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immaturityofthomasastruc · 1 year

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IOTA Reviews: Jubilation

So far, Season 5 has been pretty decent for the most part. Sure, there have already been a handful of plotholes and retcons (to the point where I'm honestly thinking of starting a retcon counter in the future), but at the very worse, the first three episodes were below average at worst. But now we have to see how the Akuma of the day formula will play out now. Can it bring new life to this show, or is that nothing more than a pipe dream?

Let's get into the fourth (chronologically the fourth) episode of Miraculous Ladybug's fifth season: Jubilation

The episode starts off with Marinette going for a jog, and shockingly, it isn't in her pajamas, but rather, clothing appropriate for running. She stops to see an advertisement for the Alliance rings, and reminds the audience that she's totally not in love with Adrien anymore because it cost her most of the Miraculous. Marinette is about to continue running, when she sees her principal, Mr. Damocles, dressing up at the superhero, the Owl, while attempting to save a cat from a billboard... even though he learned his lesson all the way back in his spotlight episode, “The Dark Owl”. Before Marinette has the chance to save him from his incompetence, another girl dressed as Ladybug saves Mr. Damocles, though Marinette recognizes her as an old friend. Both “heroes” run off, but Marinette has an idea of who the fake Ladybug is.

Marinette: That fake Ladybug from this morning, I think it was Socqueline, a school friend from last year. Knowing her, I’m sure she means well. But I have to convince her to stop putting herself in danger like that.

So basically, we're repeating the civilian plotline of “The Dark Owl”, but this time, with two different heroes. I'm also confused as to why we've never heard of Socqueline until Season 5, especially if Marinette already knows her. It's not as egregious or forced as Zoe's introduction, but it's weird that Marinette has never brought her up, not even to Tikki or Alya.

Also, why the hell does she look like Marinette? It was at least understandable to reuse Adrien's character model for Felix because they were related, but these two are just friends, and Socqueline doesn’t even have the same name most fans use for the PV Ladybug, Bridgette. What, did you think changing her name would make the reference more subtle? Oh yeah, and even though we already have two Asian characters with the same surname, Socqueline’s last name is also Wang. Because just like the mayor and ice cream man sharing the same first name, this isn’t confusing in the slightest.

Socqueline works at a local arts and crafts store, and before Marinette can ask her for why she's pretending to be Ladybug, she pretends to be buying paint first... even though she could just transform into Ladybug, walk in and say “Hey, I heard you've been impersonating me, so stop it before you get yourself killed, idiot”. But then I guess we wouldn't get an explanation as to what Alliance can do. Like we saw in “Multiplication”, it's basically an Alexa in ring form that totally isn't a front for supervillain activity. Marinette and Socqueline talk about Adrien, and Socqueline assumes the two are a couple after Marinette talks about how close they are, when all Marinette does is recap the whole thing about his mother “disappearing” and that he doesn't want to be a model. Wow, you really know him, don't you?

Eventually, the conversation goes back to Socqueline dressing up as Ladybug.

Marinette: Well, it’s a good thing you’re not trying to be a superhero, because it’s very dangerous to do the same thing they do when you don’t have magical powers and supersuits!

Socqueline: Yeah… Well, what if it’s a relief for Ladybug to have people help her?

Marinette: No way would she want that. It’s too risky!

Socqueline: Yes, but you gotta know when to step in. That’s the only way you can change things in life!

Marinette: I know. You told me that last year, but in this circumstance, it’s Ladybug’s job to take risks, and no one else’s! Because if everyone takes risks, then Ladybug may have to take more risks in order to deal with their risks, which is even riskier!

Mr. Damocles: Sounds like someone’s jealous because she wants to be a superhero.

Marinette: I do not! I’m Marinette! I’m very happy to be a normal girl, with a normal life, AND SO SHOULD EVERYONE ELSE!

Admittedly, this is a decent argument for Marinette and Socqueline to have, but I feel like they're kind of oversimplifying it. Yes, it's obvious that Socqueline and Mr. Damocles can't do much to help Ladybug without any powers, but that doesn't rule out Ladybug getting other allies in the form of local law enforcement or even other heroes with high-tech gadgets like Batman. It's also strange that the whole deal with Marinette last season was that she wasn't willing to trust anyone like Cat Noir, so wouldn't it make sense to call back to that, and consider getting help from people in other ways, like moral support?

While Socqueline tries to console Mr. Damocles, some of the dinosaurs from “Rocketear” break out, so Marinette quickly transforms into Ladybug to catch them again, but while she does so, she accidentally brings Socqueline's Alliance ring with her. Turns out that, shock of all shocks, Gabriel is secretly monitoring the Alliance rings, and the data gathered from the step counter app registers the user as moving around far beyond human capabilities. Gabriel obviously assumes that Socqueline is Ladybug, and transforms into Monarch, where we see how the new Akuma routine will go for the season. Sensing Mr. Damocles' negative emotions from believing he can't be a superhero, Monarch uses Kaalki's Voyage to send his Akuma towards one of his masks. When it reaches Mr. Damocles, Monarch uses his Alliance ring to grant him Daizzi's Gift, turning him into Darker Owl.

Darker Owl is basically just the same as Dark Owl, but with some shinier parts, and instead of the campier Batman he was originally themed after, he has a sightly deeper voice, not unlike Christian Bale's interpretation of the character. Nothing special, but compared to reusing past Akuma designs, at least an effort was made to make him look different.

Darker Owl breaks into the paint shop, believing Monarch's claim that Socqueline is Ladybug. Using one of his gadgets with the Pig Miraculous' gift, he traps Socqueline in her fantasy to be recognized as a hero by the real Ladybug and Cat Noir. Before she was trapped however, she secretly used her Alliance ring to trick Darker Owl into revealing where the Akuma is.

Of course, like a concerning amount of episodes before it, we finally get Adrien's first scene, where he's just playing video games until he learns about the Akuma, transforming into Cat Noir. Both heroes arrive to stop Darker Owl, who has taken Socqueline as a hostage, and while Cat Noir saves Socqueline, Ladybug summons her Lucky Charm, an old fashioned alarm clock.

After Cat Noir saves Socqueline, both him and Ladybug are hit by Gift, where their shared fantasy is beating Darker Owl and finding Monarch's business card in Mr. Damocles' jacket. After the two defeat Monarch and get the Miraculous back, they grow closer together, and eventually... get married... even though they're still teenagers.

Okay, that's very concerning, especially since Cat Noir's “suit” is just the Cat Blanc model with green eyes, but it's not like they're going to become parents too, right?

Oh.

Ohhhhhh....

Ohhhhhhhhhhhh nooooooo.....

youtube

Yep. The writers REALLY didn't think this through. I get that it didn't really happen, but I don't get why they had to make the fantasy of Ladybug and Cat Noir being all about them starting a family when they can't even afford new models to show that they're older so they could avoid these implications.

Putting that aside, the fantasy is decently put together, but it's nothing special compared to something like “Perchance to Dream” from Batman: The Animated Series. I like the recurring surreal imagery with the alarm clocks, and the babies looking like dolls could be seen as a way to show how fake this all is. On the other hand, I don't get whose fantasy this is exactly. Yeah, it's implied that since the same Gift bullet was fired at both Ladybug and Cat Noir, they're sharing an amalgamation of their fantasies (Ladybug defeating Monarch and getting the Miraculous back and Cat Noir starting a family with Ladybug), but it feels like more focus is given to Cat Noir's fantasy even though he didn't even get to do anything before the Akuma showed up. They even have the scene with him hesitating to leave the fantasy when it should have been Ladybug struggling to reject it. In fact, I think the reason this fantasy sequence rings hollow for me is because it doesn't really connect to the idea that Marinette wants a normal life. Wouldn't it make more sense for Marinette's fantasy to be a world where Socqueline or Alya is Ladybug instead of her? You could easily alternate between Marinette's fantasy where she lives a mundane life and alternate it with Cat Noir's fantasy where he embraces the superhero lifestyle. It would have made more sense given that this was a Marinette-centric episode,

Even after the two heroes break out, it's Cat Noir who snaps at Darker Owl, not Ladybug. You could have easily had a scene where Cat Noir is the one who has to restrain Ladybug from getting too aggressive while fighting Darker Owl to show how reliable of a partner he is. Instead, well... remember how last episode, Cat Noir felt a lot of guilt for accidentally Cataclysming Monarch when Monarch let himself take the hit? Yeah, he almost Cataclysms Darker Owl out of anger. Yeah, he’s not thinking straight, and he stops at the last minute, but it makes him look like a real hypocrite. It also doesn’t really reassure the audience that he's now the only ally Ladybug has at the moment. This moment would have made more sense if the roles were reversed, with Cat Noir begging Ladybug to not hurt Darker Owl because Monarch was the one who taunted them with their ideal lives.

Ladybug purifies the Akuma, gives Mr. Damocles a useless Magical Charm, fixes the minor damage Darker Owl caused, Daizzi is sent back to Monarch's lair, and nobody ever acknowledges that Cat Noir almost killed a man.

After Socqueline apologizes to Ladybug, and Ladybug gives a vague statement of wanting Socqueline to find another way to help, she goes back home as Marinette. Sabine offers her an Alliance ring, but Marinette decides against it, mostly because of what happened earlier.

The episode then ends to Ladybug talking with Cat Noir about what happened with Darker Owl, how he got the power of the Pig Miraculous, and what happened in their fantasy.

Cat Noir: Ladybug, that power of Jubilation... it’s supposed to show us our deepest desires, isn’t it?

Ladybug: Yes.

Cat Noir: But that was... that wasn’t real, right?

Ladybug: Tell me about it. The wedding, babies, totally… fake.

Cat Noir: Are you sure?

Ladybug: Monarch… must’ve altered it somehow, to trick us. Yeah, that’s got to be it.

Cat Noir: Of course, otherwise, it would be totally super weird, wouldn’t it?

Ladybug: Right. Totally… super… weird.

Yeah, calling what you two lived through “weird” is an understatement.

Overall, this episode was just mediocre, and other than the climax, there wasn't much for me to talk about.

Socqueline as a character confuses me. Do we really need another member of Marinette's friend group, especially when you could have easily replaced Socqueline with another character? Seriously, someone like Alya, Mylene, Kagami, Zoe, or even Chloe would have worked better, as their personalities and motivations would fit a story like this. She's just an unnecessary addition to an already bloated cast of characters.

I will say I liked how the villain side of things was handled. In a world where the use of technology in our daily lives is more common, the idea of the Alliance rings being a way for Gabriel to monitor the public is pretty clever. I’m still confused as to why he even needs to use a Miraculous to give Akumas more powers when he can already do that with Akumas in the first place, but I like how the conflict seems to be ramping up.

I also don't get the point of this conflict, especially since we already did it three seasons ago. Back in “The Dark Owl”, it was unnecessary because Ladybug and Cat Noir were already doing a good job at fighting Hawkmoth's Akumas, but now, he's stronger than ever, and they need all the help they can get. Yeah, Mr. Damocles and Socqueline were endangering themselves by trying to help others, but at least they're doing something after everyone just gave up preparing for Monarch's new wave of Akumas in “Multiplication”. But then again, at least Ladybug didn't call either of them entitled for actually wanting to help people instead of focusing on their own selfish desires like the “hero” in Kamen Rider Geats.

Even the resolution feels tacked on. In “The Dark Owl”, the ending was similar, with Mr. Damocles choosing to stop trying to be a hero, but instead focusing on doing community service, helping people in his own way. Here? Ladybug tells Socqueline to help someone without endangering herself, and we don't get any follow-up on that, not even with Mr. Damocles. It feels more tacked on than anything else.

It doesn't help that despite the episode hinting at Marinette wanting a normal life, the actual highlight of the episode, the fantasy sequence, doesn't really connect to those wishes, as Marinette stays transformed the whole time. From an out of universe perspective, it's obviously because Cat Noir and Monarch can't find out who Ladybug is, but it's not clear why her fantasy is like that. You could have easily thrown in something like that rule they established last episode of Miraculous magic not being able to interfere with other Miraculous, so Monarch and Darker Owl have to make up their own ideal fantasy for Ladybug and Cat Noir to live in because they can't completely read their minds. Well that, and also, DON'T SHOW TWO TEENAGERS BECOMING PARENTS WITHOUT EVEN AGING, BECAUSE IT GIVES OFF THE VIBE THAT THEY HAD SEX.

This episode wasn't really terrible, more boring than anything else. At least I had something to talk about with the past three episodes, but here? Outside of the fantasy, there's not much else to say.

THE BIGGEST IDIOT OF THE EPISODE IS... MR. DAMOCLES

Even though he already learned his lesson three seasons ago, he still didn't get that a man of his age and physique wasn't fit to be a superhero. At least Socqueline was established to be in good shape for her age. On top of that, he easily gave away his cover (even if it was obvious, the joke before was that everyone else pretended to not know who he is) at the drop of a hat, and when he was supposedly confronted with Ladybug's civilian identity, he didn't think to just rip her earrings off, and spent way too much time talking before he zapped her with a Gift bullet.

#immaturity of thomas astruc #iota #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug salt #ml salt #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #cat noir #chat noir #gabriel agreste #hawkmoth #hawk moth #monarch #monarch miraculous #mr damocles #dark owl #darker owl #socqueline wang

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wilchur · 9 months

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Okay. My actual RDR2 Modern AU might be set in 1990s USA and pretty dark, but I have this nostalgic worm in my head that wants to throw these funky guys into late 90s/early 00s Poland SO BAD agshdjdbfk

Ramble under the cut because I can't be normal about any idea ever.

I can see it in my head so clearly... a silly "Rodzina Zastępcza" type sitcom. Hosea and Dutch are still crooks who sell counterfeit shit at the local outdoor market with a side business smuggling in cheap cigs and alcohol from abroad. I would do a little age fuckery to shrink Arthur's, John's and Tilly's age differences so that they all still live with them. Arthur would be like 16-17, John 12-14 and Tilly arund 10 or so. Arthur and John are fucking Monster Children, but Tilly is good at pretending an angel lol

Miss Grimshaw and Dutch are technically married, but just because they got hitched on impulse years ago and can't be bothered to get a divorce. It's good for appearances as well so whatever. She lives with them too, keeps the house from imploding.

Uncle is the town drunk and can usually be found thoroughly soaked through near the local grocery store. Always bugs Arthur for change and never gets shit, but John sometimes slips him something in exchange for buying him some beer or cigarettes with a part of the money.

I see Swanson as this comic relief "friend of the family" character that keeps waltzing in uninvited all the time. There's like no protestants over here and I don't know shit about the eastern orthodox church so I'm making him a washed up catholic priest (sorry my dude). I think it would be pretty funny if he was like totally oblivious to the fact that Dutch and Hosea are Very Gay despite it being super obvious. "Mr Matthews and Mr Van der Linde must be very good friends if he lets him, his wife and their unruly foster children share his home :)" ahah

Most of the names would probably need to be changed to make sense.. Arthur mostly works, just have to throw out the h. Tilly is short for Matilda apparently, but I don't see it. Maybe Tosia? Tola?Both short for Antonina. John>>Jan makes me fucking insane... Little Jasiek Marston 😂😂Though American media had a real boom in the east after the soviet union fell so I could maybe keep Johnny/John as a nickname? So that I don't cringe myself to death. Dutch is going to make me go grey so I won't even try. Hosea is biblical so he could technically stay, but apparently they translate it to fuckin' Ozeasz in the polish version of the texts so idk. At least the surname is easy because it's from a given name and I can just go with a Polish surname of the same meaning -- Matysiak. Uncle is easy because that's just a common word so >> Wujek, or Wujcio if i really wanted to make it silly. Susan is Zuzanna so very easy, but Grimshaw is untranslatable. Though I could just pick something phonetically similar like Grzymała or Gryszkiewicz or something (good luck trying to pronounce that). Orville is straight up a fake name from the 1700s and has no real meaning? Makes it hard to switch out so I'm just gonna be lazy and go with Oliwier? Sounds similar enough. Swanson doesn't have a straightforward equalivent either, but it apparently means "servant"? And "Szewczyk" (tailor) feels like it could work. I dunno, my brain is fried at this point. I'll leave it at that.

I know this probably makes no sense to anyone else but I'm So Into the idea it's insane agsjdkflk I had to write some of it down. I just want them to be silly. Nothing bad ever happens in a polish sitcom ✨

I think I might doodle some stuff for this since I don't have an actual story in mind to write... We'll see. I just want to be self-indulgent and go crazy a bit 🥴🥴

#*polishifies your faves*#i talked about this on twitter before #now its y'all's turn to be subjected to it #and i'm not sorry in the slightest #rdr2 #rdr2 modern au #(kind of)

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morporkian-cryptid · 1 year

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The fandom : What is Lupin’s first name? What a mystery, we may never know.

Me, neck deep in research about the naming conventions of samurais in the Edo era: Forget about Lupin, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOEMON’S NAME??? .

There’s a very strong chance that Goemon Ishikawa XIII is an alias.

I know that Goemon is probably the least mysterious character in the whole franchise, and the one we have the most lore about, and I’m overanalysing, BUT I’m a nerd with a special interest on medieval Japan and too much time on my hands, and I’m about to make this everyone else’s problem.

(Disclaimer: I am in no way an expert on Japanese history, this is the result of a few days of Internet research; all my sources are listed at the bottom. Please don’t hesitate to correct me if I made mistakes!)

The first thing that tipped me off was the way the number is written in Goemon’s name.

Let’s look at his complete name in Japanese: 十三代目石川五ェ門 (Jūsan-daime Ishikawa Goemon)

Jūsan means “thirteen”. Notice how the number is the front, and followed by the suffix -daime; in contrast with ルパン三世 (Rupan Sansei) who has the number at the end and followed by the suffix -sei.

I’ve already mentioned it here (x): -sei is a counter for generations, while -daime is a counter for positions or titles. So basically, Lupin Sansei would translate to “Lupin, third of his name” while Jusan-daime Ishikawa Goemon would translate to “the thirteenth person to hold the title of Goemon Ishikawa”.

The “Number-daime Name” pattern is famously used by kabuki actors. Names are passed on along lines of actors, who are not necessarily related. Actors formally change their names during a ceremony called Shūmei.

So, just judging by the shape of his name, it’s likely that Goemon acquired this name later in life, and wasn’t born with it.

On top of that, you’ve got Edo era samurai naming conventions, and oooooh boi does this complicate things! :D

Goemon is basically a walking-talking-anachronism, if he could live in the Edo era he would, and barring that, he does his best to live in the 21st century pretending it’s Edo-era Japan. (see Part 1 episode 5: “I’m not weird, it’s every other Japanese person who’s weird.”) His name is also the same as all his ancestors, most of whom lived in the Edo era. So it’s not a stretch to assume that his name follows the customs of that time. And in the Edo era, names were a MESS.

(Please note that the following information is an attempt to coherently describe a custom that evolved without strict rules. Also, the naming conventions described below apply mostly to nobles and the samurai class, not to commoners.)

First off, Edo-era samurais typically had 4 parts in their names.

Two surnames:

Myōji: household (or ie) name, chosen by the family, often named after a local landmark.

Ujina: clan (or uji) name, given by the emperor, refers to the larger clan that the household branches off from.

Two “first” names:

Jitsumei: “true” first name, which typically remains private: only your family, close friends and your lord can call you by your jitsumei, and if anyone else does it, it’s super rude. Most people don’t even know your jitsumei.

Tsūshō: public first name, kind of a formal nickname.

And then you have the

Childhood name: that’s the first name you’re actually born with, but when boys come of age, they stop using it, and instead receive a jitsumei and a tsūshō. Boys’ childhood names often end with -maru. (Apparently this doesn’t apply to women, who kept the same name throughout their lives.)

Then it gets even more complicated. An uji (a clan) usually contains multiple ie (households). When an ie grows big enough, it splits into multiple smaller ie. A person can use the name of any of the ie along the family tree as their own surname, sometimes using multiple names depending on the situation and who they’re trying to impress.

In Goemon’s case, this is what his name probably looks like:

Myōji (household family name) : Ishikawa

Ujina (formal clan title) : Minamoto (the Ishikawa ie (household) branches off from the Seiwa Genji ie, which itself is part of the Minamoto uji (clan) )

Jitsumei (true first name) : ???

Tsūshō (public first name) : Goemon

So, not only is Goemon not his birth name (that would be his childhood name, which he does not use anymore), but it’s also not his “true” name, more of a formal nickname that people are allowed to call him.

You thought this was already a mess? Don’t worry, it gets worse!! :D

Not only did samurais change their names when coming of age, they could also change it multiple times in their lives, for a variety of reasons, including but not limited to:

to signify that they had attained a higher social status

to demonstrate their allegiance to a house or clan

to show that they had succeeded to the headship of a family or company

to shed bad luck that was attached to an inauspicious name

to avoid being mistaken for a neighbour with a similar name

The third option (succession to the headship of a family) could totally apply to Goemon. So if that’s the case, that means he would have been born with a childhood name (unknown), then changed it to an adult name (unknown), then changed it again to a new name (Goemon) signifying his position as the head of the Ishikawa household.

Btw, we don’t know if all of his ancestors were named Goemon, but we know that at least a few were:

In Part 6 ep. 5 and 6 “The Imperial City Dreams Of Thieves”, Goemon the Thirteenth assumes the identity of his grandfather and still uses the name Goemon Ishikawa

In Part 2 ep. 24 “Rats To You”, Goemon Ishikawa the Tenth and Goemon Ishikawa the Eleventh are mentioned

So, in conclusion: what the hell is Goemon Ishikawa XIII’s actual name? Fuck if I know, but it sure as hell isn’t Goemon.

PS: Regardless of what his birth name is, I think we can safely assume that he is really descended from the OG Goemon Ishikawa. Even though name succession in Japan (or at least in kabuki and other performance arts) doesn’t require a blood relation, Goemon did state multiple times that Goemon Ishikawa the First was his ancestor. It is possible that he or other ancestors were adopted into the family, as adoptions were frequent in the Edo era; but during that period, an adopted child had the exact same status as a genetic child, and was considered a part of the family just like everyone else. So, even if he’s not genetically descended from the OG Goemon, he’s still legally descended from him.

PPS: slightly off topic, but I couldn’t resist mentioning additional bits of trivia:

The kanji in the name Ishikawa mean “river of stones”. It’s the 19th most common surname in Japan. It’s also the name of a region, which the family is likely named after.

The historical Goemon Ishikawa’s name is written 石川五右衛門 (last name - first name), while in the anime both he and Goemon Ishikawa the Thirteenth’s names are written 石川五ェ門 (last name - first name). The third kanji of the first name differs ( 衛 in the historical spelling, ェ in the anime).

Wikipedia says that the historical Goemon Ishikawa probably used that name as an alias. Wikipedia gives “Kuronashin Sanada” as a possible “real” name. Interestingly, the Sanada ie and the Ishikawa ie both branch off from the larger Seiwa Genji ie and the Minamoto uji.

Sources (if you want more info about the wonderful world of Japanese names throughout history):

Tofugu – A long history of Japanese names

Wikipedia – Shūmei (Japanese page, translated with Deepl)

Wikipedia – Japanese names : Historical names

Linfamy on Youtube – Why are samurai names so long?

Linfamy on Youtube – Why did samurais keep changing and reusing names?

Wiktionary - 世 (-sei) - see “Japanese”

Jisho - 世 (-sei) - see “Counter”

Jisho - 代目(-daime) - see “Counter”

Huge thanks to my sister @aime-aine , who helped me research all of this, used her knowledge of Japanese to help me read Wikipedia pages in their original languages, provided me with several of the above articles, and listened to me infodump about samurai naming conventions in medieval Japan for a whole evening. Aime, I love you so so much <3

#the hobbit rambles #the hobbit's headcanons #lupin iii #goemon ishikawa #japan #medieval japan #i hadn't gone down such a rabbit hole of research since two years ago when i tried to figure out goemon's kamon #i had missed it #this was so much fun!#special interest go brrrrrr #elliott's nerd corner #tbh could also be tagged as #elliott's japan trivia corner

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gerrysherry · 3 months

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Moon Knight Comics and Orientalism

Thesis: the early moon knight comics were happier using the various cultures featured there as sets and props for Marc Spector's troubled past as globe trotting mercenary than to actually explore those cultures

This deals mostly with Volume One as I try to ignore everything else besides McKay and Lemire but I do mention Marc Spector: Moon Knight and Max Bemis

Example 1: Raul Bushman

First of all, his name is a literal slur, it's implied it's a nickname by moench and Lemire. But the handbook says that's his surname. ugh

also like I wish comics fleshed out Bushman besides "oh he's evil african warlord and drug dealer who is misogynistic as hell". And like his origin has him like to watch women dance whether it's the widows of the men he's killed or strippers in grimier part of New York (implicitly tying the two in what's both kinda a hot take and also kinda off the mark at once - yeah maybe don't call out misogynists by comparing them to animalistic brown men).

He's apparently from the fictional Domi tribe a fictional country of burunda displaced from indigenous land by Portuguese colonialism and then burunda was overrun by gangs and mercenaries and young Raul decided to join those he couldn't beat.

BUT that's only there in Marvel Handbook.

Like? that would actually make him a foil to Marc on another level. We see Marc's backstory in volume 1 issues 37 and 38 where he sees his family as weak and choosing violence as well. but no Raul's so evil we can't make him sympathetic or even give him an actual real skintone. Gena is in the same comic and looks like an African-American woman with brown skin but he's fucking GREY?!

And then Bemis gave him an eating disorder and was fatphobic about it. Like let him die already and god please give him a backstory backup story. Just for the love of whatever deity you pray to actually research this shit.

Example 2: Yussaf

Yussaf is a guy who pretends to be tour guide so he can kidnap Marlene (Steven's girlfriend) and break into the tomb where Marc died/had a near-death experience.

He's actually with some sort of fringe terrorist group and Marlene dead ass couldn't tell the difference. Marlene is supposed to be an archeologist. It really reeks of "of course he's evil he dresses traditionally arab and has crooked teeth". He also dies from a fall due to his own greed

But I love this issue acknowledges the dance of flowers and why someone named Spector might be unwelcome in this part of Egypt in the late 1980s.

Example 3: Nimrod Strange

Unlike Bushman, Nimrod's blackness is just an aspect of his character but his slayers elite (who are all cultural stereotypes) and his bodyguards who are always skinny girls in bikinis and always in a ratio of one black, one white and one asian woman is..... I get it's supposed to be THIS man's fetish but...like hmmm.

Like there was another comic where white businessmen hired a group of five assassins to kill Moon Knight and one was black and one was asian and it didn't feel too racist (to me at least) but this black guy hires these three guys and they're all brown (one's a caricature of an asian man in a triangular hat another is a caricature of a middle eastern man and the third is a black guy in like a bandana and an earing). Like hmm.

I do like the arc where Marc goes back to Jerusalem and is mourning his friend who is a mossad spy and it's implied so was Marc and by how vehemently he dislikes his friend's handler that did not end well.

Conclusion

As you can see the writers clearly wanted to comment on race and disenfranchisement but often the critiques felt oblique or couched in stereotypes which was most 80s Marvel comics

The show, much as I have my issues with it, is a breath of fresh because it centers around a Latino Jew and his Egyptian almost ex-wife fighting a guy who is the embodiment of color blind cultism and tokenism. Once Steven isn't useful to Harrow anymore and actively threatens his power, Harrow just kills him. Then of course Jake repays him in kind and says the pre-mortem one liner in Spanish as a extra fuck you to Harrow claiming to be multilingual and multicultural

#essay #my writing #moon knight #moon knight comics #moon knight 2022 #orientalism #racism #my essays

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louwhose · 2 years

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Blind Spots | Flowers

AO3 | Previous | Next Well, I may not have posted a chapter yesterday, but I DO have this one today! I should theoretically be able to finish the rest of the story on time, but... we shall see.

flowers | noun

flow·ers | \ ˈflau̇(-ə)rs \

1d : a cut stem of a plant with its flower

Thorn Princess.

Derived from Yor’s surname, or rather her maiden name, of Briar. The spines that accompany a flower. The thorns that protect a wild rose.

Of course, Yor hadn’t been clever enough to come up with it herself. No, that credit was due to the Shopkeeper.

Yes, the Shopkeeper, the Gardener of Garden. Her coworkers weren’t quite as bad as Yor, but they were all hitmen, not exactly valued for their brains. The Shopkeeper was always the mind behind each operation.

So Yor chose to tell him about her discovery.

Of course, she spent quite a few days debating about whether or not she should. After all, it was so easy to ignore, and pretend that she had imagined the whole thing. Was it really so bad if Loid was a spy for Westalis? Even the fact that they got along so well despite their opposing nationalities and conflicting interests gave her hope for peace beyond this cold war their countries were locked in.

But… their goals were just too different. Yor had married him to avoid discovery by the secret police, but it could hardly be good if the west knew she was an assassin either. And Loid was sharp. Sooner or later, he was bound to notice that something was off, if he hadn't already.

So Yor, after nearly a week of knowing Loid was a spy, she chose to call the Shopkeeper while her husband was away at work, whatever it was that he really did.

"Thorn Princess?" the kindly voice of the old man answered after a few rings. "You don't usually contact me. What is it?"

"Umm…" Yor hesitated. Not because the Shopkeeper was intimidating, at least not to her, but because this was something big, and important, and suddenly she didn't feel quite as certain that Loid was, in fact, a spy. But she had come this far. She might as well voice her suspicions, even if that was all they were.

"I think my husband might be a spy for Westalis!" she blurted.

All that came through the earpiece to the phone was the faint crackling and static that accompanied every call. Then finally, she heard a long breath being let out under the static. "What makes you think that?"

Yor explained how she had found the bug in Loid's room, and how she could think of no other possible explanation, and how there might be a scheme with Eden and Anya somehow involved.

The Shopkeeper sighed. "I can see why you thought that. It still might be for some other reason, but you're right, we can't discard the possibility that he might be a spy."

There was a suspenseful pause before he continued. "Do you think he might be Twilight?"

Yor froze. Twilight, the most infamous of all the spies, man of a thousand faces, able to infiltrate anywhere, do anything? While all of that did seem to be fairly in line with the kind of capability that Loid always showed, she didn't think that alone necessarily pointed to the two being one and the same. "Why?"

"We had so little reason to suspect him before. Your husband seems to have done an extremely good job of keeping his work removed from his home life, if he is indeed a spy."

Yor dragged a hand over her arm, as though there had been a chill in the air. “So he might be the best.”

“Yes.” There was a pause. “We’ll try to get some of our own people that are skilled in information gathering to try to confirm that Loid Forger is, in fact, a spy. It will be difficult, since a spy will take precautions to avoid detection. But until then, just act normal. We’ll let you know if we need you to do something.”

And just like that, the Shopkeeper hung up.

Yor slowly drew her hand away from her ear and let it clack back onto the receiver. Wondering what they might need her to do at all. She wasn’t good for much besides killing. Her hand started trembling before her thought process caught up with the emotion.

They might want her to kill Loid.

Of course. She was an assassin. What else was she good for? But that didn’t make it hurt any less, even as a possibility. Yor sunk to the floor, clutching her arms around her knees and crying into them.

Could she even do it? Kill Loid, or rather, an enemy spy? She wondered as she sobbed.

No, she realized with alarming clarity. No, she couldn’t. Because, no matter how much their professions opposed the other’s, he was Loid. Her husband, the one that she… loved?

Yes. Loved.

She realized it now.

Yor loved Loid. Had for… a while now. Might have first fallen for him when he stood up for her at that first date where he pretended to be her husband. And everything since had only built it up.

This little family was real, to her, anyway. And no matter what she was told to do, she couldn’t destroy it. She took this job to create peace for others, and… well, killing Loid was not the answer to that. If the Shopkeeper told her to do it anyway…

Yor clenched her fist.

She stood up and wiped her tears off of her cheeks, feeling the heat radiating from them after getting so worked up. She went into the bathroom and washed off her face, which both helped her to cool down and refreshed her.

The door opened and slammed shut, and Yor came out to see Anya bursting in, just back from school. She smiled.

“Mama! Mama!” Anya squealed, literally bouncing up and down with joy. “You’ll never guess what Sy-on boy said to me to—”

Anya’s ramble quickly came to a halt as she somehow tripped over her own feet and face planted on the floor.

Yor hurried over to help the girl back onto her feet.

“Are you alright?” Anya nodded, and besides her nose being a little red and her eyes a little wide, she didn’t look any worse for the wear. “What were you saying about Damian?”

“Mama.” Anya stared at Yor with an oddly determined expression on her face that managed to make her nervous. “Are you a good or a bad person?”

Yor’s jaw just dropped in shock. What was this now? Sure, she had been considering the fact that she might have to kill Loid, and hadn’t quite recovered from that train of thought once Anya came home, but what would make the girl question it?

Yor raised her hands defensively and waved furiously. “Good! I’m a good person!”

Anya nodded solemnly. “That’s good. I see, I see.”

Yor stood there, looking at her daughter and wondering if she should ask about the story again. Or about her day? Or maybe just offer to let her play for a while as she prepared a snack for her. Any of these were fine, really, but she was still reeling from that question out of the blue. It was hard to figure out what to do when you found out your daughter seemed to think you might be a bad person for some reason.

Of course, Anya had no consideration for this, and proceeded to ask a question that somehow managed to take Yor even more off-guard. “Do you like Papa?”

“O-of course!” she answered instantly, face starting to burn up to a bright red once again. She had barely managed to realize that she was, in fact, in love with Loid, and now to talk about it, with her daughter of all people. If she hadn’t just realized that she loved him romantically, it would have been no problem to admit it, since she had been aware of loving him in a broader sense for a while now and had no shame in admitting that. “I mean, of course I love him, just like I love you. Well, maybe not just like the way I love you, but…”

Yor trailed off, unsure of what she was trying to say. She must resemble a fire engine now. She buried her head in her hands.

And of course, that of all times was when Loid came home. With a bouquet of red roses clenched almost uncertainly in hand. Not nearly as large as the one Yuri brought that first time he came over, but that was truly ridiculous and this one was still large by any normal scale.

Of course, Yor only knew any of this by peeking out between her fingers, taking in his slightly perplexed expression as he tried to figure out what was happening here, with his wife beet-red and face in hands in front of his daughter.

“Papa!” Anya exclaimed, running over to him and hugging onto one leg. “Mama likes you!”

One corner of his mouth quirked up in something between understanding and amusement. “Well, I would hope so.”

She rested her chin on his leg, looking up at him pointedly. “No, Papa. Mama actually said that she loves you.”

“Oh?” Loid asked, raising an eyebrow before turning his gaze from his daughter to meet Yor’s eyes.

She immediately uncovered them from behind her hands as she explained. “I was just saying how I love both of you, of course. You’re both my only family, besides Yuri, after all. And…” No. She was not confessing yet. Not here, not like this. Not so totally unprepared to do so. She changed the subject. “What are the roses for?”

Loid looked back down at them. “Ah, I saw them on my way home from work.” He looked back up to meet her eyes again. “And thought of you.”

Yor felt her face warm up again, not from embarrassment, but from the warmth of being… loved? Was that it? The revelations she’d had in the past week made it seem unlikely, but she certainly felt like she was being loved.

“Papa and Mama are going to kiss!” Anya exclaimed. Yor’s attention turned back down to the girl looking back and forth between the two parents and felt the embarrassment creep back in.

Instead of loudly protesting with a “no” like she usually would, Yor just… considered it. And how, erm… nice it sounded.

Loid drew her attention again with a sigh as he leaned down to gently pull Anya off his leg. “Why don’t you go put your stuff down in your room, and we’ll get a snack for you once you’re out?”

Anya grumbled about being kept out of the “juicy stuff,” but went as she was asked.

Yor managed to shake herself out of her daze enough to walk over to where Loid was, first helping him out of his coat to hang it by the door, and then taking the bouquet from him. “I’ll put these in a vase. Thank you so much for these, Loid.”

And then, with a burst of confidence from she didn’t know where, Yor leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him. Just on the cheek, but still.

Then, too afraid to see how he would react to that, she hurried to the kitchen to get a vase and prepare the flowers. Loid did follow her a few moments later, setting to work on preparing Anya’s snack.

Yor went to place the vase on the table, listening to Loid and Anya’s banter absentmindedly as she carefully checked the arrangement to see that it was nicely done.

As she drew back to admire it finally, one hand lingered, and she was suddenly struck by a bit of melancholy. These flowers were beautiful, of course, but cut off from their roots, they wouldn’t stay alive very long, no matter how much water they had.

She couldn’t do much for the flowers. But Yor would not let herself be cut off from her family.

If you have questions about Loid and the flowers like my brother did, I will simply ask you to please wait until the next chapter, because that should clear things up. Probably. If I did my job right. *sweats nervously* Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a comment! I love hearing what people think about my work (even if I'm not the best about replying)! Previous | Next

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ihaveatheoryonthat · 1 year

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We’ve reached the point where I have too many pans on the burner again, and need to clear some of them out to get anything done. This is another one of those that falls under ‘I’d like to revisit someday, but that day is not today’.

This in particular is really only setup, and I never got to what the piece was supposed to be about-- as such, it’s woefully incomplete.

TW for a fictional illness that’s pretty blatantly based on covid.

---

Travic [surname] had one primary problem and two sub-problems.

The overarching problem was that he was sick. Quite sick. The kind of sick some people didn’t recover from. He’d been sick for days and hadn’t noticed, seemingly fine until he very much wasn’t.

Enter the first of his secondary problems: Vick had accidentally passed the illness onto his youngest son; Emmet getting sick had been the last tumbling straw before the weight of it all finally fell into place. He’d done everything he should have as promptly as he could, even if days after the fact, his own symptoms magnifying under the sudden comprehension-- calls made, warnings to get tested issued, supplies ordered same-day delivery.

Which brought him to the second problem: his eldest, miraculously, had tested negative. He didn’t pretend to understand how that worked when the pair was always in direct contact with one another, but Vick would take what small mercies he could get. And while that was [undeniably] good news, the issue was was keeping Ingo healthy. Stuck in the house with his his immediate family, he was almost certain to catch [it] eventually, no matter what precautions Vick belatedly put into place.

The only solution his foggy mind could put together was to call for help, and so he had. Drayden was on his way to Anville Town; Ingo could stay with him until things were better. Soon, all Vick would have to worry about was getting two of them through this.

‘Soon’ could not come quickly enough.

“INGO.” He [idk], but his usually booming voice came out as something gnarled and [?]; it was little wonder the six year old startled at the sound. Hands frozen in the air, he turned meekly, eyes wide and uncomprehending as he idled at the side of his brother’s bed.

He was only trying to help, Vick reminded himself; he couldn’t truly be angry about that, but it still sounded [angry] when he forced out, “Back up. Don’t touch. Go sit on the couch until I come talk to you.”

Worrying at his bottom lip, Ingo glanced back at his brother, eked out something in a much quieter voice than usual, and darted off, eyes on his father until he rounded the corner.

Vick sighed, the usually [?] of the medical mask hot and stifling to his raw senses. He would endure it. He had to endure it, for Ingo’s sake. If there was anything he could do to prevent further exposure, he would [do it] to spare his eldest this [danger/suffering].

Not even an hour now, and Drayden would be there.

Thoughtlessly, Vick found himself doing precisely what he’d scolded his son for just moments prior; his hands automatically moved to Emmet’s face, brushing damp hair away from his eyes, to no response. He’d been asleep for hours, which, in Vick’s experience, was infinitely preferable to suffering through the day fully conscious.

That said, he still needed another dose of medicine, and whatever fluids Vick could coax him into drinking. They would give it a shot after their respective older brothers left, he decided; best to let him sleep while there were so many other things vying for attention.

Glancing up at the clock, Vick grimaced and got back to it. His body ached with every step, but, dutifully, he trudged back out to the bathroom and scrubbed his hands under the hot water. This time, when he admitted himself into the twins’ room, he didn’t let his tired mind take the helm, instead beating a direct path for the jet black dresser.

Clothes, at least, were easy to pack; going through each drawer in succession there was no way to miss something vital. It became orders more difficult when he tried to to remember what else a child would need while away from home. Snagging a ragged Purrloin plush on his way out, he turned his attention to raiding the bathroom.

He found himself repeatedly checking the time, and constantly surprised by how much had escaped without his notice. It wasn’t fair to have left Ingo waiting for so long without [cause], but Vick had yet to spot him peeking around any given hiding spot, so odds were he’d found a way to entertain himself.

Vick hoisted the bag over a shoulder, and the effort left him wheezing. It meant he was all too ready to let it [flop] down onto the nearest couch cushion when he reached the living room.

To his surprise, the TV wasn’t on-- not even at the low volume his aching head had dictated for the past few days. Neither was there a library book or a fidget toy to be found, just Ingo on the far side of the couch, hands tugging at the sleeves of his sweater, wilting under his father’s gaze.

Ah, shit. He thought he was in trouble.

“Look, bud,” Vick croaked, but combined with the strain of hauling the bag out, it sent him into a coughing fit before he could say anything of substance. He turned away, head spinning, and tried to stifle it into an elbow.

As he regained his breath, there was a knock at the door, and he gratefully shuffled toward it.

[not gonna bother w/ the greeting rn (I DO think it would be funny if Drayden is also wearing a mask, but it kind of just looks like his beard is a different color at first glance)]

Drayden squared his shoulders and strode past, kneeling in front of the couch so they were on the same level.

“I see you have your bag packed. Are you ready to go?”

Instead of any verbal answer, Ingo made a sound of confused protest. The look Drayden shot Vick wasn’t much better.

“I know, I know. It’s for your own good, buddy-- and uncle Drayden promises to take great care of you, right uncle Drayden?” His throat burned as the sentence stretched on, but he could do this. Just a little longer, now, until his son was safe from him.

Drayden inclined his head, eyes pinching as he made the effort to look nonthreatening, and offered his hand. Keeping an eye on Vick, watching for what he was meant to do, Ingo tentatively reached out to mirror it; when it closed around his, he nearly flinched.

“Good boy,” Drayden rumbled, ruffling his hair with a free hand and encouraging him to stand up, too; moving to take the travel bag, Drayden scooped up the cap sitting at the top and settled it over the mess he’d made.

“His coat’s by the door,” Vick said, backing off to leave a good six feet of space between them. It was only as that coat was settled over Ingo’s shoulders that he [vocalized] again, a high whine that Vick knew from experience would only grow louder if it was allowed to continue.

“Ingo,” He said, and he was trying so hard to be what the situation called for, but his mounting exhaustion still shone through, “I know. I’m sorry, but this has to happen. I love you. Have fun with uncle Drayden.”

The door swung shut, and Vick all but collapsed against the wall in his relief.

---

Drayden wasn’t great with kids. As part of being a gym leader, he had to deal with older ones on a semi-regular basis, but his experience with six year olds consisted entirely of Ingo and Emmet.

He wasn’t prepared to look after a child, even if only for a few weeks.

But Travic had asked for help. His brother and nephew were sick, and the biggest help he could be was looking after the odd boy out. He could do that, for his family’s sake.

Only… Ingo was acting incredibly different from what Drayden knew. Usually, you had to pry the kid away, but instead of clinging to Drayden’s hand as they walked toward the train station, the little fingers poking out of his sleeves worked themselves into a nervous tangle. He had yet to speak a word, to talk about the Pokemon they passed by or ask about the ones Drayden had brought with him, and his own stubborn expression hadn’t budged from ‘deeply distressed’.

That was completely understandable-- Drayden himself had only forced a smile for Ingo’s sake-- but it was still troubling. He didn’t know how to connect with young kids, let alone one coming from such a tough spot.

Well, he supposed, when in doubt…

“Do you know what a Swablu is, Ingo?” He asked, readjusting his grip on the bag. The boy next to him nodded, and, somewhat [belatedly] Drayden realized that the pace he’d set was too much for someone so short. Forcing himself to slow, he continued the thought, “You do, hm? Have you ever seen one in person?”

It was met by a small shake of the head.

“It so happens a trainer brought one into the gym last week; his wings are too sparse to carry him right now, so he’s staying with me until his plumage grows in. Would you like to meet him when we reach Opelucid?”

Ingo hesitated far longer than Drayden had expected of someone usually so excitable. “...can I?”

“I offered, didn’t I?” / “Yes, you can meet him if you’d like. He’d benefit from having someone else around, and maybe he can help keep you company in return.”

[…]

He waited until Drayden set the travel bag down, and then climbed up to sit along its other side. Strangely, he didn’t move to dig through its contents once throughout the commute; surely he had something to keep himself entertained in there? Vick had mentioned at some point or other that he was being dragged to library nearly every day as the twins’ shaky grasp on reading began to solidify, so it only made sense that Ingo would have brought a book with him.

The kid pulled his legs up onto the subway bench and rested his chin on his knees.

That was… probably not a good sign.

[…]

Swablu hopped up without a second thought-- the exact behavior that had landed him in Drayden’s home instead of its natural habitat-- and cocked his head one way, then the other. The difference it wrought in Ingo’s expression was subtle, but unmistakable; despite his clear interest in the bird, however, he stayed put.

It seemed to take that personally, fluttering its [?] wings with enough energy to give itself the tiniest bit of lift, nipping at the pair of hands that dared to not to pet it. Surprised rather than hurt, Ingo reeled backwards, and Swablu jumped again. Its weight was negligible-- there was absolutely no way the little guy could bowl over a human, no matter what their age-- but Drayden still held a hand out, steady against the boy’s back, to keep Ingo from tripping.

---

Ingo usually liked school-- really, he did!-- but if he’d had a say in it, he would prefer not to go today.

The test he’d had to take that morning, to make sure he wasn’t sick after all, said he was okay, but he wasn’t so sure; this wasn’t his first time staying overnight at uncle Drayden’s house, and the last time they’d been here, the guest room hadn’t felt so cold. He remembered being sick once, too, and how much more intense everything had felt against his skin-- how cold it was when he tried to sleep without a blanket, but how unbearably hot it was when he changed his mind and pulled it back over himself.

It wasn’t exactly the same-- he’d been cold with the blankets and even colder without-- but it still made him worry.

He didn’t want to accidentally break a rule. He didn’t want to go to school sick and risk making anyone else sick.

Plus, he was all the way in Opelucid City. School was in Anville Town. He didn’t know how long it took to get there, but he was pretty sure class started before the first horns sounded in the rail yard. If he had to take the train to get there, he’d definitely be late. Being late was rude. He hated it, and it didn’t matter that uncle Drayden promised to ride with him today; that was nice of him, but it didn’t fix the problem.

Also! He didn’t have his backpack. He didn’t have any of the practice sheets he was supposed to have filled out, or the library book he’d wanted to show the teacher, or his water bottle or the little key chain he could fiddle with without bothering anyone or--

He bit down on a whine building in the back of his throat, and when that began to fail, stifled himself against his jacket.

More than anything, he knew that Emmet wasn’t going to be with him today.

He was going to get to school late and without any of the things he was expected to have, and that would have been bad enough, but he was going to be alone all day today. And tomorrow. And the day after that. Ingo didn’t know when he was going to see his brother again, and it made him want to scream.

That wasn’t allowed, though; he definitely wasn’t supposed to yell, because people always got mad at him when he did. It was extra important that he follow the rules right now. He was already in enough trouble.

And that was why he was going to go to school, even though there were a million reasons not to, and it was the very last thing he wanted right now.

Swablu chirped and frantically flapped his wings, painstakingly making his way onto the back of Ingo’s chair, and then hopping down onto his head. It was a little heavier than his hat, but in a nice way. While it stayed there, it was easy to focus on the warm fluff instead of the school day that awaited.

Uncle Drayden laughed when he saw them. Ingo liked that, too.

[…]

[after school]

“Here you go,” Uncle Drayden said, holding out the familiar black-and-red-and-blue backpack. Ingo took it with numb fingers and dislodged the ‘thank you’ stuck in his throat.

He only peeked inside when he was back in the guest room, where nobody could see. Piece by piece, he unloaded it onto the much-too-big bed: the homework he hadn’t been able to hand in, the book he’d been so excited to share, his water bottle and the rubber key chain-- and more, beyond that. His library card and the pouch he kept all his best pencils in, the stretchy Clodsire toy Emmet hated so much he refused to touch it, and that Ingo liked to stick to the walls, the hooded sweatshirt with the ears that he’d wanted to wear yesterday, but had been in the dryer.

He was struck, again, by the desire to scream.

Instead, he gathered it all up, put each item where it belonged for tomorrow, and went to bury his face in Swablu’s fluff.

#ihaveatheoryonthat pkmn #submas #writing scraps

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just-an-enby-lemon · 1 year

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This is kinda canon-meldy, but there were two movies were Velma was a villain. In one, she was hypnotized to be a Frankenstein-like mad scientist. In the other, she was pretending to be Cleopatra's ghost to scare off tomb robbers.

Do you think that when Dr. Crane heard about the first time, he saw a spark of potential in her? And do you think the Velma asked for him to teach her, so that she could pull off the Cleopatra's Ghost disguise more effectively?

That is an excelent question!

Now, I'll admit I'm not the best Scooby Doo fan. I used to love it as a kid but since then I'm only now restarting my Scooby jorney (totally influenced by the announce of Velma's being explicitly lesbian in the new movie). So I'll not enter in the discussion of how canonical other media events are to HHSD (except to attest that I don't think any of the other Batman Crossovers are cannon in the HHSD universe unless they happened after this movie events, as it is implied Crane is the first supervillan they catched and also Batman would have been at least name droped in movie if they had meet before).

Now let's go to the question itself.

YES. To both of them. Let me elaborate.

While it's heavilly implied that he being captured in HHSD is the first time they meet, Crane seems to be already familiarized with the Scooby Gang and particularly with Velma, as he only speaks to her and calls her by her surname (wich she never gave). Now detective work is not something that interests Jonathan, Nygma of course, but Jon? He is just not that kindda of villan. He has two very specific loves and he focus on them and nothing more: fear and chemistry. In my opinion Crane already followed the adventures of Mistery Inc. on the news, but his focus was not in the group itself but the various criminals they arrested and their fear inducing tecniques. As he was focusing on the evil side of things when Velma temporarly joined it he finally noticed her and more important her scientific endevours, he found them impressive and decided to look up to see if she had any article or scientific papper and founded ratter genius homework chemistry assigments. After this, he was truly impressed by her and wished to teach her more about chemistry- he was a professor once - and trade ideas. By following her work he also found a local interview with the Mystery Incorporated where she stated her opinion about fear being unecessary and stupid and he decided he also needed to change her honestly awfully incorrect (in both his opnion and mine) views on the subject.

The second one is even a bigger yes. As the self-named "Master of Fear" Jonathan would be deeply ofended if she didn't.

Honestly Velma almost regreted asking when Crane started almost vibrating with proud enthusiasm, his basically baby sister asking help on how to scare someone? They grow up so fast. That being said he was actually very helpfull, using the same teaching tecquiniques he had developed as an university professor and being a total expert on the subject. He may have offered her some cannisters of fear toxin to add an extra terror to the heart of the robbers. But Velma politely decline because she isn't really evil, she is just taking a drastic measures. (Jonathan answered with a disapointed "your loss").

They also have a deal were she sometimes sends him footage of the cases so he can study fear tecniques and fear responses without having to gas people (the last part is Velma's reasoning). Crane is deeply interested on Scooby and Shaggy as test subjects and the only reason he never gassed them was in respect to Velma.

#happy halloween scooby doo #jonathan crane #scarecrow #velma dinkley #scooby doo #ask #velma and dr crane brotop supremacy #this ask is great

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code01746 · 3 months

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META + smoking

　　　oh, man. i actually do have a lot of thoughts about this.

for starters, him picking up smoking was not so much a conscious decision, but because one of his very few friends would smoke. either smoker, hina, or bellemere; but i like to go with bellemere since they not only have a ship together, but it happens to be the only non-problematic ship of rosinante's that is at least semi-popular (his other two popular ships being, uh... incest, & a relationship with a boy he's known since they boy was 10 & he was 23). so i'll take any opportunity to flesh out a healthier one.

i mentioned a bit yesterday that, prior to meeting law, rosinante was very much an isolated, directionless person with no real goals in life. not necessarily unhappy, but he just didn't see himself as having enough of a future to care about 'finding himself', so he let the people in his life do it for him.

he was adopted by a marine? guess he'll join the marines now.

his brother is a criminal? guess he'll volunteer to catch him now.

doflamingo assumes him to be mute? guess he'll pretend to be mute now.

he very much 'mirrored' people in the sense that he would follow along with what they did, valued what they valued, and even dressed how they dressed. he grew up isolated just by virtue of having to hide his true surname/a big part of who he is as a person just so he wasn't murdered in his sleep, so he just latched onto things people did. he wanted to be included. he wanted to make them happy. he wanted connection.

honestly, rosinante infiltrating doflamingo's crew was ironically the best thing that could have happened to him because, for the first time in his life, it forced him to create a persona for himself and be conscious of the choices he was making. also, just being in the presence of his brother again seemed to 'wake' him up and realize he couldn't just be passive anymore. stopping his brother, honestly, became his first real 'goal' in life that he choose for himself, the same way helping law survive became his first real 'purpose'.

(he also may or may not have kept up the smoking habit because someone told him it made him look cool and he would do anything to distract from the fact he's just a clumsy, lame loser inside but that's more of a side note).

in verses where he lives, he no longer smokesーeither because of encouragement from law (he'll do anything to make that little shit happy, after all) or because of a collapsed lung during his recovery made him quit the habit cold turkey.

#‘ 007. ’ (headcanons)#i was not lying when i said i would be annoying #i am unwell; i cannot stop psychoanalyzing this man

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gaoau · 4 months

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Joy manifesting in tears, grief manifesting in laughter—humor for those who weep, pain for those who rejoice

What's In A Friend? warnings — none. word count — 1.3k

prev. — next.

Just the same, [Name] is detached, leaving a space in between every one of her points, portraying the absence of something more not meant to exist at all. Her trust in Komori grows stronger each passing day they spend together. It's strange; the depths of her conscience chastise her to stay quiet even when he screams to the wind he wants to take care of her. It's with too many exclamation points he reminds her not to self-medicate or take drugs lying around her home—she shouldn't randomly swallow non-prescribed antipsychotics, but he can't stop her habits with the distance between them. He accepts how far apart they stand as she clings to him with balled fists.

Her thoughts weigh too much at times she lurks in the shadows of the gym. She can't interrupt practice; she's close to everyone on the team and they know her well, yet her awareness of the distant proximity she shares with Komori doesn't allow her to do much at all. Iizuna calls a short recess upon recognizing the dense cloud of stones over [Name]'s eyes, nudging the libero to run to her aid. It's Komori the one that approaches first, always, routinely. She pretends not to see when other people do nice things for her.

Komori's comforting smile is distressing. He follows her outside the building wordlessly, understanding silence is too loud for her, but that's the way it's always been and she's not looking to change it. Her head hangs low when she calls, "Motoya." It thunders against his ears quietly. He hums in response despite knowing she'll never talk to him. "Come closer," she says, but she's so far away.

"Oh?" he chirps with humor to pretend he can't see the raindrops on her cheeks on a perfectly sunny Spring afternoon. He laughs only because she's told him his laughter is contagious. When he takes a step towards her, her fingers curl around his jersey and her forehead sinks into his chest. [Name] hides herself in and from him, keeping away from all eyes and especially his. She doesn't utter a single syllable to let him into her mind, she doesn't let him see any of her weaknesses. She's so close to him but so detached; she reaches out to him whenever she needs selfish strength.

[Name] borrows his happiness while Komori borrows her pain. There's nothing he can say when she's staining his clothes with tears. She trusts him with her life—one she doesn't care for—and her essence. Although she believes him firmly whenever he speaks his every word, he hasn't found a way in which he can convince her he's real. She sees him and yet she doesn't; she cannot know him, for he'll always be beyond her comprehension.

She remains absurdly close either way as she sticks right to his side, and constricts his fingers with her own until he whines, and finds slumber in the sturdiness of his lap. Komori can barely manage to live one single day without having [Name] herself or her essence hanging off his back. He doesn't mind it at all, and even relishes in the knowledge that she depends on him so much. It's always one step closer to having her within reach. So closely detached, but so detached in her closeness.

She clings to him with a powerful firmness everyone on the outside can witness—the one she denies every night she lies awake and chats with the shadows of the moonlight. People take advantage of the brief yet endless moments they are miraculously separate. Some have a friendly chat with Komori while others attempt to get one pesky word out of [Name]. Both always work out.

[Name] is keeping quiet to herself, leaning patiently on the wall of the cafeteria when a girl she's never seen—or at least doesn't remember seeing ever—approaches her with a skip in her step. She knows to keep a distance out of respect, but it's still too close for comfort. "[Surname]-chan! Quick question," she calls with a chirpy tone all too similar to Komori's. [Name] nods on instinct. "Are you and Motoya-kun dating?

The list of things [Name] absolutely despises is insanely lengthy, enough to cover the circumference of the planet at least thrice. There are plenty of points she doesn't remember loathing, but at the top of all those nonsense concepts stands other people pretending to be close to Motoya. He's Motoya for her, and she demands he be Komori-kun for this girl. "No, we aren't?" she replies with slight uncertainty. She knows they aren't dating and never will. She's had this conversation with more people than she can handle; enough to entertain the idea plenty of times. They're not close. "We're friends—best, I guess." Yet they're so close.

"Oh, that's great." [Name] doesn't bother concealing her displeasure when the girl sighs in relief. She's now grinning to herself with newfound hope. "Then, could you, ya know, get me his number? Help a girl out."

"No." A monosyllable resonates firmly and with unwavering vigor. For outsiders not familiar with her operation system, her tone is seethingly hostile. "He's right there; ask him yourself. It's not my place to do that." It sounds almost encouraging when the words hop off her tongue. She's only challenging this girl, pushing her over an edge to have her jump off her business—namely Komori Motoya. He will always reject any romantic advances from anyone and [Name] knows this. It's condescending, too.

The girl twists her features into a defeated pout. She throws a flitting glance at Komori as he steadily approaches with Sakusa by his side. A sigh flutters into the air, "It's just that I already asked him, but he very kindly said no. You know how he is." She giggles to herself. Of course [Name] knows how he is. "That's why I thought you guys were a thing."

It takes every amount of self control somehow existing dormant within [Name]'s conscience to hold herself back. She breathes in deeply to avoid spitting an exhausted snarl to get the point of Komori's rejection across. Being so close to him shoves her into unwanted situations. "If he already rejected you, then logically it means he's not interested." Being so detached allows her to not measure her natural frigidity.

An offended scowl tugs down on the girl's brows. Her mouth opens to hurl out either insults or cries of shame. Miraculously, as if he'd been waiting for his grand entrance, Komori manifests into [Name]'s field of vision. She wonders if he's nothing but a mirage as he rescues her from strenuous social interaction. "Hey, [Name], my love, my sky, my goddess, my dearest sweetheart. Kiyoomi's got his lunch, let's go." He motions her to follow and she simply nods in response. His beckoning hand acts as bait for the dumb fish she is.

Before [Name] can fully escape, the girl brushes her wrist with her fingers. [Name] recoils. The girl is almost breathless when she starts her exclamation of, "You said—"

"We aren't dating, he just does that a lot." She meets the glower stabbing into her eyes.

"Come on, my most precious wife."

"Anyway." [Name] gives a final nod to wrap up the conversation and chuck it into the trash before it can progress any further. "Don't call me that, Motoya." When she returns to him, she's practically clinging to his side. She stands closer to Sakusa to avoid Komori's playful fist.

"You love it, Komori-san."

She can only sigh out her chortles, "I will pay you to shut up."

#What's In A Friend?#Haikyuu #Komori Motoya #Komori Motoya x Reader #Komori x Reader #Haikyuu x Reader

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fancifulrealist · 3 years

Text

what about haejun (never twice) and hanseo (vincenzo) twins! au crossover. Like a smart twin x a little less smarter twin dynamic and the smarter twin tries to help the other one out.

#this sounds lame but i like to randomly make up headcanons in my mind lmao #let's just pretend they at least have the same surname #and that babel or guseong don't exist in this universe #na hae jun #jang han seo #jang hanseo #never twice #vincenzo #kwak dong yeon #kwak dongyeon #but haejun could be a little dumb sometimes #and hanseo on the other hand could be logical at times #idk

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Note

I'm pretty sure this is prompt four. Jiang Cheng/Qin Su - Jin Rusong as heir to Lotus Pier

ao3

Jiang Cheng heard the news in pieces, scraps of wild rumor and gossip repeated a hundred times over, but he still refused to believe it until he actually saw the official announcement.

Jin Guangyao had divorced his wife and sent her back to her father’s house, along with their son.

“Is he insane?” Jiang Cheng asked his second in command, who only shrugged helplessly. “Putting aside the fact that I’m certain that he loves her madly, putting everything else aside, Sect Leader Qin is influential and powerful, and a strong supporter of his father – no matter what happened between them, surely someone as pleasant and compromising as Jin Guangyao could find a way to work it out?”

Jiang Cheng had only met Qin Su a few times, always at Jin Guangyao’s side. He’d heard about how she’d fallen for the dashing young man that turned out to be Jin Guangyao and sworn to marry him, no matter the obstacles; he’d heard how they’d managed to overcome every storm, fight the wind and rain, and eventually made it to their marriage bed.

They’d even had a son together, little Jin Rusong; he was Jin Ling’s best playmate.

And Jin Guangyao was kicking him out? Kicking her out?

Absurd!

Who did he think he was?

And yet, contrary to Jiang Cheng’s expectations, Sect Leader Qin did not immediately explode, or, rather, within a few days, he did, but not in the way anyone had expected. Everyone had joked that he would find Jin Guangyao and strangle him, and he really did physically attack someone – but not Jin Guangyao.

He attacked Jin Guangshan instead.

It was as if he’d gone mad, red-eyed like Nie Mingjue in the throes of his qi deviation; he’d charged at Jin Guangshan, his old friend of thirty years or more, right in the middle of Jinlin Tower, and swiped at him viciously with his sword, cutting a gash in his chest as the surprised Jin sect leader darted back too slowly to wholly dodge.

What could be done? The Lanling Jin sect guards could not stand silently by with such provocation – they counter-attacked at once, and Sect Leader Qin did not survive. A little later, and it was discovered that he had never intended on it: his sword was laced with poison.

Sect Leader Qin died, but he took Jin Guangshan down with him the underworld.

The rumor mill exploded.

Everyone was talking about Sect Leader Qin’s motivations – the suspicious timing of the divorce – Jin Guangyao’s now inevitable ascension to the seat of Sect Leader Jin –

Only Jiang Cheng thought about Qin Su, who should have been ascending right beside him. It had been her father that had died, after all.

Laoling Qin was far enough away from Lanling Jin that they were still mostly independent, and they were close enough to the Qinghe Nie that Jiang Cheng could pretend that he’d only made a short detour on a visit directed towards Nie Huaisang, that notorious purveyor of gossip; luckily enough, Nie Huaisang remembered their old friendship and was more than happy to help cover his tracks.

When Jiang Cheng arrived, the house was already decked out in mourning. Qin Su greeted him, eyes red and swollen from tears.

“I’m sorry,” Jiang Cheng said awkwardly, then flinched when he realized he probably should have said something in greeting first – they really didn’t know each other well enough to skip over all that.

Nevertheless, Qin Su nodded, forgiving him the slip-up before he could even retract it. She was gracious and gentle, kind and quiet, economical and thoughtful – a consummate hostess. The wife of Jin Guangyao could not afford to be anything less.

Former wife.

Jiang Cheng’s gaze danced around the room, searching for something to say, and then abruptly he noticed – “There are two deaths in your household?”

“My mother took her own life,” Qin Su said, her voice dull. She tried to suppress it, but tears gathered in her eyes again. “Shortly before…”

Whatever it was that Jin Guangshan had done that had driven Sect Leader Qin mad, it had involved his wife, Jiang Cheng thought, and then abruptly he turned pale as he put two and two together. He’d never doubted that Jin Guangyao had adored Qin Su, so why would he divorce her?

Unless…

Jin Guangshan had a reputation.

Qin Su laughed a little, a bitter sound. “Everyone will know, soon enough,” she said wisely, seeing that Jiang Cheng had figured it out. “I don’t blame my former husband at all; he acted as he ought to in every respect. It’s only my poor A-Song…I can’t imagine what his life will be like from now on.”

Jiang Cheng looked helplessly at her. To lose not only your parents, one right after the other, but your husband, your reputation, and next even your son…

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, and Qin Su stared at him. “If Sect Leader Jin’s assault were recent rather than ancient, it would have provoked the same result. The only reason anyone might suspect the truth is because of the timing of your divorce – if there’s a reason given for that, people won’t think twice about it.”

His words had come out all in a rush, smashing together like stones tossed around by a waterfall; he hadn’t thought of the idea until right this moment.

“Are you suggesting I admit to adultery?” she asked. Her eyes were as round as the full moon.

Jiang Cheng shrugged, a little helpless. “Your reputation is gone,” he pointed out, wishing he knew how to be kind or tactful. “Adultery or incest – it’s the same either way for you. But for A-Song…”

To be the son of an adulterous woman was disgraceful, but such things happened and people generally looked the other way, as long as the real father was powerful enough.

It was better than being a child of incest.

“But what of your reputation?” she asked. “Sect Leader Jiang, you can’t. I won’t let you injure yourself for my sake.”

“Not for you,” he said, though maybe it was, just a little bit. The loss of your parents, the loss of your whole life, everything you’d ever believed – who could understand that better than him? “For A-Song. He’s Jin Ling’s best friend.”

Qin Su had always been kind to Jin Ling, he thought. She didn’t need to be, could just tolerate him the way most people in Jinlin Tower did, but she really seemed to like him…

It occurred to him suddenly that Qin Su met all of his requirements for a bride: a beauty from a good family, obedient, economical, with a mild personality who wasn’t too loud and wasn’t too talkative, who was good to Jin Ling…

“How’s your cultivation?” he asked abruptly. “Do you know how to cook?”

“Mediocre,” she said, blinking at him. “And I’m better at baking, I think. I like making sweets.”

“Good,” Jiang Cheng said, relieved. “That’s – good. I’m glad. Will you marry me?”

Qin Su bit her lip. “Let me think about it?”

Thoughtful, he added to the list. Cautious, not reckless.

“Take all the time you need,” he said.

She came back to him two shichen later. “What happens to A-Song?” she asked.

“I’ll adopt him as my own,” Jiang Cheng said. “Or he can keep the surname Jin, if you prefer. And if Lianfeng-zun agrees, which I think he will – it’s his birthright, after all.” Too many times over. “Jin Ling lives with me sometimes; they can grow up as cousins, the way they should.”

Qin Su nodded, lips trembling a little. “You won’t regret this?”

“I might,” Jiang Cheng admitted. “But I’m probably not going to marry anyone else, and I’m willing. Are you?”

“I am,” she said, and smiled at him. Her eyes were still red, and the smile shaky, but it was something. “Thank you. I…no, never mind.”

“If we’re going to be married, you’re going to need to learn to ask things of me,” he reminded her.

Qin Su wiped her eyes. “Yes, but there’s asking reasonable things, and then there’s asking to alert my former husband before we announce our engagement.”

“Oh, no, that’s a great idea,” Jiang Cheng said, immediately relieved. “If there’s one thing Lianfeng-zun knows, it’s how to manage an announcement of that sort of magnitude. We should definitely tell him.”

Qin Su’s smile this time was stronger.

Nie Huaisang pulled a few strings and got Jin Guangyao to come over to the Unclean Realm, and when he walked in and saw Qin Su, he flinched. Jiang Cheng could see on his face that he still loved her, and he felt bad for him – not enough to stop, but still.

“I see,” Jin Guangyao said, hearing the plan. His expression was surprisingly neutral – thoughtful, but not as upset as Jiang Cheng would have expected. “It’s not a bad idea. And you don’t even need to admit to adultery, either.”

“We don’t?” Jiang Cheng asked, surprised.

“We can say that my marriage with A-Su broke down after my father’s actions - painting them as recent, rather than ancient,” Jin Guangyao explained. “I didn’t feel I could oppose him, she had no choice but to do so – it was an irrevocable breach. You came to comfort her, having met her during your visits with Jin Ling, and her sect is in need of support…you can say it developed naturally from there. It might not work to quell the rumors, of course, but it would at least provide a way to save face in public…Leave it to me.”

“Thank you, A-Yao,” Qin Su said quietly, and he smiled at her, pained.

“Just be happy,” he said to her, then looked at Jiang Cheng. “Treat her well.”

“I will,” Jiang Cheng promised, and took her by the hand. “I swear.”

It was a few years later. Nie Huaisang sat beside Jiang Cheng.

“I think he killed my brother,” he said, playing with his fan. “I’m going to destroy him.”

Jiang Cheng stared at the newest memorial tablet in the Lotus Pier, his hands clenched into fists with knuckles turned white.

“Good,” he said, voice savage. “I’ll help.”

#mdzs #jiang cheng #qin su #jin guangyao #nie huaisang #my fic #my fics #I'm sorry

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rebelwrites · 3 years

Text

Trouble Is Your Middle Name

Dominic Toretto x Sister Reader

A/N this is my fic for Fanfic Friday

Join The Group Chat Here - If You Want Tagging Manually Let Me Know 🖤

Dominic Toretto Masterlist

This Months Writing

There were two rules you had, two rules your half brother gave you when he promised to take you in when you had nowhere else to go.

Rule One you kept up with your studying, just because you had the surname Toretto didn’t mean you could slack off, he wanted the best for you and not to end up like him or the rest of the family.

Rule two was you would keep out of trouble. Stay off the police radar and keep your head clean.

The first rule was easy and you were keeping your grades up and would be ready to sit the Bar soon enough, becoming the first lawyer within the family. But the second rule was hard, you grew up around cars and the fast life so it was in your blood.

It had been a long and exhausting week of studying and you needed a break, before you exploded. So as you climbed into the driver's seat of your Hellcat you went into auto pilot, cruising through the streets until you found an empty parking lot. You needed to let some steam off, it was late so you were less likely to get caught, or that’s what you thought. Little did you know you had a cop following you ever since you left the campus library.

A few burnouts and donuts never hurt anyone.

There was something about throwing the car about that made you feel free, the smell of burning rubber was one of the best smells and you found it relaxing. There was no doubt that you were a Toretto, it didn’t matter that you didn’t have the same mother as Dom and Mia, all that mattered was the Toretto blood than ran threw your veins.

You were in your own little world as you tore up the car park, leaving tyre marks as you went, to even notice the cop had put his lights on. It was only when you heard the blip of his siren you knew you were fucked. And you had broken rule number two.

“Fuck,” you mumbled bringing the car to a stop, killing the engine before slowly climbing out of the car.

“Should have known it would have been a Toretto,” the cop scoffed, instantly getting your back up.

“Talk about pre-judgement,” you mumbled under your breath.

“What was that Toretto?” The cop spat.

“Nothing,” you shrugged. “Look can I just go and we pretend this never happened?”

“I’ve been watching you all night, ever since you left campus, so far I can do you for speeding, reckless driving, criminal damage, and I’m sure if I looked probably illegal modifications,” he said, puffing his chest out.

“Look, do what you gotta do, I need to know what’s happening with the car so I can arrange a lift,” you said calmly, when inside you were panicking. You knew Dom was going to flip.

“I’m tempted to seize the car,” he laughed.

“Do it,” you shrugged, pulling your phone out, looking for Dom’s name, hitting call.

Within three rings he answered.

“You do realise the time right?” He laughed.

“Yeah I do but I need you, look don’t flip out but I went to let off some steam in an empty parking lot,” you sighed, “turns out a cop followed me from the campus and is tryna do me for so many things. And is now threatening to seize the hellcat.”

“Fuck sake, Y/N. What did I say?” Dom shouted.

“I know I broke rule two and I’m sorry okay.” You mumbled. “Just please come down, I don’t like the look of this cop, he is giving me the creeps.”

“Say no more kiddo, I’m on my way, ping me your location.” Dom said softly, he knew you didn’t get scared or creeped out often so he trusted your feelings. “I will bring the busta as well. Don’t worry.”

It didn’t take long before you heard the sound of Dom and Brian speeding down the street, pulling into the parking lot, parking with your car.

Dom jumped out the car, instantly pulling you into his arms. It didn’t matter that you were half siblings, neither of you saw each other as that. You were blood and he was going to do anything he could to keep you safe.

“Has he touched you?” He asked.

“No, thank god,” you whispered looking up at him. “I’m sorry, I should have come straight home.”

“It’s fine kiddo, I know you are stressed.” Dom smiled softly, kissing the top of your head, before letting you go.

“Oh so I see you called your half brother,” the cop laughed, “thought you were meant to be a Toretto?”

“You wanna shut your fucking mouth officer,” Dom snapped, pushing you behind him. “I mean is it that slow of a night that you have to follow a young woman and keep her blocked in a parking lot at eleven pm?”

“She was breaking the law,” the officer shrugged, “and just one look at her car tells me that it’s been illegally modified,”

“Well I’ve just had a walk around your car and I can find at least three different violations,” Brian said calmly. “For starters your tyres are bald, you have a brake light out, and the window wiper is broken, that is just from walking around the car.”

“What would your chief say if we reported you?” Dom said, “told him all the issues with your car and how you made a young woman feel uncomfortable. I’m not quite sure that would go down well.”

“Dom my dash cam is still recording,” you whispered.

“And we have proof,” Dom laughed, stepping closer to the cop. “So here is what’s gonna happen, you are going to climb back into your squad car and drive off, pretending that this never happened, that my little sister was never here.”

“But she obviously was here,” the cop laughed.

“I mean it’s our word against yours, these tyre marks could have been from anyone,” Brian shrugged, “and plus Y/N has been with me working on my car.”

“Fine,” the cop huffed, “but if I catch you driving so much one mile an hour over the speed limit I will be coming for you.”

“And then I will just come after you and send this little video to your chief.” Dom hissed. “Now get the fuck out of here and go you know, be a police officer.”

The three of you stood there, watching as he pulled out of the parking lot, driving off into the distance.

“Thank you,” you whispered, hugging Dom. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

“You are kidding right?” Dom laughed, “Trouble is your middle name”

“So you aren’t mad?” You asked looking up at him.

“What is there to be mad about? You were never here remember,” Dom laughed, “Now come on let’s get you home.”

@chibsytelford @phoenixhalliwell @galaxysanduniversesinmymind @withmyteeth “jessprins13 @rightwhereiwantyou @jasonbabymama @pumpkin-spice-hate @garbinge @zozebo

#dominic toretto #Dominic Toretto x reader #Dominic Toretto imagine #Dominic Toretto oneshot #fast and furious #fast and furious x reader #fast and furious imagine #fanficfriday

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nxtsnw · 3 years

Note

P1: Please could it be a mikey oneshot leaving a male reader; I leave it days before the dissolution of Touman with the excuse of "I like another person more, I don't love you anymore and I don't want to see you again" it may be that I don't want to hurt him or something like that, in the end ReaderMale! he takes it badly at first but over time he recovers and becomes a famous Idol that is everywhere, not only is an Idol but has a presence in the underworld (something +

°Mikey x Male reader°

plot: After the breakup between Mikey and MaleReader, their two paths split. The reader, after an unexpected glow-up and after both have apparently moved on, meet again, Mickey as the leader of the Bonten and the reader as a very famous idol.

author note: I also read the pt.2! I apologize if I changed it slightly, I did everything possible to respect it. Thank you for the request!

word count: 1k

warning: angst, break up

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The weather that day was so hot, but it wasn't a pleasant heat, it was quite the opposite. Y/n was going to meet Mikey, his boyfriend for a year now. He noticed his bright blonde hair from afar so he decided to run up to him and hug him from behind.

"Heyy Mikey" he yelled.

"mh" he replied looking at him from top to bottom.

"What happens?"

"I leave you," he said with that a weird calm and his eyes staring at him and waiting for a reaction.

"Ahaha this is funny" answered y/n.

"I'm not kidding, it's over between us, I'm no longer in love with you. I'm sorry, but it's time for me to open a new chapter in my life."

A slight shiver ran down the y/n back.

"Wait, did I do something wrong?"

"No, I already told you, I'm not in love with you anymore."

How was it possible? Why should he leave him like this?.

He could still feel the blond's gaze on him and didn't dare to raise his head. He took a deep breath and mentally slapped himself.

"Goodbye then." he continued without expressing any kind of emotion.

"Goodbye."

So that completely unexpected conversation ended. And for y/n began one of the hardest times ever. Even just to realize what had happened took him several weeks(maybe months), which were lived in a very bad way by the boy.

Acceptance was a hard thing and just as he was returning to the bad habit of smoking he was stopped by a strange man.

“Wait for a second please, don't quit smoking that cigarette. And please, let me take some pictures of you. "

Surprised and scared, the boy decided to walk away.

"Wait up! Believe me, I'm (his name and his surname), a famous photographer ”he continued showing him a tag that confirmed his previous words.

"Please, just a photo?" and so the boy agreed.

So the photo was taken and the photographer came over to show it to him.

At first glance, not even the same y/n could be recognized, he seemed so different from the last time he had seriously looked at himself in the mirror, he couldn't see himself in that photo he had just taken.

"When I became like that?..." he spoke aloud when he was still deep in his thoughts. So much so that the photographer looked at him with a bewildered face.

“Don't like the photo? I'm sorry. Did I make you feel uncomfortable?" The boy shook his head no.

“Oh thank god, I also wanted to ask if you would give me permission to publish this photo on my new photo album due out next month,” he asked, clasping his hands. After he noticed the boy's troubled expression, he continued saying: "You can also receive money and be contacted later by different modeling agencies, I think you have this potential."

A job and some money would not have been bad .. the young man accepted and the two traded their phone number.

But before he could think of anything else, he remembered his change in physical appearance. He immediately went home to look in the mirror. In the street, while he ran, he saw himself in a shop window, he noticed the changes in the body.

They weren't that obvious, but to him, it felt so different, developed. The more he looked at himself the more he was convinced of how much prettier he had become.

Self-conviction? Had he had the famous post-breakup glow-up without realizing it? Was it possible? Was there any entity unknown to him involved?

Arriving at random he noticed even the smallest details of his face, had he always been this attractive?

Thanks to that funny meeting were the beginning of a new life for the boy.

After the photographer's album began to be printed, he noticed his inbox filled with inquiries from various fashion agencies.

They just asked him for a meeting to see if they could hire him, and reading the pay he didn't think twice about accepting.

He came from the first agency that contacted him, and after a short interview, he was hired. It was all happening so fast, the long time after parting with Mikey seemed to have almost vanished from the boy's mind.

In no time at all, he began to have great success in many magazines, and his fandom began to grow. Real people stopped him on the street to ask him for a photo and how beautiful he was. The agencies organized real meetings for the boy's fans.

He met some of his old school friends (with whom he had had some bullying problems) who didn't recognize him in the least...

Everyone had begun to love and idolize him. The creepy and weird thing is that it all happened within 6 months, all that fast? How was that possible? Often y/n stopped to wonder how it was possible, and always tried to find out how it could have happened, but he never found anything rational. ( I'm so sorry, I have never read "lookism" yet, I tried my best to find information <3)

And so winter had arrived, the cold now surrounded him.

He had just finished his shift at the agency and had decided to go get a hot chocolate in his trusted bar. As soon as he entered he noticed a new boy, he was tall with green eyes and dark hair he was really cute.

The boy had been working in that bar for a short time, and it was he who served him. Along with his hot chocolate, he gave to him a note with his phone number, hoping that y/n would contact him.

So that's what he did, he had finally overcome the breakup with Mikey, he was finally ready to start a new life, and finally sentimentally too.

Months and years go by. The relationship between the two boys seems to have improved and thanks to his work he becomes more and more famous. A real Idol, with a little secret, he hadn't yet explained the change that had radically changed his life.

Did some divinity have anything to do with it?

Because of his job he had not been allowed to have a boyfriend, so he had invented and hired him as a "personal bodyguard", so he was able to find an excuse to spend more time with his boyfriend.

They were walking arm in arm under light snow when he saw what he never wanted to see.

There was Mikey. That Mikey. He was sitting on a bench and always kept his lost gaze on some buildings. Was he there on purpose or for simple deals?

He had a hard time recognizing him, Mikey had cut his hair even though he still had that different sheen, but it looked just fine. He was thin and pale in the face, but the most noticeable thing was two dark circles under his eyes that made him look more tired and almost sick.

After a while, Mikey turned to his side.

"Look, let's go if we change our way," he asked his boyfriend.

"Um okay, but what's going on?"

"Nothing, don't worry..." but at that moment he realized that he could no longer escape. He had long since overcome that breakup.

"We can continue from here too," he continued, smiling and taking his boyfriend by the hand.

Meanwhile, a tall pink-haired boy had caught up with Mikey and they were heading in the direction of y/n.

He seemed to be going smoothly until the two ex-boyfriends stopped at the same time.

"Hi Mikey"

No reply.

"Now pretend you don't even know me eh"

Mikey looked up, but this time, in addition to the usual air of defiance, he looked seriously surprised, almost scared?

"Hi y/n, how long has it been?"

But who could know him better than y/n? They had been together for a year, by now he knew that expression perfectly. He knew that at that moment Mikey was confused but he didn't want to show it.

How were they supposed to react?

That question was creeping into both of them, but neither of them seemed able to react.

Did he get over it? What had happened all that time? And who were the new respective partners?

For these questions it will still take some time to get answers and who knows if they will ever have them ;)

I hope you'll like it<3

#mickey x reader #manjiro x reader #manjiro sano #male reader #tokyorev #tokyorevengers x reader #oneshot

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13atoms · 3 years

Text

Lost in Translation (Count Orlo x Reader)

Inspired by some amazing asks, here's the arranged marriage + language barrier oneshot!

I usually try to keep a reader pretty vague in these fics, but I’ve made some compromises here. Mainly: female reader, who speaks English and German, but not Russian, reader is younger than Orlo. I’ve left the country of origin open, but thought I’d add those caveats 😊

Content warning: mentions of nsfw, think that's it!

Word count: 10.9k

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For years, you had made a noble attempt to pretend this day would never come. That your arranged marriage would forever be pushed back. That had certainly happened before. You had been due to wed another man in the Court of Russia who had met an unpleasant end after crossing their Emperor. A third-born prince who wed another instead. An older man from your home country who had failed to agree upon a suitable dowry. In some, deep part of your mind you had wanted the same fate to befall the man you were due to marry come the Spring.

He would fail to prove suitable, have some injury befall him, simply change his mind.

The thought of leaving your home forever to marry a stranger was terrifying, even if you knew it was a common reality. But this match, excellent politically, had come to fruition.

He was a Count. A reputable one at that. The marriage represented a social step up, even allowing for the differing nobility systems between your countries. He was a brilliant politician and a well-read man, you had been told.

You tried to let that comfort you.

Marriage had to come eventually, your mother had reassured you, as she helped you into a carriage. A Count of such stature was, at least, a strong option for your family. Regardless of how you felt about the match.

The rest of your household had watched with grim faces as they bid you goodbye.

It was the best thing you could do to help the tumultuous situation back home, you had been promised.

You were doing your duty, you had been told.

With each minute of your journey you could only think of the time it would take to return home – how you were being taken so far from your home that it would prove near impossible to travel back for frivolous reasons. Perhaps your husband might permit a journey back in the event of a funeral, or the birth of a niece or nephew.

Perhaps he wouldn’t.

The man was older than you, strangely old to be unmarried. Or so the maids had gossiped. He was a formidable diplomat in a way which likely made him a difficult man, they had speculated, and you could not help picturing the creature who might be awaiting you at the end of the aisle.

Would he be cruel? Ignore you? Would he be desperate for an heir? Or so busy with other members of the palace that he had no interest in consummating your marriage at all?

Arranged marriages may have been customary for people like you, but every young romantic secretly wished to avoid it. You had always hoped to meet your own Prince Charming, the two of you falling for one another so soundly that he insisted upon being allowed to marry you. In your dreams, you had longed for the moment such a man would whisk you away to a beautiful castle, to a life of adoration and comfort and mutual respect.

Perhaps even of unconditional love, if such a thing even existed.

You held a hand to the side of the carriage to brace yourself as the road grew suddenly bumpy, trying not to be jostled until the wheels found smoother ground again. Outside you could hear the coachman and his boy, chattering and clicking to the horses. The sound of the road beneath you muffled their voices.

From your book, you pulled a well-worn set of papers.

“Count Orlo,” you tried the words on your tongue, “Count Orlo.”

His last letter, making arrangements for your travel, had come written in a curious of lines and curls which meant nothing to you. Enclosed with it was a translation of his words, printed plainly in unemotive English by another hand. Even as you had read the translation over and over, you looked for meaning in the original. You had kept it. At the end of it, beneath a flourishing signature you caught yourself staring at, he had written his own surname, spelt the letters out in phonetic English so you might attempt to pronounce it.

You had been practising since, trying to imagine how someone Russian might pronounce it without having ever heard the accent – let alone the language.

Would it be much different to your own?

As you crossed land and sea you noted the air cooling, your body aching from the journey. Yet you constantly found yourself unable to step outside for fear of realising just how far from home you were, the strange biomes you passed only serving to make you anxious.

In the books you attempted to read on the journey you kept that sole letter you had from your suitor, using it as a bookmark and reading it each time you opened the book to read further.

“I have made every attempt to ensure your comfort here, and I await making your acquaintance eagerly,” part of the translation read.

It was a sentence you had let your eyes drift across over and over again.

You wondered how those words had sounded to him when he wrote them. If they even had the same intent as the words you read now, if perhaps there was a way to communicate the subtleties of sarcasm or irritation in Russian which was not translated in the version you read.

Though those words seemed charming, you knew not to read anything into them when their meanings had been mangled through a language barrier by an uncaring stranger.

Until you set foot in St. Petersberg, you would have no idea what kind of man you were to marry for the rest of your life.

Too soon, the streets of St. Petersberg were outside the carriage windows. And then they disappeared again, a well-paved road leading into thick forest, making you frown as a busy stream of fine carriages passed you the other way.

The dense trees seemed to be symbolic of the country itself, tall and proud and terrifying as they blocked the sunlight from the road and seemed to reach into the sky forever in their bid to escape the ground.

There was not a single pothole, the road perfectly laid, as you moved to attempt to freshen up your appearance. Books stacked neatly to be removed by a footman, you had nothing to do but watch as the traffic grew denser and denser, the trees thinning.

Then opening up.

Vast lawns stretched ahead of you, brightly coloured figures milling around in the midmorning sun, wandering across the manicured grass with the intent-less pace of nobility.

Your breath was taken away as a building came into view, as tall as the forest you had escaped from and twice as intimidating. The crunch of the horses’ shoes became louder on the gravel you drove on to, the carriage moving slower, as the huge palace loomed into view.

There was one name which had been drilled into you before you arrived, Emperor Peter. His palace was to be your new home, and he was not a man to be crossed. You could see why he intimated so much now, as you gazed up at the extravagance of his stronghold.

Too soon, the carriage door was open and you were offered a hand to step down to Russian soil. The building stretched up above you, seeming to stare down in judgement with a thousand glassy eyes.

As you blinked at the cool, bright sun, you noticed a man waiting nervously for you. Your chauffeur whispered to him, and a small greeting left his mouth.

It was in a language you could not understand.

Your heart seemed to jump to your mouth as he reached to take your hand, pressing it to his lips in a movement as gentlemanly as you had ever seen. In the fraction of a second his eyes were closed, you tried to catch your breath.

Unsure what to say, you let him drop your hand and straighten back to standing, his eyes searching your face in something blessedly unlike an inspection of your features. Instead, it seemed as though he was simply taking you in.

The wind was bitter, and you wrung your hands at the loss of your suitor’s body heat. You couldn’t conceal a full-body shudder as a howl of viscous cold blew through the grounds. The man took a step back, welcoming you into the warmth of the open palace doors. You followed, feeling as though you were watching yourself from a distance rather than experiencing your own body.

He was handsome, you noted. Clean-shaven and well dressed, with a significant effort put into his clothes and hair. He was not the old man you had feared, either. In fact, you found yourself quite delighted at the idea of being seen by his side.

Still, you refrained from letting your guard down. You had no idea of anything about him. He could be a monster, though none of his demeanour so far seemed to suggest so.

Say something, your mind screamed to you.

“The weather is rather bitter here,” you smiled, uncomfortable as the man seemed to nervously pace, rocking back and forth on his feet as he regarded your shivering form.

A frown creased his brow.

“It is cold,” you clarified, sounding the words out in an attempt to make it easier for him to follow.

Perhaps the language barrier would be worse than you had feared. Ignorantly, you had hoped that perhaps he would speak some English. Or that your languages might be similar. He looked at you wide-eyed, lips moving silently as he tried to understand you.

“Co-ld,” he repeated back to you, the syllables broken in the way a non-native speaker might dissect them for understanding.

You rubbed your hands on your own shoulders, a mime of the word, and he nodded frantically.

“Snow!” he stumbled, in English, the shape of the word strange on his tongue.

It wasn’t snowing, but you were pleased he had understood your meaning. You nodded, internally devasted at the realisation that the two of you could barely understand one another.

Suddenly an entire, long marriage of devastating isolation from other speakers of your own language, seemed to stretch before your eyes. He did not speak English. Of course he did not, you cursed yourself. This was Russia. And you did not speak a single word of Russian.

Around you, the conversations sounded like gibberish, the international tone and body-language of gossip the only indicator of what those in finery were saying.

“German?” you tried, moving to allow a nobleman to pass through the door you were blocking, wincing at your own awkwardness.

The Count cocked his head.

“Do you speak German?” you repeated, this time in German, sounding the words out slowly.

You knew, even from his first wince at your first word, he did not understand anything you were saying. You sighed and the Count grimaced in agreement. That, he could comprehend.

Around you the building seemed like a breathing organism, its people flowing from room to room, constant noise and sound and smells threatening to overtake your senses.

Even mere feet from the unfamiliar man you were engaged to, you found your attention drifting as the palace became overwhelming. He surged forward to steady you as a stony-faced nobleman barged into you, concerned words spilling from his lips in a language you didn’t understand. He snapped at the man, after you were stable, and you saw him scurry away with a frown.

With wide eyes you watched the Count as he guided you to a safer spot before dropping your elbow. At least he was handsome. And somewhat younger than you had been led to believe, not so elderly or callous as suitors your friends had been forced to wed.

He curiously had none of the politician’s bite that you had been made afraid of – in fact, you might have believed him to have no power at all if it were not for the arrangement of your betrothal to him. And the way he had sent a man twice his size packing, merely for knocking into you.

He just seemed too nice. He was smaller than a lot of men in the palace, dressed well, with no air of arrogance about him as he tried to welcome you without words.

“The room,” he sounded out.

His English was unnatural, the syllables slipping against one another awkwardly, but you smiled dumbly as you recognised the words. He held one hand outstretched, and then snatched it awkwardly away just as you reached for it. You nodded instead, closing your empty hand at his subtle rejection.

The Count watched over his shoulder, taking a few cautious steps, before seeming satisfied you were following. You loathed that you could not speak to one another, could not joke or lighten the mood, as you tried to understand his jittery body language.

He led you in a confusing attempt at being gentlemanly, lacking the words to direct you, but refusing to be ungentlemanly enough to allow you to walk behind him. Side by side, slowly, you reached an overside pair of doors which he clumsily held open for you.

You blinked in surprise, suddenly realising where you were. It was not merely his room, it was also your room. The room you would share with him. For as long as you both shall live.

As he bustled behind you, moving things in a frantic attempt to tidy the already-spotless space, you remembered to close your mouth.

At one end of the large space was a grand four-poster, deep red drapes tied back around it, fine sheets tucked in tightly. Dark wood accented by golden candle-holders betrayed the opulence of the space – but most striking were the bookshelves. Reaching the ceiling, covering an entire wall, French-style Walnut framed hundreds of books. Your elation at the space, accented with pieces of history and culture that made you increasingly fond of the man, was quickly dampened by the realisation you could not read a single one of the titles.

The windows were thrown open wide, thin white curtains fluttering in the wind, framed by heavier burgundy woollen drapes. With each new pass your eyes made of the room you noticed something new. A new painting, a framed letter, a pot of feathers or an exotic tchotchke, all told the story of a man who was more than met the eye.

You only wished you could speak to him. He seemed to be wincing as you took in the space, one hand perched on the door handle, left there from where he had closed the doors. He let you take your time orientating yourself, saying nothing as your eyes finally settled on something familiar: your luggage.

In their own strange way, the trunks were comforting. A reminder of who you were, your family name painted on the side and your possessions sat in there.

Completely out of place for the room.

Even the cream colour of the trunks seemed to clash with the very furniture around it, and your nervousness came back full force, making your stomach clench as you wondered if the Count would allow you to keep your things here.

He seemed entirely unbothered, reaching to adjust his glasses as you turned to look at him, seeming to fluster at the attention. As you opened your mouth to try and say something, you heard masculine shouts outside.

A sudden gunshot pierced the air outside, the sound ricocheting around the palace, loud enough to make you gasp and flinch. Immediately, the Count was by your side, hands hovering at your elbows as you caught your breath.

You realised you were shaking, each inhale coming as a gasp, the stress of the day coming to overwhelm you. As you turned to the Count, fearing judgement for your weakness, you saw nothing but worry in his shining eyes.

In that moment, you felt sure he begrudged the language barrier as much as you did.

He seemed to be fumbling for the little English he had learnt, before closing his eyes with a frustrated huff, pinching the bridge of his nose as he strode across to his desk.

One hand braced him against the heavy wood as his other hand flipped roughly through the pages of a book. You couldn’t help your curiosity, leaning over his shoulder.

As you glanced at the pages of his book, your heart clenched. It had the distinctive smudges of something he had written himself, words in neat Russian and shakily-formed English beside them. He glanced at you, almost embarrassed, as he flicked to the page he wanted.

He made some attempt at pronunciation, but you found it easier to follow the point of his ink-stained index finger.

“Safe.”

Next to a scribble of Russian, was the word safe.

You read it aloud, and he copied you, his eyes childishly-wide as he looked for your reassurance.

You nodded.

“Yes,” you told him, words weak as you tried to force them past your lips without crying, “safe.”

You weren’t sure if his book helped him understand your spoken words especially well, but you tried anyway.

“Thank you.”

It took him a second, but with a gulp and a head tilt, he understood you.

As he looked at you from his hunched position over the desk, hours and hours of translation work in front of him, you wondered what he had expected of you. If he was disappointed that you spoke none of his language, disappointed by some physical aspect of you, or by your strangeness whilst taking in the overwhelming nature of the palace. Did he even want a bride? Had he rejected the notion of an arranged political marriage as vehemently as you did?

Were you an intruder here? In his space?

The two of you stood for a moment, both silent as you regarded one another. Another shout outside made you jump, shoes shuffling against the carpet. It seemed to prompt the Count into action. He was rifling through the book again.

“Food?” he tried, repeating himself until you understood his meaning. His Russian accent was strong, his hands flailing as he tried to mime.

“Food?” you repeated back, and he clapped his hands in realisation, repeating the right pronunciation back to you.

“Yes, please,” you smiled.

With a timid duck of his head, he fled from the room.

The Count was gone for a long while, long enough for you to wander around the room, stroking a hand across the soft quilt of the bed, touching the spines of the books, and casting an eye over the translation guide Orlo had put together for himself.

It was an incredible amount of effort, you realised, to have filled almost an entire book to construct his own dictionary. It gave you hope for the type of a man who was willing to put that much effort into understanding a woman he had never met.

After a quick lap of the room you caught yourself in the mirror, realising how exhausted you looked from travel. You turned to your luggage, hoping for time to change before Count Orlo returned.

No luck. As you crouched at your open trunk, you heard the door open, glancing up nervously before sighing in relief as you realised it was just the Count. He greeted you with a smile, nodding.

He watched you curiously as you rummaged through your tightly-packed luggage for a change of clothes, desperate to change from the journey. Your travel clothes were sorely in need of a wash. In truth, you had hoped to change into something nicer before you were introduced to your betrothed.

As you found a gown to change into, the Count stepped backwards and dropped his curious gaze, realising you intended to change.

He called a word, and you flinched at the sudden volume of his soft voice, surprised to hear footsteps come running. A serf appeared, a woman who greeted you with a tight smile, and you looked to Orlo with a furrowed brow. He gave you a nod, his eyes kind, as he left the room.

It was fast, to change and quickly fix your appearance with the help of a serf. Although she did not speak a word to you – though you tried both English and German – she was kind as she fastened and unfastened your laces, and you tried to find some reassurance in the looks she gave you.

Did she think the Count a good man, you wondered? She seemed unafraid and comfortable in his rooms, in a way you did not expect from serfs in this place. You tried to consider it a good sign.

The moment the serf left he returned, slipping through the door and admiring your new dress with a gentle nod. There was a sincere appreciation in his eyes that threatened to make you blush.

For the first time, as he crossed the room to offer you his arm, you could imagine yourself waking up beside the man.

He opened his mouth as if to say something as you watched him curiously, but then closed it. The words would not come to him, and you wished you could tell him it was okay, your own vocabulary in his mother tongue painfully limited.

He reached for a closed trunk, looking to you for permission before he opened it.

There was a slight tremble in his hands, and you felt a rush of appreciation at his sheer gentleness. You wished you could apologise to him for the man who had appeared in your nightmares, sharing his name but not his demeanour, brutish and cruel where the Count seemed timid and polite.

Where his fingers faltered on the latch, you flipped the trunk open, your hand accidentally brushing his. You looked away very intentionally as you felt the warmth of his skin, instead turning to the contents of the trunk.

You were glad it was devoid of anything embarrassing, your undergarments blessedly packed in the box below. Instead he was faced with the spines of dozens of books. The titles were all well-thumbed, favourites of yours which you could not bear to part with. You had hoped you might be able to get more books in Russia, once you arrived, however the greatness of the language barrier was beginning to impress on you.

These might be the only books you could read for a very long time, and you were glad you had persuaded your driver to bring them all this way.

The Count, for his part, was reading the spines in fascination. He might not recognise the language, but he seemed to have an appreciation for the beauty of the tomes.

Certainly, if his own décor was anything to go by, he was an avid reader himself. As his fingers ran along the books you had brought, tightly packed together to survive the journey, you found yourself strangely embarrassed by the language of the books.

He seemed unaffected, a genuine curiosity on his face as he looked for your permission to pull one from the trunk. His fingers teased the spine as his eyes met yours, seeking your gentle nod before taking the book and opening it.

Unreading, he scanned the words in front of him. You recognised it as a beloved novel, one so well read you could recite the passage he followed off by heart.

With a smile to you, he turned the pages, seeming to just admire the shapes of the words.

He finally closed the book, passing it back to you, and you tried to force the book back into its place in the trunk. It was a squeeze, and you winced as Orlo watched you struggle for a moment before attempting to still your hands.

Suddenly he was on his feet, rushing to the huge walnut bookcase which spanned an entire wall, and started pulling his own books from the shelves.

You watched in confusion, as he moved a huge stack of his tomes to space on a lower, empty shelf, stacking them in the space above the existing books clumsily to clear a space.

He said something in Russian, before realising you had no understanding of his words. Instead he reached down for the book you were still struggling with. As he took it gently from you, setting it on the shelf, you finally understood his meaning.

In near-shock, you unpacked the trunk, the pair of you working together to add your beloved collection to his library. The Count displaced his own books until there was an entire shelf at your eye-level filled with your most beloved possessions: stories in a language he did not even speak.

Overcome with emotion, you crossed to his desk, reaching for the handwritten book you had seen earlier. The Count followed, watching you a little confused.

Flicking through page after page, growing increasingly frustrated as you did not find what you wanted, you felt Orlo’s eyes on you. And prayed he was not offended by your going through his personal notes.

Finally you found what you sought, turning the book to him with your finger pointing to the words you wanted.

“Thank you.”

Orlo pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he read the translation you pointed to, speaking the Russian words to himself, before looking up at you with an unhindered beam.

Maybe everything would be alright.

The food Orlo had brought during the early afternoon was barely more than snacks, hardly touched as the two of you had shared a comfortable silence, each reading your own books. You were glad for the downtime, though uneasy from being alone with a near stranger.

You were hungry by the time the Count sought out the word dinner in his translation book, and you gave him a nod.

With each step he led you towards the rowdy dining hall, which seemed to be the destination for every other soul walking these halls, fear sunk its claws deep into you again.

For the first time, you spotted the man you could only assume was the Emperor, holding the attention of a few long, heavily decorated tables. The entire room was filled with outrageous finery – beautiful dresses and golden candelabras all begging for your focus as your eyes tried to take in the room.

Count Orlo exchanged a few words with the Emperor as the two of you entered, suddenly clasping your hand in his and holding it up, and you tried to smile politely as all eyes turned to the pair of you. Emperor Peter seemed to say something snide to the Count as he spared you a few words of introduction. The rest of the seated masses offered up a few weak claps. Then, you were able to dissolve somewhat into the crowd.

Your fiancé pulled out a chair for you near the head of the table, seeming to offer encouragement in his gentle pat of your shoulder, seating himself beside you just as a starter was brought out.

From here you could see most of the court, noting that your position seemed somewhat elevated over most, a handful of seats from the Emperor and the blonde woman uncomfortably positioned next to him.

You had been seated beside a nobleman who was far more engaged with his fingers under a woman’s skirt than talking to you, and you fought not to look outraged at the debauchery and inappropriateness of it all, as the woman groaned and the Emperor laughed and clapped at the scene.

When you looked away in embarrassment your eyes met the Count’s, and without language, you could see the apology in the deep brown of his irises and the irritated twitch of his lip.

He pulled your chair slightly closer to his own, and you were grateful, as an onion soup was placed before you.

Unlike the rowdy group around you, you endured the meal in silence. Subtle help with cultural things – strange cutlery customs or drinks you ought to avoid – were the only interactions you had with the Count.

Fortunately, the Lord beside you had been distracted from his woman by the arrival of a rather impressive whole Salmon.

So that was some relief.

As you finished your main course you found yourself finally beginning to relax, mentally congratulating yourself for making it through the first of a presumed lifetime of outrageous meals in a foreign country.

At least, you thought you had made it through.

The beautiful young woman from the Emperor’s side was stood in front of you, clearing her throat with an impatiently folded pair of hands. As your eyes met hers, she held out a hand to introduce herself, spouting off a string of Russian you had no hope of understanding.

With one hand under the table, you sought out the Count’s attention, only to find him deeply engaged in a conversation with the soldier beside him.

Damn it.

The woman was looking to you expectantly for an answer, but you could say nothing to appease her. Not whilst lacking a single word of Russian.

Panicked, you turned to the man beside you. In truth it was a relief to see him laughing, so engaged in a rapid conversation with someone, but you were forced to interrupt. The woman seemed increasingly offended by your panicked silence with each second that passed.

“Orlo?” you tried his name, wincing at the distinctly un-Russian sound of it, but the man himself turned immediately.

From the beam on his face, he seemed delighted you had attempted to address him at all, his hand finding yours on the table.

He made a distinctive hum of questioning, before following your eye line to the woman trying to speak to you.

“Catherine!” came her name, before a string of Russian.

You breathed a sigh of relief, wishing you had the language to thank the Count for saving you from further embarrassment or offence caused.

When their short conversation lulled, you found two pairs of eyes on you.

“I do not speak Russian,” you told her, hoping your apologetic tone transcended the English language.

Her eyebrows raised, pretty face contorted in surprise as she turned to Orlo, a quick punch of Russian shot her way before she left once again. Orlo gave you a knowing glance. Then, she spoke.

For a moment you did not recognise her words, before realising with a start they were German.

“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

You were sure your face betrayed how your heart soared at the recognition of understandable words, her face schooled in a sombre mask even as your features lit up in delight at familiar language. With a conspicuous look around, she leant closer to you.

“We will speak later.”

The blonde woman returned to the Emperor’s side for the duration of the dessert course, but you felt your mood immeasurably lightened. The Count seemed to recognise it too, his movements a little lighter as you counted down the seconds until you could speak to someone.

Mere minutes after the Emperor stormed from the dining hall, seemingly on some form of rampage, the Count gently guided you to a side room. The German-speaker was there, and she greeted you kindly the moment the door closed.

“I apologise, I try not to speak German in front of the court. It reminds them my roots are not in Russia – although my heart belongs here.”

You could not help the beam which broke out across your face, even as your fiancé watched with bemusement, and you found yourself subconsciously moving towards the blonde woman.

“I am so glad to have someone to speak to! What’s your name?” you asked her, feeling immediately at ease, elated to see your joy at the conversation mirrored in her body language.

“Catherine. I am the Empress.”

With a glance to your fiancé, you stumbled on the spot, taking an awkward curtsey as you realised exactly who you were speaking to. Was this some sick joke, you wondered, to get you in trouble before you had even unpacked?

“I had no idea,” you apologised, “I apologise for my rudeness, your majesty.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering something in Russian to Orlo. He had the nerve to look embarrassed, at least, and you felt your shame slightly diminished.

“Nonsense. You have done nothing rude,” she smiled, “Besides, I married into this madness. Just as you will.”

Unwilling to make a fool of yourself – or get yourself executed – you silently nodded.

“It is strange, to hear my native tongue so far from home,” she mused, cocking her head and glancing around the room.

You let yourself relax a little, sensing no true offence in her tone or body language.

“I am so glad to hear someone I can understand,” you confessed, “I feel so stupid, to not speak the language.”

She looked at you pityingly, and you ducked your head under her gaze.

“It is not your fault. The language is… challenging, to say the least.”

“I confess, it all sounds like gibberish to me. At the moment.”

You found yourself elated as the Empress laughed.

“I remember that. As a child, I just nodded when people spoke to me.”

It was your turn to laugh. Beside you, Orlo had a smile on his face as he made some quip in Russian to Catherine. The Empress threw her head back in laughter, before quickly letting you in on the joke.

“Orlo is rather concerned we are getting along so well.”

You gave a nervous laugh, glancing at the man as Catherine linked her arm around yours.

“I think he should be worried,” she told you, a theatrical stage-whisper in your ear, although Orlo could not understand her, “I shall finally have a friend who understands me without the burden of translation slowing my thoughts.”

Even in her arrogance, you liked Catherine. How could you not, when someone as powerful as an Empress was treating you like an old friend on your first encounter? She led you from the room, muttering about a tour of the palace, as Count Orlo trailed behind you.

As Catherine explained the layout and rhythm of the hallways, you tried to file every piece of information away, catching yourself laughing at her glib comments – free to gossip and make jabs whilst those around her could not understand her words. For the first time since disembarking your carriage, you felt on even footing with the strangers milling around these hallways. Able to speak, you could be yourself a little more. Though you regretted that it was impossible to truly speak to your husband-to-be.

Abruptly, you caught yourself interrupting the Empress midway through a tale about some curiosity, a strange painting hung in the hallway which she had plenty to talk on.

“Catherine – ”

“Yes?”

Even as an Empress, she seemed unbothered by your rudeness. Perhaps just speaking to someone else from her home country, she felt the Russian role she held stripped away.

You glanced at Orlo, stood beside you staring at his hands as the pair of you spoke in German, patient and yet left out.

“Would you be kind enough to translate some things to Russian for me? For Count Orlo?”

“Of course.”

The Empress seemed to understand. She gave a curt nod, pushing a door open to enter a parlour. The few serfs cleaning and resting in there quickly scattered, leaving the three of you alone. Orlo closed the door behind you, guiding you to sit on the chaise as if you were something delicate, a gentlemanly charm to the way he offered his aid even as you crouched to sit.

Catherine sat beside you, smiling a little as Orlo joined your side at a respectful distance. He was looking curiously between yourself and Catherine, his nervousness given away by the jerky movement of his head as his eyes flickered from woman to woman.

“What would you like me to say to him?” Catherine asked gently, her tone more subdued than you had heard it thus far.

Rather than excitable, bordering on bragging, she sounded serious. You wondered how long ago she had been in your shoes, marrying a stranger in a foreign land. From the haunted look behind her eyes, the memory was fresh.

“I wonder if you could… thank him. For his kindness. And apologise that I do not speak the language, I feel so stupid, that I did not learn before arriving but I could not find any instruction I should learn Russian – and I realise I ought to have known but it simply did not cross my mind. The marriage was all so last minute and I only saw his letter days before I left and – ”

Sensing the panic, as it rose in your throat and leached into your words, Catherine stopped your words with a single politely raised finger.

For a moment she seemed ready to answer back to you, to speak German and comment on the contents of your message for your husband-to-be. Then she simply turned her head a few degrees and addressed Orlo.

You had nothing but trust to prove she had translated for you directly, and yet the widening of the Count’s eyes told you she must have made a valiant effort at repeating your ramblings. His hand hovered in the neutral space between your hand on the chaise and his thigh, undecided as to whether he ought to offer you comfort or respect the boundary of space which still existed between you.

He chose the latter. Strangely, you wished he hadn’t.

Orlo was replying, a stream of carefully considered Russian which Catherine nodded at, a gentle smile on her lips. Then, she turned back to you.

“He says you could not possibly have known he would not speak English or German, and that he is trying to learn. He also says that he has arranged an adjacent room for you, in the event that you are not comfortable sharing with him.”

She seemed to have more to say, a personal comment to add, but Orlo had already interrupted her, cramming in more sentiments he wished to have translated. In all your time with him, you were yet to see him so talkative, desperate to share his thoughts with you. Your heart ached as you realised how much he was unable to tell you.

“He also says he is sorry you have met under these circumstances. And that, should you ever need anything, write it. He is better at translating the written word.”

“He also says that you are pretty, and it is nice to meet you.”

She rolled her eyes, but you shot the man in question a smile. He beamed back.

There was a playfulness in her words which indicated the Empress was mocking Orlo’s desperation to speak to you, but you could not join her in her ridicule. You found yourself truly touched by the lengths he seemed willing to go to in order to secure your comfort with him.

There were very few noblemen who would do that for a bride from a political marriage, you knew. Catherine continued to speak in the same tone, perhaps to prevent Orlo’s suspicion, but her words were suddenly her own.

“He is a sweet one, you know,” she confided, “he has been trying to learn English for weeks. Now I wish I had known to teach him German. You will be safe with him. Ask for anything in the world, and he will provide it. For all his flaws, he is a good man. A true romantic, too. I am glad he seems to have been lucky enough to have a wife who will not abuse that.”

Blinking tears from your eyes, you nodded. Catherine reached out her hands for you, and you took them, a silent promise of friendship which you were surprised by the speed of.

“I am here. If you ever need anything. I know how hard it is, to not understand what is happening around you.”

You nodded mutely, your voice choked by how touching her kindness was after so many weeks of worry, and a day of confusion and fear that you might never be properly understood again.

“Thank you,” you whispered, “and please tell the Count thank you. Most – most sincerely.”

With a kindly smile, almost sisterly in how she seemed to both patronise and care for you, Catherine released your hands and began speaking quick Russian to Orlo.

Now relieved from understanding the conversation, you slumped a little against the arm of the chair, concealing a yawn as the late hour and long day caught up with you.

Without being in a proper bed for weeks, having taken in an entirely new country and life over the course of the day, your body was begging you for rest. You forced your drooping eyelids to stay open as Catherine and Orlo spoke, noting the way both of them shot you glances as a heavily-Russian-accented version of your name cropped up in their conversation.

There was a gentle smile on Orlo’s lips, and you found your heart jumping at the very sight of it, your own expression subconsciously returning his look, lazily and slightly as your lips curled up.

He had started to look at you more, as their words grew faster, and you let your eyes slip closed.

It felt like seconds had passed, but from the laughter in Catherine’s words, you realised you had fallen completely asleep. Your feet had slipped free of your shoes, your face pressed against the arm of the chaise, and the hand on your shoulder was accompanied by the light voice of Catherine.

“As I have just told Orlo, I think you ought to get to bed. You have had a long day.”

Her smile was tinged with amusement as her face slowly came into focus, and as you turned to see Orlo’s face, you noted the concern on his face. He said something to Catherine, and you saw as she laughed and shook her head.

He said something again, more insistent, and the Empress rolled her eyes.

“He wants me to apologise for keeping you up so late.”

Against your better judgement you looked into his wide, worried eyes, catching yourself truly touched by his apologetic nervousness. And the way he was, hours after meeting you, already trying to look after you.

“Tell him not to worry,” you muttered, your voice a little rough. How long had you been asleep?

As Catherine began to speak, you tagged on:

“And thank you!”

She translated with an entertained glance to you, before rising to her feet.

“He says not to worry. And I need to go.”

You wondered if she truly had to leave, or if she had merely grown tired of the two of you using her as a translator.

“Thank you,” you called after her, watching the rise of her eyebrows as Orlo seemed to speak at the same time.

“You are welcome,” she replied, first in German, and then in English, “Good luck.”

With that she was gone, and you were following Orlo back to his rooms.

True to his word, translated through Catherine, there was a small room conjoined to his which contained a bed, and your clothing trunks had been dragged through there at Orlo’s request.

With a tired smile, which you hoped conveyed your thankfulness, you had closed the door between your rooms and near-fallen into bed.

The next morning arrived quickly, the sun risen as a shouting group in the forest outside awoke you. You jumped at the presence of a stranger in your room, before recognising the serf as the woman who had helped you change the day before.

“Hello,” you tried, wincing at the realisation she could not understand you.

Following her nervous glance to the tub in front of her, you realised she had drawn you a bath.

Wordlessly she undid your corset, and you held it to your chest as she seemed to hover for a moment, unsure of what to do. With a polite nod and a dismissive hand, you hoped you encouraged her to leave for the evening.

Barely five minutes after sinking into the hot water of the bath, you pulled yourself out and crawled into bed.

The dawn brought a little more optimism about your time at the palace.

Your husband-to-be appeared both polite and wealthy. There was at least one person here who you could understand. And, as you gazed out the window whilst your serf dressed you, the palace was beautiful.

If a little rambunctious.

You would have to get used to the startling bang of gunshots.

As your maid left and you prepared to leave the sub-room to greet the day, you took a deep breath. This was manageable.

Even more so when you saw the Count sat at his desk, glasses removed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, enraptured by the page in front of him and deep in thought.

You let yourself slightly knock against the wood of the door, alerting him to your presence, and the man smiled to you with all the happiness you might have expected from a true friend.

He cleared his throat and stood as though about to give a speech, before two recognisable words left his lips.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning!” you returned, unable to resist a smile.

The Count nodded his head, happiness creeping across his own features.

Then, he offered you a less recognisable pair of words. After a few tries, you realised it was a translation, and timidly tried to copy him.

He gave you a pleased applause as you finally repeated the words back correctly, accompanied by yet another “good morning!” and you could not help your optimism at the tiny piece of progress.

Your first Russian. Taught by a willing teacher, who seemed to have all the patience in the world for you.

Certainly, things could be worse.

As the day wore on, you cursed your own optimism. Of course, things could be worse.

Of course, they got worse.

It seemed as though every person you encountered wanted to speak to you, and that your future husband was far too busy to chaperone you everywhere. It was agony, to be treated as though you were stupid or rude simply because you had never had the change to learn a single iota of Russian.

Worst of all, you could barely pronounce your own fiancé’s name.

He joined you for lunch, finding you in his rooms with your head perched on your hands, a faraway look in your eyes as you lamented an entire morning spent in the agony of navigating the seemingly-brutal palace social circles without language.

All day you had sought out the click of his shoes, or the bright yellow curls of the Empress’ hair, and been disappointed each time it was merely another of the palace’s endless parade of strangers.

He joined you at the small table in the corner of the room, the two of you some distance apart, his fingers tapping arrhythmically against the tablecloth. As food was brought in he seemed to remain lost in thought, sparing you an occasional moment of attention as he stared out of the window.

Suddenly reminded of your earlier discomfort at being unable to pronounce his name, inspiration struck you.

You pulled his letter from the pocket it was stashed in, and he seemed surprised to see it, meeting your eyes with some meaning you found impossible to understand.

Ignoring his surprise, you skipped the English translation to read his original hand, finding where he had written his name. Attempting to remember what he had responded to yesterday at dinner, you sounded it out.

“Count Orlo.”

He nodded in recognition.

You shook your head.

Repeating yourself, you pushed your finger along his writing, trying to make him understand. With a subtle gasp of understanding, he smiled sweetly.

And corrected your pronunciation.

It had been miles off, and you felt shame build hot in you as he had you repeat the name back to you. First ‘Count’, a half-dozen times until you mastered the shape of the Slavic letters, before moving onto his surname.

The realisation you could not even say his name right made you want to sink into the plush carpet of his room. He saw it, as your voice shook across ‘Orlo’, a clear frustration in him as he fumbled for English words and reached for your hand in comfort.

It seemed to take him relatively less time to learn your name, a fact which only made your shame build.

You ate in silence, refusing to look up from your plate and cursing your overwhelmed memory for struggling to recall the perfect pronunciation.

Slowly Orlo’s hand crept across the table, covering yours. As you looked up at him, the shining in his eyes made you want to sob.

“Thank you.”

He struggled through the phrase, but that seemed to only amplify the meaning, making your lip tremble in an appreciative nod.

“Thank you,” you repeated back to him, watching as he mouthed the words to memorise how you had said them.

You forced another mouthful of quiche into your mouth before you could sob with frustration and confusion at it all.

As Orlo bid you an apologetic and poorly-pronounced “goodbye”, you had the intent of spending the afternoon reading – however your own nervousness quickly derailed those plans. You were unable to focus on the words in front of you.

You had even borrowed Orlo’s translation book for a little while, before conceding that reading the words in his script gave you very little intuition on how to pronounce them.

It was hopeless.

In a bid to acquaint yourself better with your new home you took another lap of the palace. Generally you tried to avoid people, not keen to endure yet another embarrassing interaction where your words were not understood by judgemental strangers.

Instead you stuck to the sidelines – the shadows of the corridors or barely-used paths through the grounds. Finally you happened upon a crowd of expensively-dressed women, and found yourself fastidiously avoiding them. Until you spotted a pale blue gown adorning and even paler woman: the Empress.

You let yourself exude some confidence as you walked closer, catching her eye over a crowd of poorly fitted wigs and champagne flutes, stumbling at little as she seemed to look past you with glazed eyes.

“Catherine!” you called, closer now, so she couldn’t possibly miss the true Germanic pronunciation of her name.

She ignored you, turning her attention to a conversation with her maid. Your heart sank.

“I wondered if you might help me learn a few words…”

You could hear chatter around you, a few snickers as the Empress ignored you once again, barking a few words of Russian towards her serf. For just a second she looked at you with a warning frown and wide eyes. You realised your mistake, as the ladies of the court began to swarm around you, harsh words you didn’t understand growing louder.

Even as you looked at her for help, for recognition, the Empress stalked past you. You were left at the mercy of the Ladies of the court.

Perhaps this was the worst turn your day could have taken. They bodily forced you to sit with them, feigning friendship as their words almost certainly said something else. You sank into a chair with a sinking feeling in your stomach, nausea rising in your throat as fingers plucked at your unstyled hair.

And the taunting began.

They mocked you for hours. For things you couldn’t translate, leaving your own mind to cruelly fill in the gaps each time the conversation seemed to make all eyes turn to you. Each time you thought you might rise and sneak away, sharp nails and etiquette pinned you in place.

Until the arrival of a panting and alarmed Count Orlo, you were forced to mutely endure your role as the centre of their attention.

You recognised the tones of intimidation, if not the words. Their picking at your clothes and touching your hair, peering at your features and demanding things from you in a language you could not understand.

It was your only point of pride that you remained stoic, even as they held you from leaving him and time again, not a single tear left your reddened eyes. When the Count finally sought you out, so late into the day that the air was cooling and men were returning from their hunts, you found yourself cursing the very day you had heard the word Russia.

With an overly pleasant smile and a hand on the small of your back, Orlo had guided you away from the loudly cackling group of ladies, each taking turns to shout increasingly loud insults for the fun of mocking your inability to understand.

But you understood their intent. You had, for the past few hours, understood their mockery. And the betrayal of the only friend you had managed to make here, the only hope you had as a translator – all because she was embarrassed to be seen speaking German to you.

I know what they were saying, you wanted to snap, how dare you treat me like I’m stupid?

You found yourself shaking with emotion. With rage and upset and a hurt which seemed so potent and physical it felt as if your heart was threatening to rip itself apart.

Orlo gave a gentle click of his tongue, and it was enough to drive you beyond all social etiquette.

Storming ahead of him, you refused his hand on you, his calls of your name. Through unfamiliar corridors you marched back to your stupid shared room with him, slamming the door even as you knew he was mere strides behind.

Good.

Your smaller adjoining room was hardly a safe haven, but it had a locking door. Barricading yourself inside you instantly felt childish, wondered if these actions would be enough for some horrific punishment or political consequence.

And then you realised you did not care.

Fuck them all.

Outside Orlo was trying the door handle, calling your name, desperately trying to find the words for an apology. But he failed, and you had no intention of helping him learn any further.

Fuck, you wished you could shout at him.

Or at the Empress.

Or at those women, who thought you less than them just because you could not understand them.

With a dramatic huff, which you winced at the loudness of, you kicked your shoes off and clambered beneath the covers of your bed.

Your travel coat was beside the bed, a hand-me-down from your mother, and with a tremble of your lip you pulled the fabric closer to you. The itchy sting of tears, the tightness of your throat, preceded desperate sobs which violently wracked your whole body.

Outside you heard Catherine’s voice, Orlo’s frantic tone, and you pulled the quilt over your head.

You had no want to speak to either of them.

Even without a language barrier, you were not sure you could articulate the nature of your feelings in that moment. Instead you pulled the thick woollen coat closer, cherishing the worn fabric against you, familiar in its smell and in the strong memories it brought.

You had been happier, you realised, the last time you wore it. At your home and surrounded by people you loved, who knew who you were. Who you could share with, communicate with.

How long until even this smaller haven was taken from you, and you were expected to join the Count in his bed? Until you were no longer ‘new’ and you were expected to simply endure feeling like an outside? All this for a man you barely knew, whose ring you would wear as the members of the Court mocked and judged you for reasons beyond your control.

A soft knock on your door was followed by airy German.

“I apologise,” it said, and you recognised the Empress’ voice, “allow me to make up for my rudeness earlier?”

You couldn’t reply, trying to stifle your crying. Eventually, with one last try at turning the handle, she left.

Then came Orlo.

“Sorry.”

It was English, and your anger was momentarily interrupted at the tiny realisation that he was still trying.

Yet you couldn’t open the door, your tears salty on your lips, eyes puffy as you pulled the coat closer still.

As anger and embarrassment coursed through your veins, tears ached in your sore eyes, sleep finally claimed you – fully asleep and clutching your coat as if it were a lifeline.

You awoke at the fall of night, to hunger and the quiet movements of your maid. She had gotten in somehow, and you found yourself a little frustrated to realise that even in this small room you could not fully block the rest of the palace out.

She looked at you in the twilight, an apology in her eyes which told you she took no pleasure from trespassing. To your embarrassment you realised you were still clutching the coat, hugging it like a child. You slowly pulled it free of yourself, standing and folding it back into a half-packed trunk without saying a word.

Most of your personal items were still not unpacked, and the thought gave you a crushing sense of how unwelcome you must be here. How new this all was.

That you couldn’t hide in the shadows forever. This afternoon had taught you that.

The people here weren’t kind, as you had imagined. They weren’t welcoming and patient and keen to welcome you to the fold. They had seen your weakness and torn at you like a pack of wolves, ignoring your whimpers.

With a sigh you hunched over on the bed, feeling lightheaded and disorientated, an ache still in your bones from the journey and a pang in your stomach from missing dinner.

Only the shuffle of her feet reminded you that your maid was still there. Without the coat you shuddered, and she held out a robe for you to wrap yourself in, pulling it over your clothes. You thanked her with a silent nod, trying to bite back the tears of frustration that you could not speak to her.

A timid knock at the door made both of you startle, a shaky breath leaving the maid as she laughed at her own skittishness. You joined her in a watery smile, before the knock came again, this time accompanied by a gentle call of your name.

You had no idea how to welcome the Count in, knowing you ought to in service of maintaining a friendship with at least one person here, but with a nod your maid called for him to enter.

Eyes downcast, the timid man walked inside.

His translation book was clutched to his chest, and he pulled from it a letter, a small, tight smile on his lips as he handed over the piece of parchment.

It was nothing formal, unsealed and ripped from a long piece of notetaking paper, but it had been folded neatly nonetheless. You opened it with a curious look at the man, his eyes following your movements intently.

Confused and intrigued in equal measure, you found your hands shaking as you moved into better candlelight to read. In the mirror, you caught the bloodshot appearance of your eyes. Beside you in the mirror, the Count had the decency to avoid meeting your gaze.

By flickering candlelight you began to inspect the paper in your hands, surprised to realise it was in English. You raised your eyebrows at him for a moment, and he smiled nervously, a glint of his teeth in the light as he tried to contort his face into something more welcoming than the grimace he was managing.

You bit your lip as you inspected the neat script, surprised at the honesty of the note.

‘I am truly glad you are here. I understand the frustrations that you are facing, and I feel the same way. I am trying to learn English, and I hope we might be able to teach one another. I will do everything in my power to make you happy here. What happened earlier was unacceptable. Catherine says she is sorry, and has spoken to the women. They will do nothing to upset you in future, under threat of the Emperor’s ire.’

There was a gap, a single line singled out from the rest, and you traced your thumb along the words as you absorbed them.

‘Everything will get better, I promise.’

Beneath was his flourishing signature, although the letter had blatantly not been written by him. Yet, it sounded spoken, and you longed to hear it spoken by him.

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked back to him, and the Count finally stared back, his bottom lip worried by his teeth.

Soft footsteps told you that your maid was finally making herself scarce, leaving without a word from the Count. You wondered if she had told him you were awake, the timing was awfully convenient.

Yet you did not have the heart to see anything insidious or scheming in his worried stare, his irises almost black in the darkness of the room.

You reached for him, seeing confusion in his face until your fingers mimed for his translation book. He passed it too you, his fingers brushing over the worn leather cover before letting go, and you flicked through the pages impatiently.

The words were growing familiar now, but you struggled to recall them in the moment.

The page evaded you, although you could picture it in your mind’s eye, and you closed the book, scrunching your face in thought as you tried to remember the pronunciation he had taught you.

“Thank you,” you tried, and a lazy smile crossed his features.

He nodded in understanding, in approval, and you felt your heart grow three sizes with hope.

For once he was the one following you as you crossed to the door of your temporary room, entering the main apartment with a fierce optimism overtaking you. Your confidence only increased as you noticed the plate of food set aside on Orlo’s desk, a nod confirming he had saved it for you.

Thought of you.

The chaise by his fireplace was easily big enough for two people. It would seat two people, you decided. If the two of you were to wed, you could at least begin by sitting side by side, rather than with the distance both of you had kept.

It took a pat of the seat and a raise of your eyebrows to convince him, but soon the Count was sat beside you.

You set his book into your lap, taking a deep breath, before opening it to the first page.

The two of you could do this.

If it took years, page by page, you could teach one another.

You could take turns to repeat the words again and again until the pair of you could hear one another’s true voices.

As you read out the first word, a simple “yes” which the Count repeated back to you in English then Russian, you saw his own twin hope grow.

That this would work.

With time, and patience, and with dedication, you could make things work. Thousands upon thousands had before you, although rarely in circumstances so bizarre, and Count Orlo had already begun the groundwork of a marriage you could find yourself content within.

With each word repeated back to each other you grew more sure of his intention, of your eventual happiness here.

“Yes,” he repeated, smiling as you nodded your approval.

“Yes,” the Russian syllable left your lips.

Orlo’s hand found yours in excitement.

There was a certain pride in your chest as you made it through your wedding vows, the Russian strange but coherent on your tongue as the familiar words flowed from you. With mere days to prepare, you had managed to achieve something which had once felt impossible.

You had not forgotten the words. You had not stuttered or run or cried. You had done what needed to be done for your family and for your home. Orlo, for his part, watched you speak with such adoration you could almost imagine that he had wanted to marry you, as the marriage was arranged all those months ago.

The way he had held you the night before told you that he did want to marry you now.

He rocked a little on his heels, seeming as nervous as when you first met him, the shimmer of tears in his dark eyes as you finished your vows.

The priest was speaking, but you had very little idea what was being said. The scant audience seemed to be paying attention, and yet you could barely stand to look at them. Rings were being found, papers laid out behind you, and Orlo was clearing his throat to speak.

You felt tears jump to your own eyes, as you realised you could understand his vows. He had memorised them in English.

#count orlo #count orlo x reader #hulu the great #fic #13atoms #i havent written in so long please be nice #i am never writing a language barrier fic again

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