Was thinking about French gendered terms and Zoro trying to suss out if Sanji’s into men and I had some thoughts and oops now i wrote a thing so here you go:
In the early days Zoro drives himself nuts trying to figure out if Sanji bats for his team too or not. He listens in intently whenever the conversation steers the cook towards talk of his past dalliances, but, just his luck, none of the words used indicate their gender. And there ain’t no fucking way in hell he’s asking him or anyone on the crew directly, lest they immediately understand how bad he has it for the stupid cook.
He bides his time, surely someday he’ll slip up and mention something about the people he’s slept with, right? And sure enough one day, at a feast, a drunken Usopp starts asking what people’s types are. His face still schooled into a nonchalant, neutral expression, he does his best to hide how desperately he waits for Sanji to speak up about his type, only to once again be met with more general terms about people- someone with a kind heart, dependable, an equal… he’s so concentrated on trying to pick out any gendered terms he doesn’t notice the weird look Nami throws his way at each new descriptor in Sanji’s list of desirable traits.
He’s always known Sanji speaks French, finding it endearing whenever the cook curses (even at him), whenever he goes into small little rants to himself, or the face he makes when he can only think of a word in French, rapidly snapping his fingers until it comes back to him. But it’s only when they get to a town where Sanji starts speaking to a vendor excitedly about his produce that he realizes just how much this thing, this endearing thing that’s always been there, truly affects him, and his face burns at how different the cook’s voice sounds when he actually speaks it, how enchantingly low and throaty the foreign syllables ring in his ears.
Attached to living another day, he decides that stealing a book from Robin is a bad idea, and resigns himself to ask her directly for a favour. He swallows his pride and asks if she can lend him a French learning book and a dictionary, curious as to whether he can learn it a bit, and understand whatever the hell Sanji keeps cursing and muttering about around him, and what kinds of insults he’s been throwing his way. With her ever mysterious smile plastered on her face, a chain of Robin’s arms retrieve two books from her library and hand them to him. “Do come to me if you have any questions, Mr. Swordsman. My French is pretty good if I do say so myself.”
He’s out of the room, red as a beet, before she even finishes that sentence.
Learning the curse words comes to him unsurprisingly quickly given how often he hears a litany of « putain de merde », « fait chier! » and « enfoiré! » spilling from the blonde’s distracting mouth.
He’s very happily surprised when he learns that French is apparently a heavily gendered language- and that he can glean someone’s gender just from whether the adjectives applied to the subject are masculine or feminine. Now if the stars aligned and the cook would talk about his love life in French…
Zoro starts by going through the basic first chapters, taking great pains to hide and quickly dissimulate it in his haramaki anytime someone walks in on him- especially the witch. It definitely changes his usual routine on his watch in the crows nest, he muses to himself.
Weeks, months pass, and he advances further in the lessons, his vocabulary slowly growing, while he often goes to his dictionary for the more… colorful insults Sanji throws his way. He never says a word of French himself, not knowing how he could even justify knowing any without looking suspicious, and pretty sure his pronunciation would be way off anyways. But he starts to really enjoy it, being able to understand even a tenth of the things Sanji thinks he can say without the crew (save Robin) understanding.
And then Saobaody happens. And now he doesn't have time to think about learning French, not if he wants to get strong enough. Not if he wants to protect his crew.
He's at the table with Mihawk and Perona when his mentor asks for the salt (Passez moi le sel, s'il vous plait), and he executes himself without thinking. A quiet settles over the room and he looks up to see those intense red eyes boring into him, unnerving as ever.
"You speak French?"
"Not really," he grumbles, not wanting more excuses to think of the shitty cook, and his shitty cooking, and his stupid curly brow.
"Then you will. Consider this a natural continuation of my trying to beat some manners into your brutish mind."
Two years later, and he can't wait for dartbrow to show up. His pronunciation may still be shit, but he can't wait to use his newfound skill to his advantage.
With his now solidified grasp of the language, he slowly begins to understand that what he at first though was a mistake on his part- that he must’ve missed a part of a sentence, or mixed up some words- was not an error at all. It turns out, some of the French things that Sanji yells at him aren’t insults at all.
In fact… they’re sometimes downright complimentary.
And that's definitely a problem for Zoro, who now not only needs to keep pretending that he doesn’t know what Sanji is saying, but needs to pretend he doesn’t understand it when Sanji screams at him that he has a “stupidly pretty face” or that his “tits are even bigger than Nami’s and how is that even fair” . He doesn't know what to make of it.
And then one day… the stars align.
It’s another post battle party, and the cook has been drinking a bit more than usual, a tightly gripped glass of wine in his left hand, a cigarette in his right. Zoro is nursing his very own barrel of Ale when he hears the conversation turn to more gossipy topics, as it usually does the further into the night they are.
“Chopper was really into that nurse on Zou, wasn’t he?” Usopp starts to poke fun at the crew’s youngest member, laughing as the reindeer turns all red and tries to deny it.
“I mean it makes sense that she’d be his type! Right Nami?”
Nami nods at him, grinning wickedly. “Yeah, not all of us can be into rich little blonde girls can we?”
“You’re right, some of us are into rich blue-haired princesses,” he shoots back.
"At least I had the balls to do something about it before I left her island-"
Zoro is already tuning them out when Sanji sits down next to Robin just a few feet away, across from him and the campfire, his tongue loosened from a few too many refills and unconsciously reverting to his native tongue.
"Ils ont de la chance, ces deux là." he gestures to Usopp and Nami.
(They're lucky, these two.)
Robin smiles at the cook, wordlessly prompting him to continue his thoughts.
"Qu'est ce que je donnerais pour pouvoir avoir quelque chose de plus qu'un coup d'un soir." Sanji sighs wistfully, lighting his cigarette.
(What I wouldn't give to have something more than a one night stand.")
Robin chuckles. "Ne sont-ils pas satisfaisants?" (Are they not satisfying?)
At this point Zoro has tuned everything out, intensely focused on hearing what the blonde has to say, and not at all feeling a small churn of jealousy in his stomach for whoever shared Sanji's bed. His heart initially skips a beat at the plural masculine pronoun ('ils') used by Robin before remembering its actual neutrality in this context, as it's referring to the ""one night stands", a masculine word. Damnit. French is so dumb.
"Tu sais bien que je ne dirais jamais de mal à propos des belles demoiselles qui ont bien voulu m'accorder ne serait-ce qu'un baiser ou une étreinte. J'ai de la chance rien que d'avoir pu exister en leur présence."
(You very well know I'd never say a bad word about any of the beautiful ladies who've been kind enough to give me even a kiss or an embrace. I'm lucky just to have existed in their presence.)
Zoro feels his heart drop, a heavy feeling settling in his stomach. He's always known the pervert cook has been into women. Why was this confirmation hitting him the way it was? His eye darts up at his two crewmates, confirming that only Robin has noticed his eavesdropping. She opens her mouth to say something but Sanji continues, the glow of the flames dancing against his flushed skin beautifully.
"Et dans mon état normal tu sais que, par respect pour les sensibilités d'une dame, je ne te divulge pas beaucoup de détails sur ceux qui font l'affaire le temps d'une nuit. "
(And in my normal state you know that, out of respect for a lady's sensibilities, I don't divulge many details about those who do the trick for a night.)
Ceux. That's a masculine word for "those", isn't it? Zoro shakily takes another sip of his drink.
The archeologist's smile widens. "Oh, ne te fait pas de soucis pour mes sensibilités. Je brûle d'envie d'en savoir plus, et ne m'épargne pas les détails..."
(Oh, please don't worry about my sensibilities. I'm burning to know more, and don't spare me the details...)
"Je ne suis que ton humble serviteur...si ça peut te faire plaisir" (I'm but your humble servant…if it pleases you). Sanji's cheeks seem a tad more flushed than before. "En vrai ce n'est pas qu'ils ne sont pas satisfaisants...c'est qu'il ne sont jamais... assez."
(It's not that they're not satisfying…it's that they're never...enough.)
"Ah? Et que recherches tu? Qu'est ce qui serait..."assez"?"
(Ah? And what are you looking for? What would be… "enough"?)
The cook exhales another cloud of smoke, and nervously looks around. His eyes settle on Zoro, and indecision flits across his eyes for a second before continuing. Zoro can feel his gaze, can almost make out the deliciously unfocused expression on the blonde's face in his peripheral vision as he continues speaking French. His heart feels like it might beat out of his ribcage.
"Lui." (Him.)
Zoro forgets how to breathe.
Part 2 up now , and part 3 part 4
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The One Time Marshal Soult Called Thiers A Little Pissant And Then It Got Into A Dictionary
Happy birthday, you grumpy asshole curmudgeon military man who I'd probably hate if I lived at the same time as you (for I am a modern day leftist) but with the distance of time I'm utterly fascinated by what is wrong with you! I'll post a weird drawing/animation of you later probably.
So I've been perusing a 1870s biography of Soult written by someone who met him with the help of very dodgy AI machine translation, getting through a chapter or two per night, and I got to this chapter called
So that translates to "A WORD ABOUT A WORD". It's about 500 words long, not a long chapter, but I laughed so hard when I discovered it's entirely and literally about one word.
And the worst part is that the author refuses to write what the word actually is.
On the occasion of dissent, real or supposed, which had determined Marshal Soult to leave the Ministry, the press hastened to indulge in the most hazardous conjectures. According to some, Mr. Thiers and his adversary had come to the most lively explanations, the most personal recriminations, the most incisive reproaches; according to others, everything would have been limited to a single word from the mouth of the old soldier, a word to which his young opponent would not have known how to respond.
This word is not that of Cambronne, but it is of an origin just as abject. Therefore, I will not write it. Its origin is linked to a low phrase, whose root is a verb not listed in the dictionary, and which has very little time. In the present indicative it serves to say: I don't care; in the future: I will put my hand on your face; in the infinitive it is only a swear word; in the past participle it energetically replaces an adjective always expressing an idea of loss, or a feeling of bad mood.
This word is familiar, trivial, dirty, common, vulgar; and if, for some time, it has been introduced into conversation, it is with the help of a Germanic ending which almost completely distorts it.
More quotation from the chapter under the cut, as well as what the word actually is.
Was this word, in the beginning, Romance, Gallic or French? One could easily attribute this first character to it, if one paid attention to the quantity of applications that have come from it. Thus, with a completely patois ending, it means simpleton, dullard, deceived husband, etc.; welded to a very respectable first name, since it appears twice each year among the saints of the Gregorian Calendar, it becomes French and applies to a man who deceives, by not keeping his promise; finally in the southern countries where the Romance language is still spoken, it produces an epithet very accurate by its expression, but very difficult to define in any other language.
This very euphonic epithet, very easy to pronounce, very expressive in its meaning, applies to any individual endowed with a certain natural wit, but using it badly, always talking a lot, but often saying very little, not fearing difficulties, but creating them, calling for the help of others, but hindering them in their exercise by a multitude of objections, having more thoughtlessness than malice, more malice than wickedness; this spirit denotes a man always ready to have his say on any question, penetrating enough to grasp its form whatever it may be, except sometimes to make light of the substance; not very moral, moreover, that is to say not attaching his feelings, his ideas, his conduct to any superior belief, to any religious dogma, to any philosophical principle; this is the developed explanation of this word attributed to Marshal Soult, and which he obviously never pronounced with the spelling and accent that disfigure it, if tradition is to be believed.
Indeed, he would never have substituted the letter r, inappropriately inserted in the second syllable, for the letter s, which ends the second syllable; above all, he would never have given the French sound to the final vowel, he who was so accustomed to expressing another sound quite particular to the patois idiom.
(1) Here, moreover, as to the authenticity of the word attributed to the Marshal, is how tradition tends to establish it. We read in fact in a newspaper of September 13, 1869:
"It was told, last night, in a circle where one likes to politicize between two cigars, that, under the July government, when a fiery Marshal of France treated Mr. Thiers as a 'little f.... iquet', Mrs. Dosne asked, the same day, to the statesman, her son-in-law:
-- 'Well! what do you intend to do?'
-- 'That's fine! but.... revenge? What do you want me to do to that animal? He is Marshal, Duke and Peer of France; he has everything he could dream of and even more....'
-- 'Well! write the history of the conquest of Algeria, and don't put his name in it once: he will burst with spite! '
Did Mr. Thiers ever begin this history-vendetta?"
It took me a little bit to find out what the word was with all this word charades and me not knowing French, but I found it in the end:
"foutriquet"
I don't need to speak french to know what that second definition is referring to. And that second screenshot is from a French dictionary website, so this word is in the dictionary, take that, biographer writer who also trips balls about Soult's daughter!
Wiktionary claims it means "weedy man", which is also very funny. I'm guessing that it used to be a much ruder word but now probably just sounds quaint/historical/dated. I'm curious about the "s" form that the author alludes to, it seems that might have been supplanted by Soult's usage of the word.
Anyway yeah, I'm still cracking up that Soult dunked on Thiers so hard it ended up in a dictionary. Happy birthday you fuckin asshole, I might bake a cake in your honour or something.
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