#and i love how dialects have slightly different words | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pedgito · 1 year

Note

How abouttttt edging Tom until he's pouty and crying

author’s note: this is purely self indulgence. i tried to mimic some of tom’s dialect in my prose without going too cornish, so i hope it isn’t too terrible. i’m so horribly american that i didn’t want to butcher the shit out of it lol. anyways, love tom grant, he’s supreme boyfriend material.

cw: 18+ (minors dni) strangers to lovers, meet-cutes, cooking for each other, oral (m receiving), edging (to tom), grinding over clothes (sorta), talks about past relationships/cheating (on both of them), tom is a sweetie, if i missed anything lmk

word count: 4.7k

You meet him by chance, out at the market for your daily errands. He’s always dressed in his work uniform, seemingly jumping straight from work to grab a few things for the night or the rest of his week, arms always full of items because he refuses to grab a basket and he’ll pile them high until the food is toppling to the floor. He’s stubborn, you can see it in his face as he squats down to pick up the unlucky can of vegetables that crashes against the tile, denting the corner.

You don’t introduce yourself the first time, grabbing the can and handing it back to him with a smile—he looks a little dejected, pouting at the kind gesture but mumbling a quiet thanks, regardless.

But, you see him everyday for a few weeks and suddenly you’re wondering how someone you’ve never met can be so interesting. He’s kind to the people stocking the shelves, the woman at the counter, but he doesn’t speak a word to you.

That’s why, after a long, dreadful three weeks of tense eye contact and awkward encounters, you finally take that plunge.

He’s reaching for the same box of cereal as you, caught up in his own thoughts so much that he doesn’t even realize you are leaning down beside him—you try to stumble out an apology but it dies on your lips.

“Those are your favorite?” He asks curiously, grabbing the box with ease and handing it over. You stall for a moment, wondering if you’d imagined him talking to you—he could’ve been talking to someone behind you, anyone but you. His eyes are locked on you when you glance up.

“How’d you know?” You ask, clutching the box to your chest with a kind nod. It was the last one.

“You’ve grabbed the same box every Monday,” He notes, pointing at the box of cereal, “but—never any milk?”

You snort a soft laugh, being caught up in your own weird ways of eating. He didn’t seem like he was judging, but it was something he couldn’t help but notice.

“Soggy cereal makes me ill at the thought of it.” You confess, “plus, it’s so much better when you can just eat it by the handful.”

He smiles wide, tongue poking through his teeth slightly.

“I’m Tom,” He introduces himself, “consider that last box an apology for being an ass to you the past few weeks.”

“Thank you,” You reply sweetly, patting the box lightly, “though, I definitely touched it first. I would’ve pried it from your hands if it came down to that.”

Tom laughs, shifting the weight of his groceries in his arms. And like clockwork, a can falls to the floor. You can’t help but take a small jab at him as you reach for it.

“Are you allergic to the baskets?” You ask playfully, “It would squash this whole ‘feeling too awkward to apologize’ when I have to pick up the stuff that you drop.”

Tom shakes his head slightly, a weak and unintelligible answer.

“Unless you’re doing it on purpose.” You suspect.

It had taken Tom a while to get over Ruth, forgive her, allow himself to rid his trailer of her things and move on. The only thing he hadn’t managed was allowing himself to return back to normalcy, talk to his friends, meet a nice girl—when Tom isn’t working, he’s home, unless he’s here and sometimes, the trips were unnecessary, just an innocent hope that he might run into you. But, his nerves constantly got the better of him, the words choking up in his throat. He wasn’t sure why today was different, but it was.

And while he was on that high, he takes a chance before his mind tries to talk him out of it.

“You’ve caught me,” He admits humorously, “there’s probably better ways to ask someone on a date, but uh—“

“Loads,” You interrupt with a hoaky smile, “but lucky for you, I’m interested.”

“Really?” He perks up instantly, nearly dropping his groceries in one giant pile. “Oh, well um—I didn’t think I’d get this far—“

You laugh at his honesty, pointing at his jacket pocket wearily, noting the outline of his phone, “Mind if I—“ He nods, angling his hip toward you to grab it. He rambled off his lock code without question and you entered your information swiftly before returning it back to him.

“I’m a bit rushed but call me later?”

“Uh, yeah—yes, I will.”

He does, which isn’t much of a surprise. You’d been anxious about the call since you left the store, wondering when was the last thing you were this caught up over a boy you knew nothing about. He called you that night, your name falling from his mouth like velvet—he sounds more relaxed, less wound up. You weren’t sure how stressful his job was, or what his life was like, but it’s a difference from the man you had ran into earlier.

“Are you opposed to a home-cooked meal?” He asks, straight to the point. You huff slightly, debating on the question to torture him slightly, the silence lingering.

“Seems a little forward, yeah?” You tease, laughing floating through the receiver and making him smile on the other end. “It’s fine, Tom. I really don’t mind.”

“You sure?” He asks for reassurance.

After Ruth, he doubted almost everything he did—wondering if he was doing too much, or not enough. It was never good enough.

“If I’m being honest, a home-cooked meal sounds much better than dressing up and going out to a fancy place to eat.”

“As if I could afford fine dining on my salary.” Tom jokes, settling into a sense of comfort in the conversation, a lull that felt natural. “But yes—I’m an excellent cook, so you have nothing to worry over.”

“I’m putting my life in your hands, Tom.” You tell him carefully, though the affection is still there. “Don’t be the first boy to put me in the hospital with food poisoning. I’ll never be able to forgive you for that.”

“Fucks sake—I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

The curse sounds too dirty falling from his mouth, tarnishing his rather innocent, boyish looks.

“What time is good for you?”

You hum softly, pondering on how long you should make him wait. But, you were too impatient yourself.

“How about tomorrow? Say, six?” You suggest.

“Perfect.” He responds softly.

The date quickly evolves into something that you and Tom didn’t really plan on—and it’s a silent agreement that settles between you two as that date turns into several dinners over the course of a couple months, either at your place or his, venting about your day and getting to know each other better than anyone else you knew in town.

You weren’t familiar with the place, having only lived there a few months, but Tom had told you everything you needed to know—where to eat, where to shop, even if you always ended up at his place anyways.

And you realize rather quickly why you both latched onto each other without hesitation—there was a weird yearn for companionship, or friendship even, that neither of you acknowledged audibly, but sensed within each other.

Tom has empty pictures frames stacked on his bedside table that he doesn’t mention, even when you two end up on his bed one night after a particularly filling meal, listening to him complain about how much the weather had been bothering him.

“I live right off the beach, you know—it would be nice to go but the water is always freezing.” Tom complains, tracing the outline of your fingers with his own, hands held straight up in front of you as you both stared toward the ceiling.

“So I suppose streaking into the ocean is out of the question for you?” You ask, only slightly joking. Tom turns to look at you, eyes comically wide as his movements still. “Tom, I’m fucking with you.”

Tom looks away briefly, face contorted in a semblance of pain, like maybe you hit a sore subject. It fades quickly, replaced by a flat emotion of content.

“Okay, fess up.” You pester him, turning on your side and propping your head up into your hand. “What’s got you so bothered?”

“Nothin’,” He laughs awkwardly, releasing your hand to replace it with his own as he settles them against his stomach, soft cotton rubbing at his fingertips, “s’just bad memories.”

“Well, whoever it was, I’m sorry.” You tell him honestly. “They’re missing out.”

Tom smiles sadly, looking over at you briefly.

“Piss off,” He says softly, shoving at your thigh with no real strength, “s’not fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“You gettin’ to flirt with me, but you always tease me when I do the same.” He explains, cheeks blushing a faint shade of pink.

It’s the similar pink that happens when he’s out in the wind for too long, settling in the apples of his cheeks and staying for a while.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You asks curiously, “M’not trying to pry or anything, but—“

“Think I held her back,” Tom admits, “She loved me in the beginning.”

“And it just faded out?” You try to perceive where the story is going, but Tom shakes his head.

“Nah, it was kinda sudden.” He explains, glaring up at the ceiling, “I don’t see her for a while and then she comes back and it’s like—she hates being here. It was good those couple days but I think whatever she’d been dealin’ with had been there the whole time.”

“That’s not your fault,” You tell him, “her problems aren’t your problems, whatever they were.”

“Took me a while to put it all together, but she thought I was cheating—I mean, who does that?” Tom asks with a strain to his voice, frustration lining his tone. It seemed like a sore subject, but Tom powered through. If he didn’t want to talk about it, he wouldn’t.

“Cheat? Loads, Tom.” You emphasize, “And I’m speaking from experience, it’s not fun.”

“I’m not like that,” Tom insists, “I couldn’t—I didn’t even think about that stuff. I loved her.”

“Did she cheat on you?” You ask carefully, wondering if you're straying too far into territory that wasn’t yours to venture into.

“I dunno,” He shrugs, “She started hangin’ out with this girl and getting teasy for no reason—maybe she expected it to be different here.”

“I like it here,” You shrug, “it’s quiet—people are nice.”

Tom smiles at that, noticing how your eyes trailed toward him. You sit up slowly, crossing your legs in front of you.

“Felt like I was forcing her to love me,” Tom says, voice teetering of sadness that clogged his throat, “some days we’d be okay and then others she would throw herself at me—like she was tryin’ to make up for acting distant.”

“How so?” You ask.

People showed their love differently, so you couldn’t really judge. You were just trying to understand.

“It’s embarrassing,” Tom admits, shaking his head at the thought, “she came home late one night and tried to—“ Tom gestures to his groin vaguely, “I couldn’t get into it.”

“That’s not your fault,” You shrug, backpedaling for a moment, “well, technically—yeah. But, if you weren’t feeling it, that’s not something for you to get upset about.”

“And then sex was,” Tom starts, looking over at you, gauging your expression, “—is it weird if I talk about this? Don’t want you feelin’ uncomfortable.”

“Tom, we’ve talked about everything. You’re not gonna have me running away at the first mention of sex. You thinkin’ I’m some kinda prude?” It’s teasing and playfully in tone, but Tom is straight-faced, sincere. “It’s not weird.”

“We’d kiss for a while, she’d make some excuse to go to the bathroom—brushing’ her teeth or something else, but then she’d come back and she couldn’t look at me.” Tom says, eyes straining slightly as he roamed around the room briefly, blinking the dryness out of his eyes, “anyways, ‘nough that.”

You laugh slightly, rocking in place as you stare down at him.

It’s the most he’s opened up since you met him, part of it feels forced—like he’s trying to clear up for his standoffish behavior, why he comes off a little forward, but it’s never bothered you.

“Got a pretty lady right here and I’m boring her to death over my ex-girlfriend.” He says, taking a stab at himself, “That’s not kind of me.”

“Kind?” You tease, poking at his side, “You? Never.”

“What about you?” Tom asks innocently, turning on his side now, knees grazing his torso. His right hand rests against your leg as he settles in a similar position to how you were earlier, paying full attention to you. “Some bloke break your heart?”

“Break? Not really. He was an ass and slept around on me every week. Took me a few months to catch on. But, there was never anything there.” You explain, “I got a nice job out here, destroyed his ego when I dumped him in front of friends, and never looked back.”

Tom grins widely, “Damn, that’s cruel.”

“He was fuckin’ them in my apartment. That shit was justified.” You tell him, the endearment is a little patronizing on your tongue. “Don’t cross me, Tom. You’ll regret it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” Tom replies flirtatiously, letting you drag your fingers through his short cropped curls, eyes falling shut at the touch. “Wouldn’t ever—you’re too sweet of a girl.”

“As far as you know.” You counter, his eyes peeking open briefly to look at you, teeth peeking through his smile. It makes your heart melt, his features soften every time he looks at you. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Tom asks, knowing full well.

“Giving me the eyes,” You chuckle softly, “If you want to fuck me just say so—I hate dancing around that shit.”

“You’re something.” Tom notes, squeezing at your thigh gently.

The touch had become normal, something you both seeked after long meals and tiring work days. But this, it had your stomach fluttering and ignited a deep, unfurling pit in your stomach.

“What, are you scared of me?” You ask teasingly, flicking at the collar of his shirt as you graze his chin. It had only ever been playful touches, some suggestive touching and the one time that he kissed you on the cheek when you left his place after a late night, delirious from sleep and not really thinking.

Still, you thought about it every time you looked at him. Tom was as honest as they came, open to anything, willing to do whatever to make you comfortable. It was everything you weren’t used to but also everything you wanted.

“I don’t bite,” You tell him quietly, “not unless you ask for it.”

Tom pulls his bottom lip between his teeth slightly, smothering the laugh that escapes, attempting to cover up for the obvious surprised noise that tried to come out.

“And if I do?”

Your eyebrows raise slightly, daring him.

“Because I’d be lyin’ if I said I didn’t.” He admits, his hand trailing dangerously higher up your thigh, your hands having moved behind you, watching his movements.

“Then I’d say you’re in for it,” You confess, “you may not survive me, you know.”

“Soundin’ like a good way to go.” Tom replies confidently, his fingers dipping past the hem of your sweatpants, grazing the thin fabric of your underwear. “Show me?”

He’s not asking for anything in particular. He wants everything,

You bite at the inside of you check, considering how deeply this could affect your friendship with Tom—and as much as you tried to think about the cons, it was outweighed by the pros. It was a long, endless list that you couldn’t even begin to speak on—the only thing that mattered was that Tom wanted this, just as badly as you did.

You hadn’t been with anyone in a few months, let alone touched in any type of way—the kiss on the cheek was the closest you got to anything in a while. So, even with Tom’s gentle, fleeting touches, you were already willing to do just about anything to prove to Tom how much he deserved to have someone who cared, somehow who wasn’t going to flee from him without an explanation.

You hand grazes over his jeans testingly, the fabric worn from constant use, frayed at the thighs and thinning. He’s already hard under the line of his zipper, jaw clenching at the slightest bit of friction.

“How long?” You ask curiously, undoing his jeans silently.

Tom watches on, turning to his back to give you more room.

“A couple months,” He admits, “got on with a girl out at the bar after I had too many beers, don’t remember much if’m being honest.”

You nod, Tom speaks softly, “And Ruth—Ruth, she never liked to—“

“Touch you?”

“Or I touch her, not really.”

You tilt your head, wondering who could resist someone like him. He was sweet to the core, staring up at you with his hopeless eyes, wide with adoration.

“Let’s fix that, yeah?” You ask, earning a jerky nod from Tom.

He lifts his head slightly, propping himself up on his arms as he watches you tug at his jeans until he can kick them the rest of the way, your hand coming up to cup over the strained tent in his underwear, squeezing gently.

“That’s, fuck—“ Tom sighs, “this isn’t going to last long, ‘m sorry.”

“It will.” You assure him, smiling with a devious intent that should scare him away, but it only entices him further.

You settle over his legs, spread wide on your knees as you pull his underwear down the rest of the way, cock springing free and upright toward his stomach, the tip matching the vibrant blush in his face. He stares up at you nervously, hands dragging up his thighs teasingly.

“You’ve got a pretty cock, Tom.” You comment, watching as he stumbles to find his words. “Anyone ever told you that?”

He shakes his head slowly, your delicate fingers wrapping around the base, the skin like soft velvet under your touch. He’s not nearly as good at keeping his composure as you thought, letting out a small groan as you touched him.

You squeeze gently, hand slipping up to squeeze at the the tip, thumb rubbing over the slit at the head of his cock, rubbing the small amount of precum there, making the slide down all the more torturous.

“Love, that’s so fuckin’—“

You nod knowingly, just as affected despite that lack of touch. Your thighs squeezed together desperately, mouth watering at the thought of him heavy against your tongue, what he tasted like—it was impossible not to think about.

“Can I—or do you not like that?”

Tom doesn’t hesitate, not even for a second as he watches you eye his cock in your hand, licking your lips as you parted them.

“Please, please—“ He all but rushes out, “that’s, yeah, of course.”

You snort at his eagerness, relaxing himself over your lap as you take him in your mouth slowly. First your tongue, dragging it up the line of his shaft, swirling over the head slowly, repeating the process a few more times until you finally decide to take him in your mouth, the moan that escapes him is desperate, noisy, need—his fingers dragging at your hair, pushing it away gently. His hands follow the slow bob of your head, never pushing or pulling, only feeling.

And he’s mouthy, mewling all sorts of noises alongside his words. It doesn’t surprise, given how much he can talk your ear off. Though, this is so much better.

“God, it’s been ages, fuck—“ Tom grunt softly, head falling back against the pillow, fingers rubbing tenderly through your hair, silence filled with the obscene noises of your mouth on his dick, “told ya I won’t last long.”

You lean down briefly, taking his balls into your mouth, tongue rolling over the tight skin and forces and strained moan from his chest, the grip on your hair tightening slightly. You can feel the muscles in his thighs flex, the quickening in his breath—so you pull back, a vivacious grin on your face.

“What?” Tom asks flippantly, his deep cornish accent peeking through, “S’goin on? I was there.”

“I know,” You nod slowly, “It’s the whole point.”

“M’sorry?” He asks, eyebrows falling together in confusion.

“Have you never edged yourself?” You ask curiously. “Got close and stopped? Nothing?”

“That sounds horrid,” Tom admits, “Isn’t cumming the whole point?”

“Well, yeah—“ You squeeze at the base of him gently, punching a huff out of his chest as his eyes roll toward the ceiling, hands clenched into fists at his side, “but this is more fun, don’t you think?”

“Sounds like you want to torture me.” Tom notes, losing the last bit of sanity he had left when your mouth closes over the head of his cock again, tongue swirling lightly. “—N’ here I was calling you sweet.”

You grin darkly, “I can make you cry, if that’s what you really want.” It wouldn’t be the first time, definitely not the last. Most of the time you did it to be petty, bring a man to a primal state of begging just to embarrass them. But for Tom, it was more than that.

He’d never really been touched, not like this. He’s had his fair share of encounters, and his relationship with Ruth spanned a long part of his teenage years, but there was always something missing. There was always a sort of shame behind wanting things for himself and not asking, feeling like an ass for voicing his needs, so he didn’t. You didn’t need to ask him because you saw it everyday, always putting himself second for anything and anyone. Besides, you wouldn’t mind forcing a few tears out of him, a few breathless pleas.

He was already halfway there, it seemed. Tom had his eyes squeezed shut, fists still clenched at his sides as you bobbed your head slowly, eyes flicking up to watch the muscles in his jaw tense, blush traveling down his neck.

“Gotta slow down,” He begs weakly, “s’too much.”

“You sound alright to me,” You tell him snarkily, licking a long slow stipe up his cock, “should I stop?”

“No, no, no—“ Tom quickly answers, hands reaching for your head as you move, “just—I,” He sighs, feeling like a sap for saying what’s on his mind, “I’d rather have you up here.”

Sex wasn’t totally off the table, but it hadn’t been on your mind.

“Do you have condoms?” You ask, earning a slow head shake from him. The last thing you needed was a baby by someone you’ve only known for less than six months.

“You can uh—you don’t have to take your clothes off or anything,” Tom starts, “we could, just like—“

“I haven’t done that since high school, Tom.” You answer with a faint laugh, bubbly and free of judgment. “But, it’s really our only option.”

Tom breathes a heavy sigh of relief as you sit up, slipping your sweatpants down your hips and off your legs, his calloused hand traveling up your thigh as you settled over his groin, hard cock pressed against the thin cotton of your underwear, sticky with the small wet patch that had grown there, much to your own embarrassment. You hadn’t even touched yourself, or he you, and you were already just as needy. You push his shirt higher up his chest, pale skin hot to the touch, fingers dragging through the small trail that led down to his dick, hips heavy against him as you dragged your hips once, twice.

“Oh, fuck,” Tom sighs loudly, fingers gripping your hips tightly, “tits—can I see your tits?”

And no one’s ever asked in such a polite way, you can’t help but chuckle, nodding eagerly. You slip the shirt over your head, breasts bouncing freely, having forgotten your bra at home in rush over to his place. They were all in the wash, thank god.

“Beautiful,” He notes, his voice low and rough, leaning up to mouth the flesh, plush pink lips pressing against your skin, “s’like the rest of you. Perfect.”

“Tom.” You warn lightly, feeling your own face heat at his compliments.

“It’s true, love.” He tells you, eyes connecting with your face briefly, eyes vulnerable as he stares up at you. It’s the most expressive part of his face, mesmerizing, to say the least. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

You nod slightly, “I know, I know.” You respond, “M’not used to people saying stuff like that to me, never know how to respond.”

“Don’t.” He assures you, “As long as you know.”

And you’ve never felt love this strongly, this early—it could be because of the situation, given your heightened state of connection, but those three words rest on your tongue heavily.

It’s a slow gradual rise as you grind against him, pressing against you in just the right way, clit catching the head of his cock with every pull back of your hips. Tom’s a mess, murmuring words that don’t make sense, soft noises, not having the strength to hold himself up any longer as he rests back against the pillow, grip tightening on your hips as you ride it out, stopping briefly when he starts to squirm a little more than usual.

It goes on for forever, it feels like. In reality, it was only about a half hour, watching Tom fall apart every time you denied his release, nearly to the point where he’s gasping at every touch, wicked pleas turning into desperate whines.

“I can’t.” Tom concedes, eyes brimming with tears, face excessively flushed, “Need it—please?”

You nod, impatient yourself as his hands travel up to touch you, thumb finding your clit over the fabric—it amazes you how he has no trouble at all when feeling out your body, despite how new this was to both of you.

“Fuck, you’re just as bad,” Tom notes with a breathy laugh, it quickly dying out with a rough snap of your hips, chasing your own orgasm selfishly, “take it, come on.”

Take what you need. Take all of it. Tom would give you everything if you let him.

It hits you fast, hard, eyes squeezing shut as you whimpered a soft ‘Fuck.’, fingers finding his wrist for purchase as you rocked your hips one final time—Tom watches your face as you come, which does him in immediately. He blinks hard, watery eyes lending a few tears to escape as he finally breathes in relief, coming in long spurts over his stomach and ruining his shirt in the process, though it’s the last thing on his mind.

“Not how I thought this night would go,” Tom admits with a lazy smile, rubbing at your thighs gently, pointing out how ruined your underwear were now, covered in a mix of slick, yours and his, “come here.”

You slump forward weakly, hands sprawling out over his head as you rest on your arms, nose grazing his. “Me neither.”

“You’re really good at that.”

You snort a tired laugh, “I’ve made many men cry—gotta admit though, you’re the prettiest.”

“Fuck off,” He laughs, reaching up to press a soft, gentle kiss to your lips, “shit hurts after a while.”

Your eyebrows raise, as if trying to prove your point.

Tom grins, attempting to hide his face in your neck. He’s never been this shy until now and it melts your heart.

“You can take a shower here,” He tells you, “sleep too, if you don’t want to mess with the drive.”

“Clothes?” You ask curiously, knowing you didn’t bring any spares.

“No, no—that’s where I draw the line.” He jokes, failing to hide his obvious smile. “‘Course, take what you need.”

“This doesn’t change anything,” You tell him honestly, watching his expression blank for a moment, “I still want my dinners, too.”

Oh.

Tom nods fervently, “Got it. Not like you could do without my cooking now, anyways. You get pissy when it’s your turn.”

You gasp slightly in shock, taken back by the jab and slapping his chest lightly.

“Don’t get coarse with me,” You warn playfully, “or I can make it a lot worse for you.” Unfortunately for you, Tom was already diving in head first. He didn’t care.

“Sounds like a challenge.” Tom counters, “I’m sure I could take you on.”

Please consider a reblog if you enjoyed this fic! It’s makes a huge difference. ♡

#tom grant x reader #joseph quinn x y/n #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn #tom grant make up #tom grant x you #tom grant x y/n #joseph quinn smut #joseph quinn fic #tom grant smut #my writing

1K notes · View notes

ddejavvu · 2 years

Note

Hii!!

Can you please do more grumpy!reader and sunshine!Spencer?

The last one you wrote WAS SO CUTE!!!!

I love you so much!! Have a super awesome and wonderful day!!

thank you thank you thank you, i love you too!! sunshine!spencer has my whole heart, i swear :(

You prided yourself on being unflappable. Sure, you lashed out every once in a while, when you were really pissed, but you'd managed to set enough of a brooding exterior for yourself that you had to get really angry for people to notice.

So the dirty looks you'd been sending to one of the officers in the precinct you were working in weren't anywhere out of the ordinary. If anyone asked, you'd blame it on the atrocious haircut the man wore, and they'd believe you.

It wasn't his haircut, though. You were sure the overly volumized hairdo was in compensation for something miniscule, and it was definitely a problem. But the bigger problem came from the condescending scoffs the man let out whenever Spencer spoke. Or from the judgmentally astonished looks he threw his fellow officers whenever a particularly obscure fact was thrown out.

This was no different. Spencer was halfway through explaining how one of the letters they'd been sent by a killer had significantly different dialect included, indicating that you weren't looking for one person anymore, that you most likely had a team of criminals working together. Before he could finish his thought, the officer had huffed exasperatedly.

"I don't see why you think this matters, Mr...." The officer squinted at Spencer's badge grandiosely, putting on a show of not knowing his name, "Reid. What difference does it make what words he uses, the handwriting's the same. I dunno if you guys get paid more for catching more people, but I think we'd all appreciate it if you just stuck to the facts here, and didn't start picking these stupid letters apart like you're in a high school english class to try and make up more trouble than we actually have. They don't say anything, it's all just poetic nonsense."

There was a moment of tense, unforgiving silence, and you watched Spencer's lips twitch ever so slightly. A nervous tic. Then you spoke, your voice tinged with venom.

"Doctor."

The officer just looked confusedly at you, which seemed typical of the man.

"He's a doctor," You spat, "Address him as one."

"I don't think-"

"I know you don't. You know, I'm not surprised that you brought up high school english class, because I guarantee that's the last time you've ever thought critically about something in your entire life. And that was a while ago, wasn't it?"

"Y/L/N-," Rossi gently grabbed your arm, but you shook him off, paying little to no attention to the possible ramifications of your outburst.

"It seems very on-brand for you to say the words 'poetic nonsense.' You're the type of person to write off every single thing you're not able to comprehend as complete and utter nonsense, to make yourself feel smarter than you are, aren't you? But it's not working," You grabbed the letters Spencer had been analyzing off of the table and thrust them towards him, "Because for the first time in god knows how long, you've got someone competent in this room, and you're getting shown up. Spencer," You turned to him, finally breaking eye contact with the bristling officer, "Continue. Tell us what it means."

Spencer's hand shook slightly as he shuffled through the pages, and part of you felt bad for putting him on the spot after making such a scene. But if he wasn't going to stand up for himself, you were.

"This right here." Spencer pointed vigorously to a phrase he'd noted, "This is regional dialect. Southern Florida. That narrows our previous suspect pool, somewhere in the 600's, to about fifteen."

"The info on those fifteen suspects is being passed around now," Hotch's voice made your stomach twist uncomfortably, "Y/L/N, a word?"

You let your unit chief lead you away, into a hallway off of the room you'd just been in. His gaze was always stern, but it was just a hint worse now, and you prepared yourself for the lecture you had coming.

"You need to separate your thoughts from your feelings."

"Sir?"

"Everyone on the team knows that you're in love with him," He started, gesturing stiffly to Spencer through the glass door you stood beside, "But your actions cannot reflect that."

"That is not- I didn't... I'm not in love with him!"

"Don't start." Hotch held a hand out, effectively silencing you, "I'm not here to help you decipher your little crush, I'm here to make sure none of us get fired, and you're getting pretty damn close. Do you understand? Never again."

You never liked talked down to. You felt the same rage burn in your gut as you had when the officer was drawling on about Spencer, but the respect that you had for Hotch as your superior outweighed it enough to silence you. You bit your tongue, nodding tersely and averting your eyes to the dingy floor.

"And for fuck's sake," Hotch paused with a hand on the door, his vulgarity making your eyes widen a fraction, "Ask him out when we get back. I can't watch this anymore, you're both so oblivious."

He was gone without another word, ducking back into the conference room and ordering officers into groups. You stood stiffly in the hallway, heart pounding and head spinning as you tried processing all of the different, conflicting emotions you were experiencing.

Before you could calm yourself down enough to reenter the room, Spencer excused himself, slipping out into the hallway and frowning slightly at your dazed expression.

"He didn't... He didn't fire you, did he?"

"No," You shook your head, a sigh escaping your lips, "No, I just got lectured."

"I'm sorry," Spencer's voice was cautious, "If I had said something..."

"I'm glad you didn't." You crossed your arms over your chest, "Because then it would have been you on thin ice. You don't deserve that just for doing your job."

"You don't either," He mused, glancing sadly at you, "Are you sure nothing else happened? You seem tense."

"I'm okay," You urged, "Really. Just annoyed, I guess. But I'll get over it. Just gotta get back in there."

Spencer nodded, his signature tense grin on his lips as he tilted his head to the door, "You coming, then?"

"Yeah," You thanked him as he held the door open, but stayed behind the threshold for a moment, "Spencer?"

"Hm?"

"You're good at your job."

His smile deepened slightly, spreading up his cheeks, "Thanks, Y/N. And you're good at protecting people. I'm pretty sure I saw a tear or two in his eyes."

You scoffed lightheartedly at Spencer's teasing, gently bumping into him as you strode through the door, sending one last nasty glance to the officer you'd mouthed off to, seeing a satisfyingly pathetic expression on his face.

Even if you'd lost your job, you didn't think you'd have regretted standing up for Spencer. Nothing had been more important to you in that moment than keeping Spencer unscathed, and the knowing stares you got from the other members of your team were well worth it.

1K notes · View notes

bubblesxo · 2 months

Text

OKAY GUYS

so. you know how a lot of people hc about the gotham accent in general dc media? well i always love this hc because accents are just so cool to me. so hear me out (this post is specific to the gotham tv show universe but can be generalized to any universe a cataclysm/No Man's Land event has occured)

earlier i was on tiktok and i found a video talking about the human tendency to create accents over time. (the video talked about how friend groups and families create accents/dialects which is?? so cool?? but i digress)

anyway, this led me to learn about a study about a group of scientists living in antarctica and how, over the period of just one winter, their vowel sounds had begun to merge together to create the beginnings of an accent. so now, i'll relate this to the cataclysm event.

to cause this event, during which gothamites are cut off in basically every way from the outside world, the bridges around gotham are bombed and destroyed (at least in the gotham tv universe). in this same universe, the time in which they are completely undisturbed (besides one guy communicating over a radio to one lady) is 97 days (over 3 months), at which time a military strike force (kinda. they're evil) is sent in to basically kill all of the criminals there. however, these people really only communicate limitedly with police, gang leaders, and like one time with bruce wayne. but that's about it. reunification with the outside world only began after day 391. that's over an entire year of near-complete separation from the outside world.

now, they already started off most likely having some kind of accent, especially noticeable in the people who lived primarily in the city. (even if the accent isn't particularly strong/differentiated at the time.) however, now they've spent an entire year together, alone in a big city. this has the makings of a stronger accent (at least for those who were stranded in gotham when this event occurred).

one of the important things to keep in mind when considering accents/dialects is the use of specialized vocabulary words, and lemme tell ya, gotham 100% has that. even excluding all of the names they have for people and the general gang info these people have, they still have multiple different terms for parts of town (ex: the financial district = penguin's territory, etc. with the other gangs in power at the time). on top of even this, the amount of stuff that just casually goes on in gotham is seen to completely flabbergast outsiders all the time. they likely have slang that is used to refer to various things the rogues do, or things about violence, gang wars, rations, barracks, etc. there is SO MUCH opportunity for an accent to originate here??

of course, once the events of No Man's Land end and reunification happens, a ton of gothamites who weren't there during it move back in and the accent is dispersed among the population. it likely is in part shared and, over time, becomes part of common vernacular, and, in part, deteriorates, especially regarding things that are no longer as common in the distant future (ex. referring to the financial district as penguin's terf 10 years after this happens would be a bit odd). however, i do believe that this would create a lasting impact on the overall population of gotham, even if only minorly.

(to those of you who keep up with my de-aged!gotham bruce au, this is going to be featured in some of the up-and-coming chapters (slang that feels off to others, weird references, a stronger accent, if only slightly, etc.). if you have any ideas or thoughts on this topic feel free to chime in!!! i love chatting and some help brainstorming on this would be appreciated <33)

48 notes · View notes

zapsoda · 7 months

Note

hi fren!! amateur of linguistics!! tell me, what's your favourite part / sub-domain of linguistics to read about, or the one you're most interested in?

honestly i really do enjoy the nature of different dialects.. like. how every state in america, even regions within states, speaks a slightly different form of english or how in engerland there is a slightly diffferent accent for every region in that teeny little country. a long while back one of my lovely mutuals who is much less active on here now told me about the different ways spanish is spoken across latin and south america, the slightly altered pronunciations, and how nigh every word has a vulgar equivalent just a country over and thats the shit i love. i think thats so cool

what about you!!! do you have any favorites

#also enjoy the history aspect like the origins of words. english is mfing crazy cause literally like. 70% of it comes from french #but its still categorized as a germanic language cause of likw. the rules? or something #also love loanwords and the other one i cant remember thee name of.#the one thats like a loanword except its just a direct translation of the word from its original language #asks #ty for asking btw...

11 notes · View notes

sortagaysortahigh · 9 months

Text

Please like the way that this fantasy AU is causing me brainrot like i must share some of the other ideas i had!!!!

Eddie is the human prince (who only truly wants to be a music-loving sailor) that has fallen in love with the elven princess after a grand total of 1 conversation.

He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t feel drawn to the cloaked woman, perhaps it was her almost-magnetic presence, or maybe it was the glow of her rings, rings that were rumored to drive those who could not live to their potential mad, or maybe, just maybe it was the sound of her laughter, it reminded him of a soft melody, only growing in volume as she chatted with the half-elf barmaid, a woman who’d been running the tavern with her father for longer than Eddie had been alive. It was clear to him that they weren’t speaking in the common tongue, and as he did his best to get closer without giving himself away he was positive that they were speaking a dialect of elvish, and of course, the prince of such a large region would hold some knowledge on other languages and even speak some.

Which is how he found himself eavesdropping on their conversation about the cloaked woman’s travels.

It wasn’t until she’d laughed again, and said something along the lines of “Don’t you just hate it when people choose to stick their nose in places they do not belong?” To the barmaid that Eddie realized the woman was well aware of his presence. Of course she had to have been, she wielded magic and a few of her rings probably held enchantments that allowed her to be incredibly hyper-aware of her surroundings. He sat at the table that was behind and to the right of the woman, placing himself in perfect ear-shot, even through the boisterous commotion of the tavern. It also left him in the perfect spot to be caught like a fish out of water.

The woman turned in her stool, the iridescent glow of her eyes gave away her elven race in seconds as she allowed her cloak to slide back the smallest amount-it was still covering her head-to allow for her fake to peak out more. The both of them held eye contact, she wasted no time in sizing him up, eyes trailing his figure once, then twice, assessing if he was a threat, or if he was just any regular townsfolk. But she knew he was neither, especially as she examined what she could see of his clothes, the loose-fitted beige shirt was something that many sailor wore, however the shiny silver chain tucked into it was a different story. Many sailors opted to wear gold, especially those affiliated with pirates or mercenaries. It was rare to witness a sailor in silver-especially silver that was as clean as his.

Not to mention how clean he was. It was mid-afternoon so the Tavern was well lit, and from what she could see there wasn’t much muck, grease, or dirt adorning his skin. Not to say that sailors were unclean-but typically those who spent the majority of their lives at sea had a very specific physical appearance, and this man did not fit a single one of those characteristics.

So the princess moved from her seat at the bar to the seat across from him, she was curious about who he was, and what it was that he found so interesting about her. There were easier ways to find all of that out, a few drags of her fingers alongside a word or two in arcana would allow her to gaze into his mind-but truth be told she didn’t enjoy using magic that way. Magic was sacred, and there was a time and a place that deemed it necessary.

“And who might you be?” He simply shrugged, now getting a better look at her, watching as she relaxed her shoulders slightly while placing both of her hands on the wooden table, fingers interlaced and still, outside of one of her index fingers tapping along the top of her opposite hand. He did his best to seem casual, like any other tavern go-er, but his attempts to be casual were short lived when she caught a glance of the pendant hanging along his chain. He immediately froze as she reached across the table, fingers now grazing the silver before slowly dragging it out of it’s confines.

“Ah I understand now, you’re the prince attempting to escape from your duties. I can only assume that of you, but wouldn’t it be smarter to not wear any of your house’s medallions, especially a silver chain adorning the house crest. I’d also recommend working on your disguise, commoners may not see through it, but you have many tells.” He opened and closed his mouth several times, feeling like a fish out of water, as if he had been exposed to the world in a matter of seconds. He half-expected her to give him away, or even lecture him on the responsibilities of any high-ranking royal. The regality of her voice let him know that they were of similar status, and as most high ranking nobles did, she too would probably tell him to give up on his fantasies about being a sailor, an adventurer, or truly leaving the city.

But she didn’t. Instead she laughed at his reaction before sitting back down, extending a hand to him, waiting for him to shake it.

“It is only right that I let you in on my attempts of escape as well.” She told him her name before nodding a few times “Princess of Silvermoon, daughter of King Haldir, but the use of a title is unnecessary here, considering we’re in the same boat”.

It all made sense to Eddie, he’d snuck out of the keep after his mother sent news that the High Elves of Silvermoon would be making their arrival today, and with them, a potential match for him. Historically it wasn’t uncommon for Elves and Humans of high-ranking status to wed, especially under the pretense of political alliances and unification under the threats of potential war. But that didn’t make accepting his possible arranged marriage and betrothal any easier. In fact it made it harder, knowing that he was expected to sire an Heir to his throne, while uniting two nations that have their own histories of conflict, plus up until today, no one past the lands surrounding Silvermoon had seen the Princess.

As superficial as it was, he didn’t want to be wed to someone he found unattractive, or even unappealing, especially when Elves were known to be very posh, judgmental, and just plain stuck up.

He blinked a few times before grasping her hand, shaking it over the table while he forced a small smile. “As you’ve assumed, I am the prince, Prince Edward, son of King Wayne the Third. But Honestly, I’d prefer if you called me Eddie, and skipped the formalities. Also, if you’d like to smite me at anytime during this conversation please feel free to do so”

There it was again, that laugh, except this time it was a little louder and she pulled her hand away from his gently to adjust her cloak because the moment she started laughing at him, it started sliding back again, revealing a peak of the deep black hair that her family was known for. They were unmistakeable, many elves had lightly colored hair, or even sunkissed blonde tones of hair, however her family was known for the deep black hair, it was said to be so black that it had hues of blue to it. The rumour had always been that their ancestors were the first to dabble in the mix of divine and arcane magic, using gifts from the Gods in combination with elements of the earth to create something almost untouchable that threatened the existence of divine magic. So in turn, they were marked with hair as dark as night, hair that would be used to alienate them from the other High Elves, however it only made her family stronger, and the power they possessed is what pushed them to where they were now.

“Unfortunately for the both us, I cannot smite you Eddie, if possible, I’d put us both out of our misery. I hear we’re to be married? A Prince who I can only assume yearns for the sea and the freedom it brings, and a Princess who’d rather speak to the city rats than to anyone considered close to noble. God they’re all so pretentious, and of course I know that my people are known to be pretentious, but oh Gods, they’re such asses!” she raised her brows while he let out a small laugh, doing his best to keep up a ‘relaxed’ appearance, when in reality, the more she spoke, the more he wanted to ask her a million questions about herself and follow her to the ends of the earth.

And he hadn’t even seen her without her cloak on yet.

#Fantasy AU stuff tee hee #eddie munson x reader #i just feel like this is so personal to me #this is a lot more than id thought tho

13 notes · View notes

alch3mic · 2 years

Note

Hello, I adore your wickedtale au. And I'm reading through some of the fic you've written (spoiler: I love them!)

I'm sorry of you've already answered this before, but do you have any voice headcannons for they boys?

i have yet to find any real life examples of how the boys sound in my head, but i can at least describe them for you a little! being technically the same person they all have a very similar voice, just at different octaves and with slightly different accents because their native monsters languages are all spoken in different dialects in each au, and it reflects when they speak human english.

huntsman - his voice is on the slightly lower end, tending to come off a bit cold and monotone at times given that his tone doesn't change much, but it still holds some humor to it when he cracks a joke or teases you. he has a west american accent, speaking pretty plain english but slurs some of his words together and uses some slang here and there, but otherwise doesn't have much flair in the way he speaks.

beast - his voice is on the deepest end, of course, and i'm an absolute sucker for underfell sans having that kind of rough brooklyn accent to him, so beast has something quite similar going on. his accent isn't as heavy and he still speaks mostly plain english but he does slur his words the most, cutting off the g's from words like 'going' and replacing some vowel sounds. they make his sentences flow more smoothly and he certainly has a lot of charm to his voice when he talks, though his mumbling can sometimes be indiscernible by how much everything just mushes together.

prince - his voice falls on the middle range, still being on the slightly lower end, but retains a sort of bright youthfulness to it that is only accentuated when he's excited. he certainly speaks the most formally and mostly retains a pretty clear american accent but you can hear some french influences in the way he pronounces vowel sounds. he speaks with confidence behind every word and can easily captivate people with the way he strings words and sentences together.

captain - his voice falls lower than huntsman's, but doesn't fall quite as deep as beast's or papa bear's. he does have quite a peculiar accent though, with both some rather ambiguous british and spanish influences on the ways he pronounces y, t, l and vowels. his tone is very cold and abrasive to practically everyone, with some rugged formalities considering he doesn't use much slang and still holds on to some of his stuffy mannerisms from when he was captain of the royal guard. when he's angry he speaks faster and talks with a lot more passion.

cheshire - given that he has the most slender build and smallest stature many are surprised by how deep his voice can be, but it falls even deeper than prince's when he talks normally. he's one to play a lot more around with octaves though, taking on a higher pitch when teasing people or playing the 'clueless cute kitty bimbo' when out on the club scene, but can switch instantly back to a deeply vicious and mocking tone on a whim. there's clearly some british twang in there.

papa bear - his is undoubtedly the deepest but also the quietest given that he doesn't speak much besides a few words at a time. he's more prone to muttering things under his breath and doesn't exactly speak very clearly most of the time, but he also lacks any sort of inflection in the way he speaks and stresses words slightly different. his th sounds fall more to a d or z sound, hinting closer to a russian accent than purely an american one.

#some thoughts #of course these are just my thoughts #how you actually hear them is up to you!#huntsman!sans #beast!sans #prince!sans #captain!sans #cheshire!sans #papabear!sans #wickedtale #alch!answers #anon

72 notes · View notes

queer-as-used-by-tolkien · 9 days

Text

I have full executive authority to modify my text posts for another audience - to express the exact same sentiment but in words that the new audience will understand. To translate, if you will, from "broad and unknown Tumblr audience" who speak the Tumblr lingo and dialect and who could be literally anybody, to "close family with a humongous bunch of shared experience and similar language to talk about them," who share my worldview and understand what I'm saying without getting offended by a caveat I forgot to include or a specification or detail that I thought was unnecessary. (E.g. on Tumblr I might say "my friend X", but to family I'd just say "X")

Translation from one to the other, and vice versa, is necessary for both clarity and brevity. Different audiences require different approaches.

Tumblr audience might have sentences providing caveats or clarity or introduction to a concept that the family audience already knows or doesn't need. For brevity, I would cut those out, but I might also add sentences to help with transition or to aid in pacing of the ideas, concepts, or story. (This also goes for fic; is the fic for fans only or is it friendly to fandom-blind readers? Same story, told in slightly different words sometimes.)

But they are still my words and all those words remain as true as they were in the original form (assuming I didn't decide to lie to one group). In fact, if somebody had access to both versions (and understood both), they could see more of my mind, heart, and will than otherwise; for example, my willingness to even do such a thing as translating or providing two different versions. A family member who forgot my relation to X might be reassured by the label "friend" when describing her. (It might also mean a lot to the friend, if she read both accounts.) It always helps to see further caveats, examples, side notes, details, or even just different phrasing that I thought would help one group's perspective but wouldn't be too useful for the other unless they were doing a deeper study of my words, for whatever reason.

Now if I DID decide to lie, of course, you can't believe either version (or any new one I came up with), because now I'm a liar and you can't trust anything at all. But assuming I'm not a liar (and nobody has messed with my words, or it's not an outright faked screenshot or deep fake or whatever) - assuming I am truthful and you trust me (and/or my messenger), you can learn a lot from the differences of how I convey the same idea.

Between the two versions I might also do things like update typos or accidental occurrences of misgendering, clarify grammar, institute proper capitalization, and so on.

It makes me think of a post I saw once about the differences between Hunger Games books and movies; how the books tell a story of how awful war is to kids, and how awful the capitol is to make them have a love triangle to survive, and how awful it is for them to sit back and watch it as entertainment. And how the movies have us sit back and be entertained while children have a love triangle and fight each other. It seems like a classic case of "movies butchered the books," but the author was actually involved in and had quite some say in the production of the movie. Looking at them, they both together tell a more powerful story than otherwise. I'll see if I can find that post because it was a JOURNEY.

Anyway. The author has ultimate authority to translate their work to different audiences, with different emphases and details, whether the work is a Tumblr text post or an essay or verbally telling a friend what happened to me today.

Same goes for the Lord Jesus Christ, the word of God (John 1). (For one thing, translating God Himself into human form while preserving his divinity? Major translation skills there.)

The four gospels are an example of this; Matthew, for example, is addressed primarily to the Jews and includes many extra details, adding things like "BTW this was in fulfillment of XYZ prophecy" and including the genealogy through David and all like that. Luke is written by a Gentile to Gentiles, and tells similar stories but often with different details.

Only one gospel mentions that when Jesus fed the five thousand, it was at evening; only one mentions that it was a little boy who had the five loaves and two fishes; when Jesus asks a disciple what they're going to do, only one gospel mentions that Jesus said it "to try him."

John is far more focused on Jesus' divine nature, including many stories not included in the others. Different details, different emphases, different audiences, although ultimately, all four are available to us who have lived after the first century AD.

The gospels also show off another aspect of the author having final authority to translate while still being pure, truthful, and accurate: quotations from the Old Testament.

The OT was written in Hebrew. Jesus reads from a Greek translation and calls it Scripture. (I.e. equally as inspired as the original.) The apostles and writers of the New Testament often do likewise.

The same can be true of other translations as well. Translations into Latin, into German, into French, into Old English, into Early Modern English... God is the master of language. He created it, after all. Jesus is the word. All Scripture is inspired and profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for instruction in righteousness...

But only the author has that authority. If I tell my sister one thing and she tells my friend something in anything other than my own words, it may still be true; but it's slightly less true than my own words. Hopefully, usually the difference is negligible, but in a contest, anything I've ever said or written on the topic is more accurate than what somebody else said.

Hence, if there's something strange about the story my sister tells, my friend would do well to take it with a grain of salt (or more than one, if she knows I have a bad relationship with my sister.) If not, this can pass from one to another like a game of telephone until it devolves into gossip that's wholly untrue, outright malicious, etc.

I and only I retain the right to point to two different versions of my words and say both are equally true. My sister can't say "her words and mine are equal" unless she was there, and even then, any differences would be down to her own different perspective (and level of honesty), not mine.

You never know when somebody might embellish a Bible translation. I hear Satan has quite the interest in perverting God's words (just see Genesis 3). Compare your translation carefully with both itself and others.

On that note, let me share some comparisons to get you started.

One of them has to be wrong. What do you think?

#Bible #Kjv #Kjv-only #Christianity

2 notes · View notes

hatari-translations · 1 year

Text

Refuge (official English production of Griðastaður) - review

A while back, Matthías's play Griðastaður was staged in English at the New Nordics festival in London, in a professional translation by Philip Roughton. Being that I had previously translated the play myself, I was always interested in the proper professional translation, but I never got around to watching it until today (a friend recorded the stream when it happened). Various thoughts and rambling below!

First, let's talk about the title for a moment! Refuge and Sanctuary are both valid translations of Griðastaður; Philip Roughton went with the former and I went with the latter, which is handy for distinguishing the two translations. When I wrote my translation I don't think the word refuge actually came to mind for the title - but I did find sanctuary and its connotations of sacredness metaphorically appropriate to how it's used in the play, where IKEA isn't simply an arbitrary place to escape to but somewhere that feels very personally important to Lárus (he doesn't literally consider it sacred, of course, but sanctuary is often used in senses where it's not literally sacred). I definitely won't claim it's a better translation than Refuge, particularly since Matthías presumably gave his personal blessing to Refuge as the English title, but I think I do stand by why I went with Sanctuary myself.

Overall it's, of course, just a different translation of the same play. I was amused to hear some turns of phrase that Roughton had translated identically or more or less identically to what I'd come up with, and noted various places where he came up with something I really liked that's definitely better than what I did (the prisoners of war in the POW camps who keep taking care of themselves were "happy campers", which is amazing; "quite absolutely stone-cold dead" was good; loved "I'd look like a twat" about going back against the traffic through IKEA), and a couple spots where I still kind of prefer mine. I noticed there were lots of general inconsequential script changes, compared to the filmed Icelandic version on the Academy of the Arts website that I translated - the order of some sentences changed, little bits that got removed, references to things swapped out for references to other things. I don't know if these were tweaks Matthías made before the public Icelandic run, or after, or if some might be liberties taken by the translator, or if either Jörundur Ragnarsson or Martin Donaghy slightly mixed up lines somewhere - it doesn't really matter at all, but worth noting! I suspect Matthías made at least a lot of these tweaks, though.

Somewhat unusually, the character names are all localized - Lárus is Laurence, Guðrún is Loreen, his mom Stefanía is Stephanie - but the setting is not. They're still talking about the IKEA in Garðabær and about the Griljera stove that costs 160,000 krónur. I think that's a bit of an odd combination - if we're still set in Iceland, why do we have a Laurence and a Loreen? The Q&A afterwards indicated they'd gone back and forth a bit on whether the setting should be localized or not, which gives me the impression perhaps the translator originally fully localized it and then in the end the director made a call on swapping the setting back to Iceland while still keeping Philip Roughton's character names.

The one more noteworthy actual script change is that instead of talking about a Chinese guy, Laurence just talks about the Deodorant Man. He's not from any particular country, just vaguely from the opposite side of the planet, and Laurence doesn't try to imitate any kind of accent or dialect even for two sentences. I think that's definitely a good call, as a cultural translation and in general - Lárus being a little bit racist wasn't really contributing anything that mattered to the narrative, and I like the choice to make him Deodorant Man a lot; it identifies him better as the guy from that story and makes the identifying reason Laurence made him up into the important thing, which just fits. Deodorant Man unfortunately wouldn't exactly have flowed off the tongue in Icelandic where svitalyktareyðismaðurinn is nine whole syllables (maðurinn með svitalyktareyðinn sounds a bit better but is ten syllables), but in English that's absolutely the best thing to call him, A+ on that.

The direction is definitely a bit different from how Matthías directed it himself, and Martin Donaghy plays Laurence a bit differently from Jörundur Ragnarsson's Lárus. Lárus is more neatly dressed and has a more repressed, nervous, intensely awkward nerd vibe, where Martin's performance is more energetic and he feels like a more folksy, average sort of guy (apart from the bits where he's being a total weirdo, of course). It doesn't totally change how his character comes across like in the early draft version, but it does make the overall vibe feel a bit different - not in a bad way, mind! This will always be the case to some extent when different actors interpret the same character.

Refuge definitely plays the bit about the spiders like in the draft version, where the imaginary spiders attack as he's talking to Deodorant Man, and he acts out the whole action scene of trying to escape from the spiders (there's a silly James Bond reference in the staging), where Jörundur Ragnarsson played it completely differently, just standing and not really acting it out, more like a kid playing with action figures or an adult playing along with one. That bit is weird and comes across weirdly in the Icelandic version, and is probably more coherent and works better as it's staged here (but still a bit weird). Given here it's more similar to the draft version, I'm curious if it was largely down to Jörundur wanting to play it the way he did.

On the other hand, in other bits I feel like the Icelandic version and Jörundur Ragnarsson's performance were more effective. I kind of miss the fake PowerPoint, which added a bit of humour to that contemplation. And I liked how he played the employee who approaches Lárus in the staged bathroom, how much like a genuine employee he sounds in his polite prodding about whether there's anything he can help him with and how subtly awkward he is about Lárus throwing the bit about his mom at him, compared to the kind of flat speaker-voice in Refuge.

Perhaps most significantly, my favorite sequence of the play is the bit where Lárus gets the message about his mom's death, curls up on the shelves until after closing, then imagines the encounter with the security guard, then suddenly feels really hungry and goes on this manic little trip to the cafeteria where he gets worked up about food waste before he finally goes to the bathroom and calms down. In Matthías's original direction, and Jörundur's performance, I thought this whole sequence worked really well and was emotionally effective. We actually see him curl up inside a shelf, looking small and vulnerable as the lights dim. We hear him sniffle quietly for a few dark minutes as slow, mournful music plays, getting a sense of the six hours he spends there like that. Then he gets up slowly and talks about how quiet it is, that he's all alone in IKEA, flatly repeats the message about his mom (showing it/his impression of it is burned into his mind and he's still thinking about it), and then starts imagining the security guard coming to throw him out - where at first he's pleading and trying to explain himself but then takes it all out in a desperate violent power fantasy where he beats up the security guard, manically threatens him into calling him the king of IKEA, and then continues to beat him half to death... before having a silent, abrupt 'what the fuck' moment and immediately redirecting all that tortured energy into going down to the cafeteria and getting viciously angry about that instead before he finally manages to actually cool off in the bathroom. It's an intense emotional progression of grief redirected into helpless anger and rage and I love it a lot.

So, in part this is definitely just me disliking that they took the thing I liked and changed it, I know, I know. But in Refuge, he simply climbs behind a bit of the set and only pauses for maybe a second after saying he was there for six hours. There's no moment of broken vulnerability, no curling up like a child, no dimmed lights or music, just him standing there, moving on from saying he was up on the shelf for six hours to talking about the silence. Martin does a good job on the security guard bit, and I particularly like how well he does the body language of having his hands wrestled behind his back without anyone there, but during the assault he plays the security guard in a very exaggeratedly pathetic, squeaky-voiced kind of way which I feel like makes it all cartoonier and detracts from the fantasy brutality of it a bit - it is fair and absolutely a valid acting choice that makes sense when Laurence is imagining this power fantasy, but it's just not quite as effective to me.

And instead of proceeding straight from there to him abruptly realizing he's hungry and going down to the cafeteria, this production inserts a sequence where Laurence grabs a curtain, puts it on like a cape, takes a paper crown on a pillow, and crowns himself king of IKEA while Sigur Rós plays, before he declares he's hungry and goes to the cafeteria. Which is amusing and all, but it completely breaks the continuity there! Suddenly it isn't that he's still in that manic worked-up state where he imagined that security guard encounter; he's just mad about the food waste, I guess. Similarly, where Jörundur was clearly cooling down in the bathroom, catching his breath, going, "Okay. Okay," at himself, in this version he more just seems to go there to pee, takes one deep breath and appears more just relieved to empty his bladder than anything else.

And... when Lárus is in the bathtub, eating his chicken salad, he says, "What was that. What was that." In context, the way he delivers it, he's asking what that was - that whole bonkers emotional outburst about the imaginary security guard and the food. It's clearly that, because he repeats it a couple times to himself with blank exhaustion but no surprise. He's still cooling down from a breakdown, a little freaked out at himself. He goes on from there to remind himself that there's nobody there, that the security guard was imaginary.

Laurence, on the other hand, goes "What was that?!" in a startled way, like he's just heard something that freaked him out. Which is a valid reading of the script, you could even read his subsequent comment about there not being a soul around in relation to that, but I feel like it's just a bit of a less interesting, less nuanced reading of the script.

He's also got the curtain cape and paper crown on all the way until Loreen leads him out of IKEA, which makes the interpretation of Laurence feel more distinctly childlike, not in a vulnerable way but a naïve, simplistic way, perhaps. I do think that's sort of a fair interpretation; a bit different, but definitely a reflection of real qualities he has in the script (the spider sequence definitely feels like something a child would make up). I'm not sure I'd personally associate the king of IKEA bit, which was part of a violent grief-induced rage power fantasy, with those qualities in him, though.

Finally - the bit where he rants to his mom about how everyone dies has a pause before he tells her he loves her, which is an interesting change to me because in the Icelandic version it just sort of slips out finally at the tail end of this rant about how everyone dies so fuck it, while this version makes it seem more conscious and considered on his part (which also makes it a little weirder that he then goes on to say "No, of course I didn't say that").

All in all, though, it was a lot of fun to see a different interpretation of the play and an actual professional translation of it! Despite all the niggles above, I thought Martin Donaghy's performance was great overall - different, but not worse. Similarly, I take issue with some of the direction, but other direction choices were great! Matthías talked in the Q&A about how seeing things in a different context is always revealing, and I think he's right - different interpretations of works always reveal different facets of them to explore.

#griðastaður #refuge #review

18 notes · View notes

isilrina · 4 months

Text

— 10 Characters

My sister, @valkblue tagged me on another game, yay! I love those ^^

Rules: pick up to 10 characters and share one of your favorite lines of dialogue you have ever written for them!

Tagging: who ever wants to share the love for their story/universes/characters.

(Some of those have been translated from french, are still waiting for me to edit them or written 10 years ago so please be gentle T_T) 1. First character is James, from 'Dreamscape'. He and Artie are what I call background characters as their first purpose is to make the world they live in seems more real and not empty.

As Daniel and the young lady passed by the makeshift setup, the two boys greeted her in unison, both tipping the brim of their respective hats. "Gentlemen," she replied, still uncomfortable with the terms used since her arrival in Steelport. At that word, the one they called "the kid," Artie, his mouth still full of a bite of bread, elbowed his neighbor. "Y'hear that, James? I reckon I'm a fine gentleman now!" he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. James smirked and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Shut it, kid! If you're a gentleman, then I must be the most notorious gunslinger this side of the Steelport basin!"

2. We have Daniel also from 'Dreamscape':

"It's important to hold dear our inner world as much as the one 'round us." When he turned his attention back to Emily, she was frozen in amazement, and he offered her another smile. "I…," she hesitated, smiling sheepishly once the surprise had passed. "I didn't expect so much poetry coming here." Beside her, Daniel chuckled softly. "Life out here might seem rugged and raw, Miss Hastings," he replied, turning to the campfire where a young boy and an older man were now seated. "But the slow passage of time brings ponderin', and with it, poetry and philosophy." He allowed a brief second of silence before adding: "Even if it be a whole different world from them city-folk's ways." Emily now observed him openly, mesmerized by his words, and she let her attention wander to his profile, seeing him truly for the first time. He seemed a few years younger than her, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, and his skin, tanned by the sun, was adorned with beauty spots. His nose, with its perfect bridge, ended in a slightly upturned tip that gave him a mischievous look. His lips, thin, still wore that same calm smile. "Sure, we ain't got all them machines and fancy know-how," he continued, turning his face towards her again, observing her with his brown eyes, now amber in the sunlight. "But we got this." And with a calm gesture, giving her all the time to withdraw if she didn't want to be touched, he lifted her hand with his own to guide her a few steps away, towards one of the four horses that hadn't left with the caravan a moment ago. Still without any sudden movements, he placed the young lady's slender fingers on the animal's coat.

3. Next is Erel'Vrae from 'Woven Destinies'. I have so many good ones from her. This one is from a chapter I haven't posted yet.

“What might be the ideal magical item you'd wish to possess, Erel?” he then asked, curiosity evident in his voice, eager to hear her response. A mischievous glint danced in her gaze as she recalled an ancient saying, and she quoted a phrase in her native Drow dialect, "L'alurl faerbol zhah mrann d'ssinss." Gale looked at her, an amused expression playing on his features, his brow arched. "I have a feeling that wasn't about the necklace." Erel'Vrae's smirk deepened, her voice dripping with humor. "Oh, you're right. It means 'The best magic item is a male lover.'" Gale chuckled, his interest piqued. "Is that so? Well, I suppose I should be flattered." Erel'Vrae laughed, a playful edge to her tone. "Indeed, wizard. But don't let it go to your head."

4 & 5. The next two characters are Kyôsuke (the Shogun) and his soon to be daughter in law Selini from 'Empires'.

"Have I taught you nothing, unworthy son? Is this how one behaves in front of a beautiful young lady?" The Prince forced a strained smile and bowed with a respect that seemed hypocritical to the young redhead. But she said nothing and merely smiled, her cheeks reddened by the compliment she had just received from her future father in law. "You'd better conduct yourself well in front of her, Takahiro," continued the old man, whose tone indicated impatience. "Leave it, Father. Don't force him. I would be more offended if he did it under your command than if he showed disrespect toward me." Behind her, the crowd murmured with offense, and Sophocles gave his daughter a light tap on the back to silence her. But, unexpectedly, the shogun nodded and said to his son, "Listen to the voice of wisdom speaking through your future wife. You are not yet married, and she already defends you. Learn from her humility, ungrateful son!"

6. Next are from 'A Dance of Blades and Shadows'. Takehiko first

The sound of Takehiko clearing his throat disrupted the archduke's chain of thoughts. "You may speak, Takehiko. What are your thoughts?" the princess prompted, redirecting her attention to him. "I believe, your highness, there may be a magical underpinning to their gathering," he ventured. Surprised, she scrutinized the profile of the young man, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "Go on." "I have heard whispers in town, your Highness. People claim that the gods themselves have unleashed these beasts upon us. Strangely, both pagans and Swonce'viarzy share this belief. But it is true that these creatures have always existed within those lands. Tales of werewolves, strigas, basilisks, and ghouls have been passed down in Bogdankrajzy folklore for generations. However, the scale of their current convergence is unprecedented. While winters have always been harsh in Bogdankraj, previous years did not witness such an effect on the beasts. I suspect something or someone is orchestrating this gathering for unknown reasons."

7. And Mani'herja:

The weight of his father's legacy bore heavily upon Takehiko's shoulders, his gaze drifting downwards towards the stone steps beneath them. The actions of his father, unknown to him until he reached the age of twenty, had cast a shadow of shame upon his identity. Though the Emperor had discouraged Takehiko from assuming the mantle of leadership, he himself had no desire to inherit a tainted throne. "Look at me," the princess demanded, her voice cutting through the dark thoughts that swirled in his mind. Mani'herja's order drew his attention, prompting him to meet her gaze once again. Their eyes locked, his almost black orbs searching her colorless ones, and a gentle smile graced her lips. "You don't have to be ashamed of the things your father did. You're not responsible for his decisions," she reassured him, her voice carrying a note of understanding. "Now you have to live for yourself and try to be a better man than him."

8. This comes from a very old NEWS fanfiction with vampires I wrote 12 years ago that is called "All Always Starts on Rainy Days" and the character name is Tsuki.

"What do you want from me?" "I'm here to talk about the disappearance," the redhead said with a slight smile. "How did you get in?" She chuckled softly before responding: "I opened the door. How did you get in?" He looked at her, surprised, and she sighed. "Okay, it was through the roof door, but… never mind. What do you know about… that?" she said, pointing to the papers on his desk.

9. Next one is Jessica from an old story called "Nightmares", it was a cyberpunk detective story. There is barely a chapter but snipets of the story lived in my head for a long time so it feel like I had written a lot more ^^

"Welcome to the LAPD, Officer Maxwell. I'm Captain Yutaka, and as you can see," he said, gesturing toward the sign on his desk, "I'm the one who asks the questions and gives orders around here. Clear?" "You couldn't have been clearer, sir," she replied, offering a new salute. "Good. Now, what can you tell me about this case that would shed some light?" he asked in a challenging tone. "This is a classified file, sir," she said calmly. "So, I need to read it first to understand what we're dealing with. But initially, my suggestion was to take about five minutes for a cup of coffee outside." He looked at her, furrowing his brow, and she continued: "I know what you're thinking; that I'm a lazy KeyHolo and that you'll send me back behind a SIT screen with a box of donuts. But you'd be mistaken. Why did I suggest a break? It's simple. Because you've been sitting at that desk, grappling with numerous things, but you can't discern which evidence is the most crucial. You can't see anything because you've been staring at this brown file for too long. You need to step back and look at it from a different perspective. And for that, I recommend you explain the case to me while relaxing over a cup of coffee. I believe I'll gain better insight into these murders hearing it firsthand from the head police officer in charge of the file, rather than from an impersonal piece of paper."

I had forgotten how she came on strong XD

10. And finaly last one is Logan in 'Hopes and Dreams'

“You know, Doctor Lewis really misses you two.” he carried on, not answering her question. “I don’t give a fuck!” she yelled. “Leave us alone!” “Language, kid!” Mr. Howlett growled without looking at her. “You heard the kid? Leave them alone, or else.” The soldier smiled and asked: “Or else what?” “Or else I’m coming for you, bub!” answered Howlett through gritted teeth as six metal claws popped out with a light 'shink' from above his knuckles; three on each hand.

I'm sorry I can't choose between those two so here you go, have another one:

"I… I'm sorry, Logan…" were the first words that escaped her mouth in a rasping voice, her throat sore from all the crying. "I… All those awful things I said to you…" He stroked her hair, soothing her. "It's okay. I know." he whispered in her ear. "You didn't mean them." Amalia shook her head against his white wife-beater. "I didn't want to hurt you." she carried on, between sobs. "But I couldn't stop myself. I thought you would… You would see right through me. I couldn't tell you how I felt. I thought you were going to push me away. So I…" "So you did it yourself." he said, finishing her sentence making her nod against him. "Oh god! You don't know much about life, but you sure know how to hurt a man, Amy."

I spend all day finding all of those quote, re-reading old stuff it made me so emotional and freaking happy at the same time.

It was very very hard choosing only one quote for each.

I hope you enjoy them :)

2 notes · View notes

msfbgraves · 5 months

Note

((and Terry doesn't even know he's gambling with his heart.)) And he lost big time and soon enough lmao. Tsk tsk, oh Terry. Once he had Daniel, there was no way he could ever let him go. Not that Daniel minded, luckily enough…;3 These two fools, I swear! ♥️

Today isn't about him, grazie a Dio, and yet he feels he's been catapulted back in time. There's not even a pup to anchor him to his life, he feels like he's not in it – as if, by some divine grace, he's been given a do-over.

And yet there's still Terry.

He feels exactly the same about him: torn between desire and fear, sadness and hope. Did he know, then, who he was being given to? Has he always known?

He tries, he tries so hard, as always, for everyone's sake, but he can't forget the cold, dead look in his mate's eyes when he took him.

It's a look he's known longer than Terry – he has seen it in his father, his sister, his uncles, his brother, and he's believed them when they said: “That's not for you.” Never for you.

Until it is.

And yet.

Look at his brother, look how he holds his bride. So serious, so determined to show her that he's worthy. Trying to make himself tall in the procession. It's not much, what the Vitellis have, and yet it's everything for Mike, Daniel can see that. He's proud of Mikey, and his wife, too, Apollonia – she's serious on her first day as a woman, for that is how she'll see it.

Does she know what they are? Does she care?

He's with the other omegas first, of course, and with Nessa to welcome Apollonia into their circle, for he'll have a new sister from today. But then, his place is with Terry, inescapable as gravity.

He loves him. He knows it. He tries –

But at the touch of his hand, his smell, everything inside him freezes up. He tries not to let it. He tries –

For a man with no forgiveness in heart, living even worse punishment than death.

Kumiko. And that line is not even hers, he knows it; she told him it's by her uncle, Miya – something, and he vaguely remembers wanting to meet him one day. Another pipe dream. Still, he can hear her if she's sitting next to him.

Help me, he prays then. God, help me.

Suddenly his mate stirs. “Wait here,” he says, softly, then goes over to say something to Nessa. She looks confused, but walks to the musicians, who disappear into Vitelli's café, and, after a lot of noise, emerge carrying a slightly battered piano. They place it, as instructed, apparently, right in the middle of the circle of chairs, about a foot from where the couple are sitting.

Terry grins, then walks to Michael. “Miguele. Traduci per me.”

That's more Italian that he's ever uttered, and now Daniel walks to the front. “Terry, I can -”

“Sh.” It's not unkind. “Make yourself comfortable, sweetheart.”

Terry knows Michael's Italian isn't flawless. Nessa, now, she's fluent in six dialects, something which she's quite obviously trying to communicate.

Daniel shakes his head, laughing in spite of himself. These two! Mercifully perhaps, Terry keeps it brief.

“Dear brother,” he says, with a mocking bow to Michael, “sweet sister,” that's Apollonia, already offended on Michael's behalf. “I have a wish for you. May you ever feel like this.” He swallows, sits down at the piano and now looks straight at him.

“So in love.”

It's different on a grand piano, but Daniel recognises the melody in an instant.

New, to him, are the words.

Strange dear

But true, dear

When I'm close to you, dear

The stars fill the sky

So in love with you am I

Even without you

My arms fold about you

You know, darling, why

So in love with you, am I

He tries to look at him, but Terry seems gone into a universe all his own.

In love with the night mysterious

The night when you first were there

In love with my joy, delirious

when I knew that you could care

Now their gazes do meet. And Daniel's back, on his wedding night, close to his mate of a few hours, with all those feelings that then they didn't speak. The passion in Terry's voice, it makes him fear, for the very first time:

Did they miss their chance?

Can they go back?

...What if they can't?

A chord fades, then, and Terry closes his eyes, his face a rictus of pain:

So taunt me

And hurt me

Deceive me, desert me

I am yours till I die!

So in love

So in love, with you, my love

He stops, and neither of them breathe.

Then Terry looks down.

Am I

He didn't think he had any tears left in him. But never were they tears of fear or regret, not for their love, and when his mate embraces him, he feels gratitude, and darkness, too, but now, at least, it comes with words:

“You're a bastard.”

"I know." A kiss. "I know.”

“You don't deserve me.”

“I know – ”

His voice breaks. “You've really hurt me!”

“I know, I'm sorry, love, I'm so sorry...” His mate holds him through sobs so strong he's nearly puking with tears. “Daniel, I'm so sorry,” he hears again, “for everything I've done. All of it, Daniel, I'm so sorry -”

He kisses him then, and it must be disgusting but it serves him right, and when someone is calling “Viva gli sposi” it feels like it's at least partly for them this time.

“I love you,” he whispers, completely exhausted, and in response, his mate tenderly grazes his bitemark with his lips. Daniel feels warmth, a gush of blood, a small cramp – Terry's whole body stiffens –

“Oh...”

He doesn't think anybody has ever held him this tightly. “Get. A. Car!” Terry calls, but there's a gleeful uproar; as one, the guests are herding them towards the nearest house, which, to Daniel's horror, seems to be the Vitelli café. He tries to protest, but Vitelli seems to be shaking his head, a blessing on the wedding, and indeed there are a couple of guest rooms upstairs. At the very least, they're herded to the one furthest from the square.

“Oh, God, they'll hear,” Daniel says as his mate is stripping away his suit under loud whistling outside.

“Oh, yeah,” Terry grins. “Let's show them how it's done.”

“Bastard,” Daniel says, again. “I'll never live this down.”

“Hmm,” Terry says. “Better make it count then, huh?”

#silverusso #knights and pawns #omegaverse #marital problems #making up #forgiveness

5 notes · View notes