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whatsnewalycat · 7 months

Text

RUTHLESS

Stepdad Joel Miller x Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Word Count: 5.1k+

Warnings: DDDNE, literally just a fucked up stepdad/mom's bf fantasy, could read "mom" as tess but I don't name her or assign physical features to her or reader, post-outbreak, reader is def over 18 but not by much so yeah age gap, NON-CONSENSUAL, power imbalance, unethical d/s dynamic, slapping, spanking, punishment, orgasm delay/denial, humiliation, degradation, face fucking, anal sex, little to no aftercare

A/N: Category is "That old man would fucking never... but if he did..." Please be mindful of the warnings and don't read if it might trigger you. Sorry, mom. Sorry, God.

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Within the secluded world of your big noise-canceling headphones, you scan through silence on the CB radio, pausing for a few seconds on each channel before moving on to the next.

Channel 11: Nothing.

Channel 12: Zilch.

Channel 13: Nada.

When you turn the dial to channel 14, though, you pick up chatter and start transcribing.

Channel 14 7/17/22 19:56

—got a bundle of carrots today. Budaydas, onions, too. Want me to come by tomorrow and make some stew? Over.

Got enough for the kids? Over.

And leftovers. Over.

I’ll be at Margie’s around supper time. Over and out.

The air goes silent.

After a minute goes by with no follow up transmissions, you glance at the clock. 7:58. Almost time for check-in.

You tune the radio to channel 32 and review your transcription.

Many people speak in code, encrypting their messages in seemingly benign conversations. To the untrained ear, they’re normal exchanges, people making small talk about jobs and rations and kids. Goodnight calls and check-ins that use predictable inquiries to convey messages.

—got a bundle of carrots today. Budaydas, onions, too. Want me to come by tomorrow and make some stew?

Most of it you can translate from memory. The drug traffickers that use channel 14 have frequented the same lingo for years. Likely because of the high turnover rate of personnel. There’s less confusion that way. Confusion in communication raises more alarm bells for eavesdroppers than using the same code words across the board.

You flip through your cipher for channel 14, searching for budaydas, but find nothing. Scrunching your nose up, you say the word out loud, “Budaydas. Buh-day-das.”

Carrots, onions, budaydas in a stew.

“Oh,” you nod in understanding, then jot down your translation, muttering under your breath, “Fucking Boston accents.”

(Someone) picked up tranquilizers, benzos (budaydas = potatoes), and opioids. The caller wants to meet up and trade as previously agreed.

The rest of it is easy enough to interpret without the use of a cipher. You probably don’t need to write down the translation, but do it in case your mom or Joel need to reference the notes at a later date.

There’s enough to distribute product across their network of dealers in Boston QZ, plus more to stockpile. They’ll meet at their hub in Area 1, Margaret St, at midnight.

You exhale through slack lips, glancing at the clock as it ticks over to 8:00, then pick up the microphone and hold down the speak button.

“Radio check.”

A few seconds go by before you hear a familiar gruff voice crackle over the radio waves into your ears, “Loud and clear. Over.”

Your nostrils flare when you hear him. Joel Miller. The bane of your existence. Your de facto stepfather, only because you don’t really remember life without him by your mom’s side.

This isn’t to say he’s a father figure to you by any means. The two of you never shared the kind of heartwarming paternal bonding moments you read about in books. That would require warmth and vulnerability, which he distinctly lacks.

Once, when you were maybe 11 or 12, you made the mistake of calling him Dad. The way he looked at you made you feel like dirt. Fire burning behind his dark eyes, he corrected you with one stern syllable that taught you your place: “Joel.”

You sit up straighter and take a moment to gather yourself before responding.

“Did you get your message from Uncle Paul? Over.”

“I did. Over.”

“How’s the weather in Kansas City? Over.”

“Cloudy. Over.”

Fuck.

You swallow around nothing, then clear your throat and ask, “And Grandma, how’s she? Over.”

“Fine, just busy is all.”

You exhale a sigh of relief that melts the tension between your shoulders. Joel continues.

“Anything new with you? Over.”

Tapping your fingers on your notes, you answer, “Rumor has it the market is gonna be busy tomorrow. Harvesting time, I guess. Other than that, same old same old. What about you? Staying out of trouble? Over.”

It feels strange, having a casual conversation with him like this. Even if it’s just a data exchange dressed up as a casual conversation.

There’s a long pause, then he says, “Fine, yeah. Well. See you soon. Over ‘n’ out.”

Stiff as a board. Cold as ice. Joel Miller, everyone. Round of applause.

You snort, rolling your eyes as you unplug the headphones and toss them on the table. It takes a moment for you to re-acclimate to your surroundings.

The dingy two-bedroom apartment is quiet and still. Outside, the setting sun casts the world in a dark golden haze. A FEDRA patrol vehicle roars down the street, broadcasting the curfew alert from a loudspeaker. Faint shouting from a few units down momentarily piques your curiosity before you decide it’s none of your business.

You stand from the chair and reach your hands above your head, lungs expanding in a powerful yawn, then take a lap around the apartment to stretch your legs.

Something catches your eye when you walk by the entry. A note slipped under the doorframe. On the outer fold, your name is written in a familiar scrawl.

Your heart skips a beat.

You pick it up and unfold the paper, revealing an invitation.

I miss you. Come over when you’re done surfing the airwaves. XO, Bert.

Warmth trickles down between your thighs. A smile spreads across your face. You glance up at the door, then to the CB radio and scanner on the desk.

Indecision churns in your belly.

You are explicitly forbidden from leaving the apartment while your mom and Joel are out on runs. A safety precaution you’ve protested dozens of times to no avail. They expect you to stay put and warn them if you notice any signs of potential danger. In return, you receive a cut of the profit and a roof over your head. Security, in short. Which is more than most could say.

That being said… You break this rule from time to time, when the circumstances allow.

Like when the Fireflies and FEDRA have been quiet for weeks and there are no smoke signals in sight. Like when you’re five nights into a seven day seclusion and think you might die of boredom if you don’t get the fuck out of here. Like when your boyfriend slips a note under the door and asks you to come over.

You look down at the paper in your hands, re-reading the words I miss you.

Fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen?

—

Just before midnight, you wander down the hallway to your unit, jelly knees wobbling with each step. As you absentmindedly trace your tingling lips, still puffy from kissing, you unlock the door and push it open, then frown.

The lights are on.

They were off when you left, you’re sure of it. When you step further into the apartment, your foot catches on something. A backpack. This faint buzzing starts behind your ears as you blink at it, wishing it would go away.

Motherfu—

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Your stomach plummets to the floor when you hear his voice. A thick knot of panic tightens around your windpipe as you look up to find Joel standing just a few paces away in the living room.

He stares you down, dark eyes glowing with fury, and questions you again, “Where were you?”

“N-nowhere.”

The blatant lie sits sour on your tongue. His lips purse, so you fumble out another, “I went for a walk.”

“A walk,” he repeats, tone disbelieving, “You went on a walk after curfew wearing that?”

You look down at your clothing. A short skirt and tank top. Your throat bobs in a guilty gulp, then you meet his eyes again and nod.

“And when did you leave on this ‘walk?’”

Your mind whirs as you try to come up with an answer. It feels like a trap. You try to calculate an answer that will provide minimal blowback.

“I don’t know, maybe twenty minutes ago?”

“Try again.”

The electricity humming through you takes on a red, frustrated edge, and you snip, “I don’t fucking know, dude. It was a while ago, I wasn’t paying attention. Where’s my mom?”

“Your mom sent me here to make sure you were alive,” he says pointedly, taking slow, deliberate steps towards you, “We’ve been tryin’a reach you for three hours. I got here an hour ago. That’s a helluva lot longer than twenty minutes, ain’t it?”

Shrinking into yourself, you search his face. Jaw set, eyes boring into yours. Waves of anger roll off him as he approaches, and you remember all those rumors you heard about him on the radio. The fear you heard in grown men’s voices when they recounted run-ins with that bitch and her guard dog.

You remember what Bert said about him: He’s fucking ruthless.

“You aren’t supposed to leave the apartment when we’re outside the QZ.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

Your heart thuds against your ribcage.

Joel has never directed this kind of outright anger towards you. Sternness, sure. Contempt, maybe. But this is different. You’re in fucking trouble.

There has to be a way out of this conversation.

You drop your gaze to the floor and ask, “Is my mom ok? Did something happen to her?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Righteous indignation straightens your spine and wills you to meet his eyes again, “I’m not saying shit until you tell me what happened to her.”

“She sprained her ankle, but she’s fine. She’s safe,” he tells you, then takes another step forward, “Why did you leave?”

You respond by rolling your eyes.

“Answer the question.”

With an irritated sigh, you search his face, then tell him, “You don’t know what it’s like to be here. Isolated for days or weeks at a time. I fucking hate it. It’s so lonely and boring, I feel like I’m losing my mind—”

“Oh, cry me a goddamn river.”

You scowl at him, staring him down, “Fuck you.”

“Watch your fucking mouth, you disrespectful little shit.”

Red flashes through your field of vision, hot and angry and defiant. You gather the moisture in your mouth on your tongue and spit at him. It splats on his cheek.

His face twists up with fury for one second before he charges, closing the distance between you. The impact pushes your back to the door with a thud.

He grabs your jaw, fingers digging hard into the soft flesh of your cheeks. His eyes are hot coals, burning into you. The muscles in his jaw twitch, nostrils flaring, breath shaky.

When he speaks, it’s through gritted teeth, “You don’t know what it’s like out there.”

“No, because you won’t let me fucking leave—”

“You should be fucking grateful, you know that? Being here is a fucking cake walk. Your mom ‘n’ I have seen things, done things—horrible things you couldn’t even imagine,” he husks, searching your face, grip tightening so hard it makes you whine. “We keep you safe, and all we ask is that you stay put and keep a lookout for us when we’re gone.”

Even if you wanted to respond, you can’t. The vice grip he has on your face renders your mouth immobile.

All you can do is stare back at him, studying his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. Full lips pinched thin as he glowers at you.

You notice how close his broad body is to yours. The heat radiating off his tightly-wound muscles onto your skin. His ragged breath scatters across your face and wafts into your open mouth. You taste the bootleg whiskey on his breath and your pulse jumps.

Warmth drips down your spine and pools at the center of you, a horrifying sensation that makes you squirm.

“Were you with your little boyfriend? Hmm?” he asks, eyes darting around your face, trailing down to your body for a moment before returning, “That boy downstairs? Figure you musta been, on account of how you’re dressed.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t. But it doesn’t matter, because it’s not really a question.

“Abandoning your post to go out and get fucked, is that it?”

A whimper slips from your throat as heat swells beneath your skin.

He wouldn’t be treating you like this if your mom was here. He wouldn’t say these things or be this close to you. Knowing this, you understand that whatever is happening right now is wrong.

You also understand that you like it.

You hate that you like it, and hate him for making you like it, but you like it all the same.

Letting go of your face, he demands, “Answer me.”

“Fuck you.”

Before you even realize what’s happening, you feel a sharp, hot sting on your cheek and yelp.

He fucking slapped you.

“Wrong answer.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you retort, bringing your hand to the welt forming on your cheek, “I’m gonna tell her.”

“Yeah? You gonna tell her I found you sneaking in at midnight, too? That you compromised our safety to go out ‘n’ get dicked down?”

You harden your gaze on him, lips pressing together with disdain.

“She wouldn’t like that, would she?” he asks, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “She’d probably kick you out on your ass.”

“She wouldn’t. You guys need me.”

“And you need us,” he counters, searching your face, “So what do we do to make sure this doesn’t happen again? Hmm?”

A dozen inappropriate images flash through your head, each more lurid than the last. An electric, tingling feeling shoots out from the base of your spine and works through your extremities.

You swallow hard and shake your head, “I won’t do it again.”

“If I don’t punish you, you will. You’re fucking disrespectful. Selfish. You need discipline.”

Again, a flash of frustration taints the world red. Crossing your arms over your chest, you scoff, “Just because you’re fucking my mom doesn’t mean you’re my dad. I am an adult and you are not the boss of me.”

He sighs and takes a step back, planting his hands on his hips. His gaze drifts around the empty apartment, jaw gnashing back and forth for a moment before he returns to twist the deadbolt closed and grab your arm.

“What the f—” you swat at him and dig your heels into the floor, but it does nothing as he drags you by his steel grip, pulling you stumbling along behind him into the living room.

He sits on the couch and forces you to lay over his bent knees, one big hand securing your wrists behind your back while the other flattens against the swell of your ass cheek. As soon his touch leaves, it returns, a sharp snap tingling across your skin.

Shocked doesn’t even begin to describe the chaos throbbing through you.

“You’re right, you’re an adult. And I’m not your dad,” he asserts, lifting his hand. Your whole body clenches in anticipation. “But as long as you live here, I am the fucking boss of you,” he slaps your ass again, “Do you understand me?”

It surprises you when you hear yourself sob, “I’m sorry—”

He does it again and again, hissing, “Yeah, you’re fucking sorry now, aren’t you?”

Each firm slap he lays down is firm, unflinching. Ruthless.

It overwhelms your senses and becomes the only thing you feel. The universe world narrows down to just his palm on your skin. The reliable and exquisite pain ringing through you. Smack. Smack. Smack.

Every time he draws his hand back, you don’t think you can handle it again. But you do.

Soon, you start to crave the impact. His skin on your skin. You can’t feel the start or end of it. It’s just him and you. Pain and pleasure. Sobs and moans, all blended together.

Far away, you hear him chide you for not wearing underwear beneath your skirt. Then he asks, “Are you fucking enjoying this?”

Too ashamed to admit it, all you do is whimper in response.

Smack.

He sucks in breath through his teeth, then grabs the meat of your ass and rumbles, “You do, don’t you?”

When his grasp on your wrists releases, you pull your elbows beneath you and look over your shoulder at him, watching as he spreads your cheeks apart and stares down between your legs. You’re probably shiny and wet with the evidence of your desire.

His lips form an ‘o’ when he kneads you back together and spreads you apart again. The motion teases all your hungry nerves and makes you moan. It feels so fucking good.

You realize then that he’s grown stiff against your belly, hard cock leaving no mistake.

“You fucking like it, too, don’t you?” you ask him, your voice breathy and amused, “I can feel how turned on you are.”

Slipping a hand between your bodies, you press against his strained zipper. His cock jumps at the contact, and he groans, dragging his fingers through your slick lips.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes fluttering closed as you nod in approval. He works your clit in steady, firm circles while you smooth your hand along the big bulge in his pants, letting out a string of whines at the bubbling pleasure inside you.

You lose yourselves here, both of you squirming and panting and petting the other. So wrapped up with how fucking good it feels that you forget to feel ashamed.

When he smacks your ass now, you croak through clenched teeth, “Fuck yes.”

He likes that you like it. You can tell by the way he groans and throbs beneath you. This knowledge inspires your pulse to pound and your muscles to tense.

“Joel,“ you whimper, opening your eyes to meet his heavy-lidded gaze, “I’m gonna fucking come, don’t stop—”

“Did I give you permission to do that?” he asks, slowing his touch to a torturous rhythm, “Did I say you could come?”

You shake your head and whine, “Please, Joel, please—”

“Are you sorry for what you did?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Are you gonna do it again?”

“No no no, I won’t, I promise, I’ll be a good girl—”

He groans, tossing his head back as you frantically rub at the bulge in his pants. Your palm chafes against the stiff denim, but you don’t stop. You would do this for eternity if it meant he’d let you find your release.

“Oh yeah, you’ll be a good fucking girl for me?” he asks, touching you just soft and slow enough to twist your nerves ragged, but keep your orgasm out of reach.

“I will, I promise. Please, Joel,” you whisper, holding his gaze as your face gets all hot, “Please make me come, please please—”

“Show me you mean it.”

He doesn’t need to explain what he means. While he takes off his jeans, you scramble off his lap and kneel between his spread knees. His eyes stay glued to yours as you slide your hands up his thighs.

Batting your lashes at him, you wrap your lips around his swollen cock. He fills your mouth. He feels smooth but hard against your tongue. He tastes salty and heady and when you inhale the musk of him, you moan around his girth.

Nodding, he anchors his grip behind your head and bucks his hips, forcing his dick down your throat. When you gag, he doesn’t let up, but thrusts into the sensation, grunting, “Fuck. Yes,” before letting you pull off, gasping for air.

You wrap your hands around him, all shiny and slick with drool, and pump his length for a moment while you catch your breath, then take him in your mouth again.

This time, you sit up taller. You relish the stretch of your lips as you bob up and down. Savor the tug of his fingers curled tight in your hair. Memorize the sound of his huffs and grunts as he fucks your face. The wet squelching gurgle of his cock squeezing down your windpipe.

“Look at me,” he orders, so you do.

He’s all blurred from your watering eyes, but you can make out the dark irises and stay locked onto them while relaxing the muscles of your throat to take him easier. When you make an enthusiastic humming noise, he groans. It’s wanton and lusty and lights a fire in your belly.

Joel has never treated you this hard or soft. His regard for you has always been callous. Closed-off. Indifferent. With your assistance on the radio, he treated you like a tool for survival. Before that, or even in-between smuggling runs, he treated you like some kind of a household pet he had little regard for. Your mom’s responsibility, never his.

For years and years, you ached for more.

When you were younger, you used to sit up nights and wonder if he’d ever consider you his daughter. He wouldn’t, though. He won’t.

But this is something.

Distinctly, you want to please him. Be the best he ever had. You want to sink your claws into his brain and leave your mark for years to come. You want him to look at you after this and feel a flicker of desire and self-loathing. You want him to think of you when he fucks your mom. You want him to hate how you made him feel.

When you pull off him and start to work his soaked length with your hands, you pant, “Does that feel good? Am I doing a good job sucking your cock?”

“It’s good,” he nods, lets out a groan that pinches his eyes shut, then meets your gaze again, “So fucking good, Jesus Christ. Is this what you were out doing tonight? Sucking cock?”

“Not tonight.”

“But he fucked you, didn’t he? That boy?”

You nod, stroking him slower. His eyelids flutter.

“Did he fuck your pussy or your ass?”

The question sends a jolt through your middle. You recall the sex you had with Bert. Barely an hour has gone by since he pulled out of your cunt to shoot his load on the mattress, but it feels like a lifetime ago.

“My pussy,” you answer, then gather a thick, hot wad of saliva on your tongue and spit on his cock. You spread it with a slow churning motion, watching Joel’s face twist up with pleasure.

“Were you bein’ smart about it at least?” he asks, studying you, “We don’t need you getting knocked up.”

“He pulled out,” you shrug.

He grunts in acknowledgment, then sits up and pulls on your arm to join him on the couch, “C’mere.”

You follow his guidance, lying back on the cushions as he strips off his shirt.

The only times you’ve seen him shirtless were accidental and slightly embarrassing for both of you. But now, you notice how his smooth chest glows in the dim light. Now, when you drink in the sight of his big arms and broad shoulders, heat bubbles up your spine.

While you pull your tank top off over your head, he tugs your skirt down your thighs, asking, “You ever taken it up the ass?”

You shake your head.

His eyebrows jump a little like he’s surprised. A sadistic kind of smirk plays across his lips as he pushes your knees up to your chest, then spreads you apart, the head of him nudging at your backdoor.

He doesn’t ask for permission. He doesn’t ask if you want it this way, or if you want him to be the first. He doesn’t even warn you about the initial shock and pain you experience when he rocks his hips forward and breaches the tight hole.

You yelp and try to lurch away from the sharp pain, but he grabs you and holds you there.

Sitting up on your elbows, you cry, “That fucking hurts, Joel.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a punishment if it didn’t hurt a little, would it?” he murmurs, disinterested, watching your asshole stretch to accommodate the head of his cock.

The sensation is overwhelming. Like being stabbed or split open. At first, you hate it. You sputter and gasp and shake your head as he pushes himself in further and further.

Then he pauses the invasion, releasing his steel grip on you to tilt your chin up and meet his gaze, “Just relax.”

His eyes burn into yours, making your pulse jump. You bear witness to his heaving chest and parted lips and feel him twitch inside you. Sparks sizzle across your body, but you still scowl at him.

“It hurts, I don’t like it.“

“It’ll get better, you just gotta relax,” he coaches.

“Why can’t we just have normal sex?”

He grunts, thinks about it for a moment, then tells you, “First off, this is not normal sex,” he points between your chest and his, “This will not be a normal thing, you understand?”

It stings a little, if you’re being honest. But you nod, “I understand.”

Nodding, he licks his lips. He throbs inside you, hips jerking a little in reaction. This time, the friction feels good enough to make you whimper.

“Second, we don’t need another mouth to feed around here,” he says, searching your face, “We’re stretched thin enough as is. You know what I mean?”

“But if you—”

“Pulling out can still stick. This way’s tried and true, trust me.”

“Trust you,” you scoff under your breath and roll your eyes.

“What’s that?”

You meet his hardened gaze, feeling emboldened enough to ask, “Do you fuck my mom in the ass?”

“That’s none of your business,” he warns.

“So, what, you can interrogate me about my sex life, but I can’t do the same?”

“That’s right,” he barks, “Know why?”

In response, you glare at him.

He takes this moment of bitter silence to drag his knuckles up your slick, swollen lips. The light touch branches out beneath your skin and makes your heart pound. You gasp a little, but try to hide it. He clocks it immediately.

“There we go,” he murmurs under his breath, almost as an aside, smoothing the pad of his thumb in soft circles on your clit. Pleasure churns beneath the touch, hot and hungry for more. When you whimper, Joel’s eyes go wild for a second, then he says, “I am the fucking boss of you, understand?”

You swallow a moan as he arches forward and starts to roll his hips. It feels better now. Good. Fucking amazing, almost. Electric and gooey. He fills you so completely with each thrust, you wonder how you can even breathe.

“So if I tell you to be home, that’s where you’ll be. If I ask you where you’ve been, who you were with, what you were doing—you tell me the truth. Understand?”

Nodding, you gasp, “I understand.”

“You don’t get to ask me about your mom. You don’t tell your mom. You don’t sneak out to go get fucked by some boy who doesn’t even know what to do with you—”

“Holy shit, Joel I’m gonna—” you gasp at the pressure building at the base of your spine, spreading thick and hot and delicious across your body.

“And you don’t come without my fucking permission. Understand?”

“I understand I understand,” you cry, literal tears burning behind your eyes at the ache of trying to keep the ecstasy at bay, “Please can I come, please please please—”

“Are you sorry?”

“I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again—”

“That’s right, you’ll never fucking do it again. Why’s that?”

“You’re the boss,” you beg, your voice so raw and pleading it sounds foreign. He pounds into you now, a wet slap that echoes off the apartment walls. It takes all your concentration to keep your pleasure contained, to not spill over the edges, but you hear yourself babble somewhere far away.

“You’re the fucking boss. I’m sorry I’m sorry I won’t disobey you again I’ll be a good girl I’ll do anything just please give me permission to come daddy please please please—”

When he moans, loud and depraved, it just about breaks you, but you manage to keep your resolve long enough for him to pant, “Go ahead, let it go.”

With a choked sob, you untether your pleasure and allow it to expand, growing hot and wide and unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Every muscle in your body tenses up as the sensation swallows you whole, then spits you back up, sending wave after wave across your body.

“That’s it, that’s a good girl,” he grunts, taking his hand from your clit to hold your knees down and fuck your ass hard and fast and ruthless.

It surprises you when heat starts stretching out from the middle of you again. Your heart starts to race as the feeling grows.

“Ffffuuuuck,” you whimper, “That feels so fucking good—”

“I told you, didn’t I?”

“You did you did holy shit,” you meet his eyes and nod frantically, “I love it I love it—please can you come in my ass?”

“Is that what you want? Want me to come in your tight little asshole?”

A feral noise escapes you, and you sob, “Yes—”

“Do you wanna come too?”

“Yes—oh my god, yes, please please please daddy—”

“Come with me, baby.”

You let the feeling overtake you again, gasping out, “thank you thank you thank you,” as it takes you strong and fast. Pleasure pulses through your body, causing you to convulse and strain against Joel’s grip spreading you open. He releases a moan from his belly and gives you a hard, deep thrust that he holds for a shuddering moment. After emptying himself inside you, he pulls out, falling back to his seat on the couch.

Chest heaving, you prop yourself up on your elbows and study him. He pinches his eyes shut and catches his breath before meeting your gaze again.

His expression goes soft long enough for something dangerous to flicker between you.

Then he turns away and starts getting dressed.

“Get yourself together, I’m gonna go get your mom.”

As you sit up, you fold your legs into your body and watch him button his shirt.

“Joel—”

He looks at you, searching your face expectantly, but your brain goes static and you’re not even sure what you were going to say.

“This stays between us, understand?”

His tone is firm but gentle. You swallow hard and nod, “I understand.”

Nodding, he glances down at your lips, then back to your eyes. He rises to his feet to leave, but before he does, he leans down to press a kiss into your forehead.

“Good girl.”

[ NEXT PART ]

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jayrockin · 3 months

Note

wait sorry for another question but how do bug ferrets say f/v?

They can approximate dental consonants with their palps and upper labrum. It doesn't sound quite right, but I didn't transcribe all of their vocal weirdness into their dialog because it would be disruptively difficult to read. I ordinarily avoid transcribing accents at all because it inherently wrecks reading flow, but their interaction with Talita in the first chapter is supposed to be intensely jarring, so it stayed in.

#jaytext #runaway to the stars #bug ferrets #rest assured the avians also have bizarre accents its just not as strong

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greedandenby · 4 months

Text

Transcript of the French dialogue in IWTV S2 Ep4 - "I Want You More Than Anything in the World"

Aftershow discussion:

Eglee: Qu’est-ce que tu penses faire ?... Remets tes miches dans ton bloomer, salope !

Claudia invites Madeleine to the show (I kept in the English here, for more fluidity):

Claudia: You sold me a dress. Dans ta boutique. Une soie lavande. Très chic.

Madeleine: Ouais, tu m’avais trop payée. Avec des billets froissés, des boucles d’oreille pleines de sang… Comme si elles avaient été arrachées des lobes.

Claudia: Pas le souvenir que ça t’ait gênée.

Madeleine: Ton corps était pas encore formé mais ton esprit déjà sophistiqué. Et puis tu souriais pas.

Claudia: Funny, you made no impression on me at all.

Madeleine: I liked you. What, you moved on from pickpocket? You’re clowning now?

Claudia: I’m an actress now.

Madeleine: Ah, okay. Théâtre des Vampires ? I’ve seen this show. A divertissement.

Claudia: Still dressing your windows for your German tourists?

Madeleine: Your French is still ugly, like your doll outfit.

Claudia: I agree. I just wouldn’t say it cause it’s rude and obvious.

Madeleine: … Merci !

"Je n’aime pas fenêtres quand fermées" song:

[Side note: in French this should in fact be "Je n’aime pas les fenêtres quand elles sont fermées", but let’s let this one slide… poetic licence or something]

Je n’aime pas fenêtres quand fermées

Le vent sauvage (est doux ?? – not sure about that one, the French accent is horrendous... Sorry...), je veux voler

Arcs-en-ciel, arbres et abeilles

Non, je n’aime pas fenêtres quand fermées

Elle n’aime pas fenêtres quand fermées

At the museum:

Guard: Monsieur, vous ne pouvez pas être…

Armand: Rest… Merci.

Guard: Qui êtes-vous ? Qui vous a autorisé… ?

[Side note for one of the terms in Claudia and Madeleine’s discussion, which was erroneously transcribed as "flag it out" in the subtitles:

At one point Madeleine says : Go bang, or go flagada, or go cold.

This is a French informal term that means "shattered, knackered, beat".]

[Side note number 2, because I’m a stickler for linguistics. During Louis and Lestat’s conversation on the bench, Louis asks Lestat to say "apple" in French. Lestat answers "la pomme", which is, in fact, not exactly the way a French speaker would answer. We’d just say "pomme", the way an English speaker would simply answer "apple" rather than "the apple".]

That's it for this fabulous episode! I doubt there'll be much French in the next one, but who knows! See ya next week, maybe!

Episode 2 here

Episode 3 here

#interview with the vampire #iwtv #iwtv season 2 #french dialogue #amc iwtv #amc interview with the vampire #iwtv s2 spoilers

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samsno1 · 9 months

Text

Liberty or Life

Billy Butcher x Gn!POC!Reader

hello i fucking suck at titles? anyway, i wrote this at the beach while i was getting tanned because i never found a butcher fic with this exact vibe so i said "yk what, imma write ts"

ill maybe do a part 2 if i feel like it

Sumary: The reader finds something about Liberty and wants to check it out. Butcher thinks it's just too easy to be true.

Warnings: SPOILERS THE BOYS S2, english isn't my first language, kinda mean butcher but he means it well, poc!reader (wrote it with latinos in mind but i didn't mention us especifically so dig in), use of y/n, HURT/COMFORT, blood, violence, gore (?), cursing (i mean its the boys), hom*lander mentioned (yes he gets a fucking warning), i didn't make the reader speak neither spanish nor portuguese, up to ya, i had no idea how to transcribe his british accent but i did my best. NOT PROOF READ

WC: 3.3k

You can learn how to change the "Y/N" for your actual name here

if you enjoy it please lmk!

Of course it was a trap. A fucking trap.

While confined in your apartment, searching more and more about Stormfront - AKA Liberty - after the encounter with the poor woman that ended up losing her brother to her hands right in front of her eyes you found a clue, something that could help take her down.

According to the document you spent the whole night reading with several cups of coffee and a killing migraine, there was a file hidden in a building close to Vought's that gave away all the racist behavior of Liberty's past (and present). It would be more than enough to make the people mad.

Hell, it made you mad. An immigrant trying to bring down an incredibly popular Supe, who would definetly get rid of any of your people out of North American territory? Definitely a perfect situation for your ass, not dangerous at all.

But still, if not you and The Boys, who? Even if Butcher's focus wasn't her it was for you, as a personal offense.

You knew racism wasn't foreign in the Superhero industry (or in the United States as a whole, you lived it constantly) but executing people of color is borderline a genocide and it was happening right under the peoples noses. God, praised even.

You scoffed at the screen of your computer and picked up your phone to call either Butcher or MM about what you found, to see if they could back you up on the mission.

You dialed Butcher first, putting your cell to your ear as you got up from the chair, your legs needing a stretch, as you walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge to get a beer. It is 6pm somewhere you thought.

As you popped open the can the familiar british accent hit your ears and you subconsciously smiled to yourself.

“Wha’ d'ya want, luv?” He asked, voice gruff, clearly woken up by your call. You imagined his tousled hair. Maybe he was shirtless.

“Did I wake you?” You asked, taking a sip of the bitter drink on your hand, the alcohol much appreciated in your stomach.

“Maybe” He said and you could hear the teasing smile on his face.

“I'm sorry, I just called to say I found something on Liberty…Stormfront…whatever her fucking name is” You clarified as you mindlessly play with the seal of the beer can with your index finger “There's a building nearby that hides some documents about her, y'know, the shady stuff. I wanted to go there tonight, see if I find it”

You hear shuffling in the other line with a grunt, assuming he was getting up from the bed – or wherever he was sleeping.

He didn't speak for some moments letting you hear his bare feet walking around his apartment.

“I don’ know abou’ it Y/N, how'd ya even find those?” He asked, his voice hesitant.

“Butcher, I'm a hacker and Vought's system sucks ass compared to what I've already done” You explained “I just got in, easy”

You can't see it but he bites his bottom lip on the other line. He was still skeptical, would it really be that easy to find stuff on a Supe like Liberty? He knew your abilities, hell, he admired it but he was always extra careful when it came to you.

“Really?” He asked and you could feel the way his eyebrow raised and you scoffed “Okay, I'm jus’ doubtful, Liberty hasn’ been talked abou’ in ages an’ ya find stuff…easy?”

“What, lost faith in my abilities?” You teased. You finished your beer and threw the can in the thrash, it hitting the bottom of the thrash with a loud thud “C'mon, it will be easy. In and out”

“I'm not sure it's a good idea, luv” He said and you frowned, sitting on your island in the kitchen, your feet dangling off the edge.

“Y'know I called to warn you I was going, not to ask permission, you ain't my father” You mumbled with the intention to let him hear it, the tone in your voice serious “Just wanted to know if you wanted to come with”

“Nah” He replied, his voice loud and clear over the phone and you make a shocked confused face to yourself. Did he not want to keep you company? “Ya ain't going, it's risky. It looks too easy. Nothin’ with these cunts’ easy” He said firmly and you scoffed in disbelief.

“Uh, yeah, I am, alone or with you, I'm busting into that building” You said just as firmly as he did “You know how I feel about that racist cunt” You cursed. The more time you spent with Butcher, the more you started using his British vocabulary. Cunt was the most common but Bullocks also came with from time to time.

“Of course I know but still, we have to be smart abou’ it” A tip of anger laced his voice. He often got pissed at how stubborn you could be and this was one of those times.

“I'll be in there tonight. Goodbye Butcher” You said and turned off the call, not wanting to hear him going on and on about your ‘recklessness’ as he called it, scoffing and smashing your phone down on the island beside you, running a hand through your head.

You liked when Butcher was caring towards you, it was what made you start catching feelings for the man in the first place, but sometimes he just treated you like a kid, as if you could do nothing without him lecturing you beforehand.

On the other side, Butcher groans angrily as he notices you turned the call off and he throws his phone on the bed. “Fucking ‘ell” He curses to himself as he rubs his temples with his thumb and index fingers.

He knew you wouldn't drop it. You were a force of nature, but impulsive. Sometimes he loved it, sometimes he hated it.

This was time he wished you just listened.

The feeling in his gut that something wasn't right remained for the whole day, his head barely able to focus on anything else as he was too worried. Worried about you.

At about 8pm he was nervously biting on the side of his thumbnail trying to ignore his phone besides him as he told himself over and over he should call you to see if you were fine. The other (minor) side of him telling himself he should drop it. You were strong, you could pull it off and he didn't want to bruise his ego giving in to your stupid idea.

Fuck it.

He checked his phone to see a message from you. The address to said building. He smiled to himself and shook his head. Maybe you weren't so stupid after all.

He grabbed his keys and put on his black trench coat and a gun in the waistband of his jeans.

As he closed the door behind him he rushed to his car, wondering if you were okay or if something happened.

At the thought of you hurt he hurried his feet on the pavement to get faster to his car. To get faster to you.

He drove above the speed limit after he tried calling you 3 times, all going to voicemail. He cursed to himself as he arrived at the building and took in the sight in front of him.

The windows were busted and, as he got in, he could clearly see bullet holes on the walls and his heart started beating faster in his chest. Please be okay, please be alive, I can't lose you too.

He moves through crumbles and remains of the walls, taking his gun in his hand and moving slowly, aware of any danger.

The more he walked without any sight of you, the more worried he got.

As he went down the stairs to the basement he heard a low groan and his eyes widened and his whole body turned towards the noise.

The basement was a complete wreck. Shelves down on the ground, glass and books everywhere.

Then he saw you and his heart sank to his stomach. You were sitting down against the wall, a huge stab wound in your side where your hand was trying to keep pressure, which clearly wasn't enough as he took sight of the amount of blood beneath you and in your hands.

He took a quick look around and rushed to you, kneeling in front of you. He took notice of how pale you looked but still, at least, half conscious.

He held your shoulder with one hand and pressed the other over your wound making you wince in pain. His face was serious, angry. He didn't know if it was at you or at whoever did this to you but he was livid.

“What the fuck did ya do?” He asked through gritted teeth, not expecting an answer but you put your hand over his forearm, the blood staining his coat and smiled. You fucking smiled, that beatiful smile that could make Butcher melt from miles away.

“You came” You said, your voice low and hoarse and then you went into a coughing fit and Butcher held you to his chest.

“Easy, easy Kid” He said as he took a deep breath so as to not get emotional. He took your hand and pressed it over the bloody wound “I'm gonna need ya to keep pressure in this while I get ya out, c'mon”

You nodded weakly and pressed it as hard as you could while his other arm wrapped below your knees and lifted you up, the movement making you hiss.

He carried you out as quickly as possible as he placed you in the backseat of his car as he went to the driver's, turning the vehicle on and sprinting back to his place.

At the feeling of being safe, the adrenaline started wearing down and you were suddenly very tired. Your eyes closed as you felt your consciousness slip away and then you didn't feel anything anymore.

When you woke up again you were laying on a bed that wasn't yours, in a room that wasn't yours. Your head was pounding and breathing hurt and you let out a groan.

As your vision focused, you looked around and took in the place until your eyes caught a glimpse at someone on a chair besides you. Sleeping, with his arms crossed over his chest, was Butcher and you started remembering what happened.

You mindlessly put your hand over the neatly done bandaging in your stomach and looked at Butcher again.

“Butcher” You said, your voice low and weak. The man besides you stirs awake, his eyes opening slowly.

As he notices you're awake he gets up and places a hand on your forehead hurriedly, breathing deeply as if it was a relief seeing your eyes staring back at him.

“You're awake” He said, looking between your eyes.

As you looked back up at him guilt started pooling in your heart and you looked away, you smiled sadly.

“You were right” You mumbled and he pulled his hand away from your face and sighed angrily. He brushed a hand trough his face, his nostrils flaring up.

He didn't say anything, just stared at your bandaged wound, lost in thought, so you continued talking.

“They jumped me, some people that worked for Vought. I knocked some down but one of them caught me. Thay ran away after that, leaving me to die, apparently” You explained, still refusing to look at him “I'm sorry.”

At that, he looked at you again and you looked at him. He was angry and sad, his face gave it all away and you felt small under his stare. Maybe because you were laying down but still, you felt helpless.

“Why didn't ya fuckin’ listen to me” He said, his voice low, apparently calm and that was the most scary of it all. You preferred that he yelled at you, screamed in anger and never looked at you again then to act like this.

“You– I fuckin’ told ya” He said squinting his eyes as a hand goes to nudge at the wound and you grunt as he aplies pressure to it “Look at where your stupidity gotcha”

Tears prickle at the corner of your closed eyes as you grab at his wrist to pull it away from your skin, your own hand covering the bandage protectively as you glare at him. You knew you fucked up but what was going on with him?

“What the fuck Butcher!” You exclaim through your teeth as the pain eases away “I know I should've listened to you, I already said I'm sorry!”

“Sorry don’ cut it!” He finally yells at you, making you shrink as he points a finger at your face. “When I arrived the color on your face was gone! You were basically dead as I carried ya out! There was blood everywhere, Y/N”

He turned his back to you, and sighed loudly. If it was possible, smoke would be coming out of his ears.

You felt your eyes water. He seemed more than angry and you hated that you were the reason that he felt like this.

“How long was I out?” You asked lowly as you forced yourself to sit with your back against the headboard, making a face at the sting in your belly.

“About 52 hours” He replies, his back still turned to you and your eyes widen in shock and look at his back.

His head was down and his hands were both on his own waist.

You nodded even if he couldn't see you, more so to acknowledge it to yourself. As you let the information sink in, Butcher leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.

He couldn't let you see the tears forming in his eyes as all his thoughts went back to your limp body on his arms and the hours he spent beside the bed, holding your hand and talking to you while you were in your coma. He wanted to hug you, hold you and he couldn't bear the idea of losing you. Not when he hadn't told you anything about what he wanted from you.

How everytime you looked at him with those bright eyes he felt like he could drown in them, how your smile was the reason he got out of bed every morning, how your voice was like a beautiful tune that was hypnotizing. How your lips always provoked his deepest desires to emerge.

Seeing you bleeding broke him apart further then it should've and that scared him. He had sworn to never care for someone this much since the last time he felt this his heart got torn to pieces by Becca.

He shouldn't. He couldn't.

But he also couldn't help that every time you touched him he felt his skin warm up and his heart accelerate.

He pressed his forehead to the shut door and mentally cursed himself over and over again, he didn't know what to do until he saw the handle turn and the door slowly open.

You opened the door, a hand on your waist to ease the pain as you looked at him teary eyed.

He made a confused face with slight worry but then you choked out a sob and threw both of your arms around his neck and started to cry against his shoulder.

Butcher was shocked until his arms eased themselves around your lower back. One hand rubbed up and down as he felt your tears wet his shirt.

“I was– so scared” You admitted, shaking with your sobs and gripping his shirt tightly under your fingers to make sure he wasn't going anywhere. “It was so cold. The only thing that kept me breathing was when…when I looked at my phone and you– you were calling” You sobbed harder after each word, your body trembling.

“When you left voicemails…I was happy because if I…” You swallowed “If I died I would at least hear your voice one last time”

His grip around you tightened and one of his hands went into your hair as he adjusted your head into his chest, his jaw above you as he closed his eyes. He felt a tingle in his heart at your words, a spark of love lighting itself up in bad weather.

“Shh, you're fine now, you're ‘ere, alive, I'm 'ere” He whispered comfortably as you kept crying and he thought of all the things he wanted to tell you.

“And I know I was stupid. That I– That I should've listened but I want her dead, I want Homelander dead and I just–” You choked “I just wanted to have control over something, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry”

He gently swayed both your bodies side to side, a comforting hand rubbing at your scalp. Butcher didn't say anything, just letting you get it all out until your breathing calmed down.

The tears had stopped flowing and now you were just sniffing, your cheeks puffy and your eyes red. He grabbed both sides of your face and pulled you back to look into your eyes, a hint of a smile on his face.

“Feel betta’?” He asked and you nodded slightly and he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before looking into your beautiful orbs again. “I'm sorry too, luv, I really am”

You opened your mouth to protest but he silenced you before you could speak.

“I shouldn’ have said those things t'ya, I was just– Angry, but not at you” He gently brushed his thumb over your cheek, drying a stubborn tear rolling down your face. “I was angry at myself”

Apparently you made a face at him because he gave you a thin-lipped smile.

“I was angry because I knew you were going anyway an’ I let'ya go alone. If I was there, this wouldn’ have happened”

He took a deep breath before continuing.

“I was scared that I'd neva see ya smile again, see your beautiful eyes look into mine, hear your stunnin' voice” He hugged you again, his hands wrapping you in a warm embrace. He didn't want to let you go in fear this was a dream and he buried his face in the crook of your neck before finishing.

“I was scared I would neva be able to tell ya tha’ I love ya” He mumbles in your neck as his arms tighten around you and a shiver runs through you.

William Butcher loved you.

Your hands grabbed at his shoulders and pushed him back lightly as you looked into his eyes.

Your expression doesn’t give anything away and Butcher starts to feel sick as he thinks he's going to be rejected. He prepares for impact.

Then you smile.

Your smile wide because you feel warm. Warmed by his love. Diferently then the cold night at the building.

Your hands travel up to both sides of his face as you pull him in. You go slowly, waiting to see if he'd pull back but he surprises you with a strong, passionate kiss, making you gasp in surprise.

The world feels small around you as his hands grab at your waist, careful not to hurt you as you pour out every feeling you bottled up through the years in that kiss.

And Butcher was consumed by you, by every single inch of you, by every part of your being. Your voice was a melodic chorus to his ears, your lips a river to which he was drowning in, your body the perfect fit for his.

When you pull away from each other with rushed breaths you're still smiling, your hand caressing his beard covered cheek.

“I love you too” You whisper and Butcher smashes his lips against yours again, making you giggle in surprise.

Now that they had each other it was them against the world. Nothing could tear them apart because they were made for one another, the flames of their souls dancing together in a single rhythm.

They didn't know or didn't feel it but ever since the first time they had locked eyes the destiny made their paths merge into a single one at one point in both their lives. And this was it. Two souls bound, forever.

☆

A/N: Notes and reblogs encourage me to keep writing. Feedback makes those writings better. Thank you very much for reading. Xoxo

#the boys imagine #the boys x reader #the boys x y/n #the boys x you #billy butcher #billy butcher x reader #william butcher #william butcher x reader #billy butcher x you #billy butcher smut #the boys

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themaninyourcomputer · 7 months

Text

PHILOMENA CUNK MEDIEVAL CASTLE MONOLOGUE TRANSCRIPT

(somehow, no one has posted this script online, so hopefully this saves a few people from having to painstakingly transcribe the clip like I did)

Standing here now in whatever castle this is, I can't help but wonder what life must have been like in medieval times, because medieval times aren't happening anymore, so wondering is my only option. But just imagine it, here in the central atrium, the table is laid out for a feast. People are bashing tankards together and laughing. The table is bedecked in haunches of venison. Blackbird pie, roast goose inside a pig, the full works. Little bowl of plums there-I think that's a side dish. Over here, peasents are toing and froing in their finery. A knight clanking by in his armor. In this corner someone's playing medieval flute music, and in front of that, a jester jumping up and down in his little bells. There's a big sort of ogre thing watching, enjoying the sight of that. Then up at this end the King's sitting on his throne, next to the queen, a bishop, and a rook. They're watching Merlin getting his head chopped off which rolls all the way across the floor to there, where some wild boar gobble it up. Ugh, that is disgusting. You're lucky you can't see that. Suddenly the gaity is interrupted when the glass in the window shatters and an arrow flies into the room. It thuds into this wall, right in the middle of the bayeoux tapestry. Gasps ring out and give way to whispers as Thomas A. Beckett-that's me-pulls the arrow from the wall. (Struggling noises) Hold on! Agh, Christ. The arrow has a message on it. Thomas carefully takes the message off, discards the arrow-(f-ck!!) sorry-unfurls the message, and reads it aloud...it's from Robin Hood threatening revenge on the entire round table for what they did to Gandalf. Another gasp. The jester faints, worried murmors fill the air, and get louder, and turn to screams. It's chaos. The flute goes mental, a dancing bear howls in anguish. Someone starts lodging pigs into a catapult. A space invader floats across the room, shitting a harpsichord made of glass horses on his way to the ground. Finally up at this end, the king stands up, bashing his gavel. He shouts 'order, order!' but in a deep man's voice, with a medieval accent. The castle falls silent. You can hear a pin drop, but not literally, 'off with his head!' he shouts. And that breaks the ice. Everything's okay again, the jester's back up on his feet, the music's up and running, everyone's merrily knocking back the mead. Life in the castle is back to normal, just in time for everyone to suddenly drop dead from plague.

#Philomena Cunk #cunk on earth

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blood-feathers · 1 month

Note

The way we interpret your speech is rather through a transcript rather than actual words, unfortunately. That's why the accents don't really go through. Sorry!

- 🥧

That would do it then. Hopefully it's an accurate transcription, at least. Actually, this may be for the better, as I've been told my accent can be quite thick when I'm overtired, and a few of the team have thick accents as well. Our heavy barely speaks english at all. I wonder, would it translate him if he spoke in his native language? Let's test my theory, actually.

(He begins to speak dutch.)

[Hello? Is it working? I don't see anything different on my end. Presumably this transcribes as english as per my hypothesis, though obviously I can't tell.]

#tf2 #tf2 ask blog #medic tf2 #tf2 rp blog #tf2 medic #ask #tf2 ocs #tf2 medic oc #anon #pie anon #trying to make his speech come off as more fluid when he's speaking his native language but #idk if it's clearly implied through so little text

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touchlikethesun · 6 months

Text

a few informal thoughts on accent in written media and accent in translation

in light of a recent rb about dialect in haikyuu (which i recommend reading since i'm sorta responding to it but it's not required), i wanted to write down my quite complex thoughts about how "accent" is conveyed in written media, and how "accent" or "dialect" is translated cross-linguistically. it's really not a simple issue...

the biggest issue is that the very notion of an accent or a dialect as most non-linguists conceive of them is rooted in some form of bigotry, because there is almost always an underlying supposition that an "accent"/"dialect" exists in opposition to or as a deviation from the "standard." in written media, what that means is that some characters - often the main characters or the pov characters - have the privileged of their thoughts and words transcribed with standardised spellings and english teacher approved grammar (for the most part), and some characters - often but not always a character from a marginalised background or a character that is some way othered - are transcribed with intentional "errors."

(lmao readmore is deffo warranted this is a long one xx)

i want to give a very clear example of what i'm talking about, and i'm sorry to cite harry potter but it is a treasure trove for this kinda thing. also like... is it any surprise that jkr is particularly egregiously guilty of this... but anyways, look at that following passage from the philosopher's stone and watch the corresponding scene (hopefully the vid starts at the the part i want sorry youtube sucks)

“I'm a what?" gasped Harry. "A wizard, o' course," said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, "an' a thumpin' good'un I'd say, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad like yours, what else would yeh be?”

youtube

now to my american ears, both harry and hagrid in this scene have noticable differences in pronunciation compared to how i might say the same lines - there are so many ways their speech might be written differently (from my pov; from a british pov i'm sure they'd have some changes to make in writing down my speech i'll never be free from the wodder boddle jokes).

what i think is particularly interesting tho is that harry says the word "what" twice in the clip, with two different pronunciations. the first time he says it, he actually doesn't pronounce the /t/ at the end of the word (in technical terms, it's an unreleased unvoiced alveolar plosive), and the second time the pronunciation of the /t/ is exaggerated for emphasis (a particularly aspirated unvoiced alveolar plosive). but this difference in the way harry says these two words is not conveyed in the text of hp. harry simply says "what."

i wish i had a more direct example, but a very similar sort of thing is going on when hagrid says the word "and," which he pronounces with an unreleased voiced alveolar plosive - almost exactly the same as harry's first "what" - but instead of "and" being written with standard spelling, jkr opts to replace the "d" with an apostrophe.

it's essentially the same linguistic phenomenon, but because harry is supposed to be middle class and from surrey, his linguistic quirks are not conveyed in the writing because he speaks "proper" english - whereas hagrid's linguistic quirks (in this case it is the same quirk present in harry's speech) are meticulously documented because he is working class and uneducated, and his language is deemed a deviation from the standard. harry's english is unmarked and deemed unaccented because his variety is very close to the enforced standard. and the "standard" is just the speech of the privileged classes. sorry that reasoning reads a bit circular, but it isn't supposed to be logical, it is in fact a very illogical line of reasoning.

a lot of times, authors will justify their choice to transcribe accents because accents are often integral to a character's identity. and i do not disagree that many people take pride in their accents or that accents aren't used as a way to index for group/regional identity. but the issue is, when are accents faithfully being transcribed and when are they assumed?

as an example of this, look at these two passages from another problematic author, cassie clare in the clockwork prince:

"You think I’m a fool,” Molly went on. “This is a trap, innit? You Nephilim catch me selling that sort of stuff, an’ it’s the stick for Old Mol, it is.” “You’re already dead.” Will did his best not to sound irritable. “I don’t know what you think the Clave could do to you now.” “Pah.” Her hollow eyes flamed. “The prisons of the Silent Brothers, beneath the earth, can ’old either the living or the dead; you know that, Shadowhunter." (tid.ii, prolouge)

and

"We’re in the Pyx Chamber,” he said. “Used to be a treasury. Boxes of gold and silver all along the walls.” “A Shadowhunter treasury?” Tessa was thoroughly puzzled. “No, the British royal treasury—thus the thick walls and doors,” said Jem. “But we Shadowhunters have always had access.” He smiled at her expression. “Monarchies down through the ages have tithed to the Nephilim, in secret, to keep their kingdoms safe from demons.” “Not in America,” said Tessa with spirit. “We haven’t got a monarchy—" (tid.ii, chapter 1)

i pulled these passages basically at random so maybe there are lines of dialogue that prove the point better (or disprove my point tho i doubt that, just based on my memory of these books), but in passage one, there are two speakers: an cockney woman from east london and a welsh man from an upper class background. i won't go line by line, but it's essentially like with the difference between harry and hagrid, where old molly has her shibboleths all written down whereas will is written with unquestionably grammatical speech.

in passage two, there are three speakers: the same upper class welshman, a lower middle class american woman, and a british-chinese (likely well off) man. we're told at certain points that will has a welsh accent; we can assume that tessa has an american/new york accent; i don't even know where i'd begin to describe jem's accent but it's probably not welsh or american. however, if you look at their dialogue, there is no way to discern any of these differences. their regional identities are all ostensibly important to them, as they are mentioned many many times in the narrative, but for some reason, it wasn't important enough to even make nods to their different accents? meanwhile, a random side character has their accent carefully laid out, dropped 'h's iconic slang and all? why? why is old mol's accent important enough to faithfully write down, but tessa and will's aren't? it couldn't have anything to do with classism could it...? surely not... (they say, with extreme sarcasm)

now, after all that. you might think my stance is that "accent" should never be written down because it necessarily involves classist/racist/otherwise bigoted judgement on what is marked and what is unmarked speech.

if only it were so easy.

honestly the biggest issue with jkr and clare's choices here is that it's so clearly coming from a place of ignorance and/or prejudice. there's nothing wrong with the way hagrid or old molly speak, and writing systems are inherently messy and inaccurate; there shouldn't be anything wrong with trying to more accurately convey utterances. before writing standardisation, people would just write what they thought a word sounded like, resulting in many if not dozens of accepted spellings for each word (sidenote: i've lost the email but i once spoke with someone that was attempting to reconstruct an older variety of english spoken in MA based on "spelling errors" in books from a small new england printing house it was a very cool project).

also, i am not african american so i can't fully speak to the accuracy of the AAVE, but i've seen discussion of how the AAVE and codeswitching in the hate u give by angie thomas was used to convey nuances in identity, and political realities in the US. the way people speak, the variety of language, and the attitudes they and others have towards that variety, are often extremely important narrative tools. as a black girl that also exists in white-dominated spaces, starr carter is aware of her speech and the changes she makes to fit in with white peers, but that doesn't mean that AAVE isn't a part of her, that it isn't important and valid. wouldn't it also be a bit disrespectful to write the AAVE in the hate u give as if it were standard english, when it is such an important part of starr's identity that it's not? AAVE is just as legitimate as a dialect as the dialect that starr's white peers speak, so on what grounds can anyone insist that it not be faithfully written down for its speakers? and lastly and most importantly, who am i, and who is anyone exterior to a linguistic community, to say how community members ought to write down their own speech/dialogue??

this is just one specific case, but i think when someone is writing from an in-group perspective, that changes things. it changes things immensely. there are so many reasons why a writer might choose to feature distinctive accents in their writing, and i don't think it's possible on their presence alone to make a judgement call on if the accent is being featured respectfully and/or with good reason, or if it is bigoted and unnecessary.

and this brings us to the somehow even more difficult question of what to do with "accents" when translating dialogue. not only do translators have to convey semantic meaning, they have to try to convey pragmatic meaning, cultural meaning, implications, and so on and so on. there is also the very important question of what is the role of a translator? i think that answer will depend on the individual, and unfortunately how one answers will have an impact on how they think translators ought to convey accent.

if the author of a text writes a character's dialogue from a prejudiced point of view, like jkr has done with hagrid, is it the role of the translator to dutifully convey the same (or as close to the same as possible) prejudiced implications in their translation? or does the translator have more of an editorial role, allowing them to convey the meaning in a way that won't carry the same connotations in the new language? does it matter what connotations were intended by the author? is the translator at fault for assumptions made by the audience of their translation due to the choice to convey an accent in one way or another? it is impossible to perfectly convey cultural nuances in accents so do we settle for the closest thing or do we forego it entirely and leave it up to something lost in translation? what about the translators own biases and prejudices, what do we do then?

honestly there are so many questions, and i don't have many answers. i err on the side that says the role of the translator is to be as faithful to the meaning of the text as possible, regardless of the translator's personal feelings about what is being conveyed. if an accent is being used purely for comedic effect, i do not think that the translator has the jurisdiction to say "well i think that's rude and ignorant so i won't include it," but at the same time, i think there should be multiple checks and balances, like sensitivity readers, that ensure that the translation is not introducing more prejudiced elements or pushing things even further than the source text.

what initially got me thinking about this was the post linked above about kansai dialect in haikyuu. the only characters that are written to not speak in tokyo dialect (otherwise considered the standard in japan) are the characters from inarizaki, a school in the kansai region. since they are the only characters to be explicitly written to be speaking a regional dialect, i would say it is probably an important - or considered an important by the mangaka - part of their characterisation. regardless of whether or not there should be cultural connotations to a particular variety is unfortunately not relavent in this instance.

i do think translators should not exaggerate the presence of an accent. from what i can tell from forums online, inarizaki's accents are pronounced but more than understandable, so i am liable to suspect some prejudice or mis-informed opinions when i see panels of the miya twins that are barely intelligible. but in general, i am of the opinion that translators should try and match as closely as they can the connotations of the source text, even if the source text is itself problematic. obviously there is not perfect choice. obviously a translation is never going to perfectly capture the original meaning.

in the end i guess these are two different discussions but i do think there is connection between the two. i understand the upset over egregiously translated accented dialogue, but at the same time, i do not think it is the translator's call entirely whether to translate it or not, however they do have a duty to at least try to match contexts as closely as possible. and as for the presence of accent in written media at all, it is really a case-by-case basis if i think it's being done well and with good cause or if it is just an example of ignorance, and i do think there should be room for nuance in this discussion.

come back next time when i ramble about how people write on the internet is a case study for how accent could be written in fiction lol xx

#some of the mutuals expressed support so i am posting #this is so long and honestly it should be longer #so if anyone has any questions comments or concerns #i am happy to hear them #linguistics #fandom linguistics #harry potter #the infernal devices #the hate u give #haikyuu #sociolinguistics #accents #translation

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rooksamoris · 3 months

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Hello! Could I ask for a little bit of advice for a thing in regards to writing? Feel more than free to ignore this if you want!

I'm writing this Jamil thing, and I wanna include him, Kalim and Najma speaking bits of Arabic. I myself don't know Arabic nor do I know anyone who does, but I'm using a website I found with Arabic vocabulary as help(as well as some colloquial Egyptian Arabic phrases). I want to be able to do a similar thing like you did in 'the vagabond who avoids the oasis' (absolutely love that one btw, 10/10, amazing):

"Wa ana mashi fil bilad, sawwah.

And I walk through countries, a vagabond."

Writing it using the roman alphabet with a translation next to it. The pronunciation guides of the website I'm using aren't always helpful for this particular thing, (I don't even know how I'd pronounce '3abiiT [pl.] 3ubaTa') but copying and pasting the Arabic script into google translate does usually at least show how it might be transcribed in the roman alphabet.

The problem is when it just...doesn't. With the phrase 'مخه جزمة' for example

Do you have any advice for how I could more easily learn how a particular phrase would be written using the roman alphabet? I don't know where I'd even start in regards to learning to read Arabic script myself

SO SORRY FOR GETTING TO THIS SOOOO LATE!! i would love to read your writing whenever you finish and i hope i was able to help you!

so, when people use the number 3 to replace an arabic letter, its always this letter called "'ain" and it looks like this in the various parts of the word it may be

like i stated earlier, im not a fan of using numbers when writing transliterated arabic because im dramatic and find it kinda ugly </3 its read with the back of your throat, think like a stitch from lilo and stitch sound?? whenever i write it, i use an apostrophe before the vowel sound to indicate the guttural sound/pause. so if i was doing it with 3abiiT or 3ubaTa' it would be like 'abiitt and 'aubutta/a'aubatta.

when they're capitalizing the T its because they're trying to make sure its not confused with the arabic letter 'ت' since it is 'ط' and while similar, they are very different sounds. usually, i just use double 't' or a 'dt' to signify 'ط' since it heavier than a 't' sound.

if you would like, i can try transliterating the entire arabic alphabet for you??? it would take a long time, but if you want me to do it i will!! i couldn't find any sources for how to do it, sadly. the easiest way to do it would be with a guide, but i also recommend using google translate for the transliteration version of words that don't provide it. for example, the phrase you sent me "مخه جزمة"

just put it in the arabic slot in the arabic to english section, and then use the transliteration beneath the word.

in this case, get rid of the 'N' in the end of the word since when speaking, we don't pronounce the accent that they're writing out which is this:

its called "tanween fatha" and its at the end of most sentences, but when speaking it is not pronounced. so the transliteration of this term would look more like "makhuh jamzata"

here's a link to a busuu page with the letters and their various forms: https://www.busuu.com/en/arabic/alphabet

here's a link to a page studying arabic accent symbols: https://www.arabion.net/lesson4.html

i really hope this helped!! if you need anymore help, feel free to ask!!

#🩷 — chats with amora #🧞‍♀️ — genie bottle asks #twisted wonderland #jamil viper #i hope this helps qamar!!#feel free to ask for any more help if you need it #arabic

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heyitssmiller · 2 years

Text

As Good a Start as Any

Wrote another part of Rendezvous with Destiny if y’all wanna check it out!! Characters of course belong to @lumosinlove and thank you to Eve and Lauren for being my beta readers!!!

ao3 link

Finn was fine.

Really.

It felt like it had been decades ago, but Finn had once written a letter, his shaking hand transcribing thoughts into trembling lines of ink, promising to take Leo dancing when (if) he made it to New York. Tonight he was keeping that promise. And now, against all odds, Logan was there with them, too - a wonderful, thrilling breath of fresh air. Getting to really know him outside of dire circumstances and too brief interactions, while new and exciting, was also gentle and familiar - like he was someone they’d always known, always had a place for without ever recognizing it. It was smelling an old but well-loved recipe in the oven, it was picking up a book he’d read years and years ago and diving right back into the story. It was homecoming.

Logan was walking between Leo and Finn, eyes bright as Leo told the story of Finn teaching him how to dance and, naturally, over-embellishing the fuck out of it.

“Then he swoops in, my knight in shining armor-”

Finn sighed and bit back a smile. “Leo-”

“And he sweeps me off my feet - not literally, I weigh too much, but - you know,” he waved his hand dramatically, “Metaphorically.”

Logan smiled and, man, Finn didn't think he was being overdramatic when he said he’d do anything to see that smile.

“Leo here’s a klutz. I couldn’t have swept him off his feet even if I tried,” Finn teased, reaching over to playfully shove him. Leo shot him a highly-offended glare.

“For the record, I was tripping all over myself because this very handsome, sweet, funny soldier had his hands all over me and I had no clue what to do with myself,” Leo said with a shrug, completely candid and causing Finn to smile over at him warmly.

“Aww, you sap.”

Leo hummed in agreement. “One look at those big, brown eyes and I was done for.” He looked to Logan, then, and his smile widened. “And then you come along…”

“With your accent,” Finn butted in. Logan ducked his head, a little bashfully.

“And your smile,” Leo continued.

“And your big… heart.”

Leo laughed gleefully and ducked down to kiss Logan on the cheek. “I didn’t know you could blush like that.”

Finn bit back a smug smile. “Oh, I did,” he said, and relished the look on Leo’s face. Priceless. “I think you were at the grocer’s. I would say sorry, but I’m really not.”

He could all but see the gears in Leo’s head start to turn.

Logan watched him, too, clearly not opposed to his train of thought. “Take me dancing first, then you can make me turn red later.”

“Promise?” Leo asked, laughing when Logan shoved his face away and kept walking. He gave Finn a look, one that said I really love him.

Finn gave him one back that said, me too.

They ducked into the club, immediately getting blasted by the seventeen-piece band on stage. It was crowded, people crammed together at the edges of the dance floor and plenty more dancing away in a blur of limbs and flying hair. The bar off to the left was just as busy, with glasses sliding across the wet, sticky countertop and patrons vying for the bartenders’ attention. It was havoc, and Finn wasn’t quite sure if he liked it or not.

“Come on!” Leo shouted to be heard, grabbing Logan by the hand and dragging him off to the dancefloor. Finn lingered, wanting to get used to their environment before getting out there, but he watched as Leo swung Logan into a surprisingly good Lindy Hop. Apparently he’d been telling the truth about Finn making him flustered all those years ago in the barracks.

Finn was smug about it, sue him.

The band picked up the pace, and the dancers followed suit. It was loud. It was crowded. It was chaos. Finn could hear the shouts of couples spinning each other out on the dance floor, the rhythmic boom of the bass drum, mortars shrieking overhead, the canvas of their glider ripping while the metal hull groaned, the smiles around him morphing into grimaces and screams, reaching for Leo, always reaching for Leo, but he was never close enough, watching Logan climb into the back of a truck and disappear -

A hand grabbed his. “Finn. Hey-”

Leo. He grabbed that hand like a lifeline, like he hadn’t been able to in the back of that glider, and held on for dear life.

“Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe, breathe-”

Finn sucked in a stuttering, noisy breath and his fingers clumsily moved up to the pulsepoint in Leo’s wrist, letting muscle memory take over. The thrum of his heartbeat was nothing compared to the boom of the bass drum, though, so he pressed down harder, wanting- needing it to be stronger, louder.

“Outside,” another voice said - Logan. Finn twisted his head to look for him, then stayed locked onto green, green eyes as he was led to the back alley. It didn’t smell great, it was still stuffy and confining, but as the door to the club closed the sounds from inside got muffled and Finn could focus on what he wanted to focus on: a strong, steady pulse, soothing jade eyes, three sets of lungs breathing in and out, in and out. He didn’t really want to be touched, and they knew that, but he didn’t want to be alone either. So they stayed just close enough and let Finn dictate what he needed. He followed their breathing and repeated their mantra in his head, three times, once for each of them:

We’re ok. We’re ok. We’re ok.

“Sorry,” Finn croaked out when he was able to, pulling Logan close and then sandwiching him between Leo and himself. “We didn’t even get to finish the first song.”

Leo let out a quiet hum of dissent and pushed a stray piece of hair back out of Finn’s face, gentle and kind - so, so unlike the men they’d had to become. Finn soaked it in, let the stark sweetness in that simple motion ground him more than anything. “None of that, now. We can take it slow, we’ve got time.”

“It was a bit loud,” Logan agreed, voice muffled by the slightly starched fabric of Finn’s button down. “I like the quiet much better.”

Finn didn’t like the quiet, either - that was the thing. Too quiet set him on edge, too loud sent him into a panic. Leo actually loved the noise, the reminder that he wasn’t alone and forgotten in some abandoned, snowy foxhole.

They all needed such different things, and Finn knew that was normal, but sometimes he worried that the gaps between them would be too far to bridge. But he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to let them go, either.

Maybe that was just the way love worked - stubborn, fierce unwillingness to let your loved ones go, no matter the circumstances. To keep holding on, come hell or high water. They’d all been through worse, after all. They could get through this.

Logan pushed away just enough to see Finn’s face. His eyes gleamed in the scant light of the alley. “You wanna show me what you’ve got? Someone told me you can jive with the best of them.”

Finn laughed brightly and took Logan’s hand. “I’m a bit rusty.”

Logan just smiled that smile of his. “I don’t care.”

And so they danced, all three of them, in a frankly terrible cluster of tangled feet and stray elbows and “how do we spin each other like this?” . The trashcan farther back in the alleyway reeked, and there wasn't enough room to really dance, but they didn’t care.

It was one of those moments where Finn knew he’d remember and cherish this memory for the rest of his life (why did they seem to happen so frequently in alleys, though?). He burned every last detail he could into his memory - the song that was playing (Only Forever), the way the flickering lightbulb in the alley danced along with them, the grimace that turned into a laugh when Logan stepped on Leo’s foot, the way his heart crescendoed with love for the two in his arms.

Months, years, decades down the road, those were the things he’d remember - not what came before, just a muted melody and quickly-amassing bruises and smiles in streetlights.

Finn had been knitting up a storm the past few days. Wherever he went, his yarn and needles went with him - the desk of his bookstore, the living room couch, their bed, one memorable instance of the dinner table (that had quickly been vetoed by Leo). Logan knew he could knit, but he hadn’t busted out the yarn and needles for months and all of a sudden he was an unstoppable knitting machine. Hats, mittens, scarves, socks, one miserable attempt at a sweater (there had been many tears shed and several utterances of “make it make sense” before Finn called it quits). It wasn't all that cold out, and it was still a little early to start making holiday presents, Logan thought as he scratched Hershey behind his shoulder blades and watched Finn’s scrunched up concentration face - crinkled brow, chewed-on lower lip, glasses slipping down his nose. It was endearingly cute.

“What are you making?” he finally asked after the most recent string of curses and a slipped stitch.

Finn looked up, his glare easing. “It’s going to be a sock… I think.” He must’ve recognized the question in Logan’s eyes, because he continued, “They’re for Leo. It gets cold here in the winter and…” He gave a little sigh and shrugged. He didn’t have to say any more; Logan understood. He scooted a little closer to Finn on the couch until their thighs brushed. Hershey jumped down onto the floor, peeved at being jostled, and stalked away.

“Has he ever talked to you about it?” Logan asked quietly, although he was pretty sure of the answer.

Finn shook his head. “Nah. All I know is that it was cold and it was bad. Other than that, he hasn’t said a word about it. Not to me, at least. Not sure I'd be able to help, anyways.”

Logan heard the unspoken.

He covered Finn’s hands with his own and waited until he finally looked up. “You help.” He laced his words with every ounce of conviction in him, and watched them sink in. Finn’s shoulders relaxed, his eyes softened, the lines between his brows eased. Logan wondered just how long he’d been carrying that extra weight. He’d spent so much time here, alone, feeling helpless and scared and discarded, like a damaged tool that no longer had a use.

Logan ached for that man, and the one who sat beside him.

He leaned over to kiss Finn’s cheek. “You help,” he repeated, then kissed his temple. “You matter.” One final, sound kiss was pressed to Finn’s lips. “You are loved.”

When he pulled away slightly, Finn’s eyes were water-rimmed, his cheeks tear-stained. He didn't say anything, he didn’t have to - those big brown eyes did all the talking for him. He leaned forward to press his forehead to Logan’s and stayed there for a while, even though his glasses were pinching uncomfortably. “Love you,” he murmured quietly, hands smoothing up and down Logan’s thighs in a slow, loving manner. Logan kissed him again until he couldn’t breathe and all his senses were overpowered until just Finn remained. When they finally broke apart they didn’t get far, content to just linger for a while, to soak each other in, to see and be seen. Sunlight streaked through copper hair, turning it to gold and all but forcing Logan to play with the strands, twisting them this way and that to watch them shimmer. Finn simply let him, his loving eyes never drifting from Logan’s face. Logan loved it when Finn looked at him like that - like he was everything.

“Now,” Logan finally said, sitting back and tucking his feet under Finn’s thigh. “Teach me.”

Finn blinked. “Huh?”

“Teach me to knit. I want to make Leo a scarf.”

Finn smiled, sweet like honey, and fished another set of knitting needles and some yarn out of his bag.

And later that evening, when Leo came home a little pale and vacant-eyed, Finn and Logan were there to pile on the warmth and chase away the ghosts.

Logan woke up to the roar of thunder like tank treads against Parisian streets, the flashes of lightning like antiaircraft, the wind howling like bombs racing for their targets - all of it too loud, too real, too similar to before. He flinched and hid his face in Leo’s neck, trembling a bit. He hated this. He hated how his fears and his memories clashed into one big, waking nightmare - one he couldn’t escape from.

Leo shifted slightly underneath him, a deep inhale making his chest rise, lifting Logan with him. “Hey, lover,” his honey voice murmured on the gentle breath of an exhale. Logan squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to burn that moment into his memory - maybe the bright warmth could outshine the dark shadows or terror and helplessness, like the sun shining bright and blinding to chase away the storm clouds. It wasn’t that simple - it would never be that simple. But Logan could hope. He could dream.

And in that moment, it was enough.

Thunder rolled again; that was all it took for Leo to understand. Two strong arms snaked around Logan’s waist, cold hands quickly warming up against his skin. “I’m here, I’ve got you,” were the only words Leo uttered, gentle but firm as his lips brushed against the shell of Logan’s ear. No empty words or impossible promises, just the unalterable fact that Leo was there, Leo had him.

Finn climbed out of bed and stretched his arms over his head. Logan hadn't even realized he was awake. He turned back towards the bed to lean down and give Logan a quick kiss to the temple before he started what he liked to call “The Rainy Day Strategy”. The radio was turned on, the curtains closed as tightly as possible, and then Finn left the bedroom to go and make tea for the three of them - two chamomile and one peppermint. He left the bedroom door open, just like always; Logan was never sure whose peace of mind it was for - hell, it was probably for all three of them.

Leo stayed steady beneath him, fingers tracing an invisible pattern onto his back and humming along to the song on the radio. Resting his chin on Leo’s chest, Logan looked up at him - messy bedroom curls, sleepy blue eyes, an imprint of his pillowcase on one cheek. He’d wanted this all the way back in that tiny hotel room in Paris, wishing for so much more than one night and a lonely morning. Now he was here, in that same boy’s arms, having gotten everything he’d wished for and then some.

The thought calmed him a bit. Storms always passed, after all.

Leo caught him staring, the song getting stuck in his throat. “Hey,” he spoke softly, one side of his mouth quirking up into a smile (the side opposite the scars, where there wasn’t any scar tissue to impede movement). Logan gave a weak smile and a “hi” back before pressing a quick kiss over another scar on Leo’s shoulder, noting that the glinting silver of it seemed to fade more and more with each passing day.

Storms always passed, after all.

Finn bustled back into the bedroom, smiling softly at them as they both sat up and got comfortable. His climb back into bed was a bit slower - stiffer and more calculated to accommodate his bad hip - but he finally settled back against the pillows and grabbed the tray of mugs from where he’d placed it on the bedside table as the discomfort vanished from his face.

Storms always passed, after all.

Their mugs of tea were passed out, blankets tucked up as far as they could go, and their burgeoning conversation began to drown out the weather that was quietly raging on outside. Sometimes it was overwhelming, how daunting and uncertain the future was, and how much they still needed to overcome in terms of their past. Years stacked upon years of horror and fear and trauma wouldn’t just go away. It would take work, and patience, and determination to make things better.

The beginnings were always the hardest part.

But at that moment, Finn was at ease. Leo was warm. Logan was calm.

And that was as good a start as any.

#rendezvous with destiny #rendezvous with destiny verse #o'knutzy #my writing #lumosinlove #as good a start as any

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