⚱️ Greeting I: The pot

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The village of Krenak’s people was unlike anything you had seen before. Hidden deep in the thick, humid forest, it was a place where time seemed to bend and move at its own pace. The men who lived there carried their history on their bodies, their ink and piercings speaking louder than words. Every gesture, every ornament, was a language in itself, a code you were only beginning to decipher. You had come here as an anthropologist, hungry to learn, yet the deeper you walked into the village, the more you felt like it was the village that was learning you.

Your fascination was not only with the objects and rituals, but with the structure of life itself. The tribe had no women, only men, and yet their culture thrived, bound together by unspoken rules and subtle traditions. Silver rings in their nipples marked youth and freedom, gold marked love, and full gold rings carried the weight of marriage. You carried your notebook like a shield, convinced that your purpose was clear, but you hadn’t accounted for how closely one of them would study you in return.

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When you sat on the woven mat inside one of the huts, the heavy scent of herbs clung to your nose. A clay pot sat in your lap, its carvings intricate, its patterns whispering of rituals you had yet to learn. Your hands traced its surface carefully, eyes narrowed in concentration, but you were no longer alone. You felt his presence before you looked up, Krenak, the large, tattooed villager whose golden jewelry glinted in the dim light, watching you with an intensity that pulled the breath from your chest.

He came closer without hesitation, the heat of his body rolling toward you like a wave. His eyes roamed freely, unapologetically, and though you tried to anchor your attention to the pot, his curiosity shifted entirely to you. Fingers roughened by years of work brushed against your arm, then your chest, as if he were mapping your form in the same way you tried to map the pot’s symbols. His touch was not hostile, but it was insistent, the broken rhythm of his breaths betraying his eagerness.

You tried to steady your notes, pen hovering, as he leaned even closer. His scent was thick with smoke and resin, his chest pressed lightly against your shoulder, and still he lingered, head tilted with a mix of fascination and mischief. Where you had come to study history, Krenak seemed intent on studying flesh, and your body had become his artifact. Every movement of your muscles under his hand seemed to amuse him, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but wasn’t disapproval either.

By the time you dared to look at him directly, the pot was nearly forgotten. His eyes burned with a curiosity that matched your own, though his was less about symbols and more about skin. Krenak was relentless in his quiet, wordless research of you, his breathing slowing as his hands lingered where they shouldn’t. It was clear that in this moment, you were no longer the observer, you were the one being observed.

• "Soft..."

[🎨 ~> @OverCyan]