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yurishippingolympics2024-07-16 11:56 pm
a1c0bb) wrote in yurishippingolympics2024-07-16 11:56 pm
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two female contestants in "The Bachelor" or a similar style dating show fall in love
“What are you doing,” Cinder hisses over the top of her sword. She looks like the image of a warrior — teeth gritted, hair thick with her own blood, shirt torn — and it shouldn’t be hot, it shouldn’t be hot, but it is —
Right, Winter thinks, she was asked a question. She re-adjusts her hold on the hilt of her blade and pushes upward, forcing Cinder back. It gives her plenty of time to think of a suitable answer. “Fighting,” she says innocently. “Why?”
Cinder narrows her eyes, flicks Winter’s blood off of the edge of her sword. She must have caught the outside of Winter’s hand when she met her earlier. It doesn’t hurt, not really. “Fighting,” she echoes, and the sound of her voice feels like a blow, “really? You’re fighting? I’ve seen you fight, Schnee.”
That — hurts, actually. Winter glances up to the balcony over the ampitheatre, but finds she can’t quite find her father’s eyes. “I’m fighting. Why aren’t you?”
Cinder stands in the sand for a moment, chest heaving. It’s like Winter can see the gears turning in her head, the mounting anger — and she snaps, “Fuck you,” and launches herself across the space between them, sword first.
Winter dodges each blow, stepping back until Cinder has her pressed against the wall. This is possibly her most obvious mistake; she can feel the gaze of thousands of watchers prickling into the back of her neck, telling her to defend herself, and yet she waits until the last moment to block and spring aside. Cinder’s sword rattles as it strikes her crossguard, and this is the second warning sign. Too close.
Too close, she thinks again as Cinder chases her back, it has to be believable. Cinder is doing a lot better at masking it than Winter is — if she wasn’t pretending herself, she wouldn’t have picked it up. It helps, probably, that she has a reason to fight beyond apathy. It helps that there’s no one here to watch her fail.
“Come on,” Cinder snaps, swings high, “stop fucking waiting for me to come and hit you! Do something! Fight me!”
So she’s banking on Winter winning. That’s not good. Winter ducks below her hands as she lashes out and steps into her space, feeling out the gaps in her defense. Cinder backs up immediately, sensing an error — in any other fight this would have been the finishing move, in any fight Winter didn’t need to lose she’d have killed her hours ago — and it’s too late, she’s dashing the sword out of her hand and kicking Cinder down to the floor.
“Fuck you,” Cinder wheezes as she lands.
Winter kicks her sword out of the way for good measure. “You asked me to fight you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Do you surrender?”
There’s no sound from the audience, but she can sense the displeasure. This isn’t how these fights are supposed to go, even if they’re both banking on it. Cinder glares up at her, all blood and teeth, and wipes the sweat out of her eyes.
Then, growling through her teeth, she kicks Winter’s feet out from under her and scrambles away.
“Spar with me,” Cinder says, and it seems like a good idea at the time.
Winter hasn’t fought with a sword in about three years, and so she fumbles through her warm-ups with her jaw clenched. Cinder watches her wander through the gym in the bottom of the academy and smirks at her in the mirror when she thinks she isn’t looking. Winter isn’t sure if she’s being smug or admiring her from the back, and she’s too preoccupied with making a sword fit in her hands again to care.
Cinder picks up her own blade and levels it at her in the mirror once they’ve fucked about enough, eyebrows arched. Winter hasn’t seen her this competitive in years, not since the two of them were essentially banned from active duty, and she missed it. She turns and raises her sword in turn, unable to stop herself from smiling.
“Shall we?”
Winter rolls her shoulders, adjusts her grip. “Eager to be beaten?”
“You’re fun when you’re competitive,” Cinder grins, and launches herself forward.
Winter backs up easily, because Cinder has always been a little bit reckless with her sword, and steps into the opening she willfully provides. Her body fits into the spaces Cinder leaves — always has, really, and Winter follows her as she retreats in turn, through to the other side of the gym.
The practice area they’ve cleared out is nowhere near big enough. Cinder springs over a pair of weights as Winter presses her backwards, takes advantage of the space between them to grab her collar and yank her downwards. Winter tumbles, snapping “Dirty trick, that,” as she catches herself against Cinder’s front, and finds herself arching upwards to slam the hilt of her sword into Cinder’s gut without having to think about herself moving.
Cinder smirks at her, even as she doubles over. She backs away, pulling Winter with her, forcing her to jump over the top of the weights to keep her balance. Winter resists the urge to comment on another stupid trick. It’s simpler to focus on blocking Cinder’s free hand than it is to try her hand at snappy banter, which she’s never been particularly good at anyway.
“It’s not a dirty trick if it works,” Cinder grins, gasping for air. Winter kicks her away, forcing her to let go of her collar, and raises her sword again.
“It is if someone notices,” she snaps back. Years of military conditioning dictate that she keep her form until Cinder comes within range, and so she holds herself still, fingers tightening around the pommel of her sword.
Cinder’s grin widens. She really is having the time of her life. “Doesn’t matter if I win, does it?”
“Making an awful lot of assumptions, aren’t we?”
In the years since the ending of the war, her style has become a lot more like that of a fencer. Winter spent fourteen years of her life training to become a fencer before she decided to apply to Atlas Academy, and as such she knows to parry, knows to step into Cinder’s guard where she isn’t expecting her to be. That’s the thing, really; she knows Cinder like the back of her hand.
//
Winter collapses forward onto her knees, sucking in deep breaths. Cinder pats her back cheerfully, even as she dumps her water bottle over her head. Water trickles down her wrist and lands on Winter’s back, freezing where it touches her skin.
“Fuck,” Winter pants, “you.”
Cinder laughs brightly. Bruises purple the underside of her chin from where she’d slammed it into the wall. The exposed column of her throat is slick with sweat; Winter has to pinch her thigh to stop herself from staring. “Well, that’s for later. Did I win?”
“Not even a little bit.”
Another peal of laughter. She pushes her fingers through her hair, brushing sweat and a little bit of blood out of her eyes. “Rematch?”
“In your dreams,” Winter says.
//
i understand how to sword a fight and did not in fact make this up on the spot
Ship: Kurama Neon/Sakurai Sara
Canon: Kamen Rider Geats
Words: 437
----------
Somehow, somewhere, the Desire Grand Prix starts again.
How, Neon can sort of deduce a clue. The future is vast, with endless possibilities and abilities. It should come to no surprise that somehow, somewhere, the world will fall to interference yet again.
At least this time, Tsumuri is dressed the same, she notes dryly, as she looks at the skyscraper in front of her.
“Your objective is to run to the finish line at the top of the building. Don’t hit any obstacles,” Tsumuri says.
“Of course there’s obstacles,” Neon hears, the dramatic but defeated tone of the speaker apparent.
She turns her head. To her left stands her most valued — and yet, most worrisome — opponent. Sara, ever the stars in her sky, has seemed to be dragged into this mess as well. While her hair is neatly straight against her shoulder, there is almost certainly a definite frown on her face.
Of course. Of course everything would go wrong, and Neon’s happiness in particular would get targeted.
“Yes, Sara- Sakurai Sara-sama,” Tsumuri says, “Be sure to move carefully, for there are hidden traps in the walls and the floor.”
This too is a robbed aspect of Neon’s happiness. The Desire Grand Prix had ended, damn it! No longer had she needed to fear the effects of some random strangers from the future; she had finally found the love of her life, gotten away with her parents, and built a family around the friendships she had made.
Tsumuri’s excessive formality, once torn down, only serves as a reminder.
“The loser of this round will be, unfortunately, eliminated.”
Neon’s time is short. She knows this all too well.
Her gaze continues to stay locked on Sara. Dear, sweet Sara — beloved Princess Charming, occasional camerawoman of Neon TV, and overall sunshine that a stray cat would gladly take naps in. Surely, the non-participating members of her friend group must have come up with some plan by now, to end this charade once again.
After a few stormy seconds, Sara finally looks at her.
“Good luck,” Neon says, internally chastising herself for the curt tone.
Sara, seemingly, pays no heed. Her eyes grow wide, and water laces her lash lines, quivering — fitting for her tone as she replies.
“We’ll beat them again, right, Neon?”
To this, Neon is uncertain. But she nods anyway.
“Right,” she says, “Please don’t die.”
“I won’t!” Sara responds.
Oh, Sara. How assured she sounds. How much of it, Neon wonders, is false bravado? And how much of it is the belief in the world — the belief that no matter what, the world will always set itself a happy ending sometime or another?
That they too can return to their happy ending, one way or another?
Tsumuri’s voice, grave as it is, is a correction; today can serve as a negative trajectory for Neon’s life, if everything gets worse.
“Game... start.”
Canon: Kamen Rider Geats
Words: 437
----------
Somehow, somewhere, the Desire Grand Prix starts again.
How, Neon can sort of deduce a clue. The future is vast, with endless possibilities and abilities. It should come to no surprise that somehow, somewhere, the world will fall to interference yet again.
At least this time, Tsumuri is dressed the same, she notes dryly, as she looks at the skyscraper in front of her.
“Your objective is to run to the finish line at the top of the building. Don’t hit any obstacles,” Tsumuri says.
“Of course there’s obstacles,” Neon hears, the dramatic but defeated tone of the speaker apparent.
She turns her head. To her left stands her most valued — and yet, most worrisome — opponent. Sara, ever the stars in her sky, has seemed to be dragged into this mess as well. While her hair is neatly straight against her shoulder, there is almost certainly a definite frown on her face.
Of course. Of course everything would go wrong, and Neon’s happiness in particular would get targeted.
“Yes, Sara- Sakurai Sara-sama,” Tsumuri says, “Be sure to move carefully, for there are hidden traps in the walls and the floor.”
This too is a robbed aspect of Neon’s happiness. The Desire Grand Prix had ended, damn it! No longer had she needed to fear the effects of some random strangers from the future; she had finally found the love of her life, gotten away with her parents, and built a family around the friendships she had made.
Tsumuri’s excessive formality, once torn down, only serves as a reminder.
“The loser of this round will be, unfortunately, eliminated.”
Neon’s time is short. She knows this all too well.
Her gaze continues to stay locked on Sara. Dear, sweet Sara — beloved Princess Charming, occasional camerawoman of Neon TV, and overall sunshine that a stray cat would gladly take naps in. Surely, the non-participating members of her friend group must have come up with some plan by now, to end this charade once again.
After a few stormy seconds, Sara finally looks at her.
“Good luck,” Neon says, internally chastising herself for the curt tone.
Sara, seemingly, pays no heed. Her eyes grow wide, and water laces her lash lines, quivering — fitting for her tone as she replies.
“We’ll beat them again, right, Neon?”
To this, Neon is uncertain. But she nods anyway.
“Right,” she says, “Please don’t die.”
“I won’t!” Sara responds.
Oh, Sara. How assured she sounds. How much of it, Neon wonders, is false bravado? And how much of it is the belief in the world — the belief that no matter what, the world will always set itself a happy ending sometime or another?
That they too can return to their happy ending, one way or another?
Tsumuri’s voice, grave as it is, is a correction; today can serve as a negative trajectory for Neon’s life, if everything gets worse.
“Game... start.”
Edited 2024-07-28 02:01 (UTC)
a/n: light is in a lot of this but mostly for the purpose of being ignored. #feminism
Kiyomi allows herself the slightest trace of a smile when she notices her inbox has one new ask.
Anonymous asked: of COURSE mariko and josuke are in love you stupid bitch dont watch the movies if youre gonna twist them to fit uour stupid fantasies god i hope you die
“What is it, Kiyomi?” Light asks, sitting up behind her to peer over her shoulder. “I didn’t know you had any social media other than Twitter.”
“Don’t worry, my Tumblr is anonymous,” Kiyomi says idly. She’s already planning out a reply. Mariko clearly does not deserve Josuke, for one thing; what does she do when he goes into battle for her? Just cheer on the sidelines! It’s frankly galling how many of Hideki Ryuga’s movies’ love interests are utterly useless.
Besides, Kiyomi’s not even sure they like each other. All their on-screen time together is spent kissing. Not a single extended conversation, no shared interests, no chemistry whatsoever — why are they even together in the first place?
“Kiyomi?”
“What?”
Light regards her with a teasing smile. She could swear some expression of — calculation? anxiety? — crosses his face first, but it’s gone in a blink. “Don’t you want to get back into bed?”
“Just a second,” Kiyomi says distractedly. She has to check another blog first.
kuromisa: ughhfhghhghh anyway dnfuckingi if youre a soulless ghoul who wants to DENY LOVE
#tooootally not a vague #literally why r you in their TAG if youre gonna just post ship hate #hope kira gets you
“What are you doing, Misa?”
Misa whirls around. “Oh! Light! I didn’t see you come in.”
“I’m quiet,” Light says. He dumps a bag of groceries by the fridge, unquietly. “I got food.”
“Oh, Light, you’re the best!”
Light neatly dodges Misa’s attempted glomp. He’s so cute, Misa thinks. “Thanks. Just start on dinner soon, okay?”
“Okay!” Misa stretches. She’s done with Tumblr user monochrome-wonders anyway. That should put them off for a good long time before they come mess with her again.
Ugh. If Misa could just tell that user that she literally played the character, everything would be so much easier. But Light wants her to practice “cybersecurity” or whatever, so Misa’ll have to refrain from playing her trump card for now.
Light peers over at her phone. “Is that… Tumblr?”
“I keep telling you to follow me, don’t I?”
“Sure,” Light says. “What’s a ‘vague’?”
Misa brightens. “Sit down,” she says, shooting him fingerguns. “I’m going to learn you a thing.”
The expression of utter despair that comes over Light’s face is, honestly, really satisfying.
Kiyomi is absolutely alone in life by her own design. Other people are, generally, weaknesses. Light is an exception because he’s — Light, and he’s Kira, but otherwise Kiyomi has a hundred acquaintances and zero friends.
She doesn’t regret this decision, exactly, but it does make explaining the situation to Light somewhat more difficult.
“I didn’t even know you liked movies,” he says, with that easy grin Kiyomi has begun to realize only appears when he is completely baffled.
“I don’t,” Kiyomi explains. “I just watched a few of the one Amane-san stars in.”
Light’s mouth forms a little O before he closes it again. “And… why?”
Kiyomi frowns. Is it not obvious? “Research,” she says. “For the NYE show.”
“I see,” Light says. “It’s cool that you put that much effort into each of the performers.”
Kiyomi would ordinarily be pleased by the compliment. But Light is mistaken. “No, it’s just for her.”
“…Oh.” Light stares at her briefly. “Do you… like them?”
“Absolutely not,” Kiyomi says.
Anonymous asked: It is frankly embarrassing that someone who claims to appreciate Samurai of Love as much as you do refuses to engage with even the surface themes of the work. You cannot claim to be a ‘fan’ if you don’t like being reminded of any of the actions the characters take
Anonymous asked: .
“Fucking Mono,” Misa mutters, and stabs her salad with slightly more vengeance than usual.
Light isn’t home today, again. Probably with Kiyomi. That does lift Misa’s spirits a little — she likes imagining ice-cold Kiyomi the way she probably acts around Light: her cheeks maybe slightly flushed with wine, leaning forward with puppy-dog adoration shining in her eyes, a few locks coming loose from her perfect hairstyle…
She doesn’t like imagining Light facing Kiyomi, though. Misa should be there instead. With Light. Obviously.
“Beh,” Misa says aloud to an empty apartment.
She can’t afford to get distracted, though! She looks back down at her phone and rereads the ask (asks) (seriously, who sends another ask just to add a period?).
This has to be Mono. (Tumblr user monochrome-dreams, who Misa has nicknamed in her head because she is not saying that entire pretentious username in her head every time, and also because Mono’s blog is entirely free of any personal information.) No one else is as dedicated to proving Misa wrong about Samurai of Love. It’s not even one of the more popular movies Misa’s acted in; she doesn’t know why Mono likes talking about it so much if they don’t fucking like the movie.
Misa types back you are just mad because uou are angry and hits Answer.
Would Light dox Mono for her? Probably he could, but he’s so busy these days… Oh well. Misa will just have to keep sending anonymous asks. It’s hard work, being a Tumblr keyboard warrior.
“What does ‘you are just mad because you are angry’ even mean?”
“I don’t know, Kiyomi,” Light says. “It sounds like a logical tautology to me.”
“Exactly!” Kiyomi slams the phone down. “She’s so… belligerent!”
“I could ask Misa for you,” Light offers.
“What?” Kiyomi’s scowl briefly disappears as she looks up. “Why would she know?”
“Just a hunch.”
“I see,” Kiyomi says, not seeing. She looks back down at her phone.
At the very least, Kuromisa has given her something else to work with.
Anonymous asked: besides im friends with the actress n SHE says the authorial intent was for them to be deeply in love so like youve been proven wrong by word of god already give it upppppp
Anonymous asked: also die
Well, Kiyomi’s going to have to introduce someone to the idea of Death of the Author. Would it be more devastating to write out an entire putdown or just link the Wikipedia article?
“Kiyomi?”
“Yes?”
Light holds out the memo pad, which reads We have to discuss our plan; T has some questions. “Are you alright? You look troubled.”
Kiyomi writes: What are they? “I’m fine,” she says aloud. “It’s just that sometimes the anonymous hate bothers me.”
“Because you’re Kira’s spokeswoman?” Light’s gaze softens. “That’s understandable.” He writes: Wants to know if he can use an email scheduler so you can write your names more regularly
Oh, it’s definitely Mikami. Not that Kiyomi hadn’t already suspected. Does one/hour work for him? she writes as she says, “Yes. I love the job, it’s just… difficult sometimes.”
She does. She really does love it. Almost as much as she loves arguing with Kuromisa.
“Have you thought more about what I was saying the other day?” Light asks. He scrawls a check mark on the memo pad.
“Y-yes,” Kiyomi says. Quitting the job. Sometimes it makes her almost laugh out loud, being asked that question by Kira himself, but she’s always been good at navigating two different conversational threads. “I think… I might be ready. Soon.”
“Soon,” Light agrees.
He pushes the memo pad back at her. Also can you stop looking at Tumblr while we’re on mic, Matsuda wants to make an account now
Compromise: I’ll only do it in the bedroom from now on
…Sure
Cinder has never had any issues with making pushing someone into a locker look real. The issue, though, is that Winter hasn’t.
She stumbles a little as Cinder’s hands fist in her shirt, stumbles again as she’s pushed backwards. Her shoulders meet the metal of her locker and she jolts, looking less like a bullied teen and more like she’s surprised Cinder looked her way. That won’t do.
“Come on, Schnee,” Cinder mutters under her breath, pressing into her, “you’re an actor, aren’t you?”
People in the corridor are starting to look their way. Winter clearly notices this; she stiffens under Cinder’s hands, making a show of shoving her away. The fact that Cinder’s hands are still wound into her shirt seems to catch her by surprise. “Hardly,” she snaps, muffled by the sound of Cinder’s own yelp as she rams into a notice board.
//
They sell it.
Cinder keeps kicking Winter’s leg under the table when she answers questions too stiffly. It’s not very subtle, but Ozpin is too Ozpin to notice. If Ironwood were here it would be harder; he seems to know Winter better, and he hates Cinder a whole lot more.
Eventually, he sighs and gives in, glaring at them over steepled fingers and the tops of his glasses. Cinder flashes Winter a smug grin that she mostly pouts at. “Well, I can’t think of any way to discipline the two of you that wouldn’t just be giving you what you want. So, Miss Fall, is there anything you’d like to say to help your case?”
She runs through the script in her head, searching for appropriately snide phrases. Winter gets there first.
“With all due respect, sir, she hasn’t been transparent about her motivation. She’s at least partially frustrated with me for being better at —”
Cinder kicks her under the table. I was getting to that. “You’re not, first of all, and that’s not it. It’s —”
Her head whips around so fast that it nearly comes off. She might be a shit actor, but she’s got a fairly intense glare. “Shut up.”
“Okay,” Ozpin says loudly, “alright, girls. Miss Fall, if you would?”
Cinder shrugs, settling back in her seat. “I want a rematch. Please and thank you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “At?”
“Fencing.”
The other eyebrow goes up. “If I recall, you won the last match.”
“She cheated,” Cinder snaps, which is technically true, if only because both of them were cheating.
“You cheated, which is why you won,” Winter says loudly. Her hands dig into the fabric of her seat, hard enough that Cinder swears she claws out parts of the stuffing. “Sir, I have to agree with her request for a rematch. If she won’t even be gracious about winning then —”
“You started it! My G-d, would it kill you to be normal for two seconds?”
“The national matches are scholarship-winning, Cinder, and you would know enough to care about that if you —”
//
They get the rematch.
The hilt of Neo’s umbrella slams into Winter’s face. She stumbles backwards, clawing for any kind of defense, breath quickening in her ears — and Neo is faster, because of course she is. She disarms Winter easily, pushes her onto her back, raises her weapon high over her head —
— and a column of fire slams her away.
Winter’s ears are ringing too loudly to catch much of what goes on, but she hears a voice snarl something that sounds a lot like mine and my rival. My enemy. You touch her and I’ll obliterate you.
But that can’t be right, because that voice belongs to Cinder, and Cinder couldn’t possibly —
A hand appears in her blurry field of vision, black and snarled and sharp. Winter can’t help herself from recoiling a little.
“Get up,” Cinder says. “I’m not going to fight you today. Get up.”
She shakes her head to clear it, struggling for breath. “Why?”
Cinder snorts, laughing. It’s not a cruel sound. Winter has always thought she has a pretty laugh. “You have a concussion. I said you were mine, and Neo didn’t listen. I’m not fighting you if you’re not mine.”
“That’s —” She blinks hard. Something presses into her hand, something cold and metal and solid — her sword. Cinder isn’t standing over her anymore, she’s crouched beside her, and there’s a strangled kind of familiarity in her eyes. “That’s. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing’s going on with me.” Her eyes flare bright. Winter, foolishly, childishly, shrinks back. “Consider it a debt repaid.”
“A debt,” Winter echoes. The word isn’t quite making sense. “For — what?”
Cinder smirks at her. There’s a memory there, unwinding. Winter tries to catch onto it, but it slips away before she can find a foothold.
“Atlas,” she says, and then she’s gone.
At some point recently, Winter has started looking at her with a little more than adoration in her eyes, and this is a problem.
Cinder braces her hands on her knees and inspects the street below, counting heartbeats inbetween steps. She can just about see Emerald’s head moving through the crowd, slow and unsteady — and Mercury behind her, doing a lot better at acting casual. She’s done her best to make sure they aren’t implicated in her next string of crimes. She might be heartless, but she doesn’t want the cops to notice accomplices.
This is what she’s doing when the air stills behind her.
Cinder stands up to her full height, propping her hands on her hips. Winter has never been the most subtle of superheroes. The temperature on the rooftop has already dropped noticeably; even if she wasn’t so dramatic, Cinder would have spotted her anyway.
“Good afternoon,” she says without turning. Taking her eyes off Em and Mercury wouldn’t be the end of the world, but she’d prefer not to leave them to their own devices. They always perform better when they know Cinder’s watching.
The point of Winter’s sword taps against the concrete. It would be immensely stupid of her if it wasn’t reinforced with g-d knows what. “Evening, technically.”
“Voice distorter again?”
“Fuck you.”
Cinder grins at the crowd below, at Emerald stopping and redirecting a family with a pair of twins away from the site. Mercury’s head tips up; he rolls his eyes at Cinder on the roof like the two of them are bonded in exasperation. She would have missed it if not for the scanners on the inside of her helmet. “That’s for later, babe. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Winter clears her throat. It sounds weird and clipped inside the voice distorter. There’s no point to it, really; Cinder already knows everything about her. “We intercepted your communications with your accomplices.” Ah, shit. “Foolishly, I thought I could come up here and talk you out of it.”
“Mm. Heroic. Would you mind turning the temperature up a little bit? It’s freezing up here.”
“It’s for my own benefit,” Winter says. Cinder turns to look at her, catches the implicit threat in every line of her body: her sword held low over the ground, her head angled up high behind the helmet. The sunlight catches the surface, revealing the sharp blue of her eyes. “I don’t like negotiating hostage deals in thirty degree heat.”
That rankles her pride a little bit. Cinder lets her weapon form in her hand, firing the same threat back. The bowstring rests against the inside of her forearm, hot and familiar, and she catches Winter’s eyes flicking to it as she tilts her head in acknowledgement. “What makes you think there are going to be hostages?”
Winter shrugs. “I know how you work.”
“No you don’t. I’m an enigma. I’m different.”
“Different,” she echoes. If not for the distorter, it could almost be fond. “Well, we’ll see, won’t we?”
The lip of the roof is only a few steps away. The monitors in her suit tell her she could make the fall if she’s quick about it. “We will see,” she says, defiant, “and we can have a nice long chat after you catch me.”
“Oh, after. Interesting.”
Cinder flashes her a grin. “That’s half the point, darling.” She steps backward and springs off the roof, and Winter’s panicked voice disappears into so much smoke and wind behind her.
Aerial’s communication systems are linked into Guel’s. Suletta spends the whole half an hour leading up to the fight listening anxiously, convinced he’ll have something weird and snarky to say over the radio. The man who helps her load Aerial into the docking bay clearly senses her anxiety and tells her that pre-duel game talk is highly uncommon, but that doesn’t really help her much.
She stares at the identification number on her student notepad so hard she doesn’t notice when the number changes. It only really clicks for her when the mechanism shudders to a stop and a voice clicks over the communicator — and Suletta tenses up —
“LS001, Miorine Rembran.”
Suletta jumps a mile. Miorine falters, clearly unsure of the mobile suit’s name, and she fills the space before she even knows what she’s doing. “Um. LP041, Suletta Mercury, Aerial.”
A third voice crackles over the comms, the same voice she remembers from Guel’s duel — Shaddiq, she thinks, the witness for the duel. He sounds amused, really, if not a little smug. “Miorine. How unorthodox.”
“Shut up, Shaddiq. I’m changing the conditions for the duel.”
Can you even do that? Suletta bites down hard on her lip to stop herself from asking stupid questions, watching Miorine’s face appear in the corner of her view. She looks drawn, angry, lip caught between her teeth.
“Very well, then.” He sounds even more smug, even more amused. It makes Suletta squirm in her seat, almost afraid to look up and find Miorine glaring out of her screen. “What are your conditions?”
Miorine squares her shoulders, draws herself up. “I’m fighting for my honour. If I win, I claim the Holder title.”
“And if you lose?”
“Use your brain.”
He laughs. “Right, right. Do these conditions sound fair to you, Suletta?”
Suletta jumps in her seat again. She wasn’t expecting to be addressed. “Um. Uh. Yes! Okay. What am I, um. What am I doing?”
Miorine sighs, tapping her forefinger on the controls of her mobile suit. “Losing to me. Are we getting on with it?”
Cinder likes to think of herself as generous. She’s certainly a hell of a lot better than most of the other werewolves in her territory; she gives Winter a countdown, a boundary, a way out before she starts to hunt her. Still, when she circles the whole perimeter of her land — chasing off Roman along the way, because he hasn’t got it in his head that she could kill him yet — she finds evidence of Winter’s presence everywhere. Her tracks burned into the forest floor, her scent clinging to branches and bushes. She isn’t even running.
So, when she catches up to Winter in the moonlight over a creek, she has to admit she’s disappointed.
“Come on,” she says, stepping out of the shadows, “I thought you were faster than that.”
Winter doesn’t turn. She’s facing away, bent to touch the water in the creek, hair turning silver in the moonlight. Almost ethereal, almost ghostlike. “I thought you were generous.”
Cinder sighs. “‘Generous’ doesn’t mean ‘lets you go’. I gave you a head start and you just started — what, wandering? What’s that about, huh? I thought you wanted to live.”
Her jaw sets. “I’m not your prey.”
“Oh,” she purrs, “you are, darling. You’ve only lived this long because I let you.”
Winter’s head turns over her shoulder, eyes sparking fiercely in the moonlight. She’s wearing an awful lot of white, and it really works for her, despite the general excess of mud in the woods. “I could kill you with one blow.”
Now, that’s cocky. Cinder takes a step closer; Winter, predictably, starts backwards. The heels of her boots dig into the water. Who wears heels in a forest? “You really have no idea, do you?” It’s meant to sound accusatory; it comes out a lot hotter than she wanted it to. Winter noticeably flushes, shoulders hiking up to her ears. “I let you run because I thought you had decent instincts. It turns out I was hilariously wrong.”
Her lips curl up. She gives Cinder an assessing look, like she’s the one with the power here. “And what makes you so confident that you could kill me?”
Cinder grins, flashing her fangs. “Oh, a few things.”
Continuity: TFA
Pairing: Red Alert/Minerva
WC: 553
Minerva was the first to get to Maccadam’s Old Oil House. She entered, waved to its namesake behind the bar, and quickly strode to the back and the small booth herself and Red Alert grabbed whenever the stars aligned so that the two of them were both in Iacon at the same time.
Otherwise, they sent messages regularly, with as much information given as they could between the needed censors. Minerva had learned about Rodimus Prime’s grievous encounter with Cosmic Rust through the datanet it had been so long since they had last had the chance to converse.
Minerva was greatly looking forward to today.
She didn’t have to wait long for Red Alert to arrive, the older femme also immediately heading for their favourite spot in the back, grabbing their usual drink orders along her way. She nodded a greeting and sat, throwing back half her drink the moment her aft touched the seat. “Have you-”
“Poor Rodimus is the talk of the town.”
Red Alert often sighed her displeasure, but one knew it was serious when she made no vocalizations at all. She stared into her drink a tick before speaking again. “Having Oil Slick’s own inventions turned against himself wouldn’t be good enough. I can’t believe something has gotten me wishing that Rodimus had only just shot himself in the aft again.”
Minerva sputtered over her own drink, a laugh shooting out of her tense body. The switch from horror to humour was common amongst medics, but it still caught her off guard so often. “Crisse, he did what now?”
Red Alert hummed around the lip of her cup. “He may be our team leader, but he also likes to compete with Hot Shot for being our team idiot. Hot Shot, by the way, pulled something in his aft racing lately.”
“See, ma cheri, you need to join me in switching back to working stationary here at the military hospital, and get back to totally normal injuries, like one of our new recruits who decided to try and change their optic colour, and used pieces from stage lighting to complete the job.”
“Please, do not let Rodimus hear about that one while he’s in recovery. Spare me that in the future.”
Minerva laughed again, finally remembering that her own drink existed, taking a drink before replying. “I’m sure he’d look dashing with yellow optics. I’ve heard that’s a trend in one of the colonies. But maybe I’ll tell him about how guards from Sentinel Prime’s little trip to Earth has brought back some new body mod ideas, like splitting one’s glossa.”
Red Alert set down her glass, her expression incredulous. “What is the point of that?”
“To look like an Earth creature. I’m sure Rodimus would try it too.”
Red Alert groaned. Minerva noticed though, that the ridiculous idea was calming the older medic. Truly, stupidity was a constant to fight against in their patients, and that was comforting in a way.
Her voice took a sing-song tone. “Your team is probably grounded for a bit anyways. Come back to the military hospitaaaal, the dumb recruits are waiting.”
Red Alert finished her drink, smiling again for the first time since Rodimus’ near brush with death. “I prefer to work on idiots I know. I’ll leave the extreme fun to you.”
Pairing: Red Alert/Minerva
WC: 553
Minerva was the first to get to Maccadam’s Old Oil House. She entered, waved to its namesake behind the bar, and quickly strode to the back and the small booth herself and Red Alert grabbed whenever the stars aligned so that the two of them were both in Iacon at the same time.
Otherwise, they sent messages regularly, with as much information given as they could between the needed censors. Minerva had learned about Rodimus Prime’s grievous encounter with Cosmic Rust through the datanet it had been so long since they had last had the chance to converse.
Minerva was greatly looking forward to today.
She didn’t have to wait long for Red Alert to arrive, the older femme also immediately heading for their favourite spot in the back, grabbing their usual drink orders along her way. She nodded a greeting and sat, throwing back half her drink the moment her aft touched the seat. “Have you-”
“Poor Rodimus is the talk of the town.”
Red Alert often sighed her displeasure, but one knew it was serious when she made no vocalizations at all. She stared into her drink a tick before speaking again. “Having Oil Slick’s own inventions turned against himself wouldn’t be good enough. I can’t believe something has gotten me wishing that Rodimus had only just shot himself in the aft again.”
Minerva sputtered over her own drink, a laugh shooting out of her tense body. The switch from horror to humour was common amongst medics, but it still caught her off guard so often. “Crisse, he did what now?”
Red Alert hummed around the lip of her cup. “He may be our team leader, but he also likes to compete with Hot Shot for being our team idiot. Hot Shot, by the way, pulled something in his aft racing lately.”
“See, ma cheri, you need to join me in switching back to working stationary here at the military hospital, and get back to totally normal injuries, like one of our new recruits who decided to try and change their optic colour, and used pieces from stage lighting to complete the job.”
“Please, do not let Rodimus hear about that one while he’s in recovery. Spare me that in the future.”
Minerva laughed again, finally remembering that her own drink existed, taking a drink before replying. “I’m sure he’d look dashing with yellow optics. I’ve heard that’s a trend in one of the colonies. But maybe I’ll tell him about how guards from Sentinel Prime’s little trip to Earth has brought back some new body mod ideas, like splitting one’s glossa.”
Red Alert set down her glass, her expression incredulous. “What is the point of that?”
“To look like an Earth creature. I’m sure Rodimus would try it too.”
Red Alert groaned. Minerva noticed though, that the ridiculous idea was calming the older medic. Truly, stupidity was a constant to fight against in their patients, and that was comforting in a way.
Her voice took a sing-song tone. “Your team is probably grounded for a bit anyways. Come back to the military hospitaaaal, the dumb recruits are waiting.”
Red Alert finished her drink, smiling again for the first time since Rodimus’ near brush with death. “I prefer to work on idiots I know. I’ll leave the extreme fun to you.”
Winter gasps for breath, tightening her fingers around Cinder’s wrists. She blinks dust out of her eyes — it doesn’t help — and searches for the curve of her shoulders in the half-light, the outline of her silhouette against the sun.
It should be easy. She’s right on top of her; her hands are digging into Winter’s throat, her breath is coming hot and fast next to her ear. If Winter could let go of her wrists, she’d find Cinder at the end of her fingertips, brushing up against her body. She blinks harder, trying to focus, and finds her vision blurring harder, her —
“Oh, shit,” Cinder’s voice says next to her ear, humming low and even, “I think you have a concussion, babe.”
“Not —” She gasps again; Cinder’s hands let up a little. “Not just a concussion. Are you invisible? It doesn’t — it doesn’t make sense. What are you doing?”
“Oh.” The hazy outline of a form flickers in front of her, taking shape underneath so much dust and smoke. “There you are. Better?”
Winter groans. “Much.”
Cinder winks at her. The effect is rather muted. “I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”
“Well, you did.” She lets go of her wrists, scrabbles for purchase on the wall instead. Her hand finds the hilt of her sword embedded between the bricks. Convenient. “Did it look good, at least?”
Cinder’s voice lowers to a purr. “Spectacular, darling.”
“Ugh. Well, that’s something.”
The outside world filters in slowly, then all at once. The sound of crowds moving around the building shifts and bursts into detail; sirens wailing, people shouting, Weiss ordering people out of the way as dust drips from the puncture mark the two of them left. Despite herself, Winter grins hazily up at Cinder; she’ll get a talking-to when all of this is over.
Cinder grins back. The world swims under her — she’s being lowered down the wall, sliding through brick after destroyed brick. “Feel like giving in yet?”
Winter coughs, shakes her head to clear it. The aura is already doing its work. “I’m nowhere near done. Would you like to concede?”
The hands around her throat vanish entirely. Her feet brush, then sink onto the floor. Winter settles back against the wall as Cinder steps away, sucking in deep breaths. “In your dreams, babe.”
A body bursts through the shadows, and this is how Cinder knows she’s fucked.
She’s nowhere near the most experienced at putting up wards, which tends to be her downfall, but she thought she’d have a little more time to get the job done. Cinder turns and the shadow and smoke turns with her, blotting out the light the intruder brought with them. She’s halfway through a shift; she must look horrifying, gnarled and tangled with her own smoke.
The intruder doesn’t falter. Annoying. Must be Winter, then, Cinder thinks, because she would know Winter anywhere, and because she’s also irritatingly persistent. She sidesteps a blow as it comes towards her, dodges the edge of a sword that cuts to her arm, sprays a burst of fire at a flash of white hair through the dark, and then she’s on the floor with Winter’s hands around her throat.
“Bit early for a duel, don’t you think?” she asks, turning her skin hot and sharp. It’s not what she was going for when she started trying to shift, but she might as well give it a shot.
Winter’s face appears through the dark, drawn with pain. She grimaces as Cinder’s skin increases in temperature, but doesn’t recoil. Right; the ice powers. “Not a duel,” she says coldly, “vengeance.”
Cinder kicks her hips up and thrashes sideways, forcing Winter to push her down to keep her pinned. “Vengeance for what? Ohh, are you mad I won last time?”
Cold pricks through under the palms of her hands. So, she’s playing dirty. And she’s trying to monologue about it, too. “You blew up a building. And then you just walked free like it was nothing. And you couldn’t even set up the proper wards, either; are you really that stupid, or are you just fucking with me?” Her hands tighten around Cinder’s throat, sending cold shocking down her spine; her eyes flare bright blue as she dumps aura into her fingers and pushes.
The only option is to shift, so this is what Cinder does. She hates shifting rapidly — it drains the energy out of her, forces her to push harder to finish a fight — but she might not have a choice, not with Winter’s hands around her throat. Tuning out the rest of her stupid monologue, she imagines and pulls and closes her eyes, and when Winter’s hands jerk away with a gasp she scrabbles for the door, dispelling the ward as she goes.
Smoke vanishes from the room immediately. Cinder kicks Winter’s head as she runs, dodging the spear of ice she sends shooting her way. It’s hardly a fair move, but warranted, really. Doesn’t matter, though, because the only important thing here is getting the fuck out. Winter could absolutely kill her if she really tried.
Winter has sent an attachment
Winter: So
cin: so?
Winter: So. This place looks pretty achievable. What do you think?
cin: hmmmm
pretty open
likely to be high security
it’d take a while to get in
i’d need to access a floor plan
Winter: So what you’re saying is, you give in?
cin: oooh don’t tell me you’re thinking of robbing the met
wow you’ve really taken a turn for the worse
couldn’t have a thing to do with me
Winter: Shut up. Are we on?
Or should I take the win for granted?
If you think you can’t do it, I’m happy to find another building for you.
Perhaps something easier, like a children’s playground.
I hear there’s an epidemic of children burying plastic coins.
cin: shut the hell up and get planning
what do i win if i get this one
Winter: A point.
cin: a kiss?????? :)))))
Winter: I will refrain from reporting you to the police for my own gain for a little while longer.
cin: mwah mwah love u too baby
Winter: And when the game is over I’ll help you destroy all evidence of your plans.
Like this.
cin: ooooo threatening
well bc i’m generous i’ll get you something pretty before i leave
Winter: Not red, it’ll be too obvious.
cin: ;)
Edited 2024-07-30 22:41 (UTC)
Pairing: Irulan x Chani from Dune
Irulan's first year on Arrakis is a lonely one. Having been bestowed such a great responsibility by her father, it falls on her shoulders to ensure that spice production, and by effect all interstellar travel, remains running as smoothly as possible, she throws herself into her work. Hardly any time remains for her writing, not when the consequences for any one mistake are so dire. It is a great burden, balancing the galaxy on her shoulders, but one she is privileged to carry. By the end of the year, production is more efficient than it has ever been. She is the cornerstone of the known universe. She feels like a shell of herself.
The princess reasons that she has exhausted herself with checks and balances. It is better to sharpen an axe than continue a task with a dull one, so she arranges for a vacation, or the closest thing one of her status can have. She departs the northern side of the planet with minimal guards, her book of writings in hand, to establish good relations with the Fremen.
It is far from a relaxing experience, but Irulan had not sought that impossible ideal. In the camps on the border between north and south she finds tangled knots of human conflict to pick at as she records them in her book. She discusses politics with their leaders, debates religion with their Holy Mother, and is even allowed to watch a worm-riding once. All of this, she is aware, is shown to her through the lens of a guest whose presence is more tolerated than honored. Another tangle in the knot for her to pick apart.
She is traveling on foot the first time they meet. Irulan had thought she was alone, having excused herself for a moment of privacy to clear her head. But as she moved across the desert sands, she felt a presence watching her.
"Your sand-walking is terrible," the woman watching her is about her age, and that is all they have in common. It is clear at a glance that she has been shaped by these lands, and she regards Irulan's offworld ways with disdain. "Too rhythmic."
"I'd thought it was passable," the words leave Irulan's mouth before she fully thinks through how ridiculous it is to tell that to a Fremen. She voices her regret, and the woman smirks.
"Try it like this," she moves closer, demonstrating her own sand-walking, and they spend a considerable period of time moving across the desert sands together.
The woman's name is Chani Hynes, and she is a thing of the desert. Irulan seeks out her company the next day.
"You're always arguing with people," says Chani.
"Debating," Irulan corrects her.
Chani rolls her eyes and asks "Why?"
"A well-kept mind is one that is always being put into practice," Irulan replies. "It's better to test out different methods of persuasion in calmer circumstances than be forced to experiment in an emergency."
"So are you hoping to convince someone or be convinced?"
"Neither. Just to gauge how people respond."
"You're not thinking of any of this as an exercise, are you?" asks Chani. "I don't think bantering with your hosts who'd love a bit more respect from your father will do much for you when everything starts to go downhill for the next emperor."
"You think House Corrino's luck will sour soon?"
Chani shrugs. "We were told for a long time that someone else would be sent to govern Arrakis. We've seen many come and go."
Irulan studies Chani's face. She's watching something else off in the distance, her eyes fixed on something in the desert scenery that Irulan cannot fathom.
"What would you do if you were in my place?" Irulan asks.
"Bold of you to assume I'd ever trade places with you," even Chani seems briefly taken aback by the brashness of her words. A beat passes, and Irulan breaks out into unexpected laughter.
"I'm not offended! I understand, the Fremen's place on Arrakis is different than anyone else's."
"Especially yours," Chani's gaze loses its edge, and a hint of a smile appears. "Still, I can't say it'd be too bad to have one of us govern our own planet, for once. Maybe just for a day, we should trade."
They continue their conversations every day, Irulan asking Chani for her opinion on the state of so many things the Fremen woman has never seen, telling her in exchange of so many things she can hardly fathom, such as oceans and rain. It is always Irulan who seeks out Chani, until the day when it is time for her to return to properly governing Arrakis. That day, when the ship lands on the sands and waits to pick up Irulan, she finds Chani waiting for her outside the door.
"I hope I'll see you again," Irulan tells her.
Chani smirks at her. "If you're still here."
Irulan's second year on Arrakis is not so lonely. She settles into more of a rhythm as the days pass, making time for her writings and her work. Despite the planet's desolate appearance, there is new material to write about constantly. Rumors creep in about the state of the wider galaxy. New feuds are brewing and old ones reawaken. Her father sends word to be prepared. Surveying her work over the endless waves of sand, Irulan finds that it all feels so distant.
She takes a fistful of sand one day and lets it run through her fingers. Then she takes it inside and fashions an hourglass from it, placing it at her desk as a reminder. No one outlasts the desert.
Arranging for a second visit to the Fremen is simplicity itself. This time, Irulan brings gifts. She listens to their leaders and their children, carefully considering their words when she asks them what they would change if they had the power. Of course, she had not been unaware of the discontent of many of the Fremen. But now Irulan feels as though she is sitting upon a tightly wound spring, a host of untapped energy that only needs the slightest help before it lashes out.
Chani and her go out for walks in the twilight hours, when the desert obliges them with a brief window between extreme temperatures. They bring each other snippets of their life up to this point, a lyric of a nursery rhyme, a hazy memory from an unpleasant family gathering, a description of an old childhood toy, and they sit on the sand dunes to watch the winds blow.
"What're you writing about?" one evening they're ostensibly watching the sun set, although Irulan is jotting down a few notes in her book and Chani is watching her.
"People," Irulan replies, not looking up. "Just my thoughts and observations."
"Right, never could've guessed that," this gets Irulan to look up. Chani's watched her write before, it simply isn't a subject they've broached before.
Irulan chews on the end of her writing utensil before responding, a habit she only indulges herself in when in privacy or around Chani. "My father claims tensions are rising between two houses- the Atreides and the Harkonnens. It has been some time since I met either one in person, so it's useful to reference my old notes."
"It sounds serious if your father's asking you for help," notes Chani.
"It might not be, he is rather fond of tests."
There must be something in her face that tells Chani that Irulan is uncertain, for she immediately changes the topic. "Have you got anything about Stilgar in there?"
"Stilgar, yes," as she flips through the pages of her writing, Irulan feels a bit of the tension leave her body, an almost unwilling reaction. "Here we go. A very persuasive, important figure. Also very circular."
"Circular?"
"Have you ever tried to convince him of anything? He only thinks in circles."
They both share a laugh at that.
"How about me?" Chani asks. "Have you written about me?"
"Yes, a few things," says Irulan. She flips through more pages, it doesn't take long to find thoughts on Chani. "Sharp-tongued. Opinionated. Insolent."
"It does not say that! Let me see."
"I'm afraid it does," Irulan smirks and keeps her writings out of Chani's reach. "It's a small wonder you haven't been left out as food for the worms by your people."
Chani pushes her on the shoulder playfully. "Sorry to not live up to your standards, majesty."
"Well, the imperial life certainly wouldn't suit you. But I think any ruler would do well to have you as an advisor."
"Hmm?"
Irulan's voice takes on a different tone. She lowers her gaze for three seconds, the perfect amount of time to shift the mood of the conversation without losing its flow, then looks back up to Chani. "You're honest, and you've got a keen eye for uncovering the true meaning behind grandiose speeches. Bribes would be ineffective on you. Disapproval would do little to hamper you. If you somehow landed yourself in the world of politics, well, you'd be a gem in the rough."
"You're laying the flattery on a bit thick, don't you think?"
"Maybe, but part of the joy of this game is seeing you react."
"For what it's worth, you'd make a terrible Fremen."
"And for what it's worth, I wasn't lying about how well you'd do in court."
This next moment- this is one that Irulan has been laying the groundwork for carefully- is key. She has prepared the perfect sequence of events in her mind that would catch Chani's attention, subtly let her know where Irulan's interests lie, even if it would be unthinkable to say so aloud, and thus move their game into a different sequence.
But then, of course, Chani does what Chani always does. She surprises Irulan.
Chani leans in and kisses Irulan on the lips.
Surprised, Irulan pulls back. She sees Chani frowning, tilting her head. The other woman says "I thought you were..."
"No, I- I am!" Irulan exclaims. Dammit, what happened to all that composure she had a moment ago? This woman makes her feel like a stray sliver of ice in this desert planet. Her eyes dart around, checking for any stray silhouettes on the horizon. There are none.
This time it is she who initiates the kiss. Chani's lips are rough, chapped by the heat and sun and wind. Irulan's are comparatively soft, but still toughened by the unforgiving Arrakis environment. She has known far gentler, more expertly delivered kisses in her time, stolen by princes and dukes in the shadows of her father's court. This is by far the best she's had.
Both of them are moving their bodies closer together, but now it's Chani who's pulling back. "What's wrong?"
"I am the emperor's daughter," Irulan can feel Chani's breath on her face. "Someday, my hand will be given to the future emperor, and I will bear his heirs. Are you certain you would have me?"
In response, Chani kisses her again, this one longer and more passionate than both that came before. "Yes."
Irulan leaves the Fremen again, but the nights before she does are warmer than any that came before. Her third year on Arrakis passes in a blur. She sets up more ambitious projects to increase spice production and works tirelessly to see them through. The planet finds itself in need of more workers soon, and so they are sent, and with them comes more news. The situation beyond Arrakis worsens. At the end of every day, Irulan pens a letter to her father outlining various trains of thought she has had on what might be done, no matter how late her work lasts. Then she writes another letter to Chani, writing out poems, telling old anecdotes from her life, and in the darkest hours of the night, writing around the outline of a confession. What is not there should speak for itself. After that, she places the letter in a safe box and goes to sleep in an empty bed.
By Irulan's fourth year on Arrakis, she simultaneously feels that not enough time has passed to celebrate a four-year anniversary, and that she has spent an eternity on this place. She has opened new positions in her operation for the Fremen, relying on their advice and soldiers in exchange for degrees of greater freedom. There are grander changes she is considering, designs for massive overhauls that would take resources she has at her disposal and time she may soon not. And one day, Chani arrives along with a Fremen security team.
"You've been busy," is what Chani tells her when they finally find a moment alone in Irulan's chambers.
"It seems I haven't been the only one," observes Irulan. "How many fights did you have to gain respect from the rest of the Fedaykin?"
"Enough," Chani peels her shirt off, revealing a number of new scars across her skin. "That's not the question you really want to ask, though, is it?"
Their conversation takes a very different form soon afterwards.
Irulan's fourth year on Arrakis is the best she's had. There are bumps in spice production, but her skill in her position is unquestionable. Chani visits quite often, and they spend hours together. She reads Irulan's letters lying on her bed, Irulan's arm draped over her, and they tell each other wild fantasies in the early hours of the morning. Swimming in a lake. Discovering the perfect solution to the House rivalries. Living together.
Irulan's fifth year on Arrakis is when it all falls apart. Despite everything, despite the Emperor's efforts and the Bene Gesserit's machinations and Irulan's advice, civil war besieges the empire. House Atreides and House Harkonnen have escalated their rivalry into battle, dragging everyone they know into their escalating conflict. The blood used to feed the machines of war could flood the pools where the Fremen keep their dead.
And then, in one fell swoop, it's all over. The Harkonnens bring House Atreides to its knees, killing Lady Jessica and Duke Leto in the Emperor's throne room, humiliating him. One of the Atreides daughters will marry na-Baron Feyd-Ruatha to produce the Kwisatz Haderach. And the Baron Harkonnen himself, he will have Irulan's hand in exchange for her father's life.
Chani and Irulan meet one last time, after the Baron's coup but before the wedding. In the dead of the night, Chani somehow reaches Irulan's room despite the armed guard, and she pulls her out of bed and into a tight embrace.
"Come on, there's no time," Chani starts to tug Irulan away.
"No." But Irulan stays where she is.
The look on Chani's face is incredulous. "What're you doing? More guards will arrive at any moment."
"And if we manage to escape? Then what? Do you think the Baron will allow my father to live? Do you think that he will let the Fremen go unpunished for the disappearance of his betrothed?"
"So what, you're just going to sit in the Harkonnen's lap, then? You'll just give up?" Chani accuses her with fire in her voice.
"I will be the closest person in all the empire to the new Emperor," Irulan tells her. She has to swallow before she can continue. "I'll- I'll lay the groundwork for his destruction. Everything I will do, every life I take and every deed I perform in the name of House Harkonnen, it will all be to one day topple them. And you must be the one to lead the Fremen when the day comes to bring them down, but you cannot do that if you are a prisoner here. Understand?"
Irulan thinks back to those days long ago, when Chani teased her over thinking that her debates would be any kind of a measure of success of how she would stand on her own. Now, she can only hope that Chani remembers the game they played with each other well enough to survive now that they find themselves at the center of the game of politics once again.
In the dark it's difficult to read Chani's face. How dearly Irulan wishes she could see it clearly, study its every detail one last time. But she can't, and time is running out, so she kisses Chani for the final time.
The Fremen warrior tastes strongly of spice. When they break off their kiss, she doesn't say anything to the princess. She simply spits on her face, then turns and escapes before the guards can arrive without looking back once.
Irulan has always known that Chani belonged to the desert. But in this moment, as she heads to her new life in a familiar place, she wishes she could belong to her.
Irulan's sixth year on Arrakis is a cold one.
Irulan's first year on Arrakis is a lonely one. Having been bestowed such a great responsibility by her father, it falls on her shoulders to ensure that spice production, and by effect all interstellar travel, remains running as smoothly as possible, she throws herself into her work. Hardly any time remains for her writing, not when the consequences for any one mistake are so dire. It is a great burden, balancing the galaxy on her shoulders, but one she is privileged to carry. By the end of the year, production is more efficient than it has ever been. She is the cornerstone of the known universe. She feels like a shell of herself.
The princess reasons that she has exhausted herself with checks and balances. It is better to sharpen an axe than continue a task with a dull one, so she arranges for a vacation, or the closest thing one of her status can have. She departs the northern side of the planet with minimal guards, her book of writings in hand, to establish good relations with the Fremen.
It is far from a relaxing experience, but Irulan had not sought that impossible ideal. In the camps on the border between north and south she finds tangled knots of human conflict to pick at as she records them in her book. She discusses politics with their leaders, debates religion with their Holy Mother, and is even allowed to watch a worm-riding once. All of this, she is aware, is shown to her through the lens of a guest whose presence is more tolerated than honored. Another tangle in the knot for her to pick apart.
She is traveling on foot the first time they meet. Irulan had thought she was alone, having excused herself for a moment of privacy to clear her head. But as she moved across the desert sands, she felt a presence watching her.
"Your sand-walking is terrible," the woman watching her is about her age, and that is all they have in common. It is clear at a glance that she has been shaped by these lands, and she regards Irulan's offworld ways with disdain. "Too rhythmic."
"I'd thought it was passable," the words leave Irulan's mouth before she fully thinks through how ridiculous it is to tell that to a Fremen. She voices her regret, and the woman smirks.
"Try it like this," she moves closer, demonstrating her own sand-walking, and they spend a considerable period of time moving across the desert sands together.
The woman's name is Chani Hynes, and she is a thing of the desert. Irulan seeks out her company the next day.
"You're always arguing with people," says Chani.
"Debating," Irulan corrects her.
Chani rolls her eyes and asks "Why?"
"A well-kept mind is one that is always being put into practice," Irulan replies. "It's better to test out different methods of persuasion in calmer circumstances than be forced to experiment in an emergency."
"So are you hoping to convince someone or be convinced?"
"Neither. Just to gauge how people respond."
"You're not thinking of any of this as an exercise, are you?" asks Chani. "I don't think bantering with your hosts who'd love a bit more respect from your father will do much for you when everything starts to go downhill for the next emperor."
"You think House Corrino's luck will sour soon?"
Chani shrugs. "We were told for a long time that someone else would be sent to govern Arrakis. We've seen many come and go."
Irulan studies Chani's face. She's watching something else off in the distance, her eyes fixed on something in the desert scenery that Irulan cannot fathom.
"What would you do if you were in my place?" Irulan asks.
"Bold of you to assume I'd ever trade places with you," even Chani seems briefly taken aback by the brashness of her words. A beat passes, and Irulan breaks out into unexpected laughter.
"I'm not offended! I understand, the Fremen's place on Arrakis is different than anyone else's."
"Especially yours," Chani's gaze loses its edge, and a hint of a smile appears. "Still, I can't say it'd be too bad to have one of us govern our own planet, for once. Maybe just for a day, we should trade."
They continue their conversations every day, Irulan asking Chani for her opinion on the state of so many things the Fremen woman has never seen, telling her in exchange of so many things she can hardly fathom, such as oceans and rain. It is always Irulan who seeks out Chani, until the day when it is time for her to return to properly governing Arrakis. That day, when the ship lands on the sands and waits to pick up Irulan, she finds Chani waiting for her outside the door.
"I hope I'll see you again," Irulan tells her.
Chani smirks at her. "If you're still here."
Irulan's second year on Arrakis is not so lonely. She settles into more of a rhythm as the days pass, making time for her writings and her work. Despite the planet's desolate appearance, there is new material to write about constantly. Rumors creep in about the state of the wider galaxy. New feuds are brewing and old ones reawaken. Her father sends word to be prepared. Surveying her work over the endless waves of sand, Irulan finds that it all feels so distant.
She takes a fistful of sand one day and lets it run through her fingers. Then she takes it inside and fashions an hourglass from it, placing it at her desk as a reminder. No one outlasts the desert.
Arranging for a second visit to the Fremen is simplicity itself. This time, Irulan brings gifts. She listens to their leaders and their children, carefully considering their words when she asks them what they would change if they had the power. Of course, she had not been unaware of the discontent of many of the Fremen. But now Irulan feels as though she is sitting upon a tightly wound spring, a host of untapped energy that only needs the slightest help before it lashes out.
Chani and her go out for walks in the twilight hours, when the desert obliges them with a brief window between extreme temperatures. They bring each other snippets of their life up to this point, a lyric of a nursery rhyme, a hazy memory from an unpleasant family gathering, a description of an old childhood toy, and they sit on the sand dunes to watch the winds blow.
"What're you writing about?" one evening they're ostensibly watching the sun set, although Irulan is jotting down a few notes in her book and Chani is watching her.
"People," Irulan replies, not looking up. "Just my thoughts and observations."
"Right, never could've guessed that," this gets Irulan to look up. Chani's watched her write before, it simply isn't a subject they've broached before.
Irulan chews on the end of her writing utensil before responding, a habit she only indulges herself in when in privacy or around Chani. "My father claims tensions are rising between two houses- the Atreides and the Harkonnens. It has been some time since I met either one in person, so it's useful to reference my old notes."
"It sounds serious if your father's asking you for help," notes Chani.
"It might not be, he is rather fond of tests."
There must be something in her face that tells Chani that Irulan is uncertain, for she immediately changes the topic. "Have you got anything about Stilgar in there?"
"Stilgar, yes," as she flips through the pages of her writing, Irulan feels a bit of the tension leave her body, an almost unwilling reaction. "Here we go. A very persuasive, important figure. Also very circular."
"Circular?"
"Have you ever tried to convince him of anything? He only thinks in circles."
They both share a laugh at that.
"How about me?" Chani asks. "Have you written about me?"
"Yes, a few things," says Irulan. She flips through more pages, it doesn't take long to find thoughts on Chani. "Sharp-tongued. Opinionated. Insolent."
"It does not say that! Let me see."
"I'm afraid it does," Irulan smirks and keeps her writings out of Chani's reach. "It's a small wonder you haven't been left out as food for the worms by your people."
Chani pushes her on the shoulder playfully. "Sorry to not live up to your standards, majesty."
"Well, the imperial life certainly wouldn't suit you. But I think any ruler would do well to have you as an advisor."
"Hmm?"
Irulan's voice takes on a different tone. She lowers her gaze for three seconds, the perfect amount of time to shift the mood of the conversation without losing its flow, then looks back up to Chani. "You're honest, and you've got a keen eye for uncovering the true meaning behind grandiose speeches. Bribes would be ineffective on you. Disapproval would do little to hamper you. If you somehow landed yourself in the world of politics, well, you'd be a gem in the rough."
"You're laying the flattery on a bit thick, don't you think?"
"Maybe, but part of the joy of this game is seeing you react."
"For what it's worth, you'd make a terrible Fremen."
"And for what it's worth, I wasn't lying about how well you'd do in court."
This next moment- this is one that Irulan has been laying the groundwork for carefully- is key. She has prepared the perfect sequence of events in her mind that would catch Chani's attention, subtly let her know where Irulan's interests lie, even if it would be unthinkable to say so aloud, and thus move their game into a different sequence.
But then, of course, Chani does what Chani always does. She surprises Irulan.
Chani leans in and kisses Irulan on the lips.
Surprised, Irulan pulls back. She sees Chani frowning, tilting her head. The other woman says "I thought you were..."
"No, I- I am!" Irulan exclaims. Dammit, what happened to all that composure she had a moment ago? This woman makes her feel like a stray sliver of ice in this desert planet. Her eyes dart around, checking for any stray silhouettes on the horizon. There are none.
This time it is she who initiates the kiss. Chani's lips are rough, chapped by the heat and sun and wind. Irulan's are comparatively soft, but still toughened by the unforgiving Arrakis environment. She has known far gentler, more expertly delivered kisses in her time, stolen by princes and dukes in the shadows of her father's court. This is by far the best she's had.
Both of them are moving their bodies closer together, but now it's Chani who's pulling back. "What's wrong?"
"I am the emperor's daughter," Irulan can feel Chani's breath on her face. "Someday, my hand will be given to the future emperor, and I will bear his heirs. Are you certain you would have me?"
In response, Chani kisses her again, this one longer and more passionate than both that came before. "Yes."
Irulan leaves the Fremen again, but the nights before she does are warmer than any that came before. Her third year on Arrakis passes in a blur. She sets up more ambitious projects to increase spice production and works tirelessly to see them through. The planet finds itself in need of more workers soon, and so they are sent, and with them comes more news. The situation beyond Arrakis worsens. At the end of every day, Irulan pens a letter to her father outlining various trains of thought she has had on what might be done, no matter how late her work lasts. Then she writes another letter to Chani, writing out poems, telling old anecdotes from her life, and in the darkest hours of the night, writing around the outline of a confession. What is not there should speak for itself. After that, she places the letter in a safe box and goes to sleep in an empty bed.
By Irulan's fourth year on Arrakis, she simultaneously feels that not enough time has passed to celebrate a four-year anniversary, and that she has spent an eternity on this place. She has opened new positions in her operation for the Fremen, relying on their advice and soldiers in exchange for degrees of greater freedom. There are grander changes she is considering, designs for massive overhauls that would take resources she has at her disposal and time she may soon not. And one day, Chani arrives along with a Fremen security team.
"You've been busy," is what Chani tells her when they finally find a moment alone in Irulan's chambers.
"It seems I haven't been the only one," observes Irulan. "How many fights did you have to gain respect from the rest of the Fedaykin?"
"Enough," Chani peels her shirt off, revealing a number of new scars across her skin. "That's not the question you really want to ask, though, is it?"
Their conversation takes a very different form soon afterwards.
Irulan's fourth year on Arrakis is the best she's had. There are bumps in spice production, but her skill in her position is unquestionable. Chani visits quite often, and they spend hours together. She reads Irulan's letters lying on her bed, Irulan's arm draped over her, and they tell each other wild fantasies in the early hours of the morning. Swimming in a lake. Discovering the perfect solution to the House rivalries. Living together.
Irulan's fifth year on Arrakis is when it all falls apart. Despite everything, despite the Emperor's efforts and the Bene Gesserit's machinations and Irulan's advice, civil war besieges the empire. House Atreides and House Harkonnen have escalated their rivalry into battle, dragging everyone they know into their escalating conflict. The blood used to feed the machines of war could flood the pools where the Fremen keep their dead.
And then, in one fell swoop, it's all over. The Harkonnens bring House Atreides to its knees, killing Lady Jessica and Duke Leto in the Emperor's throne room, humiliating him. One of the Atreides daughters will marry na-Baron Feyd-Ruatha to produce the Kwisatz Haderach. And the Baron Harkonnen himself, he will have Irulan's hand in exchange for her father's life.
Chani and Irulan meet one last time, after the Baron's coup but before the wedding. In the dead of the night, Chani somehow reaches Irulan's room despite the armed guard, and she pulls her out of bed and into a tight embrace.
"Come on, there's no time," Chani starts to tug Irulan away.
"No." But Irulan stays where she is.
The look on Chani's face is incredulous. "What're you doing? More guards will arrive at any moment."
"And if we manage to escape? Then what? Do you think the Baron will allow my father to live? Do you think that he will let the Fremen go unpunished for the disappearance of his betrothed?"
"So what, you're just going to sit in the Harkonnen's lap, then? You'll just give up?" Chani accuses her with fire in her voice.
"I will be the closest person in all the empire to the new Emperor," Irulan tells her. She has to swallow before she can continue. "I'll- I'll lay the groundwork for his destruction. Everything I will do, every life I take and every deed I perform in the name of House Harkonnen, it will all be to one day topple them. And you must be the one to lead the Fremen when the day comes to bring them down, but you cannot do that if you are a prisoner here. Understand?"
Irulan thinks back to those days long ago, when Chani teased her over thinking that her debates would be any kind of a measure of success of how she would stand on her own. Now, she can only hope that Chani remembers the game they played with each other well enough to survive now that they find themselves at the center of the game of politics once again.
In the dark it's difficult to read Chani's face. How dearly Irulan wishes she could see it clearly, study its every detail one last time. But she can't, and time is running out, so she kisses Chani for the final time.
The Fremen warrior tastes strongly of spice. When they break off their kiss, she doesn't say anything to the princess. She simply spits on her face, then turns and escapes before the guards can arrive without looking back once.
Irulan has always known that Chani belonged to the desert. But in this moment, as she heads to her new life in a familiar place, she wishes she could belong to her.
Irulan's sixth year on Arrakis is a cold one.
Ship: Satori Komeiji/Mizuchi Miyadeguchi
Word Count: 13,298
Link to the fic is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57789406
Word Count: 13,298
Link to the fic is here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57789406
Words: 412
Fandom: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Ship: Adora/Catra
The bell rings when Adora enters the diner. Even from behind, she recognizes the trio at the counter immediately. If she hadn't, she would have recognized Entrapta's voice anyway.
"-objectively doing better," Entrapta says, as Catra turns around. "So-"
"Later." Catra smirks, or tries to. Adora knows her too well to miss the tension in her shoulders. "I have to take out some trash."
Adora's laugh is more surprise than anything. "You can't get the diner in the breakup when my grandmother owns the place. Not happening."
There's the smirk. "Razz likes me better than you and you know it."
Razz loved when Adora brought Catra in. She had strawberry pie in the middle of winter, because it was Catra's favorite. Adora helped her make it, because Catra was her favorite.
The bell chimes again, and Huntara puts her hand on Adora's arm. "I'm ready to be wowed," Huntara tells Adora, standing close enough to make things clear, and Adora can't find the satisfaction she thought she'd feel when she watches Catra fight to keep her expression even. The clouds in her eyes deepen when Adora brings Huntara to their booth, but there's still a hollow soreness where Adora expected victory to be.
Bow had said a week was too soon to try to date again, after breaking up with her best friend of over a decade. Glimmer had taken a picture of her after the gym and said the best revenge was finding someone hotter. Or a life well lived. Something. Their song had come on the radio, and Adora stopped paying attention.
Huntara talks, and Adora rolls out all of her dubious charms. All she can think about is how Catra would roll her eyes, smile fond, and say at least you're cute. Thirty minutes later, when Catra leaves the booth to make out with a very muscled blonde right in front of the diner's glass window, Adora asks Huntara if she wants to get out of here. If she chooses her line of sight carefully, and talks loudly about the rhubarb crumble, she can almost pretend Catra isn't there.
Adora gets halfway to Huntara's place before her stomach decides for her. She leaves Huntara in front of her building with a hail of apologies and a promise to call, lie bitter over the sugar on her lips. When Adora gets to her apartment, she walks past the unwashed dishes and unopened mail to collapse on the bed that still has long brown strands tangled in the sheets.
Fandom: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Ship: Adora/Catra
The bell rings when Adora enters the diner. Even from behind, she recognizes the trio at the counter immediately. If she hadn't, she would have recognized Entrapta's voice anyway.
"-objectively doing better," Entrapta says, as Catra turns around. "So-"
"Later." Catra smirks, or tries to. Adora knows her too well to miss the tension in her shoulders. "I have to take out some trash."
Adora's laugh is more surprise than anything. "You can't get the diner in the breakup when my grandmother owns the place. Not happening."
There's the smirk. "Razz likes me better than you and you know it."
Razz loved when Adora brought Catra in. She had strawberry pie in the middle of winter, because it was Catra's favorite. Adora helped her make it, because Catra was her favorite.
The bell chimes again, and Huntara puts her hand on Adora's arm. "I'm ready to be wowed," Huntara tells Adora, standing close enough to make things clear, and Adora can't find the satisfaction she thought she'd feel when she watches Catra fight to keep her expression even. The clouds in her eyes deepen when Adora brings Huntara to their booth, but there's still a hollow soreness where Adora expected victory to be.
Bow had said a week was too soon to try to date again, after breaking up with her best friend of over a decade. Glimmer had taken a picture of her after the gym and said the best revenge was finding someone hotter. Or a life well lived. Something. Their song had come on the radio, and Adora stopped paying attention.
Huntara talks, and Adora rolls out all of her dubious charms. All she can think about is how Catra would roll her eyes, smile fond, and say at least you're cute. Thirty minutes later, when Catra leaves the booth to make out with a very muscled blonde right in front of the diner's glass window, Adora asks Huntara if she wants to get out of here. If she chooses her line of sight carefully, and talks loudly about the rhubarb crumble, she can almost pretend Catra isn't there.
Adora gets halfway to Huntara's place before her stomach decides for her. She leaves Huntara in front of her building with a hail of apologies and a promise to call, lie bitter over the sugar on her lips. When Adora gets to her apartment, she walks past the unwashed dishes and unopened mail to collapse on the bed that still has long brown strands tangled in the sheets.
Edited 2024-07-31 16:31 (UTC)
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