#Linguistic Loss
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xxscarletxrosexx · 1 year ago
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A Linguistic Analysis: Manga Translation (EN/JP/TWN) Comparison of Chapter 90.1 | Part 3
This is written in response to @connoisseursdecomfort's post Comparing Versions of Short Mission 11
((I realized that I should have just made this into a post because my response would be lost as a reblog. And it did... OTL
Also, this is an updated version with more insight/details))
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Consider this is as a part 3 of my Linguistic Analysis posts on Spy x Family's Ch. 90.1 or Short Mission 11.
Part 1: A Linguistic Analysis of the Spelling "Ania" and "Anya"...
Part 2: "Ania" is the closest to an identity reveal
This analysis contains spoilers from Chapter 90.1 / Short Mission 11!
What's so interesting about the discourse analysis amongst Japanese, Taiwanese, and English translations is the hedging (word choices that lessen the directness of a dialogue) langauge that Loid uses. It is more clear in the Japanese ("by the way") and Taiwanese ("it came to mind") translations. Whereas, English's hedging is found in "...right?" What the three of them do share in common is that Loid's discourse is pointing to active voice by stating "your name is spelled A-N-Y-A". Apply all of these translations below:
(ENG) Your name is spelled A-N-Y-A, right?
(JP) By the way, your name is spelled A-N-Y-A.
(TW) It came to mind, your name is spelled A-N-Y-A.
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It is consistent that Loid's tone is holding authority by demonstrating his knowledge on Ostanian orthography based off the transcriptions he's seen of Anya's name registered as "A-N-Y-A" which was spelled by her previous Ostanian adopted parents. So Twilight feels confident that the spelling of her name MUST be "Anya."
Another thing I wanted to add on to @connoisseursdecomfort's observation is catching loss of translation, which is so unfortunately common. English translation omits translations mainly because some expressions or dialogue that are common in a language (Japanese and Taiwanese) would be perceive differently in English-speaking countries (USA, UK, AUS, CAN, etc.). This is called cultural discount.
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It's the reason why Squid Game English dub missed out on many jokes that are play on words in the Korean dub. It is also the reason why a lot of American jokes are not understood by non-English speakers OTL
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But this is a general phenomenon because English native consumers would find the expression strange simply because we do not have this style reflected in our discourse. The best example is when @_mika60 translated the omitted text "Anya's heart stirred at the mention of her own name."
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To an American (possibly English natives in general, but I can't really speak on behalf of British, Canadians, nor Australians beause their English may be slightly different in terms of cultural lifestyle/upbringing), this expression can be perceived as corny/purple-prosey. Because American discourse don't generally have this emotionally-charged reflective discourse. Hence, omitted. Which is unfortunate because it says so much about how Loid's spelling affected Anya's feelings. So this is a perfect example of cultural discount.
An example of loss in translation is the omission of Anya's text which explains why she can't carve out her name is due to feeling insecure about her bad handwriting. (Again, this is character analysis that English-reading consumers missed out on! Because anything written in the manga is deemed canon.) Whereas English, we completely omit that detail because English native speakers don't need that extra dialogue. The English discourse is typically straight to the point and English native consumers draw inferences from icons (images/illustrations).
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Based off my explanation, this is how I see the above picture as an American consumer (using a think-aloud method):
Anya says, "I can't do it right..." and she looks frustrated as illustrated by the swirl above her head.
Her brows are furrowed which supports that she's annoyed/frustrated/angry.
Her cheeks... are they blushes? Is she embarrassed? I can't really tell.
She's also a 4 y/o or was it 5 y/o child (she lied being 6, right?) so it's obvious she probably might be annoyed because she can't draw straight lines.
Because she's an infant, I'm sure she doesn't have the strength to draw clean lines.
Based off my thought process above, do I think OR am I convinced that Anya feels insecure? No.
Can it be argued that she's insecure? Yes, absolutely.
If I were to talk to someone who posits Anya may be insecure because of his/her knowledge of children behavior and/or mannerism, then I would be convinced. However, I would arrive to this assimilation through negotiating observations and exchanging knowledge of children behavioral mannerism. However, this would become more of headcanon if it wasn't explicitly stated in the manga (keep it mind that the Japanese translation DOES explicitly state that she's insecure because of her bad handwriting, so yes, it is canon that Anya is insecure of her bad handwriting).
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Anyways...
I love translation comparisons mainly because you get to experience cultural exchange if you are fortunate enough to understand or have access to a translator (*cough* @connoisseursdecomfort *cough*) who enjoys comparing multiple languages. Thank you for doing God's work @connoisseursdecomfort <3
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linguistwho · 1 year ago
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Phonetic Gallifreyan Weekend - Sentence 35:
"Harry Sullivan is an imbicile!" - The Doctor
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theinkedfoxsl · 1 year ago
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how do you...
would it be 廖 静 ???
how is this written... I AM EXPLAINED THIS EVERY FUCKING TIME.
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fuckboy-loki · 8 months ago
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The Raven King by Maggie Stiefvater (ch 37) // Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami (ch 2)
(Quote text under read more)
Henry had never been good with words. Case in point: The first month he'd been at Aglionby, he had tried to explain this to Jonah Milo, the English teacher, and had been told that he was being hard on himself. You've got a great vocabulary, Milo had said. Henry was aware he had a great vocabulary. It was not the same thing as having the words you needed to express yourself. You're very well-spoken for a kid your age, Mino had added. Hell, ha, even for a guy my age. But sounding like you were saying what you felt was not the same as actually pulling it off. A lot of ESL folks feel that way, Milo had finished. My mom said she was never herself in English. But it wasn't that Henry was less of himself in English. He was less of himself out loud. His native language was thought.
His mother was the only one who knew what Henry meant when he said that he wasn't good with words. She was always trying to explain things to his father, especially when she had decided to become Seondeok instead of his wife. It is that, she forever said, but also something more. The phrase had come to live in Henry's head. Something more explained perfectly why he could never say what he meant — something more, by its definition, would always be different than what you already had in your hand.
— — —
"I can never say what I want to say," continued Naoko. "It's been like this for a while now. I try to say something, but all I get are the wrong words - the wrong words or the exact opposite words from what I mean. I try to correct myself, and that only makes it worse. I lose track of what I was trying to say to begin with. It's like I'm split in two and playing tag with myself. One half is chasing the other half around this big, fat post. The other me has the right words, but this me can't catch her." She raised her face and looked into my eyes. "Does this make any sense to you?" "Everybody feels like that to some extent," I said. "They're trying to express themselves and it bothers then when they can't get it right." Naoko looked disappointed with my answer. "No, that's not it either," she said without further explanation.
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bookwyrminspiration · 1 year ago
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and also :0 what languages do you know?? wishing you luck in learning more of the/more languages!! may we become even more multilingual than before
I love talking about languages!! My dad and I are both huge language people
Quite obviously, I'm fluent in English. I have functional fluency in Spanish (took the official test for it, but my Spanish is by no means perfect) and a 2 year degree in Modern Languages with a concentration in Spanish. I can also passably communicate in ASL--I was literally one class away from finishing my ASL 2 year degree and then they cancelled the class, and am now unable to finish it. My ASL is also imperfect, but I can hold basic conversations and tell stories and such. I did also study french for 2 semesters (required for my Spanish degree), but I didn't retain like any of it.
I'd like to revisit French one day, and I'm interested in Nahuatl as well. And Persian, because I grew up Baha'i and surrounded by the language but picked up none of it. There's like a million languages I want to know I can't list them all. Slightly related, knowing morse code and braille would be lovely. I just think languages are so neat!!
here's to us becoming more and more multilingual than before!! I wish you luck with all your languages too <3
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ippokampos · 1 year ago
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language attrition is crazy and it rips my heart. a year and a half ago i was able to read a whole book in italian and understand more than 90% of it. and now im so scared of opening those same books i read cause i know im going to have a hard time with the voc. i could carry out a casual convo just fine and now i feel like im going to shit my pants if sb asks me what my fav food is
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procrastinatorproject · 2 years ago
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It is done!
So... I was thinking of making these all chapters of a larger fic. The Soji portion was a little over 1.5k words, the Raffi part was just over 3k. The Rios "chapter" is finished as a first draft and is currently at 6.627 words. ... I have a problem, people 🙈
(And the Soji one is at least as good as the others. It's just... so difficult not to indulge. But then again, I'm not writing these things fro the dense plotting... Ah well. We'll see what eventually ends up on AO3. But for now: here is a snip*!)
*(unsurprisingly, it's much too long to realistically call a "snippet")
---
Rios’s voice was a perfect imitation of Steward’s Southern Drawl, and Emil nearly gasped.
But the captain wasn’t done. When he spoke again, he was using a lilting accent that the EMH couldn’t place. “It’s like this, see, these programmers know where’n get the bestest voices. They’re smarter-er than youse would ever think. Or mays-be youse are just über-dim…”
Once again, and against his will, Emil burst out laughing. “What was that?”
Rios grinned. “Sixteen-year-old Tellarite. Or the equivalent age for their species, anyway. Teenagers. The UT had one hell of a time trying to translate their speech patterns. We tried to learn some of their expressions, but they informed us we were ‘depleted’, which I think means ‘embarrassing?’”
Emil shook his head. “When did you have a chance to observe Tellarite teenagers? I understand they don’t often leave Tellar before they come of age?”
“Oh, we were shuttling them around on a school trip. Some big interstellar youth debate competition — which they won, of course. Wiped the floor with the Klingon delegation; it was brutal.” Rios smiled at the memory. “They gloated the entire week-long trip back home and decided that newly-minted Starfleet officers were a worthy substitute target for practice. So we had plenty of time listening to them as they grilled us on the finer points of UFP diplomacy protocols. According to Vaasiir chim Ners, we’re all a disgrace to the uniform and should be retroactively failed for our Academy finals.” Rios’s smile started to fade as his eyes became unfocused, looking into the middle distance.
“Captain?” the EMH asked and reached out to touch Rios’s shoulder.
The captain shuddered at the touch, but he focused his attention back on Emil. His smile turned rueful as he said: “Sorry, I just… I guess I just realized she must be an adult by now… I wonder what became of her. And the rest of them…”
Emil was sure Rios was not just referring to the teenage Tellarites, but he could also see all the signs of rapidly growing exhaustion on the captain’s face. Probably best not to let him dwell on these particular questions.
He squeezed Rios’s shoulder and gave him an encouraging smile. “Wherever Ms chim Ners is now, I’m sure she’d be delighted to have left such a lasting impression. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to listen to Ian talk about ‘depleted’ plasma reserves with a straight face again.” Emil tried to imitate the way the captain had said the word, and Rios actually smiled even if there was still a wistfulness to it.
“That pronunciation was awful,” he said. “Don’t ever try to use it with a Tellarite teenager. They’ll mock you so fiercly over it, you’ll never be able to scrub it from your memory files.”
“At least I don’t sound like some ‘über-dim’ debate nerd.” Even as he said it, Emil could tell his accent on the slang term sounded nothing like it was supposed to.
Now, Rios was the one startled into a burst of laughter. “How are you so bad at this? We have the same voice, couldn’t you just copy the way I said it?”
Emil crossed his arms, suddenly feeling rather defensive. “I’m so sorry, I would allocate more of my processing to linguistic shenanigans, but unfortunately it’s bound up in all this pesky medical functionality. You know. Useless things like ‘how to keep your captain from dying of asphyxiation’ and ‘you should not tie your patient to the biobed no matter how many times they try to get up even though you told them not to’.”
“It’s okay,” Rios grinned and then continued in a pitch-perfect imitation of Emil’s own, crisp English accent: “We wouldn’t want you to overtax your fragile algorithms.”
For half a second, they both stared at each other, then, as one, they started laughing. Suddenly, their was barely any difference left between their voices.
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mickeys-malarkey · 2 years ago
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So, I was watching a conlang advice series and the guy was saying that if your first language is English and you wanna use glottal stops you should probably stick to putting them in the middle of words between vowels because that's pretty much the only time English uses them and I was like “yeah okay” until I started paying attention and realized that I think I pretty much put glottal stops at the beginning of any word that starts with a vowel (especially at the beginning of sentences, after pauses, etc.) and I was like “huh… So, that's not a normal English speaker thing? Weird, wonder why I do that.” Then later I was watching a video on public speakers/actors/etc. using ejective Ks by this guy who's an accent coach if I remember correctly and he was saying that it's often in preparation for putting a glottal stop at the beginning of a word that starts with a vowel so that listeners can hear it clearer and I was just like “…ohhh… I do it to compensate for my hearing disorders, don't I?” 😝🤯
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alpineig · 2 months ago
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the start if an English logographic system. we should continue this until every concept has an image and that's our writing system. would fix English orthography
I'm at a :.|:; for words.
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newtscamandersbf · 5 months ago
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saw someone saying its weird for a 17 yo to be hanging out w a 14 yo .. idk not really. like i dont think thatd be weird but maybe thats just me not being american. maybe thats just me havibg a 19 yo classmate who i hang out w ?? maybe thats just me havibg a 13 yo friend while being 16. maybe thats just me not giving a fuck if a 14 year old is friends w a 17 yo cause thats two lil kids / teens & people being adults at 18 is bullshit ?? 😭 like to me youre not an adult until youre 20 / 21 idc
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angealainn · 8 months ago
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Hey language tumblr I have a question about Japanese.
So I’m trying to write a story where the protagonist has a sword technique called Shinrabanshō (森羅万象, translated usually as “all things in nature” or “the universe”), where the user draws the sword and performs a singular, perfect slash (standard weeb shit).
I want it to have a sister technique, also named with a yojijukugo, that has a meaning like “all that remains” or “nihility” or some other vaguely antonymous sentiment. I’ve looked through a few online dictionaries and can’t really find anything, so I’m outsourcing the problem. If anyone has something to help with this admittedly rather dumb idea, please reblog/reply.
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nogoodnikolai · 11 months ago
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What's everyone's favorite false etymology? I'm partial to crapper being derived from Thomas Crapper (who, incidentally, did not invent the flush toilet, he just owned a plumbing company). It's stretching the definition of etymology, but I was told as a kid that the "she shells seashells" tongue-twister was about Mary Anning, a 19th century paleontologist who made a living collecting and selling fossils she found on beaches.
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hyper-lynx · 6 months ago
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For other words, maybe the panels of Loss could be used individually like
|'|: Person/Self/Thing
|' '| : Direction/Knowledge
|, ,| : Discussion/Group/Pair
|, _| : Event/Seeing/Death
We can combine these. For example, a wise person might be
|' '|'|
Let's construct "I learned what happened"
|○_ ' ,'|, ',]', '_|
Literally, this is "I gained event knowledge"
As for other nouns, I suggest chaining using special demarcation like this
|'$| : Money Thing (Using the marker from above)
To define a marker as referring to something, I propose this syntax:
|%'| (other phrase) : % is a thing that means (other phrase)
For example, if we wanted to define, say, Gatorade as a noun and use it in a sentence, we could write the following (if we allow English word insertion to define things)
|G'|"Gatorade" : G means Gatorade
|○_' ,' |, ,'$] |○○', ,| ', '_|_' ,' |, ,'|~]G| : get paid, get laid, Gaotrade.
We could invent a loss based wiriting system
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fuckyeahdindjarin · 7 days ago
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Prima Nocta
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Marcus Acacius x Virgin!F!Reader oneshot
{ Main Masterlist }
Rating: E (18+ only)
Summary: Tomorrow, you will marry your husband-to-be. But tonight - it belongs to his father.
Word count: 6k
Warnings: DUB CON only due to nature of prima nocta, both parties enthusiastically consent, twist on prima nocta, unspecified age gap, loss of virginity, dirty talk, oral sex (F receiving), fingering, dry humping, unprotected sex, unrealistic descriptions of first sexual experience, all manners of historical inaccuracies and linguistic anachronisms sorry not sorry, ignores the events of the movie so you can consider this an AU, Marcus is widowed and has a son, shall we call this bfd: Ancient Rome version lmao
Notes: I'm a bit rusty for sure, but I had the absolute best time writing this oneshot. It's a departure from my usual themes to say the least, but once this idea took hold of me it never let go. I know prima nocta is meant to be invoked on the wedding night, but I like the idea of it being the night before so I made it so 🤷🏻‍♀️ Gorgeous dividers by @firefly-graphics as always.
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He thought he had gotten away with it. Having lived more than fifty winters in the capital and outlasting eight emperors, he regrets to confess that he is still none the wiser. 
It would have been such a clever manoeuvre. Palming off a generous but very much unwanted gift from the emperors, and marrying off his son in one fell swoop. 
He should have been suspicious of their swift assent to his proposal. In his eagerness to bow out of their audience, it had been convenient to dismiss the flash of malice in their eyes.
And in the snake pits of Roman court, no misstep goes unexploited.
He is not proud that he is caught off guard by the emperor’s closest advisor who intercepts his walk home from the armoury, even less so of his ineloquent response to the missive handed to him.
‘What is this?’
‘Urgent word from the emperors, sir.’
Cold sweat prickles the back of his neck as he stares unseeingly at what is scrawled on the parchment.
‘I cannot,’ he blurts out, indignance rising fast and hot in his chest. ‘I will not.’
‘You think it wise to twice refuse the emperors’ generosity, general?’
General. To him, the culmination of a lifetime of service and sacrifice. To them, an instrument of bloodshed in war, a plaything in peacetime.
Desperate, he tries a different tact. ‘The right of the first night belongs to the emperors. I dare not commit sacrilege.’
‘It is not sacrilege if it is freely bequeathed upon you, general.’
There is no mistaking the warning lilt in the last word, and he has no answer.
‘The hour grows late. You had better not keep the bride waiting,’ says the advisor with an air of finality before retreating into the shadows.
Marcus shudders at the cold that settles into the empty space, fingers stained with ink from the now crumpled dispatch. 
He remembers nothing of the remainder of his short journey to his quarters. As the front door swings open, he realises there is something in the night air that is out of place.
Sea salt.
You are here. 
Would you be demure? Frightened? You are of royal lineage, a lady of the small but proud coastal kingdom strong-armed by Rome into an unequal treaty for its profitable trading posts, in return for the mercy of not being razed to its fertile grounds.
And now, you are lowered to marry a general’s son. 
Worse, lowered to have your virginity taken by his father.
Candlelight spills from the crack underneath the door to his bedchamber. Marcus takes a deep breath, and pushes it open.
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You hear him. The swish of fabric, the slide of leather soles on marble.
The general is here.
Your hand in marriage is part of the terms of the treaty, and the missive that sent for you announced your match as the widowed hero general. You had him cast on the wretched journey from your home as one of the domineering, brutish soldiers now garrisoned at your family’s kingdom - only to be told on your arrival that you will be marrying his son instead.
Relief at the news that your future husband would not be decades older than you is instantly snatched away by furtive whispers of prima nocta.
Your future father-in-law will take you first.
The humiliation is bitter on your tongue. You are Rome’s to marry off, hers to give to whomever she pleases -
But she won’t break you.
The door creaks. You stand tall and hold your ground.
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He sweeps into the room with an air of well-worn authority, the cloak on his back dark as the shadows that nip at his heels.
The candles flicker when he sheds the heavy robes with a smooth sweep of his arm.
You stare, in a manner that would have had your lady-in-waiting tutting. But you are alone, very much so, with this man not ten paces from you.
General Marcus Acacius. 
He is older, certainly old enough to have a son your age. But you had not imagined him so - strong, for the lack of a more imaginative word. His shoulders are broad under his wine red tunic, and you can see the muscles in his arms flex as he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. From where you stand, you can hardly see any silver in his dark curls.
Marcus unflinchingly assesses you right back. 
No, you are decidedly not demure. Or frightened. Far from it. 
You are defiant, even as you observe him with evident curiosity. Your head held high, a telltale sign of your noble breeding, mouth set in a stern line while your eyes burn bright with a proud fire. 
Judging the silence has gone on long enough, he breaks it with a formal, ‘My lady.’
‘General,’ you answer steadily.
The door slams shut belatedly behind him, and you flinch - the first glimpse of weakness you concede. 
Marcus breathes in, delivering his next sentence with as much composure as he can muster. ‘I expect you have been informed of the - formalities that we are to perform tonight.’
You grind your teeth so hard you are astonished that your jaw doesn’t crack.
Your virtue is just a formality.
Refusing to dignify his question with an answer, you nod once. 
He watches you wordlessly, and you meet his gaze. You thought you would find something else there, not the regret that you see.
Turning away from you, he reaches for the amphora on the table. 
‘Wine?’
‘Yes, please.’
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The wine is drunk in silence and moderation. Him at his desk, you perched on the end of the bed.
As you sip, pacing yourself, you observe the general discreetly from across the small distance between you. 
To say that you are disconcerted by his behaviour would be an understatement.
You assumed that he asked for this - for the perverse pursuit of deflowering his son’s bride-to-be while eschewing the unwanted responsibility of a wife. 
Yet, watching him stare pensively into his goblet, lips pursed in a pout that is almost sullen, you are not so certain anymore. 
When you bring your drink to your mouth to find it empty, you clear your throat. ‘I have to wake up early tomorrow morning - for the wedding.’
The general starts before collecting himself, drawing himself up to his full height as he sets down his cup with a heavy clunk. ‘Understandably, my lady.’
Then he moves, charting a course across the room, licking his thumb and index finger to douse the candles dotted around the space.
The thought comes to you unbidden - he has thick fingers. And big hands. 
Your cheeks tingle with heat.
Soon the chamber is cloaked in darkness, save for the candles next to the bed, the warm light pooling in the most inviting manner on the soft surface despite your trepidation. You long to rest your aching feet. 
He comes to a standstill on the other side of the bed, as if waiting for you to take the lead. You cannot decide whether you are thankful for him not imposing on you, or frustrated at him for not taking the lead in what is very much unfamiliar territory.
In the end, the desire to get off your feet wins out, and you gesture at the bed. ‘Shall we…?’
‘Certainly.’ He bends down, you assume to take off his sandals. You do the same, toeing off the soft leather slides the maids had you change into when they dressed you.
Once barefoot, you climb in with as much grace as you can summon, acutely aware that you have an audience. Your knees sink into the mattress, and you’re relieved that it is stuffed with feathers, luxuriously giving under your weight. Shifting primly, you find your back against the headboard, cushioned by equally soft pillows.
The general follows suit, the frame creaking as he eases onto the suddenly too small bed, strong shoulders brushing yours as he settles next to you.
You stare hard at the back of your hands, the only way to stop your gaze from wandering to the span of his fingers splayed wide on sturdy thighs, or lower to the bony ridge of his knees - gods, you must be unwell, since when have you been drawn to knees?
You are still questioning the state of your sanity when the general, who has been nothing but unperturbed and composed since he stepped into the room, stumbles over his words in a manner that is neither, as if he had held the question behind his teeth for too long.
‘Are you - are you absolutely certain - in no doubt - that you are… untouched?’
His question stings like salt in a festering wound. Indignant doesn’t even begin to describe the retort you spit at him. ‘Yes, I am. Are you?’
Peering at you sideways, his eyes widen at your outburst, and fear briefly flits across your heart that you have overstepped.
 But then, he surprises you with a smile. ‘You bite, don’t you?’ 
You let your shoulders sag, too far gone to hold onto your facade. 
‘It’s been a long day, sir,’ you admit. ‘To be frank, I just want to get this over with and forget it ever happened.’
He pauses at your confession, as if weighing his options. Then he shifts, and says, ‘The reason I ask if you were untouched is because, if you were not - we could have just pretended we did this.’
You frown. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I did not invoke prima nocta, it was imposed upon me. The emperors are displeased that I turned down the betrothal, this is their way of punishing me for my ungratefulness.’ 
Oh.
As much as you didn’t want this either, your pride suffers to hear him describe it as a punishment.
‘I know…’ you stumble, halting to steel yourself. ‘I know I am nothing like the women here in Rome. I spend too much time in the sun, and my hands are rough from working with horses -’
‘Why do you say that?’ he interrupts you.
You look away. ‘That is why you do not wish to marry me, is it not? And why you do not want this - why you do not want me.’
The general sits up, palms on the mattress to support his weight, the lines on his forehead deepening with a frown. ‘No, that is not the reason. You are young, you deserve a husband who can build a life with you in the years to come. Not a washed-up widower.’
The bitterness in his voice turns your head. 
‘You’re not washed up, from what I hear.’ Somehow, you find the courage to add boldly, ‘Or from what I see.’
Letting your eyes trail unabashedly over his broad frame, a thrill chases through your blood when you notice his Adam’s apple bob with a tight swallow. He’s so close that you know you’re not imagining the heat seeping into your bones.
Silence stretches between you, charged with a consciousness that creeps in and spreads. Two souls from different worlds and stations put in a situation in which neither of you had a hand. This may not be how you imagined giving away your virtue - far from it - yet your stomach twists in anticipation.
You glance upwards, only to find him already watching you.
Something has shifted when you so bravely reached out and tipped the balance with your words. He can tell that you are not one for flippant flattery, and it takes him a moment to collect himself, harder said than done with the blood roaring in his ears.
When he speaks, it comes out in a much lower register than he intends, so much so it sounds like a secret. 
‘You say you just want to get this over with. But I can - I can make it good for you. It doesn’t have to be something you want to forget.’
Your eyes widen and your lips part, and heat blooms almost uncomfortably in his chest. ‘You would do that for me?’
‘I will serve you in whatever way you ask of me tonight, my lady.’
Never have mere words, albeit delivered in such a delicious baritone, moved you so. You came in expecting to have your virtue stripped from you, the same way Rome callously stole you away. Where you thought humiliation and dishonour awaited, this man is offering deliverance and devotion - if only for one night.
Your throat tight with emotion, you nod in lieu of a spoken answer.
Marcus is deliberately slow in his movements, wanting you to feel safe in his presence. ‘How much do you know? So I know what I need to teach you.’
Despite yourself, shyness rears its head and you mumble, ‘I’ve - I’ve heard stories. I know what… happens… between a man and a woman in the bed chamber.’
He nods reassuringly, making you feel less of a fool for the juvenile answer you gave. ‘And has anyone touched you before?’
There’s no mistaking the lurch in your stomach as your heart hammers violently. ‘No. No one. Never.’
The protector in him stirs, summoned to duty, warring with the desire that seethes under his skin like the unholy flames of Vesuvius. He fears it is a quickly losing battle. 
Reading the desire in your endearingly open face, Marcus reaches over you to settle one hand on your hip as he leans close, his breath warm on your cheek.
‘Have you ever kissed a man?’ he rasps. 
You shake your head, eyes fixated on his mouth, framed by a tidy moustache. He is so close that you can see his beard is flecked with silver.
You swear the general is leaning into you, and every inch of you is on tenterhooks, enraptured by his proximity -
‘You should save it for your husband.’
You barely forestall the whine of protest that teeters on the tip of your tongue, pinching your lips together, but his lopsided smile tells you that he knows. 
‘I can kiss you elsewhere though.’
‘Oh,’ you inhale shakily when he dips to mouth at the side of your neck, landing on your pulse point in a suckle. Your whole body arches off the bed, hands gripping the sheets, head spinning at all the sensations that are new to you - the burn of his stubble, the cool trail his lips leave behind -
Then the palm on your hip pulls you into him, sprawling you against the wide cage of his body, your breasts pressed against his broad chest. The dress they put you in is thin, and the fabric rubs against your pebbling nipples as his kisses travel daringly low.
‘Am I going too fast?’ he pauses, voice strained.
Breathlessly, you shake your head.
‘If you want me to stop, or wait, you say the word. Understood?’
‘Yes, general.’
Two words he hears daily from his men, and yet from your lips, they unleash a dangerously feral side of him.
More. Is the only coherent thought that remains. 
Impatient hands reposition you so that you are astride him, and he groans when you slot flush in his lap. He watches your eyes widen at what you feel between your legs. Your dress rides up, and his blood rushes south at the bare expanse of your inner thighs on his skin. 
‘I want to see you,’ he speaks plainly, palms squeezing the dip of your waist. ‘May I undress you? Please?’
All decorum flees you, and you might have chanted yes, yes, yes to his question.
Dropping your chin, you watch his thick fingers nimbly undo the knot holding the front of your dress together. The silk capitulates like water, tumbling down in delicate drapes around your waist, baring you to his heated gaze.
‘You are beautiful,’ he declares with a solemnity that steals your breath.
And it is easy to believe him, the way his dazed eyes trail over your breasts, before his hands follow. Calloused palms, which you are sure have held many a sword in triumph, now cup your tender flesh in reverence. 
Your head lolls to the side as he teases you, but when he rolls his hips upwards, your eyes snap to the pained expression on his face. You’ve heard ladies in court whispering over wine about length and girth, but nothing could prepare you for the thrill of feeling a man’s undeniable desire for you.
Instinct guides you, moving your hips so that you are grinding against his length, seeking relief from what is building deep within you.
‘Do what feels good,’ the general murmurs encouragingly, palms on the small of your back to let you take control.
And just like that, you are thrown back to one summer’s day in your youth. You were bathing in a rock pool, under the spray of a waterfall in perfect solitude when you accidentally slipped forwards on the smooth stone surface. The unexpected sensation between your legs ripped through you like lightning on a clear day. And you chased that feeling, hips undulating until you shuddered and cried out. Knees trembling in the aftermath, you never dared to seek it out again, but neither did you forget.
And now, years later, you finally know what had transpired. Pleasure. And this time, under the general’s hooded gaze, you pursue it with single-minded determination.
Marcus wishes you knew how beautiful you are in this very moment. Breasts swaying in tandem while you rock back and forth on his clothed length, eyes glazed, every whimper from your swollen lips making him throb harder for you.
‘Good girl,’ he rasps, throat tight. ‘Take your pleasure. Take what you need.’
And when he sucks your nipple into his mouth, you wail, tipping forward at an angle that unexpectedly takes you apart.
The waves that wash over you are more intense than you remember, and you are sure that has to do with the man holding your hips to his as you buck, and the warm swirl of his tongue against your breasts, sucking and nipping as you come down from your high.
‘That was not your first time,’ he states as a matter of fact when the white noise in your ears finally fades.
‘It happened once, a long time ago, and I didn’t understand then -’
‘And now you do.’
‘Yes, general.’
This time, he lets loose a moan at your words. ‘I can feel your wetness through your dress.’
Confused, you look down, and your cheeks burn when you spot the dark patch on the delicate fabric. ‘Oh, I -’
‘It’s natural,’ he assures you. ‘The wetness makes it easier for -’
It dawns on you when you feel his hardness twitch under you. Oh. 
‘It - you feel -’ you stutter, struggling to comprehend how the girth of what you are sitting on could possibly fit inside you.
Taking your hand, Marcus presses a chaste kiss to your palm, eyes warm and open. 
‘We will take it slow. I will use my fingers first, to prepare you for me,’ he explains patiently. ‘I promised I would make it good for you, did I not?’
‘You did.’ 
And you have complete faith in him.
Your knees knock into each other hopelessly when he slides you off his lap, and he has to bodily prop you up against the pillows. Sinking into the soft feathers, you watch him kneel between your parted legs, and you feel so safe even as he towers over you. 
‘May I disrobe you?’
You bite your bottom lip, and nod. 
Except it’s not a disrobing, it’s nothing near as civil as that. The general rips the rest of your dress clean down the middle, rendering you completely bare beneath him.
Marcus knows should be ashamed of his brash behaviour. But how could he when you react so viscerally, jaw slack as your chest heaves in unmitigated desire? 
His gaze shamelessly trail over every curve and dimple, from the breasts he has tasted to where your knees are demurely closed, and knowing that he is the first - the only - to have laid eyes on you makes him impossibly hard. 
It matters not that you are not his to keep. This will always be his. 
‘You are exquisite,’ he professes, voice tight. 
You duck your head, more shy of his compliments than being nude before him. ‘You don’t have to.’
Sliding a finger under your chin and tilting your head until you meet his gaze, he assures you, ‘I mean every word.’
Then he moves down the bed until he can rest his weight on his elbows, and you startle when rough palms glide over the outside of your thighs, stopping at your knees. 
He pauses to give you time. ‘Are you certain you wish to continue?’
Your answer is a confident yes.
Then, as if opening the shell of Venus, he delicately pries your knees apart, and his breath hitches as you are revealed to him.
He is aware that he’s staring like an imbecile, words failing him. As the silence stretches on, you become self-conscious.
‘General,’ you demur, moving to cover yourself.
Shaking his head, he finally says, ‘Forgive me, but you are perfect.’
Then he looks up at you with such intensity that has you struggling to catch your breath, and without breaking eye contact, he bows his head - 
And closes his lips over you there. 
You are wholly unprepared - no one has ever gossiped about this in court. Your hips buck violently off the bed, but Marcus holds you down with reassuring hands, suckling on the pearl between your thighs with gentle laps of his tongue.
‘Oh, oh, oh,’ you stuttter, torn between watching the man wreak the most devastating pleasure on you and averting your gaze.
You’ve only ever known worship to be pious, and yet, this most vulgar adulation is the closest you’ve been to the gods.
His beautiful curls brush the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, catching the candle light as he moves, and the crook of his nose - so proud even with the scar on its bridge - draws patterns on your skin as he stakes his claim where no one has ever touched you. 
You quickly realise that what you felt just now in the general’s lap was insignificant and thin in comparison. This pleasure is all-consuming, something divine that has you weak and trembling all over. All you hear are slick, wet sounds of tongues and lips, and your own whimpers between garbled groans.
Marcus feasts on you, unapologetically. Flattening his tongue, he tastes you in broad sweeps, moaning into your sweet cunt as you writhe above him, your needy mewls driving him to the edge of madness. You taste like fig - the earthiness of the purple peel, ripe sweetness of the pink flesh.
Then your hands wind into his hair, pulling him closer, ankles hooking over his shoulders. He groans harder, the sound rattling in his ribs as you soak his beard. Surrendering any last vestiges of shyness, you rock against his tongue, nails scratching his scalp as you whine louder into the night air. 
Moans that will echo long after you’re gone.
The thought alone hardens his resolve to mark you unequivocally. You’re close, your pliant body quivering and breaths coming in shallow gasps now. He peers up at you, but your eyes are sealed shut and upturned at the gods, your breasts heaving.
Gently, he eases one finger inside you, and he grunts at how easily he slides in. You barely react, and so he pushes back in with two, coaxing a cry from you. Your cunt clenches as he gently thrusts his digits in and out, stretching your tight walls. 
‘Oh gods. Oh gods,’ you pant violently.
You’re close, so close. He wants to warn you of what is to come, but it feels like sacrilege to tarnish the moment with words. When he feels you begin to quiver, he laves at your clit harder, burying his fingers inside you to the knuckle, until he feels you crest and break. 
‘Gods, oh gods - Marcus!’
The cry of his name catches him off guard. He nearly loses control right there and then, as you ride out your high on his fingers, but by some miracle he holds out through gritted teeth. He devotes his attention to kissing his way up your body, from the slick inside of your thighs, to the side of your hip, making you jump when he sucks on your sensitive breasts.
You stare at his mouth with wild, dark eyes, and him at yours, but he vowed to leave your first kiss to your husband. Girding his self-restraint, he asks, ‘Are you alright?’
‘Yes, Marcus.’
His cock twitches at the sound of his name on your lips. He wants to hear you say it in all manners of ways - whisper it, gasp it, scream it. And by the cheekiness in your smile, it’s clear that you know what he’s thinking.
Your eyes drop to where his hardness is pressed against you. ‘Will you teach me how to please you, general?’
He swallows a groan, the animal in him rattling the bars of its cage. He replies diplomatically, ‘I will teach you how to teach your husband.’
In one smooth tug, he shucks off his tunic, then his loincloth, and he tries not to be self-conscious under your watchful gaze. Pulling you against him, skin on naked skin, he smears kisses along the side of your neck, smiling at your answering shudder. In return, you run your lips and scrape your teeth over his collarbone. 
Taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, he slides it all the way down his chest and wraps your fingers firmly around his throbbing cock, his pained moan in your ear.
Eyes wide, you marvel at the size of him in your grip. ‘You are so big.’
Marcus curses through clenched teeth. ‘You are an insolent girl.’
With a wicked glint in your eyes, you correct yourself, ‘You are so big, general.’
If he wasn’t so aroused, he would have chuckled at your cheek. Instead, he growls, ‘Such insubordination.’
Tilting your head to one side, you grin. ‘And how would you discipline me, sir?’
He lets the silence linger for a beat, allowing anticipation to build as one big hand splays over your ass, hot lips brushing the shell of your ear. ‘I would deny you my cock, my lady. Let your sweet cunt weep for me, empty, not knowing how good it would feel to have me deep inside you.’
You are unsure if you are more shocked at the explicitness of his words, or at the gush of wetness that has you pressing your thighs together. If you had to wager a guess, he is just as affected as you by the way his length pulses in your grasp.
Marcus smiles as he takes in the way your body reacts to him. ‘But how can I deny such a lovely, desperate creature such as yourself?’
A sob escapes you. ‘Please, Marcus - I’m yours to take.’
With that, all self-restraint abandons him, and his lips crash into yours. At the back of his mind, he knows you deserve a better first kiss, something gentle and sweet. But to your credit, you seem to take it in stride, winding your arms around his neck with a deep groan as he deepens the kiss. Opening up your mouth, he sweeps his tongue against yours, making sure you taste yourself and the pleasure that he had wrung from you.
When he reluctantly pulls back for air, you hum, ‘I thought you said I should save that for my husband.’
He all but snarls, ‘Damn your husband.’
The possessiveness in his tone sends you reeling, and his resolve wears even thinner when your cunt brushes against him, so wet and soft, begging for him. 
‘I cannot wait any longer,’ he declares.
You bite your lip beseechingly. ‘Please, Marcus, I cannot either.’
He braces himself above you on strong arms, until all you can see is him, backlit by the soft candlelight. Beholding his beauty - the wisps of gray at his temples, the scar lining his cheekbone - your breath catches at the tenderness in his eyes as he stares down at you.
Holding the base of his cock, Marcus notches himself at the entrance of your cunt, trembling as he holds himself back. 
‘I will go slow,’ he assures you. ‘If it hurts, you tell me to stop. Understood?’
Your mouth dry, you can only nod. 
Holding your gaze, Marcus rolls his hips ever so slowly, jaw slack when he breaches you, inch by tortuous inch.
He is barely inside you and you already feel so unfathomably full.
‘Marcus,’ you gasp when it gets impossibly tight, nails digging into his broad shoulders.
He stops, and whispers encouragingly, ‘You are doing so well for me, taking me so beautifully. Just breathe.’
In between his patient, languid kisses, you unfurl, and Marcus gently pulls back, before pushing into you, deeper this time.
When you cry out, he shushes you, brushing the wet corners of your eyes with his lips. ‘Does it hurt?’
You shake your head. ‘No, it’s just - so much.’ 
‘I know, I can feel how tight you are gripping me,’ he mumbles into your neck, throbbing inside you while he holds himself still as you adjust. ‘Brave, sweet girl.’
When you find your voice again, you give him cheek. ‘I am a woman now, general.’
He smiles at you - a warm curl that crinkles the corners of his eyes endearingly - and claims your lips again. Feeling the tension seep out of your body, he thrusts shallowly so you can learn the movement of his hips. When he hits a spot that makes your jaw drop and your hips buck, he pulls all the way back, and drives himself to the hilt in one smooth motion.
And with that, you become a part of his soul, and his yours. His chest swells with the fiercest possessiveness and the greatest honour all at once, despite knowing that the circumstances that brought you together will inevitably tear you asunder at the break of dawn.
‘Marcus!’ you choke on a sob, throwing your head back, your walls clutching his cock in a merciless grip.
‘There she is,’ he grunts, mouth scraping the shell of your ear. ‘Say my name like that.’
And you do, over and over again, as he fucks into you. His pants land harshly in the crook of your neck with every thrust, hands greedily squeezing all the skin he can find - the curve of your ass, the dimple in your waist, your thigh to hitch it over his hip.
Looking down at you, eyes drunk and unfocused as you stare back at him, each squeeze of your wet cunt around him, every breath from your lips feels sacred.
He is seized by a sudden need to know. ‘How does it feel?’
Your eyes soften, and he shudders when you cup the side of his face to bring his nose to yours. ‘Divine.’
Marcus loses himself in you, in the wet squelch of your cunt around his length, the way your tightness takes every thrust. Words of praise that he doesn’t even hear tumble from his lips and onto every inch of skin he can reach as you cling to him, scraping your nails down his back and digging into the meat of his ass.
Pitching forward to press a hard kiss to you, he says, ‘I want you to fall apart for me again.’
‘Please, Marcus, please.’
Pushing himself up to his knees, still buried deep inside you, he spreads your thighs obscenely wide over his hips, and he moans at the sight of your cunt so full of him. With hooded eyes, he sucks on two of his thick fingers and brings them between your legs, carefully drawing circles on your clit, knowing that you are already sensitive from cumming twice for him before.
Your face twists in agony as he builds you towards another climax, patiently weaving the web of pleasure that wounds you tighter and tighter until your spine feels like it will snap in two. ‘Marcus, oh - don’t stop, don’t stop, oh gods -’
He bares his teeth as he feels you start to clench around him. ‘That’s it, that’s it. Cum on my cock, let me feel you, give it to me.’ 
Your peak crashes into you relentlessly, and as you are swept away, you can only wail and thrash, while Marcus curses and stutters unintelligibly above you as he spins out of control.
He had every intention to pull out, but it is as if some higher power is determined to foil his plans. With a guttural roar, his hips snap flush against yours, big palms grasp you so hard by the waist that you squeal, and he spills into you in hot gushes, once - twice - and again until he is spent.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
He doesn’t know if he said that aloud or if it was a trick of the mind. All he knows is that he eventually collapses bonelessly onto you, skin fused together with sweat and cum as your breaths become one in the crisp night air.
It is him who breaks the stillness, his old bones creaking when he stirs to relieve an ache in his back. His softened cock slides out of you, prompting you to whine in protest. He grunts when he looks down to see his cum dribble out of your cunt, leaving a pearly trail on the inside of your thighs.
When he meets your eyes, there is no awkwardness in the silence. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to spill my seed inside you. That was reckless.’
Your heart skips a beat at his admission, and you can’t hide the pride in your voice. ‘Do I make you reckless, general?’
He tries and fails to be stern in his answer, the tenderness with which he brushes his nose on your cheek giving him away. ‘I know better than to encourage your insolence with an answer.’
You are far from discouraged though, quite the opposite. Knowing you have this man - who commands armies of thousands - at your mercy is a siren’s call.
Peering at him from under your eyelashes, you curl one leg around his waist. ‘Do you want to be reckless again?’
He huffs, but a smile breaks through. ‘Have you ever been told that you are a cocktease?’
You hum teasingly. ‘I have never heard that word before, but I like it.’
‘You do?’ he breathes against your lips. ‘You like being my cocktease?’
‘Yours, general.’
Marcus is astounded when he feels himself harden again, and he moans as you press open-mouthed kisses down his neck. ‘What spell have you cast on this old man, my little cocktease?’
You grin, letting him ease you onto your back so he can settle between your thighs again. ‘The kind that lasts until dawn.’
Eventually, morning must break, sure as the moon turns and the sun rises. In the golden rays of day, you will wed his son in ironic, virginal white, showered in rose petals. He will look on from the side in his finest ceremonial robes of red, as you walk away from him and into your new life as someone else’s wife.
But in the velvety folds of this night and many more to come, safely ensconced in the deepest corners of his memories, in lands far away, in war and in peace, there he keeps you - where you are not.
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More notes: Thank you for reading! As usual, comments/reblogs/asks would be very much appreciated 🥰 I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I loved writing it!
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kitsunabi · 1 year ago
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Qingque's VO lines have so many puns and almost none get translated over well and it kills me, her lines are the best OTL
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juice-and-catharsis · 1 year ago
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There is a worm in my brain and his name is Hozier
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