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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 4: These Words Are All I Have So I'll Write Them]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, prostitution, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), pregnancy, methods of ending pregnancy, speaking High Valyrian at a third-grade level, no Larys Strong this time yay!!!

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes in Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Dance, Dance” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.7k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

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She gives you a new dress to replace the one that is sopping wet and algae-stained from your tumble into the fishpond: a deep gory maroon, low-cut across the chest, a slit up to your thigh. It is the most revealing thing you have ever worn. You keep crossing your arms and tugging at the fabric, trying to make it cover more of you, incurably out-of-place in this room, this world. The madam is seated at her desk and jotting down notes in a thick, ancient book. When you steal glimpses of her words, they are messy and often misspelled, the script of a child. If you had parchment, you could write a letter. Your hands itch for it; your fingers flex to grasp nothing.

A woman glides into the madam’s bedroom—a tiny kingdom where no men exist—and hands you a cup of tea. She appraises you with a swift, intrigued glance; her hair is long and coppery red, her belly rounded out. She is perhaps five months pregnant. The madam casts her a stern look and the woman dutifully vanishes. “What is this?” you ask as you take a sip. It’s hot, lemony, bitter. “Moon tea?”

The madame chuckles. “No. We have moon tea for if that doesn’t work.”

Because I’m going to be doing things that could result in a child. Because I’m going to be violated here, again and again, I who was so terrified of being possessed by even one man.

The madam says: “Can you play any instruments?”

“No.” You draw into yourself—eyes and ears and the pores of your skin—every detail, every tapestry on the walls and creaky board of the floor and shift in tones of voice, anything that could help you escape. You are a traveler in a strange land. You have no map, no compass. You can bandage burns and set bones, but you know nothing about brothels in the suffocating, squalid entrails of a city.

“Sing or dance?”

“Not well at all.”

A furrowed brow. “Can you sew?”

“Barely.”

“Cook?”

“No.”

Disappointment, palpable and shaming. “Can you read or write?” the madam asks, scratching disorderly lines of black ink into her book.

“Both.”

Now she has perked up a bit. “How well?”

“Fluently.”

A raised eyebrow. This is unusual. “Any other languages besides the Common Tongue?”

“No.” Then you add desperately: “But I know about medicine! I’ve studied herbology and wound tending, and I can act as a healer for the women here, I can—”

“You could, perhaps,” the madam says, smiling with sad, aged patience. “But that is not what the prince regent intended.”

You stare at her, aghast, petrified. There is no swaying her. You consider revealing yourself and attempting to bribe her with the renowned Celtigar fortune, but this is inadvisable. It is one thing to be raped; it is another to be raped and then murdered and then probably raped again. The Greens are the true heirs of the throne in this establishment, which means Rhaenyra and all those who aid her are traitors. Already you have overheard the women gossiping about King Aegon. They do not appear to fear or dislike him; on the contrary, they fret over him like anxious mothers or wives. They hope his recovery is quick. They are grateful he survived. They wonder if he will return to visit them again soon. They do not seem to be under the impression that he is vile, amoral, cruel, a threat, a curse. When they look at him, white hair and ocean-deep eyes, they do not see a monster.

“You aren’t bleeding currently,” the madam continues.

“How do you know that?”

“You didn’t ask for a rag when I gave you that dress.” New words springing to life on those yellowed pages, pricelessly valuable and yet forbidden to you. “Ever borne children?”

“No.”

“Are you a maiden?”

You can’t decide how to answer; you aren’t sure if either reply will help you. You settle on the truth. “Yes,” you admit tentatively.

“Good. We can charge more for you.”

“Wait, no, I’m not. I’ve been with lots of men.”

The madam laughs, shaking her head as she makes her notes. Her necklace and earrings jangle merrily, too large, glinting and gaudy. “Have no fear. I will make it easier for you. I will find a slight, young lad to be your first. He won’t be too big, he won’t last too long. And if you’re fortunate, he’ll even be handsome!” Her prominent, pale eyes go distant; she is orchestrating myths, the trade she deals in like some women sell silk or wool. “A soldier home on leave, perhaps. Looking for a taste of dwindling innocence before he marches off again to be butchered by a Costayne or a Darklyn.” She snaps back into the room. “It will be over before you know it. You’ll be more underwhelmed than anything else, trust me.”

You picture it, red, rust, rage, resignation: the impossibly large stain of blood on your cousin Theodora’s bedsheets. “What if I’m frightened? What if I cry?”

The madam shrugs. “Some men like that. It will convince them of your inexperience.”

You gape at her. “That’s appalling.”

“That’s the world we live in.” She sets down her quill, closes the book, and stretches out her back as she stands. “Follow me. I’ll show you around.”

There are rooms where the women sleep, rooms where they get ready, servants to arrange their hair and moonlight-silver mirrors and a cluttered array of cosmetics and closets bursting with sheer, sensuous gowns. As the madam momentarily diverts her attention from you to scold a servant for knocking over a tin of rouge made from ground cinnabar, you swipe a small stick of kohl eyeliner off a table and tuck it into the pocket of your dress. You might be able to write with it.

What is that pocket supposed to be for? A vial of perfume to mask the sweat of men, mint leaves to clear away their taste? A cloth to mop their mess off your thighs? You shudder, then trail after the madam as she floats out into the hallway.

There are bedchambers, six or seven of them, but the doors are shut. You can smell incense burning; you can hear moans and wet slaps of flesh beneath plucks of harps played by servants. Outside there is a courtyard where women sit on the stone rims of fountains simpering and stroking men’s beards, necks, chests, thighs. It is surrounded by a wall nine feet high. Armed guards pace through the maze of rose bushes and elm trees and proliferate quilts of ivy, keeping uninvited men out, keeping women in. They are protected from their own ambitions of some other kind of life. They are prisoners. The sky above them is a mosaic of spilled wine and gold; the sun is setting.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the madam leaves you in the care of the same woman you saw earlier, long coppery ringlets and a bastard in her belly. The dress she wears is a cleaner red than yours, not blood that has dried and flaked but a heart that’s still beating. She is chopping vegetables and tossing them into a pot boiling over the fire. The long wooden table is strewn with carrots, onions, potatoes, leeks, mushrooms, fresh dark green herbs.

She flashes you a wily smile. “Our cook dropped dead last week. We’ve yet to procure a new one, so I’m making myself useful. All the house laments.”

You laugh and join her, though you don’t know the first thing about working in a kitchen; you pick up a knife and begin slicing through a carrot. It takes more muscle than you anticipated.

“On a cutting board, you idiot,” the woman says kindly, passing you one.

“Sorry. I’ve never cooked before.”

“What? Never?” Her auburn eyebrows spring up. “Where did you come from?”

The cliffs, the sea, salt and waves and mist. “The Crownlands.”

She is studying you with interest as her blade hovers over a half-chopped leek. “Were you a handmaiden to a lady there, or…?”

“It doesn’t matter. Whoever I was, I’m not the same person anymore.”

“No,” the woman agrees softly. “None of us are, I suppose.”

You glance down to her belly. You don’t wish to offend her, but you are curious.

“Go on,” she prompts. “You may inquire. I am well aware of my predicament whether you speak of it aloud or not, I assure you.”

“Did the moon tea not…expel the child?”

“No,” she sighs as she resumes hacking away at the leek. She speaks with vague, weary fondness. “The lemonweed tea did not prevent it, the moon tea did not kill it. I nearly died of fever and vomiting myself, but the child held on. It’s alive in there, I can feel it kicking sometimes. A fierce little thing.”

You nod, still gazing at her belly, undeniable evidence of the act that built it. The copper-haired woman is almost certainly younger than you, and yet she knows exactly what it means to be opened by a man, pillaged, conquered, used, left. This time tomorrow, you will know it too. “The madam let you stay?”

“Not very enthusiastically, but yes. I cook, I clean, I do the shopping in the market. She does not fear letting me venture out into the city. She knows I have nowhere else to go. I only have to entertain clients if they ask for a pregnant woman. Some men have a particular liking for that, you know.”

You did not know. “Right.”

“Besides, there might be some advantage in it for the madam,” the woman tells you. She grins. “When the child is born, there’s a chance it will have the silver hair of a Targaryen. Then the madam could approach Otto Hightower for a reward of some sort, money, protection. Royal bastards have never been more valuable. Little princes are dying left and right.”

“King Aegon’s?” you say numbly. “The child could be his?”

“Yes, obviously. Who else?”

So Aemond does not frequent this place as a customer. You wonder how he met the madam.

Aegon was here before the war began, you think, blood hot in your face, your guts twisting and nauseous. How many women know what he feels like, tastes like, sounds like when he is moaning in pleasure instead of agony?

The copper-haired woman is staring at you quizzically. You have to say something. You hear your voice like the distant cry of a crow through fog: “What was he like? The king, I mean.”

She considers this. “Drunk. Sad. But perfectly pleasant. I wouldn’t mind serving him again. He’s well thought of on the Street of Silk. I do hope he recovers. I think Rhaenyra would hang us all from a gallows. She knows Daemon has a wandering eye, and she’s not the type of wife to look the other way.”

You are trying to clear it out of your skull, like a room full of smoke: Aegon was here, Aegon was here, Aegon was here. “When you met with him, it was in this brothel?”

She hesitates. “Mostly.”

Mostly…? “Have you been inside the Red Keep?”

“Once. Ages ago. There is a network of secret passageways beneath the castle and behind the walls. The king has been known to use them for…well. You know.”

It should not hurt you. You’ve spent all your life listening to the tales of his failings. Yet it does, more than you thought was possible. You’ve never wanted a man before. But you want Aegon now. You do, you must, otherwise you wouldn’t be so pained by the thought of others touching him. You wonder if he feels the same way about you, if he ever lies awake at night with his stomach in knots over your nameless betrothed.

You try to focus on this moment, this kitchen, this copper-haired woman.You need to find a way out of here. “So the madam will decide what happens to your child once it’s born.”

“Of course,” she replies simply.

“You don’t want to keep it yourself? You are not attached to it?”

The woman is suddenly serious, quiet, melancholy. “I have no choice in the matter.”

She’s my chance. She’s my redeemer. “Can I ask your name?” you say.

“What my family named me is of no account. As you said, we’re not the same people anymore.” She smiles, warm like embers once again. “People here call me Autumn.”

“Autumn,” you echo. A woman with hair the color of crisp, dying leaves, the color of a dying world hurtling towards winter. “I think I can help you. You and your child, no matter its parentage.”

She does not want to believe you—hope is a dangerous, taunting creature, one that builds a home in your ribcage and then taps taps taps its claws along the ladder of bones—but she does. You can see it flickering in her small, upturned hazel eyes. “You…what?”

“When you go to the market, do you take a list with you? Of items that you require?”

“Yes,” Autumn replies, puzzled. “The madam always gives me one.”

“Do you have any parchment here in the kitchen?”

Autumn shakes her head. “The madam keeps it in her room. Shall I ask her—?”

“No,” you say. “Definitely don’t ask for any. Is there an old list lying around, perhaps?”

“Um, let me see…” Autumn rummages around the table; onions go rolling, leeks are flung aside. She snatches a tattered, folded sheet of parchment from under a pile of potatoes and surrenders it to you. “Here. This is the one from yesterday.”

You open it and lay it flat on the table. Sure enough, there is a list written in black ink; but not in the Common Tongue. The items are sketched. There’s a carrot with a cloudlike plume of fronds atop it, a bee (meaning honey, you imagine), a pig and a chicken, a round bottle with a heart drawn above it. Perfume? you guess. “These are pictures.”

“Well, of course. I wouldn’t be able to read it otherwise.”

You take the stick of black kohl out of your dress pocket and flip over the list. The back is blank. You write as Autumn watches, baffled, fascinated.

Your Grace, you begin, and then scratch it out. You start again.

Aegon,

Aemond has imprisoned me in a brothel. He knows the madam (middle-aged, brown hair, clever).

“What is this place called?” you ask Autumn.

“The Pink Pearl,” she says.

Autumn works here, if you recall her. She says the establishment is known as the Pink Pearl. Please send someone to rescue me at once. I am to be put to work soon, and I am afraid.

You pause. What will he have been told? What will he think of you now?

I beg your forgiveness for my deceit. I did not mislead you out of malice. I knew you needed help, and that I would not be able to provide it if my true identity was known. I have not done anything to undermine your cause. I have not written a word to my family. I assume they now believe me to be dead. I do not want this, but it is a sacrifice I have made so that I can continue to serve you.

Please help me. Please allow me to return to the Red Keep.

My name was a lie, but none of the rest was.

Angel

“You’re highborn, aren’t you?” Autumn says, hushed, awed. “You must be, to write like that.”

“Yes. And I am a friend of King Aegon. If he knows I’m here, he will pay for me.” You don’t know that for sure, but you have hope, that risky rattling beast.

“He will pay to fuck you, you mean?”

“I believe he will buy my freedom.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Then I will slit my own throat with one of these knives. “It’s better for everyone if he does.” You fold the parchment closed and then give it to Autumn. She takes it, perplexed but willing. “I cannot leave this place. But you can. I need you to get that letter to the king. You know the way to the Red Keep; you have been inside these secret passageways. Hand the letter to him directly if possible. If you are intercepted, ask to see the Dowager Queen Alicent or…” You debate this. Sir Criston is closer to Aemond than Aegon, but you believe the opposite to be true for the youngest Targaryen brother. “Or Prince Daeron. Tell them that the letter must be read by the king immediately, and by him only. If he is resting, he must be roused. If he is speaking with someone, he must be interrupted. Explain this and then leave. And do not allow the prince regent to see you.” Aemond’s words blow through you like a cold wind: If she tries to escape, kill her.

“This is a difficult task,” Autumn says uncertainly, the folded square of parchment disappearing into the bodice of her gown. “I cannot promise you anything. But I can try.”

“If I am rescued, I will see that you and your child are provided for. You will have your own home, one far, far away from here. You will never have to answer to the madam again. You will never have to lie with a man who is not of your choosing. Your life will be your own.”

She stares at you, dazed and wonderous. She cannot even fathom this, but she knows she wants it. You’ve begun to feel that way about certain things as well. When Autumn speaks, it is in little more than a whisper. “I would like that very much.”

“You will have my most fervent gratitude.”

“I will depart tonight after supper. I will tell the madam that I am craving apple cake from a street vendor.”

“Thank you, Autumn,” you say, lips trembling as they curl into a smile, tears blurry in your eyes.

She points to the stick of black kohl you’ve used as a makeshift quill, smirking. It’s still clutched in your dominant hand. “You’d better hide that before people start showing up looking for soup.”

Hours later, you are trying to fall asleep in a room you share with half a dozen other women who are not presently working, beds so close together they almost touch, soft snores, mattresses shifting when people roll over, a thin wool blanket pulled all the way up to your chin.

Aegon will read the letter. Aegon will send someone to rescue me.

In the darkness, your hands wander down to your belly, your hips, lower. Skating over your white silk nightgown, your fingertips press cautiously at a place where you sometimes feel an indistinct, uneasy sort of pleasure. You rarely touch yourself; you cannot do so without remembering that your body is not your own and never has been. But now, for the very first time and without any premeditation, you picture Aegon—his murky oceanic eyes, his crooked grin, his hands, his bravery, his gentleness, his shock of white-blond hair adorned with that single tiny braid—and instantly your once-ambiguous desire sharpens, strengthens, is accompanied by a wetness that you can feel blooming warm and needful beneath your nightgown.

But it’s not going to be him. It’s going to be some stranger who doesn’t know me and doesn’t want to.

You roll over onto your side and thrust your hands under the pillow, squeeze your eyes shut until they ache, try not to hear the moans that creep through the walls like dark veins of blood poisoning.

~~~~~~~~~~

All day you wait for someone to cross through the doorway of the brothel to claim you, a guard, a messenger, Daeron, Criston, anybody. But no one does. The women here keep strange hours: late to bed, late to rise, breakfast at noon, lunch at four or five, supper long after nightfall. You pick listlessly at a breakfast of biscuits with butter, honey, and blackberry jam, bacon, weak wine, pomegranate juice, lemonweed tea to prevent an unintended child like Autumn’s.

“I was stopped by a guard just outside the Red Keep,” she mutters to you in a stolen moment, huddled together at the end of a hallway by a window that opens out onto the courtyard. “They agreed to let me see Prince Daeron. He took the letter and said he would deliver it. That’s all I could do. I hope it’s enough.”

I hope so too, you think to yourself as you thank her, marveling with brick-heavy horror at how all the Valyrian ancestry and riches in the world cannot save you from the fate of being born a card for others to play, trade, bet on, use until it is worn and faceless. I hope so with everything I’m made of.

The other women take you with them to the bathhouse down the street, and in the labyrinth of sweltering pools and swirling steam you scrub yourself all over until your skin is tender to the touch. You use perfumed soaps and luxurious floral oils, not for healing but for vanity, so strange men will imagine you to be an intoxicating fantasy, so any human imperfections can be ignored. You pluck some stray hairs and trim others. You inspect each other for bruises or scratches or bitemarks that will need to be covered. No one mentions how they got them. Everybody knows.

Back in the brothel, the women show you how to wear your hair and do your makeup: black kohl on the eyes, beeswax dyed with berry juice on the lips, powder on the face to even out your complexion. Servants flit around fussing over hairstyles and switching ripped seams on dresses. Your silk gown—the one you will be raped in—is a soft, helpless, feminine lavender. You are shown to a bedchamber: flickering candles, a mountain of pillows and jewel-toned throw blankets, harp music and fresh air breathing in through the windows. You sit on the edge of the bed wringing your hands. You are waiting to be rescued. You are waiting to be harmed.

The door opens, and he enters. The madam was truthful: she has found you a slight, benign-looking young man. He smiles shyly, clanging in his light armor. He is indeed a soldier on leave from the front. He wears the crest of his family as the clasp for his cape, a white shield with a black cross. He is a Norcross, the same as the dying boy you were tending when Aemond pulled you off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest. How easy it would have been for you to not be here right now; a difference of a few minutes, a few meters, and Aemond never would have found you.

“Hello,” the man says pleasantly. He is yanking off his boots.

“Hello.” You are still sitting on the edge of the massive bed, big enough for four or five occupants. This is not a coincidence, you’re certain. But that will come later, once you have been sufficiently broken in. Your stomach lurches; you try not to show it.

Now he is taking off his cape. “You’re nervous,” he observes. There is a pitcher of wine on the table in the middle of the room. He pours two cups and hands one to you. You take it—intending to be dignified, ladylike—and then gulp it down. The Norcross laughs. “You needn’t fear me, maiden,” he says. “I am here for pleasure, not pain. I have paid a considerable price for you. You are a piece of treasure, a rare gem, and I will handle you accordingly.”

Then he reaches out to stroke your cheek, and something in you shatters, splits open, screams. I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. You shrink away from him and retreat to the center of the vast bed. The Norcross blinks at you, a little amused, a bit bewildered. “Sir, you have stumbled upon a great opportunity,” you tell him. “I am no ordinary woman.”

“No?” he says. But he is smirking beneath gleaming eyes, like this is a joke; and he is removing his armor as well.

“I am here as the result of a dreadful misunderstanding. You see, I have actually already been claimed. There is another man who has the right to take my innocence if he so chooses.”

“Oh?” the Norcross says. He is unbuttoning his white cotton shirt. “Who?”

“King Aegon.”

He throws his head back and guffaws, dark hair long enough to cover his ears and brush against the nape of his neck. “This is a very charming jape. Me? Getting to deflower the king’s chosen whore? Yes, yes, very good. Delightful. Delicious.” He crawls onto the bed; the mattress shifts beneath your palms. A cold sweat slicks across your skin. Goosebumps rise on your arms. He doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t want to.

“I’m not joking,” you implore the Norcross. “I am well-acquainted with King Aegon, he cares for me. I was brought here by mistake and against his knowledge. If you assist me in returning to him, I’m sure you will be generously compensated for your trouble—”

The man’s hand juts out, snags in your hair, yanks and tears at it. You yelp and struggle as he wrestles you down onto the mattress and settles his weight on top of you. “You’re mine, all mine,” he growls, smiling, playing along with what he has chosen to believe is a fantasy. “Not the king’s whore. The king has plenty of those already, he probably has thousands. But you’re all mine.”

“Get off me,” you order him, as if you are still the daughter of one of the wealthiest houses in Westeros and not some powerless, penniless woman imprisoned in ornate walls and perfumed silk; and isn’t this where you always would have ended up anyway? Flinching on some stranger’s bed as he tried to claim you, subdue you, force pieces of himself inside you?

“I will show you, maiden. The king is a cripple now. He could not satisfy you anyway. I will give you what he could not. And I’ll give it to you more than once, if you ask nicely.” He presses his lips to yours, a sickening mockery of a kiss, all flesh and no heat. He is wearing only his trousers; they could be gone in an instant. He is tugging your sleeves off your shoulders to get to your breasts.

“Please don’t do this, please stop, I’ll give you anything—”

“Everything I want is right here.”

Just let him do it, you think. I can’t leave this place, I can’t fight him off. There’s no way out. Just let him do it, and live to see if freedom will arrive tomorrow.

Aemond’s words fill your skull like flashes of lighting: If she tries to escape, kill her.

The Norcross man is pulling off his trousers. It strikes you like a closed fist: the terror, the injustice, the rage. You swing at his face, your knuckles rapping against his cheekbones. “Get off of me—!”

There is a tremendous fracturing noise, and at first you think the man must have snapped one of your bones, your radius or your tibia or your clavicle. But no: it was the bedchamber door being thrown open so violently it hit the wall behind it and cracked down the middle. And now there are footsteps, and now there are guards pouring into the room, and now the point of a blade bursts through the Norcross man’s windpipe splattering blood across the bed, the walls, the wood boards of the floor. You are shrieking; scarlet rain peppers your face, chest, hands.

“You’d take an unwilling woman?!” Aegon demands of the dying man, who gapes at him with rapidly fading eyes and a mouth hemorrhaging dark, lethal red. The king is wearing all black, tunic, trousers, boots. Half of his hair is pulled back from his face and secured with a black ribbon. You have never seen him like this before. You have never seen him brutal, formidable, furious. “You fucking animal. Enjoy drowning in your own blood.”

Aegon wrenches his sword free from the dying man’s throat and he falls face-down onto the mattress as you scramble away. And then Aegon falls too: his legs give out and he collapses to his knees, kneeling in a pool of the Norcross man’s blood, the hilt of his sword tumbling out of his grasp. You bolt off the bed and drop down onto the floor beside him.

“Aegon?!”

“Are you okay?” He takes your face in his hands—they’re shaking, they’re weak again, but just strong enough to cradle the slope of your jaw—and looks at you, turning your face one way and then the other, his eyes searching for bruises, lacerations, more fuel for the vengeful fire that blazes in him. The burn on his own right cheek is inflamed, blistering. He does not seem to notice.

“I’m okay, I promise.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No, no, you got here just in time.”

And Aegon—this so-called monster, this alleged beast, this man who the Blacks swear is a villain and a degenerate and soulless—slips the sleeves of your silk lavender gown back up over your shoulders so your chest is covered. “If it’s any consolation, you’re fucking beautiful.”

“Of course you would prefer me dressed like a prostitute.”

He laughs, embraces you, holds you to him, the first time he ever has. Your arms link around the back of his neck, your fingers knot in his hair. You are so close, yet not nearly close enough; you want him completely, always. You can’t claw your way back up the cliff you’ve fallen down.

There is a commotion as the guards that accompanied Aegon to the brothel part to allow two new arrivals into the bedchamber. Aemond and Criston now stand just inside the doorway, breathing heavily from their sprint across the city. Your gaze meets Aemond’s and you clutch Aegon tighter. The king kisses your temple—so quickly and unceremoniously it feels like a habit, something instinctual, something innately right—and reluctantly unravels himself from you. He grabs the nearest bedpost and hauls himself to his feet, wincing, groaning, bracing himself against it with both hands.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Aemond shouts at his brother.

“You will not harm her! You will not take her from me!”

“Aegon, she’s not a Thorne, she’s a Celtigar! Her father sits on Rhaenyra’s council, he funds her war effort, when our men are killed it’s with arrows and steel that he paid for—!”

“We’re all different people now!” Aegon roars. “All of us! You were some pathetic runt, I was useless, Daeron was a child, Helaena was happy, Criston was devoted to Rhaenyra, Mother was her closest friend, all of us have been changed by this world and its endless goddamn misery! So she was born a Celtigar, is she to be eternally condemned for that? Is she truly irredeemable? Can no acts of service to the Greens’ king convince you of her loyalty? She saved my life!”

“Are you insane?! We can’t trust her!”

“I am the king!” Aegon bellows. “I am still the one who gets to make these decisions, no matter how unworthy you think I am!”

“She lied to you, to me, to everyone, that cannot go unpunished!”

And then Aegon responds, but not in the Common Tongue. He says something—laboriously, haltingly—in a language you recognize only from hearing Daemon and Rhaenyra converse in it. You were not aware that Aegon knew High Valyrian well enough to carry a conversation. Perhaps Aemond and Criston weren’t either; they exchange a brief, astonished glance. The guards’ eyes dart between the king and the prince regent.

Aemond replies, his tone cutting but his words swift, seamless, graceful, fluent. Aegon stumbles his way through a sentence or two, pausing several times to conjure the correct word. Aemond says something else, an effortless litany of syllables your forebears shared. Aegon forces out one last plea. It sounds painful; it sounds like a confession. Aemond stares at his brother, perhaps scandalized, perhaps merely stunned.

“Alright?” Aegon pants, in anguish now. His hands are like talons on the bedpost, the force of his fingernails leaving white scratches in the wood. “You get it? You understand?”

“Fine,” Aemond says, low and bitter.

“You will not harm her. She stays in the Red Keep. Promise me, Aemond. I cannot rest until you do.”

Aemond nods, glaring down at the floor.

“Criston?” Aegon presses. “Promise me. If he breaks his word, you will stop him. I command this. I am your king.”

“I promise, Aegon,” Criston agrees, willingly enough.

“Good,” Aegon says. “Good.” And then he blacks out and crumples to the floor. The guards rush for him, but Criston tells them to stand back. He stoops low, lifts the king, throws him over one shoulder and carries him. Aemond fetches his brother’s fallen sword. You follow them out of the brothel, staying as far away from Aemond as you can. You pause just long enough to peek into the kitchen.

“Autumn?” you call, and she looks up from the chicken she’s been coating with herbs and butter. “I’m leaving now. You’re coming with me. Get your things.”

“What things?” she says, grinning. She cleans her hands and trots after you, one palm resting on the swell of her belly, her copper sea of hair streaming out behind her.

Inside the Red Keep, you inform the servants that Autumn will be staying as a guest of the royal family and that she is to have a room near yours. Then you hurry to Aegon’s chamber. He is sprawled across the bed, writhing and moaning. Grand Maester Orwyle is administering milk of the poppy. Criston is stripping him, heaving off Aegon’s boots and trousers before gingerly removing his tunic to reveal bandages red with blood around his shoulders. He has torn the half-mended flesh there. He suffers, he heals, he suffers again.

“Angel?” Aegon chokes out, reaching for you with tears flooding from his eyes.

“I’m here.” You take his hand. “What hurts, Aegon?”

“Everywhere,” he gasps.

You tell Orwyle: “Give him another dose.” And a second goblet of milk of the poppy is emptied down the king’s throat. Within a minute, he is mercifully unconscious again.

Criston looks at you. “What’s wrong with his face?”

“Sunlight. The rest of his burns were covered, but not the one on his cheek. Fresh burns must be kept out of the sun. He knows that.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages; his wounds need to be cleaned and re-dressed.

“Oh, seven hells,” Criston whispers, covering his mouth with one hand. There are four or five ruptures around each shoulder, thin bleeding crevices that branch out like the legs of a red spider. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles off to order servants to fetch water, vinegar, honey, linen, more milk of the poppy.

“I should have done better,” you say, and your voice breaks. “I should have used more rose oil on his shoulders. I should have made him stretch three or four times a day.”

“You’ve tended to him tirelessly,” Criston says gently.

“I shouldn’t have lied about who I was.”

“I don’t see how you could have saved his life otherwise.”

“Go find Alicent,” you say. “Explain what’s happened, but don’t bring her to visit him yet. It will only upset her.”

“Yes,” Criston agrees, and leaves.

Outside, the sun is setting, and all the world is the color of dragonfire. Grand Maester Orwyle returns with servants and supplies. As you are dabbing at Aegon’s wounds with cloths dripping with water and vinegar, Daeron appears in the bedchamber doorway. His eyes—large and expressive like Aegon’s, but more crystalline, less dark—are shimmering and wider than you’ve ever seen them.

“Is he dying?” Daeron asks, sounding fearful and very young.

“No more than usual,” Aegon rasps; and that’s how you know he is awake again.

When Aegon is cleaned, bandaged, and soothed once again with milk of the poppy, the two of you are left alone. You perch on the edge of the mattress and can’t stop touching him, his left hand where his dragon ring glints in the flickering candlelight, his disheveled silver hair that still has that little braid you made for him. You don’t know what to say. You worry that if you begin talking, everything will spill out like a monsoon or a rogue wave, things you can’t take back, things you don’t fully understand yourself.

“House Celtigar, huh?” Aegon murmurs drowsily, smiling. “I’ve never been so happy to see a crab in my bed.”

And it hits you all at once: I would take every last drop of pain for this man. I would slit him open and drain him of it, swallow it down, assume the debt. I would carry every burden, every red flare of agony and ache in his bones. I would learn the art of self-loathing if he could forget it. I would trade fates with him, threads cut and crossed and burned to ash.

“What?” Aegon asks. He’s watching you with those storm-blue eyes, glassy with pain and poison.

Why wouldn’t you send someone else in your place? Why would you go yourself? Why would you injure yourself so grievously, so senselessly? “Why would you do this for me?”

“You are the only person I’ve never disappointed. I’d like to keep that going if I can.” He takes your hand and laces his fingers through yours. “You’re so far away.”

You lie down on the bed and curl up beside him, careful not to put pressure on his fresh wounds. You place one palm on the center of his bandaged chest, the other against his unburned cheek. Aegon pulls you in closer until your noses are nearly touching and you swing one leg up to rest on top of his; even then, he keeps a hand on your thigh, as if to make sure you don’t leave. The other twists into your hair and stays there. Aegon dives into a deep, starless sleep and you doze next to him. When you catch wisps of dreams like fireflies in a child’s grasp, you hear crashing waves and see dragons pitching into the sea: Vermax at the Gullet, Arrax into Shipbreaker Bay.

Why did Aemond have to murder Luke? Why did he have to start this war?

Something wakes you, a sound, an indescribable shift in the room. You open your eyes and turn to see Aemond, arms crossed and back propped against the opposite wall. You rise as carefully as you can so you don’t disturb Aegon, untangling yourself from him like he’s something catastrophically fragile, a spider’s web, a splintering pane of glass.

You stand and take several steps towards Aemond, only so you can speak without waking Aegon. “What do you want?”

“I fear I did not conduct myself particularly well yesterday,” he says. “I may have acted…impulsively. Unwisely.”

“Your capacity for self-reflection is truly inspiring.”

Aemond frowns. “I’m being serious.”

“I’m not interested.”

“If we are to be on the same side of this war, we should learn to understand each other.”

“I don’t want to understand you. Your mind must be a horrible place to live.”

He stares at you with his sole remaining eye, cold and hurt and wrathful and hopeless.

You ask softly, knowing that only Aemond can tell you: “What did he say? Back at the brothel?”

Aemond does not answer for so long that you convince yourself he’s not going to. At last, he decides to extend a peace offering. “He said that he cannot live without you. Or that he wouldn’t want to. I’m not certain which he meant. His High Valyrian has always been terrible.”

Then Aemond walks out of the room without another word.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen ii x you #aegon targaryen x you

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homunculus-argument · 2 years

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I don’t think native english-speakers in non-european countries really grasp how everyday needing to speak a second or a third language is in Europe. Languages are a school subject as much as biology and math, nobody really just goes out of their way to independently decide “hmm, I must learn a second language” and just goes on to download duolingo and be self-taught in spanish (okay, some people do, but that’s not the usual and standard way that people learn). The town I live in is historically bilingual - used to be majority swedish-speakers but now it’s about 50-50 as far as I know, and a generation ago you couldn’t really get by without speaking both. The books at the local library are mixed into the shelves, finnish and swedish ones on the same shelves, and sometimes there’s no copy of some book in both languages because it’s assumed that everyone speaks both on a passable level, at least enough to understand a book they really want to read.

I’ve had natively swedish-speaking schoolmates in nursing school who have struggled to write essays in finnish because despite of being fluently bilingual in speech, their whole education until this point has been in swedish, and they’ve never really needed to write proper written finnish - which is a distinct different type of finnish than spoken finnish.

The only native finns under 30 that I know that personally say they don’t speak any other language than finnish usually mean that they understand swedish and english badly, and aren’t confident in speaking it. Usually someone only speaking finnish is a clue that they’ve got some language-related learning disability. “I don’t speak english” is a similar statement as “I can’t do math”. There’s a problem of young chronically online finns losing vocabulary in finnish because they use english so much online that they’re not as practised in their native language.

I didn’t go out of my way to become a polyglot who Speaks Six Languages, I picked french, russian and spanish in school because languages were easier for me than STEM subjects, and I’ve already forgotten most of what I learned. If I were to go out of my way to decide to start learning a non-germanic, non-latin language now, without school, I’d have no idea where to start nor would I ever become fluent in them. As a matter of fact, all I know how to say in any other ones than finnish, swedish or english are “I don’t speak [language] very well, I only understand it poorly.” It’s a school subject I learned and have forgotten most about.

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yumaisbored · 1 year

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pls i want to learn more about mutuals (feel free to ask me stuff or talk whenever!!) so i’m actually starting a tag…

five random facts about me!

I. recently i played Moritz in Spring Awakening

II. my favourite genres are classical japanese and russian literature

III. i love painting, particularly with oils (also i like making things in general)

IV. i speak japanese (not fluently, going into third year wish me luck)

V. i’m very passionate about translation and the way use of language influences/creates the interpretation of ideas aaah

tags (no pressure!): @irritable123 @lazyrunawayphilosopher @againtodreaming @ghostsinacoat @mavr4xx @sourbreqth and anyone who wants!!

#tag game #get to know me ig #mutuals/followers/citizens of tumblr hmu i’m awkward with talking to people but i wanna get to know you all you’re so cool :)

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n0ts0surel0ck · 4 months

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I’m working on character studies and prop sheets for John and Mariana to go with the Sherlock one, but for the time being, here’s a little handwriting sample page for the three of them.

(I was going to transcribe John’s section with Sherlock and Mariana’s, but I had forgotten what I wrote by the time I got to it and I uh… cannot read it. Which I think lends to the message.)

[Photo ID: a yellow legal pad with three handwriting samples. The first, in black pen, is unintelligible. It’s signed, most likely, by John. A note in grey ink in the margin reads: “This is John, since no one on Earth can read this- M.”

The second sample is written in blue ink in clipped, slightly messy cursive. It reads: “I was coerced into this pointless experiment. I resent having to provide a handwriting sample, and do not consent to its use in a court of law.” The sample is signed by Sherlock.

The third sample is written in grey ink in very stylized, legible print and cursive. It reads: “The boys never stood a chance against me. I write beautifully in print… as well as cursive. Me obligaron a tomar en escuela, pero valió la peña. Ahora puedo mostrarlos en idiomas que ni siquiera hablan.” (Trans: “I was forced to take a calligraphy class in school, but it paid off. Now I get to show them up in languages they don't even speak.”)

The last sentence has been marked out by Sherlock’s blue ink. He left a note reading: “Hablo, leo y escribo español con fluidez.” (Trans: “I speak, read, and write in Spanish fluently.”

Mariana replies: “Necesitamos comenzar a usar esto contra John!” (Trans: “We have to start using this against John.”)

John’s black ink scribbles out an unintelligible reply with several, messy exclamation points. End ID.]

#sherlock and co #sherlock & co #john watson #Sherlock holmes #mariana ametxazurra #my handwriting is most like Sherlock’s #but it can swerve into John territory if I’m not careful #handwriting

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armoricaroyalty · 4 months

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Rosalind of Armorica: The princess will see you now

Crown Princess Rosalind wants to become the most accessible member of the Armorican royal family. Is she ready for the pressure?

It’s hard to escape Crown Princess Rosalind. The 27-year-old heir to the Armorican throne is seemingly everywhere: cutting ribbons at hospital wards in Nordienne, meeting with conservationists and gamekeepers in the highlands north of Bortaine, smiling on the cover of glossy supermarket tabloids.

The omnipresence is part of a deliberate strategy, according to the Crown Princess. “We can’t hold ourselves apart from the people we serve,” says Rosalind. “We need to be hypervisible. We have to be real to our people, not just faces on stamps.”

Previous | Chapter Start | Beginning | Next

author's note: I never do recreations, but I did recreate this 2021 Tatler cover because it was just really striking. Thank you to @warwickroyals for sharing the Tatler graphic with me!

article continues below the cut!

Of course, hypervisibility is nothing new to the mega-popular heir to the Armorican throne. Already a superstar within her home country, Rosalind rose to international prominence after accompanying her father on a state visit to Uspana in November 2017. At just 27 years old, she is already considered one of the most accomplished living royals. In 2012, she graduated from the elite Allard University with dual degrees in economics and music performance. Two years later, she launched herself into full-time royal work, quickly racking up 34 patronages, ranging from the national ballet to the Ministry for Sustainable Energy. Last year, she completed over 400 engagements on behalf of her father. In terms of extracurricular activities, Rosalind is an accomplished tennis player, speaks six languages fluently, composed the score for ANN’s upcoming documentary on sustainable energy Green Horizons, and owns an international real estate portfolio valued in the hundreds of millions.

Sitting across from me at a private supper club in the tony Pearl District, she brings a relentless, focused energy to our conversation. Everything about her conveys poise and intensity, from her impeccable posture to her ad-exec smile to her sensible suede pumps. Her favorite rose-shaped brooch (purchased by her great-grandfather in 1962 and worn by both her grandmother and great-grandmother) adorns the lapel of her cropped jacket, which the diminutive Crown Princess has paired with wide-legged trousers. Her smile doesn’t waver as the conversation turns to her relationship with her father.

"We have very different styles. [My father has] never given an interview, and well, look at me now!”

“His Majesty is very supportive,” Rosalind says. “We work together very well, and in the last few years, he’s really come to rely on me.” It’s a bold claim for a member of the normally self-effacing and media-shy Armorican royal family, but it’s backed up by the numbers: including his weekly visits with the prime minister, the reclusive King of the Armoricans carried out just 131 engagements last year, approximately one third the number completed by the overachieving Crown Princess. “We have very different styles,” she laughs. “He’s never given an interview, and well, look at me now!”

"I suppose [my parents] meant well, but [my upbringing has] been quite a disadvantage."

Crown Princess Rosalind is the oldest child and only daughter of Andre, King of the Armoricans and former hockey pro Elise Sutton. According to Rosalind, the King and Queen—then the Duke and Duchess of Arbor—tried to give their children an “informal upbringing,” away from the pressures of royal life. “I suppose they meant well, but it’s really been quite a disadvantage,” she confesses. “When I meet my peers internationally, it’s very clear that they were more directly brought up to rule. I used to feel so behind. I’ve had to work hard to catch up.”

“Was it difficult, growing up as a member of the Royal Family?” I ask.

“No,” says Rosalind, hesitating. “But I think that it was difficult to be royal in my family.”

“I think that it was difficult to be royal in my family.”

#sims community #ts4 #ts4 story #ts4 storytelling #ts4 royals #ts4 royal family #armorica story #chapter 4 #other sources #character: rosalind st. fleur #please click the read more to see the specific dumb shit roz said it'll be plot relevant #i bolded the really important quotes and made it big for ease of skimming

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philsmeatylegss · 1 year

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I only speak English and the fact that people speak it mostly fluently as their second, third, fourth, etc. language. So I’m just really curious how much of y’all speak fluent English on here and speak a different language outside. It amazes me.

#I looked up eight most popular languages in the world I know I left the thousands of others out but pls write them I’m so curious #people fluent in other languages as well as English #especially when they learned English second #is amazing #rae’s rambles #poll #polls #hyperspecific poll

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jealousmartini · 6 months

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REALLY IMPORTANT AND USEFUL STUFF TO SCRIPT IF YOURE A KPOP SHIFTER

∘₊ ✧───────────────────✧₊∘

○ You understand, you can speak and write Korean fluently

Just an obvious one

○ You understand Korean meme culture, and you actually find it funny😭🙏🏾. Like well-known jokes and memes that are popular from movies or songs or stuff like that.

This is so important for foreigners like me since I don't know jack-SHIT about the memes and jokes over there

○ You don't forget to use the correct honorifics for your family members and group members vs your manager and people you aren't close with. Take these just in case

BANMAL = Informal language

Hyeong; Hyung = Literal meaning: “older brother” Is also used to call: A male friend or a male sibling who’s older than you (as a male). Used by: A younger male to call an older male friend or sibling

Noona; Nuna = Literal meaning: “older sister” is also used to call a female friend or a female sibling who’s older than you (as a male). Used by: A younger male to call an older female or sibling

Oppa = Literal meaning: “older brother” is also used to call a male friend or a male sibling who’s older than you (as a female). Is used by a younger female to call an older male friend or sibling

Unnie; Unni = Literal meaning: “older sister” Is also used to call a female friend or a female sibling who’s older than you (as a female). Used by a younger female to call an older female or sibling

Namdongsaeng = Literal meaning: “younger brother”. Is used to call a younger male sibling or any male who’s younger than you (as a female/male). Used by an older male/female or an older sibling to call a male who’s younger

Side note: You don’t use this word when you call them. Call them by name.

Yeodongsaeng = Literal meaning: “younger sister” Is used to call a younger female sibling or any female who’s younger than you (as a female/male). Used by an older male/female or an older sibling to a female who’s younger than them

Side note: You don’t use this word when you call them. Call them by name.

JONDAENMAL = Formal language

Ssi = Literal meaning: “Mr./Miss/Mrs.” Is used to call someone who you need to show some respect to. Used for business environment

Nim = Literal meaning: “Mr./Miss/Mrs.” (It’s more polite and respectful than Ssi)

○ You are highly respected, loved and admired amongst Koreans and other Kpop idols

I think that although it is great to have international fans, you should also have a strong Korean fanbase since that is where the genre was born

It also helps to be talked about positively from both popular and underrated K-pop groups. Whether about your looks, your personality, your skills or whatever. This shows you are actually very interesting and more than the general public see your potential.

○ You perfectly match the Korean beauty standard, You are the Korean beauty standard OR your beauty is so original and rare that Koreans love it even though it doesn't match their standard

I personally scripted the third one because even though I match some small parts of the beauty standard like long slim fingers, clear soft skin and perfect teeth, my overall appearance does NOT follow the standard. I am still a slim thick pear, I am still black and I still have textured curly hair.

○ You can match / have the same humour with other kpop idols you're close friends with. Also script you are intentionally and unintentionally funny

This connects with the Korean meme culture point I made. You have GOT to understand what your own friends are joking about and find it funny too as well as BE funny, cus god knows how many times a meme reference is gonna be made amongst your members while you are doing one of those challenges like RUN BTS and you don't get what they are talking about😭

note to self💌 : gonna make smore later — 🍊💭

@theshifterbear @livingmydreamlife5555 @cocozydiaries @4ellieluv

#shifting realities #reality shift #shifters #shiftblr #desired reality #law of assumption #loablr #loa blog #master manifestor #4d reality #loa #drself #shifting #desired appearance #desired self #desired life #self concept

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noisyghost · 5 months

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Can we can Cheslov’s story? Who is he? What is he? What happened to the pretty baby boy? 👀👀👀👀

the running joke with Ches is that both in universe and IRL only like 2 people know his actual backstory and every couple years i'll drop a piece of lore that sounds insane and then I won't elaborate on it at all. It's a funny little game that I play <3

What IS canonically known about Ches is as follows:

He is something known as a zduhać, who is a person that can project their soul from their body in their sleep in the form of a "dragon". His dragon is a manifestation of how he felt the day that he died, so it's him but also not? It's messy. His dragon named itself Vasili. Vasili is notoriously an asshole, but Ches' romantic interest Charlie gets him to lighten up.

Time is weird for zduhać bc they don't age while they sleep, and sometimes the line between sleeping and waking gets blurred. Ches was also put in a grave and asleep for 200+ years so he is. A man out of time, to say the least.

He is vaguely slavic; he speaks russian and serbian fluently (english as a verrryyyyy third language, he's only been learning for the last couple years, depending on the timeline. He's also recently started learning a little bit of french!). Though, he has claimed that he is neither russian nor serbian, so no one actually has any idea where the fuck he came from. He literally showed up on Mira's door one day with a letter addressed to her mother asking for help.

He works for Mira now in the bar she runs (as a bartender). Patrons seem to like him a lot - hes very amicable in a 'grandmother telling you stories' kind of way.

He has two living siblings, Alexander (older) and Nadia (younger). He does not seem to get along with either, but ESPECIALLY Alex - he tried to kill Alex on sight once lol.

Lore wise, no one knows for certain exactly what happened to him - how he lost his arm, what happened to his face, etc etc. He doesn't talk about it, nor does he want to. The only thing that is confirmed (and this is fun new lore i dont think i've shared!!!) is that he blames Alex for all of it.

After not seeing each other for a couple centuries, Alex came to Ches to beg for his help. During this reunion (which Charlie had to break up bc it immediately turned into a physical altercation lol), Ches made clear that 1. Alex was somehow responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people and 2. Whatever it was that Alex did, it directly resulted in Ches being tortured, losing his arm and becoming a zduhać.

He has vaguely alluded that he lost him arm and got the scars on his face in separate incidents - apparently the facial scars were "deliberate", implying that someone cut him up on purpose, where the arm loss was "unintentional". Take that as you will.

#shut up bug #bug answers #OC #cheslov #he is sooooooo baby girl. to me #also. not to rat myself out but he and alex used to be resident evil OCs LMAO. theyre entirely detached now i just think its funny #remember your roots etc etc

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virtie333 · 7 months

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Paint It Black

Yovanna is starting a new life in Australia, but she would be happier if the man who helped her get there could share that life with her.

My first Triple Frontier fic, written in honor of the Netflix movie's 5th anniversary. It's just a simple love story, what I would have wished to see happen for Santiago and Yovanna.

@triplefrontier-anniversary

Rated NC-17 for Explicit Sexual Content (18+ Only!): Includes protected P in V and mirror sex.

Cross-posted on AO3

5.6k words (sorry, not sorry!)

Inspired by this gifset!

“Katia?”

It took almost two full seconds for Yovanna to respond to the teenage girl behind the counter; she was still not used to that name. Katia Hernàndez was who she was now, but despite living with that name for the last six months, she still had a hard time remembering to respond to it. She wondered if she would ever find it easy.

She turned toward the front of the delicatessen, where sixteen-year-old Maggie was looking at her expectantly, a plastic bag on the counter in front of her. The girl smiled when Yovanna looked her way, and Yovanna smiled back.

“Sorry, I was distracted.”

Maggie giggled. “Yeah, my mind likes to wander a lot, too.”

Yovanna walked over to the counter to take the bag with her purchases. “Gracias,” she told the girl.

“De nada,” Maggie responded. “Is that right?”

Yovanna smiled. “Si, that’s one way to say ‘thank you’.”

A woman came up behind Maggie, grinning. “You know, she had no interest in learning a foreign language until you started shopping here,” Lauren said. Blonde like her daughter, Lauren Oggelby owned and operated Oggelby Deli, one of the few delicatessens in Kiama, New South Wales. Seeing as it was just down the street from the apartment Yovanna shared with her little brother Emiliano – Ezra now, she reminded herself – it was the only deli she had been to in this town. The straightforward friendliness of Lauren and Maggie made it feel comfortable and safe.

Safe was not something Yovanna was used to.

“I want to learn it so well I can have a full conversation with you in Spanish,” Maggie said, responding to her mother’s comment.

Yovanna nodded. “Well, from what I understand, it’s a lot easier to learn Spanish than English, so be glad you already know the hard one.”

Maggie laughed while Lauren nodded. “You speak it fluently,” she observed.

“My mother was raised in the United States,” Yovanna said, making sure she didn’t say where in the U.S. “I grew up speaking both Spanish and English.”

“I want to visit Guatemala someday,” Maggie said dreamily. “It sounds beautiful.”

Yovanna smiled again. “It is.” She shrugged. “I better get going. I’ll see you both later!” She didn’t dare speak any more about the country she was from, especially since it wasn’t Guatemala. The two women waved at her and said their goodbyes as Yovanna left the store. She slipped on her sunglasses and headed down the sidewalk, away from the beach which was only a quarter of a mile away to the east. She would probably end up there later today; she usually did. She loved the ocean, though she had rarely seen it before coming to Australia six months ago. She would be content to live next to the sea for the rest of her life.

She arrived at the gate to the small complex she lived in. At the moment, it was only temporary, as she hoped to find a nice house in the near future, but odds were good Emiliano would stay here. He had started on-line classes just a few weeks ago, and Yovanna knew he wanted to become more independent; they had been in each other’s pockets since they had arrived, and they were both ready to start living their own lives now that things seemed to be settled.

Kiama was a beautiful, quiet place, and Yovanna was ready to call it home.

Yovanna climbed to the second floor of the complex, then walked to the third door down. She unlocked it, then nearly ran into her brother as he was heading out. “Where are you off to?” she asked in Spanish.

“I’m going to Ted’s,” he told her in English. He was determined to fit in to his new home by rarely speaking his native language. He wanted to rid himself of any accent other than Australian. “Then I have a date with Margo tonight, so I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

Yovanna felt a tug of anxiety and tried to ignore it. Emiliano had been doing well since they had arrived to this new country with new names and forged documents. His short jaunt in jail in Colombia, and the terror of having been in the discotech in Tarapacà when it was raided and almost destroyed by police, had set him back on a safer course. Money was not an issue for them anymore, and drugs had fortunately not become an addiction before his arrest. Their arrest, actually. Only she had gotten away.

With the help of one of those ‘cops.’

“Well, have fun,” she responded, also in English. “But not too much fun. Make sure you use protection.”

She couldn’t help but smile as her little brother, who stood taller than her and was very much a mature young man, blushed. “I will,” he mumbled before heading past her out of the apartment.

Sighing, Yovanna took the bag into the kitchen and began to put away the meats and cheeses and spreads she had purchased, her mind drifting, as it often did, to the ‘cop’ who had helped her and her brother get here. She wondered where he was. What he was doing. Had he made it out of Colombia safely? Had he and his friends gotten all that money over the mountains? Was he now lazing on some beach somewhere, some beautiful blonde in a bikini feeding him cholados?

She shook her head, chastising herself. She needed to stop thinking about him. He most likely had forgotten about her. Hell, she didn’t even know his name!

She finished putting away her purchases and leaned back against the counter, remembering the last day she had seen him, when she and Emiliano had started their journey to Australia with three million dollars. She remembered the question his friend, another former soldier, had asked her. “After you had sex…” She scoffed. She wished that had been the case. For the almost thirteen months she had known ‘Consejero,’ he had never once done anything improper or propositioned her in any way. She had often wondered why, as other ‘officials’ she had known, American or otherwise, had never been shy about requesting sex in exchange for protection and secrecy.

And Lord knows if he had requested that of her, she would not have refused.

But he never did. Though there were times… no. She was fooling herself, thinking she had often read more in his gaze than was most likely there. That he cared about her. That he worried about her.

That he loved her.

She groaned out loud and pushed herself away from the counter, moving toward the refrigerator, intent on getting something cold to drink. Though the AC in the apartment worked wonderfully, thinking about Consejero always made her heat up. She needed to follow her brother’s example and find someone here. Goodness knows she had already been asked out by enough people since her arrival. It didn’t matter that she was always comparing them to him. And always found them lacking.

There was a sharp, sudden knock on the door and it made her jump. She shook her head at her own nervousness and moved toward the door, wondering if it was her brother. Maybe he had forgotten something. She unlocked the door and pulled it open, then stood in silent shock as she saw who was on the other side.

As if she had conjured him with her thoughts, Consejero himself was here.

XXXXX

Yovanna stared at the man standing outside her doorway, her eyes quickly assessing him, noticing the changes from the last time she had seen him. His hair was longer, the grey a little less pronounced in the thicker curls. He had the familiar 5-o’clock-shadow, but his face seemed narrower, his cheekbones more pronounced, as if he had lost weight. His broad shoulders also seemed sharper under his dark grey button down, and as her gaze trailed down his body to his khaki cargo pants, she realized he was indeed skinny. Too skinny.

She brought her eyes back up to meet his. Chocolate brown and as intense as always, this was something that hadn’t changed. She opened her mouth to speak, but the shock of his appearance kept her silent.

“Hello, Yovanna,” he said softly, his heavy brows low as he watched her carefully.

“Katia,” she said automatically in reply.

He huffed slightly and the corner of his mouth curled up. “Katia.” He took a deep breath, then shook his head. “If you want me to leave and pretend I never saw you-“

“No!” she interrupted him. She stepped back. “Come in, please?”

He did as she asked, walking past her toward her living room. His cologne, subtle and alluring, caught her attention. That also hadn’t changed, she thought as she closed her eyes and breathed deep. Delicious. She opened her eyes and closed the door, locking it immediately as she had become accustomed to. She turned and followed him into the living room.

He turned to face her, his expression uncertain. “Where’s Duke?”

She rolled her eyes at her brother’s nickname. “Ezra is with friends.”

“He’s doing well?”

She nodded. “Yes.” She paused, and when he didn’t continue, she rushed ahead. “What are you doing here?” She didn’t bother asking how he had found her; he had been the one to have the fake passports and documents made. He knew more about her new persona than she did. The question that she needed answered was why he was here.

He bit his lip, and she tried not to think about what that action did to her physically, then he met her eyes with his own. There was a strange desolation in them, a sadness she didn’t remember seeing in his eyes before. She had witnessed him angry and concerned, and she had seen those eyes light up with laughter, but never had she seen him like this.

“What happened?” she whispered, knowing it wasn’t good.

He gave a heavy sigh and moved to sit down on one of the stools that sat along the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. “Everything wrong,” he told her.

“You didn’t get the money out, did you?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. “Not much.”

“Did everyone make it?” she whispered, instinctively knowing that while losing all that money would be devastating, losing one of his friends would be worse.

His lips tightened and his eyes narrowed as he looked away from her, then he gave a sharp shake of his head. “Redfly didn’t,” he mumbled.

“Redfly?” she said. She hadn’t known the men he had brought to take down Lorea, but he had told her that she could trust them. That he trusted them with his life. And she had overheard them talking with each other. “He was the one that didn’t trust me, wasn’t he?”

He gave another sharp nod, then looked at her. “And I’m not going to deny how pleased I was to prove him wrong about you,” he said softly. “But he was off his game. We all were.”

“I’m sorry,” Yovanna said softly, and she meant it. While she might not have had a good experience with the man, he was still this man’s friend. And she cared about this man. Too much.

He shrugged. “What money we got out, we gave to his family,” he continued. “I’ve just been… wandering since. Can’t go back to Colombia. Can’t go back to the States.”

She nodded. “Diego and his men know your real name,” she said. And they had plenty of contacts in the States. She huffed a laugh. “So, you came to the one person you know who actually benefitted from your heist.”

He furrowed his brows for a moment, then his eyes widened as he realized what she was saying. “Oh, no! That’s not why I’m here,” he argued. “I may not be a millionaire, but I’ve still got plenty of my own money from investments keeping me afloat. I…”

She laughed at his defensiveness and moved to the refrigerator in the kitchen. Opening it, she pulled out a couple bottles of Schweppes lemonade and handed one to him. “It doesn’t matter,” she told him, trying to believe it herself. The idea that he had come for her and just her was too much to hope for. “It’s not like Emiliano… I mean Ezra and I are going to need all that money. It started out as yours, and you are welcome to a share.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s yours. I don’t care if you keep the majority in hiding or invest it or give it all away to charity, it’s yours.” His dark eyes were focused on her intently once more. “I came here because I missed you.”

Yovanna sat on the stool next to him, but couldn’t look at him. Instead, she focused on opening the bottle in her hand.

He continued. “I missed talking to you. I missed complaining about all those little things that annoy me to you, and getting your sympathy. You were the only person I really trusted in Tarapacà, dare I say my only friend there?” He paused, waiting for her to look at him. “I missed your smile. Your laugh. The way you glared at me when I teased you.”

She finally looked at him, searching his face, but she saw no duplicity there. Despite their official relationship, she believed he had never lied to her. And she had never lied to him, which is why he had been so angry with her after the discotech raid. “I wasn’t like any of your other informants, was I?” she asked, and she couldn’t help the bit of sarcasm in her voice.

Either he didn’t pick up on it or he chose to ignore it. “No, you weren’t. And you were my only one in the end. The only one I trusted.”

Yovanna took a sip of her drink, then shook her head again. “I always wondered why you treated me different,” she told him. “Carmen and Lucia had much different relations with you.” Carmen was one of the secretaries in the office she had worked at, the one where most of Lorea’s money was funneled through. And Lucia was her friend who worked as a housekeeper for several of Lorea’s men in Tarapacà. It was through them that this man had found her, a lowly accountant, who knew far more about the coming and going of all that dirty money than most of her coworkers.

He seemed to pull back at her words, knowing now what she was getting at. Carmen and Lucia had both commented more than once that he ‘paid them well,’ both in and out of bed.

He watched her silently for a long moment. “You’re wondering why I didn’t fuck you, aren’t you?”

She felt her face heat, which was crazy. Yovanna wasn’t an innocent, though it had been a very long time since she had been in a relationship with a man. Since before she met this one, in fact. She tried to shake her head to deny his question, but she couldn’t.

“There’s two very good reasons why I never asked you for that kind of arrangement,” he told her, his voice hardening. “One was that I knew you weren’t that kind of woman. Lucia and Carmen both used sex to control the men in their lives on a regular basis. It was an exchange as easy as money to them. I knew you were different.” He took a deep breath. “And two… I knew I could love you.”

Yovanna’s eyes shot up to his face. Had she heard him right? Had he actually used the word love? She was literally speechless at his comment, but as she searched his face, she once more found no evidence of deceit. If anything, he looked nervous, as if he wasn’t sure he should have admitted something so dangerous.

When her silence continued, he grimaced and nodded. Setting the unopened bottle of lemonade on the counter, he stood. “I just wanted to be sure you and your brother were doing okay. It looks like you found a perfect home, and I hope you are happy here. I don’t want to upset that peace. Goodbye, Yovanna.” He paused and smiled slightly. “I mean Katia.” He nodded and turned toward her door.

“I don’t even know your name,” she said, hating how desperate her voice sounded.

He stopped and turned back as he reached the door. “Santiago,” he told her. “Santiago Garcia.”

She slid off the stool and walked quickly toward him. “Don’t go, Santiago. Please, don’t leave.”

“Give me a reason to stay,” he responded, his voice rough.

She reached for his hand, taking it in both of hers and rubbing his calloused palm gently. She brought it up to her mouth and kissed his rough knuckles, then looked him in the eye. Slowly, deliberately, she turned and tugged on his hand, coaxing him to follow her to her bedroom.

He didn’t resist.

XXXXX

Santiago.

The name rolled around in her head like the lyrics to a favorite song. Santiago. It was perfect for him. It was strong and masculine, but caring and empathetic, like the stories of the saints she learned as a child. Santiago.

As soon as the door to her bedroom closed behind them, he had her pinned to the wall, her arms up with their fingers entwined, his mouth on hers. She reciprocated by writhing against him, meeting his tongue with her own in a sensuous dance. As his lips dropped to her neck, she pulled her hands free, reaching down to work on the buttons of his shirt. He responded by grabbing the hem of her t-shirt and pulling it up and over her head. She stepped away from him a bit so she could toe off her shoes and he moved to sit on the corner of her bed so he could remove his boots.

She followed him there, bending over to work on his shirt once more. He tried kissing her while they both worked, missing her mouth and connecting with her cheek or her ear over and over again until she was giggling. When she looked at him, the crow’s feet around his eyes grew as his smile widened. The darkness in his eyes had faded.

She straightened and reached behind her for the clasp of her bra, slowly letting it slide down her arms. His eyes became intense once more as he watched her, slowly taking off his now unbuttoned shirt. As he focused on her bare breasts, she ran her eyes over his chest. While he had indeed lost weight in the last few months, he was still beautiful. Muscled without looking like a body builder, his copper skin tantalizing. His chest was hairless, but the trail of hair that began under his navel and disappeared under his waistband was alluring.

“Wait!” he said suddenly, and she brought her eyes up to meet his. “I seriously wasn’t expecting this,” he told her with a slight shake of his head, his eyes huge. “I don’t have protection.”

Yovanna smiled slightly and walked over to the dresser next to the bed. She opened the top drawer and pulled out an unopened box of condoms, then brought them back to Santiago. “I bought them for my brother, but he assured me he had his own.” She tossed the box onto the bed next to him.

He looked at them, then looked at her, and the excitement she saw in his eyes sent a shot of electricity through her. He began to unbuckle his belt, and she started to work on the fly of her lightweight trousers, quickly sliding them off as he stood and removed his, boxers and all. He stepped into her before she could get a good look at his impressive erection, wrapping his arms tight around her and finding her mouth with his own once more. She let herself sink into his kiss, feeling her whole body shiver at the feel of his naked skin against hers.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, letting her hands sweep along his shoulders and the back of his neck. Her fingers found the scar there, and she gently massaged the area. She knew he had gotten surgery on his neck only a few months before the heist had taken place; he had returned home to the States for it, and she had missed him while he had been gone. His mouth once more dropped down to her neck, but then she felt him still. She pulled back slightly to look at him, and realized he was looking behind her. She looked over her shoulder to see what had caught his attention away from her.

It was their own reflection in the floor length mirror on her closet door. She felt her heart start to race as she watched his hands smooth down her naked back, cupping her almost-bare bottom; she was still wearing a pair of teal-colored panties.

Suddenly, he grabbed her shoulders and turned her around with a growl deep in his throat. As she faced their reflection, she caught sight of his cock, which looked even more massive than before now that he was fully aroused, and then she felt it pressed against the upper curve of her buttocks. His arms came around her once more, one hand cupping her breast and squeezing it lightly, the other dropping down between her legs, his fingers delving into her panties to burrow into her wet heat. She cried out, both the feel of him and the sight of them in the mirror shooting her arousal into orbit.

“So fucking wet,” he murmured roughly against her neck, his fingers playing with her sensitive folds. “So fucking wet for me.”

His words made her whimper, and she rocked her hips against his touch.

“Look at me!” His words were harsh and made her jump. She hadn’t realized she had closed her eyes. She opened them to look at him in the mirror, making eye contact through their reflection. “Tell me you want this!” he demanded. “Tell me now or I walk out of here.”

And he would, she knew. He would stop if she didn’t give him the okay. This man, a trained killer, would leave her alone if she asked, even as fully aroused as he was right now. Holding his powerful gaze, she nodded. “I want this.”

He brought his hand out from between her legs and plucked at her panties. “Off!” he told her as he backed toward the bed, grabbing the box she had put there and ripping it open. She slid her panties off as he removed a condom, preparing it and sliding it on. She had turned to watch him and didn’t hide that fact. ¡Dios mío! He was thick! She felt her pussy weep even more fluid at the thought of him inside of her. He finished and stepped toward her again. Briefly he made eye contact once more before grasping her shoulders and turning her away from him again. He pushed her forward gently, toward the mirror.

She realized what he was doing and she began to pant in excitement. When she was close, she leaned forward, her hands on the mirror. She looked up to see him move behind her and grasp her hip with one hand. She felt his cock come up between her legs, but he didn’t push in. Instead, he used his other hand to run it all over her dripping pussy, covering the condom with her juices. She moaned at the sensation, her hips moving counter to his actions. “¡Dios!” she cried, feeling an orgasm already threatening.

“Hermosa?” His throaty gasp caught her attention, and she looked up again, meeting his questioning gaze in the mirror.

She nodded quickly. “¡Ahora!”

Without any resistance, he slid into her. She cried out, smiling at the absolute pleasure his invasion brought her. “Yes!” she cried out in English.

“Fuck!” he responded. “You’re so tight! Please, tell me I’m not hurting you!” His voice was desperate.

“Santiago,” she said, her voice breathy as she continued to pant. “Santiago, please, fuck me!”

And he did, his hips immediately thrusting into her at a steady and solid pace. She dropped her head, unable to keep on watching their reflection in front of her, her sole focus on the feelings his body was creating in hers. She was so full, but she wanted more. She pushed back into him, encouraging him without words to move faster. He responded by quickening his pace, but he grumbled at her as he did so. “I’m trying to take this slow, Querida.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at his words. “I don’t want slow. We can go slow next time!”

“Fuck, yeah!” he said, his grip on her hips tightening. “Next time!” He began to pound into her harshly, and she laughed again in pure joy. Yes!!!!

“Oh, Dios!” she cried. She was almost there!

Suddenly, he dropped one of his hands down, reaching around in front of her to tease her clit. “Come on my fucking cock!” he hissed in her ear.

His touch combined with his words sent her over the edge and she squeezed her eyes shut, feeling her body convulse, her pussy squeezing him tight, her legs tremoring. She saw stars. Or maybe they were fireflies. She wasn’t sure and she really didn’t care. She was crying, tears of ecstasy rolling down her cheeks. Her legs began to give out and Santiago moved his arm up to wrap around her waist, holding her tight against him.

When she was able to focus again, she realized he wasn’t moving. His cock was still buried deep inside her, but he was simply holding her. She looked up at him in the mirror, afraid and embarrassed of her reaction. He was smiling softly at her, his eyes wide and almost black with passion and… dare she think it? Love?

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he whispered.

She gathered her strength and straightened her legs, standing on her own again. His grip loosened, then he let her go completely and backed away, sliding out of her.

“No!” she couldn’t help but gasp. He wasn’t done. Just because she had had the most amazing orgasm of her life didn’t mean they were done!

His smile got bigger as he took her hand and led her toward the bed.

He sat on it and pushed himself back, laying down with his head on her pillows. His smile had turned into a smirk. “Come on, Cariño. You know what I want you to do.”

Yovanna climbed onto the bed on her knees and shuffled over to him. She threw one leg over his hips and settled on his thighs, his still rock-hard cock in front of her, teasing her super sensitive clit. Taking a deep breath, she rose up on her knees and grabbed his cock, then carefully mounted him. She was still so wet, he slid in easily, and she closed her eyes as she absorbed the feeling of him filling her once again, this time touching places he hadn’t in their previous position.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

She opened her eyes to see him looking to where they were joined. She also looked down, rather amazed that she could take him all, then she looked back at him. He was watching her now, and as she made eye contact with him, he lifted his hands toward her, fingers outstretched, in invitation.

She accepted, meeting his hands with her own, palm to palm, fingers intertwined once more. She began to rock, back and forth, with her hips. She leaned down to kiss him, bringing their joined hands up to rest just above his head on the pillow. He moaned into her mouth, letting her take control this time around, and apparently loving it. Eventually, they let go of each other so they could take their time touching each other. Yovanna played with his hair, running her fingers through it as she had imagined doing so many times before. Santiago let his fingers toy with her breasts, thumbing her nipples, then massaging her curves. They never stopped kissing.

As her rocking became faster, his hands moved down her back to her buttocks, the tips of his finger straying down to where they were joined, then up to tease her asshole briefly, making her squeal in surprise. It hadn’t been uncomfortable, she realized, just nothing she had tried before. Interesting. She pushed herself up straight once more, using her strong thighs to push herself up and down on him now. He also sat up, diving in to lick and suck on first her breasts, then her neck. He found her pulse point and began to suck hard; she knew he was marking her and didn’t care. Her bouncing increased in speed and his grip on her ass tightened.

“Fuck, I can’t hold it anymore,” he groaned.

“Don’t!” she told him. “Let go! Come for me!”

She felt his hips raise up off the bed as he ejaculated, finally coming. Dios, his stamina was amazing! As he let himself fall back onto the bed, Yovanna felt her own body start to tremble once more. This orgasm wasn’t as strong as her first, but it was no less satisfying. Breathing hard, she let herself fall forward and a little to the side, letting him slide out of her. He winced, then sat up to take care of the condom, tossing it in the waste basket next to the dresser. Then he fell back onto the bed, looking at her, a soft smile on his face.

She scooted close to him, tentatively putting her head on his shoulder, not sure how he felt about post-coital cuddling, but his arm wrapped around her immediately and he began to kiss her hair. They lay like this for a long time, letting their breathing and their hearts come back to normal. Yovanna became sleepy, but her brain soon started working overtime, and she was wide awake once more.

“Where are you staying?” she asked him.

“A little bed and breakfast on the other side of town,” he told her.

“You’re welcome to stay here,” she said softly.

“For how long?”

She lifted her head to look at him. “For however long you want.”

“With you?”

She shrugged. “Well, for a while. I’m planning on buying a house of my own, soon, but Emi—I mean Ezra, will probably stay here. So,” she gave him a teasing smile. “You can be roommates with him, or you can come live with me.”

He snorted a laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure he’d love if I stayed with him,” he said sarcastically.

“Then stay with me,” she told him, her voice soft but firm. “As long as you want.”

He was silent for a moment. “I know where the money is.”

She frowned at him.

He licked his lips. “Ironhead gave me the coordinates where we dumped it. In the mountains.” He was looking at her expectantly.

“How dangerous would it be to go back for it?” she asked carefully.

“Very,” he told her. “Not just because there are still people looking for it, but because the location it’s in is… treacherous.”

She bolstered herself for her next question. “And how much do you want it?”

He took a deep breath and pulled away from her. He slid off the bed and looked around until he found where his trousers had ended up, then he went over to them and pulled his wallet out from the back pocket. He opened it and took out a slip of paper. He dropped the pants and walked back over to where she was still lying on the bed, leaning on her elbow, her head propped on her hand as she watched him. He showed her the paper and she could see the coordinates on it. Then he reached for the long-stemmed lighter that sat on the dresser next to one of her scented candles. He lit it, then touched it to the paper, setting it on fire. He held onto it while most of it burned, then placed it on the candle, the remaining flame lighting the candle as it burned the last of the paper. He looked at her.

She gave him a half smile. “That’s a beautiful gesture,” she told him. “But do you really expect me to believe you don’t already have those numbers saved in your phone? Or even memorized in your head?”

He laughed. “Oh, come on! Let me have this dramatic moment!”

She laughed along with him, but soon he became serious once more.

“Give me a reason to not go back for that money,” he told her, the darkness from earlier appearing in his eyes once more.

She looked at him for a long moment. Then, in a trembling voice, she said, “I love you.”

His expression softened and his mouth opened as if he was stunned. He blinked rapidly, and Yovanna felt tears forming in her own eyes in response to his obvious emotion. He cleared his throat and bit his lower lip, but didn’t seem to know what to say. So, she sat up and continued.

“Stay here with me,” she told him. “Start a new life with me, away from pain and fear and anxiety.” She paused. “You’ve done more than enough, dealing with demons both real and in your mind. Let your body and your soul rest the way you deserve.” As his expression turned hopeful, she added, “Let me love you while we take care of each other.”

Slowly, he moved to lie next to her on the bed once more. “Forever?” he asked, his expression still full of such hope.

“Forever,” she told him.

“I love you, Yov—Katia,” he smiled softly as he corrected himself.

“And I love you, Santiago.”

“Yes, I’ll stay.”

Forever.

THE END

#fanfiction #triple frontier #triple frontier anniversary #santiago garcia #yovanna #santiago x yovanna #smut #romance #fluff

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beansterpie · 11 months

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ES21 japanese volumes - part 1/??

part 2 >>

Sooooo I recently got my hands on the complete Eyeshield 21 manga series in Japanese and as someone who's only ever read the story through fan-translations on dodgy websites online, I wanted to go through and "live" blog about it, so to speak. I thought it would be interesting to see the changes between the languages and where the fan-translations likely fail with mistranslations. (No shade btw, I think fan-translations are great both as a hobby and the fact that they're doing their work for free, but it's also a reality that the vast majority of fan-translators are amateurs, many of whom don't fluently speak the language they're translating, so there's bound to be mistakes!) Also, I wanna know what they're originally saying because I’m nosey <3

I know the official English translation by VIS is allegedly pretty decent, bar the toning down of some things (like Hiruma's language lol) so if you've had the chance to read the official version, feel free to chime in on differences with the fan-translation that I'll be referencing, or potential differences between the Japanese version too!

And finally, while I am half Japanese and grew up there, tragically my language skills are imperfect. I speak it, but my vocabulary isn't very robust, so I do look up the definitions for a lot of words and kanji, as well as more nuanced connotations or references that may go over my head. Bilingual problems <3 But again, it's good practice for me and I think it'll be kind of fun!

Right off the bat, this page. What it’s saying is essentially, “You better come out and play (in the) American Football match!” But because Japanese syntax is different from English, it’s structured like “American Football Match you better play!!” The translator was confused by the final line, because in Japanese a way to say ‘participating in a match’ is by using 出る which means to ‘go out’— sort of like ‘go out (into) the match’. Maybe a better option would have been ‘get the fuck out and play!!” or just “you better fucking play!!”. It still keeps the overall sentence structure which sounds awkward in English, but at least it gets the meaning across.

(I’m not gonna get into every little mistranslation btw, because that would take forever, but I felt that was a good way to explain how frequently there are little mistakes like this.)

Putting the rest under a cut because I imagine this will get long

Look at our boy <3 So as you know, we start our story with Sena Kobayakawa timidly seeing if he passed his high school entrance exam into Deimon High School, with his childhood friend/older sister figure, Mamori Anezaki lending moral support.

In the third panel, what Sena says is actually “I feel like I’ve been praised for the first time in 10 years—” (maybe they changed it because that was too pathetic 😭) Then in the fourth panel, what Mamori says is more along the lines of “And to think you were a total mess in math and English… It’s all thanks to Mamori-sensei!”

Also I want to point out that Mamori is a little cheekier in the first few chapters. Like obviously still kind and nurturing in personality (her name is literally ‘to protect’), but she teases Sena and feels more like an older sister than like, an overprotective mom lol. Miss that for her 😔

Then along comes our kind senpai to accost our clueless protag...

There’s no mistranslation, but I just wanted to mention that the way Hiruma talks in Japanese is so funny? Like in panel 1, he’s speaking with a dramatic affect, he sounds like some sort of npc in a jrpg giving the protag a quest. And then in panel 2, his ‘of course!’ is this shortened, slang version of the word that sounds almost cute and very modern after the previous line. Hiruma uses a lot of slang in general, though I can’t say if any of it is like, common or used by teenagers (of the time, anyway) or if it’s just Hiruma-isms.

(Look at Kurita doing the sign of the cross in panel 3 😂)

I can’t believe Hiruma managed to physically emulate the experience of contracting some shady internet virus…..

Something that’s done with Hiruma’s dialogue a lot (it’s done w/ other characters too, but most often with Hiruma) is where there’ll be a word/term in kanji that means one thing and pronounced in a certain way, but then the furigana (so the phonetic pronounciation, basically) next to it says something different. Now, in some stories (like Berserk for my pals out there), this is used to create poignant, layered meanings in the text. In ES21 however, it’s mostly used for sports manga flavor. For example, in the above page in Hiruma’s spam fax message, he uses the word 作戦, which means tactics or strategy, and is pronounced: “sa - ku - se - nn” さ-く-せ-ん. But the furigana next to that word reads タクティクス which is quite literally just the English word ‘tactics’ spelled phonetically in Japanese lol (aka a loanword).

He does this A LOT, most frequently with sports terminology, where the kanji are pretty dense, technical terms, and the furigana a loanword version of the same meaning. (though now that I think about it, it might also be because while パワー (power) and スピード (speed) are frequently used and well known loanwords to the average Japanese person, タクティクス (tactics) might be more obscure, so the kanji is there to like, clarify the meaning? 🤔)

Also I love all the early 2000’s tech we see in the early chapters— flip phones and fax machines galore! Even within the later segments of the series, the flip phones start to magically get more advanced, but in my heart ES21 takes place in like, 2003. If they ever do a remake of the anime (which is unlikely to say the least) I’d want them to maintain the early 00’s vibes. It just wouldn’t be the same if everyone had smart phones.

Skipping ahead a few pages, I remember this bit never really made sense, but I got enough of the general gist that I kind of shrugged and moved along. But!! the translation is just making stuff up here?

So for context: it’s Sena’s first day at Deimon, and Mamori (who’s a grade above him) advises him to make proper friends this year, since he has a history of only ‘hanging out’ with shitty bullies who used him as an errand boy.

In the English translation, Sena seems to get a text from a mystery number, telling him to pay up for a bet we never saw happening. He goes to meet up with the texter, who we assume at this point is a previous aquaintence, since he had Sena's number? Maybe one of those bullies that Sena hung out with from middle school? They make Sena go and get them an unspecified thing, but because Sena ran there and back so quickly, they don't believe that Sena actually went, and is lying when he says they were sold out. They drag Sena to a small shed to beat him up, and in the last panel of the third page, Sena says that he's been their errand boy since kindergarden?

So for a number of years I was under the impression that the Ha-ha brothers knew Sena from before the series, even though that never seemed to come up in the rest of the story.

But in the original version, Sena is actually getting a text from Mamori-- which makes sense because it was established earlier that his cell phone is brand new and he only has Mamori's number in his contacts. Mamori's text says: "If someone tries to make you run their errands, tell them 'let's decide by rock-paper-scissors!'" Sena is understandably kind of embarrassed by this, and mutters to himself that he's not a kid anymore.

Then it cuts to Sena being picked on to be an errand boy lmao. Presumably this is because Sena just looks like an easy target to bullies, not because of any previous aquaintence rip. The blond bully tells Sena to go buy them bread (which might sound weird, but Japan has a lot of tasty snack breads that they sell everywhere). In panels 2+3 of the second page, Sena timidly tries to bring up the rock-paper-scissors thing, but is intimidated into giving up and just doing what he's told.

Again, they don't believe that Sena actually went all the way to the school store and back with how quick he was, so they decide to beat him up in the shed. As he's being dragged, Sena says, "It really was sold out! I've gotten used to being an errand boy since kindergarden, so I've just gotten fast--!"

So yeah, if there were any other people who've only read fan-translations and were confused by this bit, there you go.

oh you just know it smelled like ass in here.....

(I never noticed the shotgun propped against the desk on the right before lol, idk why I'm surprised, but Hiruma really just left his Actual Guns lying around huh?)

(2nd pic - Kurita: "New club applicants!!?")

There he is!! Our boy Kurita!! I do miss when he occassionally had like, more human features lol. As much as I love his big ol' smiley face, it does rub me the wrong way when the fat characters (because Komusubi falls into this too) are the only ones with anpanman faces.

(anpanman, for the uninitiated)

(Kurita: "To literally clash with the opponent in order to pursue a goal together with everyone-- that moment is exhilerating!")

Aw look at Sena feeling inspired! Honestly I really love how Kurita is Sena's first friend he makes in the series, and that vibe in the early chapters where it's just Sena, Kurita and Hiruma is so much fun <3

(P1: Kurita: "Way to go Sena!" Imaginary Coach: "It's thanks to you that we could participate in the Christmas Bowl!" Mamori: "You're so cool Sena!"

P2: Mamori: "You have to make the first move!" Sena: "U-um!"

P3: Sena: "Can I... be the team shumu*?" Kurita: "WHAAATT!? O-OF-OF COURSE!")

*Ok soooo I don't fully understand what a shumu is lol, or how you'd translate it to English. The word itself apparently means 'person in charge' so? The fan-translation just calls it the manager, but based on something Hiruma says later, I get the impression that the shumu and the manager are technically different roles? But when Mamori becomes the manager later, she takes on a lot of what are allegedly 'shumu tasks', along with Hiruma, so idk. If anyone's read the official VIS translation, feel free to chime in on how they did it, because I'd be curious to know!

That being said, adorable of Sena to think he could have handled that responsiblity at all 😂 our boy has many talents, but being smart and organized is not among them.

Ok fun feelings are over, it's time for pain.

(Sena looking at his contact list, having just added Kurita's number, then wham D: )

The three bullies from before were waiting to get revenge. The dialogue is a bit different in the original. Juumonji (the blond one) actually says: "That fatso a friend of yours, Sena? Tell me his contact info-- if you do that, we'll let you go." To which Sena timidly and reluctantly agrees. Then Kuroki (the dark haired one) says: "But do you think one bat will be enough? With that brute strength..." In the final panel, Juumonji says: "It's better with just one, since we're gonna call the police beforehand." Togano (with the glasses): "The police?"

Juumonji: "As long as we get him wrapped up in the fight, it'll be fine. We'll say we got these wounds from being assaulted by the fatso with the bat -- We'll get him disqualified from the American Football tournament." One of the others: "Ooohh, smart!"

I guess the overall sentiment isn't that different, but knowing that the initial demand was for Sena to hand over Kurita's contact info with the promise that they would spare him if he obeyed-- and that at first he agreed-- makes his change of heart feel even more significant.

(Sena: "IF YOU'RE GONNA HIT ME, THEN HIT ME!!! I'LL NEVER TELL YOU (Kurita's info)!!!")

Tell 'em Sena!! A part of me sort of wishes the story maintained this serious story beat instead of undercutting it with humor in the next panel (not shown here) but at the same time, ES21 is overall a more lighthearted, comedic story which I love it for, so I don't think I'd like it getting too angsty. I'll always have Berserk in my corner if I want some actual angst lol.

(1st pic: various sounds of surprise or pain, and in the last panel: "Oi, don't let him get away!"

2nd pic: Sena -- "No way!!!" Hiruma: "Hm? Oh it's that guy" )

Lol I do love the little details Murata included, like Kuroki taking a swing at Sena as he's biting Juumonji's hand but then totally missing in the fourth panel because Sena's so fast. Also I'm always on the lookout for the kinds of stuff Hiruma buys, snack wise. We know he loves sugarless gum, obv, and drinks coke based on that one time he bought some for himself, Kurita & Sena, but what else are in those bags? I want to know!!

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And lol apparently I'm only allowed 30 images per post rip, so I guess I'll end this here. I guess I can.... reblog and continue? Or I might just make another post for the next part 🤔 Besides this got way too long, so I'll have to be more brief in future posts lol.

I'm honestly not expecting more than like, five people to interact with this lol, but if anyone is interested in specific points of the story they want me to look at, please feel free to ask!

#eyeshield 21 #es21 #yeah this is not meta it's just.... stream of consciousness #as i ramble about eyeshield lmfao #and japanese practice that I'm inflicting on others #eyeshield 21 japanese readalong #is what i'm gonna tag it for my own sake #i guess #excuse any typos. *gun emoji* you didn't see any

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