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#the importance of names
jomiddlemarch · 2 months
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for danger is in words 
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“My wife’s name is Mary,” he said, first in English, before he noticed and then again in the Portuguese she would understand. There was a something about her face that told him he perhaps hadn’t needed the translation. “Not so different—”
“You did not call me by her name,” Mariko said, a reassurance he should not have needed, but it had been a long time since he’d tumbled a woman and Mariko had touched him in ways he had not imagined, given him pleasure with hands he would have thought devilish clever except for the look in her dark eyes as she’d stroked him. Tenderness and wonder, as if he were precious, an unexpected marvel, not a scarred sea-pilot with manners too rough, too eager, for the subtle Japans.
“’Tisn’t proper to speak of her now, I warrant. After pillowing,” John said, using the term Mariko had. She was a widow, even if not as merry as widow as one would find in London or Amsterdam, so perhaps she had done nothing untoward by her rights, but it didn’t seem polite to hold a woman in his arms, her bare skin more delicate than her silk robe, the taste of her yet in his mouth, and talk of another.
“Men’s tongues wag after congress,” she said. “Unless they sleep.”
“You gave me great joy,” he said. It sounded awkward, formal, but his Portuguese did not run to either poetry or the sweet-talk lovers used, endearments and admissions. Praise was used quite differently here and he didn’t want to risk offending her.
“I thought I must,” she said. “You were very loud.”
He laughed, a low, rumbling chuckle that startled her, a sudden tenseness in her shoulders. He would not have been able to tell if she were wearing her usual robes, standing across from him, but naked, pressed against him, it was undeniable.
“I suppose I was. I offer my most sincere apology if you’d have it,” he said.
“You did nothing wrong. Many cry out at the peak,” she said.
“You did not,” he replied. She had made a very soft sound and he’d felt her body surge around his, her hands tightening on his back, her neck arched. The moonlight through the paper screens had not enough power to give him any color, but he’d felt her flush even if he could not see the roses in her cheeks, the hue of a Tudor blossom down her throat and across her full breasts.
“Did your Mary?” she replied. For once, perhaps, it was not a challenge nor a game whose rules he was meant to discover mid-play. She was curious, about Mary and about English women, about the world he’d left behind. What he’d told her about the Thames had not slaked her thirst but whetted it, but she wanted more than details of a silver river in a filthy city, a jeweled Virgin Queen on her throne. She wanted to know about the bed he’d lain in, conceiving his children, the bedclothes rumpled, the rushes on the floor with their wilting herbs. Mary with her bright chestnut hair unbound, a spatter of freckles across her cheeks, her eyes light. He couldn’t recall their blue anymore.
“Not at first. She was shy, ‘til she learned to like it,” he said.
“To like pillowing?”
“To like make noise. To letting me know I’d pleased her. Or that she wanted more,” he said. Mariko shifted and sated as he was, she stirred him. It would not do to think whether each gesture was studied, a courtier’s or a courtesan’s. He would not know unless she told him and she would not tell him if he asked direct. That at least, he’d learned, how little appreciated was the confrontation, even if his only goal was the discovery of her appetite, her delight. 
“Without you, she is quiet,” Mariko said.
“She is virtuous, a respected matron. Her bed is empty but she is quiet only in that regard. She’s known for her wit, her temper,” he said. Mary would like to be rendered so, even if she sulked to learn he’d shared his bed with another. 
“You miss her,” Mariko said. At least, he heard it thus. The word she chose was one she paused before uttering and he wondered how deficient she found Portuguese to her purpose.
“Less than I ought,” he admitted. “All is dross that is not Helena,” he added wryly, mocking his own inconstancy, ruing the comparison that Mariko posed, in every way lovely and quick, fair and bright and with untold depths he would never plumb.
“I do not understand, Anjin,” she said.
“A line from a play, from home,” he said. “I mean to say, I do my wife a disservice, but one I cannot regret.”
“Because you pillowed with me?”
“’Twas not only such for me,” he said. If he were fluent in her language, still he would struggle to explain to her what he had felt during their coupling, all words platitudes in their attempt to contain the ineffable. He would have felt embarrassed to describe it so except that he felt most himself surrounded by the sea and the horizon, by those things elemental—water and salt, air and star. Something in her answered him, even if it was an aspect she had withdrawn behind her bloody fence, and that was more powerful than any ecstasy.
“To a starving man, a crumb is a banquet,” she said.
“And now I know you have never had a hungry winter,” he replied. He’d had his fair share as a child. He didn’t mention the desperate straits they’d come to before being taken in by the Japans, the men turning in their hammock as if winding their own shrouds about their bony carcasses. “A crumb to a starving man is not a banquet but torture and lying with you was neither feast nor agony.” He leaned in and grazed her temple with his lips, traced the curve of her cheek with his forefinger.
“Sweet,” he murmured.
“You are gentle, Anjin. More gentle than I expected,” she said. He thought of how she’d become very still when he’d brought her palm to his lips and when he’d drawn her close to nestle against him as they rocked together on the cusp of abandonment. He thought of how she’d touched the scars on his back and arm, the ones on his ribs, his belly, the question in her eyes unasked, unconcealed.
“I would have you call me John,” he said. 
“I am not your consort,” Mariko said. 
“That is why I ask. It is not a demand,” he said.
“Only now,” she said. She looked at him and took a breath. Her lips parted, as if invitation. “John.”
“We agreed now is the only time there is,” he replied and pulled her to him, tasting his name on her tongue, sighing the pleasure of it into her mouth and stroking it down her back.
The cry she gave when he brought her to the crest was sharp, like a wheeling gull’s, and so shocking that he spent in the next instant, his groan swallowed into silence. He lay panting, his cock still hard within her, his hand at her waist when she moved to whisper in his ear.
“John. Only now.” 
Shout-out to @aquitainequeen for her post on early 17th century theater and what John could have seen/quoted. I went full-throttle Dr. Faustus, as she suggested he'd had loved that!
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jonathananubian · 1 year
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The Power of Names (SWs oneshot)
It was nice to sit with his brother and have a drink without being interrupted for once.
“Seventeen, how’s your General been treating you?” His brother asked as he sat down with a pint of ne’tra gal.
“Kenobi’s been running himself ragged again. Little di’kut is going to get himself killed.” He groused as he took a swig of his own ale.
Fordo chuckled and slapped him on the back once.
Nearby he could hear the younger generations ‘whispering’ to each other about the two of them. It made sense, they were ‘famous’ after all.
It took maybe three minutes before they were approached by a group of CTs, all of them painfully young looking compared to himself and his brother.
“Um, excuse me, Sirs! We have a question if, if it wouldn’t be imposing?”
17 snorted and Fordo gave him a look. “What’s the question?” For someone who was considered one of the biggest badasses in the GAR his tone was soft and even, almost gentle. The exact opposite of 17′s.
The CTs brightened. “How did you get your names, Sirs? It’s just... we don’t have any and we... well we don’t want to be just numbers anymore.” The kid seemed to recognize his mistake when 17 turned to raise a brow at him and quickly backtracked. “N-not that having a number for a name is a bad thing!”
Fordo let out a chuckle and smiled. “Udesii, vod’ike, you’re fine. He just looks intimidating.” He said with that calm smile that always made 17 want to punch him in the face. “My name was a gift from one of my brothers. He’s marched on now, but as long as I have this name to remember him by he will never be forgotten.”
17 hid his frown with another gulp of ale.
The CTs nodded along to Fordo’s words like it was sage wisdom. Young idiots.
“Wh-what about you, Sir?” The CTs turned their collective gazes towards him but only one of them seemed particularly eager for an answer.
Ah, the kid must not have a name yet, or maybe he wasn’t comfortable with the idea of a name. “When the aiwha-bait gave me my ‘Designation’ they decided that was that, that’s all I’d ever be.” His eyes flashed dangerously as a smug grin crossed his face. “So I’m going to take this name, Alpha-17, and I’m going to make sure they know that it’s mine. That even when I die, kicking and screaming and taking the bastards who did it with me, that no one else will ever fit the designation ‘Alpha-17′ again. Because it belongs to me.”
The looks of awe on their faces made him want to grimace. Honestly, they were far too young and untrained for war.
Fordo took over the conversation from there and 17 barely paid it any attention, lost in his own thoughts. Once the CTs were gone he side-eyed his brother.
“A ‘gift from a brother who’s marched on,’ huh? Odd way to refer to the Prime.”
Fordo gave him an amused grin. “But not completely untrue.”
17 couldn’t really deny that, so he didn’t try.
“...you could use the name he gave you, you know. It won’t make you any lesser if you do.” Fordo said quietly.
17 scoffed. “I’m not using anything that bastard left me.” He bristled.
Fordo reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder, a smile crossing his face. “Don’t worry, vod, I know why you don’t. I’ll keep your secret.”
17 was an asshole, that was certainly true. But Fordo knew the truth. He’d loved the Prime just as much, maybe even more since he was one of Jango’s favourites. 
But Names had power, and if 17 sacrificing his name meant that more vode realized that their numbers didn’t have to be a shackle- then he would gladly discard the last gift Jango had given him before his death.
That was just the kind of man he was.
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rapha-reads · 1 year
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PSA: this got suuuuper long, again, like every time I want to say something about Doctor Who and end up in places I was not expecting to end up.
Wait, so you're telling me that the Master's name/nickname* is Koschei? As in, Koschei the Deathless, also known as Koschei the captive (I'm down the Wikipedia rabbit hole). Slavic folklore antihero. Koschei with his soul hidden away, where not even him can find it back. Koschei the Death God, Pale God, Winter God... Oh, this is perfect. In the Aarne-Thompson-Uther Index**, Koschei is classed under AT 302, "The Giant Without A Heart", and AT 313, " The Magic Flight"... Oh, this is fascinating.
And on the other hand, the Doctor's nickname is... Theta Sigma. As in, theta, eighth letter of the greek alphabet, and according to Urban Dictionary (more rabbit holes, yey), "the pole around which all math pivots, especially calculus" / "the brainwave of being in a dream state were u can receive messages from other dimensions" and also (man I love UD, but also you guys are turning into what-does-my-name-mean, lmao) : "Theta's most often take life seriously, are a good judge of character but befriends anyone they meet. Theta's are very deep thinkers and feelers, meaning they contemplate every aspect of life and when they love, they love deep and long. Theta's are sensitive and look for the good in others. Theta's rarely accept defeat and dig in deeper if you tell them something can't be done. The last place on earth you ever want to be is to be the one that pushed a Theta in to giving up, as this is rare and to be accomplished you have to be very cold at heart."
Like I'm not even joking, that's literally the UD definition of what a Theta person is, and damn, was the definition crafted before or after the expanded DW story where they unveiled Thete ? Because that is a bit (A LOT) on the nose. And on the other hand, sigma, 18th letter of the Greek alphabet, used and overused in practically every scientific domain, the letter/sign at the end of a word (world...), and, again according to UD, and again I'm not inventing anything: "a popular, successful, but highly independent and self-reliant person", seriously what the hell. Either the writers who decided that the Doctor and the Master should have nicknames did a splendid research job, or the people who decide what slang means (linguists? Are traditional linguists in charge of explaining new, modern slang? I feel like it but also I'm trying to imagine my old linguistic professor updating Urban Dictionary and uuh... okay, where was I) were/are hardcore Whovians.
*I'm going with the theory that Time Lords have at least three names, their real name that only spouse/partner and parents know, the one that is so complicated to pronounce "only children with their hearts in the right place can understand it", a nickname for friends during the Academy years, and the name they choose when they graduate/are adults. So in the case of our favourite unhealthy toxic duo: unknow/Koschei and Theta Sigma/The Master and The Doctor.
**The Aarne-Thompson-Uther Index, or ATU Index, is a catalogue of folktales-types, it's a useful tool when you study folklore because it allows you to see all the tales that use the same archetypes/structures. Basically you can travel all around the world and find the same stories using the same narrative elements and tools, adapted to the language/religion/geography. It is fascinating.
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“Kiriona Gaia” is as much Gideon’s name as “Gideon Nav,” which is to say, not at all. Kiriona is a creation of her father, literally and figuratively both - she exists at his pleasure, and he’s given her his name... but “Gideon Nav” was named for a traitor and because she was owned by the Ninth House. What ownership does this person have over any of the names given to her by others?
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magentasnail · 2 months
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hey guys new diagnosis just dropped: EVIL AUTISM
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troythecatfish · 1 month
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oobbbear · 5 months
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I want to post this here too because I’ve seen it happen a few times
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Please understand that there are cultural differences and language differences, if you see this happening let the person clarify what they meant, that person might just not be familiar with words the western side of the internet use
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beif0ngs · 3 months
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alright look, i just wanna know who is the writer that came up with the dumbass idea of replacing the line “Ever since I lost my son, I think of you as my own” with “Lu Ten would have been proud to have you as his father” in this scene for the Netflix live action series???
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tokenducks · 1 month
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Charles “We’ve got literally forever to figure out what the rest means” Rowland
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andyqby19 · 9 months
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That name
They hated that name that some people called them. That single, three letter word, that was sometimes expanded to five letters or even more depending on who was saying it. That name that had come about one day in the canteen at work all those years ago, that one single incident that seemed to define them more than anything else they had ever done in the past forty or so years. It was a bit of fun…
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nightjarring · 1 year
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When I'm a small prey mammal and I've evolved to survive the barren rocky landscape by optimizing into a tan egg
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figueroths · 2 months
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not to be a high elf apologist but ​i have to say it’s actually kinda sweet that old man both expected to see gorgug again and made intentional (albeit goofy) effort to get his name right even if the best that’ll come out of his own mouth is grape nip
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bigskyandthecoldgun · 7 months
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steve having a cat that refuses to be touched by anyone but him (it tolerates robin by extension ofc bc it has accepted the reality that they’re a package deal), and eddie gets warned by the entire party that steve’s cat hates people who aren’t steve or robin. eddie’s fully prepared to get scratched the fuck up, but the cat’s almost as friendly with him as it is with steve. huh. weird.
meanwhile, steve’s poor cat is trying to figure out a way to get its owner to stop being so sad all the time, and when one of the strange people he spends time with makes steve smile, the cat is determined to keep him around at all costs.
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wearenotjustnumbers2 · 6 months
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This is the moment israeli soldiers shot and killed 9 year old Palestinian Adam al-Ghoul in Jenin in the West bank.
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They also killed another child today ( Basil al wafa) a bit later. See the child who pulled Adam, he had to hide because israeli forces were still shooting. In Jenin, no hamas, no ceasefire. When zionists say they want peace this is what they mean, Palestinians going back to being killed in silence.
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ocean-returns · 3 months
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You couldn't do a straightforward Human Nature plot set in the 12th Doctor era bc if 12 got fobwatched Clara would immediately steal his identity. Missy would also steal his identity. Absolutely insane Doctorfication possibilities.
Also, 12's forgotten memories canonically manifest as songs AND he's faceblind, so he wouldn't even have a dramatic dream journal full of half-remembered portraits, he'd just be hanging out in his university office shredding guitar solos while Bill (who he just met) is like "Wow, sick riff Professor Smith!" and he's like "Thanks, it's called I Dreamt I Rode a Dinosaur."
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slymanner · 9 months
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hurt my heart why dontcha.
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