#whatever he said it's untranslatable

[codemagister]

if you don’t want fifteen can I have him—

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[rocknrolloccultist93]

It just dawned on me that I genuinely can't understand why people take photos anymore. A day or two ago I was fucking around on my old DS, the power was out because we got new breakers or something, idk. Took a few crunchy photos on it, but the thing was... I looked at that stuff every day. I don't need a photo of it, and even if I didn't look at that stuff every day it'll just stay in my photo library never to be seen like every other picture I have. There were other photos on it ofc from when I was a kid, but they didn't mean anything. In fact I'd go as far to say that they mean considerably less to me now than the time I took them. They're nothing special. Just the old, soulless house with my bedroom decorated the way my mother wanted (as it always was, I had no choice in the matter) shortly before we moved, some photos of the highway, my dinosaur toys. The most interesting thing about them is that they're old. I don't feel anything looking at them, nor any sole image really anymore. Pretty ironic that I hold on so tightly to physical media then, isn't it?

There's a porn store in my town, too. I have no fucking idea how they're still in business, but I hope they stick around for the sole selfish reason that I'd like to visit it someday when i'm not broke. But no one jerks off to centerfolds anymore. Why bother, when there's infinite porn online? And it isn't just a picture, it's video. In motion, sound, color. Even then, if I came across some old dude's porn stash in a yard sale i'd buy it. I'm gay, i'm not even into women, but it's an artifact, right? A piece of an era in which it still mattered.

When Spike went after Vincent that last time, did he ever consider the fact that he set out to kill himself? I don't mean literally. Spike and Vincent are one in the same, they're both desperately trying to find the door to reality. They share the same soul. Spike said it himself, yet at no point did he say "there is no door." Did he, even for a moment, consider those facts, and in the same breath intend to end Vincent's plan, one way or the other, knowing that line of thought would put Spike himself in the line of fire? Did Spike believe that there is a door, and that only one of them could walk through it?

Looking at these old photos, am I Lain, unable to understand why having a body is so important because I was never meant to have one in the first place, or am I Alice, desperately trying to convince myself of the importance of having a body? Am I Vincent, looking for the door to reality, or am I Spike, knowing there is no door but unable to believe otherwise because my will to live depends on it? Should they matter to me, give me some feeling that is completely untranslatable into speech, therefore justifying their existence, or is the "should" an illusion painted by the expectations of the society that invented the camera? Is there something about a photograph that i've forgotten to be able to pick up on, or was I ever able to feel something from a photograph in the first place? Can I even learn to feel it again, or is it gone for good? If it is, then I must ask the same question. "Why is Vincent still alive?"

Come to think of it, Vicious asks the same of Spike, "Why are you still alive?" At some point in someone's life they realized they played a song, or a movie too many times. You watch it still, knowing you should feel something, but you just don't. Waiting works sometimes, but you don't know how many months or years it'll take. Then should you look for something else to give you that same feeling? Surely you'll run out of high quality media to consume, so should you then stoop to the level of watching complete and utter crap with your relentless hunger for that feeling? Who knows how many lifeless husks of movies and shows you'll leave in your wake, knowing you won't be able to feel anything from them in the end. By "quality" I don't mean whatever bullshit the film industry thinks, I mean artistic quality. Things made out of passion vs. for profit. You may know the difference but your brain doesn't. To your brain it's a stimulating input, nothing more. For every rewatch it gives you less and less dopamine, wether you're watching Lord of the Rings or some shitty early 2000's reality TV. We can only experience these things, emotion, sensation, through our brains, so does it matter what our opinions are, what we know we "should" feel from this specific input, when our brains are physcally incapable of giving us that feeling? Is there a way to trick the brain into giving us that specific feeling for that specific input, regardless of the amount of timess we experience it, or are we all destined to become numb to everything that once held meaning, unable to hold onto that meaning by our own free will?

[inscryptions]

there are three constants: the sun, the moon, and alhaitham’s ability to grind kaveh's gears. an unfortunate reality in its own right, though the architect ought to be grateful for any semblance of stability and reliability in his life, considering how often things (and people) seem to slip through his fingers.

the past is complicated, and relationships even more so. a stranger turns into a best friend, and a best friend to…well. whatever this is now. in an odd way, it reminds kaveh of the thesis he once ripped up and pieced back together all those years ago — still comprehensible, though far removed from its original state. 

but even in the face of never-ending arguments and bickering, there is an indisputable truth to contend with: alhaitham has done for him what others have not. and though kaveh is loathe to admit it, he finds that the most unshakeable part of his life is a friend that will never change — for better or for worst. 

he waits for alhaitham to step out before sneaking into the other's bedroom. it’s there that kaveh places a bottle of wine on the nightstand, along with a book titled, “In Other Words — A Unique Collection of “Untranslatable,” Culturally-Bound Words Across Teyvat.” 

A note is stuck to its cover: 

“I skimmed through this and thought you'd find it interesting. ”

With a P.S at the bottom:

“In the spirit of the New Year, drink to whatever it is that makes you happy in your own time. Just make sure you wash your glass after. I've already done the dishes.”

Signed with a flourish,  - Kaveh 

Oh.

I shouldn't be so surprised, considering how sentimental the man is, but finding that Kaveh has obtained gifts for me still takes me off-balance a bit. Perhaps I have only my history with him to blame for my lack of expectation, in which case he has succeeded at springing this gift on me. And how thoughtful it is, as befitting the man: a copy of In Other Words, which despite the resources at my disposable I had had yet to get my hands on the most recent version; and a rather delectable-looking vintage that based on its appearance will do well for welcoming the beginning of the new year. Despite the words on the note, he must've spent some time finding and procuring these items, and for a moment I wonder how much he spent on them. If he hadn't saved up beforehand... well, it makes me curious, and hopeful that he was able to get a good commission preceding their acquisition. And that, of course, he didn't spend all of said commission on these gifts.

I like to think that after so long I have become well-versed in the particular language that is Kaveh, and for all that we (more often than not) rile each other up after our fall-out, we still have at least a shadow of the friendship we once shared. This present wishing me a cordial New Year's is evidence of that on his end. After everything, he still cares in some way, shape, or form. It's... kind of nice, these little moments in which I realize all over again that our brotherhood, though tattered and torn to shreds, was not irreparably burned to ashes.

And now I don't feel as nervous or silly about the new foreign toolset I snuck in his nightstand. If he hadn't gifted me anything, he would've most likely felt embarrassment at having nothing with which to reciprocate as well as believed he'd incurred a debt and attempted to pay it back and, well, that's one headache I definitely don't need. Apparently our timing lined up well in the end, and how funny is that? (I don't think I'll be able to keep a straight face however if that Fontainian curve ruler makes its way into his hair with the rest of his architectural accountrements. No doubt it works well for him, and it still gets me every time that it does so well. It's very Kaveh, now that I think about it.)

I chuckle as I take both presents and hunt down a clean goblet before pouring myself a glass and sitting down to crack open the book. Now I want to see his reaction to the toolset if only for the look on his face.

"Mm, happy New Year indeed."

[wantonlywindswept]

Good Dad Paz pt 3

one | two

whew, this one fought me a bit at the end there. definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact i haven’t slept yet tho

considering adding ‘vod’ to the list of untranslatable Mando’a, it has a level of camaraderie/brothers-in-arms feel that just brother/sister doesn’t really convey well enough. maybe in the edit, if i ever edit

---

Paz didn't like seeing Din wounded.

It was unnatural, their covert's best Hunter laying so silent and still. Din was quiet, but he was also a man of action: he never seemed to stay in one place long enough to rest, for good or for ill. He was always in motion, coming and going on his bounties, talking quietly with the foundlings, helping out around the covert. 

But Din had barely stirred when Paz pulled him out of the weird creature's cage, limp and insensate from whatever he'd been injected with. Paz did his best to make him comfortable, using his ratty old cloak as a pillow and placing him gently near the fire, but there wasn't much he could do other than wait. 

Wait, and stand guard, as he always had.

"He'll be fine, little one," Paz rumbled, sitting with his back to the wall in view of the entrance, Din laying next to him. The foundling cooed unhappily and tucked his head against his father's neck; as soon as Paz had placed him there, Din had curled around the child, protective even in sleep.

"Patoo."

"I've seen him get through worse than this," Paz replied mildly, "And I'm guessing you have, too."

"...leh."

"That's what I thought."

Most of Paz's supplies were topside with his ship, but he did keep emergency rations on him at all times - even if the emergencies tended to just be 'a foundling is hungry'. He set aside one of the ration bars for Din; for the child, he mixed some of his canteen water and a packet of nutrient paste together in the cup from his field kit, setting it near the edge of the fire to warm. 

He didn't actually know what the kid ate - or even what species he was - but going with something hard to choke on was generally a safe bet with babies.

Din started waking up by the time the broth was finished; Paz tested the temperature with an un-gloved finger before handing it to the little one. He reached over to place his hand flat on Din's chest at the sound of a muffled groan.

"Easy," he said. "You're safe."

"Wha-- Paz?"

"Your child is also safe," he added, as if said foundling wasn't slurping noisily right next to Din's head. 

"Grogu..?"

Aha, finally, a name for the kid. It sounded familiar, so Din had probably said it at some point before, but Din said lots of things that Paz tended to ignore.

Din tilted his helmet toward him.

"Paz?"

Paz frowned.

"Do you have a concussion?"

"...no?"

Reassuring.

Din struggled against the hand on his chest, and Paz reluctantly helped him sit up. He dropped the canteen and a ration bar in Din's lap and shuffled around so they were back-to-back, Din propped against him in a heavy weight that Paz didn't mind bearing. 

"Drink something. And eat, if you can stomach it. You need to replace whatever that thing took out of you."

Mostly blood, from what Paz could tell, but he admittedly didn't look too closely.

Din grunted in assent; Paz heard the cap of his canteen unscrew, and the soft hiss of a helmet seal disengaging. He kept his gaze straight ahead, idly scanning the room. 

"Found your kid topside," he said. "He led me down here to you. Smart little thing."

"He is," Din agreed softly. His voice sounded even worse without the vocoder modulating it, rough and tired and strained: vulnerable, in a way that their armor was designed to conceal. 

Paz stood guard while Din ate, a hand on the assault cannon at his side, his body blocking the view from the entryway. But the sewers stayed calm, just the crackling of the fire and the child's happy coos interrupting the companionable quiet. He waited until he heard Din pull his helmet back on, and the soft sizzle of a wrapper being disposed of in the fire.

Then he waited some more.

"Paz," Din said, eventually, "What are you doing here?"

"Saving your sorry ass, obviously."

Din snorted, uncontrolled and undignified, and thunked his helmet ungently against the back of Paz's. 

"Paz."

Paz sighed, tapping his fingers one-two-three against the barrels of his cannon. 

"The foulding you saved," he said. "The one who was swearing the Creed."

Din hummed in inquiry.

"He is mine."

"Oh," Din breathed. "Oh, Paz, that's wonderful. Congratulations."

Paz grinned widely beneath his helmet, ducking his head a little. The fierce pride he felt whenever he looked at Ragnar, when he remembered that he'd been gifted with a child of his own to cherish - it still surprised him, sometimes, the depth of the emotion. He'd always loved the foundlings in their covert, would have happily died to protect them - but something about having Ragnar as his son made him want to live. 

"I came in second, as usual," he groused good-naturedly. "You'd already gone and found yourself a child first."

"Ah, that's...not quite correct."

Paz blinked. 

"What?"

"I mean I haven't, yet," Din said. "He's not mine, not really. I haven't sworn the words to him."

Paz blinked again.

Then he twisted around to stare incredulously at his utter idiot of a brother.

"You what?"

[pt 4]

[eulaties]

genshin fic moments that make me go crazy (zhongchi, xiaoven, scaramona, dottolone)

zhongchi

when zhongli witnesses childe’s abyssal past through a series of mirages:

Ajax reached out to touch one, enchanted. “You’re crying,” he whispered. “How much did you see?” Zhongli bowed his head, his bangs brushing Ajax’s forehead. “All of it.” “I’m sorry,” Ajax whispered. Zhongli’s hands stroked through Ajax’s matted hair, his expression as soft as dawn, but clouded with pain. “Come back to me,” he said. And Childe did.

xiaoven

when venti finds solace in xiao after the cataclysm:

Xiao doesn’t know, though, and it’s been so, so long since someone was so gentle with him. An eternity since he’d last been touched like something of beauty rather than a weapon of war. He’s never been looked at like Xiao is looking at him right now — like every move is one he needs to memorize and every breath he takes is one that reassures him too. Xiao looks at him like he’s more than just a god. He looks at him like he’s a person. Like he deserves to be there. Like he deserves to live. ... Venti is selfish, and right now, that fact has never been more apparent. If Xiao minds, he doesn’t say anything. All the Adeptus does is settle closer; he shifts off his knees and moves forward until his arms are wrapped tightly around his back and Venti could wrap his legs around his waist if he so desired. Venti’s wings lay limp, and no move is made to shift them into a more comfortable position. They stay squashed between him and the stair railing, resting atop Xiao’s muscled arms as he holds him.

scaramona

when scaramouche allows himself to be truly vulnerable with mona:

"I'm just like my mother," he says. Mona looks at him. There is a look on her face completely untranslatable to him. "You're here now, aren't you?" He tries and fails to choke something back; his face strangely congested all of the sudden. Only when Mona's thumb comes to run along his cheekbone does he realize he's crying. "I'm sorry," he says, in short gasps between sobs. He does not know if he's doing this right — he cannot recall the last time he'd cried while awake, and in front of another person no less, but even so he can definitively say that he does not deserve comfort from her. She should not have to give him this. "I– I want–" She pulls him close, rubbing gentle circles on his back as he weeps into her shoulder. He has never felt whatever this is before.

dottolone

when vampire!pantalone drinks dottore’s blood:

Smoked rose hemp and sweet, overripe fruit, the richest of liquid golds. His mouth explodes with the taste of nectar, of charred wood, ashes coating the gaps of his teeth, fangs piercing through the bellies of the muscles in his forearm right by the crease of his elbow. He bites down and slides forward—is rewarded with a sharp inhalation of breath—and sucks the gold in. It runs down his chin in lines of fire, drips onto the fur of his coat as Dottore stands above him, eyes unreadable and distant, while his hand caresses the junction of Pantalone’s jawline to his skull. He shuts his eyes again, lets the blood fill his mouth and almost drown him. And then, he remembers where he is, who he is, and who he is feeding from. He rips his fangs out of Dottore’s arm, brings a gloved hand to his mouth, wiping furiously with the back of his sleeve. Time stops in that very moment; Dottore stands there with his pupils blown wide, lips parted in either shock or something else Pantalone barely has the mental strength to acknowledge, because his reeling mind can focus on one thing and one thing only: The test tube had contained Dottore’s blood. ... “Tell me, Pantalone,” Dottore murmurs, and leans down so that his breath just tickles Pantalone’s forehead, “do I really taste good enough for you to choose my blood out of thirty samples?”

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 5/5

Book Blurb: In a fallen kingdom, one girl carries the key to discovering the secrets of her nation's past—and unleashing the demons that sleep at its heart. An epic fantasy series inspired by the mythology and folklore of ancient China. "Perfect for fans of The Untamed. I loved it!” —Shelley Parker-Chan, bestselling author of She Who Became the Sun Once, Lan had a different name. Now she goes by the one the Elantian colonizers gave her when they invaded her kingdom, killed her mother, and outlawed her people’s magic. She spends her nights as a songgirl in Haak’gong, a city transformed by the conquerors, and her days scavenging for what she can find of the past. Anything to understand the strange mark burned into her arm by her mother in her last act before she died. The mark is mysterious—an untranslatable Hin character—and no one but Lan can see it. Until the night a boy appears at her teahouse and saves her life. Zen is a practitioner—one of the fabled magicians of the Last Kingdom. Their magic was rumored to have been drawn from the demons they communed with. Magic believed to be long lost. Now it must be hidden from the Elantians at all costs. When Zen comes across Lan, he recognizes what she is: a practitioner with a powerful ability hidden in the mark on her arm. He’s never seen anything like it—but he knows that if there are answers, they lie deep in the pine forests and misty mountains of the Last Kingdom, with an order of practitioning masters planning to overthrow the Elantian regime. Both Lan and Zen have secrets buried deep within—secrets they must hide from others, and secrets that they themselves have yet to discover. Fate has connected them, but their destiny remains unwritten. Both hold the power to liberate their land. And both hold the power to destroy the world. Now the battle for the Last Kingdom begins.

Review:

A kingdom destroyed by colonizers, a song girl forced to face her powers and a boy with more demons than one, together they will find themselves fighting against those that have taken everything from them... but what are they willing to sacrifice for power? Lan is a song girl... she use to go by a different name but after the Elantian colonizers destroyed her kingdom, killed her mother and outlawed her people’s magic... she is now just trying to survive day by day being forced to be a songgirl by night in a teahouse that holds her contract and spend her days scavenging for something that would help explain the strange marked burned into her arm by her mother in her last act before she died. On one particular day she runs into a boy who appears at her tea house and saves her life... after she kills a man. Said boy is named Zen, he is a practitioner- one of the fabled magicians of the Last Kingdom, whose’s magic was rumored to have been drawn from the demons they summoned. Zen recognizes that Lan is a practitioner with a powerful ability hidden in the mark on her arm, power that he’s never seen the likes of before and knows that she is someone he must take with him deep into the forests of the Last kingdom to the order of practitioning masters who plan to overthrow the Elantian regime. Yet the more time Lan and Zen spend together fighting off Elantian magicians and soliders, unlocking their pasts... and their potential feelings for each other the more they begin to realize they are more alike than either had realized. Both of them are survivors of colonizers who took everything from them, who killed their entire families, and left them powerless, and both are willing to do whatever it takes to get the power to protect those they love and fight back. The more Lan uncovers of her mother’s past and her own connection to the seal in her the more she realizes that she is much stronger than she could have imagined. Zen is hiding a secret of his own, one connected to his childhood... and one that will forever change the way he. Both Lan and Zen will face their destinies, who they are, and what powers they hold. They will have to choose the path they want and how when given the choice of power: what they will sacrifice. This was such a fantastic read, the journey of the characters was so well done and the action was amazing. I found myself completely at the edge of my seat throughout and I can’t wait to see where the second book goes!! Filled with adventure, action, quests, and light romance, this is a fantastic read for anyone who enjoys epic fantasies inspired by mythology and fun quests!

(SPOILERS) : Lan is the daughter of Song Mei, the last muscial playing practitioner. She sealed the Silver Dragon ( one fo the four Demon Gods) into Lan before she died. Lan has now unlocked her seals  (well Zen unlocked the last one) and found the musical instrument that helps her focus her powers. Zen’s secret is that as a child *at 7 years old* he made a bargain with a demon : in exchange for 100 souls he will have the power to destroy those who wanted to harm him. After he and Lan are taken by Elantians and tortured, he releases the demon, but that leaves him powerless again. When the Elantians are after them again he makes a bargain with the Black Tortoise ( another Demon God), in exchange for 1000 souls including his own mind, body, and soul, he will have powers to control the Demon... but every soul he takes the more control the Demon has over him. Lan and Zen confess their feelings for one another (Before he made the bargain) and he wants to protect her and the village they were at so he makes the bargain... but in doing so he loses himself. Lan discovers that Zen is the last son of the demon weidling clan for the black tortoise and must find a way to save him. She begins to use the power of Silver Dragon in her own body. There are only two other demon gods now: The Azure Tiger and the Crimson Phoenix. Lan stabs Zen after he kills his mentor (who turns out to be Lan’s father) in order to protect him from the Black Tortoise Demon but that leaves him in a critical state as the knife she uses harms both the demon and the human soul. The Elantian empire attacks them and destroys the school in search of the Demon Gods. Lan is tasked with one mission frmo the final words of their master: she is to find and destroy the Demon Gods. Lan is to become the Godslaayer. The Azure Tiger has been set free and the Crimson Phoenix has yet to be found.They have to journey to the West, to the Forgetten city of the west where the emperer built a hidden palace where he stored his most sacred posessions, aka where the Godslayer item is. Lan discovers that her mother made a bargain with the Silver Dragon: her soul in exchange for the protection of Lan’s life. Lan makes a new bargain: Her soul in exchange for her mother’s but only her soul, not her mind or her body and only once the Silver Dragon has fulfilled its duty in protecting her life and when she is ready to give it up. Zen is still alive and has woken up, he is with shan Jun, the medicine boy, and they both are heading to Zen’s true home (his real name is Xan Temurezen) and he plans for the future, trying to leave whatever he had with Lan behind after she left him. 

*Thanks Netgalley and Random House Children's, Delacorte Press for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

[imposterogers]

hc that thor talked like a shakespearean in the earlier movies bc his universal translator hadn’t updated since the last time he’d visited earth, which was when odin & frigga took them to a show at the Globe Theater, explaining loki’s love of plays

[stormblessed95]

Hi this isn't a memories ask but I've been seeing many anti-jikookers and tkkrs (same thing really) use this one quote as proof jikook aren't a thing which is: "The maknae who has worked harder from a young age than any of the other members. Perhaps because he's the same age as my actual (biological) brother so I often look after him, but at some point I began to see him as my real brother. He's cute no matter what he does." First of all I was wondering if you knew when/where this was? I tried looking it up and found only a taekook blog and quora talking about it and didn't want to click those links and also was wondering if he says nam-dongsaeng there if you know? Either way I don't really think it changes much I mostly just wanted to check.

Sigh... I never enjoy it when you guys bring me things asking for sources from tkkrs. Lol BUT I genuinely am always very happy to help find original content. But I won't lie and pretend like I'm not happy that I'm doing this when my asks off because *certain* people take advantage of the anon option way too frequently. Lol

This was from a Japanese Magazine issue in 2017. 170620 Non-no Magazine issue to be specific. You can watch the making film here

And I'll attached the scans of the Magazine here too as well, jikooks cuts

Jimins interview answers

Jungkook's Interview answers

Now the part in question comes from the segment where 2 members each said something about one of the other other members. Original scans here

I found two translations of this moment, one being one the one that gets used most often as a "gotcha" by tkkrs. Both I found here:

So sources given, and now I'm also going to give my opinions over it all. Even though no one asked me to. Its my blog so I get to share my thoughts if i want to. Lol and I actually talked with and ran my thoughts by and got opinions from @marengogo as well and I be referencing that conversation as well. I asked them about it because they speak fluent Japanese and I do not and considering its a Japanese interview, i wanted to make sure I didn't over step.

To preface, once again, these are MY thoughts. My PERSONAL OPINIONS. Not fact, not right or wrong. Not anything other than opinions that are free for interpretation and everyone is welcome to disagree or whatever. But this is also not me opening up this subject for further discourse either.

To ME PERSONALLY, this reads a bit as translator nuance. When you take an interview that goes from Korean to Japanese for publication, and then goes from Japanese into English by volunteer translators for I army, sometimes, things get unintentionally wonky. Because language is nuanced by itself, especially languages that deal so heavily in honorifcs and deal with those honorifics differently, like Korean and Japanese, and then bringing all that into English, where most of those words aren't *really* translatable. So TO ME it reads a lot like translator nuance honestly. And like he was comparing him to his brother with the age thing and the cute thing, not necessarily saying "we are like real brothers" but I can also recongize my possible bias here. Lol but even if he really did say in early 2017 that he thinks of JK like a real brother, I can see it as JK changing his mind (because I do think JK would have had to put in that work) or honestly also just Jimin downplaying their relationship, like he often does and did while trying to describe how close they are. (Aka hyuna and e'dawn "he's like my brother" comments before revealing their relationship.)

And what I'm talking about with the difference in honorifics between the 2 languages, ones dongsaeng might get combined with another's jitsu otouro. How many people have added "real" younger brother in English when translating things where Jimin has said dongsaeng, and he didn't ever actually say real, but it got added in an effort to explain the untranslatable word in English to I armys. I'm curious because if he said dongsaeng in Korean, would it have been translated to otouro in Japanese? Like how so many translators here will say my little brother/real younger brother/sibling when jimin says dongsaeng in English?

Like I feel like it could be so easy for Jimin to say, he is the same age as my actual little brother and at some point I really started thinking of him as a dongsaeng. And for that to get mixed up a bit with all the different types of honorifics between languages who have their own rules for that stuff and have it come out this way too. @marengogo explained all the different Japanese honorifics rules to me and while they have *similar* rules to Korean honorifics with things like hyung/dongsaeng, they are also very different. And I'm open to learning more if someone has more to teach about the language here too. But I just feel like it's a easy translation context to get mixed up between 3 different translations. It's impossible to know without Jimins original answer to this interviewer, if he meant Chindongsaeng or if it got a bit twisted around during translations. Based off EVERYTHING else, I personally don't think he meant Chindongsaeng. But I'm also not Jimin and I don't actually know. That's just me, my guesses and my thoughts over the matter personally based on everything else we know and other context.

@marengogo also added during our conversation a tidbit about translating they noticed while watching memories, where jikook were sitting on the couch before Jimin got called away for his makeup. Their exact comment was: "During the conversation, towards the end everyone was translating what JK said as “with who?” But I was looking at the Japanese subs and he was saying “where are you going?” So who was right? Translating is … an art of understanding, waiting and analysing (just knowing vocabulary is not enough, culture, history etc is needed) we really just have to take our time and analyse. Eventually when you heard jk properly he did say 어디가 which is “where are you going?”"

Interesting thoughts about things that are easy to happen during interviews and events that take place in languages that aren't your native tongue. It's also easy to mix up your words and honroifcs when speaking a language that is not your own as well without necessarily realizing right away. Language is hard. Translating is hard. I have so much respect for the people who do translate for us. And regardless, like I said before, even if it was meant Chindongsaeng, it doesn't change my thoughts much about their relationship as a whole.

Hope that helps. Sorry for my essay at the end but thank you for asking and for trusting me to deliver you to proper sources and content that is out there! That makes me happy 💜💜 Hope everyone has a wonderful rest of the day! And thanks to @marengogo once again for helping me with my Japanese questions!!

[animartiin]

"The power of belief and disbelief is too often underestimated or outright forgotten."

Excerpt from Of the Empires by Annalise of Rivendell, chapter four, page 40.

The power of belief and disbelief is too often underestimated or outright forgotten.

None know this so well as Mezalea and its citizens. They know from experience that certain things, not all things, but certain things only have power if you give it to them. Faith can make or break a plan, can lead to the death or survival of a people. Faith, or the lack of it, in certain circumstances can make for the greatest of defences.

Thus, if the Mezalean King says that he can see nothing, if the Mezalean King says that he can hear nothing, there is nothing to fear, nothing that can hurt you. The one they call "Demon", "Corruptor", "Champion of Exor", has no power on your shores of red sand and terracotta, cannot bring harm upon any of you whilst you still live and breathe and deny his existence.

Likewise, if the Mezalean King says "fight for our allies", if the Mezalean King says to defend those to whom he has sworn his heart, you will. By whatever higher being or beings you may or not believe in, you will; because Mezaleans are nothing if not a loyal people. It is only right, in their eyes, that they should do so. Saltwater or driftwood1, it's all the same. To shed blood, sweat or tears for those you love, regardless of who or what they are, in battle or in art, is the greatest of gifts.

He is undoubtedly a man who delights in bloodshed and beauty, stubborn as anything when it comes to grudges, yes, but he is also one who places love and loyalty highly, willing at times to forgive and forget those same past insults2. Furthermore, it was this admiration of beautiful things and natural stubborness that caused Mezalea to become what it is today. He, as well as all those who looked at this mad man and decided that he was the one they would follow, transformed an all but empty, arid mesa into a colourful and brilliant nation brimming with life.

After all, among the first things any visitor catches sight of upon entering the Matral Palace is testaments to said love of his; embassies built by his beloved wife and brother-in-law, given pride of place inside of the palace he had spent so many long years carefully building up block by block.

It's because of all this that King Joel has his people's trust. Something which I think we can all agree is far from misplaced.

-------------------------------------------------------

1 An Oceanic phrase denoting bonds of both blood and chance, meaning that the ties between family and friends are equally as precious, though the exact meaning is untranslatable into any other tongue. The phrase "blood and water" is similiar, though the meanings don't quite match up well enough for one to be substituted for another. I picked up the phrase during my stay in the Ocean Empire a little while ago and I couldn't resist the opportunity to make use of it (especially considering the fact its queen, Lizzie, is married to King Joel, making it all the more appropriate).

2 Long story short, a few decades back, when Mezalea was still sorting itself out and wasn't quite standing firmly on its feet, Count fWhip called King Joel poor. His Majesty, being His Majesty, took offence to that insult and held a petty grudge against him for years. Right up until a couple of years ago when he suddenly went right over to the Grimlands to play the Count a song (occasionally nicknamed the “Kiss Track” by some) asking that they put aside their past conflict and become allies (suggesting that they go bug and/or kill one of the other rulers if I remember right).

[oppulcnce]

Ever since he’d met the God’s and seen first hand what the magic of the world provided, King Oskar had thought he’d seen it all. But to see the darkness and light at once was something he hadn’t thought would happen in his lifetime. He honestly did not believe there was a human form to contain such a magic but here he was being proven that magic was nonsense and anything could happen. 

Still it was a moment of true relief, meeting the two, granted the man was a little standoffish but the woman clearly was the charismatic one between the two. But the tides would turn in this war, now that they had them on their side, the opposition would try whatever they could to keep them away. They were already doing their best to push the kingdom into a smaller area by sending monsters to the towns. But that wasn’t going to stop this fight for magic, freedom, and vengeance at this point. 

Which is what brought them to this point, not many people had the luxury or honor of walking through the doors of the God’s but this was a special moment. He promised them answers and that’s what they would get, he was a man of his word especially since she’d been so willing to help heal his injured men.

In this room, the God’s convened to speak to the humans, whether it was to update with the affairs of the God’s, to give warnings or to hide. But nothing or no one uninvited could enter this room, and currently it only held two of the God’s; Birel the Goddess of Strategy, and Riva the Goddess of the wind.  And at his request he guided them to hear the story from the beginning to really set things into perspective, showing much more was at stake than just kingdoms.

“I know it’s been a hard time for you, the hurt, confusion, anger, all of it must be boiling inside of you. But you must understand much of this kingdom feels that, they’ve been fighting a battle from before their grandparents. And I assure you it is not for nothing;” the Goddess said after having down proper introductions. But she was more about getting to the situation than dealing with feelings, that was for the mother to handle. 

Pulling a book from thin air that soon lost it’s pages and instead became an image as the book was opened. With moving images and runes that were untranslatable it was clearly depicting the story as the woman talked. “Long ago, my brother’s and sister’s created this world, we blessed the people with life and knowledge and magic. It seemed only fair to give a gift of ourselves to the people- make them in our image and whatnot. And that’s where Hestia our sister came in, she blessed them- and the human’s used it well. They grew, they learned, and understood more as time went on.” 

There was a pause as the images became something new, of murder and blood, “But some became paranoid, worried that sooner or later the humans would discover a magic to take on the God’s. But Hestia refused to take back her gift and the Mother did not force her hand either...And paranoia spread, it may have not been most but it was enough, that they destroyed....They destroyed Hestia in the hopes that her death would mean the gift would be destroyed.” She said but her voice caught in her throat as the situation still hurt as though it was fresh. 

With that Riva stepped in and took the book, turning the images to the next, which would be the darkness and magic an on earth spreading from a body shaped mountain. “Sadly, her sacrifice did the opposite, it sent everything into a spiral as magic was released everywhere- in the heavens, earth, everywhere. All kinds, and without Hestia as the vessel to control it all it became a bigger issue as everyone now blamed one another.” 

The images soon began forming shapes of humanoid forms before turning to specs of light. “New God’s were being born, entities that no one could control or understand. But Mother, being the insane being she is accepted them all, called them her children and allowed them as punishment to the God’s that dared harmed their sister. And it truly was a punishment at first, the humans were gaining more power, and these new creatures seemed endless in their magic. But then there were few who refused to accept such a punishment- and they turned on us, and found a way to end magic within the humans....By breaking the faith between the God’s. Without the worship of the God’s, with the fear of magic, they used paranoia and fear to convince the humans that they needed them. They spoke through the humans, the manipulated them, and put into place a kind of church that feared magic.”

Before turning to look at the Darkness with soft eyes, “You disagreed-,” she said accepting the entity made from  Hestia as a true creature as mother intended. “You were made from the pure darkness of magic, and you fought against them...However, they found a way to trap you for so long since there was no easy way to destroy you in the hopes that-”

“That I would remember nothing but the cave,” he said as he could see the shapes of the book colliding into one another. “So to protect you existence your fight...And so that humans can keep magic they fight,” he said pointing between the God’s and the King.“ He said before turning to look at Korey, wondering if this was what the Mother Goddess wanted Korey to find, if this was the knowledge she needed. But he did not know how to bring this up or anything up really, it was all a lot and for once the creature felt overwhelmed and he wasn’t sure what would be running through Korey’s head. He had brought her here to help her get revenge only to find out this was a battle of the God’s, that may be more than she was prepared to handle.

@exsanguinatc​

[tomoyajpeg]

White Brim | BATTLEROYAL/6

Tsukasa: ...Hm. Though I triumphantly declared war on you...

This is slightly troubling. If it were only Tori-kun, I would happily tear him limb from limb, but since Onee-sama is here as well—

Tori: L-let’s run, Anzu! Tsukasa’s supposed to be a “fisherman,” so in other words, he’s our enemy!

Over here! Be careful not to fall, okay?

Tsukasa: Ah! Get back here, you coward...!

Tori: Ptthbt! Yuzuru said that cowards are the ones who make it out of battlefields alive! Being able to survive easily makes you admirable, right? Am I wrong?

Tsukasa: Fushimi-senpai said something like that...? Whatever for? I don’t believe that’s something a servant should be saying?

Tori: Hm? Come to think of it, why isn’t Yuzuru taking part in “clamming?” Didn’t I hear that all the servants were going to participate?

And isn’t that guy a servant of mine? Why isn’t he here?! That disloyal little—!

Tsukasa: Now, why on earth would I know what’s going on with your servant?

Additionally, though I don’t know why I’m giving you advice when you’re my enemy: You do know that even if Fushimi-senpai were participating in “clamming,” there’s no guarantee that he would be on your side, correct?

Rather, I'd say that the assumption that Fushimi-senpai would be your ally is a dangerous one to make in this situation.

If you were to approach him thinking that he would protect you, it’s entirely possible that it would all be over in a single deep stab. [1]

Tori: I-I know that much, okay!? Don’t go preaching from your high horse to someone who’s the same age as you!

Tsukasa: ...It seems that you didn’t listen to Tenshouin-onii-sama’s explanation properly, so I was just giving you some advice out of the kindness of my heart.

Well, it’s fine. In reality, so long as we’re divided into enemy and ally like this, doing nothing but clashing against each other, exchanging words is unnecessary.

In accordance with the Rules of “clamming,” though it’s not as if you’re an enemy general, I shall solemnly hunt you down.

As I am unable to be declared victorious until I have hunted down all of you “fish”, this is quite the troublesome task I’ve been presented with.

Tori: Like I said! I get it already, so you don’t have to explain it over and over—

Tsukasa: Bang.

Tori: Kyaaaaa!? He shot at me! That jerk shot at me with a gun! I can’t believe him!

Tsukasa: What are you so surprised about? You were surely already aware that we “fishermen” were provided with weapons, were you not?

Be that as it may, I lack experience in handling firearms. Additionally, it's quite dark, and when visibility is this low I’m unable to aim properly.

Tori: T-this is our chance! He sucks at this!

Tsukasa: Bang, Bang, Bang.

Tori: Snrk, he’s just shooting all over the place ♪ In the end, Tsukasa’s still Tsukasa!

Anzu! Before he accidentally ends up hitting one of us, let’s run! Over here!

Huh? Where do I plan on running to? W-wherever is fine - we just have to get away from that overflowing-with-bloodlust Tsukasa or he'll kill us!

Huh? Tsukasa wouldn’t do something like that? Well, that’s normally true, but that’s just ‘cause he likes to pointlessly act like a gentleman!

But right now, we’re in the middle of “clamming!” And for as long as I’ve known him, even if we’re just playing around, he never stops until he wins - or, rather, you could say he gets way too fired up...!

Tsukasa: —Would you kindly refrain from speaking ill of me in front of Onee-sama?

Tori: (Huh? What? Why is Tsukasa’s voice coming from directly above us...?)

Tsukasa: ..........♪

Tori: (That jerk! He was shooting his gun randomly to draw our eyes away from him, and to make us let our guard down—)

(And then, while that was happening, he stealthily climbed a tree and approached us by jumping between branches!? Like some sort of nimble monkey!?)

Tsukasa: Now, then—

Tsukasa: This is Checkmate.

Tsukasa apparently makes up a word for an untranslatable pun, here: 一刺し is pronounced the same way as 一差し, meaning “one dance” or “one game” (like, of shogi), but is written with the character for “stab.”

[itsagrimm]

Imperial!Tech 3

Summary: Tech's chip activated instead of Crosshairs so Tech is now an imperial commander tasked to serve the Empire at any cost. But is he willing to do so? And are you, dear Y/N as member of the experimental Elite Squad, willing to follow any order your commander Tech gives?

CN: self-harm, talk of death murder and war crimes, stalker behaviour, soldier life in a fascist state, power imbalance, overreaching behaviour, structural violence, sexually predatory behaviour and the likes, sensual overload, insomnia, references of drug abuse, depression and mental health issues, trauma

Imperial!tech X they*them Y/N reader, afab

Thanks a lot to @eyecandyeoz for your insight, feedback and thoughts. Check out their lovely blog!

I am sorry it took me so long. next part will be faster. I already started writing it.

And feel free to criticise especially concerning my use of CN and if the reader perspective is inclusive for you.

2800 words

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

Tech collapsed into the chair as soon as Y/N had left the room. He was tired, so tired. He leaned back and put on his glasses. Him taking off his visual aids around Y/N was a degree of trust Tech rarely allowed. He was nearly blind without his glasses and the Kaminoans had considered terminating him for that. Tech was sure Y/N did not even know how much he had surrendered himself to Y/N and their touch. Their oh so soft touch. The memory of it was still fresh on his skin. It raced through is mind which for once was craving to match his body with the need to slow down and take a rest.

But it didn’t.

Y/N was pleasant to be around. Their touch was careful and considered. Only his brothers used to treat him like his. – His brothers, the former clone force 99, had left him behind after they refused to comply with order 66. Due to their divergence the inhibitor chip had not worked while he, Tech, had tried to kill the Jedi. – He had tried to kill a child. – The effect of the inhibitor chip was decreasing. His wound received on Bracca had an 84,743 % chance of damaging the inhibitor chip. But he should investigate further and get the chip out to stop any possible interference with his superior thought process. - Y/N was not aware of the inhibitor chips. He felt the need to tell them. Why? – The Havoc Marauder had not been mentioned on the imperial comm chatter for a while. – Echo was likely to take care of the ship now. – He should get some sustenance. He felt hunger. – Y/N – The Empire expected a degree of loyalty, uniformity, and compliance he was unsure he could deliver for long considering his diverging mind. – what would Hunter do? – the kaminoan proverb “yn’ja tha vaí m°O” was untranslatable into Basic but could be understood in Sit Bisti as “it needs tö be döne för the betterment öf äll”- The Empire was unlikely to grant him the freedom to find his brothers or in fact any freedom. – The canteen might serve Tiingilar tonight – He was a child slave destined to die in approximately 34,6 standard yearly rotations from old age if not sooner. – maybe the canteen will serve uj’alayi too. – Does Y/N speak Mando’an? He should enquire. – Of course, there will be no uj’alayi today. The Kaminoans did not allow sweet foods. – Y/N – How did the atmospheric controls work that ensured breathable air even for the highest floors of coruscanti buildings? - He knew why his brothers left him behind, but why did it feel so painful. – The empire was likely to kill him if he out served his usefulness for them. - He had tried to kill a child. He had killed several children on Onderon. How could he live with that? How could-

Tech forced his thoughts to stop by digging his fingers into his bloody scar.

The sharp pain felt soothing.

“Let’s consider making a list of the most pressing tasks for now.”

He starred at the ceiling.

“The Empire. It is the closest threat to my demise, but it can be my salvation if I am useful. Am I willing and capable to do that?”

His head started spinning again just at the thought of killing another child for the Empire. And yet serving the Empire gave him purpose he wasn’t sure he could muster on his own.

“Where are my brothers? How are they? How do I feel about them?”

Another unpleasant wave of thoughts and feelings washed over Tech before he continued.

“What is with the inhibitor chip inside my head?”

He nodded to himself. That was a rational and containable problem with fixed variables and clear answers. He felt comfortable with that question, pushing aside all the things he might have done due to being under the chips influence.

Only one question was left now.

“Why do I enjoy Y/N presence?”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ryloth had a warm and dusty climate during daytime. Y/N felt sweat dripping under the dark armour. The elite squad, including a new ES-03, was ordered to stand close by to Admiral Rampart, the highest imperial officer on Ryloth. And so, they had spent the last rotations following the Admiral around, doing tedious security work and presenting themselves like the Admirals favourite guard dogs to a public very much disliking their military presence. For once, even commander Tech looked annoyed about their not spec-ops appropriate services.

Today they were on the outlook. The Admiral wanted them scanning a large crowd for troublemakers and resistance fighters during a public announcement. Y/N couldn’t blame them. The Twi’lek of Ryloth had spent years fighting for their independence and spilled an ocean of blood on the dusty planet’s surface only to face an Empire now. Half a life ago Y/N would have hated themselves for being a soldier in service of a suppressing ruler. But now it was paid work.

“ES-01?”, Commander Tech brought Y/N back from their thoughts

“I am in position before the crowd.”

“ES-02?”

“Yes sir, I am on the building as you ordered.”

“ES-03?”

“Any nonimperial transmissions are being blocked now.”

“ES-04?”

“The war hawk is ready for take-off in case we need it.”

“Good. Do you register any noteworthy activity?

Y/N gazed through the crowd. They were mostly Twi’lek, waiting to hear from their leaders. All of them were in civilian clothing, none came with visible weapons.

“I can’t spot anything, sir.”

Tech said nothing. But Y/N could hear him type something.

“Analysing previous rebel fighter behaviour and strategies in similar situations they are likely to appear at these coordinates within the crowd today. I am sending you a list for you to especially pay attention to, ONCE.”, he finally said using the moniker the elite squad had given Y/N.

“Yes sir.”

Y/N looked at their holopad and started checking the coordinates commander Tech had calculated. At entry four they spotted their targets.

“Commander. I have a visual about 40 meters from my position, 10 o’clock. There are two fighters. Twi’lek. One female and one male passing. Shade of blue and orange.”

A moment everyone was silent.

“Confirmed.”, ES-02 stated.

Another moment passed.

“Observe them for now. Stay alert.”, Tech ordered before ending the transmission.

High above the Twi’lek senator started to talk. Y/N could not remember his name and paid little attention to his words. Unlike the Twi’lek.

“They are not happy.”, ES-02 stated flatly.

“Yeah thanks, I would not have noticed without you.”

“Always a pleasure to help out, ONCE.”

ES-02 was right. The crowd was angry. The imperial presence, the empty words of some disaffected politician, the fresh memories of the clone war. It was no surprise that the Twi’lek called out for their resistance leaders to speak.

“We want Syndulla! We want Syndulla!”, the crowd chanted.

A different voice from above started speaking. The crowd calmed down, not entirely happy but at least not a raging mob.

“At least we will not have to gun them down, now.”, ES-02 mumbled with a bitter voice.

“Would you really do that, two?”

“You know what they say, good soldiers follow orders, ONCE. And I intend to be one. Especially when I’m getting paid for it.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Rampart was an asshole. He was a smug little administrator, willing to lie, back-stab and sacrifice whatever needed to achieve his goals. Rampart was the perfect general to handle a loaded situation like the one on Ryloth. And he was no fool.

Y/N hat noticed that he had kept both commander Tech and Howzer, the commanding clone trooper in charge of the regular clone troopers on Ryloth, close. A strategic move. Spec-ops commandos like the elite squad and regular commandos were in constant competition and mistrust to each other. Should one commander not deliver or even consider treason the other would interfere. And Rampart would always end up on the winning side of their clone infighting.

Y/N could here their arguing inside the office.

Commander Tech had ordered for Y/N to wait outside the office for new orders.

More arguing from the office was audible until finally Ramparts voice cut their bickering short.

The door opened and Howzer left. His expression was that of a practised reserved solider hiding his worries.

The door opened again, and commander Tech stepped outside of Ramparts office.

He looked tense.

Instead of a greeting or an order he just started walking. They followed him.

“Clone force 99 is here. But we are kept on a short leash. As always.”, Tech stated, “It is implausible to not use the best tools possible when confronted with a problem. Howzers troopers will not be able to beat them if necessary. Just like they won’t be able or unwilling to beat the Twi’lek should the need arise.”

Since Kamino the commander had started to share more of his thoughts with Y/N. All they had left to do was to listen and ask the right questions.

“Sir, you think Howzer will commit subordination?”

“There is a possibility of him and his men disagreeing with the new imperial leadership and it’s methods. Howzers unit has fought alongside the Twi’leks the past years. Bounds forged in the trenches can be stronger than loyalty to an administrator from Coruscant. But I require further data to assess the likelihood of treason.”

“What about clone force 99?”

“Their abilities and erratic strategies will be a challenge should we … no, should I have to face them.”

“So, we did not get the order to hunt them down?”

“No. Not yet.”

“And yet you already imply them as of importance.”

“It would be a grave strategic mistake to dismiss their presence.”

“So, what is the elite squad going to do about them? What are your orders, sir?”

Tech paused and adjusted his glasses.

“We are going to do nothing.”

“Sir!?”

“Don’t.” There was a warning in his voice. A signal to Y/N not to cross a line, invisible yet perceptible. He was after all a commander and Y/N just a soldier.

“I am sorry. I overstepped. You are in charge.”

He turned, stepped away and looked at Y/N. His eyes scrutinized them like a scientist inspecting a rare specimen of remarkable value.

They shivered.

His gaze was intriguing. It was painful to feel on display like that. And yet it was nearly intimate to be studied by Tech. Unsure if he would finally hit Y/N for their countless discretions or if he just contemplated their objections.

Finally, Tech nodded appeased and continued his walking without any further talk.

“What do you want us to do now, sir?”

Tech stopped.

“What do I want you to do now?”, Tech repeated as if the question had a different meaning to him than it had to Y/N.

He took out his holopad only to put it away again. He cleared his throat.

“I need you to stay alert. The situation is complicated. For now, get some sleep. The chances are below 4,65 % that there will be a significant development within the next two hours. After that I except the elite squad to be combat ready.”

“Yes sir.”

XXXXXXXXX

The Refresher room was empty. Most clones avoided the elite squad, and all the other members of their unit were taking a nap before the night shift which left Y/N to have the large washroom for themselves.

They signed.

Taking a shower and having some alone time to think and feel before finally taking a rest was what they needed.

Y/N started to strip out of the armour.

First, they took of the helmet, then the vambraces and shin guards before getting the shoulder pieces and lifting the heavy breast armour off before finally getting out of the abdomen armour. The black katarn fell to the floor, making loud echoing noises.

Y/N didn’t care. No one was to correct them on their improper handling of equipment here.

And as much as the armour was a useful necessity, it was a heavy burden in more than one way.

Their blacks followed and soon Y/N was standing under the refresher, naked and alone.

The water was hot and painful.

It was a welcome distraction to all the feelings of … well what exactly?

Y/N felt tears running down their face.

No, no, no. It’s just the refresher.

An uptight sob escaped Y/Ns throat. It was all so different from what they imagined. They had entered imperial service for the payment during a desperate time. And ended up witnessing murder after murder, committing murder.

Today they could have become accomplices to killing a crowd of innocent Twi’leks. And Y/N knew that they would have complied with the order to open fire on the civilians if given. How could they not? Surrounded by troopers like them, ordered around by heartless and calculating commanders.

Would Tech give a killing order like this?

Was he that heartless?

He had done so before.

He had killed so many times before their eyes and yet a piece of Y/N refused to see him as a murderer. In fact, they felt shameful about feeling and thinking about Tech – about their commanding officer – at all.

Y/N stopped fighting the tears and cried out loud.

Nobody would know about this.

Nobody would know about their doubt and vulnerability.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As always sleep had been an unwilling friend to visit Tech. With a sigh he gave up and got up from the cot. As always, his mind was racing. He had tried the breathing techniques Crosshair taught him after a particular long stretch of insomnia, but it didn’t work.

And Tech wasn’t in the mood to experiment with the vast collection of sedatives to force his body to sleep right before possibly facing his brothers and definitely meeting admiral Rampart soon.

Work it was then.

His holopad listed only unchallenging administrative tasks.

The new Shuttle was in top shape.

His weapons were cleaned.

Tech had nothing to keep is overthinking brain in check.

Kriff, his life really was miserable. A never-ending effort to bringing his spiralling mind some peace.

A notification came in.

What a blessing.

Tech looked at the holopad again. It was just a reminder to check on his subordinates, to listen in on their private talks and vital signs.

The order from Imperial Command was an uncomfortable task but it was the best he had to do right now. And listing in on some snoring was better than listening to the elite squads talk like last time. At least it felt less overreaching.

He started with ES-04 and workout down from there. Four was in deep slumber, nothing of interest to note. ES-03 was still new and his sleep was restless, a few murmurs about his home planet and family escaped his lips. ES-02 was dreaming. His heartrate was accelerated. Tech turned his observation of, not interested in the rutting sounds of ES-02.

ES-01 was left. ONCE. Y/N. The thought of peeping into their private life was not only uncomfortable, but it also felt violent to strip Y/N of their peace and privacy.

And yet, Y/N was the only one Tech WANTED to know more about. He felt his desire to learn more about Y/N like a physical need, an addicting obsession Tech knew he needed to be careful with not to indulge.

Was their slumber peaceful and sweet?

Did they have dreams about home?

Or did they fight their nightmares in sleep just like they did awake?

He swallowed.

He was just following an order.

He will do nothing more.

He was just a good soldier.

Y/N wasn’t asleep. Their bucket was off and there were no vital signs coming of them. But the acoustic signal was working.

Y/N was somewhere with a lot of echoes and running water.

Tech felt himself blushing and getting hot.

They were in the shower.

It felt so right to listen in on Y/N. Tech felt bad about it.

The thought of water running down their bare and naked body made Techs mind slow like nothing ever before. The pleasure of a calm mind made him groan.

He hesitated. This was not okay. He shouldn’t listen. He shouldn’t imagine a subordinate like that. He hated that he had to. He hated that the Empire gave him order to do so. But more than that he hated himself for following that order so willingly.

He reached for the off button on his holopad.

A sob.

Was that Y/N? Were they crying?

Tech’s mind went from zero into overdrive. He needed to know who or whatever made you feel like crying. He would find out. And he would remove whatever it was from your life.

Part 4

[tracle0]

hey hi, happy storyteller satursunday! I remember you posting a super neat ramble a while back about TSS and language? among other things you mentioned you were telling the story as a translator! I was wondering if there are any fun language facts you can tell me about how things might differ between original and translation? would there be certain untranslatable concepts? any odd idioms or phrases that pop up that we might not be familiar with? anything that might get lost in translation and require a footnote or two? :P or maybe in general, 'cause you talked about uhhhh potentially having spoken differences between spider and Spider for instance - any other funky little twists like that for how language operates? ok bye have a lovely day xoxoxo

Hi hello! Read this yesterday and went “oh boy” so that’s a good reaction! Sunday now! Hi!

So mmm yeah! The way I approach TSS and TCD is as a translator - but it’s more for convenience than anything? If I were to try to make up new weekdays and units of measurements and swears and numbers constantly, it’d be hard to follow the story because you’re juggling all these essentially useless facts.

Like. Sure, it’s cool to know that “Jyipday” originated as a tribute to the Rabbit for whatever reason, but it’s not necessary to the plot. So to make it easier and to stop myself from going “hey why would they have Thursday without Norse mythology” I just approach the entire story as if I’m translating it into normal English.

I can totally tell you some cool language bits though lmao I have a grand total of four (4) idioms that I’ve come up with since starting this.

First of all, if you were to think someone were lying to you, you might accuse them of “spitting Spiders” on account of the Spider being the god of lying. Not many people believe it’s hugely active in the world they’re wrong but they’re aware of it enough to assume all lies stem back to it.

Example in a sentence: “Can you believe that asshole looked me in the eye and said that? Spitting Spiders the whole time, I’m telling you.”

Second; if someone were to be a bit of a daydreamer or be a bit drifting in terms of attention, you could claim they were “dancing with the Magpie” - also possible as specific forms of dancing, eg: waltzing, tangoing, fukkin,,, rocking, idk, I’m a writer not a dancer. The Magpie is the god of sleep and dreams so. Yeah. Pretty self explanatory.

Example: “Dannels a good kid. Very sharp, very articulate, but he dances with the Magpie a bit too much to be the perfect student.”

Third - if you damage your nail enough that it starts to turn black (either marginally with blood trapped under it or entirely as to fall off) you’d diagnose it was a “Foxes claw” - the Fox is the god of perception, but when it sponsors people, it gives them black nails, just to mark them out really. You do not get magic if you damage your nail. You just get a damaged nail.

Example: “Yeah, the fall was pretty bad, but I’m not too hurt. Bit of a headache and a Foxes claw, nothing to worry about.”

Fourth and finally, if someone were to hyper-fixate in something, be consumed on a new topic or medium or idea to the point of obsession, you could say they were “answering the Salmons lure” (or yknow just diagnose them with ADHD or autism but whatever man). The Salmon is the god of determination, and although it doesn’t sponsor anyone, it’s often assumed that those who work tirelessly on one thing/hyper-fixate are blessed by it.

This mostly came about cause I was like hey why is there rarely if ever any mental illness in fantasy. Fuck that let’s make an idiom

Example: “I’ve not actually seen Nara for about three days. She comes down in the night for food and water, but I think she’s been pulled in by the Salmons lure again”

None of these have come up in story yet, but maybe soon. Maybe maybe.

In terms of how language exists! Re: Spider/spider/liar as different words, I’m. Mm. Settled in most places. I’d like to maybe make up specific swears and curses. I’ve been avoiding using things like “Jesus Christ!” As an exclamation cause that would imply the existence of Christianity and I do not want that.

Oh that’s a tangent actually. Religion! In world, there’s some specificity about what makes up a god - most people may accept that the gods they have are gods, but some disagree. A god has to be all powerful, and the gods they have are not - they’re limited to specific domains like sleep or heat or biology. Therefore, they are not gods. Some decide there is another, higher being above the gods they know that is a true, capital-G God, that gave the other gods their magic. Some assume it means there are no actual gods.

This is the conclusion Andy eventually reaches in TCD. The man really encounters the god of death in person and decides “nah you ain’t shit”

On! The topic of Andy, I’ll mention accents too! Glalis has a very distinct accent that’s mostly informed by the environment - because they live in a cave, there’s a need to keep their voices quiet, to prevent a horrible echo from breaking their ears constantly. The Glalis accent achieves this, hushing the harsh sounds like D or T or CH and keeping the voice soft. I personally am very happy with it

Atlas also has a fun voice but that’s not really any language or accent thing, just a hangover from original Sonder, and tiny tiny me going “well they’re not a girl or a boy, so what kind of voice would they have?” Two voices is apparently the answer, one high, one low, harmonising to make their words. They are an excellent mimic.

Maybe a good time to mention that the main characters names might not… actually be their names?

I mean, the main offender is Atlas tbh. Much like Norse mythology does not exist in TSS, neither does Greek mythology, which is the root of their name, with the titan who holds up the sky. I could brush it aside as “atlas” having another origin as a word…

Or I could be difficult about it!

See I know their name would have to be something map related - specifically because Sam comments on it at one point. I could brush it aside as their name sounding like whatever the god of the planet or earth or fakkin… mapmaking is, but I can’t see the Spider letting one of its servants be named after another god. I could also give “map” a proper translated word, work from there to condense it into a potential name, and then claim I was translating “map” from whatever this word is, and “Atlas” as a result of the similarity.

Or.

I could just.

Let their name be Atlas.

And stop overthinking this so much lmao

[dilfbane]

Your Weeping(Your Need For His Touch)

Summary: When things go south on a mission, you have to confront more than just the sketchy town, cartoon villains, and one-bed hotel room you’re forced to share with Loki. You have to come to terms with not only the consequences of being captured, but also the God of Mischief’s feelings for you - Because for all that he might be an asshole, sometimes, he really does have a heart. Written for the Picture Is Worth A 1,000 Words 6k Follower Writing Challenge by @startrekkingaroundasgard 

Pairing: Loki/(Female)Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries and medical treatment, as well as discussions of the inevitable mindset around sacrificing oneself for the mission that I feel like being part of the Avengers would entail. Also swearing, because at its core, this story started out as a bit of a crack! fic. 

Word Count: 7.8k. 

A/N: So apparently when I have mental breakdowns they result in me writing crack-fic that takes a 180 veer into angst and fluff for absolutely no reason. For the sake of the crack-fic, in this timeline Loki was forced to help the Avengers take down bad guys directly after the end of the first Avengers movie, so… Is that a confusing plot hole I didn’t know how to account for except by making this AU? Maybe. Did I do it anyway?…. Yeah. This really was meant to be a crack-fic about Loki and the reader confessing their feelings set in the bizarre world of meme culture, I didn’t realize there were going to be feels in it until it was three in the morning and all of a sudden this happened. That being said, your girl went there, so enjoy! 

“Oh, shit,” You say, as you take in the grimy hotel room. The walls all smeared in what looks like dried blood, the putrid smell of rotten eggs, a crack-screened television with a fine dusting of some suspiciously white powder. And, of course, “There’s one bed.” 

“Hmm?” Asks Loki, turning towards you, briefly, from unpacking. He had dumped his suitcase(Magically plucked out of a chaotic liminal space) unceremoniously on the bed’s scratching, pilling coverlet without so much as a second glance at the rest of the room. And why do you need a suitcase, anyways?? You wonder. It isn’t like we’re planning to be here that long. In fact, you hoped with every fiber of your being that you’d be here for as little time as possible, because this town might actually be the sketchiest place you’ve ever seen in your life; no small feat, for a bona-fide member of S.H.I.E.L.D. 

You’ve kicked alien ass on a mutated purple Mongolian death-worm three thousand feet over New York City. You’ve run reconnaissance to rescue debatably-magical items sequestered away in an ancient cave labyrinth plastered in paintings and untranslatable runes, gunfire and what could only be described as the baying of hellhounds in the near distance. You’ve fist-fought a gigantic hive-mind robot in a field of artificially sentient feral steel suits - You’ve even survived Tony’s parties. 

Yet none of those scenarios hold a candle to this fucking town. 

And Loki, the asshat, seems utterly, competently - no, maniacally - unfazed. 

“There’s one bed,” You repeat, into the air. 

“Ah,” Says Loki, straightening. 

“You don’t see that problem with that?!” 

“Should I?” He asks you, walking across the room in long, graceful strides to stand in front of you. He wears the same expression he always wears, amused and indifferent, but this time with the addition of a single, elegantly-arched eyebrow. You drop your head, refusing to meet his somewhat-curious gaze. It physically hurts, how attractive Loki is. Not for the first time, you curse whatever god decided that you and him would once again be mission partners - in this case, you belatedly realize, and choke back a thick laugh, said god is, unsurprisingly, Thor. 

If you survive this, you make a note to beat his head in with Mjolnir. As it is, you are here in this room with Loki, with perhaps twenty IPP agents and a reckless poisoner dogging your every move, and there’s a high chance that you won’t live long enough to navigate whatever the hell sleeping with your crush-who-has-murdered-men. Ok, so ‘murdered men’ isn’t entirely accurate. More like ‘caused the murder of men inadvertently through his schemes’. It doesn’t seem to make much of a difference, right now. 

And what about Loki? He is still staring you down, like you’re some wind up toy moments away from going off. Funny, that, you think. If ever there were a time to not have a mental breakdown, it would be here, with him. You’ve crossed a lot of moral lines in your life, but you will be damned if you let Loki Laufeysson see you cry. Loki is graceful. Composed. Sarcastic. Lithe. Rolls his eyes at almost every statement that comes out of somebody’s mouth. But he is, also, beautiful. Shockingly comforting, in his own nihilistic way. You don’t know what it says about you that you find comfort in statements like, Try not to die, you know that I hate funerals. Part of you - most of you - doesn’t want to. But it gives you strength, somehow, to shrug off the day and ground your flailing mind in evading Loki’s calculated manipulation. I won’t show you my weakness, you think to yourself. It’s not enough, but it’s a start. 

“No,” You tell him - too quickly, he’ll pick up on that - “You’re right, you shouldn’t. It’s fine. We have - a lot to deal with, is all.” 

Loki nods, seemingly accepting your answer, but his eyes are still narrowed, watching you like he’s calling your bluff. You talk right past that look - have to, to keep yourself sane, to not think about the one bed that looms large over this entire conversation. It doesn’t even look like a comfortable bed. 

“We have two days,” You say, to stop yourself thinking of it. And, also, to talk your way through your disarmingly disjointed thoughts. Loki nods. It would really help if you said something, you think. Swallow the thought, hot and thick, down your throat. What’s the point of a mission partner if you can’t even soundboard off them? “The Pink Cobra could strike anyone, anytime. The IPP is planning something in New York - “ 

“Isn’t everyone, these days, planning something in New York?” 

He sounds regretful, and for half a second you want to offer him the reassurance that his very presence offers you. But you are sure he doesn’t know what he does to you - with his words, with the sidelong glances that you’ve felt linger on your form far too long in the heat of a fight. If you didn’t know any better, you would say Loki worries about you. 

“We have to shut him down,” You say. Focus on the Pink Cobra, because honestly, that’s easier. “Find out where he manufactures. Not get poisoned,” You add, at the end. 

“Yes,” Loki says, tone dripping with sarcasm, “We should certainly try not to get ourselves killed. Failing that, I suppose, we can at least request that no one in H.Y.D.R.A gets autopsy access.” 

“Loki?” You ask. Rhetorically. “You’re not helping.” 

He smirks at you, then. He knows. 

“What do you propose that we do then?” He asks, taking a step towards you, getting so close that you can feel his hot breath. “About the Pink Cobra?” 

“Find him.” You say, fumbling, blush rising high on your cheeks. 

Tonight? 

One bed? 

You are screwed. 

                                                             ***

When you were a kid - think really little, Capri Sun pouches and still believing that true love wasn’t complicated - your father told you that every story needed a good supervillain. You aren’t sure if the Pink Cobra counts as a good supervillain, but he’s the least confusing one that you have to deal with - and, as far as villains go, a fine enough challenge to face. He’s like a madman out of some high fantasy novel, with dark eyes and a sable-sewn cloak and a penchant for poisoning. He is adept in all the arts of the woman’s murder; he has a keen grasp on the side-effects of arsenic and camphor and tansy and cyanide and strychnine. He’s been found to have dropped crystal phials filled with belladonna and ricin while fleeing a scene. If all else fails, he’s more than practiced with daggers. 

In other words, he’s the kind of villain that none of you, with your flying suits and telekinesis and super-strength, are anywhere near prepared to waylay. 

The plan, as far as team Avengers is concerned, is easy: 

You and Loki. This town, where the webs of his manufacturing production and the few glimpses of information that Thor has totally legally excavated out of his captured minions has led to. Two days until some undefined grand attack bears down on the city you live in. Two days to find the Pink Cobra and kill him. The more time passes with no headway, the more you think that this is an impossible task, but you know what Tony would say. We have our best minds on it. 

The thing is, you aren’t sure that that’s true. The minds that have been set to this task are you and the God of Lies. It’s hardly the best they could have come up with, considering your track records. Actually, you take that back - Loki was a good choice for this mission, because, not three hours after arriving in this hellhole of a city, he seems to have somehow developed the ability to read minds. More specifically, yours. And that could prove stunningly useful. 

The scene, as it stands: Loki, sprawled across the lumpy bed, three pairs of crisp white shirts, a plaid scarf, and a full set of Asgardian battle armor neatly hung in the mothball-infested closet, flicking through channels on the grain, cracked television with an apathetic expression and one arm thrown haphazardly over bent leg. Propped up in such a way that he could jump or spin or parry at a moment’s notice, yet perfectly, devastatingly languid, leafing through Nick Fury’s dossier on the Pink Cobra. He looks at you like a god, you think, and then remember. He is one. 

You, on the floor, because on top of all the other things this hotel doesn’t have, like two beds, there isn’t anything even resembling a desk, shifting through a glowing, holographed file archive from headquarters that barely runs on your severely outdated laptop. It’s a point of pride to you, keeping the laptop - not because it’s good, but because it’s survived five years of being an Avenger, which is something not even all the Avengers can claim to have done. You’re also fairly certain that Tony’s attempts to update the firmware had infested it with some sort of renegade virus. Elevated above your screen, the files are split into two groups, the sum total of everything that you know about both of the groups that are avidly trying to kill you. 

There’s the wealth of information containing the Pink Cobra’s poisoning sprees, but those aren’t the files that interest you, and you know that Loki’s not much interested in them either. That honor falls to the fanatics at the IPP, the Imminently Predictable Psyops organization, which you know even less about than you do about the Pink Cobra, chief among which the fact that they need a new name. Imminently Predictable Psyops?, Tony had said, when you’d finally apprehended one of their proxies. What do they think this is? Some type of ARG? 

What you’ve gleaned, from months worth of studying the network, is that they operate as a sort of cringe-oriented death cult intent on ‘reshaping the universe through meme agents’. They’d been on S.H.I.E.L.D’s radar for a long time - upwards of a year - before anyone at team base learned they existed - which, you can almost hear Loki saying, was a failure in the extreme. Currently, it was your job to obsessively worry over whether they were going to send ‘meme agents’ to bust through the door of your seedy hotel room and off you both. You hated - truly loathed - how casually Loki was taking it all. 

He’s acting like nothing was wrong with this situation, when, in fact, you’re ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that this night will end up with one or both of you dead. It is, to say the least, disconcerting. 

Kill switch, the holograph files read. Cross-referential Neil Cicierega acoustic weaponry. Your mind sees the words, but doesn’t comprehend them, and you run a hand up to rub at your bleary eyes with annoyance. You risk a glance upwards; on the bed, Loki scans page after page after page with disinterested nonchalance, punctuating the flipping over of each document with a noncommittal hum; as if to say, I understand you. As it to say, This could be worse. You try to slip into that mindset. Certainly, things could be worse. 

Actually, though? Not really. 

Because, for all the world, the holo-file in front of you just said ‘Pepe The Frog Chaos Banking Laser Initiative’. 

“What the fuck does that even mean?!” 

“Sorry?” 

You whip your head around. Loki, raising an eyebrow. Damn that - perfect - eyebrow. 

“Sorry,” You echo back at him, rubbing your eyes again, perversely glad for the break, even if it is this awkward. “I … said that out loud, didn’t I?” 

“Marginally,” He tells you. “Yes.” 

“Sorry,” You - well, it’s not a whine, not exactly. You’re tired, and there’s no way you’re going to sleep tonight, so you feel like your tone’s justified. “I didn’t mean to do that. I think I’m just - this is. Completely nonsensical.” 

“Show me?” He asks, and you snort. He could totally just look up, but - 

“Do you have a P.h.d in memes?” You ask him, and, before he can answer, “Because unless you have a P.h.d in memes, I don’t think you’ll be able to help.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Loki says. Vaults over the bed with the speed and grace of a panther, filling the air with a cringing wheeze as the rusty springs bend underneath him, and landing in front of the holo-file, pushing you aside slightly to get a better view. When his fingers brush against your side, cool and firm, you flinch. 

“Tired,” You offer, when he shoots you a momentarily concerned look. “Just. Need to sleep, later, I think.” 

But Loki is already scanning the file, and when he looks up, not five seconds later, you want to hit somebody. Preferably, you think, him. 

“I would assume,” Loki says, “That they’re using time travel in order to obtain and store monetary value by way of a Pepe-the-frog inspired laser array.” 

“Oh,” You say. You blink once. Blink twice. Still have no idea what that means. “Right.” 

“Do you not know your memes, love?” He asks you, smirking. And oh, if you don’t feel things. 

“I don’t go on the internet, much,” You tell him. “Too busy, you know, trying not to get killed.”

 Loki shrugs. Sidles away from the file. The groan and squeak of those springs tells you he’s back on the bed, giving you some well-needed space, but you can’t bring yourself to look. 

“You can sleep,” He says, “If you want.” 

“Ha!” You yelp/choke/embarrassingly bleat out into the room’s stale silence. Underneath the rotten eggs, you catch a whiff of bong-water. “No.” 

“There’s a bed,” Loki says, cocking his head pointedly and patting the lumpy covers. 

“Yeah, that’s - kind of the problem.” 

“Why?” He asks you. 

“You - really?” 

“I was only asking,” Says Loki, re-focusing his attention on whichever Pink Cobra document’s next in the folder. “If you aren’t comfortable telling me - I merely thought, seeing as you were tired, you might take this opportunity to rest.” 

“Yeah,” You  tell him, “Of course, that’s - nice of you.” 

It comes out stilted. Patently off. If he notices, he doesn’t say. 

“Are you going to - um. Do you need help, with the rest? The ones I have seem kind of hopeless. I mean,” You say, when he doesn’t look up, “I don’t think that we have to worry about getting demolished by trans-dimensional Agarthian wormholes.” 

“Of course not,”” Loki says, scoffing and incredulous, gaze, you are sure, on his page. “If they wanted to kill us, they’d send someone with a gun.” 

In reality, it’s several someones. 

                                                             ***

“You jinxed it,” Is the first thing you tell him, when the men leave you. They’ve thrown you into a one-room warehouse, rickety shelves stacked with cartoonish tubs of green goop and mildewing boxes filled with grenades and machine guns and what appears, at second-glance, to be twelve-fingered latex gloves. You’re tied wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, and your throat feels uncharacteristically parched. Fear, you tell yourself. Apprehension. “Can’t you just - use your seidr to magic us out of this?” 

If you could see him - which you can’t, because you’ve been tied back to back - you’d swear that Loki was glaring. 

“Do you - do you have a plan?” You ask, after a moment. 

“I’m working on it,” He says. 

“That’s all?” You say. “We were dragged out of our drug-dealer’s hotel room by a bunch of robed men with guns and the only thing you have to say is ‘I’m working on it?’” 

“I’d get it done faster,” Says Loki, “If you wouldn’t interrupt me.” 

“Ok,” You tell him, “No interrupting you. Got it. That’s - Alright.” 

Unfortunately, not interrupting him is easier said than done, because without the sound of your voice, you are left to your thoughts. 

The men had broken in nearly immediately after Loki’s glib, sardonic retort to your worries, shooting the glass out of the room’s already half-smashed-in window and kicking the door in simultaneously. A bit much, isn’t it?, Loki’d asked, and you had wanted to smack yourself on the forehead. Really not the time, you had hissed, but Loki hadn’t seemed to hear you. Do you do this with everyone they send you to assassinate?, he had asked, instead. The men had been dressed in long, billowing cloaks of bright red, embroidered with orange snakes framing a picture of Beaker from the muppets with early 2000’s emo hair. Chaotic meme agents, you had thought to yourself. So that’s what they’re supposed to look like. 

You hadn’t picked up, until now, on the snakes. 

“They’re working together,” You say, when you can’t stand the playback of Loki being disarmed after spinning and tossing his silver daggers at the men, of the men kneeing him in the balls and twisting your arms behind your back, holding a gun to your head to stop you from trying to fight. Waking up in the back of a van that smelled like microwaved fish. Being tossed like garbage onto the floor of the warehouse, painted in bruises and cuts from the small pieces of glass that had dug their way into your skin. “The IPP and the Pink Cobra.” 

“Obviously,” Loki says. Sharply. 

“Did Tony not -“ 

“Stark,” Loki practically growls, and, ok, you’re not losing it but that did make you jump in your skin, “Is an idiot. He wouldn’t know how to connect the dots if they were presented to him in a Buzzfeed Unsolved episode.” 

“That’s - You had that on Asgard?” You ask him, momentarily distracted. You wish that you could see Loki’s face, and are very glad that you can’t. 

“That isn’t the point,” Loki says. 

“I know,” You tell him. You’re scared that your voice is trembling. Scared that he can tell, even though he’s not facing you, how badly your fingers are shaking. Scared that he knows your worst, biggest secret - 

That, despite being an Avenger, you are anxious. That, despite him being Loki, despite him being here, and wonderfully, infuriatingly himself, he cannot help you, this time. 

You are going to die, covered in cuts and abrasions, on the floor of a meme network’s headquarters, at three a.m in the morning. They are going to come in with umbrellas that shoot poison darts or the ex-presidents Point Break masks and mow you down, and Loki has no fucking plan. You feel the ropes tighten where they’re knotted, itchy and fierce, and you have to fight to keep yourself from whining in terror and nerves. Whining isn’t what Loki needs right now. Whining’s not going to save you. 

What is going to save you, you try and remind yourself, is Loki. If you can shut up. If you can let him decipher what needs to be done. If he can figure out some way to do it before the blowtorch-wielding robed vigilantes or some disincarnate meme god comes back and draws their electronically-sharpened fingernails across your throat hard enough to split skin and sinew, send waves of blood down the front of your shirt like a river of sweet, thick red honey and toss your corpse in a ditch by a highway and - 

“Y/N?” It is foggy, barely-heard. Posh. “Y/N!” Louder, this time. There are fingers on your wrist, bent backwards to grip you. Squeezing, insistent and there. “Breathe.” 

Fuck, you think. You’d started to hyperventilate. To shake, with a full-body tremor that forecasts a great, unstoppable wave of sobbing panic. And Loki had noticed. “I need you to trust me,” He says. “Trust me to get us out of this. Can you do that for me, darling?” 

He has never called you darling before, but God how you’ve wanted him to. You feel like you’re being stabbed in the heart - because there is no way he means it, no way that this is anything other than a desperate and cruel attempt to get you to calm down. Something that belies how obvious you are. How needy you are. How pathetic. And yet - 

And yet, he doesn’t say it meanly. He speaks like he cares about you, and in the face of your impending death, you want to think Loki cares. You’d let him say anything, do anything to you, right now. More than that, though, more than any of that - as you think back to meeting him, to your blossoming late-night friendship and twitchy banter and the quiet moments you’ve shared with him in-between battles - 

“I trust you, Loki,” You tell him, and feel your breath quiet in you. Feel yourself growing still and calm with the certainty that Loki will do as he’s said. 

That you will survive this. 

That -

“Good,” Loki says. Not relieved, but determined. Leaving you no room to argue. 

“So what do we do?” You ask him. 

“Nothing,” Says Loki, and you can hear his wide grin. 

“Nothing?” You ask him, gawking.

 “Nothing,” Says Loki. He gives your hand a tight squeeze. 

And then the Pink Cobra walks in. 

                                                             ***

This will end badly, you think. It’s about the only thing that you can think, preoccupied as you are with - 

It might be easier not to - 

Fuck. 

The thing is - and you really do try not to move, not to groan, not to scream - the thing is, you thought that when Loki said he had a plan, that said plan wouldn’t involve you being collateral damage for a LARP-er who’d most likely broken out of an asylum. I wish that we could be back in that shitty one-bed hotel room, you think to yourself, and - alright, not the best timing, but it rips a laugh out of you, spiraling and unhinged, before you feel the Pink Cobra, resplendent in coral cloak and villainous swagger, slug you one in the jaw. It hurts worse than you’d thought it would - you’ve never really gotten injured on missions, you’re usually good at talking yourself out of things, which is why the Avengers keep you around. You can speak any language, as long as you’ve heard it once, and your customary daily awkwardness can shift into persuasion like flicking a light-switch on. 

Usually, though, you had an opportunity to speak, and weren’t rendered speechless by - 

Loki, if you’re being honest. How much you want to kiss him. How much of an asshole he is. Trust me, he’d asked you. Can you do that for me? The Pink Cobra’s grip is sharp and bruising on your side; he’s slipped his fingers up your shirt and is pressing the point on your side that threatens to make your knees buckle, making bile rise up in your throat, driving you wild with the aching need to flee. He has one hand clasped over your mouth, now that you’ve quieted, and you can feel something - pain, and a pill - pressed snugly into his palm. He will force it down you, you know, if Loki so much as sighs wrong. 

You’ll never trust him again. 

You wish that you knew what the time was. If you end up dying at 4:20, you’re going to throw fists with somebody in hell. 

You wish, also, for aspirin. Avengers training has left you woefully unprepared for the reality of getting punched in the face. You can already feel your jaw starting to swell, taste an egregious amount of blood. You’re pretty sure that the force of the blow knocked a tooth out. 

What strikes fear into you, though - a fear somehow deeper than the absolutely bone-chilling, blood-curdling knowledge of what the Pink Cobra might do to you - is the look you’d seen on Loki’s face in the seconds after he’d grabbed you, before it fell into practiced, amused apathy. He’d gone white, and his eyes had blown wide. His fingers had spasmed with anger. 

He’d looked as scared as you feel. 

And you have no idea why. 

It isn’t like you’re anyone special. Not any more than the rest of the team. Less so than most of them. You aren’t a god, like Loki and Thor are. You don’t have stealth-assassin training, like Bucky, or super-strength like Steve. You can’t seamlessly pilot mechanical suits over the New York skyline like Tony, or use a crossbow like Clint, or beat thirty people in single-hand combat like Nat, or change into a nitro-fueled rage machine like Bruce. 

You can’t do anything, much. 

Except, apparently, die.

You squeeze your eyes shut, not letting yourself look at him. You won’t let Loki’s disinterested face be the last thing that you see. It makes the Pink Cobra’s words all the worse, when he speaks. His voice is dark and sick and timbered, and you feel maggots crawling over your skin as he slots you closer to his body, tightening his already painful grip on you so that you can’t move even an inch away from his tensed, coiled muscles. 

“So,” He says, “You are superheroes? How long did it take me, to apprehend you? Ah - three and a half hours? Tell your boss-man, do better next time.” 

“I’ll pass it along,” Loki says. His voice sounds different. You can’t place why. Still won’t look. 

“You won’t,” The Pink Cobra says. You can feel his shoulders rise, then fall. Feel him smirk. You love Loki’s smirk - secretly delight in drawing it from him, sometimes - but the Pink Cobra’s only fills you with yet more terror. You’ve pursed your lips tightly shut against the intrusion of his hand, but when Loki speaks he forces your bruised, bleeding jaw open and shoves the pill into your mouth. The pain of your injury tears through you like white lightning and you thrash, trying to escape. A keening sound claws its way out of you, fevered and anguished, and you feel your hands, still bound up in ropes, trying in vain to push off and away. The man behind you sighs, and then aims a swift kick at the back of your knees, which sends you down before you can so much as yelp. Your knees hit the floor, and he’s holding you by your hair now, twisting it so hard that you’re almost sure he’ll scalp you. He’s pulled something - too big to be be a knife, some kind of shortsword?! - Out from beneath his cloak, and is pressing it up against the column of your throat. You feel the weight of the capsule between your teeth heavily now, and realize what it means in the split-second before the Pink Cobra bends and whispers, Your choice; stale and rancid into the shell of your ear. 

Next, he addresses Loki. 

“You’ll be wanting to know what our plan is,” He says. Our, you think. We were right. “Hmm? I know how you people are. Always wanting to know. Tell me this, Mischief Man. What will I get, if I tell you? What price are you willing to pay?” 

You know what this is. You know it like the ache in your heart when Loki brushes you off. Like the safety you feel in his arms. You open your eyes. Take in Loki’s face - he’s trying to hide, but you know, you know how he feels. You know what he’s going to choose. 

And you know that you can’t let him choose it. 

“You’ll let her go,” Loki asks, “If we let you leave here?” 

“The thing could be managed.” 

No, you think. No, Loki, don’t! Whatever the Pink Cobra’s going to do, whatever the IPP’s planning, knowing’s worth more than your life. 

“One thing I want to know,” Loki says. He’s twirling a knife of his own, a slim silver number he keeps on him at all times, and you feel the blade on your own throat start to dig in - not enough to draw blood, but enough for you to feel it. The threat of it. The promise of it, and the coldness of the gleaming metal. “You and the IPP? How does it fit?” 

“You want information from me?” The Pink Cobra asks. Lets his blade bite you, just barely, and the strength it takes for you not to scream is more strength then you’d known you possess. 

“Yes,” Says Loki. “It’s not like I’m asking for much.”

He meets your gaze. You meet his. You hope that he cannot read it. His eyes are so worried, so desperate, you nearly break down. 

“I suppose,” The Pink Cobra says, “That you’ve earned it. Getting here - getting this far - it must have been no easy task. Fine. There is no Imminently Predictable Psyops organization. They were a - what do you call it? Red herring? A scent of blood for the shark.” 

“You fabricated them,” Loki says. “Why would you fabricate them?” 

He is losing his composure, you can tell. You will never be ready for this. He will never be ready for this. You hope that he will forgive you, and you know that he never will, and you swallow the pill in your mouth. 

“Because it was fun,” The Pink Cobra says. 

And then your body knows pain. 

                                                             ***

“He didn’t think I would do it,” You say. Your mouth feels thick, clotted with blood and shock, and your body is one raw, gaping wound, but the giddy feeling of victory has begun to course through your veins. Pure, unfiltered adrenaline. You had waited for the moment of death to come, and it hadn’t. The pill is fake, your mind had screamed. But there’d been one thing left, that might work. You had breathed as slowly as you possibly could, forced every muscle of your scared, writhing body into single-minded limpness, rolled your eyes backwards into your head,  drew one last breath in, and fallen. Twitched, for a few seconds, like a rag-doll. Then made yourself still. 

Loki had slit the Pink Cobra ear to ear, beaten him within an inch of his life as he bled out, screaming like a man deranged. He’d left him a wet, bloody mess on the floor, and the blood had run down the not-quite-steady plane of it, pooling around you and mixing with the blood from your jaw, from the evening’s earlier glass cuts, from the deep, burning stab wound the Cobra had got on your arm. 

You breathe, and your body knows pain. 

You look at Loki, and your body knows pain. 

He is shaking. Visibly shaking. His hands are clenched into fists at his side, and he looks as pale as bleached bones. His eyes are shot red - he had sobbed, when you fell, and a howl had torn through his body. You don’t know what to do, what it means, what the hell even to say to him. His cheeks are tear-stained, his breaths ragged. 

You blink, and your body feels pain. 

“We won,” You croak out. “Loki, we won.” It hurts worse than anything you’ve ever felt in your life. “I think he broke one of my ribs.” 

You don’t mean to say that last part, but you do, and you are the one crying now, because it feels like he probably has, and you can barely even stay awake through this pain. It feels like the Hulk is pulling you limb from limb. Like all of those nightmares you’ve had where Loki decided to leave you - to go back to Asgard, and never speak to you again. 

Stupid, you think. He won’t, again. Not after this. 

Loki still hasn’t spoken. He’s looking at you, and his eyes are wild. Desperately, jaggedly roaming your body. His fists twitch with every new part of your body they land on. 

“That bad, huh - Oh, fuck.” 

And just like that, the tension leaves Loki’s body. The dam that had held him firmly in place is broken, and he’s running towards you with none of his usual grace. Dropping down by your side. He hoists you, and you hiss, and the tears won’t stop coming, so you bury your face in his shirt, nose pressed at the crisply ironed collar. Don’t care that it’s bleeding, because Loki’s here now. Holding you. Keeping you real. He’s got one hand stroking your hair and his touch feels right, nothing like the Pink Cobra’s, and he’s whispering: You brave, precious, idiot, how dare you, how dare you throw your life away like that?! 

“It worked,” You exhale - it’s the most you can manage. You would laugh, if it wouldn’t shred you to pieces. Loki cradles you fiercely, hands grasping at the sweat-and-blood soaked fabric of your shirt, running over you as if he doesn’t believe you’re alive. “It - hurts,” You get out. Barely. “Loki, it - I can’t -“ 

“Don’t,” He tells you. His voice has gone brittle, choked with thorns. “Don’t talk. Don’t - Don’t ever do that again. Do you hear me? You will never do that again.” 

If I need to, I will, you think. And you wonder if that’s why you’re here. Wonder if that’s why you’re strong. You wonder, and hurt, and believe. Feel the strength of him, clutching you like you’re the only thing in the world, taking in greedy lungfuls of your weeping, your need for his touch. 

You can’t talk, anymore. It hurts too badly. But you surge, upwards, up into where he’s holding the back of your head, pressing your forehead into the dark, warm space under his jaw that smells like smoke and peppermint. Loki is taller than you are - you fit right into the curve of his neck, and his long curls curtain you in a bubble of warmth and content. 

“Promise,” You say, but it comes out unintelligible, and Loki’s hands are running, so gently, over your skin. 

“What was your plan?” You ask him, forcing it out of your body. 

“Hush,” Loki says, “Later.” 

There might not be any later, you think. Not like this. 

                                                             ***

In the hotel room, an ocean of scattered pages and ceiling mold and blessed privacy, you balance, cross-legged, on the bed. The wind blows wet and cold from an earlier rain through the busted out window. You have managed this out of sheer stubborn-ness, because it is the most that Loki allowed you to do. You’d passed out, twice, on the journey back - he had magicked you there, though it had taken a considerable amount of effort that you weren’t sure you really deserved - and had immediately propped you up on the pillows and stooped to ruffle through his suitcase, emerging not long after with binding tape, cat-gut thread, and a needle so sharp you could feel it slicing your flesh. You had opened your mouth to protest, but Loki had silenced you with a glare that could fell Director Fury. So you had gone quiet, and caved, letting him kneel over you on the distinctly lumpy mattress and begin inspecting your wounds. It had taken a few tries and a Please to convince him to let you sit on your own, and it hurt much more than the manner in which he’d arranged you. You were starting to, slightly, regret it. 

“You don’t have to do this,” You say, pulling it from bleeding lips. He shushes you with a harsh, stern tut. “You’re not my mother,” You tell him. 

“You could have died,” Loki says. There’s a snarling undercurrent to it that you can’t even start dissecting. “What were you thinking?” He asks. It is easier, though still painful, for you to answer him - he had used nearly half of his Thor-limited magic reserve to perform a basic stasis spell on your injuries, but the spell wouldn’t last forever. You’ll need stitches, he’d said, choking it out like he was the hurt one when he’d seen the number the Cobra’s blade had done to your arm. 

“I’ve had worse,” You say, grinning weakly. 

“Are you lying to me?” He asks you, with the tone of someone who’s distinctly not in the mood for joking. 

“I thought,” You say. Steel yourself. “I thought you weren’t going to do what needed to be done. So I - Did it myself.” 

“What needed to be done.” Loki says, enunciating every word. 

“We couldn’t let him walk away,” You say, meeting his eyes. Emerald, clouded with fury. You don’t let yourself flinch from that anger. You don’t let yourself run from your choice. “You know what he would have done.” 

“I don’t,” Loki says. “I know nothing. I know - I know that you think that your life means so little I wouldn’t care if you were gone. That I could - Live, without you.” 

That’s… different. 

“And I know,” Loki continues, “That I told you to trust me, and I meant it.” 

“I do,” You say. There is no hesitation. “I trust you - Loki. Of course I trust you. It’s not - it wasn’t -“ 

“Stop talking,” He snaps. Gentles, when you jerk your head away, blink back a fresh wave of tears. “You need rest,” He says. “And - This is. This is going to hurt.” 

You nod. 

“Best get it over with, then.” 

“You should keep your eyes closed,” He says. 

“No! I want - I need to look.” You bring your eyes up to your arm, which he’s settled onto bed’s chewed, scratchy quilt without you realizing, but Loki tilts your head up with a barely-there graze of his fingers, achingly gentle to avoid aggravating your swollen jaw. He holds your gaze for a long time. Doesn’t look mad, anymore. 

“Are you sure?” He asks you. Like all of this could be over with, if you wanted. 

“How bad it could it be?” You ask back. 

The injury is horrendous. You’d thought - honest-to-God, you’d thought the pain was terrible, but you weren’t ready for what your arm has become. The line of the wound runs in a craggy jigsaw from just under your shoulder to the tip of your elbow. Small wonder you can’t move it, can barely think through it at all. 

“Y/N?” Loki asks, “Are you -“ 

“Fine,” You say. Blink, and your body knows pain. Try not to let how scared you are show, when you look back up at Loki. The Pink Cobra’s dead. You shouldn’t be scared, anymore. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?” 

Loki sighs. Long and low and sad. 

“Will I have to - “ 

“Bite,” Loki says, and shoves something - the sleeve of his shirt, crusted in blood which you realize, sickeningly, is yours - into your mouth. “It’ll help.” 

It doesn’t, but he holds your hand through it, hushing you through the pain with furrowed eyebrows, thread and needle flying deftly through skin, air, skin again. His fingers move precisely, deliberate,  quick, and when, on one stitch, you audibly whimper, he pauses to lean down and press a soft, utterly unexpected kiss to your hairline. You are unable to fully express how much it means to you, so you do the next best thing and kiss him yourself, pressing him back once he’s finished the last of his stitches and breathing all the the words you can’t say into him. You press every fear and gratitude and lingering nerve into the warmth of his lips, wending your fingers through his dark hair despite the pangs of agony still thrumming through every inch of your body. Your face hurts, but the kiss is all you’ve ever needed and more, and Loki is so, so gentle with you, pulling away with creased eyebrows and a look of genuine concern. 

“I wanted to,” You tell him, mustering all of your strength. “It didn’t hurt.” 

“Stop,” He tells you, voice cracking, “Stop lying.” 

“I’m not,” You say. “I wanted to, Loki, I did.” 

“And you wanted to -“ 

“No.” You are vehement about it, for a broken-ribbed, broken-jawed, freshly-stitched person coming off the high of his teeth and his tongue. “Not that, I swear, never that.”

 “Why did you do it, then?” Loki asks. He has steepled his fingers under his chin, and his narrowed eyes pierce through you to the soul. You couldn’t lie to this man, you think, if your life depended on it. 

You know that you have to tell him, this time. Really tell him. You don’t. 

“”Why didn’t you use your magic?”

“You know why,” He says, and you do. You’d remembered it as the white pill turned to white powder in your gums, as the Pink Cobra’s knife had carved its way into your flesh. Thor had put a set limit on it, as condition of Loki’s release - Proof, he had said, We can trust you. Loki had thought to save it for later, that you wouldn’t need him right then. He had thought you’d talk them out, to safety. 

You’d failed him. 

“You didn’t,” He tells you, voice raw. He goes to grip your chin, to force you to listen to him, but with a glance and ill-concealed wince at your purpled jaw he thinks better of it. “You think that you failed me? You let yourself be - be beaten and stabbed - just so people you’ve never met in your life wouldn’t die, and you call that a failure?” He runs a hand through his hair. Bites back a snarl. Drops your arm. “I need you to listen to me,” Loki says, “Very, very carefully. You’re going to tell me why now, love. And then we’re going to fix it.” 

You raise an eyebrow. Worse than he does, you’re aware. 

“Sleep,” He amends, with a pointed look at the bed underneath you, “And then we’re going to fix it.” 

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, “And I feel like I just got run over by a truck.” 

Loki huffs, a puff of warm air that you feel, from how close he still is. A grin twitches at the edge of his lips. It sets off sparks inside you. 

“I thought -“ You say. Shake your head, and restart. “You would have let the Pink Cobra attack. You would have let him just walk away, and I couldn’t just - let that happen.” 

“Enlightening.” 

“No,” You tell him, “I mean it. I couldn’t - I’m not - I’m not worth more than anyone else. We’re the Avengers. It’s our job to save people, Loki.” 

He’s regarding you carefully, eyes still narrowed, all vestiges of softness gone from his face. When he opens his mouth, it’s to close it. Form thoughts. Discard them. Exhale. 

“My mother once told me,” He finally says, “That I would never know what it meant to be human until I found the person who made me want to bleed the world dry. Take all of its’ suffering, all of its’ cruelty, and leech it out of the very fabric of time, just to keep that person from anguish, from harm.” 

“I don’t -“ 

He holds a hand up. You still. 

“She never said they would infuriate me,” Loki says. “She never said they would make me laugh, or smile, or question my sanity on a regular basis. She never said that they’d try and get themselves killed, and that I’d have to watch, and that I would feel like my heart was being ripped from my body and torn to a bloody pulp; that I would make the sky rain blood and fire at the sight of it alone. But she was right about one thing - Many things, but also this. She told me that it wouldn’t matter. That I would - love you - anyway.” 

“You don’t,” You say, not daring to hope. It’s an automatic retort. 

“Foolish girl,” Loki chides, and you blink back fresh, stinging tears. How long have you wanted to hear Loki say that to you? How many sneaky looks have you stolen in the heat of your missions, just to see his smart mind and tricky magic at work? How many nights have you sat up together, sequestered from your insomnia in a bubble of hard-earned banter and peppermint tea, fighting the tight, coiling urge to push aside your steaming mugs and pull him into your needing? 

He could not - he can’t - feel the same. 

“Loki,” You say, stumbling over the words, “You can’t - This is - This is me we’re talking about.” 

“Is there anyone else here,” Loki asks you, “That I could be talking about?” He seems nonchalant, now, as if this - this cruel fucking joke, when you already feel you’re on fire - is merely a fact of his life. “We’re going to leave this excuse of a town, and get you - proper care. Fix it. Because I will not, on my honor, watch you suffer in pain. But first, you’re going to sleep.” 

“There’s only one bed,” You tell him, and feel your resolve as it shatters. You cling to the statement like it’s the last remnant of the girl you were and the woman that you’ll never be, “And the shower doesn’t work. And I’m covered in blood.” 

But when you look at Loki, his eyes twinkle, mischievous. 

“Will you stay with me?,” You ask him, biting your lip. 

“You astound me,” He tells you, and rolls his eyes, and it feels - it feels normal. Good. A tender heat unfurls in your heart like orchid petals in the sun, numbing the persistent ache in your ribcage. “To even think that I would do anything else.” 

Later, you will ask him why. Why do you love me?, you will ask, and Loki will hum, low in his throat, curled around you just like this first night; your back pressed into his chest, your legs tangled up hopelessly, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns onto your spine in the dawn-light’s syrupy gold. Because, he will tell you, trailing a line of soft kisses up the scar on your arm - an ugly thing, but it functions, mostly, and only ever seems to hurt on the days when he isn’t there - I was given no choice. 

But if you’d had one?”, You will ask, and spin around, propping yourself on your elbow. 

You tempt me, He’ll tell you, baring his sharp teeth. Shouldn’t you know better than that? 

You will lie there, next to each other, not needing a single word. Because you will know. Because he will have told you, a thousand times, a thousand ways, exactly how he feels about you. 

Tonight, though, isn’t that night. It takes a moment to get settled in his hold, and the rain spits and drums against what glass remains in your window, slicking the carpet with dark, greasy splotches. It figures, you think, that even the rain in this city has the smell and the texture of oil. You feel like a bag of bones, stretched too thin. But safe, in his arms, in a way that you’ve never felt, before now. Loki is with you, you realize. Wrapped around you like a traveler’s cloak, the comforting weight of a slim, balanced blade at your side in a fight. He is cool, around your afraid. Warm, where his clever fingers whine and needle their way through your skin to your heart. 

“I hate you,” You tell him, “You know that?” 

Loki laughs, a deep, rumbling purr. 

“Go to sleep.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

"Oya, Miss Raven, I do hope you haven't forgotten what today is."

Jade allows himself a moment to orient himself in your otherwise busy attic. Once again you were playing host to yet another student of NRC, once again your feathers were ruffled by the commotion and energy.

It was quite enjoyable to see you flustered as you are when your attentions were pulled all which ways. Perhaps those distractions will allow him to slip past your high defenses.

"I seem to recall about a month ago you provided me with a gift, citing land customs. I too had researched about that same custom as well, and have come prepared for the accompanying day of returning the sentiment."

He holds out a tome, one with a brilliant sea-green cover. Whatever title that was written on the leather-bound book was in mermish, untranslateable to the non-mer layman. He chuckled at your stares.

"This is a first edition volume of a fairy tale from the Coral Sea. It is quite enchanting, the story of how the great Sea Witch, in all her compassion, gave the mermaid princess exactly what she wanted. I do hope you like it, Miss Raven. The Sea Witch's tales are all filled with heartbreak and heartmend. Romance from the ashes of tragedy. A happy ending as all creatures of both land and sea deserve."

His eyes twinkle in enjoyment as he places it in your palms.

"Oya, but I wonder about creatures of the sky? Fufufu... Happy White Day, Miss Raven."

I’M SORRY, SEBEK 😭 I’M SO, SO SORRY THAT MY J LEECH ROT THIS SLIMY EEL HAD TO COME AND DISRUPT YOUR BIRTHDAY TAKEOVER

This is a little late because I prioritized drafting my thesis and Sebek birthday takeover asks, but let’s just all pretend it’s still White Day, okay? Okay~

“H-Huh?” Raven scarcely had any time to react between Jade’s sudden appearance and the green leather-bound tome being dumped into her hands. The most she could manage was stuttering, “What... What are you doing here? D-Don’t tell me that you’re one of Sebek’s guests!”

“Need I remind you that I am a student of Night Raven College, Miss Raven? Thus, I am free to roam its campus as I please.”

“This is a private residence, entry granted upon invitation only!” Raven squawked, waving a hand around the attic. “Breaking and entering is considered a crime, you know.”

“Oya, is it? The front door was wide open, so I invited myself in.” Jade’s brows furrowed, and he pulled a sympathetic smile. “I did not think I needed an occupant’s invitation rather than my own. Silly me. It must have slipped my mind.”

“Don’t play dumb! You definitely, definitely know it’s a crime!”

The eel only laughed, tapping a finger teasingly against his lips. “If returning a Valentine’s Day gift is considered to be an act of criminal activity, then yes, I am guilty as charged.”

“Very romantic of you to say, Mister J Leech,” Raven replied dryly.

She avoided his eyes, allowing her gaze to instead fall upon the cover of the book she had been gifted. There were letters proclaiming the title--but they were unlike anything she had seen before. Strange points and elaborate curls adorned each character, forming small images that closely resembled symbols of the sea rather than letters. 

Mermish.

“You said that this is... a first edition of a fairy tale from the Coral Sea?” The bird rand a curious finger along the cover, tracing each intricate component of the title. “How in the world did you manage to afford such an item?”

“I have my ways.”

“Please tell me it didn’t involve some other crime.” 

“Fufufu. I have no idea what you may be referring to, Miss Raven.”

“Sure you don’t.” She snorted and returned her attention to the volume.

Her curiosity piqued, she flipped open to the first page to sample a bit of the writing. Raven’s heart sank upon spotting the prologue--also written entirely in Mermish. Of course. Why had she expected a book by and for merfolk to be in a language that creatures of the land could understand?

“I’m sure the Sea Witch’s story is enthralling, but unfortunately, I’m incapable of reading this.” Raven holding the tome out to Jade. “I’m afraid this may be more useful to you than it would be to me.”

“I insist that you keep it, as it is a gift from me to you,” he said with a gentle smile, pushing the book back to its intended recipient. “If you struggle to understand its contents, I would have no qualms with arranging a time for us sit down somewhere quiet and read it together. Say, over a cup of tea and a platter of snacks?”

... Ah.

Raven’s cheeks erupted into a bright pink.

I get it. So that was his goal all along.

Perhaps the party had already worn her down emotionally, or perhaps she was feeling particularly soft that day--but whatever the reason, she didn’t push him away. Not this time, at least. Instead, she just stood there, wide-eyed and stiff, hugging the book to her chest.

“Fufu. I take it that you are a fan of my proposal?”

“D-Don’t... Don’t be so presumptuous! I could just as easily ask for another translator! That would be a far smarter alternative to being indebted to you.”

“Is that your concern? Being indebted to me?” Jade chuckled into a hand. “If that is the case, I am sure we can work out some sort of equivalent exchange. For example, are there stories from the sky that you wish to share?”

“Well...” Raven chewed on her lower lip as she considered the idea. “Creatures of the sky tend to lack appendages for formally recording stories. We usually tell tales through strictly speech, not writing. In fact, writing is a relatively... new experience for me.”

“My, is that so? How fascinating. You really must tell me more over tea, then. In this manner, you would not ‘owe’ me anything, correct? We would be even.”

“... Fine.”

“Very well.” Jade nodded. “It’s a date.”

“... Don’t you mean deal? It’s a deal.”

“That is Azul’s phrase of choice,” he corrected with a polite smile. “I did not stutter in my phrasing whatsoever.”

“You...!!” Raven’s cheeks flared once more as her temper surged. “You’re... insufferable...!!”

“Fufu. So I have been told.”

But in the end, it did not matter—for the date had been set, just as he had intended all along.

[aion-rsa]

Shang-Chi is Apparently Even Cooler If You Speak Mandarin

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This article contains major spoilers for Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings.

Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings, the latest in Marvel‘s big-budget superhero franchise, is officially out in theaters and people are loving it. And what’s not to love? It’s fun, funny, filled with some of the best fight scenes in MCU history, and represents a huge step forward for Asian and Asian American representation in Hollywood. While Shang-Chi‘s primary language is English, a good chunk of the film’s dialogue is spoken in Mandarin Chinese, which is then translated into English subtitles for audiences who don’t speak Mandarin. As with any translations, there is some cultural nuance lost in the process—and MCU fans have taken to Reddit to clarify what some of those cultural nuances are for us non-Mandarin-language speakers.

“As an Asian (Taiwanese) Australian, it is so obvious that the film was written through the lense of those who have a lot of love for Asian culture and have lived through the Asian experience,” wrote kabutocat on Reddit, starting a fascinating discussion about the English-language translations of Mandarin dialogue in the movie. “The Chinese lines are written so well that a lot of the times the English subtitles actually failed to convey the nuances behind each line.”

Reddit user IAmIcePho3nix gave a specific example of this: When Tony Leung’s Wenwu first arrives in Ta Lo with his Ten Rings henchman, he is met by the people who guard the Dark Gate, including Michelle Yeoh’s Ying Nan and Guang Bo, played by veteran martial arts actor Yuen Wah. When Guang Bo tries to convince Wenwu that his mission is asinine and that he is the worst, Wenwu shoots back with this one-liner: “I’ve lived ten of your lifetimes, young man.” At least that’s what the English-language subtitles will tell you he said. According to Mandarin speakers, a closer translation would be: “I’ve tasted more salt than you have rice.” Which is so much cooler.

Another example of some of the cultural nuance lost in translation comes in a scene between Yeoh’s Ying Nan and Shang-Chi (Simu Liu) that takes place slightly after his arrival in Ta Lo. In it, Nan tells Shang-Chi “I’m proud of you.” (According to the English-language subtitles.) But, according to Reddit, the literal translation would be closer to “You are mom’s pride.” While this hits a bit harder emotionally even for those who don’t understand the Chinese cultural context of the phrase, Reddit user yawnandshrug elaborates: “It’s more than just saying his mum would be proud of him, there are connotations like ‘you are the pride and joy of your mum’s life’ and culturally stuff like that is just not said unless you are really close/really mean it. It’s basically short hand for saying that Shang-Chi’s aunt adores him.”

One of the most emotionally affecting scenes in the entire film is when Wenwu brings a young Shang-Chi with him to kill the men who killed Ying Li. Little Shang-Chi is left to watch as Wenwu slaughters all of them. After the bloodbath, he kneels down next to his son, mentions that there are others responsible for Ying Li’s death, and asks (via English subtitles): “Will you help me?” The translation leaves out the “baba,” an informal way of saying “father” in Mandarin, in the line that could be translated: “Will you help your dad?” As Reddit user Iris_Sun points out: “With ‘your papa’, Wenwu acknowledges his role as a father, and the position of his son. There’s a level of familiarity and kindness that you really only use with the people you love. Shang-chi is not a tool, but his child. There’s also the cultural implication of passing on one’s legacy; as in, will you help me by learning my line of work so that you might eventually take it over.”

There will always be something lost in translation; this is an inherent part of consuming stories across language and other kinds of cultural boundaries, and it is easy to accept when you realize the alternative. We’re lucky to live in a time when foreign-language entertainment is so accessible, and when big-budget Hollywood movies like Shang-Chi don’t have to eschew narrative logic that would have their characters speaking in their native language and/or the language in favor of speaking English.

“I can talk to the conversation behind which language should be speaking was always rooted in just the logic of the characters,” said Shang-Chi director Destin Daniel Cretton (via Heroic Hollywood) during a recent press conference. “And who would naturally be speaking what language. And so that conversation started in the writer’s room and then once our actors came in it was always a dialogue what these are all bilingual, trilingual, quadrilingual characters who could speak whatever made sense at the time.  So, we were constantly having the discussion of what made sense for the scene.”

According to aforementioned Reddit user yawnandshrug (and mentioned in the original thread post), Shang-Chi has so many instances of these cultural nuances lost in translation not because the translation choices are bad but because the Mandarin-language dialogue is is so well written: “Tbh the mandarin used in the film is very authentic and often untranslatable without explaining the context behind the vocabulary. So I’m willing to give them a pass on that seeing as they made the effort to make the mandarin good.” If a storyteller is going to make a choice between writing good dialogue and writing easily translatable dialogue, this seems like the right one.

Were you surprised by the amount of Mandarin in Shang-Chi? Are you a Mandarin-language speaker who caught some other interesting translation choices? Let us know in the comments below!

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The post Shang-Chi is Apparently Even Cooler If You Speak Mandarin appeared first on Den of Geek.

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