#His child had the right to know his origins and speak his native language

[nelkcats]

Conner Phantom, learning to live

It had been a few years since Vlad and Danny had stopped being enemies, years since Amity had been at peace with the ghosts. Danny spent his days teaching his children (he assumed they were his children) about well, everything.

Dan and Ellie had prefabricated knowledge, the halfa couldn't quite get it, but the point was that while they knew who was the creator of the chemistry, they had no idea how to do 2 + 2, so he made it his homework to fill in all the gaps.

No one at Amity blinked at the 30-year-boy-who-was-actually-12 and the 15-year-girl-who-was-actually-4, Danny guessed they had gotten used to the weirdness. One day, Vlad called and pointed out that someone had entered his database a few months ago (apparently he checked his digital security very little when he didn't make "evil" plans) and they had stolen the plans for the cloning capsule. Danny had a bad feeling.

Of course, it was after a month of searching that he found out about Lex Luthor's little "project." To say that he was angry was an understatement; he found the poor Superboy being mind controlled. He felt sad when he remembered Ellie's situation and well, he ended up stealing a clone child and destroying some laboratory. Like old times.

The world did not know of Phantom; Amity was suspicious, almost jealous that their protector could be taken away if they said a word, so they didn't say anything out of the city. It's not like the League did anything when they called. Danny didn't care, less tedious meetings and contingency plans for him. Besides, he wasn't excited about going back to the field if he didn't have to, as long as Amity was safe, the world could be destroyed for all he cared.

He wondered if spending too much time with Dan was affecting him, but in the end he dismissed the thought. Upon arriving home, Superboy had woken up and was being interrogated by the Phantoms. He chose his name to be Conner (sounds good apparently) and agreed to take classes to fill in the gaps of knowledge, just like Ellie, he seemed uncomfortable with the gaps.

The poor boy looked uncomfortable, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never did. After finding out whose clone he was, he wondered if they would take him to Superman, but Danny just snorted. By the end of the week, Conner was a Phantom, and he was fine with that. Danny even told him that he could live normally if he wanted to, and the boy happily accepted the offer. Conner didn't want to be a hero, at least not that early, and Danny was happy with his decision.

Danny frowned thinking of all the heroes who would say that is "selfish" for someone with power to not to use it. But he believed that they were doubly selfish. Being a teenage hero wasn't fucking easy. He hugged Conner, welcoming him to the family and within days, the whole town already knew about him (they also knew whose clone he was, but they didn't really care, they weren't snitching).

Curiously, it was Tim Drake who noticed the strange family visiting Gotham (a 23-year-old seemed to be berating a 30-year-old for stealing tires, he snorted at the irony). However he froze when he saw Clark?, but much younger, speaking in Kryptonian and laughing. He called a meeting in the batcave and tried to call the family, but as soon as they saw the expression in his face they vanished from sight.

Hell, he needed to report it to Bruce.

[itslaneybop]

I’m sure someone has come to the conclusion that Barbatos was originally a feral demon upon creation, right? Diavolo very casually mentions that he lured Barbatos to the castle with tea leaves and Barbatos even notes in a different conversation that he was never a child. That one kid event aside, (which I could very easily find an explanation for if I took the time to do so) it seems too perfect that he would be a quadruped beast-like abomination, respectfully, and I’m going to run with that headcanon.

This is turning into a list I want to reference later 💀

• Barbatos has ALWAYS been articulate and insufferably formal. Maybe he’s made that way.

• Diavolo is the reason he takes a human-esque form, whether to match his own likeness or because he was influenced by some other factor prior to “The Fall”

• Barbatos’s current demon form only alludes to what he used to look like and is definitely the reason why it doesn’t seem to resemble a cohesive design

• He would have looked like a Frankenstein mix between a bat, salamander, owl, snake, and vulture

• ✨ Black sclera ✨ because yes absolutely he would *pants*

• Maybe he doesn’t revert to his previous form because Diavolo has never explicitly said that he was allowed to? (his abject servility lends me to believe he would never use his power without instruction or prompt so this might not be too big of a stretch)

• I already believe that most of the notable figures of native Devildom citizens are beasts or monsters and I think the older they are the less “human” they look. Barbatos is VERY old so that would fit in here nicely.

• Solomon nearly did himself in when summoning Barbatos, if I remember that right, and I desperately want to know what that was all about.

• Whether he started out as quadrupedal or bipedal I couldn’t say, but I think he was flexible enough to stride both ways. Don’t ask me for realism because this is clearly fiction lol but I will say that there is a distinction between his back haunches and the front “arms/hands”

• Someone once mentioned that Barbatos’s VA has a slight lisp (I’m unsure if this observation is true, but I can admit that I hear it and it’s undeniably cute to me) and for that reason alone, I’m envisioning either a snake tongue or sharp fangies to make an audible lisp—or he just has one; no reason at all ♥️

• As far as design goes, I kind of go back and forth between anthropomorphic (I’m using the term loosely and with neutral tone) and just full-on beast.

• For whatever scaly parts he has, I think they’re like a shift of green and blue, possibly yellow, like a June bug shell. Otherwise his body is a mixture of feathers and very fine fur, like a shitzu dog’s coat.

• Big ears! Huge ears that flex and move independently like digits on a hand. This would also explain the black claws on his head because I’m not buying that those are “horns.”

• I’m a big fan of Barbatos being able to speak every language imaginable and that definitely includes every variation of Devildom language. He’s old enough to have invented portions of some!

• Barbatos has said he doesn’t need to sleep (or I am at least fervidly trying to find evidence of it) so I want to believe he catnaps. Catnaps have been described as a light dozing while being alert to surroundings, either to escape danger or pursue prey.

• If he had fangs that worked to inject, he was a venomous monster. If not, I am adamant that he could secrete a toxin of some sort.

• Playing off that last idea, this would make a neat foundation as to why he’s so fascinated and keen on tea. I wonder what kinds of poisonous concoctions he’s made?

There’s a lot to add, but I need to reread the story to get some details right or to pick up anything I hadn’t had a mind to look for first time around. I know for a fact I skipped through most of the story involving the grimoire thing(?) and that’s pretty important regarding Barbatos lol so I’m coming back to this eventually!

[anxietiefling]

(i'm planning to put all of my little moments and fragments i've written on tumblr bit by bit, instead of stressing myself out over not having enough time, skill, or experience to draft complete plots. i've been writing shadowgast twin bits since feburary, i wanna make them see the light of day!)

---

His Undercommon is still shoddy at best; if anything, overhearing the small attempts at conversation Essek is having with the girls is benefiting Caleb just as well, even if it does place his conversational skills at the level of a two-year-old. The increasingly familiar cadence catches him off-guard, nonetheless. He avoids the creakiest floorboards and looks out for errant cats as he tries to get closer to the living room and glances down the corridor into the open door.

Essek has his back turned halfway to the door, sitting on his haunches with arms outstretched in what Caleb assumes is the direction of the playpen set up near the bookshelves. The firelight frames him in a soft golden glow, turning his white hair into spun gold at the edges. From this angle, Caleb can’t see but hear the delighted noise of a well entertained child, before a colorful wooden toy with painted wheels collides with respectable speed against Essek’s thigh. The squeal gets a little louder, followed by a clap of tiny hands and words Caleb can’t decipher. Essek’s reply is uncharacteristically soft and bright, consonants somehow even smoother than usual.

Caleb has never learned Elvish despite the ungodly amount of arcane research he would open himself up to by doing so. Celestial was a choice that preceded his ability for Comprehend Languages or Tongues; the unfamiliar syllables provided a distraction from too familiar thoughts turning into empty stares and a mind separating from its body. The small booklet he had managed to steal once was quickly exhausted in its vocabulary and array of grammar rules, but it was a foreign element, untainted by memory. He knows, from many conversations and despite Essek’s reluctance to speak his native language around other people when not strictly necessary, that Undercommon is much harsher than its Elven origin. He also knows that Essek misses the versatility, the poetic qualities his mother tongue holds over Common. Caleb can relate; he would never describe Zemnian as an elegant language, but there are concepts of comfort and a sense of grounding he cannot convey in Common either.

The wooden toy on the floor makes a swift return without even being touched and then shoots, gentler, back towards its recipient, where it is received with another small shout of delight. This time, Caleb thinks he can decipher the sound as an actual word, begging to go faster – qeeh! QEEH!

When the toy returns, a subtle flick of Essek’s hand guides it away from his kneecap and turns it right around in a circle around his back, before rolling back. A noise of protest is followed by a tiny hand pounding on the floor, then a giggle.

„Vel'klar xunus ol alu? Hm, vel?“

„THERE“

„Vel, ussta’ssussun?“

„There! Gaer! Dada!“

„Llaar? Lor’sohna.“

Sohna, again, is a syllable Caleb recognizes. For a moment, the room is quiet, then a shriek and a laugh as, assumedly, the toy is rediscovered, and pushed back heavily again. This time, when setting it on its return voyage, Essek lets it hit an invisible air cushion. He leans back slightly, and Caleb can see his ears twitch the way he would in confusion. The commitment to the bit is more than endearing.

“Ve’bol nin, ssussun?”

“Faster!”

Essek pushes again, but the toy doesn’t budge. Caleb grins at the increasing amount of regret he puts into his voice.

“Ol orn naut alu. Taudl. “ A shuffle interrupts his attempt at apology, then the taper of tiny feet as they cross the wooden floor. Finally, Caleb can see Nima toddle with single minded focus towards the unfaithful toy. She stops in front of it and looks down, hand outstretched, before hesitating and looking back up to Essek.

“Dada queeh?”

“Usstan xuat zhaun. Ifa?“

Nima waits another moment, almost suspicious, before kneeling down the way toddlers do, her tiny diaper-puffed bottom almost touching the ground as she gently taps the toy with one hand. It jostles slightly, causing her to fall back in surprise and immediately get up again, eyes wide and her mouth a little lovely o-shape. Her hands grab the toy and press it into her chest, when her small face turns towards the door and breaks into a sudden smile.

“Paaapa!”

Toy immediately dropped and forgotten, she waddles towards the corridor, met by no small amount of affectionate sheepishness, as Caleb picks her up and sets her down on his hip.

“Machst du wieder Sachen, Spatz?“ he asks in a conspirational tone.

„Macht Dada Quatsch mit deinem Wagen?“

Instead of a reply, she hums and waves her arms, then lays down her face on his shoulder.

Essek’s eyes find his with an expression he can’t quite decipher before it is gone too quickly and replaced by a fond smile. He carefully puts the wooden toy aside and rises into his feet, meeting Caleb halfway at the doorframe.

“Spying on me?”

“Just enjoying the program.”

“She will juggle around three languages before we know it and then we have to find something none of our friends can teach them both to have some private conversations.”

The odd expression is back, and this time the smile doesn’t manage to hide it.

“I am sure they would still find a way.”

“Is Sasha already asleep?”

“As far as I know, soundly, yes. This one needed a little more tiring out, it seems.”

As if to prove the point, Nima drops her upper body back over Caleb’s arm and giggles as he quickly adjusts his hold on her. Then her face is split by an enormous yawn. For the first time, it occurs to Caleb that the small upper fangs already visible should probably unsettle him more in his soft toddler daughter’s face, but he can’t help the wave of affection that sweeps through him, when she rubs her eyes and lays back down again against his chest.

“I would say it worked. I can put her down.”

“I will stay down for a moment longer, if you want to join me.”

“Always.”

By the time Caleb has almost soundlessly dressed Nima in her nightclothes and put her down in the crib, she is already dozing off and fast asleep by the time her head touches the mattress.

The peace will not hold, especially when her sister had already been asleep, but for the moment, he takes in the sight of the small, dusky faces, sleep-flushed in muted tones, silvery strands of hair squished against the fabric of the mattress.

When he re-enters the living room, Essek is curled up on the couch in the way he expresses a maximum of comfort: head against the armrest, legs propped up, a dozing Verushka loafed on his stomach. He seems lost in thought, as his hands mechanically glide through the fur, and it takes a moment before his eyes focus on Caleb. He stretches his legs out to come to rest across Caleb’s lap as he sits down, careful not to jostle the for once content ball of black fur on his torso.

Caleb rests his palm on a thigh, just above the knee and lets the silence embrace them for a moment, gently thumbing over the cat-hair-covered fabric of Essek’s trousers.

“What did say to her back there?” Essek asks quietly, eyes closed and voice even.

It is clear he doesn’t expect an explanation.

“Just asking her whether you were stealing her toys again.”

One eye opens, enough for gentle reproach, before falling closed again.

“Zemnian conspiracies, I see. I cannot defend myself.”

“It probably matches the Xhorhasian conspiracies I am not privy too.”

Caleb didn’t mean to sound so serious, and he knows he needs to elaborate, when Essek looks at him fully now, a small frown forming on his face.

“I am just saying that my Undercommon skills will probably not improve fast enough to keep up between you and the girls.”

Essek’s voice is very level when he replies, “you make it sound as if they will acquire proper fluency, when the only person they can speak it with is an increasingly assimilated drow in exile.”

There is another statement in here Caleb tries to decipher before coming up with an answer. He trusts Essek enough to say what is on his mind, despite the dry obfuscation, so he takes the leap.

“Why are you so reluctant of keeping them close to this part of their heritage?”

Judging by the tension under his palms and the stilled hands, before he resumes petting Verushka, Essek didn’t expect the precision of the question. He weighs his words for a few moments, before pushing them into Caleb’s comfortable, patient silence.

“It is not so much a matter of me keeping them from their heritage. If anything, I am at danger of distorting this heritage. They might want to find out more about their birth parents one day, but how likely is it that they will need me or our shared language for this? They live in a city that speaks Common. Their friends speak Common. “ He notices Caleb’s intake of breath and holds up a hand. “In the Empire, even whatever Zemnian they learn would still be of more use to them. Even here,” he gestures around to insinuate Nicodranas, “there are so few drow, and it is not because of the sunlight, Caleb. You speak of heritage when it might as well become a burden, to be fully baptized in the culture and the language of what is still considered by many an abomination from the Underdark.”

“And yet, you speak it to them.”

There is another moment of comfortable silence, before Essek replies, quietly.

“Maybe it is me trying to reminiscence of home, after all. I am but a selfish creature. We’ve established this.”

[genshinluvr]

[ not a request ]

HEYY ! HOPE U HAD A GOOD DAY >○< !!

I CANT STOP IMAGINE Isekai!reader WHO CAN TALK ANOTHER LANGUAGE AND TRY TO LEARNT IT TO THE GENSHIN MEN XD

Isekai!reader who is arabic talk arab whenever theyre angry and the genshin men are just like 😯 or just they talk arabic and forgot they cant understand. I CAN SEE CHILDE AND ITTO TRYING TO LEARN IT FOR SUPRISE THE READER XDDD Zhongli will be suprised to not knowing this language and will try to really understand and learning it ( favoritism w zhongli <<<333) Childe who will say i love you in arabic and Isekai!reader will be like "HOW DID U LEARN IT ???" Childe always surpass himself XDDD

I'm not going to talk about Arabic specifically because I have readers who speak other languages too (like Tagalog, Spanish, etc.) so this is going to be inclusive of all other languages, not just Arabic. Again, Isekai'd!Reader is (hopefully) an inclusive fic for everyone, not just a specific group.

Isekai'd!Reader teaching the Genshin men a foreign language from their world would be a little bit difficult because it's a new language for them to learn and the reader isn't a language teacher. After hearing the reader say something in a foreign language, the men will be confused about what the reader had said and will ask for a translation. I think Childe will like the sound of a new language the most, I can see Itto being the one that is most eager to learn a new language because the man literally included some Spanish into his voice lines. The reader will teach it here and there for the Genshin men.

The language doesn't necessarily exist in the Genshin world, especially because these characters can communicate with each other so easily unlike in the reader's world where if you were to go to India as a Japanese person, there is a language barrier. I don't think the Genshin men will be able to teach themselves a foreign language that doesn't really exist in their world because how does one learn a language that isn't from your world/universe? Plus, it would be nearly impossible to teach yourself a foreign language because you're not hearing the language from a native speaker, so they will most likely ask for some assistance and will ask whether they're pronouncing something right or not because they didn't want to disrespect the language and culture of where the language has originated from.

[revenge-of-the-shit]

Writing Chinese characters set within Western worlds

If you don’t want to read it on tumblr, go check this out on medium or go follow me on instagram at @annessarose_writes!

Alright. You know what. I’ve seen plenty of stereotypes in fiction (and in social media) that are so incredibly pervasive I’ve seen many Chinese people within the western world internalize it themselves. So here’s a rough guide on writing Chinese characters in an English-speaking Western setting, written by me, a Chinese Canadian woman.

If you’re here to say something racist fuck off. Otherwise, welcome! This is not a comprehensive guide by any means. This is merely a brief overview based on my own experiences. My experience (as someone in North America) will differ from someone living in, say, Europe or South America. I’m not representative of every Chinese person because everyone’s experience is unique. So here were are.

1. Our names

Chinese names are usually written as follows: [family name] [name]. Let’s take a Canadian historical figure as an example: 黃寬先. In Chinese, it’s pronounced “Wong Foon Sien.” On Canadian documents — which are written [First name] [Last name], he’d be called “Foon Sien Wong.” He went by “Foon Sien” for most of his life. That’s his full “first name.” Nobody would call him Foon because that’s just half of his name (unless given permission). It’d be like meeting a stranger called Alex and calling them “Al” right off the bat. Sure, they could go by Al, but you don’t know that.

For those of us living in the Western world, some of us have both a Chinese name and an English name. In these cases, our Chinese name becomes our middle name in English (e.g. a character could be called John Heen-Gwong Lee).

For some people who immigrated to the Western world but were born in China, their legal name would be their Chinese name. Some choose to keep that name. Some choose an English name as their “preferred” name but keep their Chinese name on legal documents. It varies.

2. Parents & Stereotypes

There’s two stereotypes which are so pervasive I see it being used over and over in jokes even within Chinese (and, to a larger extent, asian) communities:

The [abusive] tiger mom and the meek/absent dad

Both parents are unreasonably strict/abusive and they suck

I have yet to see any fiction stories with Chinese parents where they’re depicted as kind/loving/supportive/understanding (if you have recommendations — please do send them my way). Not all Chinese parents are tiger parents. Chinese parents — like all parents — are human. Good god. YES, they’re human! YES, they have flaws! YES, they are influenced by the culture they grew up in!

That isn’t to say there aren’t parents like those tropes. There are. I know this because I grew up in a predominantly Chinese community where I had many a friend’s parent who was like this. Parents who compare their kids to the best kid in class. Parents who force kids into private lessons and competitions that the kid despises because the parents think it’s for the best. Parents who have literally called their kid a disappointment because they didn’t get 100%.

But please, also consider: there’s parents who support their child’s goals and who listen. Not all parents force their kid into the stereotypical trifecta of lawyer/doctor/engineer — I know of a good number who support their child in choosing the path they want. There’s parents who make mistakes and learn and try their best to support their child. So please, for the love of god, if you write a Chinese character, don’t reduce their parents to stereotypes.

3. Language & Learning

When I first read The Son of Neptune by Rick Riordan, I was so excited to see a Chinese Canadian character in Frank Zhang. Finally, there was someone like me. Finally, there was representation in well-known western media.

While I do appreciate that RR added in Frank Zhang, it’s pretty obvious that he didn’t really know how to write a Chinese Canadian character. One of the most glaring examples: in The Son of Neptune, Frank reveals he can’t really read Chinese. In like, the next book (I think — it’s been a while since I read it), Frank is suddenly able to read Chinese because he “learned” it in two week’s time.

Nope. Nuh-uh. Learning Chinese is a pain, let me tell you. There’s thousands of different characters and it is something you need to devote a lot of time to learning (especially if you’re progressed past the best childhood years for learning a language). So if you’re writing about a Chinese character living in the western world, here’s what you need to know:

A character who was born and raised in the western world does not necessarily know how to read/write in Chinese.

If they were raised by their own family, the character would very likely know how to speak their own dialect. They’d be able to understand the language used in movies/TV and they sound like a native speaker, but they may not know how to use language outside of certain contexts (the term for this is heritage speaker).

They probably went to Chinese school. They probably hated it. Chinese school is usually universally hated and does not teach you jack shit other than a hatred for the place and a vague memory of learning how to read the language without actually retaining knowledge of what you learned.

Most of my friends who know how to read/write in Chinese learned from tutors, parents, or were born in China.

There’s two main types of written Chinese: Traditional (used by Cantonese speakers) and Simplified (used by Mandarin speakers).

There are MANY other dialects (which I don’t know much about). The most common ones are Mandarin (usually spoken by people from the mainland), then Cantonese (usually spoken by people from Hong Kong).

4. Fitting into the community

Usually, the story is one of two things: they’re the only Asian kid in the entire school, or they grew up in a predominantly East Asian community. Things to consider for both of these when you’re writing:

Growing up the only Asian kid

They’re “that Asian kid.” They’re different. They walk into a class and feel weird and out of place.

They bring food from home (usually ethnic cuisine) to school. Other classmates stare at it, make fun of it, demand what that strange food is.

“Where are you from?” “Here.” “No, like, where are you really from?”

“Your name is funny.”

People literally never getting the character’s name right.

And that horrible, horrible feeling: wishing that they were white so they could avoid all of this.

Growing up in a predominantly East Asian community

It’s not uncommon for Chinese cuisine to mix with other east Asian cuisines. For special occasions (or just for a casual night out), your character could very well go out to get some sushi, or go for some KBBQ, or get some Vietnamese noodles.

Screaming “AIYAA” at/with their friends unironically if they’re annoyed (I’ve done this a lot with Cantonese friends. Less so with Mandarin friends).

Slipping into Chinese for like, two words, during a mostly-English conversation to talk about food or some other topic that can’t be adequately conveyed in English.

Reading books by white authors and learning about white history and growing up thinking white names, white books, and white history is the norm and standard even though the community is surrounded by East Asian people.

When the character leaves this community, there’s a brief culture shock when they realize how sheltered they’ve been.

Things in common for both of these:

The character has grown up on ethnic cuisine. Yes, Chinese people do eat rice with many of our meals. Yes, boba (bubble) tea is extremely popular. No, rice isn’t the only thing we eat. No, not all Chinese people love boba (though as a Chinese person I admit this sounds sacrilegious to say…)

The character likely grew up watching film/TVthat originates from East Asia. It’s not uncommon to watch Studio Ghibli films. It’s not uncommon to watch Japanese or Korean shows with canto/mando dub (examples: Ultraman, Kamen Rider). If you want to see a classic Chinese film from Hong Kong that’s fucking hilarious, watch Kung Fu Hustle.

The character has felt or been told that they’re “too westernized to be Chinese, but too Chinese to fit into the western world.” They’re torn between the two.

5. General portrayal

It’s quite simple, really. We’re human. We’re regular people. We have regular hobbies like all people do. We’re good at some subjects and bad at others. We have likes and dislikes like all people do. So here’s a list of stereotypes you can avoid.

STEREOTYPES TO AVOID BECAUSE WE’RE REGULAR HUMANS AND WE DON’T FIT INTO A SINGLE COOKIE CUTTER SHAPE, DAMMIT.

The character is a maths whiz and perfect at all things STEM.

The character is a straight-A+ gifted/IB/AP student.

The character is the next coming of Mozart and is amazing at piano/violin.

The character’s free time is spent only studying.

The character is insanely good at martial arts.

The character is either meek and submissive or an explosive, dangerous force.

I’m not going to mention the other stereotypes. You know, those ones. The really obvious ones that make fun of and demonize (sometimes through multiple untruths) how we look and how we live our lives. You should know.

Of course, there are people who fit into one or more of these. That’s not the point. The point is: molding all Chinese characters to these stereotypes (which white media tends to do) is harmful and reductionist. We’re more than stereotypes.

—

6. Conclusion

We need more diversity in portrayal of Chinese characters. Reducing us into one-dimensional caricatures has done nothing but harm us — look at what’s happening now. This guide is by no means comprehensive, but I hope it has helped you by providing a quick overview.

If you want to accurately portray Chinese characters, do your research. Read Chinese fiction. Watch Chinese films/TV. Initiate a conversation with the community. Portray us accurately. Quit turning us into caricatures.

[narcosmx]

being the arellano baby sister and being into barron would include (pt.1)...

a/n: deep sigh i had half of this done but i'm still getting used to my new keyboard and refreshed the page by accident so thi s is take 2/2 i fuckign hope

aokay so i do this thing with characters in shows and movies who are english second language learners where i score their english skills especially native spanish speakers

that is what the emphasis in my teaching credential is okay

anyways what this is amounting to is that from my research in episode 2 of narcos enedina presents as the one who speaks the best english

i would actually consider her like a 3/4 dependent on her writing abilities of course

anyways like min doesn't even attempt to speak english, mon is like a 1/4 maybe, i imagine pancha picked some up in prison but prison is also very racial and ethnic gang based mostly as a tool for survival

regardless endina speaks the best english and it isn't quite at the level of a native speaker yet

and barron seems to speak spanish well on a conversational basis and is aware of slang and stuff which shows a different level of understanding but it is still clearly a second lmnguage to him

the communication of ideas especially across languages is usually one of he most challenging paerts of language learning

and this can be pretty key while discussing things like strategies and plans you know

therefore, there needs to be the bridge in this relationship between the two languages... a true bilingual and that's where baby arellano comes in

baby arellano grew up when the family was making more money, not narcos money but better off than any of the other sibs growing up

therefore, to private schools you go! in a lot of areas in mexico, private schools are kinda the only options for a quality and priviliged education especially in the english language

so youve been speaking english and spanish ever since you were a child; spanish everywhere else and english at school

maybe you're at this point a native speaker or as close to a native speaker as can be ... regardless you have a command of english that surpasses your siblings and of course you're a native spanish speaker

i have this feeling that your role as the bridge between languages is something you stumbled into or like something you accidently brought on to yourself

i can see it happening as something in passing, let's say it was panchita's welcome home party at roxanne which is the first time you meet barron

okay i'm crying at the idea of barron's eyes immediately locking on to you as soon as he notices you in the club

like he's very quiet and observant, he can keep track of you slyly without anyone noticing but without any of your movements going unnoticed. that's what makes him valuable later

it happens that like barron, ramon, javier and pancha are talking or whatever and you're walking by and leaning over to give pancha a kiss on the top of his head or a slap really depending on how much of an asshole he has gotten to be in his like hour home

and you kinda step in at the right moment

lets say mon tells barron something and you can see it in barrons face that he is searching for words, like just going through the catalogs in him mind

and you are casually like "he said ___________, babe" and barron's response is kinda slow, only giving a small semblance of a smile and this like soft nod and thank you

and of course you wink back at him with a shit eating grin which is when pancha like cuts in and is like "this is our baby sister, try not to pay much attention to her. works for me"

but barron isn't processing any of this because he's just taking in you and your energy

and min being the cock block that he is probably sweeps in to lead you away by your arm

but this is where i can jump in to benjamin's original distaste and apathy for barron

as seen in season 2, benjamin is not trusting of barron and essentially calls him a gringo ... an outsider even within his own culture

so benjmain would not be very pleased about barron hanging out with you, around you, in your vacinity but then again when has benjamin being grumpy ever stopped you

you have learned to ignore the like "behave yourself" glares you get from benjamin as you begin to put yourself in more situations where you get to be the language bridge

you hang out more around pancha and ramon, using the excuse that like "fuck i haven't seen pancha in a while, this ugly bitch is my brother too"

and you keep giving yourself the role of this bridge whenever either side is lost for words... and i am just imaging you as bby arellano kinda getting frustrated and more determined

simply by the fact that you don't get a reaction out of barron like you would get out of other men

you're used to batting your eyelashes a few times and getting whatever you wanted

and barron's kinda just nods, smiles and looks away when you wink at him or give him little looks and you're like "UM HELLO"

but barron's not fucking dumb, he knows the importance of this connection to the arellanos and the distrust that benjamin holds

so going after the family bby doesn't really lend itself to that now does it

so he's just left almost stewing can you scream sexual tension because OOF

barron's eyes nearly burning into you and you begin to notice which means you dedicate yourself to making his job as fucking impossible as possible

aka wearing these...choice outfits when you go to the meetings to facilitate the language thing

this is probably when you start seeing barron crack; like hairline fracture...

you can see it in his facial expressions, in the way he looks at you and has this little smirk and shakes his head at you

in the way that his breath changes ever so slightly when you lock eyes with him

i ...just... shit whispered under his breath as he's finally like entertainhing your interactions turning in to like stolen conversations whenever you were well out of min's eyes

having to rush change subjects whenever mon or pancha came around

but this changes after the shooting at the christine

okay so im thinking im going to have to make a whole ass different post where it's like... barron protecting you at the shooting

but this .... is the events that cement's the arellano's and really min's trust in him

and whether it be out of fear, concern or just general over protective brothering, benjamin makes it clear to barron and all of the siblings you don't leave without being in barron's sight

and for the first time in your goddamn life you jump on min's rule like "you KNOW WHAT YES YOU'RE RIGHT"

benjamin is like "you're going out for a run? barron better be driving behind you" and you're literally like say less

and so of course your ass goes to put on your best ass defining leggings and the cutest top and you're like "i'm going for a run", locking eyes with barron and he tries his best to keep his expression under control as he nods, slowly gets up and is like "after you, princesa"

and as he's getting into the car and you walking past him and finally getting to see this fucking smirk on his faceb as he checks you out and is like "you really trying to get me killed, aren't you, baby" and you're just like "enjoy the show" as you staRT RUNNING AND OMG SHOULD I END HERE ILL END PT 1 HERE

[ruotsalainen-kettu]

So your character speaks a foreign language

A small guide for writers

Listen, I know how it is. Foreign languages are very tempting, and I'm the last to ridicule people for making mistakes in a language they don't really speak. If you just want to throw in a word or two for the lolz, this isn't for you.

Right, everyone who's still here, hi. Your character speaks a foreign languge that you do not speak (well), but you really want to make things believable? It's a bit fidgety, but possible. You'll have to keep a few things in mind though.

1. Context

Some questions you need to ask: What is the context this language is used in? How and from who did the speaker learn it? How is their relation to that language's community?

Does your story take place where this language is spoken? If so, be VERY careful. There's nothing more annoying than to read about a supposed native speaker with allegedly perfect everything who then promptly makes a grammar mistake.

It gets more interesting when we look at second-third etc generation speakers who only learned it from their parents. If there's no contact with the original language community, it will likely develop quite differently than the standard language. And of course it will be influenced by the languages around it. Sometimes the minorities languages die out, sometimes they become a sort of hybrid language. One interesting example is Texas German, which to a German native speaker is still intelligible but sounds quite odd since the English influence is so strong. If language plays an important role in your story, you need to know its history, or at least that of your character.

Example: Heisenberg from RE8. Though he has no accent, he's written as a native German speaker most of the time. His creations are called Soldat (literally just soldier. The man's not very creative.), which I believe even in-game is pluralized as "Soldats". The correct plural however is "Soldaten", since the s-plural isn't as ubiquitous in German as it is in English.

Assuming Heisenberg was any older than 10 years old when he left Germany, it's very unlikely he'd be making that sort of mistake. I don't suddenly say "Apfels" when speaking English when I know it's "Äpfel".

If he left Germany as a very young child, however, and then had absolutely no contact with a German-speaking population, the mistake is understandable, since kids forget languages real quick when they don't use them. (Why he would use German words instead of his new basically native language is another matter.)

2. Spelling and cases. No, most people will not notice if you misspelled a foreign word, but as a writer with access to the internet, that's plain embarrassing. For many European languages, Google Translate is actually really decent. And if you want to be super sure, check this out:

Not all languages have like two cases and one plural form for nouns, English just has a very simple structure. Want an example?

Der Soldat, dem Soldaten, den Soldaten, des Soldaten. Those are singular forms. How about the plural? Die Soldaten, den Soldaten, die Soldaten, der Soldaten

Some of these look the same, but they're not. And German is, with only 4 cases, a comparative lightweight. Try Russian or Finnish. Verbs also have declensions that exceed singular and plural and don't get me started on prepositions.

Again, all of this depends on the context of your language community. The Genitive and Accusative in German are falling out of favour in colloquial language, but a lot of English words are making an entrance in a slightly modified way. (E.g. toasten - literally just "to toast" with the standard verb ending.)

And for the love of Fuck don't make the mistake of "primitive people = primitive language". In actual real life the supposed "primitive" tribes have, up till today, languages with grammar so complex even Finnish has to sit down, all very carefully specialized to their living circumstances. Racist tropes are lazy writing.

Also, spelling changes just like vocabulary. In German, we had the last reform of standard German about 15 years ago, which changed mostly stuff like plural forms and whether or not to use ß or ss (the ß is a sharp s by the way. Please do not use it as a b.). Especially if you're working with a broad time line and supposedly historical written records, this can very easily trip you up.

3. Connotations

This one is arguably the hardest. Know what the difference between a butt dial and a booty call is?

Most of the time you'll see the connotation when looking at the possible translations of a word, but Wiktionary also helps since they often have a bunch of examples. When in doubt, best to ask a native speaker. (And hope their dialect matches what you're writing.) Also watch out for words that do not have a precise equivalent. Do I know what a vibe is? Absolutely. Can I explain it to someone in German? Nope. There's literally just no word for it, and even the concept can only be described as "this and that but a bit to the left". This can be fun if you want to build a conlang, or distinguish different groups of the same language community, since this is often location-based.

Again, this is for people who want to do worldbuilding, not dragging someone for a wrong word in a 2am one shot fanfic. Languages are alive, they're versatile and just plain fascinating, so don't treat them like legos that you can stack onto one another without changing them. Whatever you're building will come down, and fast.

Cheers, a bored language student.

[ddarker-dreams]

Unwanted Intrusions. Yan Childe x Reader

Warnings: Unbalanced power dynamics and suggestive themes. Word count: 1.3k. Note: Reposted due to tumblr’s awful not showing posts in tag problem : ))))

It’s no exaggeration to say this order could keep your parent’s business afloat.

For once, you feel as if the Geo Archon has heard your prayers and answered them. Maintaining your composure has never felt so challenging. Standing just to the side of this godsend customer, a genuine smile adorns your face, hands clasped behind your back. She examines the petals of every blossom with scrutiny. You’re more than confident that the assortment will be to her liking, pearly white qingxin’s that took arduous days to obtain.

All she needs to do is confirm what she spoke about earlier. Lian, as she had introduced herself, is a wedding coordinator for a wealthy merchant in Liyue. As funding isn’t an issue, she had considered purchasing your entire stock for the event. It’s a rather last-minute affair and you can’t imagine any other florists could pull it off. How overjoyed your parents will be when they hear this news, they’ll finally be able to rest easily at night. The financial burden that you’ve sought to relieve them of is just within reach.

Lian straightens her posture and looks to you, clearly pleased and reaching for her Mora purse. “It’s as you said, these qingxin’s have undeniable quality. Now then, let’s--”

“Ah, there you are, [First]! Working hard as ever, I take it. Though, if memory serves, isn’t this your day off?”

No. This can not be happening to you. The timing is far too cruel -- an insult, if anything -- blood draining from your face at the grating sound of Childe’s voice. Lian looks at the Fatui standing by the entrance with palpable disdain, and words escape you entirely. It’s no secret that the Fatui have put a hurting on local business, including the very merchant this wedding is meant to be for. Clearing your throat, you struggle to find your verbal foothold, hoping to salvage the rapidly devolving situation.

“I’m sorry sir, but I’m incredibly busy at the moment.” Your tone is aloof as you can manage. Childe leans against the entranceway, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head. You recognize that damned expression. It’s the look that comes right before Childe throws you to the wolves for his entertainment.

“I don’t mind waiting. We have a lot to go over since our discussion was cut short last time, remember?”

Lian pivots on her heel, already making for the door. “It seems you’re otherwise preoccupied at the moment. Best of luck with your… future endeavors.”

Your jaw is agape as Lian exists with haste. It feels like the Mora you were so close to obtaining slipped through your fingers, hot indignation flaring at Childe’s purposeful interruption. It’d be naïve to think this a mere coincidence. As soon as she’s gone, Childe makes straight for you, sizing up your displeased body language.

“What a shame,” Childe sighs, running a hand through his tousled copper hair. “Do you think it was something I said?”

“Why are you here?” You snap, arms crossing over your chest. The paper-thin patience you have when speaking to Childe is nonexistent this time around. It’s inevitable that every time you’re free of him for a while, that he makes up for it by intruding in the worst ways possible. The past three or so weeks without Childe lingering like a bad omen have been divine. A much-needed reprieve cut short far too soon.

Childe hums, canting his head down to get a closer look at you. “I think that’s rather obvious, [First]. I missed our little chats.”

He sounds pleased with himself. Frowning, you put your hands on his chest and push, hoping to create some space. Childe doesn’t so much as budge at your feeble attempts. His strength might not be noticeable at first glance, as his body is rather lean and slim. Unfortunately for you, it’s on display now, your force not even making him blink. Arms falling limp to your side in defeat, you recognize he’s not going to be giving personal space anytime soon.

“That’s great, but you’re scaring away my customers.” You grumble, standing on your tiptoes to glance over his shoulder. The situation outside makes your stomach churn in displeasure. Just outside the window, you catch the distinctive outfit of two Fatui guards, standing watch on the premises. Any passerby, Liyue natives or not, will undoubtedly be repelled by the sight.

“I would never,” he lets out a dramatized gasp, laughing at the deadpan stare you give in return. “Wow, what an intimidating glare! Endearing as that is, I much prefer how you look when your lips are on my--”

“Be quiet!” You hiss quietly, cheeks set ablaze, the room suddenly feeling too hot. “My parents are upstairs, you idiot.”

There’s a gleam in his eyes at the mention of this that fills you with despair. “That’s actually what I’m here for. I’ve never had the opportunity to introduce myself to them as your partner, isn’t that a custom in Liyue? Family is important, after all, it’s best to respect these things.”

Is that what he considers himself to be? Your partner?

You have no positive emotional connection to Childe, considering the Harbinger to be a persistent blight on your life. Every deplorable favor you exchanged -- at his behest -- was for the sake of alleviating the financial burden on your family. Carnal pleasure for the Fatui to cease harassing over their unpaid debt. What was done in the dark should remain there, as the humiliation attached to it is too great.

“You’re no such thing to me,” comes your detached response, cutting through the air like a knife. Childe’s lips curl into an uncharacteristic frown at your unhesitant rebuke. “For the last time, please leave so I can do my job.”

Silence. There’s no playful quip or arrogant laughter. Only an icy, piercing stare that sends shivers down your spine. You’ve never been on the receiving end of this look from Childe, who always seems to hold nothing but boundless adoration and favor on you. Swallowing thickly, you hold your ground, somehow managing to maintain eye contact.

“No such thing, huh?” He murmurs, your words bitter on his tongue. You shift uncomfortably, fists clenching by your side. Outside, you can hear the sounds of children playing, merchants bartering, and carts going by filled with various goods. The world is at a standstill in your humble store. Neither you nor Childe makes a move, tension steadily increasing as each second passes slower than the last.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Your heart drops. What does he mean by that? Sensing your newfound distress, he pats you on the head, in an act you can only describe as demeaning.

Childe reaches into his pocket, pulling out a personal belonging that sends your head reeling. A dainty necklace, unmistakable in its origin, glistening in front of you temptingly. That’s your mother’s necklace. A family heirloom for centuries, that she painstakingly pawned off to keep the flower shop afloat amidst financial turmoil. Wide-eyed, you reach out for it, only for Childe to lift it above your reach.

He shakes his head, smiling maliciously. “I guess I won’t be needing this any longer. I was hoping to win your parent’s favor with this little gift, but if that’s how you feel, why should I bother?”

“Childe, I’m--”

“Hm, not so cold now, are we?” He laughs, a sound devoid of humanity, placing the necklace away as fast as he took it out. Is this guilt that weighs on your soul? Agony? Hatred? You’re uncertain. Everything is happening too fast to mentally keep up with, Childe once again making a fool of you. You grit your teeth, taking in deep breaths to steady yourself. He stares at you with feigned disinterest.

“If you happen to change your mind,” he starts, turning to leave, “You know where to find me. I’ll be waiting.”

At that moment, you realize, it wasn’t you who had a semblance of control over Childe.

It was him that had you wrapped securely around his finger.

[sapphirelass]

Two Peas in a Pod - Harry PotterxSister!Reader

Please note:

1: I don’t own any of the gifs used, nor any already established characters, so credit to the authors and original creators - You have done a phenomenal job :)

2: English is not my native language, as I was born and raised in Sweden. I have, however, studied English for almost a decade, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem, I just thought I’d let you know ;)

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

For this one-shot I have taken inspiration from both the book and the film, as well as left out parts of the original dialogue that, for the purpose of this story, felt irrelevant.

Word count: ≈ 2400

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

You probably already knew this, but still XD

(Y/N) - Your name

(Y/N/N) - Your nickname

(Y/H/C) - Your hair colour

(Y/H/L) - Your hair length

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Two Peas in a Pod

Harry Potter and his twin sister (Y/N) were like two peas in a pod. Always had been. Supposedly, that was what happened when young magicians had to grow up with muggles, especially if those muggles were named “Dursley”. Harry was always more impulsive, whereas (Y/N) took on the role of the rational one, yet they had both been placed in Gryffindor house by the sorting hat four years prior.

It was now the first of September 1995, and last year had been a rough one. Lord Voldemort, the dark wizard who had killed Harry and (Y/N)’s parents, had just come back and despite their efforts, this holiday had been more miserable than any of the previous ones. Dudley and his friends, dementor attacks, and a general lack of communication with the wizarding world left the twins in a particularly bad mood. They arrived at Kings Cross, and after pulling Harry away from Draco Malfoy, (Y/N), her brother, Ron and Hermione boarded the Hogwarts express, and found a place to sit.

During the start-of-the-year feast, the small group of friends quickly realized that something was wrong. Their new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor - Dolores Umbridge - was a ministry employe, which was weird on its own, but the way she spoke, acted, and kept interrupting Dumbledore with shrill, irritating *hum hum*’s made them all feel queasy.

After a quiet discussion in the common room (and quite a bit of loud arguing between Harry and Seamus Finnigan), they went to bed, yawning, and not exactly looking forward to that year’s first period of DADA.

***

They entered the classroom, and to their surprise, Umbridge actually wasn’t there yet. Harry and (Y/N) shared a confused look, but went to sit down, Harry with Ron, and (Y/N) with Hermione. Eventually though, the professor did arrive, her unnaturally high-pitched voice bringing them all back to reality.

“Good morning, class!” she said cheerfully

There was a quiet murmur among the students, and Umbridge shook her head.

“Good Morning!” she said again, this time more sternly. “I expect you to answer me when spoken to.”

A slightly louder “Good morning professor” could be heard, and though Umbridge didn’t seem too pleased, she decided to move on with the lesson.

“Ordinary Wizarding Levels - OWLs” she started. “Your previous teachers in this subject have all been quite questionable choices, however this year things will be the way they were meant to. Open your books on page 4.”

A few minutes had passed before Hermione raised her hand and said “Professor, there is nothing in here about using defensive spells.”

“Using spells?” Umbridge asked, laughing nastily

“We’re not to use magic?” Ron asked

“You will be learning defensive magic in a safe, risk-free environment”

“But”, said Harry, rather angrily, “what good would that do? If we were attacked that wouldn’t be risk-free!”

“Ha!”, laughed Umbridge, “And who exactly do you think would want to attack a helpless child such as yourself? Besides, the education you will receive will be more than enough for you to pass your OWLs, and that is after all just what school is about.” She finished with a smirk, looking rather satisfied with her speech.

(Y/N), who had sat quietly this whole time shifted slightly in her chair, and exclaimed: “It’s not though!

“Sorry?” Umbridge asked, dumbfounded

“School isn’t solely about receiving good grades! It’s about preparing the students for life, and supplying them with the tools and knowledge necessary in order to succeed and improve. If we’re not going to do that, then why, may I ask, is this a mandatory course? It’s already starting to seem rather pointless to me.”

Harry was perplexed. How his sister always managed to, 1: use her words in such a remarkable way, and 2: remain calm through the most infuriating of situations was a mystery to him, however he turned his gaze back towards Umbridge, waiting for her reply.

“Nonsense” She said. “This course is compulsory, and rightfully so!”

“How though?” Inquired (Y/N), pushing it further than she probably should have. “Can you name any situation, apart from the exam, where your teachings will be of any help to us? Or didn’t the ministry consider that?”

That was the top of the iceberg.

“DETENTION!!” shouted Umbridge. “My office, 8:30 would you be so kind, Ms Potter.”

(Y/N) flinched. She wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, however detention was not something she had to endure very often. That was more Harry’s thing. She sank quietly back onto her chair, and Umbridge continued with her boring, unnecessary lesson, reciting facts and procedures they had all learnt about 4 years earlier. (Y/N) could feel her brother staring, practically burning a hole in her neck, but somehow, probably thanks to Ron, he kept quiet for the rest of the class.

An hour later, class ended and none of the Gryffindor students wasted any time getting out of Umbridge’s classroom. (Y/N) threw her stuff into her brown, leather bag and dashed out of the room without making eye contact with her brother or friends.

“(Y/N/N)!” Harry shouted. “Wait up!”

He caught up with his sister on the stairs leading down to McGonagall’s classroom.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Looking up at him with an annoyed stare she said “Yes Harry! Just brilliant!” with a sarcastic tone in her voice. She kept on walking, but Harry grabbed her shoulder. A few years ago, they had been roughly the same size, but Harry had grown A LOT, and was by now almost seven inches taller. All the quidditch training had apparently paid off too, and (Y/N) knew instantly that she would never be able to escape his firm, yet gentle grip. He glanced down on her with a worried look on his face.

“I’m serious!” he said. “Stop”

She turned around and faced him. “What?” She spat at him, suddenly noticing her icy voice.

“Sorry…” (Y/N) mumbled, “she just pissed me off. I’m fine.” Her facial expression softened and she met Harry’s eyes for the first time since class ended. He let go of her shoulders, and was just about to say something when a tall ginger came running at full speed and gave (Y/N) a supportive pat on the back.

“That was bloody brilliant!” Ron exclaimed. “(Y/N), did you see the look on her face? Bloody hell, she was angrier than Malfoy after Harry beat him in his first quidditch match!”

“Yes” stated (Y/N) simply, as Hermione made her way down the stairs, “I saw…”

“Oh cheer up!” stated Ron, “an hour or two of detention isn’t the end of the world. If you ask me, it was totally worth it!”

Hermione gave him a disapproving stare as (Y/N) sadly stated, “It might not have been the cleverest thing to do” Both Harry and Hermione blinked at her with a sort of “you-don’t-say?” kind of look as she kept on speaking. “But you must admit that it’s the truth? Defence against the dark arts has never been as important as it is right now. We are all going to die before the end of the year unless we learn and improve?!”

“You’re right.” Hermione muttered, and surprisingly, she smiled slightly. “But we’ll have to talk about that later, otherwise we’ll be late for transfiguration. Come on!”

***

The rest of the day went by rather quickly, and the quartet soon found themselves in front of the fireplace in the common room. It was about 8:20 when (Y/N) stood up, grabbed a jacket, and left for Umbridge’s office.

“Good luck!” Harry said, frowning deeply, “I’ll wait for you here.”

(Y/N) turned around quickly, “Haz, you don’t have to. I’ll be fine. You need your sleep and I have no idea how long this is going to take.”

Harry gave her a sort or irritated look, to which she sighed and left without a word.

“What do you think she’ll have her do?” Hermione questioned.

“I don’t know” Harry hissed, “but I’m sure she’ll tell me when she gets back...”

The remaining three looked at each other. Ron threw Harry a chocolate frog, and then - they waited…

***

*knock knock*

There was a slight clinking noise, like metal on china, followed by a repulsing “come in”. (Y/N) took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

“Ah!” chirped Umbridge, “Potter, sit down, will you?”

(Y/N) apprehensively made her way across the room to the chair her so-called “professor” had pointed at. She sat down and looked around nervously.

“You will be writing some sentences for me today, no” Umbridge said, as (Y/N) reached down to her bag to pick up something to write with. “no, not with your own quill. You’ll be using a rather special one of mine.” She smiled evilly, and pushed a black, pointy feather across the table.

(Y/N) grabbed it carefully and asked in a silent, trembling voice, “what should I write?”

“Oh, right! How about… ‘I must obey my superiors’?”

***

It was about three hours later, when (Y/N) slowly made her way back to the common room, red, hot blood dripping from her left hand leaving a small trail through the corridor. The pain had intensified, and was by this point almost unbearable. She took a quick detour to the girls’ bathroom, hoping to be able to clean herself up a bit before having to face her friends and brother. She had told him to go to sleep, after all, it was almost midnight by now, but she knew him all too well. The odds of him being in bed were absolutely zero.

She watched the thick, red liquid disappear down the sink and let a few tears fall, before grabbing some paper making sure no tears or blood could be seen. She had to make it through the common room up to the dormitories quickly though, since she was sure Harry would be able to tell she’d been crying, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. Sure, she could just tell him, but something inside her argued against that. He had been rather angry and distressed all summer, and she knew he wasn’t feeling much better now. Harry had enough to deal with without handling her problems too.

Entering the common room, roughly four seconds had passed before her brother was by her side.

“Hey,” he said gently, “everything okay?”

She nodded and mumbled a quiet. “Yes. ‘m tired though, night Harry”

She walked the stairs up to her dorm, leaving Harry behind. He simply stood there dumbfounded. What had just happened? “Oh… okay, night (Y/N/N)”

She didn’t answer…

***

The following morning, he found her at the breakfast table, slowly digesting a tiny portion of porridge. She was wearing one of his old quidditch jumpers underneath her cloak. He knew, because it was far too big for her, and the sleeves reached down to her fingertips.

“Hey,” he said, ruffling her (Y/H/L), (Y/H/C) hair, “Feeling better?”

“Sure, “ she murmured, slowly pulling the sleeves even further down. He gave her a supportive hug.

“But come on now, “ he urged her. “You can’t be sad forever. What did she have you do?”

“Nothing…”

“(Y/N/N)!”

“Just write some sentences. It was fine, rather dull to be honest with you.” She threw the spoon into the bowl, and pushed it away. “How are you feeling? Any bad dreams?”

“Always…” he muttered, shaking his head at the milk that had splashed out on the table, “could have been worse though.”

Harry made himself some toast, as Ron and Hermione joined them in the great hall.

***

A week or so later Harry had had enough. It was in defence against the dark arts, on a rather cold Tuesday afternoon that he finally snapped, and shouted at professor Umbridge, who seemed almost too happy for a reason to give him detention.

The gang sat, yet again, around the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room, when Harry suddenly left and climbed through the portrait hole. He came back a few hours later, a downright furious look on his face, and walked straight up to his sister without even noticing the ghost he had stumbled through. He looked down at her smaller frame, his quidditch jumper yet again pulled over her head.

“Let me see, ” he said through gritted teeth, causing (Y/N) to look up at him, trying her best to act confused.

“Wha…”

“(Y/N) - let. me. see.” he repeated firmly, his emerald eyes penetrating the mental wall behind which she had been trying so hard to hide her troubles.

She closed her eyes and pulled her sleeve up to her elbow. The blood had naturally dried, however five heart wrenching words were etched into her still red, irritated skin.

I must obey my superiors

No one said a thing. (Y/N) was staring at the floor, not daring to meet her brother’s eyes, all while Harry felt madder than he ever had before.

Madder than when Dudley had been pushing him around the school yard.

Madder than when Malfoy had taunted him because of the dementors.

Madder than when he had found out that his aunt and uncle had lied about their parents true fate for almost 10 years.

This was his sister, and it was far from okay.

Without thinking, Harry was just about to shout at her for keeping something like that from him, when he noticed that she was crying. Soft, quiet sobs that she were clearly trying to hide. It felt as if all his anger simply washed away, and he crouched down and took her hand in his.

Harry’s hand was still covered in blood. He hadn’t had time to clean it, but had instead taken the shortest way to the common room, after realizing what had happened. Raising his right hand, he pulled her closer and felt her lean her head on his chest. They sat like that, arms wrapped around each other, for hours and slowly started drifting off to sleep.

Were they okay? Not at all. Would they be? Absolutely! Because they had each other, and when it really came down to it, that was all they needed, as the Potter twins were just like two peas in a pod.

~ L

Masterlist

[actress4him]

Bonus Whumptober Content

I had no plans originally of continuing the story from Whumptober Day 28. As far as I was concerned, it ended badly and that was that.

But you can all thank @outtacommission , because I was bribed into continuing it!

If you need a refresher on the original chapter, click the link above or read it on AO3.

This is the start of the new content, which ended up being super long, so I broke it up into three short chapters. I’m really excited and nervous to share this. Writing sequels for oneshots that weren’t originally supposed to be continued is...tough. This is the second time I’ve done it, and I always feel like the continuation isn’t as good as the original. But I’m pretty happy with how this turned out, so I hope that you guys enjoy it, too!

Fandom: Voltron Legendary Defender

Warnings: (big spoilers!) needles, implied CPR, broken bones, blood, brain damage, paralysis, amputation, panic attacks

.

“Quiznak. Oh, holy quiznak, Keith?”

.

“He’s not breathing. I’ve got no pulse.”

.

“Hold him steady, I’m cutting the back of this chair off so we can get to the shrapnel.”

.

“Come on, Keith. Breathe. Breathe!”

.

“Look, I found this in Red’s first aid kit. I’m a universal donor.”

“Get it hooked up, he needs everything we can give him.”

.

“Please, Keith. Please.”

.

“Shiro, his ribs…”

“I know. They’ll heal.”

.

“Wait! Look!”

“Oh my g-...okay. Okay. Hurry, let’s get him to the Black Lion. I’ll need you to ride with him so you can keep up the transfusion.”

“Right behind you.”

.

.

Consciousness came in spurts. The first time, he surfaced from the never-ending blackness to nothing but cold and pain, and the feeling that his insides were twisted into a big knot and trying their best to exit his body. As he retched, body automatically jerking to try to sit up or roll over and sending even more pain shooting through him, frantic voices surrounded him.

“...reaction...blood…!”

“But...O neg...shouldn’t…”

Somebody scooped him up like a baby and ran, jarring his screaming abdomen with every step, before depositing him onto a semi-soft surface.

“...Galra…”

“...sample...synthesize more…”

The words meant nothing to him. All he knew was pain and nausea, and a blur of lights and movement above him.

Just before he passed out again, there was a sharp prick in his forearm that momentarily drew his attention away from the rest of the pain. He couldn’t find the energy to protest it.

.

.

The second time, voices were the first to filter in, hushed tones that sounded as if they were speaking a foreign language. His eyes fluttered open, but the bright lights overhead made him wince and squeeze them back shut. 

“You’re okay,” someone soothed, the only words he could actually pick out from among the rest. “You’ll be just fine. Go back to sleep, now.”

There was a prick on the back of his hand, and he whimpered involuntarily. But a moment later the nothingness was taking back over, and he gladly slipped underneath.

.

.

The next time he woke, he had no recollection of the first two times, or of anything that happened before, but for some reason he was surprised to be waking up. Somehow, he didn’t think he was going to do so. But here he was, awake. Only, he had no idea where here was.

“Keith? Bud? You with us?”

He knew that voice. Turning his head toward it, he willed his eyes to open, and after a moment, they obeyed. A blur of yellow and brown met him. 

“Hey, bud! It’s good to see those eyes open. Can you hear me?”

Keith blinked, trying to bring the person into focus. Once their features had solidified enough that he could make out dark brown eyes and a smile, he licked his chapped lips and attempted to speak. 

“Hunk.” For some reason the N dragged on for much longer than he had intended, but it was a word, regardless.

“Yeah! That’s me! Oh my gosh, you have no idea how happy I am that you’re awake and okay.”

How long had he been asleep? It must have been a while for Hunk to be worried. And he was pretty sure he felt okay, though maybe a bit numb overall. Maybe he really had been asleep for a long time. It kinda felt like he was waking up after one of those naps you take while you’re sick and your fever breaks in the middle of it.

He licked his lips again, to no avail. “‘hirsty.”

“Yep, yep, I’m sure you are.” Hunk turned and snatched something up off a nearby table, bringing it toward Keith’s face. “Here ya go. Small sips.”

The water was the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted in his life. He wanted to gulp it all down, ignoring what he had been told, but Hunk pulled it away after only a couple of seconds. 

“Okay, I’m gonna go get Shiro and Fallenta and let them know you’re awake, alright? I’ll be right back.”

Keith struggled to process that sentence. He didn’t think he recognized one of those names, and he still couldn’t figure out why him being awake was such a big deal. Unless...he had gotten hurt in one of their fights. But then why wouldn’t he be waking up from the pod, not in whatever bed this was?

“Wha...happened?” His words continued to come out strangely, despite his best efforts. Maybe he had been sleeping on his face, because it was one of those numb parts of him that didn’t seem to want to move properly.

Hunk froze at the doorway, turning slowly to face him. “Um...what do you remember?”

It was a good question. Wrinkling his brow, he searched his still half-dazed mind, trying and failing to grasp at the snippets of memories that danced by. It didn’t take long for his head to start hurting, and he shut his eyes, giving up for the moment. “Don’t know. A fight?” He had a vague recollection of being in Red recently. “In the Lions?”

“Um, yeah, well, that’s...one thing that happened.” Hunk seemed nervous, fidgeting with his hands. “I’m gonna go, um, get the others, and they can tell you everything, ‘kay?” Without giving Keith a chance to protest, he disappeared through the door.

Keith sighed, and tested out various parts of his body. Other than most of his right side being curiously numb, and an almost unnoticeable ache in a couple more places, everything seemed to be working properly. He had been in Red right before waking up there...right? Maybe she could tell him what was going on.

Only when he closed his eyes and reached for their connection, he came up empty. There was nothing there. No hum, no purr, nothing. His heart leapt into his throat. Red! Red, where are you? What if something had happened to her? What if she was gone? What if he had done something to make her reject him, and he wasn’t even a paladin anymore, what if that’s what Hunk didn’t want to tell him? If he wasn’t a paladin anymore, then he’d...he’d be nothing. Useless. There would be absolutely no reason for him to be in the Castle anymore, in space at all. The other paladins would take him back to Earth and dump him off, and he’d have no one and nothing yet again.

The door opened, and Keith shot upright, ignoring the way it made his head swim and that ache in his ribs twinge. “I can’t feel Red! I can’t...what happened? Where’s Red?”

“Hey! Hey, shh, Keith, it’s okay!” Shiro was across the room in an instant, sitting down on the side of the bed and grasping Keith’s shoulders in both his hands. “I need you to calm down for me, okay? I’ll explain, but I need you to take deep breaths.”

Drawing in one such breath to appease the man, Keith glanced around the room, taking in Hunk’s worried expression and the alien stranger that stood on the other side of his bed. “Somebody please just tell me what's going on.” The words were still slurred, which was getting more frustrating by the second. “Why’m I here?”

He hated the look that Shiro shot up at the alien before catching his eyes again. They were treating him like a fragile child. Even when he was a child, he had gotten more bad news in his few years than most adults did in their whole lives, so it wasn’t like he didn’t always expect more. 

“You were in an accident,” Shiro finally explained, still speaking far too slowly and softly. “You and Red got hit with a zaiforge cannon and crashed into a nearby planet. Do you remember?”

Keith already knew he didn’t, so he wasn’t going to waste time searching his memory when he still wanted answers. “Where’s Red? Is she okay?”

Offering a sympathetic smile, Shiro squeezed his shoulder with his flesh hand. “She’s in rough shape. All her systems are shut down right now. But Pidge and Coran and Hunk have been working on her, and they’re optimistic that everything can be fixed. With time.”

Letting all his breath out with a whoosh, Keith slumped over forward. It was simultaneous good news and bad news. Red hadn’t rejected him, or at least he didn’t think so. But he hated that she was so badly hurt. “I wanna see her.”

Shiro’s smile twitched up a little higher. “I know. But first, we need to check on you. You’ve been unconscious for quite a while. Everything seems to have healed up alright, but there were some things that couldn’t be tested while you were out.”

As if this was their cue, the alien - an objectively pretty, willowy creature with mauve fur, four long, thin arms, and a myriad of long, thin fingers on each hand - stepped forward. Their voice was light and feminine, and had a lilting accent that reminded him of Lance when he fell into his native tongue.

“I am going to give you some simple instructions to follow, okay?”

Keith frowned. “Who ‘re you?”

“Oh, yes, right.” Shiro indicated the newcomer with one hand. “This is Fallenta. She’s a Tellimite. They’re one of the most medically advanced species in the universe. We wanted to make sure you had the best care possible, so Allura brought us to Tellima as soon as we had you in the pod. Fallenta has been...indispensable.”

His explanation only caused Keith more confusion. If he had been in a pod, then why did he need a doctor? And again, why was he in some bed now? 

Seeming to sense his questions, Fallenta smiled and settled down opposite Shiro. “There were some...complications from your injuries. Coran and Shiro made the right call by placing you into a healing pod right away, knowing that it was the only way to save your life, but that meant that your bones that were broken could not be reset before healing. One of my jobs was to correct this once your abdomen wound was no longer life threatening.”

“Yes, you actually had two different stints in the pod,” Shiro nodded. His brow furrowed. “Well, three, if you count the time that your body rejected the blood Pidge had given you and started trying to shut down. Thankfully, Coran had those samples he took from all of us at the beginning, and was able to synthesize some more of yours.”

Keith couldn’t stand the troubled expression on Shiro’s face, especially since he had been the one to put it there. Lifting his left arm, he gently squeezed his brother’s elbow. “I’m okay now.”

Shiro smiled, but there was a sheen to his eyes. “You have no idea how relieved I am about that.”

“Your cognition seems to be just fine,” Fallenta said, “and losing memory of the traumatic event is not uncommon. There are a few other things I need to check, though.”

She spent the next few minutes shining a flashlight into his eyes, asking him some questions about things that happened prior to the accident, getting him to remember a short list of objects, and observing his reactions to various movements and sounds. All of it led Keith to believe that it was his brain being tested, and it made him nervous. No one would tell him anything else, though, simply repeating that they would explain everything shortly.

It seemed to be going well, though, and everyone was smiling and calm, so he tried not to let it get to him. Until Fallenta moved on to testing sensations. She started on his left arm, lightly touching it with her finger, then poking her claw into his skin, then digging in her knuckle. Everything felt like it should.

“Alright, the right arm, now.” She smiled at him and held his gaze, but after a moment of nothing further happening, her smile faded into a neutral expression. Another moment, and he was wondering why she hadn’t done the test yet. 

“Do you feel any of this, Keith?”

“What?” He looked down, and her finger was on his forearm. As he watched, she moved it up and down his arm, tapping lightly. He swallowed hard. “It's...it's been really numb e’er since I woke up. My face an’ leg, too.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Shiro stiffen. “What does that mean?”

Fallenta smiled again, and as nice of a smile as it was, he was beginning to hate it. “Let’s complete the tests, and I will be able to tell you more. Can you feel this?” 

This time he watched as she pricked him with her claw, and to his relief, there was a faint jolt of pain. “A little. It's muted, though.”

“That’s good. And this?” She used her knuckle that time, and again, the pressure was faint.

“Same. What's wrong with my arm?” he demanded, glaring first at her, then Shiro. “Why can’t I talk right?”

“Have patience -”

“No!” Keith yanked his arm away from her with far more effort than should have been required. “I'm out of patience! Tell me what's wrong!”

Shiro put a hand on Fallenta’s shoulder, nodded at her, then reached forward and took Keith’s hand. “When we found you…” He paused, his jaw clenching and eyes flicking away for a split second before he seemed to steel himself to continue. “Your heart had stopped. It’s impossible to say how long you had been like that. I was able to get it started again, but it took a few minutes. So your brain…” Drawing in a deep breath, he let it out in a sigh. “It was without oxygen for several minutes, at the least. Brain damage has been a concern from the very start. When I said you have no idea how relieved I am that you’re okay...it was possible that you wouldn’t ever wake up. Or if you did, that you wouldn’t be able to function at all.” An errant tear slipped out, and he dashed it away with his metal hand. “But you’re here. You’re awake, and you can speak and think and...and it’s gonna be okay. I promise, it’s gonna be okay.”

Brain damage? The words hit him like a blow to the chest. That meant his arm...his face...they weren’t just numb, they were...they were…

He ripped his hand from Shiro’s grip. “How can you say it's gonna be okay? Do you hear me? I soun’ stupid! An’ my arm...how’m I supposed to fight an’ fly if I can barely move my arm?”

“But you still have some movement and sensation,” Fallenta broke in. “That is very good news. It means that, with physical therapy, you can regain even more use. You can even have speech therapy to help you build up your facial muscles.”

“Speech therapy?” He almost laughed at that. “We’re in the middle of a war, we don’ have time for speech therapy!”

Shiro’s hand landed on his leg. “We’ll make it work, Keith.”

“No. No.” He shook his head harshly. “Get off. Get off me, I need...” Flailing his one good hand toward Shiro and Fallenta, he gritted his teeth against the tears that wanted to fall. The weight on either side of the bed moved as the two of them stood. “I need some air. I need...” Red, that’s what he needed. He reached for the corner of the blanket that covered his legs. “I’m gonna -”

“Keith, wait!”

Shiro and Hunk both lunged, but it was too late. He had already flipped the blanket to the side, revealing what lay underneath.

Or rather, what didn’t lay underneath.

He was gonna be sick.

His leg. It was…it was missing from the knee down.

Keith screamed.

The next minutes or hours were a blur of tears and pain in his chest and breaths that wouldn’t come. He vaguely recalled Shiro being in front of him, his lips moving but no sound coming out. He vaguely recalled thrashing and slamming his head into the wall behind him. 

After that, though, the nothingness took back over.

Next

[skycollides]

They Can Never Have Yesterday

Billy Russo x Reader

Authors note: I apologize in advance for grammar mistakes

English isn’t my native language.

Let me know if you want to be tagged.

Requests are open. Feel free to send them in.

Song: Yesterday by Leona Lewis

Warning: mentions of death, guns, shooting, heartbreak, swearing, no happy end

Words: 2.182

If anyone told you about 1 and a half year ago it would come down to this - you would have thought the person absolutely crazy. 

Here you are in your apartment, pointing a gun on the love of your life. The guy you thought you would spend the rest of your life with.

’’Leave Billy. I thought I was clear when I told you I want you to leave me alone.’’ you say with a firm voice trying not to show him how much he scares you.

’’Y/n.’’ Billy says and takes a step forward which causes you to take a step back.

’’Stay where you are or I’ll shoot you. I will kill you if I have to William.’’

’’Let me explain darling.’’ 

’’What is there to explain? All of this is your fault. Yours and no.one else’s. You got Maria and the kids killed. They were our family Billy. How could you? I don’t even know who you are anymore or how far you’ll go for money. Am I next? Will you get me killed to or will you kill me yourself?’’ tears are welling up in your eyes but you try to hide them.

’’They weren’t meant to die. Frank should be the one dead not Maria and the kids. I did it for us. For our future, to be able to take care of you. You and me against the world Y/n. I would never hurt you.’’

’’Never hurt me? You hurt me more than you’ll ever know. For us are you out of your mind? I was with you before the money and guess what? I loved you for the man you were back then. I don’t need all this fancy stuff to be happy. All I needed was you and your love but I guess that was too much to ask for. You became a selfish prick that only cares about himself, money and status. I wish I’d never met you Russo. You’re a monster.’’

’’Don’t say that baby. I’m still the man you love.’’

’’Don’t call me that! I don’t wanna hear you call me that ever again.’’

’’Why?’’

’’Because that’s what you most likely called Madani.’’ Billy stares at you with wide eyes.

’’What don’t look at me like that. Did you seriously think I wouldn’t find out? Oh Billy you’ve got so much to learn. First of all when you lie to someone make sure all parties are on board. Second you shouldn’t have gone to places where me and my friends hangout. I’ve seen you with her all cozy and so did my friends so don’t even try to deny it.’’

’’Babe please take the gun down. I’ll explain everything.’’

’’So you can kill me and throw my body in the Hudson River? No thank you. It’s fine the way it is.’’

’’You really think I could do that the love of my life?.’’

’’As I was saying before you let our family get killed. I’m not sure what you’re capable of right now.’’ you say and now the tears are streaming down you face.

’’Y/n , my sweet Y/n.’’ Billy says and comes closer which you don’t realize because you’re trying to whip the tears away. Billy uses your inattentive moment to take you to slap the gun out of your hand. It slides over the floor and stops right under your couch. You look at hime with wide eyes and try to get away from him. He runs after you and grabs you from behind carrying you to the bedroom the both of you used to share. Once you’re inside the locks the door and put the key in his pocket. You scream and kick and try to get out of his hold but it’s useless. Billy drops you on the bed and you move back against the wall, pulling your knees up to your chest. He sits down on what used to be his side and gives you a sad smile.

’’I meant what I said earlier Y/n. I won’t hurt you. Not now and not in the future.’’ he says with a calm voice. You don’t say anything you simply out your head on your knees and hope he will leave soon. Leave without finding out the secret that you’ve been keeping from him.

’’Talk to me my love.’’

’’What do you want me to say Russo? Hey I know you’re a murderer but fuck it lets get married run away and play happy family. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but you’re wanted. Everyone is looking for you.’’

’’That’s quite the idea you’ve got there.’’ he says and get off the bed lays on the floor and get out a small carton. He opens it and pulls something out. A small velvet box. He hands it you and you open the box. Inside there is the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen.

’’That’s the ring I was gonna propose to you with. Well before all the shit went down. I was serious when I said that you’re the one for me. Madani was using me to get to Frank and I was using her to get the information I needed nothing more. There were no feelings involved form my side. You were always on my mind Y/n. Ever since I met you 8 years ago it was always you that’s been on my mind no one else. I would die for you Y/n. I would die before I would let anything happen to you. I love you Y/n. I love you like I’ve never loved anyone before. I know I lied to you a lot in the past but saying that I love you was never one of them.’’ his speech is interrupted by a crying baby.

Your eyes go wide. This was the one thing you’ve been trying for hide since he showed up.

’’Y/n what is this?’’ he asks confused and gets off the bed heading to the bedroom door unlocking it. You jump off the bed and go after him. When you reach him he is already in your sons room staring in front of the bed.

’’Don’t hurt him please.’’ you plead.

’’Y/n come on who do think I am? Who’s kid is this?’’ he asks stares at you.

’’Ours Billy. This is our son.’’ you say and take the crying infant rocking him in your arms.

’’How? What? When?’’ 

’’You know how Billy or do you need a lecture about bees and flowers? When I found out? The day you and Frank were trying to kill each other. I was already 12 weeks along. I kept it secret too scared that someone would come after him because his dad fucked up peoples lives. Any other questions?’’ you say to him with an eyebrow raised.

’’What’s his name?’’ 

’’Aiden - Aiden William Russo.’’

’’Why? After everything I did to you - to us.’’

’’Because when I look at hime I remember all the good times we had. The love we shared. Aiden is a product of our love. I felt right to name him after his dad.’’

’’Can I hold him?’’ he asks and you look at him.

’’Please Y/n?’’ he begs and you give in. You hand him your son and he sits down in the rocking chair next to the bed.

’’Hey Buddy.’’ he says softly and kisses his forehead.

’’God he’s so beautiful Y/n.’’ he says and smiles. You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen him smile like this.

’’You did so well princess. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to take care of you two. I never imagined it would be like this when we have a child. I always thought we’d be living happily together. Why am I such a fuck up honestly?’’ he says to himself but you heard it too.

’’You thought about us having children?’’ you ask him surprised. In your eyes you’ve never seen Billy as a family man, this is completely new for you.

’’Didn’t expect that to be honest.’’

’’What’’

’’You wanting to have a family with me. Wanting me to be the mother of your children.’’

’’I’ve pictured it so often Y/n you have no idea.’’ he says and the little one stirs in his arms.

’’Shhh daddy’s here you’re safe. Nothing is gonna happen buddy.’’ Billy says and the baby calms down again. You look at the two of them for a while before you speak up.

’’Just because I’m not pointing the gun at you right now and you have our son in your arms I forgot what you did Billy. We will never have what we used to have before all the shit went down. I don’t think I’ll be able to trust you again. I don’t know who you are anymore. Hell I was scared you’d hurt our son. That’s what you actions caused.’’

’’We can make this work Y/n’’ Billy says and you shake your head.

’’I think Frank hit your head in this mirror too often. William you are wanted! The police is out looking for you. The CIA, FBI I wouldn’t even surprised if homeland was involved. Leaving my trust issues out of this right know- How the hell would this work in any way?’’

’’I have a fake passport and I set up a bank account I had it already planed before shit went south. The original plan was to kill Frank, take you and get the hell out of here. We still can do that. Get out of here and raise our son - together. I know I haven’t given you any reason to trust me lately but I all I want - all I ever wanted was to be with you. You’re my source of happiness Y/n and now this little one here too.’’

’’I don’t know that to say Billy’’

’’I’m not forcing you to say anything at all. I just want you to consider it.’’

You don’t know what to do. On one hand he’s the love of your life, the father of your child and on the other hand he’s a murderer who is responsible for the death of the castles and many other people.

’’Okay’’ you say.

’’Okay what?’’

’’Okay we’ll come with you but I swear to god if you hurt me in any way I’ll kill you in your sleep and make it look like an accident. I’m not kidding!’’

’’That’s my girl’’ he says and smile before he gets up and hand you your son. He kisses your forehead and says

’’I’ll take care of everything pack only necessary things for you and our son. I’ll come and get you when everything is set okay?’’ he says and you nod.

’’See you then my love. Bye Aiden daddy’s gonna come and get you soon. I love you buddy’’ he says and kisses his tiny hand before he leave the room.

’’Lock the door behind me sweetheart. I’ll reach out to you tonight. I love you Y/n!’’ 

’’I love you too.’’ you say and hear your front door close.

You put the baby in his bed and do as Billy advised you. After that you look for your gun under the couch and get it out before putting it back to its place. Then you go and start packing for the day Billy is going to come to get you and Aiden. Once you’re done you take a seat on the couch and wait. Wait for a new beginning with Billy and your son, as a family.

Little did you know that this day won’t come. Not tomorrow, not the day after tomorrow, never. Why? because Frank Castle killed Billy Russo as soon as he made it to the place where he was hiding ever since he escaped. He died knowing that the woman he loved, loved him too. She loved him enough to look past his mistakes and have a future with him. He died knowing that his son will have a wonderful mother to raise him and that she will make sure that Aiden will know that his father loved him from the moment he met him.

They can take tomorrow and the plans we made

They can take the music that we never play

They can take the future we’ll never know

They can take all the places we said we will go

All the broken dreams take everything

Just take it away

They can never have yesterday.

This is the song you chose for the funeral. The funeral no one attended except for you and your son. This pretty much summed up what Frank Castle took away from you that day, from you and little Aiden. Now you’re staying here staring at the tombstone thinking about all the days you and Billy shared.

’’Rest easy my love.’’ you say and kiss your fingertips before pressing them to the tombstone. You put Aiden back in the baby stroller and leave. Leaving the love of your life behind in the cold.

Taglist:

@justatiredfool​

@artemisausten​

[apriki]

Every Argument About Star Wars Since 2015

We Need to Talk About Kylo

Kylo Ren never did a thing wrong in his life

Kylo Ren is a poster boy for the alt-right

Kylo’s narrative is about abuse

Kylo’s narrative is about how society offers constant concessions for straight white men

Kylo Ren is going to be redeemed

I will murder my own cat if Kylo Ren gets redeemed

His name is Ben Solo and you will use it

Why are you calling him Ben Solo like it's a pet name

Adam Driver is beautiful

Adam Driver is like one of the gargoyles from the Hunchback of Notre Dame 

Han and Leia were bad parents

Han and Leia were amazing parents. Did you ever consider that Ben Solo had bad vibes? Or was simply unpleasant to be around?

Kylo overreacted to his uncle trying to murder him

Kylo’s choices were his own and he joined the space fascists so fuck you

I hate the mask

Kylo Ren is Aldi brand Darth Vader 

Kylo Ren was made for fanboys

Kylo Ren was made for fangirls

The crossguard lightsaber is stupid

Kylo Ren is the villain and you can’t like the villain 

Have you watched Star Wars?

Kylo killed Han Solo so he can’t be redeemed

Well Vader killed Obi Wan and he was redeemed

Yeah but I was emotionally attached to Han Solo so fuck you

Adam Driver is 6′3′

Ship Wars

Poe and Finn belong together

Finn and Rose belong together

Finn and the new girl belong together

Finn and Rey belong together

Rey is a lesbian

Poe is gay

Rose hitting Finn over the head was abuse 

Kylo and Hux are in love 

Keri Russell’s character was shoehorned in to stop Poe and Finn’s love story 

Trio, Trio, Trio

Rey/Finn/Kylo is the true sequel trio

Rey/Finn/Poe is the true sequel trio

Poe was meant to be killed off 

Kylo/Hux/Phasma is the true sequel trio

Just... Reylo

Reylo is abusive

Reylo can’t be abusive because they’re not in an established relationship

Kylo violated Rey’s mind in the interrogation scene

Rey violated Kylo’s mind right back

Lucasfilm isn’t brave enough to do Reylo

Lucasfilm isn’t stupid enough to do Reylo

Reylo are brother and sister

Reylo are cousins

Reylo is twilight fanfiction

Reylo is phantom of the opera fanfiction

Rian Johnson has a Reylo Agenda

Women who like Reylo are endorsing violent toxic relationships

Women who like Reylo were right all along

Reylo is the best Star Wars love story

I’ll end a friendship over Reylo

DNRey

Rey is a Skywalker

Rey is a Solo

Rey is a Kenobi

Rey is nobody

Rey is a Knight of Ren

Sheev Palps fucks

Rey’s father is Darth Maul

Rey’s father is Jar Jar Binks 

Rey’s mother is Keri Russell

Rey’s mother is the lady from Rogue One

Rey’s mother is Daenerys Targaryen from Solo

Any brunette white woman in Star Wars is Rey’s mother

There are only brunette white women in Star Wars

Rey is a miracle messiah baby like Anakin

Don’t be stupid, girls can’t have magic powers out of nowhere

But think of the Children!

Rey is positive representation for young girls

Why does she just have to be representation for girls

Reylo is bad representation for young girls

Everything in Star Wars has to have a moral core because it is made for children

Rey is a Mary Sue

If Luke can magically destroy the death star in a one in a million shot with little to no training, Rey can use a fucking lightsaber

The Jar Jar Saga

Don’t talk about the fucking prequels

Anakin murdered a bunch of kids but he’s still better than Kylo Ren 

Anakin force choked his wife you ghoul

The Franchise Awakens

The Force Awakens was good fun

The Force Awakens was nostalgia pandering bullshit

The Last Brain Cell

The Last Jedi is the greatest blockbuster in the last twenty years

The Last Jedi was SJW pandering bullshit

The Canto Bight storyline was an important anticapitalist plot that showed how no one can be neutral in war

The Canto Bight storyline was a waste of time 

Space Monaco pretty

You can’t have an anticapitalist storyline in a Disney film

The kid with the broom is the future of Star Wars

I don’t get the purpose of the kid with the broom

Is the kid with the broom a Skywalker now?

ForceSkype is stupid

ForceSkype is abusive. Kylo didn’t ask if he could force connect to Rey’s mind

Poe was right

Admiral Holdo was right

Leia can’t fucking fly in space

You can’t say that Leia cannot theoretically fly in space

Old Man Luke is Not My Luke

Old Man Luke is a logical progression of Original Luke and you’re just angry about it because you’re getting old too

Rose is the best new addition to Star Wars

Rose is the worst new addition to Star Wars 

Why did they change Rey’s space buns?

Are you seriously complaining about Rey’s space buns

I hate the porgs

The Rise of Skywalker

D̸͓͕͔̠̿̈̿̕͝Ö̵̟̰͖́Ṉ̴̾'̷̣͙̇̍̍̚T̸̬͑̓ ̸͙̤̳͕̆̄̎͘T̴̨̖̥̚͝͝ͅA̵̛̲̩͘ͅL̵̨̲̫̲̚K̷̛͚͔̐̌̕ ̸̣͚̈́̐T̸̫̠͕̞̝͗̓̿͝O̸͈̱̮̦̹̍͘ ̵͉̣̤͆͛́Ḿ̶̢̡̡͓͈̅̅́̉Ë̶͎͇̱̌̓̑̆ ̷̹̙̾Ă̶̠B̷̡̫̩͋̋Ȍ̴̦̦̪͈̓̋Ȕ̶̬̤͎̹̎̅T̸̢͖͉̬̬͗̄̑̈́͝ ̸̨͓̜̝͒ͅR̵̡̯̖̲͍̾͗͛͆Į̴͇̺͍̰̓Ş̶̢͓̦̂̉̎É̴̪͙͉̩͒̈̄͐ͅ ̷͈̹͐̏͊̕͘O̷̡͕̜͕̒̚͠ͅF̸̡͇̣͇̖̔̿͗ ̴͚͚͓̗̍ͅŠ̶͍͚̬͈̾̚̕͝Ḳ̴̐͛Y̵̛̠͉̼̻̿͂̈́̈W̴͕̄͘A̴͈̹͉̞͉͐L̶̲̓̒́̅͝K̷͈̒Ḙ̸̛̪̎̓̀̊R̶̯̆̍̈́

Droids?

Why did C-3PO have a red arm

I can’t believe they shelved R2D2 for BB-8 so they could sell toys

Do droids have rights?

Droids are sentient and represent a slave class in the Star Wars universe

Droids have free will and are choosing to help humans

How does everyone understand droid beeps?

How Does Everyone Speak Wookie?

Is Wookie the lingua franca of the galaxy

Like Boats Beating Back Into the Past

Force Awakens was too nostalgic

The Last Jedi wasn’t nostalgic at all and it ruined what I loved about Star Wars when I was a bébé

The Rise of Skywalker was too nostalgic

Star Wars shouldn’t be nostalgic

Star Wars needs to be nostalgic but not too much but just enough

The sequels are about the original trio

The sequels shouldn’t be about the original trio

Cassian Andor should Call Me

Rogue One was amazing

Rogue One was terrible

Rogue One is the only good Star Wars movie

That Vader scene was dope

Yeah, the Vader scene was pretty dope

Why is there only one woman in Rogue One

Why do Star Wars movies always look radically different from their trailers?

Is That Ansel Elgort?

Fuck Solo

Darth Maul, though

The Mandalorian

The Mandalorian will save Star Wars

i hate Disney+

But... Baby Yoda... Capitalism won again

I don’t think it’s always Pedro Pascal under the mask

I’ve devised a system of body language interpretation to figure out when it is Pedro Pascal under the mask

Baby Yoda is a balm for my soul

If the Mandalorian is a Western, Baby Yoda is a native child that has been stolen

Don’t call it Baby Yoda. We do not know its species and Yoda died decades ago

Baby Yoda

Everyone Ruined Star Wars

Rian Johnson ruined Star Wars

JJ Abrams ruined Star Wars

Chris Terrio ruined Star Wars

Kathleen Kennedy ruined Star Wars

The Disney machine ruined Star Wars

George Lucas ruined Star Wars

Star Wars ruined the internet

Star Wars ruined pop culture

Maybe Star Wars was always bad?

[raeynbowboi]

Things I want from the Netflix Live-Action Avatar

1. Faithful Casting - An obvious, stupid answer, I want all of the actors to look appropriate for the roles they are playing. Dark-skinned waterbenders and pasty pale firebenders. Obviously, getting every single character to look exactly like their cartoon counterpart is unlikely, but at least the main characters should hopefully be cast as close as possible, though hair and make-up can go a long way. After all, none of the blonde women on Game of Thrones were actually blonde, Lena and Emily were both brunettes. Granted that was HBO funding, but still proof of tv quality special effects.

2. Accurate world design - The Avatar cartoon is a juggernaut of Wuxia style fantasy, and I really want the world to look and feel as close to the cartoon as possible. With all the bending, illogical archetecture, and hybrid animals, while I know a more accurate adaptation will be costly, a good set, costume, and cgi team can really bring this world to life.

3. Queer representation - These days, Netflix seems to be really on board with LGBTQ+ representation, far more than Nickelodeon. Hopefully, Bryke will feel more free to include LGBTQ+ characters, as they did with Korrasami. I think Zuko in particular is a great choice among the main cast. He’s already so confused about who he is and what he wants out of life, there’s no reason you couldn’t add questioning his sexuality to that stirred up pot of emotions. While Zukka is seeing a surge in popularity, Jet is definitely another top contender, due to the interesting friction that’s ripe within their character flaws to become a compelling ill-fated romance between two enemies. Or even just creating a new guy to be Zuko’s love interest would also be welcome. I just think Zuko is the best candidate of the original cast of characters to be LGBTQ+ as it already fits nicely into his character arc of finding what’s right for him, deciding his own fate, and seeking his own happiness. Iroh’s lessons about wanting things for himself instead of what other people told him to want, translates so beautifully to Zuko trying way too hard to date women despite a lack of interest in them. It’s such a natural fit to his story that it’s kind of perfect for Zuko. 

4. New Plotlines and Scenes - Whether the show will be a half-hour or hour long format hasn’t been announced, but between possibly longer run times or longer seasons with more episodes, or possibly even both, this could allow the creators to include moments they either had to cut out of the original show, or didn’t have as much time to do as they wanted. For example, Azula was going to have an arranged marriage plotline in season 3, and that’s something they could bring back. There’s also the search for Zuko’s mother, which was covered in the comics, but never addressed in any of the shows. Even smaller things like Yue’s fiance. He charges at Admiral Zhao and goes overboard and we never see him again. Turns out, the creators kind of forgot about him.

5. Potential for Tonal Shifts - While this is a live-action adaptation, it’s unclear at the moment who the target audience for this will be. Whether it’ll be aimed more toward fans of the original, or drawing in a new crowd. But with the more realistic cinematography, slapstick and comedy aren’t going to work as well in a live-action setting. There’s definitely still room for comedy, but the squatch-and-stretch rubberiness of cartoons that allow for exaggurated expressions can’t be matched by live actors. This could potentially lead them to make a more “mature” and darker Avatar that totes itself as more of a dramatic war epic and less of a child-friend comedy adventure.

6. Pushing the Envelop - In a similar vein to point 5, without the censors of Nickelodeon hanging over their necks, there is a lot more freedom with this project to address issues more openly that they may have had to imply or skirt-around in the cartoon to keep it more child-friendly. Even something as simple as confirming Jet’s death. Especially if the tone is darker and more mature, there’s a lot more room for them to really push into more explicitly depicting themes and ideas from the original series, even showing us what happened the night Ursa left.

7. Incorporate Diagetic Languages - Even if it’s as simple as characters greeting each other, it’d be nice to hear even just background extras speaking diagetic Asian languages. I’m going more blanket here because while the writing in the show is Traditional Mandarin, the cultures take inspiration from Japanese, Tibetan, and Inuit as well, and I’m open to both angles. Whether everyone speaks some Mandarin, or if each nation has their own language, any amount of using native Asian languages would be nice.

8. Dante Basco as Uncle Iroh - Okay, so maybe he still has the Zuko voice, but Dante is the only original cast member who is ethnically Asian, and would be appropriate to cast in the live-action setting. Even if he’s not Iroh, casting Dante to play anyone would be welcome. Whether he’s the tempermental Zhao, the malicious Fire Lord Ozai, the sagely Avatar Roku, the brave Hakoda, the stern Master Paku, the wise Master Piandao, the conniving Long Feng, or really any of the older adult male characters, Dante Basco would be a great choice, even just as a cameo character like the Cabbage Merchant.

[livethinking]

Joseph Brodsky: to translate is to exist

The poet lives in his poems and only through these he can assert his own existence; the poet can be oppressed, censored, encaged, also killed, but until he can write, until there’s someone who reads his poem, he will go on living, he will be free despite all. Deported poets, exiled poets, poets oppressed by a dominant and colonial culture, but still poets, although they have lost their language. And as it’s possible to lose a language, it’s possible to find a new one to tell about the self in verses; this was well-known to Joseph Brodsky, a Russian poet and author, moved to the USA because he was condemned for parasitism and for a cultural environment more and more saturated with hostility and suspicion which censored and hinder the publication of his poems, shut his poetical voice through editorial obstructionism, denied his existence as an author, and thus also as human.

Brodsky’s verses didn’t officially exist in the Soviet Union (but read clandestinely and published via samizdat), so he didn’t exist himself as poet, as man and to exist, he had to make the hardest of the choice: leaving his home country, his native language, denying it because this language refused his creative soul. He left Russia after he was compelled by the regime, he moved abroad and reaching the USA, a Country completely different from the Soviet Union, too much free, too much noisy, but perfect for Brodsky’s poetry. There he translated his rhymes in English and his works were officially published, there Brodsky exists, there his art is loved. There’s no way to oppress the voice of a poet, because it will always find a way to speak, as well as self-translation, instruments of poetic (and cultural) resistance, as well as changing the language, the Country, traditions. Also forgoing himself.

Self-Translation is when author and translator are the same person, when an author translate his/her own literary work. As it happens in translation, there’s an original and a translation, or there’s no translation (when the author chooses to write in a language different from his/ native ones, a behaviour that in very common among colonial and post-colonial writers). The Self-Translator is a bilingual and, often, bicultural (because he/she is an immigrant or a child of immigrants, lives between frontiers or in a former colonised country). On the contrary to a translator, the author who chooses to translate him/herself has access to the original intention (i.e. now and why the author chooses to write a certain expression and the original meaning), original cultural context or literary intertext. This possibility has, however, some limits: the famous psychoanalyst Carl Jung explained that neither the author is completely omniscient (aware of what he wrote in the past) and «[…] have to read it again and may not even completely understand their own motivation for choosing certain passages, certain examples or a certain style»[1]. The most famous authors who translated their own works were Samuel Beckett (from English to French and German, and vice versa) and Vladimir Nabokov (from Russia to French, and vice versa).

What are the types of Self-Translation?

Michaël Oustinof identified three types of Self-Translation: 1. Naturalising Translation (naturalisante): when an author gives priority to the characteristics of the target language (that is that language a text will be translates into). 2. Decentralised Translation (décentrée): when an author introduces in the target language foreign elements that belong to the source language (that’s the language a text is written in). 3. (Re)Creating Translation((re)créatrice): when an author translate and change his/her literary work (or omit some parts) in order to adapt the text to both the target language and culture.

Who are the authors that translate themselves? 1. Bilingual (or polyglot) authors who wants to expanse their audience or just experimenting. Usually, there’s a relation of symmetry between the source and the target language (e.g. French and English). It’s the case of Samuel Beckett. 2. People who speak minority language but choose to write with a dominant language. It’s the case of Luigi Pirandello who translated his plays in Italian from Sicilian dialects. 3. Colonial or post-colonial author who write both in their native language and colonial language. 4. Exiled or emigrant authors who write in the language of the Country they moved to. It’s the case of the Russian Vladimir Nabokov who, after moving to France, started writing books in French (such as his famous novel “Lolita”) and the same Joseph Brodsky.

The case of Brodsky and other Russian emigrée is a unique case of self-translation. Usually, who translate theirselves are those authors living in a condition of colonialism, i.e. they’re from a colonised from another of more prestige and political and cultural power, consequently their native languages becomes hegemonic to the language spoken by the colonists; the authors who live this kind of experience chose to translate their literary pieces to the dominant language, that is the colonist one, so that their work can emerge from a state of oppression, then reaching a larger number of readers and settling their existence as a creative and make raise their culture from the barriers of the dominant one and speak to the colonists through that; so, we’re talking about a form of cultural resistance.

Emigrant Russian authors didn’t choose to translate their world into the language of the Country which welcomed them, because their native culture weren’t oppressed, but because they were oppressed by their own culture; their works were usually divergent from the aesthetic ideals of the regime, thus they were censored or the official publishing was denied (and, often, neither by Russian magazines abroad); to survive as writers and giving life to their literary pieces, most of these authors chose to translate themselves. This kind of self-translation is, in this case, symmetrical, according to Rainier Grutman, because Russian and Western languages have got the same literary prestige, and the bilinguism here is exogenous (always according to Grutman’s definition) because these languages (especially about the relation between Russians and English) have never shared the same geographical spaces.

What pushed Joseph Brodsky to leave his home country and starting a new life and a new poetic and translating in the USA was the accuse and the arrest for parasitism, happened in 1964 (for which Brodsky was interned in the psychiatric hospital of Moscow and after deported and condemned to the forced labour near Arkhangelsk, on the extreme North of Russia). Thanks to his fame, he was freed in the November 1965 after a petition signed by Russian and foreigner colleagues but for the Party Brodsky was a hostile figure to the regime; in fact, when we requested a permission to go abroad, after he was invited by Robert Lowell to attend the International Festival of Poetry in London, «the Union of Soviet Writers answered there were no poet with that name in Russia: he was crossed out from the official list of Russian writers»[2]; they denied him the right of writing, the natural right to proclaimed himself poet and for a real poet this means denying his life, denying his dignity. Refusing his poetry is to refuse him and thus happened when, in 1972, he was commanded to leave the Soviet Union; that means he was not welcomed by his move country, his Russia, his Russian any longer. So, what can a poet do? Brodsky remembers: «on 10th May 1972 I was called out and they told me:”Take advantage of one of the invitation people make to you to leave for Israel. We prepare a visa for you in two days”. “But I don’t want to take advantage of”. “So, prepare for the worst”. I couldn’t do anything but to give up: I managed to make the gems prolonged to 10th June (“after this date, you’re going to have no identity card, absolutely nothing”): I wanted to pass until my 33rd birthdays with my parent in Leningrad, the last one. When they gave me the expat visa, they make me jump the line: there were many Jews waiting days and night for the visa who looked at me astonished, envying me […]. I past the last night in the USSR writing a letter to Brezhnev. The following day I was in Vienna»[3]. He was in Vienna when he met the English poet Brodsky loved most, Wystan Auden, with whom he attended the International Festival of Poetry in London, event that allowed him to meet other authors from the literary Anglo-Saxon world, such as Robert Lowell, but he already left Vienna to move to the US in the July of the same year: he was offered to work to the University of Michigan (where he taught until to 1980). Thus began one of the most important phase of Brodsky’s work and his path to self-translation, which allowed him to reborn as a man and a poet. He lost his language, his Country, but he found a new language through which thinking, loving, writing, through which expressing himself, through which existing. To write is to exist.

Translating ourselves to exist, translating as that our own work to overcome national and cultural borders, to destroy linguistic barriers, to annihilate the borders. «Civilization is the sum of total of different cultures animated by a common spiritual numerator and its main vehicle – speaking both metaphorically and literally – is translation. The wandering of a Greek portico into the latitude of tundra is translation»[4]. Translation is what allows us to converse with other cultures, with the Other, and the translator is, thus, a cultural mediator that lays between two interlocutors and help them to understand each other, not only linguistically, but also culturally, that let bonds between values, norms and beliefs be understandable to who doesn’t know them. Brodsky gave new life to his poems, already oppressed by the hostility of Soviet regime, and he gave the, new social coordinates, although he destroyed the grammar, i.e. the foundation of English language in order to adapt this language to the linguistic malleability of Russian, in order to everything, the intrinsic structure and so the semantic built by that could persist. «Brodsky […] insisted strongly on a mimetic translation i.e. a translation which would retain a poem’s verse structure – especially its rhymes, verse metre, rhyme patterns and stanzaic design should be preserved above all»[5].

A mimetic translation, them, which doesn’t break the architecture of poetry and it fits, as well, the presence of Russian soul in the English language and so the in grammar and morphosyntax, that comes from Pushkinian tradition, according to the form and the content corresponding and so, none of them should be sacrificed in the translation. A tradition enhanced by the Acmeists (such as Anna Akhmatova and Osip Mandelshtam), from whom Brodsky took inspiration. According to the Acmeists, in translation, must be preserved the number of lines, verse metre, rhyme patterns, types of enjambements, rhyme types, linguistic register, types of metaphor, special devices and changes of tone. Following this tradition Brodsky translated his poems from Russian into English, though transforming and upsetting the target language, though drowning bitter criticisms for that which will be have called “Englishness”. Upsetting the language in order to appear himself as a poet, as a Russia. His soul must have to emerge, if he wanted to live through poetry, and the only way to do it, in this case, is to annihilate the rule of the other language, a language chosen to survive. This foreigner who transformed a language that is not his to make it an instruments of resistance, an instruments of existence. The harshest criticism towards his English was from the British School, which blames Brodsky of transforming the language to make it adapt to his needs; a criticism that hide the will to protect the integrity of the language from an “intruder” like the Russian Brodsky. Despite all, the poet received much esteem, especially from the American School which appreciated his experimenting with the language. Experimentalism due to the dissatisfaction of English translation to Russian poems that Brodsky criticized because they were not capable to keep the complex morphosyntactic structure of the poetic of Russian language. He wrote about it: «Translation from Russian into English is one of the most horrendous mindbenders. There aren’t all that many minds equal to this. Even a good, talented, brilliant poet who intuitively understands the task is incapable of restoring a Russian poem in English. The English language simply doesn’t have those moves. The translator is tied grammatically, structurally»[6]. Even though his approach which was very little conform to modern translation theories, even though we can blame him to have turned upside-down the English and so we can speak of Englishness in his poems, Brodsky «[…] approached his translation with a fervour verging on the quixotic, squaring the circle of poetic translation, defying the spell of impossibility and bridging single-handedly the linguistic gap with great energy» [7].

Viviana Rizzo

Notes

1. AA.VV., Handbook of Translation Studies, edited by Yves Gambier e Luc van Doorslaer Amsterdam, John Benjamins Publishing Company, 2010, p. 306

2. «L'Unione degli Scrittori Sovietici rispose che non c'era nessun poeta con quel nome in Russia: era stato depennato dalla lista ufficiale degli scrittori russi», in CONDELLO, Anna, “Iosif Brodskij: una biografia intellettuale”, in Russian Echo, web (http://www.russianecho.net/contributi/speciali/brodskij/bio.html retrieved in 28th May 2021)

3. «Il 10 maggio 1972 mi chiamano e mi dicono: "Approfitti subito di uno dei tanti inviti che le vengono per emigrare in Israele e parta. Le prepariamo il visto in due giorni". "Ma non ho nessuna intenzione di approfittarne". "E allora si prepari al peggio". Non potevo far altro che cedere: sono riuscito al massimo a farmi prolungare i termini fino al 10 giugno ("dopo questa data non ha più carta d’identità , non ha più niente"): volevo almeno passare a Leningrado il mio trentaduesimo compleanno, con i miei genitori, l'ultimo. Quando mi hanno consegnato il visto d'espatrio, mi hanno fatto saltare la fila: c'erano tanti ebrei che aspettavano, che bivaccavano là in anticamera giorni e giorni in attesa del visto e che mi guardavano esterrefatti, con invidia [...]. L'ultima notte in Urss l'ho passata scrivendo una lettera a Breznev. Il giorno dopo ero a Vienna», in CONDELLO, Anna, “Iosif Brodskij: una biografia intellettuale”, in Russian Echo, web (http://www.russianecho.net/contributi/speciali/brodskij/bio.html retrieved in 28th May 2021)

4. BRODSKIJ, Iosif, “The Child of Civilization”, Less than one, London, Penguin, 1986, p. 139, cit. in ISHOV, Zakhar, “Posthorse of Civilisation”: Joseph Brodsky translating Joseph Brodsky. Towards a New Theory of Russian-English Poetry Translation, Berlin, Freien Universität Berlin, 2008, p. 2

5. ISHOV, Zakhar, “Posthorse of Civilisation”: Joseph Brodsky translating Joseph Brodsky. Towards a New Theory of Russian-English Poetry Translation, p. 4

6. SOLKOV, Solomon, Conversations with Joseph Brodsky, New York, The Free Press, 1998, p. 86, cit. in ISHOV, Zakhar, “Posthorse of Civilisation”: Joseph Brodsky translating Joseph Brodsky. Towards a New Theory of Russian-English Poetry Translation, p. 5

7. ISHOV, Zakhar, “Posthorse of Civilisation”: Joseph Brodsky translating Joseph Brodsky. Towards a New Theory of Russian-English Poetry Translation, p. 3

Sources

1. COCCO, Simona, “Lost in (Self-)Translation? Riflessioni sull’autotraduzione”, in AA.VV. , Lost in Translation. Testi e culture allo specchio, vol. 6 (2009), pp. 103-112

2. GRUTMAN, Rainier, “Beckett and Beyond. Putting Self-Translation in Perspective”, in Orbus Litterarum, n. 68, vol. 3 (2013), pp. 188-2016

3. GRUTMAN Rainier, VAN BOLDEREN Trish, “Self-Translation”, in A Companion to Translation Studies, edited by Sandra Bermann and Catherine Porter, New Jersey, John Wiley & Sons, Ltd., 2014, pp. 323-332

4. ISHOV, Zakhar, “Post-horse of Civilisation”: Joseph Brodsky translating Joseph Brodsky. Towards a Mew Theory of Russian-English Poetry Translation, Berlin, Freien Universität Berlin, 2008

5. MONTINI, Chiara, “Self-Translation”, in Handbook of Translation Studies, edited by Yves Gambier and Luc van Doorslaer, Amsterdam/Philadelphia, John Benjamins Publishing Company, 2010, pp. 307-308

6. WARNER, Adrian, “The poetics of displacement: Self-Translation among contemporary Russian-American poets”, in Translation Studies, vol. 11. N. 2, 2018, pp. 122-138