#By shoe idioms of all things

[teaboot]

As someone who learnt english as a second language via textbook, I have to say "flying by the seat of my pants" is a hilarious idiom xD

It's the first time I've seen/heard it.

Could you share another one you like using?

Idk about idioms specifically, but there's a bunch of phrases I learned from my mom!

Lord love a duck! (Incredulous, like 'oh my god')

Lord suffer in sheep dip! (Sheep dip meaning sheep poop. Incredulous, but for annoying things- like 'are you kidding me?')

Is there a piano tied to your ass? ('Don't be lazy, do it yourself')

Someone's cruising for a bruising. (You're picking a fight.)

I don't give a rat's rip. ('I don't care'- a rat's 'rip' is it's butt crack.)

Pull up a stump! (Get yourself a chair, sit down.)

Everybody out of the pool! (Get out of the car)

I'm flying by the seat of my pants. (I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm doing it.)

Don't go blowing smoke up my ass. (Don't over-compliment me, don't flatter me, don't stroke my ego, don't tell me positive lies)

Looks like it's gonna rain on our parade. (A storm is coming.)

Sorry to rain on your parade. (I've given you bad news- can be used sincerely or sarcastically to denote sympathy for incurring a bad mood.)

Better button that lip. (Stop talking.)

Someone's gonna stick a boot up your ass. ('Stick a boot up your ass'- fight you, beat you, kick your ass.)

Stick that lip out any further, and a pigeon'll shit on it. (Stop whining.)

Suck it up, buttercup. (Stop whining.)

Dumber than a fence post. (Very stupid.)

The back forty. (The wild or forested area behind a rural home. The 'forty' being forty acres, or farmland.)

Don't go begging for a fat lip. (Whatever you're saying or doing is going to bother people and get you in trouble.)

What on God's green earth (What the fuck)

I'm sweating like a pig in a porta-potty (like a pig in a plastic outhouse- I'm very warm, it's hot here)

He thinks the universe flew out of his ass. (He thinks he's more impressive than he is.)

Your mouth wrote a cheque your ass couldn't cash. (You promised more than you were capable of providing.)

You've got a horseshoe up your ass. (You're very, very lucky.)

Taking a dirt nap. (Dead.)

Pushing (up) daisies. (Dead.)

Give me forty acres to turn this rig around. (I need time and space to move this large, heavy, or unwieldy thing. Usually about navigating a vehicle. Taken from a song lyric.)

Jesus take the wheel. (God help me, I can't handle this, I give up.)

Gone belly-up. (Has died.)

We've got a floater. (This one is dead.)

Herding cats. (Trying to organize chaos, managing an impossibly complicated situation.)

I've got a black thumb. (I am bad at growing plants, all my plants die- reference to having a 'green thumb', or being good at growing plants.)

Stop trackin' floor cookies. (Floor cookies are bits of animal shit that fall off your work boots- 'tracking floor cookies' means wearing your boots in the house; take your shoes off at the door.)

Running around like a headless chicken. (Frantic, disorganized, stressed out by many tasks or panicked by a big situation.)

Spinning my wheels. (Waiting around for something to happen, getting nowhere, frustrated by inactivity, not making any progress towards a goal.)

He's gonna blow a gasket. (He's going to lose his temper, he's going to be angry.)

They'll tan your hide. (They'll punish you severely; usually through violence. Specifically in reference to a spanking.)

He's a few bricks short a load. (He's not clever / he doesn't think things through / he's crazy)

Not the sharpest tool in the shed. (Not the smartest person. Very dumb, clumsy, or absent-minded.)

I'm not going to bail you out. (Not going to save your sinking boat- not going to help you out of your bad situation.)

Looks like things are going south. (The situation is growing worse.)

I'll start making tracks. (I'll leave now, I'll start working, I'll get going.)

He's fucking the dog. (He's not being productive, he's doing a bad job, he's made things worse, he's screwing around.)

He's making puppies. (Less graphic version of 'fucking the dog'.)

Plant your ass. (Sit.)

Playing grab-ass. (Procrastinating- accomplishing nothing, slowing people down.)

He couldn't find his ass in the dark. (He's stupid, ineffective, underqualified, or incompetent.)

He couldn't pour water out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel. (He is unbelievably, comically dumb or ineffective. He can't do anything right.)

One foot in the ground. (Dying, or half-dead.)

I'm kicking rocks. (I'm not doing anything productive.)

I'm hauling ass. (I'm running away.)

Madder than a wet hen. (Very, very angry.)

Like I said I'm not sure that these are all idioms but they're all the phrases and sayings from my childhood that I can remember right now

EDIT: Cannot BELIEVE I forgot my mom's favourite

52. Wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which gets filled first. (Wishes don't come true by themselves)

Plus some more I forgot:

53. You make a better door than a window. (You're in the way of my view.)

54. You can take a long walk off a short pier. (Go fuck yourself.)

55. He's about as sharp as a bowling ball. (He's stupid.)

56. Scoot your poot. (Move over.)

57. Not my first rodeo. (I know what I'm doing.)

58. He's built like a brick shithouse. (He's broad and sturdy and very strong, solid.)

59. I smell bacon. (I saw a cop nearby.)

60. I don't want to hear a peep. (Stop talking.)

61. You're thinking with the wrong head. (You're making bad decisions because you're horny.)

62. I'd lose my ass/head if it wasn't tied on. (I'm very absent-minded, forgetful.)

63. That went down like a lead balloon. (That situation was bad.)

#Teaboot

[androgynealienfemme]

"We go from store to store, trying to things on and inspecting them. I give my opinions on dresses and shoes, blouses and lipstick colors. Sometimes I say things that make the other women look at me, agape, as though my mouth has been possessed by that flighty queen from Queer Eye even while the rest of my body still looks like any other big dumb boy's. I say that I like a skirt but I wish it were bias-cut instead of A-line, or that I am not fond of the fashion for surplice tops, or that the post-WWII idiom in shoes this season is amusing but rarely looks good on actual feet, or that I like the look of a bolero jacket. I know the names of colors, heliotrope and coral and Nile blue, and I can say without hesitation whether a lipstick might look better matte with a bit of powder.

These other women look at me with wonder, their boyfriends and husbands having made a fetish out of refusing to learn such words under any circumstances, as though merely pronouncing the word "periwinkle" or "princess seam" could easily turn a strong man gay as a box of birds. They say to her, "That's your husband?" in voices that loiter between admiring and disgusted, as though they know that there's no force on earth that could make their men or boys take such interest in their clothing and they think they might really prefer that to the spectacle of me, filling an armchair, legs crossed ankle over knee, looking just right until I say "tea length."

The point is that she wants other girls to see what it looks like to have a boy so cracy in love with you, as I am, that he will spend an afternoon talking about capri pants to have a boy so delighted by you that he never calls you by your name, but addresses you always as "beautiful girl," or "my love" or occasionally and with great fondness, "boss." To have a boy who will happily fetch your next-size-down and carry your bags and charm the salesclerks at the register without flirting overmuch and just generally try to make himself as useful as possible, all for the dizzy and undying pleasure of making you happy. And even though I am not a boy, I look like one, and so I can be complicit with her in this kind of wonderful afternoon, part indulgence of her great beauty and style, part guerilla feminist activism.

Later, when we walk through the mall or down the sidewalk, me laden with packages that are clearly hers, I watch the eyes of the people we pass: the women who look at me with a certain longing, wishing they had their own boys to carry the bags. The men who look at her with an unmistakable hunger, wishing that they had the honor of schlepping for a girl like her, and then look at me with a certain edge of disbelief, not quite clear about why I get to squire this marvelous example of femininity around when they are clearly wealthier, more handsome, better hung. I have learned to meet all of these gazes with a calm kind of sweetness. There's no point in defensiveness or sheepishness or challenge. I'm the one holding her bags."

"Being a Shopping Switch” Butch is a Noun essays by S. Bear Bergman (2006)

#butch is a noun #s. bear bergman #lesbian lit #butch lit #lesbian #lesbianism #butch lesbian #butch 4 femme #butch4femme #butch for femme #femme #butch #femme lesbian #feminism

[herotome]

Devlog #123

Hi-ho, Wudge here.

So... it's out! If you somehow haven't heard despite my modest-yet-incessant marketing efforts, Herotome's Super Demo is now out on itch.io!

People seem to really enjoy the game. My notifications are blowing up. Everything seems to be going really well - it's all coming up Wudge, one might say!

Which means it's time to talk about 𝓜𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓵 𝓘𝓵𝓵𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼.~

Y'all weren't expecting that one, were ya? Boom, baby! Haha!!!

So, let me know if this sounds familiar: I spend most of my waking moments worrying that something bad is going to happen. I'm perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop. (Thank you to @hummingbird-games for reminding me that idiom exists, and taking it in good humor when I excitedly babbled that "YES! It's like there's this giant centipede with shoes in my ceiling and I'm convinced I hear him walking around and someday, someday he's gonna throw all his shoes at me like that one guy did to George Bush--!"

...I'm worried that someone is going to find a reason to be rightfully angry with me. I'm worried that, through the mortifying ordeal of being known, I will be punished with the harrowing gauntlet of rejection and misery. I worry that, any day now, I'm going to get a random half-thought-out message that obliterates my heart into smithereens and kills me on the spot. I am a sea slug, cautiously edging a tendril into the light and praying not to be noticed by the eldritch fish above that will devour me in a single gulp.

I find myself flinching even when there isn't a blow coming.

Putting out a piece of yourself for the public to consume is really fucking terrifying. I did it anyway, which is cool of me, but I want to make it known that there is not eternal bliss and satisfaction and rose petals on the other side. Is this better than my cave of solitude and darkness I emerged from? I think so. But I'm still perpetually scared, as Toby Fox might once have described it, "like a small dog startled by a thunder storm."

I'm still really tired, too.

I don't write this to complain; I'm conscious that some people are now looking up to me and the way I do things, and I want to be transparent. I don't want anyone to think I'm perfect or have always been perfect and will always be perfect, or that I've ~found happiness~.

I'm not. I have never been. I will never be. I haven't.

But I'm okay, at least. I'm okay and I'll be okay, and I'm grateful to you all. Every single one of you. Thank you for not submitting me to the harrowing gauntlet of rejection and misery…yet.  :^)

Alright what's the takeaway here. Uhm.

Be yourself! Follow your dreams! Never give up!!!

That's sincerely what I'm trying to do. It's a challenge every single day; I have to choose Herotome every single day (something something married to my own game blah blah blah). It is worth it. And I believe in you - assuming you're not a cannibal or a murder or, worst of all, a plagiarist (gasp!) or anything else terrible and bad - I believe in you. (… But honestly, I'd believe in you if you were a bad person too, I'd believe in you to continue to do bad things but I'd hope that you'll stop and turn yourself in to the proper authorities lmao…)

… I went on a weird tangent again…

I don’t know if any of this is making sense. Maybe it will be insightful to someone out there, maybe it won't.

I uh, did some writing for the next part of the game, and I plan on working on some character expressions today in honor of my Ko-Fi donators.

Oh, and there's gonna be a stream on Wednesday 10pm Pacific. I'll be there! Come say hi and please don't squish me!

… Yeah that's all I can think of writing for now. I absolutely wish you all the best with every speck of love I have in my current flesh prison.

Tata for now. Stay safe and keep warm,

Wudge.

#Im also conscious of things I said I was gonna do but never got around to doing and worry its wavering at the brim of my memory and someday #it will fall and crush me underneath-- #dskjfbskj anyway #herotome update #I am full of worries and demons. better than I used to be (less demons) but they are still here #I would take selfies with them and show you all if I could

[laylajeffany]

I asked at some point where you get inspiration for Emiliana’s idioms, so I figured I’d share some of my language stumbles from when I was younger. For backstory I grew up in the UK with a British Dad and a Swedish-speaking Finnish Mum. We lived in a completely monolingual town, so I was the only bilingual kid in my schools. I only spoke Swedish with my mother, which likely contributed to these mistakes (sorry mum).

•Lätt som en plätt. I suppose the closest English idiom would be easy as pie. I used to directly translate it and go around saying “easy as a pancake”, leading to some strange looks in school.

•Ha många bollar i luften. Directly translated this means “to have many balls in the air”, which is a way of saying you’ve got lots or things on your hands, or that you’re multitasking. This one earned me some looks too.

•Slå två flugor i en smäll. The Swedish equivalent of “to kill two birds with one stone”. However, the translation is “to whack two flies in one hit”. This one is very Emiliana.

These were all from when I was under 10. The next two stories aren’t idioms, but are too good not to share.

•I apparently hadn’t heard an English speaking person say the word “sauce” until I was 6? I thought it was a Swedish word, and still remember the complete shock when I heard a teacher at my school say it.

•This is a little harder to explain, but I’ll try. I was shoe shopping with my mother when I was 4, and she asked how well the shoe fit. The Swedish word for fit is “rymms”, for context. I replied saying “Min sko fittar inte. (My shoe doesn’t fit). I took the English word fit and said it in a Swedish way. Unfortunately for me, the Swedish word for pussy is fitta. I can only imagine my mother’s face as her 4 year old blatantly informed her that her shoe was not being a pussy.

Thank you for Emiliana, I can empathise with her ❤️

Thank you for sharing! I love that you grew up bilingual, it’s such a beautiful gift. English is a hard language to learn, from what I have been told. I love the language differences I get to see every day in my classroom! Between my ELL population and my students with special needs, I learn something about English all the time! Learning how different people process language has been one of the highlights of my career, honestly - and I love to talk about it because unlocking language is such a key to success. This is a VERY long ramble, but I have so much time to kill and I could talk about language processing all day, haha ;)

I am fortunate to have two degrees - my undergrad work was for early childhood education and my master’s degree was in early childhood special education. For the last few years, I have had the privilege of including students with autism who were perceived as having higher support needs into my general education class. These are kiddos whom our school district did not think qualified for general education and needed to be in self-contained classes, but after a year of self-contained when they were three, and me including them into our classroom as much as was (age)appropriate for their needs at the time, I worked with their teams and families to have them moved into my classroom for their four-year-old-year. They were largely non-verbal or exclusively had echolalia when I met them. I firmly believe that these kiddos need to be around language models, not peers who are also non-verbal communicators for different reasons than just autism. (I do not mean this in any negative way towards others who are not autistic and not able to communicate for reasons such as CP or otherwise - but generally the support needs of these kiddos are very different than the support needs of those on the spectrum. I still believe these kids would benefit from general education with SUPPORT and am trying actively to make this happen, we just generally don’t have the supports available in my district yet.)

Gestalt Language Processing is something I am still learning about, but the specific form of language processing that at least one kiddo I have had each year had (I believe - I am not positive on two as it wasn’t official but the more I am learning about the one I have now, I am positive it was the case for at least two of the others). This is when people learn language in scripts instead of word by word meanings. When the kiddos are still in stages 1-3, it is a matter of knowing the kids VERY well to know what they mean when they use verbal language.

  For example, I had a student who used to tap me and say, ‘The Terrible Twos are coming, the Terrible Twos are coming!” I interpreted this after some careful observation to mean “there is someone on the playground who is doing something that I don’t like and I don’t know how to ask them to stop,” when I knew enough about his special interest (NumberBlocks, the ‘terrible twos’ are ‘villains’ who cause mischief and need a hero like ‘octoblock’ to stop them and help the other numbers) to realize what he was saying. It took several weeks and explaining to his entire team AND the rest of my class what he was trying to communicate before we were able to teach more functional language, but we got there eventually. But it’s a TEAM effort, and it requires everyone in the child’s life to learn the script and be using the same language to teach something new.

It’s really tricky! But honestly - I love it so, so much. I have noticed patterns over the last three years, and this is my FAVORITE time of year for these kids. January - February I see HUGE growth. Suddenly kids who came to me mostly non-verbal/echolalic to speaking 2-3 word sentences start to put together whole sentences. After about two months of REALLY, REALLY hard work, increasing push-in time from our speech language-pathologists, having parents work really hard at home, and working with peers (increasing their ability to wait and listen and be patient, take conversational turns, and help our learning students re-frame) they are then speaking full sentences, able to take turns in on-topic conversations, and you can visibly see a difference in them because they become confident communicators. It’s around this same time that we unlock more functional communication that they understand the concept of “friends,” too. We work REALLY hard with the other kids in the room, helping them remember to be patient and give time and chances, and when you’ve created the right environment, you end up helping kids make real friendships that go beyond the classroom.

To me the greatest compliments are always on my end of year evaluations when the outside observers note how even though they had the ‘numbers’ of how many students with special needs are in my classroom, they could not immediately identify who they were because I work so hard at ensuring my spaces is accessible to everyone and welcoming of kids with language differences, and working on building them up to be successful communicators.

When reading CftF, you can probably see a lot of evidence of my work with different communicators between Wednesday and Emiliana. Successful inclusion is my passion and I hope that it translates into my writing! I am glad you felt represented by this in my story!

#layla answers fic questions #layla talks about EDU

[audino]

something i’ve noticed about getting older is that i really am like my mom in the way of speech patterns and stuff

my mom has always used really old turns of phrase/idioms/sayings and quoted old ass nursery rhymes that barely anyone understands or has heard of

and i’ve caught myself now doing the exact same thing like saying “don’t sell me a dog” and “what can you do when you live in a shoe” and all the other phrases my mom often said, plus my own because i LOVE old funny sayings and nursery rhymes and stuff. hey diddle diddle being a favourite of mine.

anyway i just thought that was really funny and sweet. i never quoted that kinda stuff a lot until my 20s

#bun txt

[heich0e]

Hi Liv I have been having the poopiest week ever, I got covid and the world is going to shit, my coworkers are being stupid. If you are feeling up to it, may I have a sweet headcannon about anyone of your choosing? I appreciate you.

Violet, I'm sooo sorry to hear that :( i'm sending u sm love and I hope you get well soon!! I feel like you are a fellow makki fucker (apologies if not!) so here's my humble offering to u in these trying times <3

hoarse hanamaki takahiro/f!reader (haikyuu!) tags: established relationship, reader is sick and makki takes it upon himself to help

Makki was constantly sick as a kid.

You know those children who seem to always have an ear infection? Yeah, that was him. (Which he was actually perfectly fine with, because he loved the taste of the banana flavoured amoxicillin he'd be prescribed and liked getting to miss school.)

His immune system seemed to get itself together by high school, timed with his growth spurt and all the other various hormonal atrocities of puberty, and as an adult he rarely--if ever--falls ill.

"Hiro," you groan, weakly trying to force your apartment door closed though his foot is in the way. "I told you I'm sick."

Hanamaki merely grins at you through the crack in the doorway. "Don't worry, I've got the immune system of a horse!"

You cock your head to the side.

"Are horses even known for having good immune systems?"

Makki forces the door open another inch, and you don't have the strength to stop him. Before you know it he's weaselled his way right through the door, and is shutting it tightly behind him while he kicks off his shoes.

"Yeah, you know that expression 'healthy as a horse'?"

You pinch the bridge of your congested nose. "Hiro, that's just an idiom, I don't think it has any--woah!"

You stumble back slightly as a weight presses against your forehead, which a second later you realize is Hiro's hand while he checks your temperature.

"You're burning up," he says with a little frown, "it's a good thing I got here when I did."

He shuffles off towards your kitchen, the plastic shopping bags in his hands rustling as he goes.

"Hiro, I told you not to come over. I'm just going to make you sick too." You sigh, trailing after him lethargically. Your whole body is aching and heavy, and just pulling yourself out of bed to answer the unexpected knock at your door had taken any remaining energy you had left in you away.

"I haven't gotten sick in four years,"--your boyfriend holds up four fingers demonstrably--"and even then I'm pretty sure that was just food poisoning from Oikawa's awful cooking."

You might have laughed if you had it in you.

Makki begins unpacking the plastic bags onto your kitchen counter, producing a wealth of unexpectedly helpful resources from within. Sports drink, fever patches, medicine, and what seems to be the makings of some sort of soup or porridge soon crowd the limited counter space in your apartment kitchen.

"What's all this?" you ask him weakly.

"I may not get sick often, but I happen to be a kind of great nurse," Takahiro says proudly, his chest puffing up underneath his oversized hoodie. "I'm gonna take care of you!"

Maybe it's because you're sick, maybe it's because in spite of the fact that even though you've spent the better part of the past 24-hours unconscious you're exhausted, maybe it's because you just like him so much.

But in the wake of your boyfriend's words, you let out a snotty, pitiful sob.

"Hey, hey." Makki quickly rounds the counter, pulling you into his arms. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," you whimper, your face tucked into his chest as your tears (and snot) sink into the fabric. "I'm just all sick and tired and gross--"

"You are not gross," Hiro says, borderline offended. "I actually kind of have a huge crush on you, dunno if I've ever told you that."

"I'm gross right now," you argue weakly, peeling yourself away from his hold to look up at him. "And this is just so... nice."

"I'm your boyfriend," Hiro replies with his brows raised. He uses the edge of his sleeve to wipe at the tears on your face. "That's what I'm here for."

You let your body slump against his once more, and Hiro carefully navigates the two of you towards the sofa. He tucks you in, places a fever patch on your forehead, and picks out something for you to watch (though you doubt you'll stay awake long enough to absorb any of it.)

Once you've been situated, Hiro skitters back to your kitchen to keep unpacking his various supplies, reappearing a while later with a glass of water and some medicine. He places the tablets on your tongue and lifts the cup of cool water to your mouth so you can wash them down, checking the patch on your forehead to make sure it was still cold even though he'd only just applied it.

"Are you sleepy?" he asks, crouching down beside where you're nestled into your couch, running his fingers against your cheek.

You nod a little.

"Get some rest, Doctor Horse will still be here when you wake up," he says, smiling at you softly.

"Thought you were a nurse?" you murmur gently, turning your cheek to nose against his palm.

He laughs. "Guess I got promoted."

When you wake a few hours later, the afternoon sunlight is gone, but you feel marginally less close to death than you had before you'd fallen asleep. It's relatively dim in your living room, the light from the TV that was still playing whatever show Hiro had picked out for you painting the room in a vaguely blue hue as characters you don't recognize move across the screen.

Hiro.

The light in your bedroom is on and you hear the sound of his voice from the other side of the door. You pick yourself up off the sofa, shaking off the stiffness in your limbs and peeling the material of your t-shirt away from your clammy skin, before shuffling towards the sound.

"--and when she wakes up, should I give her more medicine?... Yeah about five hours ago... Two tablets, I think? Hold on let me check-- yeah two...Okay...Uh huh--"

You rest your temple against the doorframe, peering through the crack left between the slightly ajar door. Hiro is perched on your freshly made bed--clean sheets and all--with his back to you, holding his phone to his ear as he scribbles away in a little notebook.

"--Should I give her the soup as soon as she wakes up? No?... Okay what about the Potari Sweat? Okay... Yeah I got the one you told me to... Okay... Yeah, thanks mom... Okay, I will... Love you too... Yep, okay... Mom, I really gotta go!"

Your heart feels like there's not enough room for it in your aching chest.

You creep back over to the sofa soundlessly, letting Hiro conclude his phone call with his mother while you nestle yourself back into your cocoon of blankets as if you never left.

He shuffles out of your bedroom a few minutes later.

"Hey," he says, noticing that your eyes are open. "Welcome back, patient zero. Thought I lost you there."

You push yourself up as he approaches, perching himself on the edge of the sofa. He touches the cold pack on your forehead and notices it's gone mostly warm, and he carefully peels it off of your skin.

"Want something cold to drink?" he asks.

"Yes, please," you rasp out with a nod.

Hiro returns to your side with a bottle of sports drink he'd retrieved from your fridge, and another dose of medicine for you. He cracks off the lid of the drink as you pop the two tablets into your mouth, handing you the beverage to help swallow them down.

"Think you've got it in you to eat anything?" he asks as you take a second swig of the cool drink. You shake your head no. "I figured, but I made you some soup whenever you feel up to it."

"What time is it?" you ask him, looking around for your phone though you can't for the life of you remember where you put it.

"A little after 10, you were out for almost six hours," he explains, pulling your phone out of his hoodie pocket and handing it to you as though sensing what you were looking for without you needing to say it. The time on the screen verifies his claims.

"How am I still so tired?" you groan miserably, letting yourself flop back against your throw pillows.

"You're sick. That just means your body is healing, fighting off the germs and all that," Makki says, reaching out and brushing some hair back from your face. "You look a lot better than you did this afternoon."

"I still feel like shit," you mutter.

He laughs.

"How about we get you into bed then? I changed your sheets for you," he says, standing from his place on the edge of the couch cushion. He helps you up to your feet and in the direction of your bedroom.

Soon enough you're tucked under the crisp, clean cotton of fresh bedsheets, a new cold pack stuck to your forehead, and two cold beverages and a variety of medicines lining your bedside table.

"You comfy?" Makki asks after he's finished tucking you in for the second time today.

You nod.

He moves to step away towards the door.

"Where are you going?" you ask in a panic, sitting up so quickly it makes everything skew sideways in your vision for a moment, your hand rushing up to cradle your aching head.

"Hey." Makki steps up to the bed and gently eases you back against your pillows, tucking your blankets in around you once more. "I'm just going to clean up a bit. I'm not going anywhere," he assures you, but he seems to be fighting back a laugh. "You're awfully clingy for someone who was trying to slam a door in my face six hours ago."

You blink at him blearily, wishing you had the energy to muster a narrow-eyed glare.

"Yeah well, turns out you're not such a bad nurse after all," you murmur, nestling down into your pillow. "And a really good boyfriend."

Makki beams proudly, though to his credit he does try to hide it at least a little bit.

"Yeah?" he asks, patting a hand gingerly over your hair. "Would you mind saying that around the guys some time? They all think you're way outta my league."

"'s 'cause I am," you mumble sleepily.

Hiro laughs, breathy and fond, watching as your tired eyes flutter closed.

"Yeah," he says with a nod, tugging at the strings of his hoodie idly, "you are."

The next morning when you wake up, you're shocked to find that the pounding that had taken residence between your temples in the days prior has dulled to little more than an annoying ache. You sit up in your bed, eyes instinctively flickering over to where Makki had been sleeping soundly only a little while prior.

He'd crawled into bed with you at some point during the night, because when you'd woken up at 2am to take some more medicine his arms had been wrapped around your midsection like a vice.

His side of the bed is still warm, but the boy in question was nowhere to be found.

You roll out of bed, fishing a clean change of clothes from your drawers (though what you know you need more than anything is a nice long shower) and shuffle out to your living room.

Hiro is found perched on your sofa, and when he sees you enter the room he quickly shoves his hand under the throw pillow beside him.

"Morning, gorgeous," he says with a smile, his voice still thick with sleep and hair tousled.

"Ha ha," you rasp, knowing that at the present moment you're as far from gorgeous as anyone has ever been. You crawl into his lap on the sofa, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"You feeling better?" he asks, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. He must be pleasantly surprised because he nods a little as he pulls his hand away.

"Much," you say with a yawn, stretching out across his lap like an overgrown house cat. He laughs, kneading his hand into the tops of your thighs just below the curve of your ass.

"Glad to hear it," he says, smiling down at you. Your eyes flicker to the throw pillow beside him, and a second too late he realizes what you're up to.

"No--!"

Your hand darts out under the pillow, wrapping around something solid and pulling it out from beneath.

You blink down at what you've found.

A thermometer.

That reads 38.1 degrees.

"Hiro..." You peer up at your boyfriend, who looks away guiltily. "You have a fever."

He grimaces a little, peeking at you sheepishly from the corner of his eye. He shrugs a bit.

"Uh, so I guess horses aren't that healthy after all?"

#hanamaki takahiro #hanamaki takahiro x reader #hanamaki takahiro x you #makki x reader #makki x you #hq drabble #hq writing #writing #liv got mail

[jewlwpet]

Personally I think that Mirei, Sophy, and Sion are all autistic but Sion is probably the only one out of the 3 who is (at least in my headcanon) aware of it at the time the series takes place.

In Mirei's case, it mostly manifests in her being inflexible (to the point where nobody wanted to team up with her), routine-centered, very caught up in Following The Rules, and getting atypical results when trying to put herself in other people shoes (like that time she bought Laala a law book for her birthday because it's something she, Mirei, would have been thrilled to receive). These aren't things she's likely to have seen a specialist about so it would probably go unnoticed.

In Sophy's case, I just think if she knew she was autistic she would have announced it to the world at the same time she came out as physically disabled.

The reason I think Sion probably knows she's autistic is because I headcanon that she was a late talker. And late talkers usually get diagnosed around 3 or 4 years old because not talking is a really obvious sign that a kid is not neurotypical.

The way she talks mostly in 4 character idioms, it reminds me of something I read about an autistic kid who talks only in Disney references. It gives me the vibe of someone who taught herself to read before she was even talking (a lot of autistic people are early readers).

I also think that Sion probably taught herself to play Go before she could talk, maybe even when she was a toddler, and when she first started talking it was probably about Go.

#pripara #puripara #mirei minami #sophy hojo #sion todo

[darthbreezy]

A Scarlet Letter Day(fic)

Note - this is inspired (admittedly a bit overdue as it's rattled around in one form or another since I first read the story) by 'Idiot'

https://archiveofourown.org/works/49224499

by the Blessedly Talented theyellowestmustard - I'd strongly suggest reading it first, not only because it's brilliant, but as it's a direct springboard to this tale - Idiots, spoonerisms and Idioms inclusive... * This is a rough daft because I really want to have a nice, well thought out accounting of this scarlet letter day before I journal it in the nice book Crowley gave me for my personal thoughts away from the flying eyes of Heaven. I'll make my official report later - I'm still officially a level 37 Scrivener and every once in a while the Head Office wants a report. OK, so it's been a long time since they've asked (Not since the Metatron put me in charge of the Bookshop) but since the Supreme Arch Angel 'quit' (!!!) surely they'll want a record?

That will be different than what I write for myself (Is that a sin? Is it Vanity? I'll ask The Supreme Arch Angel The Traitor Aziraphale (I think for brevity and clarity, I'll just call him 'Mr. Fell' as that's what the other shop keepers (like Maggie and Nina) call him. I can't wait to go chew the facts with them about what happened! But I have to wait until Crowley and Mr. Fell leave before I can go over. Crowley said if they knew Mr. Fell was back, they'd ''be on them like a flock of quacking ducks'' (Crowley normally likes ducks, so I don't know why this is a problem?) and that ''he and Angel'' (that's what he calls Mr. Fell when he likes him) ''needed a few days alone to get re-acquainted.'' When I asked if they were going to have 'make up sex', or was that just a one time think, Mr. Fell's whole corporation seemed to go almost purple while Crowley just snort-laughed and told Mr. Fell to wait for him in the Bentley, and that he'd miracle everything they'd need for the trip. He didn't answer my question though, but considering I haven't heard him laugh since we were bees in Heaven, so that's OK. I don't know if it's 'proper' for me, an angel (37 level scrivener) to care about a demon, but Crowley has been kind to me (he can deny all he wants. but angels like Michael used to look at me like I was something dirty on the bottom of their shoe even though Heaven is always clean, unlike the streets here on Earth.) It's so nice to see him so happy. I just hope Mr. Fell doesn't hurt him again. I don't think he really wanted to the first time, but Heaven doesn't tell me anything. Some things shouldn't be examined too closely I think. Of course, Crowley would tell me otherwise, but he is a demon after all.

SO!

Mr. Fell came back from Heaven! There was a bit of a clock up (or was it a wind up? I was in any case.) I got locked and miracled out of the bookshop all night. I was worried scared for Crowley, but it turns out he was asleep on Mr Fell's new (BIG!) bed. I was glad that he was safe (and sleeping! He hasn't slept in a long time. Sleep is a human thing living, Earth-Creature thing, which makes me wonder how much of a demon he really is, now?)

Once I made sure that Crowley was really safe. Mr. Fell and I went downstairs to talk.

He said he appreciated how well I kept the bookshop, I told him how Crowley helped make sure we never sold a single book, and that made him sad for some reason. I didn't want to him to think we just just didn't sell books, but added some new things to make it look nice, including the 'Quote Board' that was by the till. Nina had given it to me when I took over the shop and until yesterday, it had said ''You're only as strong as the drinks you mix.'' but now there was a new message in Crowley's hand. It said 'The Supreme Arse-Angel has left the building.'' I went to erase it, but Mr. Fell smiled and said to leave it.

He made a nice cup of tea and we talked about, well, me!

What I might want to do (stay on Earth of go back to Heaven - I really think I want to stay here, it so nice and I like having people to talk to).

I know Crowley's apartment is a possibility (did he even ask Crowley? I guess having that bedroom with a big bed means he's going to stay here.) I tried to tell Mr. Fell that I really liked Earth and would probably want to stay, but he got all anxious, and wrung his hands and said not to be 'rash' or 'hasty', so I said I would think about it.

I asked him to tell me what happened last night and at first he didn't want to tell me anything, saying it was ''water under the bridge'' and it was between him and Crowley but I reminded him that I was the one locked out - miracled out! all night, and I deserved an explanation. He sighed and said there had been a lot of shouting, and more than a few tears, then finally some real talking and perhaps a bottle between them...

I was going to ask whether they were going to go have their 'extremely alcoholic breakfast at the Ritz' when we heard Crowley's voice calling for his Angel from the main part of the shop.

You'd think Mr. Fell's wings were on fire by how fast he ran out to meet him. I was only a few steps behind but by the time I got out there, Mr. Fell was already standing really close to Crowley, with his arms around the demon's waist. he was wearing a silky robe that looked like (I couldn't be sure because Mr. Fell was standing right up against him) it was completely open. I guess he realised I was there really quickly, because all at once he snapped his fingers and was fully dressed. He looked nicer than he has in months!

''You still here, you little Treacle Tart?'' he asked, so I said ''yes you, you Lizard Lounger!'' which surprised Mr. Fell, but I think Crowley's snort laugh surprised him even more - (Oh, I guess it's 'Lounge Lizard' but in any case, it was funny to us.)

So the short and fat of it is, Crowley and Mr. Fell are going to spend a few days 'on the coast' together. Crowley said not to ring them even if the Anti-Christ shows up on the stoop or he'd tie all my fingers into knots (which is a really low level 'threat' from him - I guess he was too excited to get going, and Mr. Fell said Adam was a lovely young man anyway.) I'll be watching the shop, and not selling any books until they return. Maybe when they get back, I'll go someplace myself! All by myself!! Maybe even as far as Greenwich!

As Crowley said, it's time to leave the Garden,

I think I'm ready!

M.

#crowley #aziraphale #good omens #fanfic #ineffable husbands #muriel

[believemetheodore]

Picture Perfect pt.3

Photos from this shoot and this shoot Fic Navigation Page

A week later, Rebecca finds herself in Ted's apartment again. An empty pink box sits on the coffee table. He'd made biscuits just for her. She'd mentioned over drinks after the Richmond shoot last week that she hadn't been able to get them off her mind. Ted promised there were plenary more where the first batch came from, and true to his word, he'd presented her with the baby pink box of biscuits the moment she'd gotten in the door. “Biscuits with the boss!” He’d said.

Now, they sip glasses of red wine, fully invested in the accidental game of twenty questions they'd started nearly an hour before. The questions had started easy, and light-hearted: “First concert? Best concert?” He’d asked. “Spice Girls. And, the Spice Girls”. “Favourite book?” She’d quizzed. “The Fountain Head. Controversial, I know. But, I can explain!” 

The questions are tougher now, more personal, three glasses of wine into the night: “Why did you move to London?” She dares to ask. “Wanted to give my wife some space. Didn’t work out in the end”. “Biggest fear?” He wonders. “Being alone. It’s terrible-- but it’s been necessary”. 

There's a comfort in being known, Rebecca realizes. She's happy to divulge her secrets, and even happier to hear Ted's. It's shameless the way they speak to each other. Their lives, their highs and lows, their mistakes, and their triumphs aren't anything to hide from one another, and this evening has only proved that. 

She tells him about her divorce, and the bitterness she shouldered. He tells her about his son, and how he worries about being so far away from him. Confessions fall out, and honesty pours without provocation. Solace is found in the quiet of Ted’s livingroom. 

By the time they reach the bottom of the bottle, her head rests on his shoulder.  an old episode of bake off playing on the television. It's been ages since she's known this level of domestic peace. 

It's the first time they've hung out for any reason not related to work at all, and it's lovely. She doesn't resist the urge to relax further into the sofa. It's uncomplicated, the ability to land so comfortably in  Ted’s space, and she can't help but wonder if he'd be at ease at her home. If he stopped by her office, could she settle his concerns and fears, how he manages to calm hers on a photography set? 

Her curiosity wraps her in thoughts of their intertwined lives. But, the fear of overstaying her welcome lingers in the back of her mind, dragging her from her thoughts. 

“I should get going. I've got a busy day tomorrow”.

Ted sits up on the couch when she does. He watches as she slips on her jacket and shoes, making his way to the door when she does. 

“Last question,” she teases, “when can I come to get some more biscuits?”

“Any time you like, Rebecca,” his response is sincere. His voice is low, and punctuated with an expression she can't quite read. 

“Thank you, Ted,” she offers a shy smile stepping out into the cobblestone alley. 

“Hey, ‘Becca?” he calls, and she turns back to face him, “why'd you kiss me the other night?”

She swallows. She's not sure how to explain it.

“It just felt right”.

He nods, his hands in the pockets of his khakis.

“I'm sorry,” she tells him.

“Was it that bad?” He tries to joke. 

She has to smile at that, “no, Ted. It wasn't bad at all”. 

“Noted”. 

While they don't have any opportunities to see each other in person for the next week or so, they stay in touch. There's not a day that goes by without texts or FaceTime calls between them. She texts him first thing in the morning still dressed in her pyjamas, waiting for the kettle to come to a boil. he calls her late at night, freshly showered, and laying in bed. 

She doesn't tire of his puns, or Americanisms. His jokes, and his idioms leave her grinning to spite herself. 

On good days, Everything that makes him chuckle gets filed away at the forefront of her mind. She feels privileged to know that he giggles when he's truly amused. His head tips back, laughing until she's sure he'll cry. She swears she'll do everything in her power to hear that sound again and again. 

On bad days, their conversations skew melancholy. They talk about their pasts and their fears for the future. He confesses that he's been in therapy for the last little while, and she admits that she probably should be too. Their conversation goes on until it fizzles out, the sound of their breathing overlapping until they fall asleep. 

Neither of them mentions their kiss. They don't mention how close they've grown over such a relatively short amount of time. Still, Rebecca plays it again and again in her head, refusing to let go of whatever this bond between them is shaping up to be.

Are you at home, Ted?

She sends the text as she packs up her purse, double-checking she has all of her belongings before she leaves her office for the day. She’s on her way out of the building by the time Ted responds. 

Actually, I’m just on my way to my studio.

Wouldn’t mind the company. I have a feeling you’ll liven up the place 😉

She rolls her eyes, ignoring the blush on her cheeks. 

She’s got the digital print preview for the  Richmond article. She hasn’t even taken a peak at the document, wanting Ted to be there with her when she sees the photos for the first time. It’s been torture, the email eating at her. She feels like a kid who just got their spending money, not sure where to spend it, but feeling like it’s burning a hole in her pocket. She just doesn’t know what she’s expecting. She knows what she’s hoping the photos look like. She has an idea of what pull quotes they will use. But the anxiety still lingers. 

Roy commented, saying she “smashed it” when he forwarded her the email. Keeley also assured her with some colourful language and ultimate best friend encouragement that both the article and the images were “Absolutely, positively, mind-blowing, Rebecca”. 

But still, there’s no one else she’d rather have by her side looking over the preview than Ted.  

Ted’s studio is nearly as cozy as his home. High ceilings, airy lighting. Hardwood floors and exposed brick walls are highlighted by the grey and blue accent colours. 

There’s a casual seating area and a kitchenette with one of the largest posters she’s ever seen hanging on the wall-- an advert for a Kansas City barbecue sauce. The rest of the space is dedicated to work and creativity; a backdrop and lights set up at one end of the room; a set of desks backed onto each other, surprisingly tidy if not a little cluttered. She assumes the second desk belongs to his friend Beard. 

Rebecca’s eye catches on the yellow and blue handmade sign above the door to the dark room. Believe, it reads in Ted’s own bold writing. She likes that; it’s quintessentially him, and she’s standing staring at it when he steps out of the darkroom. 

He says hello with some playful teasing and genuine excitement about how the trench coat she’s wearing makes her look like a spy. Coming from Ted’s mouth, it sounds like a compliment. 

Despite his joking, he holds out a hand, “I'll hang your coat. Let ya stay a while”.

“Thank you, Ted”. 

She feels like she's on the back foot. She's adopted his flat as a kind of second home, another shelter from the storm, so to speak. But this is her first time in his studio. It feels more intimate, knowing he spends more time here than he ever spends at home. The flat is just a place to eat, sleep, and bake biscuits. This studio is his life she's standing in. 

He includes her effortlessly. He makes tea surprisingly well, considering his distaste for the ‘hot brown water’. She sets up her laptop on the coffee table while he putters around the kitchenette, joining her once he's made a coffee for himself. It smells like vanilla. 

“I'd offer you some snacks, but beard took the last of the granola bars home--something about pigeons?” Ted says, “I'm afraid I'm not much of a host this evening. Hey! Did I ever tell you about the first dinner party I hosted? I was eighteen--”

“Ted?” Rebecca interrupts, “I'm sure it's an excellent story, but I have something to show you”.

“Ooh. State secrets? I knew you were a spy”.

“I'm sorry to disappoint; it's just the print preview for the Richmond article”.

“Even better. I don't think I'd be very good at hanging on to state secrets anyway. Too loquacious for espionage”. 

Setting down her cup and saucer, Rebecca clicks the document, taking a deep breath before she looks at the spread. 

“These photos are stunning, Ted”.

“It's all you, Boss. I'm just pressing a button”.

She wishes he wouldn't sell himself short. 

She's never liked photos of herself as much as she likes the ones Ted has taken of her.

He's right when he says it's all her. It is. Every bit of her heart spread across the page. Every bit of pain, fear, joy, and love she's ever felt is visible in her eyes. She's glowing. Only Ted can capture her like that, and she knows it's because he can see her, and he can see through her even without a lens. 

“Ya know, boss, sometimes I wonder why I even came over here. I used to be a gallery curator. I collected art. I didn't make it. Photography was a hobby--I'm never quite sure if I'm cut out for this”.

“You are, Ted”.

“The opportunities you've helped bring my way, the shoots I've done with you? They've changed my life, Rebecca”.

She lets his words settle, not entirely sure how to respond. It’s a foreign feeling to be thanked. After so many years of being called cold, heartless, and selfish, it’s difficult to process her own ability to give. Rebecca swallows hard, genuinely touched by her ability to give, even when she’s not trying. All this time, she’d been so dead focused on breaking herself down, and tearing herself apart, perturbed and disquieted, worrying about asking Ted for his help. She hadn’t stopped to consider that she was doing him a favour as well.  

It breaks her heart to know that he isn’t entirely confident in his skills, doubting his impact and ability. Every life he touches, he changes. She is not the same woman she was months ago, and she’s incredibly glad for it.

“You know there’s a saying in dutch football,” she begins. “And here I was thinking it was America’s game!” “Our football, Ted. Not yours,” she corrects, “every disadvantage has its advantage”. 

He hums as he weighs her words, his brows lifting, a smile crossing his face. “Sure, you don’t know much about the fashion industry. But doesn’t that mean you get to see things in a different light? Take photos differently than anybody else would?” 

Ted nods enthusiastically, “I think you’re on to something there, ‘Becca”. 

It’s like a weight lifted from her shoulders. 

Keeley is over the moon when the Richmond article gets released. The project is as exciting as promised, and to be featured alongside so many other incredible artists, models, and designers is an honour. The response has Rebecca thinking more about Richmond, and the potential of a more creative publication. Her own magazine Nelson Road, is up in profit, and the conversation of moving towards growing into a publication conglomerate, running multiple editorials, magazines, blogs etc., out of the same publishing house, has come up many times between Rebecca and her right-hand man Leslie Higgins. 

Work is stressful, but it’s impossible not to enjoy it; to revel in the renewed appreciation for her freedom, and her success. Her peace comes on Friday nights, movies and dinner with Ted. Sometimes he joins her at her home, but despite the size of her kitchen, she rarely has anything good to eat. She reminds Ted that she’s more than glad to order in, but he insists on cooking. So, more often than not, they end up at Ted’s flat. 

They’re enjoying their dessert (apple crumble), when Ted’s phone lights up with a Facetime call from Henry. And, it feels like her heart grows three sizes when he answers the call, not for a second worried about making her uncomfortable. She wants Ted to feel safe and comfortable.

“Hey, kiddo!” “Hi, dad!” Henry grins. “It gotta be way past your bedtime, buddy. What’s happening?” “I need help deciding if I want to bring Lego Hogwarts or my polaroid camera to show and tell tomorrow”. 

Ted hums, “hmm, I gotta go with the camera for fear of how Hogwarts might travel, ya know?” 

“Good thinking, Abe Lincoln!” Henry’s response is enthusiastic, and Rebecca wants to laugh at how much he sounds like his father. 

They chat a while longer before Ted reminds the boy that it is definitely time for bed. His smile lingers even once they’ve said their goodbyes. 

“He still sends me care packages,” Ted tells her, “I’ve been out here for more than a year now, and every couple of months, I get a box full of things he’s made or wants me to have so I don’t forget home”. “He’s an incredible kid,” Rebecca tells him honestly. 

She sits on his kitchen counter, sipping a glass of wine while he tidies, insistent that he doesn’t want her to lift a finger. He tells her about the last care package he got from Henry when she asks about it. His eyes light up as he tells her all about the bottle of the world’s best barbecue sauce and the paper kazoo Henry made him at school. But he’s thrilled to show her the little green army men that arrived. She’s noticed them set up around his apartment, and had always assumed they were from Henry, but the confirmation and Ted’s joy fill her heart. 

It’s bittersweet, the reminder of how much she had wanted to be a mother. It’s a reminder of all the years she’s missed in the life of her goddaughter, and she feels sick thinking about it. Watching Ted be the incredible father he is, has her yearning for that connection. 

Ted tilts his head when he turns to look at her, drying his hands as he moves to stand in front of her. Sliding off the countertop, Rebecca takes the initiative of closing the space between them. She’s instantly enveloped in a hug. His mustach tickles the side of her neck. 

There’s a tension in the air that accompanies the open affection, an unspoken reminder of the kiss they’d shared months ago. 

“Can I photograph you?” He asks. 

“You already have”. “I know. But this portrait project I’ve been working on-- I want to take your photo if you’ll let me”. 

Her response is a kiss. She knows her words will fail her if she tries to speak. But she can only hope to convey how much she absolutely adores him, and if the way he holds her is any indication, he adores her too. 

She commits every detail of him to memory. His touch, his laugh, the way he kisses her like his life depends on it. She doesn't ever want to forget the way his face scrunches up, his peaceful sleep disturbed by the pesky morning sun creepy through his bedroom window.  

All of it plays on a loop in her head from the moment he brings her breakfast in bed, to the kiss goodbye she gets on her way out the door. 

And now she watches his hands shake, changing out his lens, and Rebecca can't help but reach out and steady him. Her hands soft when they grasp his wrists giving Ted the chance to put the equipment down before she entangles her fingers with his. His eyes don't meet hers, downcast, focused on his own shoes. 

“Ted?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you alright?” 

“I just want to make sure I do this right”.

Rebecca nods at his admition. though she can't pretend to understand his logic, she wants to. She wants to know everything about him. So, she asks, “what makes you think you won't?”

“I don't know--guess that's pretty backwards, ain't it?” 

“I think it just means you care,” she offers, “which is also why I know you're going to make me look incredible”.

He lets out a breathy laugh, “I told you already, you don't need any of my help with that, ‘Becca”. 

He flatters her, but it’s genuine. She knows every word from Ted’s mouth to be honest. Rebecca doesn’t have any interest in spending her time comparing Ted and Rupert. They couldn’t be any more dissimilar, theres no comparison to make. But, Rebecca knows how it feels to be on the receiving end of a backhanded compliment; to be sweet-talked to soften the blow of cruel words, or distract from mistreatment. 

Rebecca accepts Ted’s compliments because she knows he means each word. He dotes on her without any ulterior motive. Now, that she’s learned to accept praises, she just needs to learn to believe them. 

With a quick kiss to ground him, Ted resumes his work. He ignores the digital camera, and the lenses he set down earlier, and chooses to shoot on film. The camera looks quite old, but has obviously been well taken care of. Rebecca watches, fascinated as he loads it, wondering if it holds any sentimental value. 

“The first camera I ever bought.” Ted answers her unvoiced question, “Only for special occasions now”. 

“I’m honoured,” she grins playfully as he snaps his first photo. 

It’s months later when Ted wanders into her office with a bounce in his step. 

“Good morning! And what a great morning it is!” “Good morning, Ted,” she returns his smile, and is all too happy to let him kiss her. “You forgot your biscuits,” he explains, setting the little pink box on her desk. “What would I do without you?” 

He’s not able to respond before Higgins is entering the room. “Oh, sorry,” Higgins excuses himself, “I can come back later”. 

“Nothing to apologize for Higgie-smalls,” Ted insists, “What’s happening?” Higgins turns his attention to Rebecca, “I just got the confirmation that Welton Publishing is now the proud owner of a third magazine: BEX”. 

There’s a gasp of joy that escapes her, and she’s unbothered and unashamed. She’s cheering, and Higgins is grinning ear to ear. Ted finishes his celebratory dance before offering up the proudest smile he can manage. She knows they’ll be going out to dinner tonight, her and Ted, Keeley and Roy, Higgins, Beard, and all of their closest friends. She’s worked hard for this, faced trial by fire for this. And to think of where she was a year ago? Afraid to step on anyone’s toes. Scared shitless by the prospect of being seen, or vulnerable. But, today she stands, the proud owner of a growing conglomerate. Nelson Road, Richmond, and BEX all under her proprietorship. 

She is successful. She is loved. And most importantly, she’s free.

#ted lasso fic #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso x rebecca welton #ted x rebecca #tedbecca #photography au

[liahswriting]

Lesson of the Day

Relationship(s): Bloodhound/Original Female Character

Words: 2,463

Warnings: None

Summary: She wants to learn Icelandic and surprise him. He helps her.

She felt really stupid as she repeated aloud the same three phrases over and over again, trying to get the pronunciation correct. Or at least somewhat passable. She was a native English speaker, damn it!....... Her parents spoke English, her grandparents spoke English...... Her great-grandparents spoke both English and Russian but that's not exactly helpful at all in this situation. Or any situation considering her great-grandparents died when she was barely past the newborn age and she never learned.

Icelandic was a difficult language for her to learn. The foreign letters and tongue-twisting sounds they made seemed impossible to get right. But she wanted to try so she could surprise Bloodhound. She's expressed interest in learning before, but he didn't take her seriously and told her not to worry about it -English came easy to him after all these years, and conversation between them never had much of a barrier. Sure, every now and again he couldn't find the right word to use in a rare sentence he never said on a day-to-day basis. And, sure, sometimes he gets idioms wrong. But for the most part everything was fine.

It's been a month just going over basic conversation pieces: Hello. How are you. What's your name. My name is. She also learned a few food-related words and phrases, as well as a couple terms of endearment to use with friends, family, and loved ones. To be honest, that last part was purely because she loved the terms he used for her, and she wanted to find one to use for him.

All of this was meant to be a surprise, meaning she wanted to be far enough along within the lesson before she attempted conversation. But she got the feeling he was catching on to her. He almost caught her once as she was practicing. She didn't expect him to come home so soon and she was mid-phrase when he walked through the door. She scrambled to mute her phone audio so he couldn't hear the automated voice repeating the phrase over and over again.

And then he began to question what it was about her phone that had her so invested. He'd look over her shoulder, thinking she couldn't see him doing it, and she'd have to hide it. When she started sneaking off to practice in peace, he started throwing a multitude of questions at her: Where did you go? Why do you keep disappearing?

At this point, it was either put up or shut up. She didn't know how long she had before he figured it out, so she decided to cram as much into her brain as she could and then give it a go. She'll start off easy, she figured. When he comes home, she'll ask him how his day was. And then she'll inform him that she will be cooking pork for sandwiches for dinner tonight. Because that was the only thing she could pronounce in the lesson that wasn't an English-borrowed word. And then afterwards she will tell him she loves him. Easy peasy.

Yet, when he walked through the door, her heart started hammering and her mind just went completely blank. Part of her feared he'd laugh at her childish dialect. For some reason, non-English speakers are allowed to have an accent when speaking English, but it was not okay for a native-English speaker to have an accent when speaking another language. They were considered lazy learners who came off as offensive. Fucking hell, Octavio poked fun at her when she jokingly repeated a string of Spanish she remembered from her early school years. Called her a gringa in between his laughter, although he assured her it was said with love and not malice or offense. Even still, it felt like he was laughing at her and not her elementary-level Spanish.

"How was your day?" she panicked and asked him in English. She mentally kicked herself.

"Interesting. Elliott seems to become increasingly annoying every day." he replied as he kicked off his shoes and unclasped his mask and head gear. "How was your day?"

This was a good place for her to answer in Icelandic. She wanted to say her day was good. She knew the word for good: góður. The problem was trying to remember where to put it in the sentence. The syntax in Icelandic wasn't exactly the same as it was in English, and she had a hard time remembering which words got flipped around. When she hesitated to answer him because she was thinking, he repeated his question, making her hands shake as she prepped the kitchen space.

"Dagurinn minn var góður."

As if she was embarrassed, she looked down. Her gaze fell to her shaking hands, watching them open the package of pork and rub in some seasonings. She hoped her actions seemed natural and he didn't catch on to the fact that she was on the verge of tears. When Bloodhound approached her, she mentally prepared herself for his laughter. She didn't expect him to gently wrap his arms around her waist and place a tender kiss on her cheek.

"You have been learning something new."

"Well, trying is more like it." she said and then sucked in a breath.

"I told you not to worry."

"I know you did. I just thought you'd be happy to not have to accommodate me all the time." she confessed to him. He turned her and forced her attention on him. He looked at her like he couldn't believe what she was saying. Like she said something completely stupid.

"I have no trouble accommodating you. I learned English as a young child. I can understand you, and you can understand me."

"But wouldn't you be happier being able to speak your own language once in awhile?"

"I speak Icelandic when I go home. I do not need anything more."

"I still want to learn. I want to be able to have a conversation with you in the morning, where you're still tired and have trouble switching your brain into English mode. Or when you do that thing when you're really upset, and you flip flop between English and Icelandic because you can't find the right words to describe how much Elliott irritates you." she began giggling as she spoke. It was true that Bloodhound often used Icelandic insults in the middle of an English sentence because someone just had to say something so incredibly stupid that his mind just couldn't process it. But, mostly, she just wanted to be a good girlfriend.

"Alright." he said. "If you wish to learn, I will help you. Starting now, I will only speak Icelandic so you can learn every day conversation."

"Wait wait wait." she held her hands up and her eyes widened with panic. "I'm still a beginner here! You're gonna go easy on me, right?"

"The best way to learn a new language is to use it every day. It is how I learned English while living with my uncle."

"Well, yeah, but you also knew a little bit of English from your parents before they died. You had that foundation built for you. I'm starting from scratch." she reminded him. "Plus-" she butted back in before he could say anything. "-it's been proven that children are better adept at learning new languages than adults are. You learned English as a child. I am learning Icelandic as an adult. Very different."

"I only knew very little. My parents died when I was very young. I hardly remember them. But once you understand one word, you can understand a sentence. What I did not understand, I eventually learned. Adults learn new languages all the time."

"Alright. Fine. But go easy on me. Talk to me like I'm four years old. I only learned some greetings and a little bit of food. I didn't get any further than that." she begged of him. He nodded at her, and that should've been a comfort. But then he began speaking strictly in Icelandic, and the panic set in again.

"Hvað ertu að elda?" the Icelandic flowed easily from his lips. Her brain went blank. She had no clue what to do. Those words didn't sound familiar. She looked into his eyes, believing she could read his mind if she stared hard enough. But she couldn't. And he asked her again. "Hvað ertu að elda?" This time he pointed to the meat on the counter.

Her eyes followed his finger, and she pointed to the meat to confirm that's what he was talking about. He nodded, awaiting her answer. Hvað meant what. Right? Yeah, she remembered learning that as one of her first words in the lesson. Okay, he's asking what something is.

"Uh.... svínakjöt?" she answered unsure of herself. Adding a shrug of her shoulders for emphasis. "Samlokur. Svínakjöt samlokur."

"Svínasamlokur." he interrupted.

"What?"

"Svínasamlokur." he repeated.

"Pork sandwiches?"

"Já. Svínasamlokur." 

Okay. She knew what já meant. Pretty much every Slavic and Germanic language said yes the same way. She mispronounced pork sandwiches. Only slightly. She learned the word for pork, and then she learned the word for sandwich. She just assumed you smush the two together to make pork sandwich. Guess not.

"Listen, I only chose to make pork because it was the only thing I could actually pronounce." she confessed. He laughed.

"Þú munt læra."

"I have absolutely no idea what you just said. But, anyway, I am making pork sandwiches -svínasamlokur- and salad -salat. So, if you don't like pork sandwiches, too bad." He laughed again.

"Ég mun fara í sturtu. Þú eldar." he said. He kissed her cheek again and unwound his arms from her frame. She scrunched her eyes at him.

"What?"

Instead of offering a verbal response, he took her wrist and had her follow him into the bathroom. He pointed at the shower.

"Sturta."

"Shower."

"Já. Ég mun fara í sturtu."

"You're gonna shower."

"Já."

"Got it. Sturta means shower." she gave a seasoning-covered thumbs up like an idiot. "You shower, I'll finish cooking dinner."

He gave her a soft kiss before letting her go. She left the bathroom to give him the space to shower, and went back to the kitchen where the pork was ready to be tossed on the skillet.

"Sturta means shower." she reminded herself. "Shower, sturta. Pork sandwhich, svínasamlokur."

The pork sizzled in the oiled skillet. She topped it with a lid to keep the moisture in and then went to prepare the sauce to go on it. She was thinking spicy barbeque. The salad wouldn't take long, so she then chopped up all the ingredients and put it in a large bowl to get it done and over with. With that set aside, she put her focus back on the pork. She braised it with a little bit of butter and some of the barbeque sauce when it was about halfway cooked. Then let it marinate in the juices the rest of the way.

Bloodhound was done showering just before the pork was done cooking. She told him to have a seat, that dinner would be ready shortly.

"Kvöldmaturinn lyktar ljúffengur." he said as he sat down.

"Hm?"

"Kvöldmaturinn lyktar ljúffengur." he repeated.

"Kvöldmaturinn means..... dinner? Something about the dinner?" At his nod, she tried to guess what he was trying to say. "You're.... hungry?" He shook his head. "How long until dinner's ready?" Again he shook his head. "I have no fucking idea."

He did a dramatic inhale through his nose and smiled.

"Dinner smells...... hopefully good." she tried to joke. "If it doesn't smell good, keep it to yourself."

"Já. Góður." he laughed at her.

"Alright. Sturta is shower, svínasamlokur is pork sandwich, kvöldmaturinn is dinner, and lyktar ljúffengur means it smells good. And how much you wanna bet I'm gonna forget all of this tomorrow."

"Ég mun minna þig á."

"Once again, I have no idea what you said. You're going easy on me, right? Not using any big words? Or conjugating a bunch of stuff that I have to learn?"

"Ehhhhh." he lazily shrugged, trying to indicate with his hands that he was playing loose with the rules. She didn't really have the strength within her to fight about it.

"Whatever." She waved him off. "Dinner's pretty much done. So grab a plate. And don't ask me to say it in Icelandic. I didn't learn tableware yet."

Bloodhound stood and grabbed a plate from the cabinet and presented it to her.

"Diskur." he simply said.

"Plate."

"Diskur."

"Diskur, plate. Got it."

She handed him the bread bag and then proceeded to take some forks and shred the pork for him to build his sandwich. A drizzle of the spicy barbeque sauce here, some extra salt to taste there, and dinner was complete. She moved out of the way so he could get his food. When he was done, she plated some for herself.

Dinner for the two of them was usually filled with lots of conversation. But, unfortunately, her lack of Icelandic knowledge has squashed that ritual. Single word phrases and small sentences were the only things he uttered. And she tried her best to guess what it was he was saying. Lots of gestures. Oh my god, so many gestures. They might as well be playing charades instead of having a language lesson.

After dinner, it was her turn to take a shower. Which she happily remembered to translate. Mostly. She got 'I' and 'Shower'. She forgot if the proper phrasing was to go shower, to take a shower, or to have a shower. So it simply came out as 'Ég sturta'. Hey, it was a start. He knew what she meant.

Later that night, like they always do, they settled into bed and put on a random show to occupy the space. It took a long time to convince Bloodhound to get a tv. He eventually caved, and now they enjoy watching tv together. He would never admit it, but she managed to get him hooked on one of her favorite shows. Once the yawning started, they shut the device off and cuddled up under the covers.

"Ég elska þig." he murmured into her hair and then gave her forehead a kiss. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know what he said. He tells her all the time. Both in English and Icelandic.

"Ég elska þig." she repeated the sentiment.

And then they fell asleep.

#apex legends #bloodhound #original female character #ofc #fanfiction #oneshot #imagine #sfw

[sayitaliano]

a few questions about these verbs…

i was just in italy and it seems like they use “buttare” for so many things that it confuses me on the true meaning?

Mi tolgo- cosa significa?

also is Badare used commonly? i’m reading vincent van goghs book right now (circa the 1880s) in italian and it’s used a lot for “take care” but i’ve never heard or seen it in my italian lessons/heard anyone use it

Ciao!

Buttare - "to throw", in general. You probably have heard us saying: butta la pasta! = "throw" the pasta! (into the water so that it cooks) buttare (via) la spazzatura = to "throw" away the garbage buttare via = to throw away buttalo! = throw it away! slang: come butta? = what's up? Cannot think about other examples atm, so if you have please send them. It depends on the usage (slang or fixed sentences + "common" usage)

Mi tolgo - "I remove from myself", or "to take off one's own clothes/something" (mi = from me). Infinitive reflexive form: togliersi. Examples: mi tolgo i vestiti = I take my clothes off mi tolgo (di mezzo) = I go away (lit.: I remove myself (from here): beware cause it may be used as "to k*ll" in certain situations like thriller books/movies, especially as "togliere qualcuno di mezzo") mi tolgo un dubbio = I remove a doubt from myself (by spaking/doing something) toglimi un dubbio... = tell me... (as "tell me the truth" or better "tell me if I am right or wrong *as I think this*") idiom: mi tolgo un sassolino dalla scarpa = to get rid of sth, especially something emotionally annoying (lit.: to remove a pebble from your shoe)

Badare - take care think about "badante" which is how generallly we call people that take care of elders in our homes. "Badante" translates as "someone who takes care". As a verb it's probably not so common but yes it's used (despite probably more in some Regions than others). It is also used as "to pay attention": bada... = pay attention/be careful (there's also an old song: Bada Caterina by Carmen Villani) In this acception I think it's also common in signs that tells you to pay attention to something that may be not safe or in formal things, like "badare alle controindicazioni" = pay attention to the contraindications

#it #italian #langblr #italiano #italian language #italian langblr #language #languages #parole words #traduzioni #verbs #italian vocabs #italian vocabulary #italianblr

[forgivenpunishment]

❛ This was a bad idea. Get out of my bed, now. ❜

⩥ @crucifixi || morning after [OPEN]

this was a bad idea.

"Well damn, where else was I s'posed to sleep?" Nick hops out from the covers and retrieves a fresh pair of boxer-briefs and some dress slacks. He's not sure if his socks match—hell, for all he knows one of his socks might be this other Wolfwood's.

As he messily begins to do up the buttons on his crinkled dress shirt, he takes a look at the damage in the bathroom mirror. His neck is absolutely mauled; it's bruised and marked to oblivion and back. He can only imagine—based on the burning sensation on his back—that he's got scratches to match.

Sighing, he quickly gives his hair a fluff, trying to make it look like he didn't spend the night fucking himself (and failing, he still looks quite fucked).

"Hey, have you seen my—"

A heeled boot hits him square in the chest.

"—Yeah that. Thanks."

Nick pointedly ignores the intense shouts that his double is throwing at him in Spanish. He also ignores the fact that the man is scrambling around with a sheet wrapped around him, both searching for his own clothes and looking for random shit to throw at Nick.

He manages to shove the boot on and looks around for the other one, "Now where did I..."

Another thud as his other boot slaps him across the cheek.

"You're really lookin' out for me huh, sweetheart?"

That really gets him going, and Nick can only snicker at the consequences of the alter's hasty decisions from the night before. 'Won't ever happen again,' he said the first time, 'We'll never speak of this again,' he said...

Well clearly that was a lie.

Putting on his red trench coat and picking up his Punisher, Nick offers a two-fingered salute as he heads out the room's door, "See ya around, Brat. Maybe you'll last longer next time."

The door opens and shuts quickly, and the last thing Nick hears is a final slurry of Spanish swears and idioms followed by another shoe slamming into it.

#crucifixi #[this fucker; crucifixi] #[doomed by the narrative; world 7] #[prying eyes; asks] #[worm dinner; crack] #// or is it 🤔 #// goddammit wolfie #[selfcest cw] #[suggestive]

[sins-of-the-sea]

"Wait, it's July 2nd already? Damn. The entire month last month zipped by and my writer wasn't even drowning in TOTK as much. And yet still it was a busy month, appointment after appointment. So I didn't get the chance to come o-"

"Hey, Captain, nice flag!"

"WHAT?!"

Josep hides the genderfluid flag behind his back.

"....What?"

"Uhh..."

"There is no point in hiding it, Captain, we kind of figured out you were genderfluid or some form of nonbinary this whole time. Even back in the old days!"

"...Really?"

"{S} You have really feminine hobbies and pursuits like shoes and fashion, you cry at the drop of a hat during the most melodramatic chick flicks, and you buy makeup and dresses for your wife more than she shops for herself."

"Maybe I am just not stereotypically-"

"You seem to wish you are more androgynous looking despite meeting the standards of male beauty to the point of jealousy from many guys--chiseled jaw, sharp cheekbones, burly build, large pecs and biceps--and yet you keep saying you look like a block of cheese. All while we disappointed every time we got some kind of anime glow-up, you are happier when you got the stock 'pretty boy' appearance."

"Well, it's just-"

"You're not comfortable with facial hair, or in actions to prove your masculinity, except for the occasional jolly-good brawl. The standards of masculinity seem to harm you more than the rest of us even back during the Renaissance. And above all, the most comfortable we've seen you is when you're dressing up in something that would be considered unmasculine back home in Barcelona at the time, even today."

"............... How long did you all stew on this?"

"Since Abena joined the Crew, around then?? We were kind of surprised you liked girls, actually, we thought you liked men too but were just in really well-armored closet. But then again, girls can be gay too. And if men and women can be gay, what is to say those who don't identify as either? And honestly, let's be real--we've lived long enough to see how precisely things like gender are fluid throughout the times. And we've always seen you hit the hardest with them and how it might be a big factor as to why you're always so moody. We've been counting the days for you to come out and be more comfortable with yourself. It's just-

"You know... the rest of us wanting you to come forward at your own time and just rip off the band-aid yourself, as the idiom goes."

"...............................

"..........I'll be right back!" Josep proceeds to race into his cabin and scream. Of joy.

Rashid sighs in relief. "You all did good, boys."

"I'm glad all this hiding is finally over! Hopefully like with some more famous folk finding happiness in coming out, I hope he does too!"

"If you ask me, his hiding and stuff was getting really of annoying."

"{S} Really?"

"After all--

"I am the most manly man of this Crew, and he should just accept he can't match me in manliness ever! So why hide how he truly is?"

"..............."

"{S} ....God-"

"...fucking-"

"....-dammit all, Ruixiong."

"WAIT A MINUTE, I DIDN'T MEAN IT LIKE-" The other men corner Ruixiong to beat him up. Except Guy, as he in the hold still at this time. In that case, Rashid stands in for him.

#I intended to write this literally a month sooner but time slipped past me like WHOA #anyway Happy (belated) Pride Month and all #leave it to Ruixiong to ruin a wholesome moment tho PFF #[Dumb] #[Captain Josep Frascona] #[Rashid al-Qadar] #[Wang Ruixiong] #[Guy Duchamp] #[Phoeobus Duchamp] #[Giovanni Vespucci] #comic violence tw #do I tag transphobia here when none of it is really happening? #Rui is just BAD WITH WORDS

[pondjrwi]

Just Roll With It Recap

Riptide Episode 72 - No Fey Home

- They come across a lively carnival, called Kas’s carnival. Chip gets his shoes tied together and says he’s gonna kill whoever did that. Whoever did that will remember this. They frolic for a while being incredibly cheerful. The carnival ticketmaster says that they can enter a ticket pact. They’ll lose something that they won’t miss and won’t know what it is until it’s gone. 

- Gil takes a ticket, and now he has to greet all trees with reverence. Jay takes one and now loves unicorns. Filipe takes one and a pumpkin appears on his hand. Chip wants a ticket for free and apparently an anonymous person bought him one, so he gets it. Gil says hi to a tree and it talks back. Chip is unsettled and thinks his friends have gone crazy. 

- They see a carousel with live unicorns and Jay goes feral. She tries to skip the line but a centaur woman stops her. Chip asks her if this is the feywild; it is. He wants to find someone to help with their bird. If they talk to Northwest, she can help. Chip asks why she’s like this, and she reveals that she made a deal with a hag to find her lost horse. The hag fused her with her horse. Chip wants to help her. The centaur says that if they beat the unicorn’s game, they might be able to help. Many people in the carnival also have been affected by “this” (maybe hags, it’s vague). If she says any more she might be harmed.

- Gil wants to attack the unicorns, but then realizes that the game is actually solving idioms, not fighting. They solve the idioms and the unicorns tell them secrets. Jay has successfully fulfilled her fixation on unicorns so now she has to compliment everyone she meets. She tells Chip that he’s “alright”, which is, according to Chip, the nicest thing she’s ever said to him. Gil has a flower crown that he has to water, but he’s always wet. 

- The unicorn's secrets are that there are 3 hags that rule over the carnival, and if you’re not careful, they’ll take something from you. The hags have the power to turn the centaur into not a centaur. The entrance to their domain is somewhere in the carnival. One of them lives in a swamp, another in a hollowed out tree, and the last in a mountain top theater. Gil sniffs that the unicorn isn’t evil. 

- They go talk to Northwest, the dragonfly ride clerk. They’re an excitable treant who wants stories from the outside world. Chip tell her what the ocean is and that he used to have horrible nightmares. She says that sounds amazing. Gil tries to lay an egg. 

- Northwest says that she came from Prysmir. After it got taken over by hags and a swamp, the Archfey who ruled it said everyone should leave. The owner of the carnival was there for anyone who wanted refuge, dimension-hopping away from Prysmir. 

- One dragonfly, bearing a gnome on it’s back, flies out of control. Jay catches the gnome just as he falls off the dragonfly. The mood and music of the carnival accelerates to match her rescuing him. Chip and Filipe sing A Whole New World as they ride dragonflies together. Filipe wants to join the performers and get money, and Chip thinks that’s an awesome pirate thing to say. Filipe sings [hs musical song] but Chip hasn’t watched that movie and can’t sing along, so the mood of the carnival goes down. 

- Jay compliments the gnome she saved and he immediately falls in love with her. He runs off to get a ring and she runs away. Filipe has been alive for three days, but he insists he’s a man. 

- As they approach the hall of illusions, they see a halfling man propose to his girlfriend. Suddenly the girlfriend falls into uncontrollable laughter and the man runs off into the hall of illusions in embarrassment. Jay walks over and also starts laughing. Chip tries to get her to stop laughing by bringing up all her sad memories and she starts crying through her laughter.

- Gil runs after the halfling and sees a mime, who he doesn’t trust. Gil sees himself in an illusion mirror as a child. Child Gil wears armor that’s too big for him and is a bruised. As he continues, he sees himself aging up into his sixties. But he can’t find the halfling. 

- The uncontrollable laughter wears off and the man’s girlfriend is very worried for her boyfriend. Jay says she’ll marry her instead, but she’s spoken for. The mime mimes that he also wanted to propose once, but his voice was stolen from him and now he’s very sad. He punches their tickets and they go in. 

- They see child versions of themselves. Child Jay has a doll and nice clothes. Child Chip is malnourished and has long, unkempt hair. There’s a stark contrast between well taken care of and not at all. 

- Gil sees the halfling pulled into a mirror by a little girl in a pig mask. He tries to jump in after him but bounces off. Now in the mirror is a much older version of the halfling holding the girl’s hand. The other three come up and he tells them about it. Chip does not want to deal with this and wants to leave. Jay asks the girl if she wants to play, and pulls out the trap mirror. Jay and Gil feel stunned for a minute, then suddenly see the girl in the trap mirror. They blink, and she’s gone. Pretzel is now also gone. 

#riptide recap #jrwi #jrwi riptide

[inavagrant-a]

@idolatri said:

"Testuya, I have something for you!" Nahida walks up to her beloved helper, a grin playing at her lips. "Humans show affection by gifting each other items that brings forth thoughts of each other."

As the Dendro Archon holds out her hand, green particles slowly build and manifest a curious item. They appear to be shoes, but made of bark?

"I even gifted a pair to Traveler! There is an idiom, I believe from Liyue, that all good things come in pairs." Now he and Lumine can take a lovely stroll around Sumeru City together while wearing these. How lovely!

It goes without saying but Kusanali had his undivided attention the moment she said that she had something for him. Oh? A gift of sorts? His efforts as her most helpful of helpers finally getting the recognition it deserves? At the start him offering to help from the shadows and become her helper by extension was something he offered because he felt like he needed to pay her back for everything that she has done for him, Kusanali has most certainly done more than anybody has ever done for him in his life, he can acknowledge that without a problem. Tetsuya doesn't like owing anything to anybody either, so he figured what better way than to help until that debt gets satisfied. That was the intention in the beginning and that intention still, in a sense, stands true today, but something has changed. Something he hopes only he has noticed and not anybody else. He... likes it here, of course it has to do a lot with how Sumeru is as a nation, its land, the vast forests, the never ending deserts. There is so much area for him to explore, so many places he could get lost in. That's a major contributor but... little by little even Kusanali has become a presence he's began to mind less and less of. The feeling of being some sort of prisoner dissolving, someone who's doing some sort of community service to pay off his sentence turning more into him deciding and choosing that he will help if it is requested and he feels inclined to say yes. Oh, how he hopes he is the only one who's come to notice this, he needs to properly address what is going on in his own time. Alone, preferably.

Tetsuya takes the act of her wanting to give him something as some sort of reward for his job well done, but she brings up affection. Sometimes it's so ridiculous how their perspectives clash, but it is fresh, sometimes it even opens his eyes to things he would have usually been blind to, things he would not have considered, or taken into account. But, he supposes, being the God of Wisdom isn't just a title she has for show. "Oh? A gift for me?" He inquires, watching as her powers seem to manifest this gift of affection she seems inclined to give to him. He is all curiosity and wonder as her gift materializes upon the magic of her palm and the moment it does so fully... well that curiosity and wonder is replaced by some semblance of disgust. What in the world?

He need not open his mouth to say anything, his face will say it for him with or without his permission. Those... things look grotesque and not comfortable at all. Did she make them herself? From a tree, that much is obvious even to him. At the mention of Lumine... Tetsuya's mood sours even more so. Even she got one of these? Knowing her and how nice she is, she's probably wearing them even if the shoes are not of her liking since they came from Kusanali. "Right," he replies, reaching out for these shoes and inspecting them much more carefully. Yeah, there's no way in hell anybody is going to catch him dead in these, dead or alive for that matter. "How generous of you, Kusanali," regardless he thanks her, settling with the thought itself being what matters not so much this... attempted present. "I will make sure to keep them with me." He assures her with a nod.

Yes, he will make sure they stay with him, he'll keep them, he simply won't wear them that's all.

#idolatri #inquiries. #in character. #act iii: wanderer. #tetsuya vc: these ain't gucci... ..disgusting #AWRAXAWRAXA

[the-silent-hashira]

Hoi!

5. what are some of your f/o's unique sensory needs?

7. does your f/o experience low empathy or hyperempathy? (if autism affects their empathy at all)

8. what are some social cues or rules your f/o tends to misunderstand or miss completely?

-@redwingedwolves

I'll answer for both Kyo and Lucifer, since they're both utterly autism/adhd coded.

5. what are some of your f/o's unique sensory needs?

Kyojuro I think has mostly physical touch sensory needs, he probably isn't very keen on touching things like fleece. He loves the feeling of the uniforms and the haori he has. I feel like he also might have a thing with bitter or sour food, it probably makes him want to cry if he accidentally eats anything too sour or has to take medicine(he will, but if its not medicine he likely will eat it out of politeness, crying the entire time.)

Lucifer has a lot of sensory needs. Textures, tastes, touch, and hearing specifically. He doesn't like oily food unless its something like confit or 'supposed' to be oily or anything thats too salty, he can't touch anything oily or slimy and hates slime in general. Also doesn't like fleece, and some velvet textures! He doesn't like touching people a lot, thus why he wears gloves(up to his elbows/shoulders when wearing shorter sleeves) and he prefers cloth or leather. Loud sounds, things that are cacophonous, or off tune instruments drive him batshit and have caused a meltdown on more than one occasion.

7. does your f/o experience low empathy or hyperempathy? (if autism affects their empathy at all)

Kyojuro experiences mostly hyperempathy, to the point of being wholly selfless at the detriment of himself if he isn't pulled in and reminded of his limits. His trauma around slayer work often makes him react in ways that are very paranoid, and he often can't help but put himself in others shoes. He just wants to help people. :']

Lucifer, on the other hand, is in the lower empathy range. He doesn't always understand why people do the things they do, often needing to have perspectives explained if its someone or something he wants to understand. As much as he cares, it can still be hard for him to fully grasp peoples experiences and why people would react in ways he wouldn't, despite really wanting to.

8. what are some social cues or rules your f/o tends to misunderstand or miss completely?

Kyojuro sometimes doesn't understand metaphors or idioms, but he mostly doesn't understand literals and can't look people in the eye. If someone were to tell him something like 'give it your all!' he would think they were being literal, when people tell him that something can be bad, such as expressing moderation, he'll just not do it entirely. He can read the room pretty well, and is sensitive to tone changes and expressions- with his poor hearing, hes learned to read peoples faces and body language to understand the conversations direction, though due to that he also occasionally interrupts or interjects at the wrong times.

Lucifer doesn't struggle with metaphors or tones, but sometimes struggles with literals and being able to read the room. He also tends to overtake conversations, not knowing when to talk or interject, doesn't meet peoples eyes and often fidgets and stims even during conversations. He reads as pretty oblivious and nobody really calls him out on it unless it bothers me, and almost nothing bothers me besides being interrupted.

#🍎 apple of my eye || lucifer #🍠 umai! || kyojuro #📬 an offering of blood || ask/submission #fuck answering TWO asks in one night? #i hesitate to say were back but im proud of myself ig #:3 thanks for the ask