice, and you sighed and pushed yourself back up into a better position in the saddle, shifting uncomfortably as your bruised seat-bones protested yet another day of riding. How the Messenger Corps managed, living almost their entire life in the saddle, you had no idea.

The fort itself came into view on the next rise in the road, and Copper’s ears finally pricked up at the break in the relative monotony of heather and sand and occasional rowan tree. Your own attention was caught, however, by the fact that ‘Castle Rise’ outpost was not, in fact, a castle at all. From that distance, it looked like little more than a grubby wooden palisade with a watch tower over the gateway, and a ditch running around it. Torches bobbed along the walls at regular intervals though, marking the sentries’ routes within, and when you reached the gate and drew rein, a woman’s rough alto yelled down at you.

“Announce yourself!”

You did, adding, “Healer and surgeon assigned to the outpost, until relieved of my duties by a replacement next year.”

“If you even survive up here that long!” she crowed back at you.

Read the whole thing now over on Patreon! For $3 you can have access to all my previous (pre-2023) stories, and for $5 you can have access to all that, plus all the new monthly exclusives.

#werebear #werebear x human #werebear x reader #reader x werebear #male werebear #male werebear x reader #gender neutral reader #exophilia #monster boyfriend #patreon

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erinsintra · 6 months

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The wild world of Brazilian folklore

Been a while since I write anything with more than three lines for the five people who bother reading them. Well, I'm bored and too lazy to start looking a job today, so here you go.

I've seen a lot of people here talking about American folklore, Greek mythology, African mythology (and they always call it "African mythology" as if it's one country - seriously, imagine if we called Irish folklore "European mythology". it makes no sense), but I'm yet to see anyone talking about Brazilian folk myths. So here are some of the ones I like the most.

I encourage you to look for more on your own, because there's a shitton of them and I can't fit everything on a single post.

Saci Pererê

Perhaps the most famous mythological creature throughout the country, the Saci is a mischievous, fae-like being commonly depicted as a short black man with one leg wearing a red cap. He is famous for his pranks, which are usually mostly harmless, such as switching the contents of sugar and salt pots and tying knots on horses' hair. He's also said to control the winds and ride dustdevils, escaping faster than a regular person can run.

In some versions of the legend, the red cap on his head is the source of all his powers, and by stealing it, a person can control the Saci as they please. They can also be trapped inside a bottle with a cross drawn across it, and one can also make a deal with him by offering booze and tobacco.

Boitatá

An immortal eldritch being that roams the forests of the countryside, usually depicted as a giant flaming snake. Merely looking at it is enough to drive a man mad, and the only way to escape it is by standing completely still with one's eyes closed. It is said that once, when the world was plunged into darkness, the Boitatá feasted on the eyes of those who could not see.

Boiúna

Isn't it weird how every pantheon ever has an evil snake on it? The Boiúna is a giant sea serpent with shapeshifting powers that feeds on the vessels that try to approach it by mimicking the shape of a human ship.

In some versions, he's also said to shift into human form and once had an affair with a human woman. More on that later.

Bruxas (Witches)

Brazilian witches tend to be quite different from their European counterparts. For starters, they are not women who made a deal with the devil - a witch is born as a witch, and depending on the version, she's either the seventh child of a family or the offspring of a priest and a pagan (i.e, nonchristian) woman.

Witches don't fly on brooms, they don't need to. Most can turn into a moth at will, and they're also said to be able to pass through small spaces by stretching their bodies like a cartoon character. Have you ever seen a Brazilian moth? They're bigger than some birds.

Witches are also said to drink the blood of pagan children by landing on their bellybuttons while they sleep and drinking it up while in moth form. A big-ass moth inside your house is usually a bad omen, and you better not touch it with your bare hands. But witches also really love their booze, and you can make a deal with one by offering her some alcohol.

There's also the Cumacanga, a little known variation of witch with a detachable head and hair made of flames that scares of people during the night. In order to figure out her identity, one must gift her a needle, and she'll soon arrive at your doorstep in human form to return it to you when morning comes. I don't know why, but some of those creatures are very polite.

Mula sem Cabeça (Headless Mule)

If there's anything those myths have taught me, is that you shouldn't fuck a priest. At all.

The headless mule is - rather obviously - a large equine with a flaming bonfire for a head that roams around destroying everyone it sees. If a priest breaks his vows and marries a woman, she'll become a headless mule the next Friday night (the legend is very specific about the day for some reason). In order to protect yourself from one, you must lie down and cover your teeth and nails, for they're attracted by shiny things. You can turn a mule back into a human by stabbing it with an iron knife.

Lobisomem (Werewolf)

Brazilian werewolves, like witches, are very different from the Hollywood version. While it is common for a human to become a werewolf by being bitten by another one, most werewolves are born that way - either the seventh male child of a family or the offspring of a priest and a pagan woman, pretty much the boy version of a witch - and awake their powers during puberty. Moreover, they are rarely true wolves: most are a combination of various farm animals and a few do not resemble canines at all. As with the Hollywood variant, werewolves are weak against silver and holy water, and they can also be cured of their condition by - and I have to quote this - "being impaled by a thorn from an orange tree planted on a cemetery during a Friday". No idea how the fuck they figured that out.

It's oftentimes said that, in order to prevent a seventh son from becoming a werewolf, he must be given a female name - and the opposite is true for witches.

Labatut

The Labatut is a beastial figure with a boar-like face, prominent tusks and a single large eye that roams through the Northeastern countryside. He was apparently based on Pedro Labatut, a French mercenary who fought for the Empire during the independence war and gained a reputation for being quite ruthless against his opponents.

Corpo Seco (Dried Corpse or Dried Body)

The Corpo Seco was born as a human boy. Though his name varies from tale to tale, every version agree that he was an absolute asshole - if he were alive today, he would most likely be a moderator for an incel forum. He once tied his mother to a chair and beat her up after she yelled at him, and friends and family alike were terrified of him. It is said that, when he died, not a single person wept for him, and no one attended his funeral. More than that, the Earth itself spat out his corpse after they'd buried him, and neither Heaven nor Hell claimed his wretched soul. He still wanders the country, neither alive nor dead, occasionally weeping in the distance. Some versions also claim that, since he's technically not dead, his hair and nails never stopped growing, giving him a rather gruesome look.

Loira do Banheiro (Blonde girl of the bathroom)

Oh, that one used to scare me shitless as a kid. The blonde girl of the bathroom is a Hanako-esque ghost that haunts schools and public bathrooms alike. Most versions differ when talking about her past, but she was either a victim of bullying who committed suicide in her school's bathroom or a girl obsessed with her own appearance that got sucked inside the mirror whilst gazing at her own reflection. Either way, she's a spirit that can be summoned in a public bathroom.

Again, every version has a different way of summoning her - yelling curse words at the mirror, flushing all the toilets at once, turning on all the faucets, etc. Where I grew up in, they used to say you had to yell her birth name three times whilst looking at the mirror. If you managed to successfully summon her, she would either kill you, grant you a wish, or just scare your ass.

Apparently, her story was based on the life of Maria Augusta de Oliveira Borges, a real woman who died under mysterious circumstances back in imperial times. So, uh, if you want to summon her or something, there's her full name.

Cobra Norato and Maria Caninana

Remember when I said that the Boiúna once had an affair with a human mortal? These two are their kids.

Abandoned by their mother on the side of a river, the two giant snakes soon learned how to talk by mimicking human fishermen. Norato was a kind soul who helped those who came near the river, but Maria was a greedy bitch who saw humans as little more than food. At some point, they fought each other over their disagreements, and Norato ended up killing his sister.

Norato desperately wanted to be a human, but lifting his curse was no easy task: in order to turn him into a man, one would have to feed him three drops of breast milk and pat him with an iron stick while he slept. No, I am not making this up. Luckily, he found a hunter willing to do the job.

Boto Cor de Rosa (Pink Dolphin)

In case you didn't know, pink dolphins are real. They can be found in the Amazonas river and its surroundings, though they're in risk of extinction due to overhunting.

But this guy is no mere dolphin, he is THE pink dolphin. He can talk, he can shapeshift, and he wants to bone a hot lady.

The boto will often turn into an attractive man with a bald head and a fancy hat, which hides the breathing hole thing dolphins have. I personally like to imagine him as a tan-skinned Walter White. Any woman who meets him will soon be charmed by his looks, and he'll frequently involve himself romantically with the locals for quite some time. It never lasts for long, though: he will sudden disappear without a trace, presumably back to the water where he belongs, always right after the woman he's involved with finds out that she's pregnant. Sadly, none of the versions of the legend ever mention what happens to his child. Imagine if your dad was a talking dolphin.

So, uh, that's it. There's probably more creatures I forgot, so I again recommend you to search for more stuff on your own.

Also, if you want to use any of these in a fantasy setting or anything, feel free to do it! I am so fucking tired of works whose mythology is just a one-to-one ripoff of Greek or Norse myths. If anyone starts bitching at you about cultural appropriation or whatever, show them this post and tell them I gave you my permission. Now, back to our usual shitposting.

#mythology #myths #folklore #brazil #brasil #fantasy #story ideas #character idea #fyp #fypツ #memes #tumblr fyp #explorepage #explore #fypage #foryou #dumb shit #werewolves #werewolf #Tumblr

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igneouswyvern · 7 months

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The funniest thing about the zelda series to me is the way that the Great Fairy designs differ so WILDLY from game to game like

We got everybody's favorite ocarina of time design:

Nice and sexualized, skimpy clothing, weird ass hair, fucking massive in relation to link. Always hated this design, 1/10

(didn't intend to rate them when I started this post but here we are now ig)

You got the alttp and albw designs:

In the first one she looks all right, second one she looks like a child for some reason? Tiny. Barely any larger than link himself. How am I supposed to take her seriously 4/10

Breath of the wild design next:

Girl you are. HUGE. Hi????? Pretty oversexualized too like oh my god she is fantastic porn bait but like. I respect this design I'm ngl. Fucking massive sexy bastard could probably crush my head with her thumb and forefinger. 7/10

Twilight princess design:

Uh.....huh. Hey girl, how many wings you got there? Also would you mind putting on a shirt? Please and thanks? 3/10

Then we got wind waker:

????? Hello girl, may I ask, what the hell? Why do you have so many arms. Where are your legs. Fi lookin ass, kinda? Barely even looks like a fairy. 5/10

NOW. I JUST STARTED PLAYING MINISH CAP AND I FOUND OUT WHAT THE GREAT FAIRY'S DESIGN IS IN THAT GAME. AND I ALSO LOOKED AND FOUR SWORDS DESIGN IS THE SAME. MAY I PRESENT TO YOU:

Four swords/minish cap design:

Holy crap?????? Absolutely gorgeous. There's three and they're all based off of insects. But holy shit they look amazing. They're so regal and dignified, they don't look like children like the albw design, they're not oversexualized like oot and botw, they're beautiful. My jaw dropped when I saw the butterfly fairy in minish cap I was like holy fucking shit. THIS is what a great fairy should look like. So fucking beautiful. My wife I love her so much easiest 10/10 of my life

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simp-ly-writes · 5 months

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Zookeeper!Halsin AU Headcanons

Summary: What if Halsin was a zookeeper / nature preserver?

Warnings: none.

A/N: THIS HAS TAKEN OVER MY MIND, BODY, AND SOUL.

Masterlist | Taglist | un-edited.

↳ Okay but seriously, what if Halsin was a zoo keeper/ animal handler/ wildlife preserver (I could also picture him as a park ranger too- ahh!)

↳ Like him in that green/khaki get-up with a brass name plate shimmering in the sun with various animals in his arms throughout the day

↳ Him warning a cap or boonie-cap with the organizations logo on the front, his hair tied up in the back (can so imagine him with an tree themed watch- like branches for the clock-hands or something too!)

↳ He would so be like a disney princess up in there, speaking to the animals (not literally of course...), healing and nurturing them- his life revolves around those animals in need

↳ Giving each one another chance at life since they could not survive in the wild or needed other supplies to sustain themselves, Halsin is a protector for their habitats and loves to spread knowledge to others on what they can do to help as well

↳ (He would do such a good job at it and be proud of his work too!)

↳ Like I can see him doing a bird show in the preservation space for the kids visiting (maybe even a local TV show too), really anything to get the word out

↳ The animals would love him so much- I swear one would always be on him, a parrot on his shoulder, a snake across his shoulders, maybe a monkey all up in his hair haha!

↳ I can see Halsin falling for a volunteering veterinarian or educational assistant for the production...

#bg3 fanfic #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 halsin x reader #halsin x reader #halsin silverbough #halsin #halsin silverbough x reader #bg3 halsin #headcanons #bg3 headcanons #fanfic #fanfiction #simp-ly #simp-ly-writes

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datura-tea · 5 months

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when gwen came back to vault 101, no one cheered. no one welcomed her back. which is to be expected - there were some who blamed her for what happened. butch thought that was bullshit, but no one would ever hear him defending gwen. especially not gwen. so he watched from a distance when she stomped into the vault in her too-big boots, dried blood in her hair, dusty and dirty and standing taller than he had ever seen her.

gwen lit up when she saw amata, but quickly dimmed when amata approached her hesitantly, as if scared. butch can't blame amata; this new gwen, wasteland gwen, looked like vault gwen only in passing. wasteland gwen was rougher, tougher. imposing. her rifle slung easily from her shoulder.

butch wondered if she had ever killed anyone with it.

butch decided to break the silence. he pointed at gwen's rifle. "ever killed anyone with that thing?"

he leaned against the door as gwen and amata talked, noting gwen's frown deepening the more amata filled her in. she was all business now; very serious, impartial and indifferent. asking questions like: what happened here? what do you want me to do? how much are you going to pay me? which unsettled butch a little. gwen was never a joker, but she never took anything seriously, either. to see her stone-cold and stern (like james) was new, and it was concerning.

so when gwen passed him on her way to the overseer, he walked in step with her. she nodded at him. he nodded back. they stayed like that for a few blocks, just quiet. which was new, also. before, they would've been talking each other's ears off, firing off insults and jabs one after another.

gwen rolled her eyes. "hi, gwen," she said in a deepened voice. "it's nice to see you again, gwen. i was so worried about you, gwen." she sighed. "just shot wilkins with it."

"wilkins is dead?"

"fuck if i know. i didn't stay to check." she doubled back to peer into the clinic. she turned to butch, her hands on her hips. "look, what do you want from me?"

butch looked her in the eye. no need to beat around the bush, then. "i need to get out of here, man."

gwen shrugged. "then get out of here. what's stopping you and your dinky little knife?"

"dinky? what are you calling dinky?" butch bristled. "this thing's sharp as fuck."

"that shit can't peel an apple. that shit's barely worth a cap."

butch frowned. "the fuck is a cap?"

"wasteland money. it's dumb." gwen entered the clinic as she talked. butch followed her. "they use fucking bottlecaps."

"there's money up there?" brotch taught them about money and trade, but they didn't use it in the vault. "no vouchers? no rations?"

"no, man. you find food or you trade or you starve." gwen was rummaging through the rubble in james' office. "i've just been eating cold cram."

"but you're eating what you want," butch said. "you have a choice."

"yeah, i guess. it's just..." gwen sighed again and faced butch. "i'm not gonna lie, dude, it's bad out there. you get shot at, you get chased by randos, you eat 200-year old shit because you can't find fresh food. there's choices, sure, but it's between two shitty choices all the time." she gestured at their surroundings. "but, even with all that... it's loads better than this shithole."

butch whooped. "so you'll help me escape?"

"i'm going to do what amata wants, and that's to get the door open. what you do after that is your business." gwen went to the framed verse on the wall and opened it. "here we go."

butch went to her. she took out a bobby pin and a screwdriver and jimmied the lock, which broke with a small click. the safe opened, and gwen took out a small bag and some schematics. she stuffed both in her battered pack.

"okay, butch, i'm gonna go deal with the overseer," she said, patting his shoulder. "go do... whatever you want. go fucking wild. no one in here, or out there, cares."

"thanks?" butch watched her walk past him. gwen stopped when she got to the door.

"if you do get out, though," she said, "i live in this house in megaton. right at the entrance. you can't miss it. you're - and i can't believe i'm saying this - welcome there."

butch felt warmth bloom in his chest. it felt weird and gross, but not unwelcome. he smiled at her. she smiled back. and then she was gone.

#shh peri shhh #my writing #gwen #vault kids #spoiler alert! gwen kills the overseer and when amata exiles her she just shuts down and leaves them without even a goodbye #just turns around and fucks off and takes out her hurt and anger on the next fucker who dared to cross her #and butch gets lost and misses megaton and just meanders until he gets to rivet city #where they meet again and team up :)

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mac-lilly · 7 months

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One day, I'll publish the entire one-shot. Until then, here's a snippet. Can you guess the movie it's inspired by?

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆

Magic, as it turns out, comes in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes even in the form of a black journal. It’s a songwriting journal and her only way to communicate with Luke, a boy she’s never met yet to whom she feels inexplicably connected.

Julie pauses, reevaluating her thoughts. As she does, she looks around. The room is a mess. Heaps of discarded clothes litter the floor, the desk is cluttered with trinkets and crumpled candy bar wrappers, and the walls are plastered with glossy posters, all of them sporting the same type of grungy rock bands with ripped clothes, wild hairstyles, and scowls on their faces.

Then, she looks down, inspecting her hands, which are larger than she’s used to. Paler, too. The fingers are splotched with ink. Their nails are clipped short, and their tips are permanently marred with callouses.

The hands of a songwriter.

The hands of a guitar player.

Luke’s hands.

Okay, maybe their connection is not as inexplicable as she initially stated, given she’s currently inhabiting Luke’s body.

She shakes her - Luke’s - head and turns her attention back to the notebook. A smile tugs at her lips. Giddiness runs through her - Luke’s - body.

With precious little ceremony, she flips the journal open and leaves through it until she reaches the section reserved for their conversations.

A new message, written in Luke’s questionable penmanship, is already awaiting her.

I landed you a date.

The pen she’s been holding slips out of her fingers, rolling over the edge of the bed. Cursing, Julie dives after it, her fingers curling around it before it hits the ground. When she sits upright again, a second sentence has formed on the page.

With Nick.

She almost drops the pen again. Hastily, she unscrews the cap.

Your creepy friend said—

Julie rams the tip down on the page, almost tearing the paper of the journal they use to communicate.

Her name is Flynn, and she’s not creepy!

She adds multiple exclamation marks and even underlines the sentence for emphasis. Luke, however, remains undeterred.

She gives me the creeps, he counters. And that’s not the point.

He’s right. His fear of Flynn, while not entirely unreasonable, isn’t the point. But it is useful information. Julie files it away for later.

She said you’ve had a crush on Nick for forever. So when he asked you out—

Nick did what?!

— I said that I, which means you, might be able to squeeze him in tomorrow after school.

Julie’s eyes bulge. Scratch Nick. Luke has done what?! So much for keeping a low profile. If clawing her way through the notebook to strangle him was an option, she’d seriously consider it.

You’re welcome. Frankly, no clue why you’re so into him. He’s cute; I give him that. But he’s so lame. Julie can almost hear Luke’s exasperated whine.

Nick’s NOT LAME! He’s—

She hesitates, unsure what to reply.

Kind? Athletic? A good guy?

Julie cringes. Even to her ears, that sounds phenomenally pathetic. Brows knitted together, she thinks feverishly about Nick’s positive traits only to realize how little she knows about Nick beyond …

—a fantastic guitar player.

Which still isn’t the quippy comeback she aimed for but is enough to distract Luke.

Passable, at best.

Julie snickers. Obsessive music nerds are so predictable. She knows that; she’s one herself.

Have you ever heard him play?

Have you ever heard ME play? Luke teases with all the bravado of a cocky teenage boy getting challenged in his field of expertise.

In fact, Julie has. A few weeks ago, she found his demo, and, well, curiosity killed the cat. He is good – maybe better than Nick; Julie is willing to admit that. But she’ll never say it out loud. Or write it down - whatever. Luke would be unbearable.

#julie and the phantoms #jatp #luke patterson #julie molina #juke #jukebox #happy juke jeudi!

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