#it’s like a foreign language being spoken at you and you were once a native speaker but now you’re trying to remember the basic words

[podcastsonmain]

Picking up woe.begone after a long period of not listening to it like

[synity]

Colors of Home - 205 subs special

(Lee Seokmin x FemReader)

*slow-burn romance, more bonding over art, cultural understanding, fluff, slice of life PhotographerAU, painterAU NonIdolAU, slice of life Family / Multicultural Fiction*

The day the plane touched down at Incheon International Airport, the skies over Seoul were dull with spring clouds, the kind that teased rain but never fully gave in. Y/N leaned against the window of the airplane, watching as the buildings grew closer and closer. She wasn’t nervous this wasn’t fear. It was something else, something thicker, like the sea breeze from home, wrapping around her chest, warming and choking her at once.

She had left behind the intoxicating lull of Tahiti’s tides, the hum of ukuleles at sunset, and the lush emerald arms of the rainforest that had cradled her childhood. In its place: an entirely new country, a city that glimmered with cold beauty, precise lines, hurried footsteps, and whispered judgments.

She came for art. That was the truth of it. Art had chosen her before she could even walk, painting shells and volcanic rocks with her mother in the garden, dancing with flowers in her hair and acrylic on her fingers. Now, years later, her love for colors, silhouettes, and stories had led her here to Seoul, Korea a city that had been haunting her dreams since she was seventeen.

Korean had come to her like a song at first foreign, then rhythmic, then effortless. She had studied for four years before coming, devouring dramas, music, podcasts, textbooks. People were often in disbelief when she spoke fluently. “You’re so good in Korean! How did you learn?” they’d say, eyes wide with fascination, as if they couldn’t fathom a girl from the middle of the Pacific speaking their language with such ease.

But it wasn’t always admiration. In the first weeks, Y/N noticed how people stared. She had expected it, sure. But the intensity of it sometimes caught her breath in her throat. Some eyes were wide in awe, others filled with quiet discomfort. There was no hiding in Seoul her skin, kissed golden by the sun, her wild curls, her colorful fashion, the relaxed sway in her walk it all screamed foreign. Not in a hostile way. But in a way that made her feel like she was always being watched, studied.

Some even asked to take pictures with her, like she was an exotic statue. “You’re so beautiful… where are you from?” they’d ask. “Tahiti,” she’d say, and they’d blink, unsure. Some knew it, some didn’t. Others would just nod in fascination, pretending.

One afternoon, as she strolled through a quiet Hanok village with her camera in hand, the sound of children’s laughter floated through the air. A small group of kids playing tag stopped suddenly upon seeing her. They whispered among themselves, giggling. One little girl, maybe six years old, walked up shyly, her tiny hands holding a white flower she had picked.

“You’re so, so pretty,” she whispered with the innocence of a child. Then, without waiting, she placed the flower into Y/N’s curls and ran back to her friends, squealing. The group scampered away, their laughter echoing down the alley like chimes. Y/N stood still, her chest tight. That moment lived in her longer than many conversations ever would.

Back home—her temporary home she lived in a modest, sunlit hanok nestled on the outskirts of the city. It had been renovated, but the soul of the house remained: sliding doors, warm wooden floors, and a tiny courtyard where vegetables bloomed in pots. There, her mother waited, always with a smile, always in their native language.

“Māmā,” Y/N called as she stepped inside.

“E aha oe i teie mahana?”(how are you today?) her mother replied, walking out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

They had agreed: they’d never let the island inside them fade. Even in the bustling city, even among skyscrapers, their roots would remain alive spoken, sung, danced.

Their dinners were filled with laughter. Her mother, plump and warm-hearted, would tease her daughter endlessly. “You’re too beautiful to be sitting alone painting all day. Go find a husband. Give me a grandbaby already!”

“Māmā, please,” Y/N would groan, hiding her flustered smile behind her hands. But her cheeks always gave her away.

“Eaha te huru? (How’s it going?) Don’t act like I can’t see your blush,” her mother teased, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

It was true though. Y/N had spent more time painting than socializing. Her art had bloomed in Korea modern, abstract, infused with the spirit of her homeland and the sleekness of Seoul. But she hadn’t met anyone. Not truly.

Until one day.

A crisp afternoon, the cherry blossoms just beginning to fall, and Y/N was sitting by the Han River with her sketchbook, trying to capture the fleeting pink of the petals. She had noticed him before she truly saw him just a figure with a camera, kneeling on the grass, chasing light through his lens.

He didn’t notice her at first, completely immersed in his craft, moving around trees and benches like a dancer. She watched from a distance, quietly intrigued.

It wasn’t until a breeze tugged at her paper and sent her sketch fluttering toward him that their worlds finally touched.

He caught the paper mid-air.

“Is this yours?” he asked, walking over, his voice soft, his smile kind.

“Yes… Thank you,” she replied in Korean.

He blinked, clearly surprised. “Your Korean is perfect.”

“Four years of practice,” she smiled. “And living here helps.”

He held out the paper. “It’s beautiful. The way you blended the petals with the sky… it feels like a dream.”

“Art is my language,” she said simply.

He introduced himself. “Dokyeom. I’m a photographer.”

“Y/N,” she replied. “I’m a painter.”

They shook hands, and something unspoken passed between them. Not romance at least not yet. But a recognition. Of someone else who saw the world through frames, colors, moments.

And so, their story began not in fire, but in slow bloom. Like an island flower in spring rain.

In the days that followed, Y/N didn’t expect to see him again. Their conversation by the Han River felt like something fleeting a beautiful chapter left on its own. But fate, or maybe art, had other plans.

The next time she saw Dokyeom, it was in an unexpected place: an art gallery tucked away in Hongdae. The exhibit was quiet, curated with precision. Soft lighting danced across the walls, highlighting bold photography intimate portraits of elderly couples, alleyways in shadows, street vendors captured mid-laugh.

She was standing before a striking black-and-white photo of an ajumma selling roasted chestnuts when a voice whispered beside her.

“I thought that was you.”

She turned. He stood with his hands in his pockets, wearing a simple hoodie, a shy smile playing on his lips. There were a few strands of hair falling across his forehead. He looked every bit like someone who never posed, always captured.

“You took this?” she asked, gesturing toward the photo.

He nodded. “I take photos of people who don’t know they’re being seen. Until they’re seen.”

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. It made sense the way he moved with his camera, like a shadow. He was always looking, but never intruding.

“And you?” he asked gently. “Still painting the cherry blossoms?”

She laughed. “Trying. They’re never still long enough.”

That night they walked out of the gallery together, into a Seoul that shimmered with city lights and the laughter of strangers. Their conversations were light at first—art, food, music. He introduced her to street snacks she hadn’t tried yet. She taught him a few words in Tahitian, and he tried clumsily to repeat them.

She liked the way he listened. Not just heard her—but listened. Like he was learning her in pieces.

They began meeting more often. Not every day, not even regularly but consistently enough that something quiet began blooming between them. Sometimes they met at coffee shops and sketched strangers in notebooks. Other times they sat in silence in parks, her painting, him photographing.

One evening, he showed up at her hanok house.

She was surprised. Her mother wasn’t.

“Who’s the handsome boy?” her mother teased in Tahitian, peeking from the window, grinning like a teenager.

Y/N hissed, trying to shush her. “Māmā! Please!”

But Dokyeom smiled politely when introduced. “It’s an honor to meet you,” he said in Korean, bowing deeply.

Her mother, cheeky and warm, replied in broken Korean, “You take care of my daughter or I turn you into fish bait.”

He laughed fully, sincerely and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Inside, he joined them for dinner. Y/N’s mother insisted he try every dish. She even brought out traditional Tahitian desserts and watched for his reactions like a hawk. The house was filled with overlapping languages Korean, Tahitian, and that universal language of laughter.

That night, after he left, her mother sat beside Y/N, both of them curled up on the floor with steaming tea in their hands.

“He likes you,” her mother said softly.

Y/N stared at the floor, smiling quietly.

“And?” her mother prodded, “Do you like him?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She thought of how Dokyeom watched the world, how he saw her not as an exotic muse, not as someone foreign, not even as a symbol. But simply… as Y/N. An artist. A woman. A soul.

“I think I’m scared,” she whispered finally.

“Good,” her mother replied. “It means it’s real.”

Their connection continued to grow. Dokyeom would come over sometimes with film rolls and a nervous smile. She painted portraits of him when he wasn’t looking. He captured candid shots of her laughing, reading, dancing barefoot in the courtyard.

One day, she found a photo tucked inside one of her books. It was a black-and-white image of her, mid-laugh, her curls wild, her eyes half-closed in joy. On the back he had written:

“You’re the only person I don’t have to pose.” — D.K.

That night, she cried. Not because she was sad, but because something in her had finally exhaled. She wasn’t just existing in Korea anymore. She was living.

There were still challenges. Some stares still lingered. Some people still asked her questions that felt invasive. But now, she had carved a space for herself. Her art was beginning to gain attention features in local exhibits, interviews on blogs. And always, in the crowd, Dokyeom stood quietly, cheering for her, proud without needing to say it.

Their first kiss didn’t happen under a sunset or fireworks. It happened on her rooftop, during monsoon season. The sky was gray, thunder murmuring in the distance. They were watching the clouds roll in, sipping barley tea. He reached for her hand. She didn’t pull away.

And then, slowly, he leaned in, brushing her lips with his. It was soft, cautious, like asking a question.

She kissed him back, giving her answer.

Years passed, not in a blur, but in rich, vibrant hues—each moment painted with patience and purpose.

Y/N's name began to echo through Seoul’s art community as a master of color and memory. Her canvases told stories no one else could tell riotous sunsets with Polynesian brushstrokes, urban alleys laced with ancestral warmth, portraits of everyday women with goddesses in their bones.

And always, by her side, was Dokyeom.

Their love didn’t explode into the world. It bloomed in secret gardens through unspoken glances, slow breakfasts, and shared headphones on subway rides. He photographed her world with reverence; she painted his heart with wild, unapologetic color.

One morning, under the same cherry blossom tree from their first encounter, Y/N placed a tiny box in his hands. Inside was a sonogram.

He stared, frozen. Then slowly, tears welled in his eyes. “Two…?”

She nodded. “Twins.”

They cried together. Then laughed. Then cried again.

Nine months later.

The house echoed with softness.

Tiny cries. Lullabies sung. The rustle of warm blankets. The gurgle of milk bottles. And over it all, the quiet hum of a love fully grown.

Their daughter came first tiny, radiant, loud. They named her Lee Haewon Keanu.

Haewon, meaning "graceful garden," because Y/N always dreamed of raising her children where love grew wild. Keanu, meaning “cool breeze,” because her daughter’s cry felt like the calm after a storm.

Five minutes later, her twin brother was born, quieter, heavier in weight, his little fingers curled in curiosity.

They named him Lee Ioané Changmin.

Ioané, "strong and steady." Changmin,“bright and clever.”

They were a balance sun and moon. Flame and still water. Laughter and thought.

The hanok had been remodeled to hold more light, more love. There were baby socks drying on windowsills, paints kept above reach, and lullabies playing on soft vinyl.

Y/N’s mother had moved in to help, taking one twin in each arm as she shuffled around the kitchen, humming Tahitian prayers.

“E a hanu'a, a haere noa (Breathe, my precious one, and grow free.)

She still teased Y/N every morning about not giving her grandchildren sooner, but now she’d stop halfway and kiss the babies’ foreheads with tears in her eyes.

“You did well, my daughter.”

In the quiet hours, Y/N would sit on the rooftop with Dokyeom, both cradling sleeping babies on their chests. They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.

Sometimes, Haewon would murmur in her sleep in a mix of both their languages. Sometimes Ioané would stir and blink up at the stars.

Dokyeom would whisper, “Look at what we made. Look at who we are.”

Of course, it wasn’t always perfect.

People still stared when Y/N carried the twins down the street some in awe, some with questions buried in glances. Sometimes, strangers asked, “Are they really yours?”

But now, Y/N had grown roots deep enough to never flinch.

“They’re mine. Ours. Both strenghts in baby skin.”

The twins, with their caramel skin and soft eyes, grew up surrounded by diversity in their very home. They learned to say “I love you” in both Korean and Tahitian before they could walk.

At parks, Korean children would run up to Haewon and call her a doll. They’d reach for Ioané’s hand and say, “His eyes look like a painting.”

Sometimes, Y/N watched them play and cried. Not out of sadness, but for the beauty in being whole in being more than one thing.

She painted again. Big, wild pieces. With her babies beside her. And Dokyeom, always, behind the lens capturing every moment with love thick as honey.

One night.

When the twins were almost two, Y/N lay in bed beside Dokyeom, her head on his chest, one leg draped over his. Rain danced on the windows.

“Māmā used to say love is a sea,” she whispered, tracing circles on his skin. “You either sink or swim.”

He smiled. “I think we built a boat.”

Y/N tilted her head up to look at him. “Do you ever think about how far we came?”

He nodded. “Every day. From a girl lost in Seoul, to this...”

She smiled. “To us.”

Years from now, when Haewon and Ioané ask how their parents met, Y/N will tell them it began with petals on the Han River and a boy who saw her not through the lens of difference, but of light.

And Dokyeom will show them the photograph of their mother laughing under cherry blossoms, hair wild, eyes full of fire.

And together, they’ll grow in a home that speaks in three languages, dances in two traditions, and dreams without borders.

Because their story was never just about love.

It was about belonging.

[cyberrose2001]

Optimus Prime (TFP) and Megatron (TFA) with a human s/o that dirty talks to them in other languages (headcannons pls)

TFP Optimus and TFA Megatron with s/o who talks dirty in other languages (hcs)

Hi! Thanks for requesting! I hope this is what you were after. I left specific languages out so you can insert your own as you please… enjoy! <3

Warnings: GN reader, human reader, nsfw headcanons, general smut, dirty talk.

Word count: 477

18+ ONLY MINORS DNI

TFP Optimus

- Optimus often finds beauty in everything; his spark especially has a soft spot for written and spoken languages, being an ex-archivist, after all. When you revealed to him that you could speak several other languages, he was rather impressed.

- He’d sat with you for hours, and his inner love for learning sparked once again as you taught him small phrases and words. Optimus soaked it all in and studied your languages in his spare time, loving your infectious smile when he said ‘I love you’ in one of them.

- When it came to the bedroom, your usual activities started normally, Optimus being on top of you, showering you with kisses and praises.

- While he was slowly grinding his spike into you, you pulled his helm down to whisper something purely erotic into his ear.

- Optimus was initially confused, used to being spoken to in English while in berth, but the words clicked over in his processor, and then he realised you said, ‘Fuck me until you break me’.

- Those words broke something in him, a hidden language kink that he had no idea was hiding within him.

- He finds it outrageously attractive, to the point where he has never wanted to fuck you so hard until all that comes out of your pretty mouth is foreign words.

- From that point on, if you ever wanted to get absolutely railed by Optimus, all you had to do was whisper the most dirtiest things that would make anyone who could speak the language swoon.

TFA Megatron

- When Megatron first heard you speak in a language other than English, he was surprised but not entirely impressed.

- Like, big whoop, you can speak another language, not as impressive as the feats that he has accomplished himself.

- Still, he at least tries to brush aside his ego and applaud you for being somewhat different to most other humans he’s encountered.

- Then again, you’re in a relationship with the bastard, so that’s an impressive feat in itself.

- His opinion changed for the better once while he was fucking you face down on the berth, holding your ass up while he leaned his entire weight over your back.

- While his helm was close enough, you turned your head to the side and moaned, ‘Please fuck me deeper; your spike feels so good inside me’ in your native tongue.

- He sputtered and slowed down, “Wait, what did you just say?”

- He won’t lie; he found it incredibly hot, despite having no idea what you just said, but he got the general sentiment from the tone of voice you spoke in. Desperate and pleading, exactly how he likes you.

- He then proceeded to fuck you into the headboard, curious to see what other profanities he could draw from your drooling lips.

[ncrrctcr]

{Mari Yamamoto, 40, non-binary woman, she/he} We are so glad to see you safe, LIEUTENANT COMMANDER ASHIKAWA SATOSHI of JAPAN! It’s dangerous out in the world these days, but I hear that you are FIERCE and CARING enough to handle it. Just don’t let your PRIDE bring you down! Stay on your guard, because with your secret being at risk for exposure, you wouldn’t want everyone to find out YOU HAVE A SECRET CHILD THAT YOU REGULARLY SEND MONEY TO {rawr, 28, GMT+1, she/her, no triggers} + kaito's rival wc

/ content warnings: teen pregnancy

NAME: Ashikawa Satoshi AGE: 40 GENDER / PRONOUNS: Non-binary woman, she/he ORIENTATION: Bisexual

INSPIRATIONS: Roy Mustang (FMA), Kathryn Janeway (Star Trek Voyager), Princess Leia (Star Wars), Mulan (Disney), Korra (ATLOK) the Lion Clan (Legend of the Five Rings)

• • •

FAMILY: Her daughter Midori, elderly parents, two younger brothers. Her mother is a cousin to the late Emperor. MARITAL STATUS: Single LANGUAGES: Japanese (native), English (fluent), Chinese (fluent), Scottish (fluent), German (passable, spoken only), French (passable), Spanish (passable)

BACKSTORY

The rebellious eldest child of a cousin and now retired advisor to the late Emperor, she spent a great part of her youth in the Imperial palace. The whispers of the rulers' apparent inability to produce an heir didn't concern Satoshi, as he was always busy sticking his nose in every other affair that caught his attention. Scraped knees, muddy hands, wooden swords and a knack for humiliating his elders over board games, the woman remembers his early teens with fondness.

The news of Satoshi's pregnancy shook the entire court. Lives were taken to ensure the secret never came to light. Her sharp wits and sharper tongue didn't protect her from her parents' fury — apparently, the line separating the merely unconventional from the utterly unacceptable lies exactly one step before messing around with a nameless commoner. To protect her (her parents and younger siblings' honor, and their Imperial Majesties who treated her almost like a child of their own until the young prince was born), she was sent abroad. Only the late rulers and her parents knew the truth — the public, including Satoshi's own siblings, were told she had left to study.

The child was born and given away, as keeping them was a sentence to never return home. However, and although her secret was safe back in Japan, Satoshi could not bear the thought of looking at her parents in the eye. And so, she made her mind to make amends, and become a person her mother and father would be proud of. An excellent future advisor to the Emperor, for example. For years, she traveled, she saw, she studied. She took odd jobs, learned other languages, enjoyed — and fell in love — with foreign cultures. A part of what she earned, Satoshi sent to her child's caretakers, in hopes that it would help give them a dignified, comfortable life, and soothe the guilt on her conscience.

During a particularly rough period in Scotland, an acquaintance suggested the military as a solution to Satoshi's economic struggles. Never disclosing her actual closeness to the imperial family, she became a soldier from a nation that wasn't her own, and found an unexpected calling. Her rebellious nature was tempered and slowly turned into wisdom and confidence as she rose through the ranks, and before she knew it, she had spent over a decade in the Scottish army.

The penitent daughter returned home in her mid-thirties with battle scars, calloused hands and many plans to renew and improve Japan's military power. The boldness she was remembered for hadn't faded, but the loud, arrogant child was now a commanding woman who did not fear expressing her opinions — a trait as admirable as it is dangerous — and her presence once again shook the court to its foundations.

Command of their troops is promised to Satoshi, but the Emperor doesn't live to honor their agreement, and when his successor denies her the position, she is relegated to their second in command.

[more-than-a-princess]

"Here you go, Miss. Though I must say, your Japanese is pretty good for a tourist! Must have had some lessons, hm? You're much better to sell to than most of the Westerners who come into my shop: they're all so loud and disruptive."

The corners of Sonia's mouth twitched as she watched the man behind the counter put her purchase both in a protective plastic sleeve and then a paper bag, carefully taping it shut with a sticker displaying the bookstore's logo. It was something she heard more frequently now: as more Western tourists made their way to Japan, often fascinated just as she was by the popular culture, food, art, and history, they took their own customs with them and made little effort to conform to the Japanese ways of life. From tone of voice to littering to even learning the simplest of phrases.

She was, then, the exception to the norm: she still looked like she didn't belong, from her natural blonde hair to the clothes she wore from home (royal dress codes and Japanese street style, more often than not, were in disagreement), but she spoke Japanese as well as she could, close enough to some amount of fluency. When she'd asked the shopkeeper where the books about horror films and memorabilia were kept, she'd done so in their native language, instead of insisting everyone in Tokyo knew some amount of spoken English.

"Thank you very much," She nodded as she accepted both the thin, flat package and her change. Not much, after breaking the somewhat large bill she'd needed to pay for her collectible, but it was worth it. "Yes, I have had several years of Japanese lessons and endeavor to use it every day." She didn't need to explain how that was hardly a difficult task: she was a foreign student but without a uniform and not recognized by name and title, Sonia tended to be labeled as a tourist.

Exiting the shop, she chose to carefully put away her purchase and her change on the street. The shopkeeper had meant well but the interaction couldn't hide the general disdain for tourists, and foreigners in general. The yen was weak compared to many Western currencies nowadays, and foreigners wanted to take advantage of it. Unfastening the flap to her handbag, she carefully slid the booklet in first and then her change, only noticing the familiar flash of red hair once she'd begun to re-fasten the closure.

"Yaguchi-san!" Sonia exclaimed, perhaps a bit too loudly considering where they were. Several people turned to look at them from where they were browsing, all probably wondering if the person the foreigner addressed was an owner of the store. Still, Sonia paid them no heed as she approached Shinobu with a smile. "Oh, it is good to see you! After everything that happened, I hoped you were all right. How are you feeling-"

She'd reached out without thinking towards Shinobu's face but stopped just as her fingers were centimeters away from her chin. Sonia blushed in embarrassment: from knowing Shinobu, and where they were and the customs Japan followed, it was likely inappropriate to reach for her. "I am sorry, that's probably awkward for you isn't it," She apologized, still unable to look away from her. Or rather, the fading bruises and cut lip she sported: Sonia didn't remember Shinobu's lip being split when she'd been hauled away by Sakakura. "I am not a professional nurse, but I do have some first aid training. Still, I shouldn't just reach for you without permission."

@more-than-a-princess

Though Shinobu's suspension had been lifted after a week, her father had kept her confined to the estate even in the days that followed, alternating between training and domestic work. In truth, the bruises on her face were likely some sort of blessing - without them, Shinobu imagined it would be even longer before she'd be allowed to return to school. The black ring around her eye and the still-healing cut at her forehead from where Sakakura's knuckles had broken skin provided plausible defenses for her split lip and the bruise at her chin. Meanwhile, the other marks more recently left - the blooming color at her shoulder and the faint bruises at her back - were easily covered by her clothing.

She'd finally be able to return to school the following Monday, which was a welcome development, even if she found the prospect of facing her classmates daunting. Surely even those who had not been in attendance had heard of what happened, and thus, Shinobu wasn't sure what would be more difficult to take - the mocking scorn, or the well-meaning attempts at empathy. Still, it would be nice to be able to see Anzu again. As for Sonia...

Though there had been a few moments during their suspension where Shinobu had considered texting her, they'd elected not to in the end. It was embarrassing, altogether too embarrassing. Undeniably, Shinobu had a temper, and she knew that her violent urges demanded some outlet sooner or later, but was it really not enough to throw some foolish boy looking for a fight against a wall a few times? If she'd have been smarter, she could have followed after Masaru, off-campus, and killed him then. It would likely have been easier, in truth, if she'd just have been able to throw him in front of a train, or push him from a rooftop. Well, that would have been lacking in satisfaction, wouldn't it?

Either way, it was paralyzingly embarrassing to have lose her composure in front of Sonia. Shinobu wanted to see her, of course - wanted to see her even more than she wanted to see Anzu - but the thought of hearing from her lips a measured disapproval made the archer wish to bury herself in a deep dark hole until the flesh rotted off her bones. Even merely looking at Sonia's name in her contact list quickened her heart and echoed her heartbeat between her ears. It was so rare that she had any desire to be around other people. Was it always so painful and anxious, the thought of being disliked or rejected for something?

If she tried to deny that it was a Sonia-specific thought (futile, she knew), Shinobu could try to pretend that it was simply the anxious weakness and failure of social skills that came from nearly two weeks with only her father for company. Surely being out in the world, particularly were she to do something she liked, would present some sort of balm. Though they were merely a husk, not a person in any appreciable sense of the word, it was a normal enough desire to wish to feel human-adjacent before returning to school, so surely there was nothing wrong with taking a day for themselves. Yes, surely a bit of personal indulgence would balance her out - more able to handle it if Sonia, or anyone for that matter, were to treat her in a manner she wished not to be treated upon her return.

And so, on the Sunday before her intended return to school, Shinobu stood on a corner of Jinbocho Book Town, leafing through the shelves on the outside of the unfortunately-named Yaguchi Bookstore. There was a small bag in her hand already, from a brief trip to Komiyama earlier in the afternoon - she'd picked up a signed copy of Satomi Nihongi's photobook documenting gay clubs and trans women in the 1970. After that, she'd stopped into Kitazawa, but been unable to justify spending so much on old, rare books for herself.

Besides, she thought, she'd end the afternoon at Glitch Coffee, and while those exorbitant prices were worth it, she couldn't easily justify expensive books knowing that expensive coffee awaited her. Still, lingering at the shelves outside of Yaguchi Bookstore, Shinobu couldn't help but run her fingers along the spines of a number of books, even going so far as to gently pluck a paperback copy of the 1994 collected release of The Luminous Fairies and Mothra and turn it over in her hands. "Ah... this one is a bit expensive as well," she murmured with a small frown.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: Of all the many languages you speak which is your weakest one? Do you use those languages?

It’s privilege to learn any language that isn’t your mother tongue. As Ludwig Wittgenstein correctly observed, “The limits of my language means the limits of my world”. If English is our native tongue we put ourselves at a disadvantage because we expect every other nationality to take the trouble to speak it. There seems no incentive to learn a foreign language. We become lazy not just in language but also in other ways including our cultural enrichment, our imagination, and a misplaced sense of our self-importance in the world.

Of the European languages I know, I probably think German would be my weakest. When I was in school in Switzerland you’re brought up in three languages: French, Italian, and German (even if the Swiss speak Swiss German). When I say weakest I mean I can converse fluently, but I don’t have time to read German literature in the same immersive way I would say with French literature or take any special interest in German affairs.

I would say I’m fairly fluent in French now but still prone to silly mistakes. I’ve been told that I can speak without an accent and that is heart warming to know, because that was always the goal once I moved here to France. I don’t really use French in my work as it’s a multi-national entity and so English is the default language of corporate world, but I’m speaking French pretty much the rest of the time outside of work.

I was extremely fortunate to be born into a multi-lingual family where Norwegian and English were spoken from birth. All my siblings were being versed in Latin (not Greek which came years later after doing Classics at university) by the time I was 8 or 9 years old because my father was a classicist and he felt Latin was the building blocks to mastering other languages.

All this occurring whilst we moved lived and moved around a lot in the world such as China, Japan, India, and the Middle East. When I was initially sent to one of the first of my English girls boarding schools I was horrified that most of the girls only spoke English. I thought I was the stupid one for only knowing 6. Boarding school, if nothing else, gave me a great privilege to hone in on the languages I did know and start to learn others.

My parents didn’t take the easy way out and put us children in international schools like all the other expat children. That would have been too easy given how tight knit the British expatriate community was out there. Instead we were left to sink or swim in local schools in places like Tokyo and Kyoto in Japan or Shanghai in China or in Delhi, India. It was a struggle but you soon find your feet and you stumble towards some basic level of fluency.

I’m fortunate that before Covid my corporate work took me often to the Far East and it was a great opportunity to hone what I already knew. The result is I can converse and take business meetings in Chinese and Japanese (though English gets thrown into the mix too).

I would say Chinese is more of a struggle for me these days because I’ve not been back since before the Covid lockdown in 2020. Chinese is one of those languages that can easily melt away if you don’t get the chance to converse in it on a regular basis. Japanese less so, probably because the culture had more profound impact on me than Chinese culture.

Hindi is less of an issue because I have close Indian friends and also I watch Bollywood movies as well as converse with Indian immigrants here in Paris who have local stores. Urdu I learned through the backdoor because Urdu has a spoken affinity with Hindi (if you know Hindi then you know spoken Urdu, more or less, especially in Northern India and cities like Delhi where Urdu was born in the burnt ashes of Mughal India). Reading is another matter because they each use different scripts - Sanskrit for Hindi and Arabic and Persian script for Urdu.

Strangely enough when I was doing my tour in Afghanistan years ago with the British army, I would speak Urdu with local Afghans who served as official translators or were selling goods on the base. These Afghans knew Urdu because an entire generation of Afghan boys and girls grew up in refugee camps on the Pakistani border during the different phases of the Afghan war. I have very fond memories of their friendship and hospitality, but less so of the war itself. 

With Arabic, it had lapsed woefully until I did a posting in Dubai in the past year (as catalogued in my blog) and I found myself suddenly remembering a lot and asking Arab friends. Soon I was able to hold my own amongst my colleagues and corporate clients. In these cultures it’s really hard to stay focused because so many of them speak very good English. So it’s hard to get them to stick with their own language because you want to learn from them - but they want to show off their English proficiency - and so you have to be polite but persistent to stick with Arabic.  

If you’re learning a new language then I hope you stick with it. There’s almost nothing more rewarding in your life than the disocovery a rich culture through language. The key is to find a way to make it fun rather than a trip to the dentist chair for a root canal operation.

Thanks for your question.

[princess-yuna]

This Shall Pass

Chapter 1: Or’dinii

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Words: 2,471 Warning: A lot of angst and heartbreak. Rated: T, has some mild language. Summary: After the fall of your covert on Nevarro, you escape to Tatooine and become employed by the mechanic Peli Motto. You never expect to come across a certain Mandalorian again, and not so good feelings reach the surface.

Series Masterlist

You knew him, and he didn’t know you.

But he did know you.

He knew you in the armor that he wore, shielded by the eyes of many without being able to see appearances. He knew how you fought and made movements look so effortless. His admiration grew for you in the years of training together, becoming trained to take on dangerous tasks. That part of you he knew well. What he didn’t know was what underneath the armor. The armor that he thought you would never take off, but you chose to cast aside. 

Death came to many Mandalorians in your covert because of the Imperials, but you chose to escape. The Creed was forgotten, it wasn’t your way anymore. Shame riddled through you once the helmet was off, but you knew that you couldn’t keep it on anymore. Watching the whole tribe being wiped out in front of your eyes with zero chance of survival made you take the helmet off. You weren’t like the Mandalorian you knew who kept strict to the way. If only he knew what you did, he would lose his respect for you.

It was unexpected when you saw the Razor Crest land in the little hangar of the mechanic you befriended on Tatooine. The familiarity of the ship made your stomach flip and your heart started to beat faster once the door opened, revealing the beskar clad Mandalorian. He wouldn’t recognize you because he never saw you without the helmet. Your armor was gone but replaced with clothing suitable for the terrain of the desert. He sees you as he approaches, but he doesn’t recognize you. 

There were words exchanged, the excitement over the Child that you heard rumors of from the Armorer before you took off your armor. Your eyes watched the interaction, words didn’t come out because you couldn’t speak. His gaze was on you again and you barely caught him asking who you were. It wasn’t because of the shock that riddled you, but because of how upset you were to see him walk around like nothing happened to your clan. 

The mechanic introduced you to him by a different name that he wouldn’t know, explaining that you came to Tatooine because you had nowhere else to go and she employed you because she needed the extra hands. You let her speak as he looked you over, studying you behind the helmet. It was a fleeting thought as his attention was back to Peli, explaining his business. He was trying to find another Mandalorian and you felt like saying something, but no words came out. 

It wasn’t you because you haven’t worn the armor ever since you left it. No one could’ve seen you with Mandalorian armor because you left it back on that planet that you once thought was sanctuary. 

However, it sparked your interest. Another Mandalorian on Tatooine? You’ve never heard of that rumor before, but then again, you never asked. Mos Pelgo had been wiped out, from what you knew of Tatooine. 

Your gaze went to the creature that Peli had in her arms, seeing as his big eyes looked up at your curiously. That was the bounty that started all the changes and you couldn’t understand why. The Armorer gave the Mandalorian a quest to find its own kind and he needed the help of others to find the way. A lot of faith was put on this little creature, and you didn’t understand why. That was why you were upset. Your people sacrificed their lives to make sure that this Mandalorian got out safe with this small child. For what? That was why you lost your own faith. Your “name” was repeated, and a snapping of fingers brought you back. Wide-eyed, you looked up to your employer to see a concerned look on her face. 

“You alright? We lost you for a minute there.”

“Yes, sorry, I am fine,” you responded. The first words you have spoken since the arrival of Mando, and you felt his gaze on you again. This time it was a gaze that felt hot even when his eyes couldn’t have been seen. You knew though, you knew the body language because his body went rigid the more you spoke. Agreeing to check on the speeder bike before his departure, you nodded your head and stepped away to where it was. Not once did you look at him directly, and you hoped that you wouldn’t have to for the rest of his small stay.

A shadow loomed over you as you were crouched at the bike, tightening up a loose bolt. The same sensation went through you, your stomach was in knots and your heart sank down. It wasn’t like you to be nervous but scenarios of his disappointment with you took over your thoughts. The feeling was strange because you knew that he didn’t recognize you. He couldn’t have when he has never seen your face. That thought was enough to calm you. You stood, turning to face him and the child you had seen was now in his arms.  

“The speeder is ready,” you told him, stepping away just as he approached to start loading it with the things he would need for his journey. 

“Thank you,” he responded, and you noticed how gentle he had been with the child. 

You felt a sense of frustration the more you looked at the child. There was a lot of fault from that small bounty that made a shift in the fate of the Mandalorian. Many of your covert had perished, and it felt like you lost part of your soul. They chose to fight to give this certain Mandalorian an escape, all for this small creature they had known nothing about, and it made you angry. They sacrificed when you weren’t willing to because you didn’t understand. That was when you knew you lost your path, you couldn’t follow the Creed, and that was when you lost faith. 

“Was it worth it, Din?” 

His movements stopped as he looked at you, seeing your face riddled with pain. What threw him off more was the name that came from your lips. Not many knew his true name, and he knew you as a stranger. Immediately his hand was on his blaster, unsure of how to approach the situation when he didn’t understand what you were asking. You could sense the confusion, and you merely just chuckled. 

“Babysitting was never you,” you tacked on. Bitter. The nerves you had when he first arrived were gone and the true feelings were coming from underneath. Without the helmet it was hard to shield those emotions, so he got to see every last one. Ever since you left the helmet behind, you learned to convey certain emotions to make yourself feel human again. You weren’t the killer that people knew Mandalorians to be, changing yourself to leave that buried in the past. 

Your gaze went to the visor, looking deep into the black void. His eyes were there, and if only you could see the confusion that was in them. “Or’dinii,” you scoffed in your native tongue of Mando’a, twirling the wrench in your hand before gently tapping it against the beskar protecting his shoulder. 

It seemed like your words were registering in his head, but you weren’t being patient with him as you turned on your heel to walk away. “Wait.” His hand grabbed your forearm, making you stop in your tracks, and then he pulled you back to make you turn around. You looked at him wide-eyed and slightly alarmed at the pressure of his grip. It wasn’t enough pressure to cause you harm, but enough pressure to tell you that he was trying to figure out if you were real. “Cyar’ika?” he asked now in a low tone, only meant for your ears. You’ve longed to hear him call you that again, but it felt so foreign now. 

You let out a heavy breath as you pulled your arm away from his grasp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you muttered, feeling the need to get away from him. 

“Why did you take off your helmet?” 

Why did the question make you cringe? You knew why, but you didn’t want to tell him why. The back and forth in your head was driving you mad and you knew that you couldn’t keep him in silence for too long. Mando was an impatient man, he had always been. Questions needed answers at all times. 

There you were, staring him down with silence that spoke a thousand words. The anger stewed within you because he knew the reason why you broke the Creed. He knew exactly why you were angry. The destruction of the covert was on his hands and he knew. “Go tend to your business, Mando,” you said, ignoring his question. Your hand gripped the wrench in your hand, your teeth gritting because of how uncomfortable you were. 

“You’ve lost The Way,” he sighed, and you knew that his disappointment was hanging on him. Did he really not know? 

You said nothing else, slamming the wrench down onto the metal table before turning away from him. “Bastard,” you seethed before walking away from him, leaving him to stare at your back as you retreated. A moment later you heard the speeder bike start up and then leave the hangar. The tears you felt were hot on your eyes, and your back leaned against the nearest wall as you let them fall before your employer could find you. 

---

A heavy sigh left your lips as you worked on the Razor Crest, helping the droids fix whatever that needed to be done after they ran the diagnostics. Even when you were angry, you still needed to help because it was your job. A welder’s mask was on your face as you soldered something in the mainframe of the ship. You heard footsteps, but you didn’t look back as you worked diligently. It wasn’t until you were done that you looked back, lifting the mask up to look at the Mandalorian.

“Answer my question,” he demanded. 

Rolling your eyes, you gathered up your equipment. “No, I don’t owe you anything,” you answered, not giving into him. Then you realized that he was blocking the only way out of the ship, making your curse in your head. “Get out of my way,” you warned him, prepared to use force to get past him. Even if he was bigger than you, you still had the same skills as he did. Anything and everything could be used as a weapon, and you had trained in combat. 

He stepped towards you, making you root in your place. With one hand he reached out, gently grabbing onto your hand and brought it up. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, another soft tone that threw you off guard. Your gaze was down at your hands, seeing that he slid something that had been lost to you. “I just wanted to hear you say it, but I know.” He wasn’t stupid. 

You stared at your open palm, registering the pendant that was in your hand. It was yours that you gifted him before he went on his travels. A silent promise that your pendant would be intertwined with his one day in marriage. He didn’t think he deserved it anymore when he knew you were mad. He had known from the moment he knew it was you, and seeing you that upset made him realize your anger was towards him. With a shake of your head, you pushed it back to his chest. 

“Keep it,” you forced, your gaze wandering up towards his behind the visor. “I no longer have a right to have it, and it was a gift to you.” 

His hand was over yours, keeping it there on his chest plate. What he did next made the air expel from your lungs and your chest tighten. His beskar metal covered forehead was on yours, a sign of affection that held many meanings. “Ni ceta,” he spoke, and you could hear the crack in his voice. He knew a lot of what happened was his fault and there wasn’t much else he could do to fix it. All he could do was hope that you would forgive him. 

“Keep it,” you whispered, sliding your hand from his and leaving the pendant in his palm. Stepping back, you gave him a glance before walking around him to exit the ship. You looked up to Peli, seeing that she was trying to look for the Mandalorian. Pointing behind you, like it was on queue, he stepped out of the ship a moment later. You kept walking, but was stopped as she called your name. 

“Hang tight. I have a job for you,” Peli spoke, and you let out a sigh as you stopped in your tracks.

And that was how you ended up in the cockpit of the Mandalorian’s ship as the translator for the frog lady. You sat with your arms crossed, staring out the window like it was the most interesting thing you’ve seen. This was what you didn’t sign up for, but Mando was grateful that he didn’t have to spend time trying to understand what was being said to him. However, the tension was in the air. 

He’d left the cockpit after suggesting the both of you to get some rest, and you knew that you couldn’t. After a mere minute of sitting, you stood to your feet and headed down the ladder. You heard his voice, speaking to the child like a parent, and you rounded the corner to see him placing him in his bunk. The gentle side of Din was rare to see. You knew he was human, too, he had other emotions, but being a Mandalorian made him mask them. Just seeing how different he was after not seeing him for so long was foreign to you. 

Your name was called, which broke you from your thoughts as you looked at him. It was harder now to hide stares when you didn’t have the helmet on and sometimes you forgot that you didn’t have that shield. “Refresher,” you said simply, not wanting to explain why you were just staring. He pointed, but you already knew where it was because it wasn’t your first time on the ship. Oh, he knew that though. Anything to get you from his gaze at that point. Muttering a small thanks, you went the direction he pointed and went inside. 

All you did was stand in the small room, staring yourself in the mirror. “Or’dinii,” you muttered to yourself, letting out a heavy sigh. 

This time you were referring to yourself as the idiot and not the Mandalorian outside the door. 

[bunnyywritings]

Hii! May I ask hcs with shinsou todoroki bakugou and kaminari with a korean s/o and she is able to speak lots of languages, please? I know korean, english, japanese and portuguese, for example! Thank you so much

reaction to fem!s/o who is multilingual

[a/n: I-oh my goodness that’s so impressive!! Thank you for the request anon! sorry for the wait 😣here you go! -yours truly, bunnyy  ps. bro the only other language I speak is spanish...being multilingual seems awesome}

hitoshi shinso 

☆ He would definitely ask you to “teach” him a few phrases but has absolutely no intention of actually learning

☆ like he just wants to hear you speak as much of any language you can

☆ because of his quirk, I think he has like a thing for someone with a nice voice so he just loves to hear you talk

☆ he’d bother you to help him with his english homework A LOT, especially if you’re fluent because you have such a high grade in that class

☆ I think I take that first statement back, he’d definitely want to learn any phrases you want to teach him to help strengthen his quirk

☆ he’d learn a few cheesy phrases just to surprise you with them and catch you off guard

☆ he’d be a sucker for your native tongue though

☆ he loves hearing you talk to a relative on the phone because he gets to hear how your voice naturally gets a little deeper, the way the syllables drip off of your tongue like honey and the little sound effects that come with it

☆ there was a time when the two of you were on a date and a foreigner came up to you with hopeful eyes and asked if you had spoken any english, his eyes filled with pride as he watched you effortlessly give them directions or help them translate something

☆ as you waved at them and wished them luck, you felt his gaze on you

“Toshi? What is it? Do I have something on my face?” you had slipped back into japanese so easily. You were confused when a small smile grew on his lips.

☆ “Nah, I just have the most talented girlfriend. That’s all.” His words made you blush profusely. “I really am proud of you, you know that?”

☆ “Of course I know Toshi.” You wrapped your arms around his neck, his instinctively wrapping around your waist and pulled you closer. “What’s gotten into you?”

☆ “Nothing, but I think there may be a problem.” You frowned at his words. “You’ve put me under your spell. I’m so in love with you.” Your eyes widened as he confessed his love in your native tongue. Dialect and pronunciation were perfect.

☆ “Well, you’re not the only one because I love you too.”

☆ the two of you shared a kiss then and there, even if he wasn’t a big fan of PDA

☆ he just had to kiss you or he might die

shoto todoroki

❆ transferring to UA and being a foreigner was weird

❆ everyone was drowning you in questions, asking about your quirk, why you moved, where you came from, it was just too much but you instantly noticed Todoroki

❆ not because he was quiet but while everyone (minus bakugou) was bombarding you with questions, he was unapologetically staring at you, his sharp bi-colored eyes sent shivers down your spine

❆ but instead of looking away, you stared back with the same intensity because he was strikingly handsome

❆ he thought the same about you, from the moment you walked into class and introduced yourself, he was entranced by your beauty

❆ he could tell that japanese was most definitely not your native language, he was impressed with how well you passed as a japanese native

❆ as time went on, he came to appreciate you as a person

❆ the way you held yourself to a certain standard without coming off as stuck up or your selfless nature when it came to your fellow classmates

❆ he remembers one time that he woke up at 2am to go get a glass of water when he saw you by the couch and he noticed the two slumped figures on both couches. Mina on one and Denki on the other

❆ you hadn’t noticed hid so he watched as you carefully lifted Mina’s head and slipped a pillow under it before making sure she was covered properly with a blanket, doing the same with Kaminari before muttering something to yourself in another language and going back to your room

❆ he frowned, what did you say and what language was it in? shrugging, he got his water and went back to sleep

❆ surprise surprise, it was you that confessed to him halfway through the year

❆ he was surprised but confessed his feelings as well before insisting on taking you on a proper date with full intention to max out his dad’s credit card

❆ one saturday, the two of you were in your room studying when you got a phone call. You apologized before going to answer and his eyes widened when he heard you speak, it wasn’t japanese

❆ he was enthralled by how it sounded spilling from your lips, the words were foreign to him but he couldn’t help but listen in

❆ “What was that?” he asked once you hung up, you explained that it was your mom and that was your native tongue, you then explained to him the different languages you could speak in

❆ I think he’d only ask you to help him learn english and maybe your native tongue

❆ “Why would you wanna learn that, Sho?” You asked as you were sat in his lap and brushed his bangs from his forehead

❆ “Well when I meet your parents, I would want to make a good first impression.”

❆ his words shocked you, he wasn’t really one to joke about things like that

❆ “You want to learn for when you meet my parents?”

❆ “Well of course I do but if you don’t want me to meet them, then that’s alright.”

❆ “You’re so sweet Sho, of course I’ll teach you.” You peppered his face with kisses, enjoying the way his cheeks slowly turned pink

❆ “I think you missed a spot, princess?”

❆ “Oh really, where?” He took you by surprise when he grabbed you chin softly between his fingers and tilted your head down.

❆ “Right here.” he planted a sweet kiss on your lips, smiling into the kiss as he felt the warmth of your hands on his cheeks

❆ your parents meet him and they love him

katsuki bakugou

☀ baby would be very confused when he hears you speak something other than japanese

☀  he heard you speak to All Might once in fluent english and he just stood there, eyes moving quickly between the two of you as he tried to keep up with what was going on

☀ he’d 100% get competitive and try to learn another language to 1-up you but it doesn’t work and he’d get all pouty

☀ “Why didn’t you ask me to teach you something? You know I wouldn’t mind.”

☀ he came up to you once and insulted you in portuguese, it was an accident though...he definitely learned that duolingo and google translate were definitely NOT good tools to learning a new language

☀ “Suki, why would you say that to me?” he frowned at the tears in your eyes

☀ ”Wait...what did I say?”

☀ “You basically told me that my face was uglier than a rats ass.” he panicked even more when the tears rolled down your cheeks. He cupped your face and kissed the tears away

☀ “I’m sorry, I was trying to say that you are the most gorgeous woman I’ve met.” You’re not really sure how he got that phrase but the guilt in his voice definitely told you that it wasn’t on purpose so you forgave him...on a condition

☀ “I’ll forgive you if you cuddle me for the rest of the day.” you had never seen this boy move so fast. He tackled you to the bed and wrapped you up on his arms

☀ during this cuddle time, he’d press kisses on whatever skin he could reach, murmuring an apology each time

☀ while you were in his arms, you taught him a phrase that he could easily say

☀ “You got it? Or do you need me to say it again?” You asked as you looked up at him, he had a scowl of concentration creasing his forehead

☀ “I think I’ve got it...” He muttered. There was a small silence before he took a deep breath

☀ “Y-You are sw-sweeter than h-honey...”

☀ “There you go!” You smiled proudly, it was such a corny phrase and not one he’d ever say in japanese too

☀ “So what did I just say?”

☀ “You said I was sweeter than honey? Is that true Suki? Am I sweeter than honey?”

☀ “Well babe, why don’t we find out?” He slyly brought you down for a kiss, lips dancing slowly and sensually against each other’s

☀ “Mmm you are sweeter than honey, so sweet it’s intoxicating.” His voice rumbled deeply against you as he brought you in for ‘another taste.’

☀ definitely would ask you to teach him all the curse words so he could curse people out without them being able to understand

☀ 1000/10 a good idea because hearing him curse in something other than japanese was hot

denki kaminari

ϟ you would definitely end up doing his english homework for his sometimes

ϟ when he heard you and Momo speak in korean denki.exe stopped working

ϟ he was completely obsessed with hearing you speak a foreign language

ϟ he’s a very proud boyfriend, he would brag about you to ANYONE who would listen and even if they didn’t want to...they did

ϟ he loves it when you call him pet names in your native language

ϟ he’d learn how to say silly things or lame jokes in your language when you’re having a bad day, the pronunciation was terrible but you still understood what he was trying to say and it would never fail to make you laugh

ϟ he admired you so much, the way you selflessly went out of your way to help someone or to translate something for a classmate during english class, it made his heart thump in his chest

ϟ he’d secretly enlist Momo to help him learn your native language

ϟ bless that girl for having the patience because it took MONTHS for him to be semi fluent

ϟ you noticed whrn you were talking to a family memeber on the phone, you had let him stay in the room because you thought he couldn’t understand you but when you said something about how you wish you could punch Mineta in the throat he couldn’t help but stifle a laugh

ϟ you heard him but because he was looking at his phone, you thought he was just laughing at something on there

ϟ you finally figured it out when he sent you a meme that was in your native language

ϟ when you saw it, you snorted but the amusement quickly turned into confusion when you saw the profile name

ϟ you made your way to Denki’s room and you could hear him chuckling away on the other side of the door, you knocked before he said to come in and you frowned in confusion

ϟ “Did you really just send that to me?”

ϟ “Yeah...why?” His smile dropped. “Was it not funny?”

ϟ “It was but how did you know it was?”

ϟ “Because I watched it? Geez baby, what kind of question is that?” he shrugged nonchalantly but that definitely made you more suspicious.

ϟ “You know, don’t you?” You narrowed you eyes as you asked him in your mother tongue

ϟ “I don’t know, maybe I do...or maybe I don’t?” He responded almost perfectly.

ϟ you were completely shocked

ϟ “What? Wh-when did you even-?” You couldn’t even form a sentence. “Why?”

ϟ “I wanted to impress you, sunshine.” He responded flawlessly once again.

ϟ “You’re the best, Kami. You know that?”

ϟ “Yeah, I know but it definitely doesn’t hurt to be reminded.” his goofy grin made your heart do somersaults

ϟ “I love you Kami, you’re so silly.” You nuzzled your nose against his in an eskimo kiss

ϟ “I love you too pretty girl, you’re just amazing.”

ϟ i have a soft spot for this idiot :(

[butterfly-winx]

What kinda accents do the realms have? You can say in comparison to real one or just describe, it works either way

Butterfly canon is built on the assumption that there is some sort of universe wide spell easing communication. Another winxer coined the term Universal Translation Spell which I also like to use with my own imposed limitations.

The butterfly UTS is meant to enable communication and works best on spoken language. It gives the listener the ability to understand what is being said to them regardless of what language the words have been said in. The listener will still hear the foreign language, but receive an instant seamless translation in their brain as if they were able to speak the language in question. Over time people learn to tune out the words they hear as it can be headache inducing after prolonged exposure.

What the UTS doesn’t enable is the acquisition of the ability to process written language. People won’t be able to write in any language unless they do study it. Reading ability is also limited: people are only able to understand texts if they have an idea what it says. Once a translation is given, they will be able to parse the text better and are able to build “vocabulary” and understanding in a language using the UTS. This is ofc still not equal to having learned a language, because the UTS slides over cultural references, or linguistically important structures and just delivers an unembellished basic translation. To be able to express oneself in a nuanced way, one still has to study languages.

So there is no “common language” everyone learns to speak. If people choose to learn a foreign language, they do it for practical reasons like communicating with frequent foreign language speaking partners or because their native language is a dialect and they need to know the official language of their realm for legal applications. Alfea mandates all students study Magics Standard, to help students integrate and learn about the local culture. Knowing Magics Standard also enables them to use Alfea’s and Magics City’s extensive library without having to rely on audio recorded material only.

Given this, I can describe the phoneme case of each of the girls’ native languages, which would influence their accent in any language they chose to learn.

Stella:

Native language: Solkaros

Sounds: Solkaros has only 4 vowels, which only exist in a few combinations; consonants are either very hard or are complex sounds like tl, hu(wa) and ng; Solkaros combines flection/conjugation with nouns and verbs and the word length is long (old Solarian doesn’t); words have no innate inflection and are spoken flat/with equal weight on each syllable

Writing system: letter by letter

Speaks: Old/Ceremonial Solarian, Magics Common, very little Esperanto

Resulting accents: Stella tends to overpronounce or catch on consonants like t, ch and pronounces her dʒ-s like a hard g instead

Musa:

Native language: Gou dialect Melodean

Sounds: Melodean is an inflection heavy language, in which intonation of words matters and is used to differentiate meaning; Melodean has over 18 distinct vowel sounds, Gou uses about 15 of them and sounds a little flatter in comparison; consonants are almost completely unvoiced ones (f, r/l, n, t, ch, q) and lack voiced ones like (z, g); word length is very short

Writing system: pictogram based

Speaks: Simplified Melodean (official language) Magics Common

Resulting accents: Musa sounds very soft and has trouble with harsh ch, or rolled r sounds, she sometimes runs out of breath on longer words (6+ syllables)

Flora:

Native language: Bisayang 

Sounds: Bisayang is heavy on consonant grouping, using a lot of combinations as it has a low total sound repertoire of 20 distinct letters/sounds; if doesn’t use f, voiced h sounds, but has three different n/ng/nmg sounds; word length is variable with shorter verbs spoken upfront and long noun constructs

Writing system: syllabic

Speaks: Tulang Linpi (official language), Magics Common

Resulting accent: Flora sounds nasal in her n, m, b and g sounds and tends to replace consonants she doesn’t really know with familiar ones before getting confident (eg f->p, cs/tsh -> sh)

Tecna:

Native language: Jordan

Sounds: Very heavy on r and hard ch sounds; has a characteristic inflection where the last vowel of nouns is stressed creating a lilting speech; 

Writing system: combination of syllabic with pictograms

Speaks: Trible (language of Tribilisi), Magics Common, very little Esperanto

Resulting accent: Tecna unconsciously recreates the Jordan lilt in their speech, pronounces g, ch and tsh sounds hard and rolls their r, strangely no trouble with ny/ty sounds

Bloom:

Native language: Esperanto (south)

Sounds: t, k, soft ch, dʒ , and sh consonants are very common, has a rolled r; uses 7 vowel sounds, e the most frequent of them; south dialect is heavy on inflection and stresses s and sh sounds longer, making syllables follow a fast-long-fast rhythm when speaking; south dialect adds vowels to the ends of words and doesn’t leave final consonants unsounded

Writing: letter by letter

Speaks: Frederican, Magics Standard, Dominian, 

Resulting accent: Bloom speaks often with Esperanto rhythm and unintentionally stresses consonants at the end of words, has trouble with y/ly/ty sounds

Layla:

Native language: A’gu

Sounds: uses mostly sounded consonants like m, ʒ, g; y, f and r are also frequently used; very soft sound relying on swallowed consonant sounds and heavy complex vowels; oi, uo and a are frequent sounds; words are frequently equal in length so words of importnace are stressed; mostly spoken with a wide, slightly open mouth

Speaks: Igbou, Magics Standard, Pachit (Nabu’s language)

Resulting accent: Pronounces her a’s and e’s flat and doesn’t open her mouth too much for very clear sounds, makes every sound a complex sound through that

Roxy:

Native language: Esperanto (blend of west and south)

Sounds: Same as with Bloom; the west dialect doesn’t stress final consonants and has a different rhythm: most words are stressed on the first syllable; Stronger w, and harder ch sounds

Speaks: Frederican, very little Magics Standard

Resulting accent: Has no trouble with throathy ch sounds, but lisped s, and ly/ty sounds are difficult, front-heavy intonation on words

Daphne:

Native language: Dominian 

Sounds: Bright and open mouthed vowel sounds, 9 distinct ones spoken in isolation, complex consonants like ar, ny, ty (rare), gn; final syllables are often swallowed; inflection is not word specific, but changes within a sentence going from high tone sections to low tone sections marking different sentence components

Writing: letter by letter with few exceptions in “cursive”

Speaks: Old Dominian Runespeak, Magics Standard, Simplified Melodean

Resulting accent: Has trouble with complex vowel sounds and usually speaks with either or sound, speaks longer sections with on breath than strictly necessary in Melodean

[hatari-translations]

Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga - Icelandic review

Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga is a Netflix-produced affectionate parody film about Eurovision starring Will Ferrell and Rachel McAdams. This wouldn't qualify it for coverage on this blog by itself - but as it happens, the main characters are Icelandic, Icelandic is spoken in it, and a significant portion of the film takes place in Iceland. So I think it's close enough to being of interest to readers of this blog!

As a film, my feelings on it were mixed - the Eurovision parodies were incredibly spot-on, I liked Dan Stevens' character and the amount of Eurovision cameos, and it definitely had some pretty funny moments - but it was far longer than it needed to be and wildly inconsistent in tone, flitting between utter ridiculousness and emotional melodrama played completely straight. However, this won't be a review of the film - instead, I'll be going over the portrayal of Iceland and its culture and language and sprinkling in some related trivia.

The Icelandic Opening

The film opens with a montage and a song that the subtitles identify as an "Icelandic folk song". The song is Sá ég spóa, which is indeed a genuine Icelandic folk song. The lyrics of the song go:

Sá ég spóa suður í flóa, syngur lóa úti í móa, bí bí bí bí, vorið er komið víst á ný

which translates to:

I saw a whimbrel in the bay to the south, a plover sings in the dry grassland, cheep cheep cheep cheep, spring is surely here again

The song references the common folk belief that the migratory European golden plover brings spring with it; we still have newspaper headlines when the first plover is spotted (or heard) every spring. The song is largely notable for being suitable for canon singing, which unfortunately can't be heard well in the movie, since the most audible part is the beginning, and the song kind of fades out before the other voices come in. I think this YouTube video is the same recording the movie uses, only you can hear all of it properly!

From there, the first chunk of the movie takes place in Iceland, in both the capital Reykjavík and Húsavík, a town in northern Iceland (the Húsavík scenes were genuinely filmed there). These scenes feature Icelandic extras and some actual spoken Icelandic, with English subtitles. Their lines are grammatically accurate and natural, clearly translated by a native speaker; however, when you're actually Icelandic, it's incredibly obvious that Pierce Brosnan (playing the main character's father) does not actually know the language. He tries, but it's only kind of intelligible, and when he's surrounded by actually Icelandic extras and the film wholly acts like he's just another one of them, it's pretty glaring.

The Names

The first really major issue to tackle about this movie is the character names.

The main characters are named Lars Erickssong and Sigrit Ericksdóttir. First of all, I understand that "Erickssong" is meant to be a pun because he's a musician - but it simply makes no sense to make a pun like this, any more than it would make any sense as a joke in English to consistently refer to somebody as someone's song instead of their son. You can absolutely make up punny Icelandic patronyms - but the part you make the pun out of has to be the name part, not the son/dóttir part, or it just doesn't register as a name at all.

But let's put that aside. Lars is an accepted first name in Iceland - but Sigrit is not, nor is Erick, and Lars is not a common name - it's pretty distinctly foreign-sounding. In general, nearly all of the Icelandic characters' names are not actual Icelandic names, and don't sound like they might be Icelandic names, either.

You might say, well, this is a comedy film, it's not supposed to be accurate. And there is some truth to that, sure. But the thing is that most of the names used in the movie aren't really humourous or systematically inaccurate in a deliberate-seeming way. Instead, they largely just sound like they're playing to your average American's idea of what generic Scandinavian names sound like, but with patronymic suffixes slapped on, and I expect the primary American audience would assume these are realistic Icelandic names.

This is unfortunate, because Icelandic names broadly really don't sound like generic Scandinavian names! We have a different alphabet from our Nordic neighbors: in particular, we don't have the letter c. And the overall sound of Icelandic is pretty different, such that the names in this movie sound distinctly foreign to us. The actual Icelandic equivalent to Sigrit Ericksdóttir would be something like Sigríður Eiríksdóttir, and in fact some of the Icelandic extras just went ahead and pronounced her last name "Eiríksdóttir". Naming her Sigrit Ericksdóttir instead isn't a joke; it's just inaccurate, and I don't think the film being a comedy really excuses stubbornly insisting on not doing the research here, especially when you involve a bunch of Icelanders who would definitely have pointed this out.

Húsavík and On-Screen Text

While Húsavík is a real place, the way it's pronounced and spelled is all over the place. I think the subtitles sometimes included the accents and sometimes not; on-screen text usually didn't include accents. It's important to note that u and ú are two different letters in Icelandic, pronounced differently; not using the accent is wrong, so although not including accents is acceptable for regular people typing in a medium where it'd be difficult or tedious to use them, on-screen text does not really have any excuse, especially in a movie that significantly takes place in Iceland rather than simply being a throwaway scene; they have plenty of time to spell the words correctly.

It's also a little frustrating that Húsavík is actually pretty easy to pronounce for English-speakers! It's just HOO-sah-veek - no sounds that don't exist in English at all. Despite this, the last syllable gets pronounced 'vick' sometimes, and in the song during the climax, Rachel McAdams' Swedish singing double Molly Sandén makes it sound Swedish and like it actually has a u instead of an ú.

Elves and Folklore

Elves are a plot point in the movie, with Sigrit being a true believer in elves but Lars not. She leaves food at a little 'dollhouse' built into a hill while asking the elves for favors. Needless to say, this is a comedic element, and the way it's used is pretty fun - nonetheless, however, I feel obliged to say that no, Icelanders do not do this. Even the true believers (who are few and far between) don't leave them offerings or pray to them for favors - and in Icelandic folklore, elves are not tiny! They're thought to live in actual rocks - no little houses necessary - and they're pretty intimidating and vengeful as described in folklore; if you were to give them offerings or ask them anything, it'd be more along the lines of pleading with them to please tolerate something you're about to do without taking bloody vengeance on you, not asking them to do something nice for you.

(The movie's use of elves was actually ultimately more accurate than it seemed; I won't spoil the details, but it's pretty good.)

Another plot point involves Sigrit's inability to sing a "speorg note", which is stated to be from Icelandic folklore. There is no such folklore, "speorg" would actually be pronounced spee-org with a hard g if it were an Icelandic word, and the way they're pronouncing it is once again something that sounds more vaguely Swedish than like Icelandic of any kind. Obviously this is a pure joke concept not to be taken very seriously.

The Problem With Winning

A major plot point in the movie is a businessman, "Victor Karlosson", who points out early in the film that if Iceland won Eurovision, it'd practically bankrupt the country. This is a genuine concern that Icelanders talk about any time we seem to have a chance of doing well. However, that scene also features someone suggesting hosting the contest in Keflavík, a town about 45 minutes outside of Reykjavík, which causes him to respond that a town of 15,000 wouldn't be able to do that. The joke here is obviously meant to be that hosting it in such a small town (actually pretty big on an Icelandic scale) is especially obviously absurd. However, I'm pretty sure I remember it being actually seriously suggested that if we won Eurovision we might have to host it in one of the aircraft hangars at the US army base that used to be in (near) Keflavík! We don't actually have any Eurovision-sized stadiums in the country, so that was legitimately one of the more realistic possibilities.

Perceptions of the Contest in Iceland

In the movie, while Lars is absolutely obsessed with Eurovision, this is implied to be pretty weird. There's a recurring joke of nobody wanting to hear Eurovision songs, and a lengthy scene in a Húsavík bar where the TV is showing a football game and one of the inhabitants makes an impassioned speech about how they should switch to Eurovision to see Iceland's entry because the contestants are from Húsavík! This is pretty hilarious, because man, Icelanders who don't like Eurovision have a hard time getting away from it when it's on! Potentially you might have a bar making a point of showing something else on Eurovision night and advertising itself specifically to Eurovision-haters, but the idea of no one in a full bar of random Icelanders wanting to watch Eurovision, especially when Iceland is competing, is pretty absurd. We're obsessed with this contest!

The bit where the teenage boy who plays drums in their band doesn't accompany them abroad because "my friends think the song contest is for losers" is valid, though; I can absolutely believe in a friend group of musically-inclined teenagers who think it's trash and they're too cool for it.

A Song in Icelandic Would Never Win

Sigrit says before the Icelandic semifinal that she wishes she could sing in Icelandic, and Lars counters by saying a song in Icelandic would never win. It's true that after Eurovision dropped the rule about all contestants singing in one of their country's official languages, most of Iceland's Eurovision entries have been in English, largely because of the perception that nobody will understand Icelandic lyrics ("Hatrið mun sigra" was only the second entry to be in Icelandic since the change).

However, a lot of songs are still sung in Icelandic in the Icelandic contest - in fact, the last couple years have required it! So technically this should not have stopped the characters from singing in Icelandic there and just translating it to English for the main event. This is a minor nitpick, though, and can be considered merely one of the many pieces of artistic license taken with the contest rules in the movie.

"Semen and Garfunkel"

There is a scene where Lars tells Sigrit that romance ruins bands, and he lists off a few supposed examples, including "Semen and Garfunkel". This probably seems like a really weird, random joke to everyone else, but it's actually kind of enjoyable when you do know Icelandic, because the Icelandic equivalent of the name Simon, Símon, is actually pronounced very similarly to "semen". It's a joke about them being Icelandic and therefore pronouncing his name that way, only probably nobody outside of Iceland would actually get it. I enjoy this.

Some Transcripts/Translations

There are a couple of pieces of unsubtitled Icelandic in the film. At the end of Ólafur Darri Ólafsson presenting the points from the Icelandic jury in the semifinal (yes, they have public jury points in the semifinal; another one of those bits of artistic license), after he says thanks, he adds in Icelandic: "Takk fyrir. Fyrirgefið þið aftur." This just means "Thanks. Sorry again [about the technical mishaps during Iceland's entry]."

During the climax of the film, Sigrit sings a song about her hometown, which has a couple of lines of Icelandic in the chorus. Our initial reaction to the [sings in Icelandic] subtitle was actually "Thaaaaat's not Icelandic," but when the chorus came on again I just about managed to make out that yes, it was in fact supposed to be Icelandic, which Molly Sandén was just pronouncing in a pretty Swedish way. The main line goes "Eina sem ég þrái er að vera með þér í Húsavík," or "only thing I long for is to be with you in Húsavík." There is another line after that, but I can't make out what she's trying to sing there at all, even after going back and rewinding it a few times.

License Plate Trivia

This is only barely relevant, but the license plate on Fire Saga's Eurovision tour bus is R 373. This is one of the old-fashioned black license plates that were in use before 1987; the R stands for Reykjavík, as license plate numbers were allocated by county. In 1987, we switched to white license plates independent of county with two letters followed by three numbers; later, when they ran out of numbers, it was tweaked so that the first number slot could also be a letter. However, some cars that had the old license plates are still on the roads today. I can't imagine why they'd put an old license plate on the bus unless it's genuinely just an old Icelandic bus with pre-1987 license plates.

The Reaction

The most realistic portrayal of Iceland in this movie is when Lars and Sigrit return from Eurovision to a crowd of extremely enthusiastic people waving Icelandic flags. Icelanders who accomplish anything cool abroad tend to be treated as heroes on their return; when our handball team won a silver at the Olympics, there was a whole sea of people and a ceremony to welcome them back, and they were all awarded with the Order of the Falcon. This is absolutely what Icelanders would do, accurate Iceland, A+.

[cant-blink]

My Name Is...

Summary: Rodan asks San if he could teach him the dragon’s native tongue.

-

“Hey, San?” 

Rodan’s voice was thick with sleep, cracking in some places, and he shakes himself to further wake. It’s late, and he had only just stirred from sleep from within the magma pool of their volcano nest. He’s been sleeping all day, as he tended to do nowadays since needing to heal his broken wing. But dozing off all day doesn’t make him any less tired when he wakes up in the middle of the night. It was in complete defiance of his natural circadian rhythm to force himself into this nocturnal habit, but it was the only way he can talk to the heads one-on-one.

The left head especially was the easiest to start conversation with, as opposed to Ichi, who keeps the chit-chat to a minimum, or Ni, who doesn’t talk at all really.

Besides, he had a goal tonight and he doubted the others will help. If anything, San was his best chance.

Upon hearing his voice, the left head’s horns perks out a bit before he gives a glance towards him, red eyes flashing in the lava’s glow. A grunt of acknowledgment is made, prompting Rodan to continue in a now less-tired voice. He wants to make sure his request was clear and no-nonsense in tone, but not demanding.

“I want to learn your language.”

“What?” San asks, turning to look towards him with brows furrowed in confusion. That reaction was kinda weird, certainly not one Rodan was expecting. Had they never gotten asked about something like this before. He doubted it. Maybe there’s a bit of a language barrier going on here; San is prone to that, especially if Rodan speaks too fast. So he speaks slower.

“Can you teach me how to speak like you?” He waves a claw a small circle motion. “You know, like in your native tongue? Is that better?”

“I know what you say,” San points out with a small huff of irritation. “Just want to know if I heard that right. Why do you want to talk like us?”

“Because,” he drawls. “We’re mates now, we oughta be able to share our culture. Plus, y’know, it’d be great to actually understand what you guys are always yelling about instead of staying up late to ask you all the time. Save me some damn sleep.”

“........”

Rodan shifts his weight a bit restlessly as San stared at him with an intense unblinking gaze. He always does that, like he was scrutinizing every inch of him. Made him feel like he was being stared down on by a predator, but he refuses to make those feelings known. Instead, he waves his claw in a circular motion again. “Well?”

“.....” San finally tears his eyes away from him to look towards his brothers before back to him. His words were spoken with genuine curiosity. “Why would you wanna learn if you’re going to die anyway?”

Rodan doesn’t answer that, prompting San to smirk a bit as he continues. “You put work in learning our tongue, only for us to kill you. It’s stupid.”

“.........” He didn’t know why this hurt as much as it did. He knew deep down in his core that Ghidorah had full intentions to kill him by the end of all of this; to expect otherwise would be foolish. But his heart just really tried hard to believe there was a different fate in store for him, refusing to believe their bond to be anything but genuine. Especially since Ichi knew of his feelings and seemed to indulge in them himself. Hell, they chose to mate with him! So knowing that after all they’ve been through, his destiny hasn’t changed... 

It only feels worse, seeing that San took such delight in it. There was that familiar glint in those ruby eyes; the same glint whenever San toyed with him. It was when he heard an added snicker from the left head that prompts him to respond in a soft voice.

“I mean, why did you guys bother to learn my tongue? If you’re all going to die one day...”

“Our kind can't die,” San said with haughty confidence in his sing-song voice. “So that doesn’t work.”

“Whatever,” Rodan continued, not sure whether to believe that or not. These things were resilient as hell, but not THAT resilient, surely. But then he remembered seeing them regrow a head and- You know what, best to just drop it altogether. Stay on focus! “You bothered to learn how to talk to us. What’s the point if you’re just going to kill us all anyway?”

San doesn’t respond, tilting his head slightly at the question. Rodan recognized his foothold and immediately took it.

“Do you learn the languages of the other planets that you’ve went to?”

“.... Sometimes,” San answered carefully. “But most times, we don’t stay too long on planets, so I know only few words.”

“And what was the point of learning those words?”

“...... I just thought they sounded funny.”

Blink. That was his only reaction to that for a moment before he continued on with his argument. “Well, my point still stands. Even if I’m going to die soon, I still want to learn to talk to you in a way you can really understand. No more confusion between us in the time we have together. I want to enjoy being with you more than I already do. I want to help when you guys are upset and that’ll be so much easier to do when I can understand what the hell you guys are on about...”

San doesn’t answer for a long time, enough that Rodan was about to speak up again just to keep the conversation from dying. But there was no need, as the left head found his tongue.

“You enjoy being with us?” His brows furrowed again, as if unable to grasp the concept.

“Yeah!” Rodan had to try to keep his voice down. “Of course I do. Why else would I choose you guys as my mate?”

“Your mate?”

“Yeah...” There was the beginnings of a sinking feeling in his chest and he didn’t know why. “You... you guys mated with me... That means a lot to my kind. Does...” He hesitates before daring to push on, voice softer as the sinking feeling in his chest gets worse. “Does that mean nothing to you?” He dreaded asking that, but it needed to be done. He needed to make sure they were both on the same page. But once more, San’s limited vocabulary hinders them.

“What does ‘mate’ mean?”

“And you see? That’s why I want to learn your tongue.” He steps closer to him. “Just like I teach you mine all the time. ‘Mate’ is what we did when Ni hurt me, remember? With my kind, that means we love each other, for the rest of our lives.”

“Love?”

Rodan nods again, continuing to step closer so that his beak brushes against San’s neck, the left head making no move to push him away. Little things like that give him hope and he allows his smile to grow, his golden eyes looking up at the dragon. “Say it with me, I love you.”

San doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watching him with those large intent eyes. When he does speak, he does so slowly to make sure he says it exactly as he heard it. “I love you.”

That’s all he’s ever wanted to hear from Ghidorah, and even if San didn’t mean it, it still brought his heart out of that sink hole in his chest. Maybe someday, he’ll hear those words again, spoken with genuine warmth and love. Too much to wish for? Maybe. But he can hope.

He keeps himself nuzzled against those scales, beak gently nibbling in a groom. San is still and says nothing, just watching him before glancing towards his brothers. The left head twitches their massive wings, the only sign of his inner debate with himself. After a moment, he mutters softly. “I’ll ask my brothers if it’s okay to teach you. Maybe fun.”

Well, at least it’s something and he lets out a breath. “Thank you.”

“What does that mean?”

Ghidorah really doesn't get a lot of nice things said to them, huh?

“When someone does something nice, you say ‘thank you’ to them to show you’re happy for what they’ve done. Or will do.”

“And you say thank to us? You are a funny slave. A funny silly slave,” San chuckles. After a moment, he makes a sound Rodan’s certain he’s heard from them before, although it must be rare as he can’t readily recall where or when he’s heard it. But it sounded beautiful, like a gentle musical trill.

“What does that mean?” he dared to ask, unsure if he was going to get an answer given how San wanted permission from his older siblings. But maybe the left head can give him just one word...?

And it seemed that’s exactly what San was doing as he gives him another amused look before answering. “That’s your name.”

His eyes brighten, having learned that his name sounded so nice in their tongue. Can he make those sounds himself? He didn’t know, but just hearing it from them would be enough for him. “Yeah, that sounds right.” San giggles at this and it emboldens Rodan to ask: “How do I say ‘Ghidorah’?”

Was that pushing his luck? Doesn’t seem like as San answered him without a fuss. It was a shorter sound, sharper, but still with that musical note. He runs it through his mind in a loop, not wanting to forget. His thoughts are only cut off when the left head continues.

“Now say thank to me.” San demands him and he pulls away to give him a look.

“First of all, it’s ‘thankS’ when used in that context. Second of all, that’s not how it works. You don’t demand it; you get it when you get it!” But despite giving this reprimand, his smile returns, wider than ever before his voice softens. “But thanks anyway.”

San smirks, before turning away to keep watching the horizon. Rodan leans against their body, settling beside them and draping his wing over their back to share his warmth with them. San and Ichi always seemed to enjoy when he did this. Yeah, Ni hated it, but getting bitten in the morning is always worth it. He just had to try to keep his wing folded away from the right side as best he can. As he rested his head upon their shoulder, nuzzling against San’s neck, he plays the sound San made to say 'Ghidorah’ in their native tongue. He wants to say it to them come morning, really show to Ichi that he was serious in wanting to learn.

Over and over, he whispers to himself in an attempt to articulate the foreign word, until he drifts off.

-

“Ghidorah!” 

Ichi brings his head up from their morning bask at the unexpected call. It was spoken in their own tongue but with a very heavy, unknown accent to it. It was almost like the sound that woke them from dormancy in the ice, but less mechanical in nature. He turns to look towards the source and there was the bird, sitting in his lava pool with a proud look on his face. The eldest head narrows his eyes slightly, glancing at San who was grinning at the attempt. Ni was less amused, his face scrunched up in a scowl, disgusted to hear their beautiful language spoken by such a lowly creature.

Where on this mudball of a world did the bird learn to say that? Did he really need to ask? The youngest was always chatty with the bird during his night-watch and this was no doubt one of their little shenanigans. Very well, he can play along.

“Yes?” Ichi responds, also in their native tongue. At this, the bird hesitates, flight fingers twitching a bit as if uncertain. Ha, seems the inferior creature was still as clueless as ever. But that didn’t stop the bird from speaking again.

“Ghidorah,” He puffs out his chest plates. “My name is-” Okay, that was spoken in the earth tongue, and-

He spoke another word in their language, with that same heavy accent, making it practically unintelligible. Clearly not as practiced as the other word. This time, Ichi responded in the bird’s native tongue, just to make it clear that the bird needed to try that again. “Excuse me?”

The bird lets out a breath before trying again, the same exact words but slower this time. And with this extra care to pronounce the word correctly, Ghidorah understood and Ichi can’t stop a smirk from growing on his snout. San is giggling now as the middle head nods approvingly at the little fire pest. 

“Indeed, that IS your name.” As Rodan gives himself a celebratory pat on the back, Ichi glances at his brothers with amusement, speaking in their native tongue once more. “Always nice when these lesser creatures name themselves ‘Slave’.”

San cracks up laughing.

[pellucidity-is-me]

Remus Lupin and Latin

Summary: A young Remus Lupin studies Latin for no reason in particular. Second installment, but works as a one-shot, too. You can find the link to my longer fic on my blog description, and this one is on my AO3/FFN account, too, if you want to read it in its entirety.

Wordcount: 2073

Remus Lupin starts learning Latin at age eight, too.

He's been a werewolf now for more than three years, and it has already taken its toll. His eyes always seem to be shrouded in shadow from intense periods of exhaustion—when Remus isn't plagued by constant nightmares, he is the nightmare himself, scratching himself to bits in the small family cellar while his mum quivers in fear in the sitting room and his father tosses and turns, trying in vain to be well-rested in order to heal his son the next day before going to work. When Remus looks at himself in the mirror, he only sees the amount of weight he's lost, the pallor of his skin, the scars on his hands, and the constant dead look in his eyes that he can't seem to get rid of, no matter how much he smiles.

It doesn't really matter how he looks, though. He sees no one, save his parents, and they don't really care how Remus looks so long as he's alive.

Remus can read all by himself now, but his parents still insist on reading to him after every full moon so that he can "rest his eyes". Remus knows that this is just a ploy to get him to fall asleep, which is a bit annoying. It doesn't matter if he looks and feels tired. He doesn't need to save his energy for anything. It's not as if he has school, dinner parties, football matches... or whatever kids his age typically do. He doesn't even have friends.

What Remus does have is time—too much time, in fact; Remus has all the time in the world. When he wants to go to sleep, he will. And right now, Remus does not want to sleep. He's been doing that for hours and he's ready for something new.

His father reads him Maxwell Melephant and the Magic Elephant for what seems like the hundredth time. Remus mushes his face into the pillow and groans so vehemently that he nearly falls off the couch.

"Are you hurt?" asks Remus' father, alarmed. It's evening, two days after the full moon, and it's also a weekend. Remus' father doesn't have to work today, so he can stay home all day and fuss over Remus. Remus isn't sure whether he's pleased or annoyed by the fact. "Did the wound on your side open again? Stay there, Remus; don't move—I'll fix it..."

"Nothing's happened," says Remus. He's a bit angry, actually, so he takes a few calming breaths—in through his nose, out through his mouth. Anger is reserved for full moons and full moons only. "I'm just kind of bored, that's all."

Remus' father takes a deep breath and then places the book upside-down on the coffee table. "I'm sorry," he says. "Ever so sorry, Remus. I know it's hard. I wish I could do more. I'd switch places with you in an instant, you know..."

"It's fine," says Remus automatically. "Could you keep reading? You were at the part when the elephant was climbing the redwood tree, I think."

"So I was," says Remus' father, but he doesn't pick up the book. He doesn't speak for a long time, and Remus tries to get comfortable while he's waiting. It's not quite possible with a large wound on his side—it seems to stab Remus sharply whenever he moves his stomach the slightest amount—but he can try anyway. Once he's more or less satisfied, he pulls the scratchy woolen blanket that his mum knitted up to his neck, obscuring the scar on his left shoulder that has remained a constant reminder of what Remus is for more than three years. Remus doesn't mind that scar, not really—but he knows that his parents do.

When Remus' father opens his mouth to speak again, it's not because he's resuming the story. "You need a hobby," he says thoughtfully.

"I have a hobby," says Remus. "Misery. That's a hobby, isn't it?"

Remus' father would normally laugh at such a joke (Remus didn't mean anything by it, after all), but he doesn't today. "Are you really miserable?" he asks seriously—and a little guiltily, if Remus isn't mistaken.

"No. I'm fine. You and Mum are loads of fun, Dad. I mean it."

"But what have we done?" muses Remus' father. "What have you done?"

Remus suspects that his father is talking to himself, since he isn't making any sense. Remus has just learned the word rhetorical, and he thinks that it applies in this situation. Remus replies anyway, of course. "You teach me some magic with your wand. That's fun. And Mum teaches me maths and writing. And I read a lot. And you let me play with that Boggart that we keep in the cupboard. I help Mum cook, and I play chess sometimes. And Mum taught me to crochet. And we draw pictures together sometimes... and you tell me stories. Remember when we tried to write one? Mum said that it was the worst story she'd ever read, and you know how much she hates Maxwell Melephant."

Remus' father smiles, but it seems to be nothing more than a formality. "Yes, but that was because we depicted her as a giant, fire-breathing dragon. Your mum doesn't particularly like being depicted as a heavyweight, ancient magical animal capable of destroying entire cities in a single breath."

Remus turns into a rather heavyweight animal with claws and teeth, capable of destroying entire cities in a few hours. He does that every month. But he doesn't mention it—why ruin a good thing? It'll only upset his father. Remus laughs weakly. "I have fun. I promise."

"No, you don't. You just don't know what fun is."

"I know what fun is. Fun is a three-letter English word, derived from—" Remus pauses here, because he is an eight-year-old child who knows nothing of etymology. He hears his parents make that joke sometimes (his father is a typical Ravenclaw; he knows these things. His mother just makes things up), but he never quite understands what comes next. It's something to do with other languages, he's pretty sure. One of them, he knows, is Latin.

Remus doesn't know any other languages. He wonders what it would be like to know another language. Is it anything like the foreign words that Remus' father teaches him to speak when he's casting spells? Does real magic happen when people speak other languages? Do people look different when they speak different languages? Remus doesn't know. He's only spent time around his mother and father, after all, and neither of them are bilingual.

"I want to learn Latin," says Remus. "Is that a hobby?"

Remus' father blinks. "Do you even know what Latin is, Remus?"

"Of course I know what Latin is."

Remus' father crosses his arms, and Remus knows that he's teasing him. "Oh, really? What is it?"

"It's like... you know, another language... that people speak."

"Half right," says Remus' father, laughing. "That's an odd hobby for an eight-year-old, but I'll ask your mother what she thinks when she's done with her nap. It's time to go to sleep now, all right, Remus?"

"Keep reading Maxwell Melephant?"

"Only if you finish that glass of water. You need to..."

"Hydrate," Remus finishes with a groan. He tries to reach for the glass, but there's a sharp stabbing pain in his side that causes him to cry out—his father wordlessly hands him the glass and helps him sit up. It is extraordinarily painful, but Remus manages to finish the water. He nearly asks for more, but he doesn't particularly want to navigate standing up and going to the loo if he happens to drink too much, so he merely leans back and falls asleep to the familiar words of Maxwell Melephant and the Magic Elephant.

When Remus wakes up, his mother is pressing a damp cloth to his forehead and mumbling something. Remus blinks the sleep out of his eyes and leans into his mother's touch; her words come into focus like the lens of a Muggle camera. "...mus? You're awake?" she says, and Remus nods. "Your father tells me that you want to learn Latin?"

"Sure," says Remus. "Dad says I need a hobby. Latin's a hobby, isn't it?"

Remus' mother laughs a little and removes the cloth from Remus' forehead. Remus almost protests, but it's not long before the cloth is dipped in water again and then replaced. "Sure, honey. I suppose it is, in the most basic sense of the word. I learned Latin in school, did you know?"

"Could you teach me?"

"Erm... no. No, I don't remember a thing. It's a bit of a dead language."

"How did it die?"

"No, not dead... not dead like that. There aren't native speakers of it anymore is what I mean. Everyone who speaks Latin also speaks another language—and it's more written than spoken to begin with."

"I can write," says Remus. He doesn't know why his heart is so set on learning Latin, but it is. "I bet I'll like it."

"I... I suppose you might. I never did. Dead languages are dead boring, in my opinion." She pats Remus' hand and ruffles his hair. Remus makes a face. "I'll pick up some books at the library, all right? And then I'll teach you what I remember. It'll take a lot of studying, I'm afraid, and I don't know exactly what you're going to do with it... but why would I stop my kid from learning Latin?" She laughs. "You're an odd one, Remus Lupin."

Remus might be odd, yes, but he is also patient. He waits a full week until his mother has time to fetch Latin books. When she returns, she sits down at the dining room table with Remus and teaches him the basics of conjugating and declining.

And Remus does not like Latin. He's not very good at memorizing things, even though he does it all the time (what else is there to do?). He doesn't have a good enough grasp on the English language quite yet to understand the subtleties of a second language. But he studies the language anyway.

And he keeps doing it for years.

He becomes relatively good at Latin, actually. He grows to love it. He likes studying by his window on a rainy day. He adores the time that he spends with his mother, studying Latin while she reads a book or knits or fusses over Remus. He relishes it, because every time that he spends on Latin is time spent—and all Remus aims to do is to spend time, really. He has no goal. Latin is a relatively useless language.

But when has Remus ever done anything that was beneficial for his future? Remus has no future. He knows this at eight years old. He knows this because the Ministry have told him so. He knows this because his whole life has implied the fact. There are constants in Remus Lupin's life: the full moon, pain, and loneliness. He will live in a small house with his three closest and only friends (his mother, his father, and the Boggart that they kept in the cupboard) forever. Remus cannot fathom forever, but he knows that it's a very long time, and he spends his seconds waiting for it to end.

He picks up Welsh a year and a half later. Remus is Welsh himself, though he hasn't lived in Wales since he was five. Remus' mother protests. "Remus, not everyone in Wales speaks Welsh," she says. "No one in my family speaks it. You'll have no one to speak Welsh with. We've been living in France for a week now; why don't you learn French instead?" But Remus hardly has anyone with which to speak English, even, so he doesn't really care. Besides, they only end up staying in France until the next full moon.

Remus' time whittles away, bit by bit, second by second. His life exists in intermissions between full moons. He can't do anything useful, because he would need a future to do so—so he learns languages that no one speaks, memorizes poetry for no real reason, and writes stories that no one will see. He doesn't have a reason behind anything, but—much like his appearance—he doesn't care so long as he's alive.

[langernameohnebedeutung]

Is it bad to have an accent ? I’m studying English at uni and all my teachers say I have to work on my accent and adopt an RP or GA accent because having an accent is bad and terrible . I have a pretty thick French accent and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to correct it and it’s making me feel very self-conscious so I almost never talk , which affect my performance in class .

Seeeee..........the thing is, there is this ideal. This gold-standard: The accent-free foreigner. (And if you do have an accent it better be from a rich white country and it better be barely noticeable and you won’t mind if someone is creepy about it)  And many learners ascribe to that ideal as well. And honestly, it doesn’t go anywhere, as far as I’m concerned. There are just very little professions where you will profit from not having an accent outside of people being happy about it. There is no practical gain. Unless you want to become an actor or a spy or the Queen’s professional doppelgänger.

So, to make this short, it’s not bad to have an accent as far as I’m concerned and your teachers sound like dicks tbh. 

We often complain about native-speakers who are rude about people’s accents or mistakes when they only know one language themselves. But I think it’s time to address that: ESL-speakers do it too - in fact, I would say that especially among people from countries where fluency in English is expected for  the younger generation, it is very common to lash out against people from the same community who have a thicker accent when they speak English and to make fun of them. And that’s just as rude as when a native speaker does it or when you make fun of anyone else for doing something you excel at.

On the personal note: You can only do something about accent if you speak and if you’re getting berated for the way you speak and that keeps you from speaking - then you’re not going to improve. It’s fair for a teacher to point out how to pronounce a word or to point out if someone’s grammar is wrong - but I study English too and while we had to stick to a specific variety when writing (either American or British), we were never told how to speak beyond pointing out mistakes in classes that were about language proficiency. And most people do improve over time, simply because their studies expose them to a lot of spoken English. I would meet people from my first semesters again in higher semesters and note how they have become more fluent and made less mistakes. Personally, I would try speaking to at least the lecturers you think might react decently about it that you’re working on it (whether you are or not) and that for that you need to speak and right now this kind of feed-back is making you more anxious about speaking and whether they would mine focusing their criticism on more structural aspects of your speaking.

As far as accents or being “accent-free” is concerned-  

I don’t even think it’s something that all speakers should aspire to. And even if someone’s end goal is to speak perfect RP or GA, that should be their personal goal. Many people uphold this strange notion of purity when it comes to people learning a language where everyone should aspire to be “accent-free” or “sound like a native-speaker”. And I guess it makes sense if you’re teaching someone how to speak that language as a beginner. It makes sense to show  them how to pronounce words and how sounds work in that language. If you have a person sitting in front of you who doesn’t speak English, it makes sense to stick to one version instead of saying “wa-t-er” in one lesson and “wadder” in the next or “caahn’t” in one sentence and “cèèn’t”in the next. It gives them a certain structure, helps them tell one variety from the other and to avoid confusion. Not to mention that if someone wants to study English they are expected to write their papers and essays in one variety of English so it makes sense that they know the general rules of telling them apart or recognizing or recognising how a word would be spelt or spelled. 

But when you finally become more fluent, you still have an accent and you still might not be perfect recognising one variety from the other. There are people who live in a foreign country for the majority of their lives but you can still tell where they come from. 

But the question is...who cares?

Don’t get me wrong, if someone wants to put their effort into learning a specific variety perfectly, I don’t see anything wrong with it and if they accomplish that - it’s quite some feat and it’s cool. Commendable. But the truth is that we all have accents. Even in our native languages, we speak in a regional accent, we probably have specific slang-words that are particular to some group. Age, class, sex, gender, education, interests - there are thousands of factors  that determine the way we speak. And it’s the same for native English speakers. There are hundreds of versions to speak English. 

I actually once took part in a public speaking class and the woman who held that class was a logopaedics trainer. And she could tell by the way people spoke and moved their mouth while speaking whether they used to wear braces, which parent they had a closer relationship with and other things. The way we speak - and the way we aspire to speak - is an important aspect of our personality and who we are and where we come from and personally, I don’t see the value of erasing that. It’s like a hand-writing and no one would tell you to alter your handwriting until you write in Times New Roman or Arial.

The thing is, when Anglos complain that they don’t understand a Scottish person or an Irish person or some other regional dialect, that is because that person grew up speaking a particular variety of English in a specific community. But for someone who isn’t a native speaker, they learn English in a community with a different native language - which means we simply speak that language with them (unless it’s for practice or a joke). I learnt English in a German school among kids with German accents and German language-habits - and teachers who had the same accent and the same habits and one who pronounced “wipe” as “whip”. And you probably learnt it in a French-speaking school among kids with French accents and French language-habits. So there is practically no way for any of us to leave school without speaking in that respective accent. But unlike a Scottish person or an Irish person, we didn’t speak that variety of English with our peers. We spoke our our native language. And I think that’s the difference for most people - that one group has a native community to fall back on and the other doesn’t, so the second one should aspire to imitating a native-speaker instead of adding another variety to the mix. 

Also you’re just as likely to speak English with people from any other European country (who also have their own accent and speaking-habits) as with a native speaker, so it’s not like you’re only going to be exposed to people who light you the way to a native accent. I remember when I made this post about “Euro-English” and people from absolutely random countries with different native languages all commented with: “No this is definitely how we speak, this is definitely our variety of English!” - meaning there are also a lot of unifying factors there too, based on our language families and cultural similarities - and how many people are there speaking like that? Hundreds of millions, probably.

Someone once pointed out to me that there are more Germans who speak English than there are Canadians. And you can do that maths  for a lot of countries: There are more Norwegians or Swiss people who speak English than people from the Republic of Ireland. There are more French people who speak English than there are Australians. That means with the exception of Americans, we outnumber people from the countries these “ideal” accents come from. And in fact, how many British people speak RP? How many Americans speak GA? And that’s just looking at western countries. There are so many varieties of English spread around the globe due to colonialism. It’s ridiculous to expect the entire world to sound like the Queen. In the end, each version is their own variety and just because it doesn’t have a native community to fall back on, I think it’s harmful to treat it as something only worth of erasing when a person’s English skills are a factor in professional success and social standing even in the community they come from.

English is the current lingua franca - a language that non-native speakers communicate in. And as I said, it makes sense to teach it in a specific way and to teach it the dialects that exist - because if everyone would just make up their own version of English, we wouldn’t understand each other and might as well not have bothered learning English in the first place. But you don’t need to have a cut-glass accent to accomplish that or aspire to have one.   

And this brings me to what I think should be the central question: 

What do you want to use your English for?

See, I did mention that if you want to become a British spy or play a British role as an actor or be the Queen’s bodyguard slash doppelgänger (a film I would watch) - then it would probably pay off to master a specific native accent as well as possible. (That said, there are enough British actors who get roles as Americans and vice-versa who don’t fool anyone and there are a lot of skills other than a specific accent that you would need to master each one). 

But those are jobs where you actively have to shed your own identity. That’s the point. You have to pretend to be a native speaker. But that’s not what you do in every-day life. In fact, most people you will interact with will probably know you’re French from the social context you are in or because it comes up in conversation, so beyond being a neat party trick, I don’t see what purpose having an RP or GA accent has here.

Of course, you might want to become a teacher, in which case, it would be important to have a specific pronunciation - but also all English teachers I had had German accents and I wouldn’t say that they would have been a million times better at teaching if they hadn’t had that - it’s far more important to know how to teach, to understand the grammar and vocabulary and to help your students to improve themselves and to understand why people speak the way they do.

You might want to be a journalist - if your interview-partner understands you and you can write in English, it’s fulfilling its purpose. If you want to work in a specific field - for example become a doctor in an English-speaking country - it’s important that your patients understand you and that you know your medical terms, but you don’t need Received Pronunciation. If you want to go into tourism, a bit of a foreign accent might actually come across as more authentic and desirable. 

So I think the central question is whether the English you speak right now serves its purpose for what you want it to - or if it is at odds with what you want to do with it.

If your accent wouldn’t pose a problem for you, then my profeschionel opinion is to fuck ‘em haters. Do what you like.  If you want to work on your accent: Do it. If you don’t: Don’t. 

But...if you feel like the way you speak English now would cause you difficulties in your job or every-day life later on - then I think the best thing to do would be to look into the specific skills you need and to invest your energy into acquiring these skills. Whether that is a specific jargon specific to one field or translate very quickly - or whether you really need to learn RP or GA. If you take a professional interpreter for example, many of them do lean to a specific variety, but have accents. It can’t be so heavy that it’s difficult to understand them, but their work requires skills beyond having a specific pronunciation. 

So erm...those where just my 2 cents on accents.

If you do want to change something about your accent - maybe even just to get your teachers off your case - I recommend listening to native speakers and particular, sticking to one variety you prefer. If you are already fluent and you understand them, your brain is very quick to pick up on dialects. (You know the thing where you watch someone speak in a specific dialect and for a while after you find yourself saying things in that dialect? The brain is very fast too do that and it also works in English, even if you don’t internalise it immediately and it feels artificial at first). Also don’t be afraid of speaking to yourself to practice. Obviously, speaking to others is important (and if you’re self-conscious or you are worried about your teacher commenting on it, maybe try asking a friend or sibling or someone to speak English with you or see if you can find a learning buddy) but I think talking to oneself can also be helpful. Because you are not trying to get a point across as you would in a conversation or have to focus on the words you are saying. You can focus on your accent and the way you speak and I think that is an important aspect when it comes to accents: Knowing your accent. Being aware of the way you pronounce words. You know the thing where you try pronouncing a word but you can never quite get there - much less if you’re trying to speak quickly or in a sentence? - It really helps to pay attention to the differences between the way you say it and a native speaker says it. Also if there is word you don’t know or that you aren’t used to hearing out loud  and you encounter it in the wild like a video or a film - it really helps to stop it and to pronounce it to yourself.

But generally, you cannot change the way you speak over night, even if you do it. It’s something that takes time and effort and it might never work completely. So really, I would focus on what you want to accomplish with your English and what future use you see for it - and focus on your strength as well, the things you’re good at. And in the short-term, I would try convincing the teachers that you are working on it but that their current course of action is actually making it more difficult for you.

[talpup]

Summary: Yami Sukehiro just wanted to join the Magic Knights and make his mentor proud.  He knew there would be trails.  He knew trouble would come his way.  Knew he would be faced with discrimination for being a foreigner and a peasant.  What he didn’t know.  Didn’t expect.  Was that literal Chaos would come his way.  That he and his mentor’s sister would be at the center of world ending trouble.  Or that he would fall in love with his mentor’s sister and face more than discrimination; but the jealously of Nozel Silva who loved the same woman he did.

This chapter is a short one so I decided to do a double update this week. Mostly doing it because I wanna share the drama that happens in chapter76 and can't wait two more weeks to do it. lol

Please remember this fic is rated mature and has warnings of violence, abuse, sexual tension, eventual sexual behavior, and other possible triggers.  For a full list of story tags please check the fics AO3 (link to that at the top of my tumblrs homepage).

Chapter 75

Yami woke up the following day wondering how he had gotten up to his bedroom.  He remembered waking up on the ground propped up against a tree, a crowd of Magic Knights still surrounding the training field. He had made his way to the nearest tap of ale and given the man tending the barrel a silver coin with the instruction to keep his mug topped off.  The alcohol hit him quicker than usual given his empty stomach.  It had probably hit him on the first pint he had upon arriving which was probably why had acted the way he had with Teris.

Teris... Yami groaned, sitting up in bed.  He had really messed up there.  He just hoped he hadn’t done anything else he’d regret.  Getting on Teris’ bad side was bad enough.

He had been drunk before.  And as long as he was left alone, he was a quiet, subdued drunk.  But if instigated, his temper was near instantaneous.

Gendry entered with a cup of coffee and large glass of water.  “Good. You’re finally up.  The Captain and Bronn are due back soon and I didn’t want to have to explain why you’re still in bed.”

Yami took the water first, downing the liquid messily.  “You the reason I made it here?”

Gendry gave a single nod, taking the glass and handing over the coffee. “You’re even heavier than you look.”

Yami rubbed his aching head knowing he’d be feeling worse if he hadn’t been brought in.  “Thanks.  I didn’t do anything stupid.  Did I?”

“You mean more stupid than attempting to challenge Bronn one on one?”

“I could’ve taken him.  Bastard deserves a good ass kicking.”  Yami set down the coffee and got out of bed.

Gendry stepped back near the small writing desk.  “You’re set to take his place.  How would it look to everyone who was there watching? You and he tearing into each other.”

“I would think most would be cheering me on, while the rest would be rooting for him.”  Yami said.  “Neither one of us have many friends.  And most of those friends are right old bastards themselves.”

Gendry raised a brow.  “You call me a right old bastard?”

Yami smirked.  “I said most.”

“And the Captain when he found out?  Cause you know he would’ve.”

Yami waved, noting Gendry hadn’t even bothered taking off his boots. “Jax would’ve been fine.  Eventually.  He knows better than anyone how much Bronn deserves a beat down.”

Gendry shook his head.  “Not by you.  Not like that.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway.”  Yami said, deciding to stay as he was until he got some food in him and had a bath.  “The other Vice Captain's talked Bronn out of agreeing.”

Gendry watched Yami scrub his face and neck clean at the wash basin.  “You sing when you’re drunk.”

“What’s that?”  Yami turned, water dripping from his face.

“You sing.  Not half badly either.”  Gendry said.

Yami wore a crooked half smile.  “What was I singing?”

Gendry shrugged.  “Couldn’t understand.”

Yami chuckled, drying off his face and hands.  “Thought you said it wasn’t half bad.”

“That’s not the reason I couldn’t understand.  You were singing in a different language.  I’m guessing it was your native tongue.” Gendry said, looking almost sad.

Yami looked away, trying to remember.  He couldn’t.

“Don’t know.”  Yami took his belt with its grimoire off the bedpost, and his katana off the chest of drawers; the only two things Gendry had removed.  “Thanks for seeing me to bed.  And for the water.  Gonna get me another glass along with some food and find Teris.  Got some apologizing to do.”

“You can do both at the same time.  She’s in the kitchens cleaning up from breakfast.”  Gendry told.

Yami’s eyebrows pulled together.  “It’s not her week for that.  Was Tobin sent out on another mission?”

“He’s still here.”  Gendry answered.  “But you think Tobin’s gonna remind her of his chores when she’s taken them over and shouted him out?”

Yami made a face.  “She’s still mad, huh?”

“Don’t know what you did but good luck fixing it.”

“I’ll fix it.”  Yami said, passing Gendry as he left his room.

75.1.2

Standing in the doorway of the kitchens watching Teris wash dishes, Yami teased.  “I think you missed a spot.”  When she didn’t respond he signed and made his way to her.  Placing his hands on her hips, he nuzzled her neck.  “Come on, Ikigai.”

“I already told about calling me things I don’t know the meaning of.” Teris snapped, trying and failing to focus on scrubbing the plate in her hands.

Yami smiled.  She had spoken to him.  The first hurdle was complete. “It’s nothing bad.  I promise.”

“I don’t care.  I still don’t know the meaning of it.”  Teris grumbled.

Yami stood there a moment, watching her take up another dirty dish to scrub.  Teris didn’t mind doing household chores, but she hated doing dishes.  Given that she was willfully doing them when it wasn’t her turn, Yami had thought it would’ve been harder to get her to acknowledge him.

“I’m not going to apologize for enjoying my birthday for once.”  Teris said, staring at the soapy water.

“Nor should you.”  Yami said, feeling stupid for letting William bait him into jealousy.

“You’re the one who echoed Julius and made me promise to act proper and do what was expected of me.”  Teris went on.

“I know.”  Yami nodded.

“Then why--”

Yami pressed his forehead against the back of her head.  “Cause I’m a stupid, ill-tempered ass.”

Teris turned to face him.  “No you’re not.  Not with me.”

Yami huffed ruefully and smirked down at her.  As hard as he tried to be better when it came to her, they both knew that wasn’t always the case.  “I’m sorry.”

As badly as Teris wanted to accept his apology and move passed it.  She had to know.  “I thought we trusted each other.”

Yami placed his hands on her bare shoulders.  “I do trust you.  I was stupid.  Upset because I can’t take you out like that.  I know you did nothing wrong.  I’m glad you finally had an enjoyable birthday.”

“I would’ve enjoyed it more if you’d been there.”  Teris said, smiling shyly up at him.

Yami grinned at her.  “We’ll go together soon enough. Promise.  Till then,” he leered over her, placing his hands on the counter-top on either side of her, “I still have a belated gift to give you.”

“Stop it.”  Teris laughed, reaching back to grab a soapy rag.

As she turned to do so the light hit her bare shoulder and he caught a glimpse a yellowish, light purple bruise.

“Hold up.”  Yami said, his tone making Teris stop and wonder what was wrong.

Now that he was looking, Yami noted bruises on her other shoulder too. His hands lifted hovering over Teris’ shoulders lining his fingers over each mark.  He sucked in a breath.  A fire raged in his chest, much different than the heated rush he’d felt moments ago at the thought of kissing her.  Only seven circular discolorations could be made out; but there was no doubting that she had been grabbed roughly.  The light, ugly color of the bruises told him that they had likely been made two or three days ago.  He remembered what William said last night, that Nozel had pulled Teris into a room and locked her away with him.

“I’m gonna kill him.”  Yami swore his voice dangerously quiet.  He turned and made for the kitchens exterior exit.

“Yami! Wait!”  Teris rushed after him reaching out and grabbing his arm.

Yami didn’t pull away from her but didn’t stop his steps either.  Teris was forced to cloak herself in mana least she lose her hold on him.

“Yami. Please!  Stop.”

Yami turned back to look at her, surprised to see her using her magic to keep him there.  “Does his life mean that much to you?”

“Yours does.  Your future as a Magic Knight means that much to me.” Teris’ hold relaxed a bit now that he stopped but she still didn’t let go of him.

Yami stared down at her, taking in her pleading look of concern.

Stepping to him Teris reminded.  “A few days ago you asked me not to do anything that would jeopardize our being together here and now.  I’m asking you to do the same.  Please, don’t do anything that might see you taken away from me.”

Yami didn’t tell her that there was nothing in this world that could keep him from her.  That he would fight.  Kill.  Lay waste and destroy this kingdom and all the others to stay by her side.  His muscles and voice trembled with barely restrained fury.  “Royal bastard hurt you.”

“Who do you think you’re with?  You think I can’t take care of myself?”

Yami stepped to her.  “I didn’t say that.”

Teris shook her head in annoyance.  “I swear you and Julius!  At least he had the excuse of me wearing a dress at the time.”

“What does stupid clothes have to do with this?”  Yami asked.

“Nothing.” Teris sighed, thinking about how much weaker and needy she felt in a gown.

“So Julius knows Bird Braid did this?  That he hurt you.”  Yami questioned.

“He didn’t hurt me.”  Teris stressed.

Yami stared back at her having none of it.  “Then who gave those bruises?”

“It’s fine.”  Teris assured. “Over with.  Handled.  There was a misunderstanding which Nozel had a bit of an overreaction about.  He apologized. Profusely.”

Yami realized he wasn’t going to convince her that a simple apology, no matter how earnest, wasn’t good enough.  Not when she’d been hurt.  Not when the markings of Nozel’s hands were staring him in the face.

Yami took a breath forcing himself to relax.  “What was the Little Bird so upset about anyway?”

“He thought Mereoleona had told me about the birthday surprise to Racine that he had planned.  He went through a lot of effort to make it happen.  His father and my brother apparently requiring much convincing to give up the stuffy dinner and ball that’s always put on.”  Teris finally released her hold on his arm, confidant he wouldn’t take off in search of Nozel.

Yami looked at her.  She might have been telling the truth as she knew but he was sure Nozel would never get upset enough to harm her over such a misunderstanding.  There was another reason, a reason she didn’t know, that had caused the royal lose himself and react in such a way.

Yami took another deep breath, tamping down his anger.  He had waited months to teach Nozel a lesson for kissing her.  While he wouldn’t wait that long this time, he could force himself to hold off for the moment for Teris’ sake.

He took a step toward the sink, nudging her along in ahead of him. Hands resting to either side of her on the counter-top, Yami leered over her.  “Want me to help with the rest of the dishes?  All it’ll cost you is a kiss.”

75.2

“Again.” Fuegoleon demanded, out of breath and drenched with sweat.

“You’re tired and lagging.  I’ll end up sending you to the healers.” Nozel told.

“And since when have you had a problem with that?”  Fuegoleon asked, his stance ready for Nozel’s attack,

Mereoleona had gotten after him during the Crimson Lions squad practice this morning.  His Captain pointing out his lacking in defensive ability as only an older sister could. It was why Fuegoleon had asked Nozel to help him during their scheduled training session.

Nozel had been all too happy to agree knowing he could attack and Fuegoleon wouldn’t directly attack back.  But now the Silver Eagle was slowing his strikes. Using less powerful spells as if worried he would substantially hurt his friendly rival.

It only served to make Fuegoleon angry and more determined.  “Again.”

Nozel sighed.  “Fine.  But don’t blame me when you’re laid up for the rest of the day--”

“Silva!”

Nozel and Fuegoleon turned.

Yami entered the training yard, his anger flaring upon seeing the royal. It didn’t help his temper that he had first gone to the Silver Eagles base only to be told Nozel was at Magic Knights Headquarters training.  That had left Yami searching the many training yards at Headquarters to find the man.

Yami hadn’t lied to Teris about his plans when he had left the Black Bulls base.  He had stopped at the city of Aster to the few things he said he was going out for.

Fuegoleon watched Yami pass him without a glace and stop in front of Nozel.

The Black Bull reached for the Silver Eagle only to have Nozel blocked his hand.

“You won’t be doing that ever again.”  Nozel growled, thinking of the dislocations the last time Yami had grabbed a hold of him  “You want to fight.  Fight like a gentleman.”

Yami glared at Nozel not sure if he could control his temper well enough for an actual fight.  “You talk of being a gentleman after you’ve laid hands on a lady like that.  I told you what would happen if you were stupid enough to do something like that again.”

“You kissed her again!”  Fuegoleon exclaimed, wondering when that happened.

Nozel spun to face the Vermillion.  “No!”

“He hurt her.”  Yami rumbled, never taking his eyes off Nozel.

The only reason Yami wasn’t tearing into the royal on sight was because Teris holding him back from immediately acting had given him time to think.  Nozel wouldn’t intentionally hurt Teris any more than he would.  That much Yami was certain.  Teris had mentioned some sort of misunderstanding; only Yami doubted it was the misunderstanding she believed it to be.  He would hear Nozel out.  Then he would kick the mans ass.

Fuegoleon’s mana roared to life.  Fiery eyes on Nozel, he demanded.  “You what!”

Nozel turned icy blue eyes on the Crimson Lion.  “It wasn’t like that. Teris is my Intended.”  His heard Yami’s katana slide a couple inches out of its sheath.  Keeping his eyes on Fuegoleon but other senses on Yami, he went on.  “Do you really think I would intentionally harm her?”  His almost commented how much Teris meant to him but stopped.  “I gripped her a bit too tightly when I thought—you know—she knew.”

“And that makes it alright?”  Fuegoleon questioned.

“No. It most certainly doesn’t make it alright.”  Nozel stated.  “You think I’m proud of myself?  That I haven’t beaten and berated myself over it?”

“I’ll beat you if it’ll make you feel better.”  Yami offered.  “I’ll beat you either way.”

Nozel turned on him.  “When were you going to tell me that my father tried to have you killed again?”

Yami glanced at Fuegoleon wondering when and how the Vermillion learned about all that.  Turning back to Nozel, he shrugged. “Didn’t realize I needed to tell you every time your Daddy tried to take care your problems for you.”

Ignoring the dig, Nozel fiercely stated.  “When it comes to this.  I need to know.”

“Why? What difference does it make?”  Yami asked.  “You weren’t able to do anything the last time.  How was I to know you weren’t aware this one was coming too?”

It struck Yami then what he should have put together sooner.  That if Nozel had been aware of his father's plans the Silver Eagle would have sent him word of warning.  As much as Nozel wanted him out of the way, preferably through his death, Yami knew Nozel was too honorable to stand by and let such an attempt be made if he had the time and chance to inform him.

“You just—you tell me.  Is that understood.”  Nozel told.

Yami smirked at him, wondering if the braid of silver hair hanging down the middle of Nozel’s face ever made the royal cross-eyed.  “You think you can give me orders?”

“I out rank you.”  Nozel reminded.

“Oh? So we’re going to make this official?  I’d like to see Greywright’s face when that order comes across his desk.”  Yami teased.

“Shut up.”  Nozel snapped.

“Why’d you do it?”  Yami asked.

Thinking Yami was referring to the latest attempt on his life, Nozel expelled, voice low and harsh.  “I told you!  I didn’t know!”

“Hurt Teris.” Yami clarified, finding Nozel’s heightened emotional state both grating and gratifying. “Why’d you hurt Teris? She said it was cause you thought this birthday surprise of yours was ruined, but I know you’d never lose control over something like that.  So what was it that set you off?”

“He foolishly thought my sister had told her about all this.” Fuegoleon answered for the Silva.

“About his father hiring people to kill me?”  Yami asked.

Fuegoleon nodded.

Yami looked at Nozel.  “Just how many people know your father's tried to have me killed?”

“I overheard my father and sister talking about it.”  Fuegoleon said. “I confronted Nozel the following morning.  Far as I know that’s it.”

“How many on your side know?”  Nozel questioned, knowing even if Yami wanted to keep it to himself, someone in his circle had to know.

Yami thought a moment before answering. “Three. Possibly four or five.”

“What!” Nozel exclaimed.

“What? Three on your side know.”  Yami shot back.  “I’m the victim here.”

“You are far from a victim.”  Nozel sneered.

Yami shrugged.  “Besides, it’s not like I told them.  Julius and Tobin were at the bar the first time.  Julius put it together easily enough.  He’s the one that told me it was likely your father.”

“Julius knows!”  Nozel felt wobbly, the world spinning too fast.

“Tobin might not pick up on most things all that well but he’s quick on the uptake when it comes to threats and other unsavory stuff. No one told him out right but I’m pretty sure he’s put it all together.  Especially after this last time and all that went on between Bronn and I after.”  Yami soured at the memory of the Vice Captain knocking him out and taking his money to Nathyn Silva in his stead.

Nozel’s eyes narrowed.  “Why?  What happened with this last time and after?”

“You don’t get to ask that.  I’m not playing your sick game where I tell you all the details of where, who, and how your father tried to have me killed.  And I’m certainly not telling you what went down after.”  Yami said, thinking no one needed to know how stupid he had been in his plan.

As much as Yami hated it, he owed Bronn for knocking him out and delivering the money to Lord Silva.  Actually, he didn’t owe Bronn since the Vice Captain had called them even for Yami having saved Bronn's life out on the battlefield.

“So Lord Julius.  And I’m guessing your Captain and Vice Captain know as well.”  Fuegoleon said, figuring Julius would have informed them for Yami’s safety after the first attempt.

Yami huffed.  “Yeah.  Julius told Jax and Jax told Bronn.  Bunch of gossiping hens.” He muttered, complaining.

Ignoring Yami’s disrespect, Fuegoleon said.  “So the three of them and possibly Tobin. You said there could be five on your side.  Who’s the fifth possibility? Julius’ Vice Captain?”

Yami hadn’t even considered that Jon might know.  Well, he thought, that made possibly six; nine counting the three Vermilion's.

Looking at Fuegoleon, Yami said.  “My guess.  Greywright.”

Nozel and Fuegoleon’s eyes widened.

“The Knights Commander knows?”  Nozel expressed, looking like a startled hare.

“Shut up.”  Yami snapped.  “I said it was a guess.  Mana, you got to calm down.  I can see why you lost control of you senses and gripped Teris so hard when you thought she knew.”

“Which is something that none of us want.”  Fuegoleon stated firmly, staring at Yami.

“Agreed.” Yami said, eyes trained on Nozel.  “Look, I came here to kick your ass for bruising Teris up.  But seeing how adamant she was I don’t do anything.  The reason why you did it.  And,” he looked the royal over, “the state you’re in.  I’ll let it go this once.  Just know that if there’s a next time, I won’t give a damn why you did it or what state your in.  I’ll end you without question.”

Nozel glared.  “There won’t be a next time but that has nothing to do with what you said or what you want.”

“Don’t care.  Just so long as it doesn’t happen again.”  Yami paused a moment, considered the matter over and said.  “If you really want to know.  I’ll send you message next time your father tries to have me killed.”

“Hopefully there won’t be a next time.”  Fuegoleon said.

Yami looked at the Vermillion with interest.  “How’s that?”

Fuegoleon glanced at Nozel before answering.  “That’s what I heard Leona and my Father talking about.  It sounds like my Father spoke to Lord Silva and told him something that would stay his hand.”

“Well that’s good news.”  Yami grinned.  “So Teris and I can do what we want as openly as we want.”

“No. No!  That’s not what that means.  You go doing that and--” Fuegoleon saw Yami’s amused expression and stopped.  His eyes narrowed with angry disapproval.  “You’re having fun at my expense.”

“It’s not like you can’t afford it.”  Yami chuckled at his own joke.

“Get out of here.”  Fuegoleon snipped.

“Gladly.” Yami grinned, amused at the royals temper.

Nozel watched Yami leave the training yard.  “I’m going to executed that foreigner someday.”

Fuegoleon’s eyes slid to the Silver Eagle.  “So long as it’s a proper execution carried out within the bounds of the law, I’ll take a front row seat.”

Thank you to those who have left hearts.  And a special THANK YOU to those who have recently left comments or re-blogged. They really mean a lot.

Next chapter snippet:

Yami turned, swallowing a stream of curses at the sight of Teris, Nozel, Fuegoleon, William, and Randall.  He quickly fished a coin from his money pouch and tossed it on the bar.  Getting to his feet, he told the man he’d been talking to something and made his way to his fellows.

“You’re earlier than expected.”  Yami said, stepping forward and backing them up through the narrow entryway.  “Let’s go.”

[itsallavengers]

gee i don't want to bother you you can 100% ignore me but it's been a shitty week panic attacks are stronger than ever and some of my friends keep making fun of my anxiety (i downplay the whole thing so it's not really their fault) could you please give me some light hearted stevetony with italian!tony? ily so much youre a blessing for this world keep being yourself

Steve was going to be honest here: he didn’t like the sun.

 Bucky and Natasha would kill him for slandering the current Mediterranean summer weather like that, but it was true. He was an Irishman. His skin was pale and unused to anything above mild temperatures. Not to mention the fact that it was just damn uncomfortable to sit and sweat with no way to cool down all day. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d come on this holiday with his two friends at all, actually. He didn’t like the sun, he didn’t really have the money for it, and he was currently acting as the third wheel to what could have just been Bucky & Natasha’s romantic getaway. But Bucky had asked, and said that Steve needed to take a bit of time off, so here he was. 

Sweating. 

It wasn’t so bad, though. While Nat was off looking around in a little local museum and Bucky was trying to sleep off the hangover from last night, Steve was sitting in a quiet cafe, reading his book and sipping on a latte. He was in the shade to prevent burning, and it was early enough in the morning that the heat wasn’t unbearable. It was actually quite nice.

There was also an incredibly beautiful young man sitting on a table a few feet to his right, nibbling a sandwich and working in a scruffy-looking notebook while he shot Steve occasional furtive glances. That was very nice too. 

He looked to be in his early twenties, and clearly native to the town. They hadn’t picked a touristy spot, which was good for the culture, but bad when it came to the language barrier. And the man didn’t sport any of the typical touristy items; instead lounging around in a breezy white cotton shirt with a few buttons undone, tucked into a pair of form-fitting navy slacks and then ending with some expensive-looking loafers. Atop the dark mess of curls were some aviators, and he wore a black ring on his forefinger that contrasted wonderfully against the olive of his skin. The way he held onto his pen made his fingers flex, and occasionally he would run it over his bottom lip in thought, suck it in, frown for a second before he wrote something else down. 

Yes, Steve may have been staring for a long time now. But in his defence, the man was stunning. Steve could admit he was more than a little enthralled. 

He checked his watch briefly, wondering at what point this was going to get weird and he would have to either approach the other man or leave. He could order another coffee, he supposed-- but too much caffeine gave him a headache. Maybe the man was a regular here. Steve might get to see him tomorrow, maybe smile at him or something.

“hai intenzione di stare lì a fissarmi tutto il giorno o vuoi venire qui?”

Steve blinked, watching the man as he pulled the pen from his mouth and then leaned his head backward, apparently speaking to no one in particular. But then his neck rolled, and he looked Steve right in the eye, his mouth curling into a gorgeously cheeky smile. “I take it you do not speak Italian then?”

Oh. Oh, he was talking to Steve. Fuck. Okay. He spluttered a little and then sat up, resisting the urge to push his hair back or smooth out his shirt. He was calm, he was suave. “I...no,” he stumbled, shaking his head, “was that... sorry, were you talking to me?”

The man nodded, slipping sideways on his chair and then leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees and his hands were clasped in front of him. He was slim, but muscular. Steve could see the way his shirt smoothed over strong arms as he hunched. And now he was face on, Steve could truly get a feel for what the man looked like. Sharp jaw. Hair that fell artistically over his perfectly-proportioned face. The most beautiful hazel eyes Steve had ever goddamn seen. 

“I said, are you going to sit there and stare all day or are you planning on coming over?”

Steve realised he was being spoken to only a second after he’d stopped watching the way the man’s mouth formed the words, his accent thick, but his English perfect. Steve should probably respond to that, shouldn’t he. “Well, if it’s all the same with you,” he began, before cracking a smile and then standing up. In a few strides, he was at the man’s table, slipping into the seat opposite. He was in the sun here, but he figured that he could make the sacrifice, just this once. 

There was a second of silence, and then the man turned to face him again. His eyes were alight, shining in the sunlight and mingled with intrigue. “Was that an Irish accent I heard just then?” He asked, and God, even his voice was beautiful. Steve had never thought voices could be beautiful until today. 

He nodded. “It was. Born and raised there ‘til my mam moved us over to America. We don’t fare quite as well in this sun as you though. Hence the shade I was in.”

“Oh. We can move?” The man waved his hand backward, but Steve was quick to shake his head, simply smiling in reassurance. 

“It’s fine. I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Ah. I’m Tony.” He smiled and leaned his head into his hands, looking across the table at Steve with that fiery smile of his. His fingers traced idly over his notepad as he eyed Steve, and the writings he’d done were absolutely foreign- not even because they were written in a different language, but because they were all just complex-looking equations and diagrams and things Steve couldn’t even name. He didn’t dwell on them though. There were much more interesting things to be looking at just then. 

Leaning back in his chair and throwing an arm casually across the backrest-- and no, not to flex his muscles like Bucky tried to say whenever he did that--  he let his eyes walk slowly up and down Tony’s body, before stopping for a second at his mouth. The pen was back again. A brief thought crossed his mind, and he swallowed it down hastily. That was most definitely not appropriate for the first conversation. 

But Tony looked like he knew exactly what Steve was thinking anyway, because the smile widened and he took the pen back out from between his teeth again, spinning it in those agile fingers of his. “So tell me- what is an Irishman who doesn’t like the sun doing in Italy right now?” He asked, one eyebrow rising curiously. 

Steve explained the situation easily, talking of Bucky and Nat, the vacation they’d all planned, Steve’s need for a little break. In turn, Tony explained how he’d ended up here, him having come from America too, but much longer ago, back when he was a child and his parents had divorced. He talked emphatically and used his hands when he spoke, and Steve found himself hanging on to every word, Tony managing to make everyday events seem like film-plots. Their conversation came easily, like one would with a long-time friend, and soon Steve realised that a whole hour had passed since he and Tony had begun talking. He blinked in surprise at his watch and then felt the back of his neck. “God, I’m gonna burn,” he muttered to himself, popping his collar up. 

Tony pulled a face, clearly unimpressed by the weakness of his pale skin, but then it turned into a smile as he jumped from his seat and grabbed for Steve’s hand, tugging him upward. “I know how to cool you down,” he said enthusiastically, and Steve found himself being pulled into standing and guided out of the cafe. “How much time do you have?”

Well, Natasha wanted him to join her in the museum about ten minutes ago, so-- “no plans for the day,” he said easily, letting Tony guide them through the winding streets, their bodies brushing and their hands linked together while they navigated the people and market-stalls. Tony greeted locals as he passed them by, the Italian words rolling off his tongue easily. Steve hung on to every word he said, not knowing what he meant, but willing to listen to Tony talking like that for the rest of the goddamn day if he wanted to. It was like music. 

Eventually, Steve realised Tony was leading them to the coastline, and he frowned. “I haven’t bought any swim-trunks with me,” he said warily, but Tony just laughed, turning around and walking backwards while he looked up at Steve. 

“Just wear your boxers, they’ll dry off quickly once you get out!”

“I... I don’t--” but Tony was already leading them down a rickety set of wooden steps, winding down the cliff edge. It was a secluded place, and when they reached the bottom, Steve looked around in awe at the beautiful cove he’d been brought to. There was a small outcrop which slid off straight into the sea, and a few feet onward, a dusting of sand covered by the shade of a tree.

Tony beamed at him. “I come here to do work sometimes. Come, come. The water is lovely.” Without a moment of hesitation, he toed off his loafers and then skidded over the outcrop, where he then started to untuck his shirt from his pants. Steve could only watch, somewhat shocked at the man’s lack of embarrassment, as Tony quickly stripped down into his underwear, finally ending with chucking his sunglasses on top of the messy pile of his clothes. His eyes shone with knowing amusement as he looked over his shoulder at Steve. “My eyes are up here,” he commented, and in mortification, Steve hurriedly dragged his gaze away from Tony’s ass. 

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t--” but Tony had already turned back around, stepping off the outcrop and then splashing into the water, being submerged immediately. He came up a second later with a gasp, slicking his curls out of his face with one hand while the other clamped around the outcrop. He swam closer to Steve, who was still stood at the sidelines, a little bamboozled by the recent events. 

“You joining me?” Tony asked, his arms folding on the rocks as he cocked his head at Steve. “I might need-- ah, come se dice.... a water-guard?”

“Lifeguard,” Steve said with a small grin, remembering the conversation he’d had earlier about his part-time job as a pool lifeguard when he’d been a kid in order to afford his first ever car. “And you seem to be doing okay right now.”

Tony hummed, and then very dramatically began to flail around, head dipping under the water. “Oh no!” He declared, “my legs have suddenly stopped working! If only I had someone trained to handle a situation like this to come in and save me!” He sunk below the water again, and Steve rolled his eyes and just tried not to laugh as his hands went to his shirt. 

If Tony didn’t seem to think this was strange, then neither did Steve. 

Once he was down to his boxer briefs, he slid in a little more calmly than Tony had done, bracing himself against the rocks and looking at the other man. Water clung to his skin, making crystal trails, pooling at the dip in his collar-bones. His hair was slicked back, but a piece had fallen into his eyes, and he tucked it behind his ear as he tread the water a few feet away. 

He was right though. It really was lovely and cool. 

Steve smiled, sinking under the surface for a moment in order to wet his hair. He could just about touch the surface, but Tony was considerably smaller than him, so he would have to stick to treading the water. Steve came back up with a gasp and then found himself laughing. “This is not how I imagined my day to go,” he admitted, watching Tony’s face soften. 

Then, slowly, he swam forward, cutting through the water and then settling a hand on Steve’s shoulder softly. It slipped across the damp skin, and Tony watched his own fingers as they trailed across Steve’s pale shoulders. “Me neither,” Tony admitted softly, glancing up at Steve through his thick lashes, “but I’m not going to complain. I met a very hot man and got him out of his clothes in under two hours.”

That made Steve laugh. Never in a million years would he have done this back in America. Not like he even could, really. The Hudson hardly counted as a romantic spot for a swim with the person you’d only met once. But everyone said Europeans were very free-spirited. And from what Steve could see, and, uh, feel, that certainly seemed the case. Tony swam a little closer, his other hand finding Steve’s neck, winding around the side of it delicately and pulling himself in until they were chest to chest. Steve curled his own hand around the other man’s waist, taking a small breath. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been quite as affected by someone as he was with Tony. Not in his whole life. 

“I want to kiss you,” Tony said, his words lilted with the accent, his skin glittering in the sunlight, and it was so damn strange for Steve to think of the fact that Tony had almost grown up in New York as the heir to a huge business like he’d spoken of earlier, all slick and hard-lined and American. This just seemed like it was where Tony belonged, far more than that life ever would be. 

Steve smiled, their noses touching. His hand rose from the water, the sound tinkling melodically, and he gently took Tony’s chin in his hand, tilting it up a little more. “I want to kiss you too,” he admitted, “I want to do a lot of things, actually.”

“Hmm?” Tony’s voice was low, warm, suggestive. “You said you have no plans. I don’t either.” He dipped forward, giving Steve the barest brush of lips before pulling away a fraction again.”You can do whatever you want, tesoro.”

Wow. Those words went straight down south, and Steve swallowed, before dipping down and closing the gap between them hastily. The water swirled around them, Tony draping himself onto Steve as they embraced, and vaguely he realised that this wasn’t a private cove and anyone could walk by if they wanted, but it was still difficult to keep his actions even remotely clean when he had a pretty much naked and willing and wet Tony in his arms, sucking on his bottom lip while his hands worked over Steve’s arms. He tasted like coffee and smelled like apples, and his mouth was a devil, licking into him, nipping and sucking and making little noises when Steve touched him in the right places. It was slow, easy, relaxed. The sun shone through the clear blue sky, lighting up Tony’s face as he leaned back against the rock and shut his eyes happily. Steve wanted to work him over. Wanted to find out what his favourite colour was and how he looked spread out on a bed. Just seeing him like this was driving Steve a little mad. God only knew what would happen when they got home.

He was going to have to do a lot of apologising to Bucky and Nat tonight, because he didn’t think they were going to be seeing anything of him for the rest of the day. 

Or the vacation.

-

ao3 / donate to my kofi

[jarienn972]

La Sirena - Chapter Two

Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2020

Chapter Two of my @cssns​ is now here!  I used Chapter One to set up each character’s POV of how they were brought together so this chapter will officially focus on their actual introduction as shipwreck survivor Lt. Killian Jones regains consciousness, discovering that he’s traded imprisonment on a pirate ship for a deserted paradise with a beautiful woman as his sole companion.

I have to thank all of the admins and creators of this fun event that allows all of us to stretch our creativity and I especially want to extend thanks for @kmomof4​ for her wonderful beta and cheerleading assistance and to @courtorderedcake​ for the incredible artwork she created for this story!

This story can also be found on ff.net and AO3. Tumblr Chapter One 

Chapter Two - Encountering an Angel

Killian woke with a jolt, body arching upright until his throbbing head protested. He sucked in a deep breath as he settled back to the ground, clutching at the sharp pains crisscrossing his rib cage. He felt as though he'd breathed in pure fire. Had he passed through purgatory straight to the flame and brimstone of hell?

No, no - he wasn't dead. Was he?

Bits and pieces of memory flashed within his mind. A map… That cursed island… Pirates… Escaping an abandoned, sinking ship… Clinging desperately to a makeshift raft of wooden planks until he'd slipped off into the depths. And then a cascade of pure gold beckoning him to paradise… or something like that.

But would the hereafter be this painful?

Pull yourself together, Jones. Use your wits.

He was still near the sea. The gentle lapping of waves against the shore and the squawk of seagulls sounded nearby. A wafting of crisp, salty air filled his nostrils as did the earthy scents of sand and rock. There was a solid surface beneath him. He'd made his way to land somehow, but where?

But when he dared open his eyes, even the diffused sunlight filtering through the canopy of palm fronds swaying overhead assaulted his vision. Squinting and shading his gaze with his outstretched hand, he allowed his pupils a few moments to adjust before rolling himself onto his right side and propping on an elbow to survey his surroundings. He spied the shoreline from where he lay yet he was a fair distance from the water's edge, sheltered amongst a grove of date palms, cycads and a few gnarled low trees that had branches laden with what appeared to be olives. A craggy outcrop of rocks was a short distance away and the stone barrier seemed to extend all the way out towards the sea.

He couldn't remember stumbling or even crawling this far from the shore. He barely recalled reaching the beach. He'd been so weak that he couldn't possibly have made it this far without assistance… All of his senses instantly went on full alert as he realized he must not be alone on this idyllic looking isle. Someone else was here but were they friend or foe? What a ridiculous question, Jones… Why spare your life if they intended to harm you?

His memory brought back hazy images of a woman's soft face framed by a halo of pale blonde hair just as his eyes drew skyward to gaze upon that same angelic visage looming above. Clad in a full length, flowing gown that was only a few shades paler than her porcelain skin, she had arrived as stealthily as a ghost. She eyed him quizzically, as though she were as surprised to see him alert as he was startled by her arrival.

He initially recoiled, not from fear, but rather from her abrupt appearance. Now that he was able to see her features clearly, he was transfixed by her ethereal beauty. Only a being sent from the heavens could ever be so lovely. Why this angel would ever want to aid such a broken man as him was beyond his comprehension.

Awake since dawn, she'd left the human's side for only a short while to catch some breakfast and to collect sweet water from the cavern spring. The man would likely be parched when he awakened but unlike her, he couldn't survive by drinking from the saline seas.

After he'd collapsed on the beach yesterday beside her tentacled form, she'd immediately transformed back to her humanoid self to drag his unconscious body away from the shore before the tide set in. He was heavier on land than he'd been in the water but she managed to pull him beneath the safety of the trees. She'd done her best to clean his wounds while he slept but with little knowledge of human physiology, she wasn't sure what else she could do.

She had remained close to him throughout the night, continuing to tend to his injuries as needed and to provide needed warmth. Never in her long life had she been in such intimate proximity to a human but every ounce of her being was insisting that this was where she was meant to be. Despite her species having been bred to lure humans to their demise, here she was seeking to save one of them.

The debris that she'd found him amongst was proof that he'd survived a shipwreck but she wasn't quite sure how. In the treacherous waters that surrounded these islands, no ship that sailed too close to the siren's cove could resist their call. For him to have been found alive, floating into her placid bay, he must have some special power. No man was immune to the siren song, yet here he was.

His sleep had been restless, which she had anticipated and attributed to his injury. The jagged laceration at his temple appeared to be the most serious but she assumed he could have wounds not visible on the surface. She was also concerned about the amount of seawater he may have swallowed. He'd spewed a fair portion when she'd rescued him but more could be lingering within his lungs as he was without the benefit of transformative gills. It would certainly bear watching once he awakened.

As she returned to the sheltered thicket carrying a ceramic jar of potable water, she was surprised to find him alert and staring directly at her face. In deference to her understanding of human modesty, she'd donned a simple, breezy, off-white linen column gown. It was horribly itchy but she feared overt nudity might offend her companion so she'd suffer for his sake.

She dipped her free hand into the water jug and withdrew an ancient, hammered copper cup that she extended towards him. "Drink," she instructed, firmly, yet politely, but the command wasn't spoken in English.

He quirked an eyebrow suspiciously until he could see that the cup contained water. He then softened his features and accepted the offering, gulping the contents a little too quickly in an attempt to quench his thirst. It was the first he'd ingested in at least a day and he was ever so thankful that it didn't smell or taste as though it had been drawn from the bilge tanks. But there was something strange to her statement - he'd understood her although his weary mind couldn't fathom why.

"Who are you?" she queried in that same familiar, yet foreign tongue.

His military training kicked in as he stammered out his rank and full, legal name. "Lieutenant… Lieutenant Killian Charles Arthur Jones…" He paused for a breath before adding the rest of his title. "Of His Majesty's Royal Navy. At your service, m'lady."

"Ah, English," the woman replied with a giggle as she switched to his language. "You didn't appear to be Greek."

"Greek?" he repeated, brow furrowed in confusion. "Was that what you just spoke?"

"It was, and I am surprised that you seemed to understand."

"I learned Ancient Greek in the Naval Academy, just not the conversational form. You speak both Ancient Greek and the King's English?"

"I speak many tongues, but Greek is native to me."

"So, is that where I've landed?"

"No, not exactly," she responded cryptically. "These isles owe their heritage to Greece, but they've no allegiance to that land any longer."

"What do you call this land then?" he pressed, trying to gather more information as to how far off-course his imprisonment by the pirates had taken him.

"No name you would recognize from any map or chart. Officially, these islands exist only within the world of myth and legend."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," he sighed, rubbing his aching head as he shifted his position onto his back. "How did I get here? Have I crossed over into the ever after with you as the angel welcoming me?"

"No, you are still amongst the living, Lieutenant Killian Charles Arthur Jones. You are still very weak from nearly drowning out there in the bay so you should rest to regain your strength."

"Aye…," he replied without argument. "But first, Killian will suffice. I've no need for formalities. It's just habit…" He broke off his sentence there, squeezing his eyes closed as he thought of the question he absolutely needed to ask but feared the answer. "Did anyone else reach these shores?"

"No, only yourself."

"Oh," was his dejected response as he turned his head away from her gaze. Neither dared elaborate as unspoken words weighed heavy but after a few moments of tense silence, he at last spoke up. "In my malaise, it would seem I've forgotten to ask for your name, lass."

The question elicited an odd response from her. She remained quiet far longer than he expected, as though she had to think about her reply. "No one has asked me that question in a very long time… My given name was Erimetha, but for simplicity's sake, you are welcome to call me Emma."

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Emma," he said with a weak, pained smile crossing his lips.

"You should get more rest," she insisted. "I can see the exhaustion in your eyes but I promise, I will be here when you wake."

"You'll have no protest from me," he answered sluggishly as he allowed sleep to claim him once again.

**********

A few more hours of deep slumber had been much needed, allowing Killian's battered body and troubled mind to relax and try to heal. As he began to stir, the crackle of flames perked his ears right before he noted the acrid scent of wood smoke mixing with the marine air. His eyes looked skyward where beyond the canopy of palm fronds and olive branches, the heavens were awash with pastel tones while the twilight sun began its descent below the horizon.

Another day passed.

More than a week now passed since he'd debarked his ship for that ill-fated expedition.

More than a week passed since he'd last seen his brother.

Was Liam even searching for him? Did he believe his younger brother had perished? Did he know he'd been captured?

He didn't even have the slightest idea where he was so how could he expect Liam to locate him?

His audible, defeated sigh drew Emma's attention from the fire she was stoking.

"You seem quite distressed," she noted, to his chagrin.

"Yes, I suppose you could say that," he replied with clear irritation in his tone. "The events that have transpired over the course of this week have been rather overwhelming." He ignored the swell of nausea and the constant drumming within his skull to force himself into an upright, seated position. Muscles that hadn't been used since his escape from the pirate ship screamed in protest but he continued to push through all of the discomfort to look his alluring companion in the eye while she lowered herself to her knees.

She didn't wait for him to elaborate on whatever he'd endured, instead placing a woven reed basket onto the sand between them. "I thought you might be hungry," she said with an unassuming smile as she gave the basket a gentle push closer to him so he'd be able to inspect the contents. A quick glance downward revealed a bunch of bluish purple grapes, a few figs and a scattering of ripe green olives. "I have some freshly caught fish as well…"

"This is fine," he replied in a softened, more appreciative voice. "Best to take it easy so I don't lose my constitution, but thank you."

"I do believe you lost most of that constitution yesterday, but I absolutely understand," she chuckled, causing his cheeks to redden.

"Sorry about that… I really don't remember much after getting knocked off the ship's deck into the deep." He lowered his head with embarrassment. Vomiting in front of a beautiful woman was not generally the best first impression. He shyly reached for a handful of grapes, keeping his eyes averted as he popped one into his mouth, hopeful that the fruit would appease his growling stomach without further incident.

"My apologies. I didn't mean to further upset you," she replied as she slid further away from him. "It's been so long that I've clearly forgotten how to have a proper conversation…"

"You've no need to apologize," he retorted, extending his hand to grasp hers, staring into the melancholy of her emerald irises. "I am thankful for all you've done for this hapless sailor but is there no one else on this isle?"

"Not this far south. I chose this isolated isthmus long ago to escape others like me. It has been many years since I've had another creature to talk to who can actually talk back."

"You chose this isolation?" he repeated, incredulously.

"It was far preferable to what was expected of me…"

"Was it your family?" he pressed. "Were you unable to live up to what they required of you?" His curiosity was increasing with each inquiry, wondering if he might have more in common with this intriguing young woman. "Did you fall short of their expectations?"

"Not exactly," was her initial response, but she was caught unprepared by the introspective nature of his questioning. This human was proving he could be a kindred spirit in many ways but she wasn't ready to share. "Suffice it to say that I grew tired of their ideology and separated myself from their ways. It was best for all at the time."

He sensed there was so much more that she was holding back. His barrage of questions had opened a still-smarting wound and it was abundantly obvious that she wasn't ready to confide in him. Of course, if she had been alone on this shore for many years as she'd stated, it might be equally as long before he found rescue so there would be plenty of time to break down those walls. She'd saved his life. The least he could do in return was to help ease her troubles.

"You know, I'm a man who's spent a lifetime living in my brother's shadow, so if anyone understands what it is like to try to be something you're not, it would be me. Liam was always bigger, stronger, smarter… Graduated top of his class at the Naval Academy. Youngest ever Captain in His Majesty's Royal Navy. The bar was set pretty high and I was pushed to be just like him. I've never been good enough. I've worked hard to get where I am, but I'm not sure it's where I wanted to be… I took that stupid expedition into uncharted waters to prove that I was a leader and what happens? Pirates overtook us and most of my crew was slaughtered. The rest, myself included, were taken captive to be tortured and some were probably executed. Some leader I proved to be… I wish I'd never agreed to follow that cursed map!" He hung his head in shame, realizing that he shouldn't have unloaded so much baggage onto her. He didn't want her pity. "You must think I sound like a blabbering fool…"

"You sound like a man who's been trying to please his family rather than himself," she mused. "Perhaps fate brought you here to discover who you are?"

"You think this is the gods testing me?" he scoffed.

"If that is what you choose to believe."

"And you - were the gods testing you as well? Is that what caused our paths to cross here?"

"Perhaps more than you know," she replied cryptically as she pushed herself back up, brushing grains of loose sand from her gown as she stood. "It will be dark soon, but you will again be safe here for the evening. I shall leave the fruits here and you'll find the carafe of water there amongst the brush. Rest well, Killian."

"You as well, Emma."

He stared blankly at her departing silhouette as she strolled towards the flickering fire, the backlight of the flame giving her form an ethereal aura. Damn this woman! He might blame it on his concussion later but although he'd been coherent only a few scant hours, he was already entirely bewitched. He winced as his hand unconsciously rubbed the bruised and still raw skin adjacent to the gash at his forehead, momentarily speculating if this all might be some vivid hallucination or lucid dream.

Dream or not, he'd never experienced such a soulful connection with any person, yet alone any woman and it only solidified his desire to uncover her secrets. He'd gladly spend a lifetime trying.