#in the English dub they have British(?) accents

[lesbianslovenamari]

I was reading DunMeshi and was so confused by this phrase that I decided to look it up

(Do correct me if you think this isn’t accurate cuz I just used google)

But I find it frankly hilarious that Chilchuck is using slang from various parts of the British Isles out of nowhere in the last volume??

(I’ve now had someone explain to me that apparently it’s not uncommon for certain uncommon types of informal Japanese to be translated as slang from specific areas, typically around Britain, in English)

First of all I’d alr seen people jokingly headcanoning him as Irish on here (which was an idea I absolutely love)

ALSO I come from a part of the UK where I’m very familiar with the term ‘git’ but had never heard of a version with an e and I also had no idea it meant the same as ‘bastard’

(I have considered that this could just be the regular meaning of the word ‘get’ but I thought it wouldn’t grammatically make sense here so I assumed it was slang esp cuz he would totally call someone a git)

Anyways I’ve checked other translations and it’s not the same so I find it so funny that this one (which I’m pretty sure is the official English translation) included it

(^ another version I found online)

Anyways this is the translation I have and used as an example for this post, which I’m pretty sure is the official English translation:

Edit: Btw also check tags I kinda wrote this when I was drunk on sleep deprivation

[glauces-notebooks]

rewatching night at the museum for the first time in a while and wow. i missed this film.

[christine-ye]

Damn I didn't realize Laura is Bri'ish

[13eyond13]

L's accent would have been sexier if it was British. After all he grew up in England 😄

hahaha has Alessandro Juliani ever put on a posh British accent in anything before... we'd love to hear it

[punk-in-metal-detector]

Because I watched Across the Spider-verse in Czech I've been wondering ever since what did Miles' mom say after Gwen had greeted her for the first time on the roof because in Czech she complained about her using the informal singular word for 'you' which is impolite but that of course doesn't work in English and I doubt English even has a simple way of talking about this issue so although Spanish does have two different words for singular 'you' as well it can't probably be mentioned in a very short sentence so was this line originally in Spanish or was it about something completely different or like???

[milkbreadtoast]

imagine if clotted was voiced by mamoru miyano in jp.... (posts abt ouran and then clotted right after and thus has this thought) (associates miyamamo w blonds forever bc of ouran)

[somesmartsmarties]

Fellas slaps hands on table

Just came back from the movies

Saw “Puss in Boots: the Last Wish”

Banger movie, highly recommend 👍

[skyburger]

best day of my life was when vimms lair let other regional versions of games be on the site u have no idea how happy i was. like yes finally i dont have to send people digging through a huge archive.org dump of DS games so they can play professor layton & not suffer thru lukes american dub voice 😭

[emily84]

btw fans bitching about sanji having a british accent because in the shitty usamerican dub he speaks american and they cannot contemplate anyone not speaking like they do: i do realize you can't tell because you don't know anything outside of your own borders but sanji speaks a very working class english accent infused with the actor's own actual immigrant spanish islander accent, which suits the character very well actually and perfectly tempers his snobbishness about food and the flowery french names of his signature moves with the knowledge that he's had to work really fucking hard for that knowledge and you are reminded of it every time he opens his mouth. so to all those whining and complaining you are invited to kindly get the fuck off

[th3sungod]

i'm a firm believer in bruce wayne having a sort of transatlantic accent thanks to the fact alfred had been helping around the manor since he was four ( then was his full caretaker when he was eight ) and it definitely helps with his whole brucie wayne persona ( and hide the mask a tad more )

like, i can imagine him being asked to star in period films and/or getting random requests to voice for audio books and it all just adds to his whole public persona. Yeah, he's a billionaire, playboy, owner of Wayne Enterprises--but he's also curated this 'practical celebrity vibe where he's made a ton of cameos in stuff.

->furthering this, most of the robins ( especially dick and jason ) totally would've tried copying it to be 'cool like batman' and though it was conscious at first, they're now stuck with small transatlantic divots in their accents. ( and don't even get me started on how easily you can pick up an accent when english isn't your first language. which, in my mind, means both dick and damian have the strongest ones -- which only got farther after their time living in the manor with alfred )

half the public definitely think all the wayne kids couldn't possibly have the same accent as their adoptive father, while the other half offer them just as many movie, audio book, podcast invites, etc as they did bruce. the people don't know if it's faked or not, but no one seems to ask them about it.

so, brucie wayne -- heartthrob of anyone who even vaguely knows who he is, people's prince of gotham, sexiest man of the year as dubbed by CatCo Worldwide Media, and his silly little accent all because he he was raised by a british butler in good ol' gotham city. ( the old technicolor films alfred liked didn't seem to help the predicament ) who could never be batman, with a typical gotham accent ( standard us american with a jersey-esque twang, but not too much ).

even if the cowl was taken off right infront of live television, there's an interview with brucie trying to sound more 'american' and ends up just sounding like a valley girl. it couldn't possibly be him.

[undergoing-mitosis]

i am going to ramble about my death note accent and language headcanons (wammy's boys + light) okay thanks

L is very British. This fits surprisingly easily with Alessandro Juliani's incredible dub performance, but just lose the Canadian(?)ness. He still has that slight drawl and softly pronounces every consonant, so it's less bo'o'wa'a bri'ish and more autistic every consonant is pronounced British. Every language he speaks is practically perfect accent wise, he tends to be a bit of a chameleon. You can only tell that he's not native Japanese when he speaks it by a few lilts on certain sounds which aren't quite right, but even then it's only noticeable if you're looking for it. Knows an ungodly amount of languages fluently: he had a period of hyperfixating on learning a bunch between cases, before he got bored and moved onto advanced Go strategy.

Light is Japanese. Mamoru Miyano's voice is canon. That is all I have to say on the matter. He also knows a few other languages from his studies, including English, but knows very little about using these languages in practice, making his speech sound very formal and textbook-y.

Mello is from somewhere in east Europe, but given he's lived at Wammy's since he was around 5-ish he had completely lost his accent. So his base accent is British like the rest of them. Whatever his native language may be, he can understand it but not speak it. Mello tended to err on the side of more rough British, dropping consonants no matter how much Roger tried to make him speak properly. He never devolved into full roadman though. When he ran away to the US, he taught himself how to speak with an American accent. (this idea is directly from Crush on ao3 haha) Over the years of the time skip he perfected his accent, now it is indistinguishable from a native LA resident. However, he is still having to actively put this accent on. Post-Mafia, Mello doesn't have to put up a front of being purely American any more: he still does it out of habit, especially in public, but in private his voice will become an odd mix of American, British and a few muscle memory sounds that come from his mother tongue, creating a unique sound. When Mello loses his composure (mainly, when he gets pissed at Matt) he devolves into full British expletives. He is known he mutter "bloody hell" under his breath frequently. He can also speak Japanese fluently, along with French and bits and pieces of a few other European languages.

Matt is Canadian. I don't know, I just think a Canadian accent suits him. Picked up a few British turn of phrases at Wammy's, but given that he moved there later than Mello he kept his accent. The only Japanese he knows is osmosised from anime. He also picked up wingdings from that period of time when every email he sent would be in it for funsies.

Near is also British. Very much has that autism British accent, without the added drawl in L's, making him sometimes sound quite posh even though he isn't. Nate River is the most British name I have ever seen I'm sorry I don't make the rules. He learnt Japanese for the Kira case, and can speak it pretty fluently and without a strong accent, but as a rule of thumb he has no interest in learning languages: he'd rather spend his time making paper cities or studying quantum physics. An exception to this is code languages: he knows morse code fluently.

[tcustodisart]

do you have any voice claims for tav? (If you said before I'm so sorry) I think for mine I like ash from fantastic mr fox!

First of all that's a good looking Tav and the voice fits so well!

For Connie I imagine something like Prince Villem from the polish dub of the game Thronebreaker. It's soft but with a hint of patheticness. And because I'm insane about that game I can give you a voice sample directly from the game files lmao.

Additionally, he definitely doesn't have a british accent. While speaking english I imagine his accent to be somewhere in eastern european category, but not like ye olde american comical russian accent. And he lisps a little bit, sometimes he struggles with rolling his rs and tends to stutter when he gets nervous causing Astarion to make fun of him.

[vilevexedvixen]

~Languages~

Obviously BES is dubbed entirely in whatever language the audience is watching it in, but how much Japanese would Fowler actually be speaking and when?

Obviously during diplomatic exchanges and monologues towards the Shogun he would be speaking (Early Modern)Japanese (use of Late Middle Japanese phased out around the 16th century and Early Modern Japanese began use around the 17th century, so I'm not sure if it would be one, the other, a mix or even a particular dialect I haven't considered ^^'). Personally I'd love to hear what Japanese would sound like through a relatively thick Irish accent. But with Heiji? I reckon Heiji would know at least some (Early Modern) English and use it with Fowler and the other white men for trade purposes.

(Early modern English / the transition to modern English started bang on around the time BES takes place - the mid to late 17th century!)

That said, I reckon Fowler would want to speak Gaelic more than English where possible as a minor rebellion against the Tudors' attempts to subdue the Irish language. He'd only be using English with Heiji and other middlemen because it was the main language of trade. Fowler's english surname and his role in trade clearly shows he's willing to play into the power structures set up by the British to thrive within them, but I feel he only weilds them (as the English language) only insofar as they're useful.

In Fowler's conversation with God though, it'd be interesting if he spoke in Gaelic (specifically, Early Modern Irish). And just generally if he was voicing his inner monologue or any derrogatory thoughts others needn't hear he'd probably speak in Gaelic. Also, with how classical gaelic was taught and used in bardic poetry I'd love to try and learn it if only to rewrite some of Fowler's dialogue as bardic poetry! ^^

Also I'm excited to see how they handle Mizu's language barrier in London, and how much English Fowler might teach Mizu. Since everything is still dubbed entirely in English, it's easy to forget that Mizu probably wouldn't be fluent, so conveying any lack of understanding and miscommunications may be difficult when, to us, everyone's speaking the same language.

Plus, if Fowler's the one teaching Mizu English, surely Mizu would have a slight Irish accent when they speak English? Amusing to imagine ^^

Just ramblings me and my friend had about the show's time period :3

[calware]

logically i know jake english does not have a british accent. however i watched the voxus dubs as my first readthrough of homestuck and now i can never unhear it

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Since TWST is getting an anime, do you have any headcanons on the characters' English voices if it gets dubbed in English?

Chris Pratt as everyone 😌 ... Anyway, I swear I've been asked this every other week and I unfortunately don't have anything to say besides a shitty meme because I'm not very familiar with the VA scene, and even less so with English VAs. I honestly don't have a strong preference for who dubs which characters as long as they're not too far off from the originals (like, obviously no high-pitched baby voice for Leona)🤷‍♀️

All that I really ask for is that they don't give Rook a cartoonishly exaggerated French accent. That's literally it. I don't care if some characters have strong accents (I see you Riddle stans calling for British!Riddle), but I feel that a lot of Rook's hilarity comes from people being able to understand his individual words but not when they're strung together in his flowery arrangements. An accent could muddle that and give first time viewers the wrong impression of what he and other characters are like, especially when Rook is in the same dorm as Epel, another character who is localized as having a country accent (while it is an entirely different dialect in JP). It might make Vil come off as hypocritical, for example, if he harps on Epel's accent in the dub but allows for Rook to speak in an accent at the same time.

[dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice]

The Grim Reaper's Guide to Breaking Every Rule of the Universe /// Chapter 4

ANOTHER CHAPTER IN LESS THAN A WEEK. BRING ON THE GRINDDDDDD. I will warn that my motiviation for each of my fics comes in waves, so you'll probably get chapters in random chunks ngl. Enjoy!

Summary: When touring America for the sake of it, you go to stay with your aunt in New Orleans for a while, taking up a peaceful part-time job restoring objects. But a few weeks in, a package arrives containing an old radio that's seen better days, along with a note seemingly written by someone who thinks they could fist-fight the Devil.

What you didn't know, was the hell of a path that was now set out in front of you. Not fist-fighting the Devil, but instead a very smug radio host who would have no problem spending the rest of his days driving you up the walls.

But two could play that game.

Tags: Demiromantic-Asexual Alastor x Demiromantic-Asexual OC/Reader - 1920s/30s New Orleans - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Violence (It's Alastor what else)

Word Count: 4590

Warnings: Period-typical sexism, Period-typical attitudes towards neurodivergency, Swearing, Mentions of murder. MC'S RACE IS DEFINED DUE TO PLOT REASONS (also because she is based off my OC)

Taglist - comment or message to be added!

Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)

< Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 >

PART 1: Chapter 4

Unconditional Violence.

Bambsquabbled (Definition): A 19th Century American slang word essentially meaning stupefied or confounded. (Adjective)

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Wednesday, 18th December, 1929.

You had expected the additional Tuesday Mr LeBlanc had given you off to prepare yourself for the radio company to consist of you sleeping in until 11am. But dreams are short lived when you have an aunt who insists the ass-crack of dawn is prime time for everything.

You guessed it was fun to climb onto the roof of your relative’s vast home to collect the crystals you had both put out under the full moon, before the energy given to them was whisked away by the rays of the early golden hour. But when nerves settle in like the green spirals of nausea the night before, sleep takes the hand of another, leaving you to lay there with your over-active mind as it drags you through every possibility and event that could end up with you looking like an idiot in front of your new colleagues, or worse. Can’t think of much worse. But the universe will find a way.

It always does.

When Wednesday finally rolled around, it was barely 6am and you already couldn’t wait for it to be over. Your cousins had found you curled up on the bench swing, having dragged your duvet outside as you balled yourself up like a worm, sipping on the iced tea Agnes had bought you the day before in an attempt to settle your nerves. It did. A little.

And now here you were, the first half of your new workday having gone as smoothly as your awkward self could do.

Ethel, who’s desk was closest to yours, had dubbed you the quiet one after spending an hour running her mouth at you with barely a break for you to chime in. You had also already created quite a commotion on the third floor, a few people intrigued by the new ‘foreigner’. Well – as foreign as you can get when you’re from another English-speaking country, in the biggest cultural melting pot of a city had ever seen in your rural life. But they found you interesting enough.

The oddest thing you had experienced that day, however, was a strange request from your new boss – Mr Durham himself.

“I don’t suppose you know how to pull off a local accent?” he had asked when showing you the phone on your desk.

All you could do was blink at him. “I’m sorry?”

He gestured to the phone. “Since you’re my assistant, you’re gonna be filtering through the calls I get before passing them onto me. Now, there might be an issue if someone calls expecting to hear me, but instead find themselves speaking to a British girl on the other end. Some can be impatient and might end up putting the phone down before you explain.”

Memories of that one very unpleasant phone call flooded your mind. “Even if I answer: ‘Hello W.A.D Radio, this is Mr Durham’s assistant speaking’??” you replied monotonously.

“You’d be surprised.” He sighed. “But do you know how to anyway?”

Frowning, you recalled your time in the cities further in the North. “I guess..? A girl I rented a room from in New York insisted on teaching me for when we went into town, but I struggle to see how it’s important?”

The man put his hands together, pointing them at you in a prayer motion. “Just.. try it out? Talk like your colleagues when you see them, to see if you can get a hang of it – I’m sure they’ll be happy to help. Please?”

You gave him a wavering look, but sighed, finally giving in. “Fine, but they can’t make fun of me.”

He beamed, patting you on the back in satisfaction. “I’m sure they won’t! I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

And with that, you sat in your new chair, trying to pointedly ignore the sign at the other end of the room that pointed you to the fifth floor, and began your attempt to settle in.

--

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Wednesday, 8th January, 1930.

There wasn’t much to celebrate when the new decade rolled around. Gone were the so-called ‘Roaring Twenties’, when you would join your parents at the parties and balls they were invited to – when it was acceptable, of course; those higher up in the class hierarchy still grasped to the dwindling standard that children should be seen, not heard. The year you turned eighteen ended up being quite interesting, when the older women who had turned snooty at the sight of your teenage self wandering around their stately homes, tried to attempt a 180°, as they congratulated you reaching adulthood with strained smiles. But you paid them no mind, too busy staring at the paintings or statues that lined their corridors – a stark contrast to the more barren and plain wallpaper that coated the walls you grew up in.

But now that was far behind you, the English garden parties in the spring and summer that you adored so much were now a mere echo in the distances of your mind. The noises of tiny forks clinking on fine china as the little birds twittered in the trees now replaced by the sputtering and groaning of automobiles as you gripped the pole of the tram, your arms tight against your chest as you tried your best to not let the swaying of the vehicle toss you about into the crowd of packed bodies around you.

Making sure the scarf was tucked safely around your neck, you grasped the small briefcase in your hand – mentally preparing yourself for you first day back at the radio station after the new year. Unfortunately for Mr Durham, a small hurricane had passed over during the holiday, and radio stations across the city were temporarily silenced as their mechanics desperately attempted to repair the damaged towers. And also unfortunately for you, only the hosts were offered a couple days off as things got back up and running, though some still showed to prepare for their shows; you, on the other hand, were still expected to show up like any other day.

So here you were, pushing open the (now familiar) double doors, giving a small wave to the receptionist, who’s name turned out to be Diana, and the woman barely raised her hand in response as she continued to tiredly shift through the concerningly large stack of papers on her desk.

You were just about to climb the wide staircase when you heard her call your name (something you were very surprised she knew, considering her tendency to ‘accidentally’ throw paperwork in the bin on the daily), and your wedge heels clacked against the tile flooring as you stumbled slightly, turning to face her as her nasally voice echoed around the large lobby.

“It’s best you stay in the shadows today.” She warned cryptically. “Trouble’s in, and the mechanic’s not happy about the damages – Durham’s getting the brunt of it, but you’ll end up in the crossfire unless you hide out during breaktimes.”

All you could do for a moment was stand and stare, a million thoughts running through your mind. Mostly about who ‘Trouble’ was, and why Diana thought you couldn’t handle the guy and the other mechanic. You did handle the radio man at the repair shop after all, and speaking of the radio, you were quite proud to say you had finished the it in time for Christmas, and had shipped it off with a very passive-aggressive note that hinted for the man to basically never return. Luckily, Mr Boudreaux hadn’t replied to any of your letters since you had begrudgingly accepted the object, but you had suspected he had called the shop once or twice, and you had left Mr LeBlanc to deal with it, mostly because he was quite terrified you would call another customer every name under the sun the second they tried to give you trouble.

Glancing back and forth between Diana and the stairs, you mumbled a slow “Oookay…” before nodding your head and turning on your heel to hurry up the steps. Reaching the third floor, you didn’t stop in your path as you neared your desk, instead dropping your briefcase onto the wooden surface as you dashed by, striding towards the door that had the golden plaque engraved with ‘Mr B. Durham’ onto it. Grasping the handle, you turned the knob, swinging the door open, only to stop in your tracks as you were met with a very empty office.

You frowned. It must be really bad if your boss was no where to be seen. Whipping around, you scanned the main room for him, but only saw a few of your colleagues, the rest still yet to arrive – you were normally expected to be in early to handle Durham’s work as soon as he began.

Throwing your coat and scarf on your chair, you strode back towards the stairs, readjusting the suspenders of your wide-legged trousers as you practically jogged up the steps, and ended up rolling the sleeves of your loose blouse to your elbows as you tried to catch your breath.

On the fourth floor, you spent a couple minutes checking all of your boss’s usual haunts or hiding places, even going as far as interrogating a couple of the workers there for his whereabouts. It wasn’t until some blonde guy that came wandering down the steps from the fifth floor that you got your answer, the man looking up to take in your slightly dishevelled and feral appearance with wide eyes as he stammered out that he was in one of the radio booths. To his further horror, you patted him on the cheek with a thanks as you rounded him, ready to take another flight of stairs to reach your – apparently – floundering boss.

Ignoring the embarrassed sputtering of the man behind you, you eye the sign nailed to the wall, the painted hand pointing upwards with a very bold ‘FIFTH FLOOR’ next to it.

“Don’t go up there until I say you’re ready, okay?” Mr Durham’s words echoed through your mind.

Buuuuut, he did say he wanted to discuss the stuff you brought in your briefcase ASAP.

Yea that’ll be your excuse. You can deal with his complaining later.

Reaching your heel-clad foot out, you took the first step, almost like you were expecting an axe to come swing down and impale your forehead. But when nothing happened, you shrugged, and simply continued up.

Recalling the path your boss had taken you on during the initial tour, you managed to find the dreaded corridor that supposedly housed your greatest nightmare.

Extroverted people.

Yeesh.

At that thought, you did consider turning around, but your urge to drag your boss’s arse back downstairs drowned that thought out, and you carried on.

Surprisingly, it was quiet, but at the same time not so much when you remembered that most of them were plating their somewhat wealthy behinds on their armchairs at home as the rest tried to fix the issues of the storm.

Reaching one of the lit rooms, you heard raised voices.

“–really expect me to know? –” “– supposed to be on in an hour! How is that –”

Cautiously, you peeked around the corner to try and witness the potential fiasco. And what a fiasco it was.

Wires, cables, and any other random parts that were used for radio technology were strewn across desks, tables and even the floor. Amongst these were two men, and there was only one you recognised.

Just like you had seen him every day for the past month, Mr Durham was stood in his washed-out blue suit and concerningly shiny shoes, and at this point one hand was on his hip, whilst the other rubbed tiredly at his face as whom you assume was the mechanic, was blabbering the poor man’s ear off as he ranted on and on about random parts and problems and he gestured frantically at said random parts and problems. Wait – nevermind, you recognised one and a half.

The man from across the street was here, with his back to you. Again. For fuck’s sake.

This time he was back in the seat you first saw him in, this time with a few strands of dark-brown hair out of place, curling slightly as if to rebel against the intense styling he had put it through. Peeking your head out slightly further, you managed to get a good look at him.

Well for one, he was a triangle. Stupidly broad shoulders that narrowed into a stupidly small waist (triangle), with lanky legs long enough that you could probably chop them off and fashion them into skis. Despite his face not revealed, you could see the semi-light tan on his hands, that were busy turning knobs and dials as he listened in to whatever was coming through the headphones on his head. He was dressed to impress, to say the least, in smart, dark-grey trousers, who’s ironed out edges looked as if they could slice through skin. His high collared cream shirt was tucked away under a relatively tight looking reddish-tan waistcoat, and to top it all off, you could see the back of the black ribbon that was most likely tied in a stupidly even bow.

You didn’t want this guy to sense your staring, so you opted to look back at the other two men who were still chuntering on about god knows what. Stepping into the light that flooded through the glass, you wave slightly to try and get your boss’s attention. A couple seconds passed, and you watched as the mechanic kept glancing at you and Mr Durham, until eventually he nudged the other man on the shoulder, pointing you out.

Turning his head, Mr Durham’s eyes met with yours, and you raised your hand with a questionable thumbs up to see if all was good, only to watch in slight confusion as his eyes widened, and he whipped his head rapidly between you and the faceless man sat at his desk, before marching over to the door and pulling it open a crack, sticking his head out.

“Hey uh,” he half-whispered, surprisingly nervous at your presence. “what’re you doing here?”

You lowered your voice to match his. “You said to come find you as soon as possible this morning, you know, to go over those statistics from that other station?”

Realisation dawned on the man’s face, and he reached up to drag his hand down the side of it. “Shit I forgot,” he cursed, and glanced over his shoulder before facing you again. “I’ll – uh… I’ll be down as soon as I get this sorted. Marty’s givin’ me a run for his money right now and the second Al takes his headphones off I’m gonna feel like I’m entering an early grave.”

Surprised, you eyed the man sat at the desk, who looked far too calm to be threatening anyone right now. “Ok… I guess it can wait. I’ll bring you some coffee up!” you chirped, and Durham went to call out that it wasn’t necessary, but faltered with a frown as he realised you were already halfway down the corridor.

--

Balancing the tray of cups and steaming jug the best you could, you reached the final step, retracing your route to the radio booth that your boss was probably getting murdered in. Walking up, you waited patiently until Mr Durham noticed you, and watched as he reluctantly trudged over to open the door.

Taking your first step in, you were hit with the very potent smell of strong black coffee, as if someone had some brewing every day, and you figured you had made the right call of fetching the same beverage as you placed the tray down on one of the tables.

The mechanic was still going off on one, and you watched out of the corner of your eye as you slowly began pouring the coffee into the cups, listening to the greasy-looking man speak.

“– there’s literally no reason that I can find that’s causing the local outage!” he spouted at your frowning boss. “The boys have already fixed the aerial, and David’s currently on-air and that’s working perfectly fine, so it has to be something in this room!”

During the man’s tirade, you noticed the rustling of papers, and looked over to see the faceless man again, still at his desk, but his hands were fiddling with no purpose, and his head was turned to the left slightly, showing his high cheekbone and the edge of his thin circular glasses.

Looked like someone else was listening in too.

Biting your smile down, you turned back towards the cups in your hand, only to have a glint of light pierce the corner of your eye, and you looked in the opposite direction to a large wooden box, with one of the panels removed, displaying the endless wires and springs that coiled and wound in every direction. But you weren’t looking at that, you were instead looking at the screwdriver that was very prominently glinting in the shine of the ceiling light. This must be the painstakingly obvious problem that the mechanic had painstakingly missed.

Giving a quick glance over at the men, you waited until they faced away, scrapping about the wire pile on the floor, and you reached for the wooden teaspoon on your tray, and inched towards the box. Knowing wood doesn’t normally conduct electricity, you raised your hand, testing it anyway against the hanging wires to see if they were live. Seemingly not, you stuck your hand further in, and began nudging at the tool, slowly loosening the wires around it as you dragged it along the bottom of the box.

When they had deemed your silence as suspicious, the mechanic and Durham turned round, only to see you elbow deep in some very expensive equipment.

“Whoa, whoa, WHOA!” the mechanic cried as he rushed over. “The hell are you doin’??”

Instead of jerking your arm back out and apologising to the man who was slowly turning purple, you gave the screwdriver one last flick, and the three of you watched as it dropped over the edge and fell to the floor with a clatter. Moments of silence passed as you all stared at it, until you decided to explain.

“It was tangled in the wires, which would’ve prevented the electricity flow,” you said plainly. “Plus, if you had tried to power it all up, it could’ve set the place on fire.”

All the mechanic could do was stare down at the tool, but Mr Durham had decided to approach, and bent down to pick up the tool.

“Nice one.” He complimented, turning the object in his hands. Though the warm smile he had put on for you quickly vanished, as his eyes set upon the name engraved on the wooden handle. He pointed at it. “This has your name on it Marty.” He said lowly, his blue eyes turning dark as he regarded the paling man with a look of thunder.

Seeing the outcome, you gestured nervously to the beverages on the table. “Coffee’s there, Mr Durham, I’ll see you downstairs.”

Just as you walked around him, he called your name. “Take ten minutes to yourself and grab some tea, whilst I deal with Marty here.”

Nodding, you curtly took your leave, swinging the door open as you power-walked out, failing to see the sharp pair of eyes following you from where they were sat at the desk.

--

You found the break room housed several curiosities that you were yet to explore in America. Apart from the atrocious fact that the tea station lacked the Yorkshire brand, you found yourself poking at what they called a teabag. Yes, surprise, surprise, the Americans invented something tea related before England or even China did, but you had to admit it was rather useful in helping you not gag at the slimy tea leaves that sat at the bottom of most of your beloved brews.

With the table to your right, you leant your hip against it, your back against the door as you rather noisily mixed the spoon around your large mug, making sure the sugar was dissolved properly before you went to strain the teabag. Lifting it carefully out of the boiling water, you gingerly held your other hand out below it to catch any stray drips from hitting the floor, scanning the room in front of you for a bin that you could chuck it into.

What you foolishly had failed to do however, was hear the footsteps that grew in volume from behind, and you hadn’t realised anything until a very uncomfortable prickle hit the side of your neck, as a very unwanted presence loomed over you. Though, that didn’t last long, as the presence decided to deafen you instead.

“So YOU’RE the new assistant!”

A banshee screech raised from your throat, the teabag flying through the air and onto the floor by your feet as you basically jumped three feet up. Instinctively, however, you didn’t realise what was happening until one elbow flew upwards, slamming into the nose of the man behind you, the other flying round to collide with his ribs. Teaspoon armed in hand, you spun around to face your assailant, only to step on the soggy teabag that was still on the floor, and you cried out again as you slipped and slammed into a very firm chest. Eyes screwed shut, you felt the two of you fall, though quickly broken by the table behind you.

Relieved that you were no longer falling, you swiftly blinked your eyes open, your dark brown ones meeting a pair of equally matching brown. Moments passed as you took in the scene in front of you, and you realised you finally had a face to put to the lanky man from earlier.

Said man was groaning as he rubbed at his nose, his lips twisted into a grimace as he checked for blood. What you noticed however, was the several poignant glances the man took to your right, and you followed, only to see you hand raised, teaspoon in hand, pointing down at him as if you had a machete, ready to stab the lights out of him.

A small gasp left your throat at the realisation, and you quickly pushed yourself off, pointedly ignoring the grunt the man let out as you knocked at his ribs. Taking several steps back, you distanced yourself from him. He had gotten close before, he wasn’t about to do so again.

You watched as he pushed himself up on his elbows, using the table as a support as he stood. To a disturbingly tall height might you add. Looks like you did just reach his nose after all.

“I’m uh,” you started as you eyed him, teaspoon machete still in hand, strangely, you instinctively used the southern accent you learnt – it was the one you used with strangers. “Sorry. I didn’t expect you to sneak up on me like that.” Reaching over, you snatched up a napkin, offering it to him. “Y’haven’t got anything…?”

Dark eyes flitting between you and the outstretched napkin offering, you watched as something seemed to switch in his demeanour, and a natural smile fell across his tan face as he raised his hands in mock surrender.

“No, no, don’t worry, it’s quite alright.” He assured, and you blinked at his prominent transatlantic accent. “I figured that wasn’t the best way to say hello to a stranger!” he laughed as he smoothed down his crumpled waistcoat. Reaching his lanky arm out whilst tucking the other behind him, he offered his hand out in greeting. “The name’s Alastor, my dear. And who do I have the most entertaining pleasure to be speaking to?”

You stared at his hand, then flicked your eyes up to him, scanning his grinning face with vigour.

Where, oh where, had you heard that voice before?

Your silence seemed to confuse this Alastor guy, however, and his eyes darted around in confusion as you continued to stare. From what you could see, he had come to a very wrong conclusion about your silence, and leaned over at you slightly, bringing his face level with yours.

“Cat got your tongue, my darling?” His growing cheshire grin reminding you of two very similar people. “You clearly must find me that dashing if your this speechless, haha!” he chortled, the condescension rolling off him in waves.

Oh, you knew exactly where this guy was from.

Narrowing your eyes, you scrutinised him as you quietly muttered out a single word.

“Boudreaux.”

Alastor blinked, eyes darting around your face, before raising a hand to cup at his ear. “I hate to say but I didn’t quite catch that!” he exclaimed rather loudly.

You felt your brows begin to furrow, so you raise your voice slightly. “I said, Boudreaux.”

Oh you did it now. Sparkles seemed to glitter behind his chocolate eyes as he perked up with glee, straightening up to his full height. “So you do know me after all! I was starting to think you simply had nothing going on in that head of yours!”  he simpered as he tilted his head to look down at you.

Despite his clear mocking, you remained quiet for a moment longer, until you couldn’t hold it anymore.

“…You work in a radio station.” You stated flatly.

Alastor looked around, acting as if he had just realised as such. “Yes I am quite aware!” he affirmed in an obvious tone. “Did you want an award for that observation?”

You had to refrain from gaping at this man’s audacity. “… Couldn’t you have just fixed it yourself?”

The man blinked at you. “Fixed what now?”

Oh, this was it. Stepping forward, you didn’t stop until you face was a hand-lengths away from his, and you watched with satisfaction as he shifted at your invasion of his space – talk about a hypocrite as someone who clearly loved to invade the space of others. Staring at the man dead in the eye, you fully dropped the southern accent, your Yorkshire one coming back through full force.

“Your mum’s radio.” You stated simply, raising your brows to regard him with a condescending look that matched his.

You had expected him to brush it off, laughing when he realised who you were. What you hadn’t expected for his pupils to blow wide, his eyes darkening as they narrowed, scrutinising your gaze with his own, and you suddenly felt a little uneasy.

“Oh,” he said lowly. “It’s you.”

Keeping your gaze levelled, you gripped the spoon harder in your hands. That is, until your name was called.

The two of you straightened up, you leaning to look around Alastor as he spun on the spot, the both of you facing Mr Durham, who was looking between the two of you rather nervously. He called your name again.

“C’mon.” he said, refusing to take his eyes off Alastor. “Let’s go over those papers you brought.”

Without a second thought, you darted for your mug of tea, grabbing it along with an almost empty bottle of milk to put in it as you strode around Alastor, feeling the hand of your boss as he put his arm around your shoulder as he quickly led you away, and the back of your head prickled, definitely feeling the sharp eyes on your retreating back this time around.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ALASTOR'S HERE RAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! Watch me disappear from the face of the earth for a week cuz of my executive dysfunction lmao (Blame my adhd not me she's a seperate entity at this point.)

I hope you've enjoyed what I've given you so far, see you soon for Chapter 5!!

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