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gaiuswrites · 3 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Page of Swords

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.

Word count: 4.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses

Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)

A shot rings out.

Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.

It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.

“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”

“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.

The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.

You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.

You think he’s doing it on purpose.

Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…

It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.

Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.

“I wanna give it a go,” you said.

He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.

How hard could it be? You thought.

Famous last words.

He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.

You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…

You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.

You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.

“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.

“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.

“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”

The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.

“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.

Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.

With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.

Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.

He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.

The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.

Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.

He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.

“Lucky shot,” you huff.

He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.

You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.

Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.

Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—

“Safety’s on.”

You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—

“It’s your stance.”

Three words.

Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.

You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.

“What about my st-”

Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.

“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.

“It’s not wide enough.”

You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around,” he says.

You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”

Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.

You guess it’s the day for it.

He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.

You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.

“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.

“Too much. Somewhere in between.”

You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.

“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”

Kriff, you panic.

You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.

“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don’t want to take up your time,” you begin.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“You’re not.”

You blink.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.

“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.

“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”

You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.

“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”

Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”

“Dominant eye.”

You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.

“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”

Oh, huh.

You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.

Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.

He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.

“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it,” you respond.

“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”

You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”

“You sure?”

You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.

You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”

“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”

“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.

“You said it, not me.”

He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.

“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”

“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.

“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.

After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.

Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.

The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.

You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.

He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.

Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.

“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.

You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.

“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”

You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.

“Should be easier.”

“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.

Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.

“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”

Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.

It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—

“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.

“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.

“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.

“‘Atta girl.”

No.

No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.

Atta girl.

He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.

You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.

You can do this. You can do this. Focus.

“Take the shot,” he orders.

Focus.

Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.

You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.

Devastated, too. Gutted.

“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.

He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.

“Not bad.”

He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.

He prays you do.

///

“Cooling vents,”

Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.

“Gas refill valve,”

Another clunk.

“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”

“Module,” Din corrects.

“Module, right, that’s what I said.”

He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.

“Keep it,” he told you.

You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.

“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.

He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.

Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.

“Keep it.”

They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.

You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.

He can’t say no to you.

You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.

But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.

You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.

Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.

You want to know.

It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.

You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.

Am I loving enough Am I giving enough Have I paid my debts Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back

So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.

He answers. You laugh. He smiles.

The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker - and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.

You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.

209 notes · View notes

joezworld · 3 years

Note

📁

Specifically, any headcanons of the Sodor Engines interacting with the internet, or the internet in general?

For some reason, I’d imagine that podcasts and the like are popular among vehicles in general.

That is a question that I've been working on for some time - because I'm workshopping my own Tornado headcanon (and boy oh boy does she use the internet a lot) - but I have some ideas for the Sodor engines as well:

Henry is probably the most "plugged in" engine on the island, weirdly enough. One of his drivers gave him an iPod back in the early 2000s, and kindly preloaded it with a bunch of torrented music.

BTW, that works because all the engines are now equipped with automatic train warning systems, and the little on-board computer has a USB port - as a nice side effect it allows music players to work with the engines in the same way as bone-conducting headphones do. The computer also acts as some kind of computer interface, which I am not going to explain how that works because Jesus Christ I don’t know how it does either.

Henry has managed to upgrade his iPod a few times since thanks to hand-me-down units from NWR staff, so he eventually got his buffers on a wifi-enabled iPod Touch and now downloads new music from the station wifi. He does listen to podcasts, but as every other engine will tell you, you could show Henry ten thousand new and exciting songs from the best artists in the world, and his top ten played songs are still going to be Genesis, Phil Collins, and Yes. Bear considers it a win that he managed to convince Henry to regularly listen to Rush after a mere twenty years of convincing.

Mavis and Daisy listen to a very interesting program called The News, because as stated elsewhere, they invest a shitload of money and need to be on top of things. Thomas and Percy wish that Daisy would use headphones or something similar to that, instead of listening to Bloomberg TV at loud volumes in the middle of the night. Toby frankly doesn’t mind, as it’s very nice to be kept up-to-date on the outside world.

In a move that surprises no-one, Bill and Ben have a podcast where they talk about whatever they think about at that moment - usually horse-racing, investing, and clay mining. As such, they have a wide audience, almost none of whom know that they’re that Bill and Ben, as their podcast is audio-only.

In an also unsurprising move, Edward and BoCo have been made very much aware that Bill and Ben have a podcast, but are still unsure as to what the hell a podcast is, despite being frequent guests on it.

Of the main line diesels, only Bear has shown any real interest in the internet, and was immediately put in charge of the Amazon Alexa when a unit was installed in the diesel shed. He also has an iPod that he got for Christmas a few years back. (The NWR has a very good personal electronics recycling program called give it to Henry, he’ll make use it.)

Bear does listen to podcasts as well as music, but his choices are so insufferably boring that even Henry refuses to listen to them. (I don’t really listen to podcasts - despite making one - so insert the most boring podcast you can think of here.)

As for other internet uses...

Gordon is very up-to-date on the newest social media trends - somehow - but only really cares when he is involved. He won’t admit it, but he’s been trying to figure out how to work a camera/selfie stick for some time so he can start up his own Instagram account. So far he has been unsuccessful, but one day he will manage it.

James has had an ongoing feud with his own Wikipedia page for about a decade now. The article sourced most of its information about his construction off of some out-of-print book about the L&Y. The book in question is accurate about James’ class, but not James himself - as he was a prototype engine. There’s no other primary sources available, so the very dedicated Wikipedia mod who created the page won’t change it - no matter how much James complains that he was there! He knows what happened!

Every now and again a TTTE fan blog/tumblr will make a post about hypothetical “ships” of the Sodor engines. Most of the time it’s shipping the core characters like Gordon and Henry, much to Gordon’s bafflement and Henry’s amusement!

Only one blog (a ttte fan tumblr by the curious name of @mean-scarlet-deceiver ) has gotten it right. Henry actually reached out to congratulate this blogger, but was unfortunately mistaken for a very dedicated roleplay account.

James is very annoyed by these blogs, as they have never once correctly guessed who he is “shipped” with! He has tried several times to be seen in public with Delta, but these events have never gone as planned - the “best” instance is when Edward rolled by at exactly the wrong moment, leading to months of speculation that JamesxEdward was the ship to look out for!

Thomas, being a generally oblivious sort of engine, was totally unaware of the online fan community around the TV show until he started getting actively harassed by vloggers and Instagrammers in the early 2010s. He’s fine with it now, but it was a deeply unusual experience for most of 2012.

Toby has developed an unexpectedly popular following on social media following his collab with Stormzy. His official twitter is huge now, with over a million followers, even if he has no idea what to do with it. He posts rarely, but usually manages to make an incredible post when he does.

No-one is sure who told Oliver what a “fan-production” is, but if you manage to get ahold of him for any period of time and ask him nicely, he will lend his voice to your TTTE fan-project, so long as it isn’t about [INSERT TERRIBLE SOCIAL/POLITICAL VIEW(S) HERE]. This means that he has 100% voiced dramatic readings of NSFW Fanfics before, which is always an absolute riot to spring on people unannounced.

There is a series of slice-of-life TTTE fanfics on Ao3 that have been written with such accuracy and innate railway knowledge that people are sure it was written by a Sodor engine, but nobody knows which one.

The Culdee Fell Railway has very active Instagram, Twitter and YouTube accounts, with all of the engines and coaches showing up regularly. It’s about the closest any of the railways on Sodor have come to what those outside the UK would call “normal locomotive social media”.

The Skarloey Railway has social media accounts too, but they don’t really feature the engines in any meaningful way, instead being used as a normal service announcements page.

The SR is a real working railway that doesn’t rely on tourism money as much as the others do, so they get a bit of a pass here.

The Arlesdale Railway has Twitter and YouTube, which didn’t usually get a lot of hits until 2020, when Ivan and Amanda Farrier started badgering the staff to make some videos just to alleviate some boredom. So far the most popular videos on the channel are a front-mounted camera video of the entire line slow-tv style, Bert explaining how steam engines work, and a video of Mike complaining about Justin Bieber for a solid half-hour.

That’s about it as far as Sodor goes, but before we’re done, I want to take a moment to talk about Tornado, because I have some fun ideas for her...

First of all, we need to establish that Tornado is very young. Her construction only started in late 90′s, and she was steamed to life in 2000, putting her firmly into the “Zoomer” category. Add in the fact that she was built by a bunch of old men who didn’t really know how to treat a new engine, and she was raised much more like a human than a locomotive - I’ll get to this much more in the proper Tornado Headcanon post, but what this means here is that when social media started being a thing in the mid-to-late 2000′s, the people at the A1 Trust decided that they needed a young person to run things like Twitter, Facebook, and Myspace... and, well, Tornado was the youngest person in the trust by a large margin.

I should state here that in the rest of the world, locomotives are on the internet at roughly the same level as humans are, so there’s plenty of equipment to connect a phone/computer/camera to an engine - being English, the A1 Trust didn’t know how common it was, but they managed to get it up and running just the same.

So Tornado has very quickly become attuned to the internet, just like any other teenager would. (yes, let’s let that settle into our minds for a moment - Tornado is barely old enough to drink in the US!) Quite naturally that means that she knows social media inside and out, and is actually quite a proficient social media manager for the trust, managing all of their social pages. More than one person who has complained about the trust on twitter has unknowingly been complaining to Tornado herself!

“On the internet, nobody knows that you’re a dog Engine”.

Tornado has her own personal social media accounts too, but most/all of the time she gets mistaken for a very dedicated role-player, as the general perception of British Locomotives is that they don’t tweet. This has resulted in some amazing reactions from podcast hosts (because, as you might expect, Tornado is very knowledgeable about steam traction in the 21st century, and tweets about it often, so train podcasts want to talk to her) when she gets invited onto video calls, turns on her webcam, and is met with screams from people who suddenly realize that her profile picture is accurate.

By far the best instance of this is when she was invited onto a video call with a railfan podcast. She was at the NRM at the time and managed to convince them to let her use their Skype setup. A wide-angle lens was needed because she was on the turntable in the Great Hall, so that podcast quickly got sidetracked when her webcam was turned on and revealed Tornado, with Mallard, Evening Star, City of Truro, and Green Arrow visible behind her. Whatever the original topic was quickly got thrown out in favor of a 2-hour Q&A with some of the most famous engines in the UK.

#ask response #the internet #ttte thomas #ttte toby #ttte bill and ben #ttte gordon #ttte daisy #ttte mavis #ttte henry #ttte bear #ttte oliver #tornado #nrm #trains using the internet #ttte #sodor #sodor shenangians #the formatting on this one is super fucked up and i can't figure out how to fix it - sorry

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milkshakecaptain · 3 years

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There are certain interesting similarities I found between IchiRuki and Yhwach x Haschwalth relationships. Firstly, IchiRuki is known as a destined couple, they were bound by fate since their first meeting. Kubo literally named the first and last chapters Death and Strawberry. Bleach started because of their destined meeting, without it there would have been no series. Yhwach also implied that he had been looking for Haschwalth for a long time and their meeting was destined to happen. They have a very strong fated lovers connection like IchiRuki.

The more Ichigo and Rukia interacted, the more symbolism and basis for their ship we got. Kubo further confirmed their bond with symbolic poems about the Black Sun and the White Moon. Ichigo was called ‘the sun who locks heaven’ and Rukia ‘the moon that erases the night.’ Haschwalth also can be called a moon to Yhwach’s sun in a way he always accompanies Yhwach and never leaves his side. Yhwach wields the Almighty at day and Haschwalth at night, just like the sun and the moon.

Then we got the famous poem stating that ‘The rain drags Black Sun down but the rain dried by White Moon.’ It can only be interpreted as Rukia stopping the rain over Ichigo’s soul. Rukia was the only person who could help Ichigo to get out of his depression when his inner Hollow started to take over. Yhwach also helped Haschwalth by granting him powers and basically saved him in the past. It can be said that Yhwach stopped the rain over Haschwalth’s soul too. Both Yhwach and Rukia were saviors for their respective significant others. And in return Haschwalth and Ichigo wanted to protect their partners with all their might and became their protectors.

There is more symbolism to those poems. Black and white colors symbolize Yin/Yang dynamics and Kubo is of course aware of it. It means IchiRuki are two halves of one whole who complete each other and can’t exist without each other. The Yin/Yang symbolism is very strong between Yhwach and Haschwalth too. Yhwach literally called Haschwalth his other half, Haschwalth’s power completed his own and he even received Yhwach’s Almighty schrift at night. Again, it’s not only about powers. Haschwalth is the only person in Wandenreich whom Yhwach trusted so much to give his own powers. This shows that their bond is extremely strong if Yhwach allowed that.

Ichigo and Rukia share a spiritual bond which was obvious since the moment Rukia awakened his powers with her own reiatsu, and saved his life by doing it. It is important to mention that when Rukia pierced Ichigo with her zanpakuto she basically gave him a part of her soul, not just reiatsu, because zanpakuto is manifestation of Shinigami’s soul. And by doing it she grated him the power to fulfill his wish to protect his family. This level of bonding can’t be surpassed. And that’s when the most obvious similarity to Yhwach and Haschwalth relationship comes to mind. Yhwach also granted Haschwalth his power by giving a part of his soul and schrift B. It’s known that when he does so he also fulfills a wish for Quincy, by giving his soul something it lacked. Very strong coincidence I think.

It is said that Yhwach strengthened his technique to give letters for his Quincy, granting them more power this way. There is a strong possibility that Yhwach perfected his soul-sharing technique specifically for Haschwalth, because the latter lacked Quincy power altogether. So he needed Yhwach’s soul the most. Manga page which tells that Yhwach found new way of soul-sharing shows letter B. It can serve as a proof that this technique was invented especially for Haschwalth's sake.

Rukia changed Ichigo’s life forever, just like Yhwach changed Haschwalth’s life for the better. For both of these couples it was much more than just giving a power. With those powers Rukia and Yhwach gave them a new goal in life and became the most important persons for both of them respectively.

Rukia also opened a new world for Ichigo by granting him Shinigami powers and being his motive to engage into Soul Society conflict. Rukia was Ichigo’s reason to act and to become the Shinigami. And later Ichigo changed her world just like she changed his before, by fighting for her against the whole Gotei and pushing them to change their laws so Rukia can be free. Just like Rukia was a catalyst for Ichigo to start a new life as a Shinigami, Yhwach brought Haschwalth to Wandenreich and gave his life a new meaning. He was a catalyst for Haschwalth’s powers and the whole character development, just like Rukia for Ichigo. And Haschwalth served Yhwach in return, always being by his side.

There are two additional chapters 205.1 Side-A The Sand and 205.2 Side-B The Rotator, which have poems for Ichigo and Rukia accordingly. There are some parallels with Yhwach and Haschwalth in these poems too, not to mention obvious parallels with letters in the titles. In chapter 677 Yhwach the A compared endless possible futures that he can see to the grains of sand. In his poem Ichigo says that he needs power to crush destiny and to protect spirits. Yhwach also wants more power and constantly replenishes it, because he wants to change destiny which was so cruel and unfair to his Quincies. And Haschwalth the B can be compared to rotator since the sand was also depicted on his scales in the omake after chapter 680. That means Haschwalth also controls the sand of peoples' destiny with his Balance power.

IchiRuki got much more screentime interactions to show their romantic implications and dynamics. But the moments when Yhwach and Haschwalth were shown together also implied that they have special relationship and strong ties. Haschwalth was the only person who could talk freely with Yhwach and give him advices. He was also worried for Yhwach very much during the battles and was loyal even when other Stern Ritters started to have doubts. Sure Yhwach and Haschwalth got less attention, but the chemistry between them was notable. Their trust in each other is as solid as in case of IchiRuki.

Both couples were done dirty by Kubo in the end. He forced them to act out of character. But before Kubo ruined the ending, strong bonds and many relationship proofs were obvious for both couples. Kubo's bad writing can't change their love.

#ichiruki #yhwach x haschwalth #jugram haschwalth #yhwach #ichigo kurosaki #rukia kuchiki

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trashmancer · 3 years

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Again, been reading a lot recently, and here's some recent reads and my thoughts. (All very spoiler-free)

Johannes Cabal: The Necromancer by Jonathan L. Howard

I'd heard about this series for a while, but had always kept putting off reading it, and finally I was in the mood for some comedic (yet dark) shenanigans--and a villain protagonist as charming as Johannes Cabal really hit me just right. I really enjoyed the first of this series and the introduction to this 1920's-ish universe similar-yet-different to our own that Howard's created. His writing is crisp and clever--and Johannes is a villain protagonist worth cheering for. He's duplicitous, arrogant, and cold, yet sharp-witted and competent enough to be engaging, and even though he's amoral (driven predominately with an "ends do justify the means" mentality) there are glimmers of a conscious buried in there.

The basic gist of the first book is that Johannes Cabal is a necromancer dead-set (ba-dum-sh) on thwarting the biggest plague affecting mankind: Death. As such, he's willing to go to extreme lengths to hone and perfect his necromantic abilities. In the pursuit of this knowledge, Cabal sold his soul to Satan, but he comes to realize he actually needs his soul for his necromancy to work more properly (apparently without a soul it gets very unpredictable). In order to win his soul back, he strikes a wager with Satan: he will accumulate 100 souls for Satan in return for his own. Satan, ever the fair player (not), gifts Cabal with an infernal carnival to help Cabal reach his goal within the year. Shenanigans ensue.

While I read some books in-between this one and the next in the series, I'll write about the other here--

Johannes Cabal: The Detective by Jonathan L. Howard

So clearly I enjoyed the first installment enough to keep going, and I am glad, because I enjoyed the second one even more than the first. It feels like Howard got more comfortable with the characters and world than before, and in this one he expands his universe with some made-up countries that are similar-to-yet-different than countries on our Earth. In this one, Cabal does less fantastic tricks, as he dons the role of investigator (there's been a murder--on an airship!), but the plot was very fun. I will say this is one of the first books in a long while to genuinely make my world-weary ass laugh out loud in public. Howard truly does know how to turn a phrase and comes off with some great witticisms.

Guns of the Dawn by Adrian Tchaikovsky

Tchaikovsky has been on my radar for a while because I have had Children of Time on my reading list for what feels like an age (and I still haven't gotten around to reading it, but I will soon). To prime myself, I looked up other works by Tchaikovsky. This was around the time I was look for good "stand-alone" Adult Fantasy novels as well, so the two linked up and I had this on my TBR for a while and got around to finally cracking it open.

I really loved this book. If I could describe it in any way, it would be sort of like Pride & Prejudice if Elizabeth Bennet got drafted into a war. Seriously. That's how it reads--and Tchaikovsky made the allusions to Austen's work very clear. The setting is very English-inspired, and the time period mimics Napoleonic times. Definitely the first "Flintlock Fantasy" I've had the pleasure of reading.

The themes of the book are about the caustic nature of nationalism, the blurring of truth during war, and what is true patriotism in the face of falsehood and horror. Definitely my kind of questions--and I love watching characters thrown into completely unfamiliar environments. A genteel woman (Emily Marshwic) being tossed headfirst into grisly, mosquito-infested swamps armed with a musket? It's a fascinating journey she undergoes.

Plus the novel featured a romantic subplot that hits my enemies-to-lovers buttons hard. (It's not at all like one of those tired YA enemies-to-lovers stories, but something more grown-up and messy, which I approve of, because I love drama.) But this is more of a personal note. It's definitely not going to be for everyone.

Retribution Falls (Tales of the Ketty Jay #1) by Chris Wooding

After Johannes Cabal, I got into the mood for some steampunk, and I hadn't actually read much in the way of steampunk, so I looked up some recs and the Tales of the Ketty Jay series seemed to appear on a lot of lists for this kinda thing. The basic gist of this one is... imagine steampunk Firefly. That kinda gives you the whole vibe and feel. It's about a crew of disparate and colorful characters all running from something who meet on the ship the Ketty Jay and have to learn to work together to survive.

Overall, it was a fast-paced read (I read this 400 page sucker in a single day--while doing other stuff) and Wooding knows how to write action and interesting character interactions. The world had some glimmers of brilliance (the wizard analogs in their world--daemonist--were the most intriguing part), but otherwise it was very typical steampunk. I had no real quibbles with any of that (aside from the fact some of it read as very cliche and Wooding's inspirations seemed a little obvious--Fullmetal Alchemist and Firefly being the two big ones that kept hammering me over the head), but my main complaint was with the writing and treatment of female characters. First, there is only one main female character in the Ketty Jay's crew--Jez. I had no real issues with Jez's character or writing (in fact she's refreshing in some ways), but she's completely isolated from any other female characters (and is also the only crew member who isn't really allowed to be a complete screw up--she's somewhat sanitized, which, I guess the heroic women characters aren't allowed to be fuck ups like the men?). Second, the other predominate female characters, of whom there are only three, are mute/dehumanized (Bess), characterized as stupid and unhinged (Amalicia), and have rape-as-a-backstory-written-TERRIBLY (Trinica). All that said, as much as it was cringe, this was written in 2009, and I am sure Wooding has had some growth as a writer since then.

I liked this one enough to decide to check out the next in the series (even knowing the writing for the female characters leaves much to be desired).

Black Sun by Rebecca Roanhorse

A Fantasy taking place in an Americas-inspired world? Absolutely refreshing (and more please). The main gist of this one is that a cult sets out to resurrect a dead god (seriously that's the main plot crux) while political machinations are going on in the central city of this country where the resurrection is going to take place. As the novel progresses, it's like a countdown clock to game time. There's four POV characters we follow: Xiala (a Teek sea captain who is kind of an outcast from her native people and has a love for beautiful people), Serapio (the man who has been groomed since birth to be the vessel for the resurrected god, part of this process has included blinding him), Naranpa (the Sun Priest of the capital city who is trying to garner back control the priesthood has lost), and Okoa (who really doesn't even appear until way later into the book; he's been separated from his family to train to be a warrior). For the most part, I was primarily engaged (re: 90% engaged) with Xiala and Serapio's story. They were the most interesting characters, and the journey of them on the sea trying to get to the city before the ceremony was exciting and emotional. The political dealings in Naranpa's segments kind of bogged down the action--and I didn't feel anything for that. Overall though, definitely a thrilling read with a beautifully constructed world. If I had one big criticism, it's that it ended incredibly abruptly without any resolution. I knew going in this was a part of a greater whole, but I still felt the ends could've been knotted a little tighter. I'm left dangling! But I'll be sure to pick up the next one (if anything just to find out what happens to Xiala and Serapio).

Vicious by V.E. Schwab

As an unapologetic villainfucker, I had to read this one, right? It's about not just one, but two villains! How could I lose? And they're in an intense rivalry? Revenge? Betrayal? Superpowers? Gah! Be still my heart!

I'll say I enjoyed this book (fun characters, solid writing), but I didn't love it as much as I thought I would (I wish I could love yooouuuu!). Definitely worth a recommendation to anyone who loves villains and fast-paced narratives, but... there were a few things that tarnished what could've been sparkling. The biggest for me was the jumping around in the first half. For a length of time, the novel leaps between three different points of time, sometimes 2-3 pages at a time, and it was jarring (not confusing, mind you, but it was a jolt each time). I get it was done to create an air of mystique and intrigue, but it felt like I was getting dragged around by the ear. Along with this, the plot just seemed... very convenient? As various moments kept happening, it all felt too tidy and paint-by-numbers. The characters were certainly messy and fun (and I love messy and fun), but the action itself seemed to glide on well-oiled rails with no hiccups. This did lead to the magnetic pacing of the book (which I also read in a day), but it didn't do the drama any favors. Never once did it feel like the characters were caught with their pants down--and I think that's part of the point, but it kind of dampened the tension.

I liked it enough I am definitely going to check out the sequel Vengeful though. If anything I am reading for Sydney, Mitch, and Victor. I gotta know what happens to them!

Right now I am reading some fluffy fluff to cleanse my palette because I've been reading so much moodiness. I'm mid-way through the light and breezy Half a Soul by Olivia Atwater (and it's super cute so far) and then I am finally going to crack open Andy Weir's The Martian (because I have put off reading it for far too long).

#recent reads #book review #just jotting my thoughts down somewhere #seriously though i am itching to read the next johannes cabal but i gotta pace myself #i don't want to burn through those like i did murderbot lol

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stina-is-a-punk-rocker · 3 years

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stephanie perkins: ‘anna and the french kiss’

SPOILERS AHEAD!

Then again, if you’ve read any YA book, ever, it’s fairly obvious what’s going to happen.

I was going to go easy on this book; I really was. It’s really unfair how media aimed at a female demographic is seen as frivolous and vapid, and more often than not bashed and bullied when it comes to reviews. “People actually enjoy this crap?” ask the powers that be. “It’s worthless! Pulp! Dreamy-eyed nonsense only complete nimrods could ever like!”

And I take offense to that. There’s nothing wrong with liking romance or happy endings or stories about cute European boys. I was ecstatic when I stumbled across Anna and the French Kiss upon a chance trip to the bookstore. The cover was… meh (Century Gothic? Really? There were no other fonts?). But I’d heard nothing but praise about the book, and I was prepared to stay up all night and into the wee hours of the morning to finish it.

Admittedly, I was far from impressed upon the first reading. The characters were unlikable, the plot would’ve worked better for less shitty characters, honestly fuck these characters am I supposed to like them, fuck Anna, fuck Étienne, fuck Bridgette, fuck Toph, fuck Dave and Meredith and Amanda and Seany and every other stupid character in this stupid book.

The second time around, I expected to not hate it as much as I did when I first read it. It’s happened- I hated Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda when I first read it, and when I read it again, all that red-hot anger simmered down into an overall dislike. I thought To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before was trash at first, and then I read it again, and it got promoted to recyclable waste matter.

I found Anna and the French Kiss horrendous the first time I read it, and then I read it again, and… yeah, it’s still pretty awful.

Le Sommaire:

Anna Oliphant is a seventeen-year-old wannabe film critic who is #NotLikeOtherGirls – so she’s exactly like every other female YA lead. To her credit, she never explicitly says she’s special… everyone around her does.

She has a pretty meh life in Atlanta, Georgia with her mum and little bruv Sean- and then her dad decides to ship her off to France for her final year of high school. I’m not judging Anna for bawling her eyes out on her first day; I’m a huge mummy’s girl myself and I’d probably (definitely) do the same.

Meredith is Anna’s next-door neighbor, who does that thing which only happens in YA where she’s like “Oh, newbie? Let’s be friends!” (Or maybe it does happen irl and I tend to make a bad first impression which is why no one has ever approached me.)

Meredith’s friends are: Rashmi and Josh (who are a couple), and Étienne St. Clair. Guess which one is the love interest.

Étienne is cultured in that white person way where he’s half American, one quarter French and one quarter British. A true international.

But- *gasp*- American-British-French boy has a girlfriend, Ellie.

Anna has an absolutely gorgeous punk rocker (yum) boy with sideburns (yikes) back home named Christopher. Also, Christopher’s nickname is ‘Toph’ instead of ‘Chris’ because he too is #NotLikeOtherGirls. Anna tells us that nothing will happen between her and Étienne.

Anna is wrong.

Meredith has a crush on Étienne. So does the Regina George of the school, Amanda.

Étienne and Anna have some moments ™.

♫ Everyone else in the room can see it, everyone else but Anna ♫

I tear my hair out in frustration.

Several other white boys vie for Anna’s heart. Anna remains blissfully unaware (♫ that’s what makes you beautiful ♫). Étienne (who is still dating Ellie, mind you) is unreasonably agitated by this.

Étienne’s mum has cancer btw, which excuses all the shitty things he does, because he’s just a poor, misunderstood boy.

Ellie dresses up as a, quote unquote, ‘slutty nurse’ for Hallowe’en, though- so it’s perfectly okay to dislike her (even though, in the first interaction she had with Anna, where Ellie meets Anna and Étienne, after Étienne takes Anna to the movies, Ellie is perfectly sweet).

Anna, however, is NOT a slut. Amanda is, though. And Rashmi’s cold. And Meredith’s desperate. And Emily’s a slut, too. And her friend Bridgette from Atlanta is a traitor. Anna has an intense case of internalized misogyny.

Anna’s friend Bridgette from Atlanta is screwing Toph, and Anna throws a fit.

Étienne and Anna have some more moments ™.

A truly chaotic series of events befall Anna. She somehow winds up dating Dave (one from the harem of white boys who likes her) to spite Étienne, she gets into a fight with Amanda, more drama ensues, there’s a hint for a spinoff, Étienne and her kiss, Meredith sees and feels betrayed… several misunderstandings and more bullshit later, Étienne and Anna wind up together, because true love conquers all.

Mes Réflexions:

(If the French is off, blame Google Translate.)

Usually, it takes me half a page of my notebook to scribble down my thoughts about the book I’m reading. This motherfucker took me almost an entire page.

Granted, a solid 30% of those notes are me throwing insults at Étienne, but still. ‘STOP STOP STOP YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND YOU DICK’ counts, right?

(That was #17 in my notes, by the way.)

For the record, I like Stephanie Perkins’s writing. It’s not as over-the-top and unnecessarily introspective as Jenny Han’s in To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, and the interactions between Anna and her classmates were natural and not the “How do you do, fellow kids?” style of Becky Albertalli’s Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda. The pacing is decent- I didn’t feel like it was too rushed; not the insta-love trope most YA romances unfortunately fall prey to.

And yet. AND YET.

Anna: “What’s your problem?” Amanda: “You.”

Same, Amanda, same.

Anna Oliphant is one of my least favorite leads in a book, ever. Étienne’s even shittier. And it’s not like Nick or Amy Dunne from Gone Girl, or any of the main characters from The Secret History, where readers pretty much unanimously hate them. You’re meant to relate to Anna, you’re meant to find Étienne charming and dreamy. I literally had to put the book away and calm myself down several times- especially in the last quarter of the book.

One of my main gripes with Anna is how… dumb she is. I guess Anna’s “Oopsies, silly me, I don’t know French!” is meant to be relatable to the readers. And some parts (like her not knowing how to order food because she can’t speak French) are plausible, but- sis, you didn’t know how to spell oui? And my idea of a cinematic masterpiece is Kung-Fu Panda, but even a dumbass like me knows that France is the film appreciation capital of the world. And yet Anna, a self-professed film freak, doesn’t?

Of course, Anna’s gorgeous, but she has no clue, because of course she doesn’t- even though she has multiple guys falling head over heels for her.

I’m in a short skirt. It’s the first time I’ve worn one here, but my birthday seems like the appropriate occasion. “Woo, Anna!” Rashmi fake-adjusts her glasses. “Why do you hide those things?”

Étienne is staring at my legs. The scales covering them throb under his intense gaze, and the pincers sticking out of my thighs start clicking rapidly in arousal. My hooves shiver in ecstasy.

… sorry, that’s not funny.

Her friends think Anna’s weird for wanting to write film reviews (which is the most contrived thing I’ve ever heard) instead of being the next Margot Robbie or whatever, but of course Étienne doesn’t and he thinks it’s not weird and cool and that Anna is such a special snowflake.

(Man, I sound like Amanda.)

And then we have this spiel by Anna about how she got into film critiquing (?), because we the readers need to know how special and #NotLikeOtherGirls Anna is.

To this, I say, “Piss off, you pretentious fuck.”

Of course, Anna’s a virgin and she’s never gotten drunk before or worn short skirts- she’s not a slut, she shaves below the knees only.

And would YA really be YA without several hearty helpings of internalized misogyny?

First up, we have the bimbo; the Barbie doll archetype whose only goal in life is acquiring the main guy (who is quite obviously uninterested in her), and making life hell for our protagonist. Amanda Whatsername (is she ever given a surname?) has this coveted role in Anna and the French Kiss. She’s blond (because of course she is); the first time we meet her, she’s in a, quote unquote, ‘teeny tank top’, and she also ‘positions herself for maximum cleavage exposure’. She’s always flipping her hair, getting her grubby paws on Étienne, giving Anna the stink-eye, being homophobic and a grade-A bitch.

Meredith goes batshit when Anna and Étienne kiss, and is very pouty and unhappy during prior Anna x Shittiene moments. Honey… he’s just not that into you. Rashmi’s the Ice Queen reincarnate and halfway to bitchdom. Anna doesn’t go as hard on them as she does on literally every other female her age in the book, though.

Rashmi looks at me for the first time, calculating whether or not I might fall in love with her own boyfriend.

Anna, hate to break it to you, but not everyone’s a possessive fucking weirdo.

About Cherrie, her ex-boyfriend Matt’s new girlfriend:

And maybe Cherrie isn’t as bad as I remember. Except she is. She totally is. After only five minutes in her company, I cannot fathom how Bridge stands sitting with her at lunch every day.

Her lifeless laugh is one of her lesser attributes. What does Matt see in her?

Even Bridgette, Anna’s best friend from Atlanta, isn’t immune to Anna’s anti-female propaganda. She’s screwing the guy Anna used to like, and Anna, the hypocrite, throws a huge fit.

For context: Bridgette and Toph are in a band called the Penny Dreadfuls (why is it with YA books and horrible band names? ‘Emoji’ from Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda was bad enough), and Anna + Matt + Cherrie go to a bowling alley to see them perform. After the performance, Toph announces that he’s sleeping with Bridge, and Anna confronts Bridge… onstage.

“… You’re welcome to move in when I leave again, because that’s what you want, right? My life?”

She shakes with fury. “Go to hell.”

“Take my life. You can have it. Just watch out for the part where my BEST FRIEND SCREWS ME OVER!” I knock over a cymbal stand, and the brass hits the stage with an earsplitting crash that reverberates through the bowling alley. Matt calls my name. Has he been calling it this entire time? He grabs my arm and leads me around the electrical cords and plugs and onto the floor and away, away, away.

Everyone in the bowling alley is staring at me.

I duck my head so my hair covers my face. I’m crying. This would have never happened if I hadn’t given Toph her number. All of those late-night practices and… he said they’ve had sex! What if they’ve had it at my house? Does he come over when she’s watching Seany? Do they go in the bedroom?

I’m going to be sick.

Give me a goddamn break.

Anna, about Ellie:

To my amazement, Ellie breaks into an ear-to-ear smile. Oddly enough, it’s this moment I realize that despite her husky voice and Parisian attire, she’s sort of… plain. But friendly-looking.

That still doesn’t mean I like her.

“Anna! From Atlanta, right? Where’d you guys go?”

She knows who I am? St. Clair describes our evening while I contemplate this strange development. Did he tell her about me? Or was it Meredith? I hope it was him, but even if it was, it’s not like he said anything she found threatening. She doesn’t seem alarmed that I’ve spent the last three hours in the company of her very attractive boyfriend. Alone.

[about Ellie’s Hallowe’en costume] Slutty nurse. I don’t believe it. Tiny white button-up dress, red crosses across the nipples. Cleavage city.

If I didn’t like Ellie before, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now. It doesn’t matter that I can count how many times we’ve met on one hand.

I fantasize about their break-up. How he could hurt her, and she could hurt him, and all of the ways I could hurt her back. I want to grab her Parisian-styled hair and yank it so hard it rips from her skull. I want to sink my claws into her eyeballs and scrape.

It turns out I am not a nice person.

YOU DON’T FUCKING SAY.

Emily Middlestone bends over to pick up a dropped eraser, and Mike Reynard leers at her breasts. Gross. Too bad for him she’s interested in his best friend, Dave. The eraser drop was deliberate, but Dave is oblivious.

One of the juniors, a girl with dark hair and tight jeans, stretches in a move designed to show off her belly button ring to Paul/Pete. Oh, please.

And I’m meant to like this character? I’m supposed to root for her?

I’m not saying every girl in the book should be perfectly sweet and friendly- that’s just not realistic. But when Anna has something judgmental to say about every other young female character… maybe she’s the problem.

In fact, the only girl I recall getting a pass is Isla Whatsername. And why do you think?

Brilliant.

And now we have the amalgamation of almost every fanfic boyfriend trope from 2014, Étienne St. Clair. Brown-eyed Harry Styles. I can’t fucking wait.

Étienne could’ve discovered the cure for cancer, or abolished poverty, or volunteered at animal shelters in his spare time. He could’ve been the most virtuous guy around (fret not; he decidedly isn’t). And I still wouldn’t’ve thought of him as the man of my dreams because HE HAS A BLOODY GIRLFRIEND.

I mean, which girl doesn’t want her boyfriend to say:

“I cheated on her every day. In my mind, I thought of you in ways I shouldn’t have, again and again.”

Fuckin’ smooth, bro.

“No matter what a terrible boyfriend I was, I wouldn’t actually cheat on her. But I thought you’d know.”

Such a gentleman!

“So you can keep dating Ellie, but I can’t even talk to Dave?”

Étienne looks shamed. He stares at his boots. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t even know what to do with his apology.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. And this time, he’s looking at me. Begging me. “And I know it’s not fair to ask you, but I need more time. To sort things out.”

And this gem:

“If you liked me so much, why didn’t you break up with her?”

“I’ve been confused. I’ve been so stupid.”

*me, banging pots and pans together* F U C K Y O U

“Ellie’s not like you, Anna; she’s a slut and a whore even though I’m the one who’s been thinking about another girl inappropriately and I’m the one who gets my knickers in a twist when another man glances in your direction because my masculinity is extremely fragile and I’m a total hypocrite and a dickhead.”

I mean, he didn’t actually say that, but that’s the gist.

WHILE DATING ELLIE: he gets Anna a book of sexual love poems, he calls her attractive (“Any bloke with a working prick would be insane not to like you.”) multiple times, he gets jealous whenever another guy so much as breathes in Anna’s direction and constantly interrupts such interactions, he’s been ditching his friends for his girlfriend but suddenly decides he prefers a new girl over said girlfriend, he thinks bread pudding tastes good- in conclusion, he is a Massive Fucking Prick. Though in hindsight, him and Anna deserve each other. They’re awful.

I had loads more notes taken down (Anna using Dave; “The important thing is this: Dave is available. St. Clair is not.”); the implication that cheating is okay because Ellie is bad or whatever, even though the sudden change in her character seems contrived because she was perfectly okay with Étienne and Anna hanging out before; how my blood boils whenever I read an American book and American girls are like “oOoOh AcCenT!!!1!!1!!”; me reading “DAVE SAYS YER A SLUTBAG” in Hagrid’s voice; the sheer atrocity of the name ‘Étienne St. Clair’ (sounds like a caricature of a French person)… but this ‘review’ is already pushing 3k and I can’t be fucked to expand on any of those points.

Verdict (which is apparently the same in French):

Who needs Christopher when Étienne St. Clair is in the world?

Speak for yourself.

#books #book review #anna and the french kiss #Stephanie Perkins #french #france #parisian #paris #YA #young adult #romance #teen fiction #bad books

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icycream-catqueen · 3 years

Text

Kindling (When You’re Burning Low)

Cinder would rather burn herself out than risk a low grade; fortunately, Neo knows how to make her relax.

Rating: T

Tone: Some angst, lots of supportiveness, and a fluffy ending

Word Count: ~5,000

Important Tags: College AU, Established Relationship

I was gonna post this before now but I had problems with writing it and I was nervous about participating in a ship week especially when I only have something written for one prompt, and also my cat was sleeping on me for five whole hours earlier tonight while I was trying to finish up and as everyone knows it is a crime to disturb a snoozing kitty cat. I hope it still counts. ^_^;

Considering it’s pretty long, I only have an excerpt (the first scene I wrote for this fic, actually) on this post; the whole thing is, of course, over on AO3!

On this fine Saturday afternoon, Cinder was taking advantage of the lounge in the dorm suite. The coffee table was half-claimed by various books and notes while Cinder herself was settled at the same end of the couch, her laptop perched on the arm of it and her right side pressed closely against the suede upholstery as she struggled with the perfect phrasing for her essay. Failure was never an option for her, and even the slightest error would lead to it when it came to this class. She was running on pure caffeine by now, from a supposedly unhealthy amount of coffee. This was her third or fourth solid day of being awake. After the first night, she’d moved her setup from her room to the lounge to help her stay more alert. Winter and Emerald had both tried to tell her what was best for her wellbeing, but she’d firmly shut down their arrogance; she knew her own limits, and she needed to get this stupid project done. Neo, thankfully, had been out of town from Thursday morning to last night, and when she’d come back to the suite, she’d trudged straight to her room and shut the door. Cinder had only seen a couple brief glimpses of her since. Just as well, considering Cinder couldn’t intimidate her into letting her be like she could to Emerald and Winter.

At the moment, Emerald and Winter were both out of the building. They’d each probably told her what they were doing, but she hadn’t bothered to remember it. Neo was apparently still asleep, which was a bit odd but not enough so to risk seeing the pitiful kicked-puppy expression that appeared when her sleep was disturbed. Still, if she wasn’t up and about in two hours, it would be worth it to check on her mental and physical health.

Speak of the devil, Cinder heard a door open behind her. She didn't bother to look, though, until she realized the shuffling footsteps were approaching the couch instead of the kitchen, bathroom, or shower. She took a brief glance, then did an immediate double take because Neo looked absolutely miserable. Her hair was unbrushed and her eyes were dull. The oversized black sweatshirt (which Cinder recognized by the fiery orange phoenix on the front as one of her own that had mysteriously vanished a few weeks ago) and the brown and pink plaid pajama pants were probably what she'd worn to bed the night before, and she hadn't even bothered to put on socks. It was worrying to see her in such a state.

"You certainly look worse for wear," Cinder commented. Neo pouted at her as she slowly made her way to the couch and sank to the cushions. Before Cinder could react, Neo flopped down, squirmed to lay her head in her lap, and rolled onto her back. "I'm busy," Cinder told her sternly.

Neo's response was a soft and pitiful keening sound. She fumbled to grab Cinder's left wrist, staring up at her with pleading doe eyes.

"Neo. I'm busy," Cinder repeated. Neo whined and tugged on her wrist, so Cinder rolled her eyes and stopped resisting, curious about what she wanted. She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but she was definitely taken by surprise when Neo gently guided her hand under the hem of her sweatshirt and pressed it against her lower stomach.

What is she trying to accomplish here? Cinder raised an eyebrow at the woman in her lap. Neo let go of her wrist to sign something at her. The odd angle made it hard to translate, so it took a few seconds for Cinder to understand what she was asking for and why.

"I suppose I can take a short break, if you're really in that much pain," she relented. "You're lucky you're cute," she added as she carefully activated her Semblance.

The reaction was instant. Neo sighed with relief at the warmth, eyes full of soft gratitude and affection. Cinder rubbed slow, small circles over her stomach, feeling the smaller woman go languid under her touch. After a few more seconds, Neo's eyes fluttered closed.

"Is this warm enough?" Cinder asked. Neo nodded, a content smile playing across her lips. "Just ten minutes."

Neo opened her eyes and pouted at her.

"There is a reason I've been awake for," Cinder checked the time on her laptop, "about eighty hours now." Neo looked positively outraged.

"You need to sleep," she signed—easily decipherable now that Cinder had gotten a little more time to adjust to her current perspective. Not that the message was very appreciated.

"No, what I need is to finish this ridiculous project so I can move on to my two remaining essays, do all the work for a 'group project' because the rest of my assigned group are immature and unmotivated idiots, and study for my three exams this week," Cinder retorted.

"When are your essays due?"

Cinder elected not to answer, since admitting the due dates were two and three weeks away respectively wouldn't help her against Neo's accusatory glare.

"Your group project?"

Okay, so maybe it hadn't technically been assigned yet and was scheduled to be due in a month and a half, but all the information was in the syllabus. Cinder's class was full of imbeciles, and somehow she always got stuck in a group with some idiot or another who didn't understand what a lesbian was, so she was getting it out of the way to avoid interacting with anyone.

"Are all three of your exams actually this week?"

Two of them, and one of those barely counted more towards the final grade in the class than a small quiz. Her continued silence was answer enough; Neo knew her too well.

"You're going to burn yourself out again." Neo's eyes were unbearably sad, so Cinder looked away.

"I'm fine," she dismissed the concern. A hand grabbed her chin and yanked her head down so her eyes met Neo's again.

"I watched you collapse in the middle of campus last year, and I almost got in trouble for pulling a knife on the paramedics to make them let me stay with you. I got a scared video call from Winter four months ago because you fainted in her fancy rich-person hot tub and nearly drowned," Neo reminded her. “Do I need to go on?”

"I can handle it this time," Cinder insisted, growing agitated. Neo took a calming breath before responding.

"No you can't. You always say it but you never can. You end up in an exhausted daze. You work yourself into a frenzy. You get into fits of rage...which honestly scare me."

"I would never lay a hand on—!" Cinder was cut off when Neo pressed a finger to her lips.

"Not for myself. I'm scared you'll lose control and take it out on yourself again," Neo corrected her. "You haven't in a while, but..." Neo trailed a hand down Cinder's left arm, tracing her scars.

"I just...I need to...I have to keep working. I can't let myself fall behind. I can't..." Cinder faltered. Neo sighed.

"I know," she acknowledged. She knew about the past, knew why Cinder relapsed into these desperate attempts to excel, to stay ahead. "But it's pointless if you destroy yourself trying."

"I've only ended up being sent to the hospital three times since I started college," Cinder argued. Neo was unimpressed.

"Congratulations! And you've managed to barely avoid hospitalization how many times now?"

"I—that isn't relevant!" Cinder hissed. Neo scowled.

"Really? It's not? How many times have you ended up so exhausted that you were bedridden for days? How many times have you gone into a mental decline because you were incapacitated? And how many more times are you going to make me watch you suffer like that?"

"If you want to leave me, just get it over with!" Cinder spat bitterly. Neo's eyes widened, hurt and shocked. Cinder flinched, realizing she'd crossed a very important line. "I didn't mean...I don't know why I said that."

"An abandonment complex, emotional instability, a mess of insecurities you mask with your ego, previous girlfriends who couldn't handle you or only wanted your body...and like I've been saying, you need sleep,” Neo replied, recovering. "Also, my cramps?"

"What?" Cinder realized she'd subconsciously deactivated her Semblance at some point and quickly remedied that. "Oh. Sorry."

"I'm going to make a deal with you," Neo informed her abruptly. Cinder raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"What kind of deal?"

"The 'ridiculous project' you're trying to finish. Tell me about it, and I'll explain," Neo replied. Cinder clenched her teeth at the mere mention of it.

"It's an assigned experiment, a five to ten-page report on it, and an oral presentation. And the professor hates me. He goes out of his way to make every class, every test, and every assignment hell for me. I have to work harder than anyone so he can't get away with failing me out of spite. If I make even one mistake..." she growled.

"When is it due?"

"The day after tomorrow. It was assigned two weeks ago, but three days ago he realized he 'accidentally' gave me the wrong experiment. In other words, he's making me do a two-week project within five days—after I'd already finished the one he previously assigned me."

"Watts," Neo guessed. Cinder had come back from his class angry enough times that it wasn't even a question.

"Yeah," she confirmed anyway. Neo wrinkled her nose.

"I already hated that guy, and I hated him more and more every time you came back from his class in a bad mood, but this shit he's pulling now is the final straw, so I'm going to get him fired," she declared. Cinder let out an amused huff.

"And how will you do that?" she asked. She didn’t expect an actual answer but Neo didn't even hesitate.

"It may include breaking and entering, small and well-placed incidents, a flat tire, some bottles of the expensive alcohol he isn't supposed to have on campus, a sedative, and if we're lucky, a little inadvertent assistance from gravity and Ironwood."

"Just how long have you been planning this?" Cinder was taken aback at the immediate response. Neo considered.

"The time you locked me out of your dorm after his class because you were so furious you wanted to hit something, and you were worried you'd see so much red you might accidentally hit me in blackout rage. You've never told me what happens in his class to make you so angry, or even if it's actually him or just another student—though I was pretty sure it was him—so I planned for both situations."

"I'm impressed," Cinder commented. Neo smirked. “Now what was that ‘deal’ you mentioned?”

"You finish the report for your project, then eat something more substantial than coffee and whatever quick snacks you've been living off of for the past few days. And then we go to my dorm and you get some damn sleep."

"How did you know I'm working on the report right now?" Cinder was taken aback. "And how do you know I haven't been eating?"

"Because I can see it on your computer. And once again, you've done this before, so I know you don't take the time for more than the minimum amount of food to keep hunger from 'distracting' you," Neo pointed out, almost accusingly.

"I haven't even started working on the oral presentation. I'll do all that after I'm completely finished."

"Nope. You can start that part when you're well-rested. If you make me physically drag you to bed while I'm on my period, I'll make damn sure you regret it," Neo threatened with a scowl.

“Fine,” Cinder gave in reluctantly. Neo smiled brightly, and dammit, it was nigh impossible for Cinder to stay bitter in the face of such genuine fondness, joy, and relief. She wondered when she’d gotten so soft—even if only a select few people got to see that soft part of her—and realized she didn’t even mind anymore.

#spicecreamweek2021 #spicecream #cinder x neo #fanfic #rwby #cinder fall #neopolitan #college au #oneshot #mentions of trauma #mentions of past self-harm #fluff #cuddles #established relationship #tl;dr cinder neglects self-care so neo makes her take a nap #i could have just done a link like normal people but i wanted an excuse to use the spicecream graphic i made

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gabriel-agreste-has-no-rights · 4 years

Link

Rating: G

Summary: Kagami and Nino plan a surprise party for Adrien's seventeenth birthday. With help from their friends, nothing can go wrong this time. Nino's even invited an extra special guest who's sure to make Adrien's night. (Nino & Kagami & Adrien friendship, with a side of Ladrien)

Word Count: 3101 | Chapter 1/3

Notes: written for @marinetteplztakeabreak through the @mlbforblm charity drive! The donations go directly to Color of Change, an online organization for racial justice centered on the Black Lives Matter movement. I highly recommend checking them out and reblogging/donating the mlbforblm posts if you’re able! I have one fic slot left as of 7/23/2020, and many other talented writers and artists are offering incentives as well! There’s even a giveaway going on; see the mlbforblm blog for more info!

XXX

“Hmm.” Kagami’s brow furrowed as she stared at Nino’s Operation: Totally Swank Party binder. The two of them sat on a bench in the park, where she had agreed to meet him after slipping away from her fencing lesson. “Bribing the bodyguard is a proven technique. Get me a list of action figures his collection is missing, and I’ll have them by tomorrow.”

“Way ahead of you, dude.” Nino tore a piece of notebook paper out. He’d done his research last night after a long phone call with Adrien. “Glad I can count on you.”

“Of course.” She neatly folded the paper and slipped it into her jacket pocket. “I’ll have them shipped to your apartment. Do you have a plan to dispose of his babysitter?”

Nino sighed and flipped to the page with a doodle of Nathalie with horns at the top. It was a much more tentative outline than what he’d prepared to deal with the Gorilla. Hopefully Kagami would be able to help him with that.

“Nathalie’s whole job is to suck out all the fun in my bro’s life. We’ll never be able to throw this party with her in the picture.”

He’d tried the past three years. From Hawkmoth transforming him into the Bubbler, to Nathalie locking him in a closet, to Gabe himself nearly arresting him for trespassing, each had been a total bust. At this point Adrien probably wasn’t expecting Nino to try.

But Adrien was his best bro. Nino would never give up on throwing him the most poppin’ party ever.

Plus, this year, he had a secret weapon. One that even Kagami didn’t know about.

“You seem quite prepared.” Kagami squinted at the page. “You’re sure Max can play his part? The Agrestes use my mother’s security technology.”

“Positive. He and Markov can hack anything.”

Max had already wired into the speaker system last time they threw a party for Adrien. Of course, on Adrien’s birthday, the mansion would be too obvious a target. That’s why the plan just required getting his bro out of the house altogether.

“I’ll trust you, then. What exactly is my role?”

Nino grinned, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You, my good bro, will be sneaking Adrien away from his fake fencing lessons. Adrien says you’ve done it a thousand times, and his pops still barely knows who you are. You’ve got like, some kind of invisibility superpower.”

“I simply have practice. That’s all.” She took his pen and began making notes in his binder. “Nathalie will realize we’re gone approximately forty-five minutes after we leave. The Gorilla has set patrol routes for finding Adrien when he goes missing, which I can map out for you.”

“If he takes the bribes, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Kagami was already sketching out a map of the city on a clean sheet of paper. Geez, how did she remember all that? He doubted he could even draw the path from his apartment to Alya’s.

“I don’t want to take any chances. We cannot fail Adrien. Do you have a venue reserved already?”

“Huh?” Nino scratched under his hat. Kagami was pretty rad, but it was hard to follow her train of thought sometimes. “Oh, right! I was thinking the hotel. Now that Chloé’s not a total jerk—”

“No. Too obvious. Nathalie will find us within the hour.” Kagami frowned and tapped the pen against the back of her hand. “The ice rink will be our best option. It’s out of his bodyguard’s patrol zone, and it can accommodate all of Adrien’s friends. We hid there all the time when we were dating, and no one ever found us.”

“Sure, sure, there’s just one problem.” He grinned nervously and tapped his fingers together. “I, uh, don’t know how to skate.”

Kagami tilted her head and. “Really? No matter. His birthday is twenty-one days away. You have plenty of time to learn.”

Over her shoulder, he watched her write “Teach Nino to ice skate” in her crisp print.

“Uhh… well, I guess that works.” Hopefully everyone else knew how to skate already, or they could just enjoy the food and cake from the seats surrounding the rink. Nino could technically do that too, but he didn’t want to miss hanging out on the ice with his best bro.

“I’ve seen you parkour with Alya. You seem like you’ll learn quickly.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Nino chuckled. “Just get ready to watch me starfish out there.”

Her lips pursed thoughtfully. “If it proves too difficult for you, I can try to find a backup location. I doubt one exists that will fit everyone you’ve listed, though.” She flipped back to the guest list, which included all of their classmates from the last few years, Adrien’s whole fencing team, and a few other friends like Luka and XY. Pretty much everyone Adrien had ever interacted with was on the list.

Except for one special guest, but Nino had left her out on purpose.

“No, no, it’ll be fine! I’m just joking, dude.”

“Oh.” Her face pinked a bit. “How are we going to deliver the invitations without alerting Nathalie or Adrien’s father?

“I’ve started planning that too.” Nino flipped forward a few pages. “The most important guests—ones who aren’t gonna snitch on us—will get their invites a week in advance. The rest will get theirs by text on the day of. If they can’t come, they can’t come.” It was the best solution he’d been able to come up with. He was sure that even if people did have plans, most would drop them for a chance to party with Adrien Agreste.

“Hmm. It still feels too obvious. The fencing team in particular may give us up.” She frowned before scratching a few names off the list. Well, she was on the team herself; she would know better than anyone who could be trusted. “You’re right though. This does seem like the best plan.”

Nino grinned. One nice thing about Kagami was that when she gave a compliment, he knew it was sincere. If she agreed with his birthday plan, then it was as close to foolproof as it could be.

“Sweet. I think that covers everything for now.”

“A very productive planning session.” Kagami nodded before holding out her fist.

Nino laughed and bumped knuckles with her. After a year of hanging out with him and his bro, Kagami was finally getting the hang of fist bumps.

“Meet me at the ice rink at eighteen hundred on Saturday. We’ll begin your lessons then.”

She closed the binder and handed it back to him, then stood and walked away.

“Skating lessons with Kagami, huh…”

This was either going to be a legit time, or he was going to make a total idiot of himself.

XXX

“Come on, Nino, you’ve got this!” Alya called encouragement as she and Marinette lapped him again. He frowned at their backs. How was it that even Marinette, certified clumsiest girl in Paris, could be a better skater than him?

“Focus, Nino.” Kagami snapped her fingers. She stayed near him, slowing her pace even though she could’ve skated rings around him. “Your girlfriend’s praise will only become reality if you practice proper technique. Keep your weight centered.”

“Right, right.” He pushed off from the handrail and tried not to flap his arms. This time, he made it a solid twenty seconds before he slipped and went skidding across the ice. His hat slid off in the opposite direction, but Kagami quickly retrieved it.

“Don’t try to go so fast. Catching up to Marinette and Alya isn’t your goal.” Kagami’s advice was blunt, but helpful. Nino didn’t mind her getting to the point. He knew his skating needed work, and no matter how many times he fell, she didn’t lose patience with him.

It was nice that Alya was so far ahead, honestly. It meant she didn’t see him look like a total dorkasaurus every time he fell.

I’m doing this for Adrien, he reminded himself each time. He didn’t need to be a pro skater. He just needed to be able to stay upright.

“You make it look so easy.” He frowned as Kagami glided backwards.

“I’ve been skating since I was six. It makes a relaxing hobby.”

He snorted. “How is anything about this relaxing?”

“Hmm. Perhaps you’re thinking too hard. It makes you hesitate, place your weight incorrectly. You’re a musician, aren’t you?”

“Huh? Yeah, you know I’m DJ-ing for the party.” He had no clue why Kagami was asking, though.

“Skating has a rhythm. Maybe you’ll feel more comfortable timing your strides with music.”

He tapped his chin. “Y’know… that’s not a half bad idea.”

“Not half bad? Does that mean only half is good?”

“No, no, the whole idea’s good! It’s just an expression.”

He slipped his headphones over his ears and picked one of the slowest songs on his playlist. It was a waltz in ¾ time; hopefully that wouldn’t trip him up.

“Alright, here goes.”

He took a deep breath and pushed off from the wall.

One-two-three, one-two-three. The music was smooth as the ice under his skates. Kagami kept pace with him, smiling as he counted the beats under his breath.

Something about it did feel different. Maybe it was that he stopped overthinking; maybe it was just the magic of music. Either way, he went the whole six-minute song without falling on his butt.

“Not half bad.” Kagami smiled. “...Did I use that right?”

“Heck yeah, dude.” They fistbumped.

“Way to go Nino!” Marinette gave him a high five as she and Alya caught up.

“Thanks for teaching my boyfriend, Kagami. I owe you one.”

“You owe me nothing, Alya.” Kagami’s cheeks turned red. “We’re all working together to ensure Adrien’s birthday is perfect. Teaching Nino is just one step in that plan.”

“Well, I still think it’s really cool of you. Oh! And speaking of the party, my mom says she can cater. I’ve already sworn her to secrecy.”

“Awesome! What about you, Marinette?” Nino took his headphones off to better hear the conversation, but his legs still knew what to do. “Are you gonna get Adrien a totally rad birthday cake or what?”

“Yeah, absolutely!” She nodded. “I’ll just have to drop it off before the party.”

“You’re still sure you can't come, girl?” Alya asked her.

“No, sorry. I promise I would if I could, but I—I’ve already made a commitment. But I’ll have the cake here on time, I swear!”

“And one of his fifty birthday presents, right?” She nudged Marinette with her elbow. Marinette nearly fell, but Nino wasn’t sure if that was from Alya’s bump or her words.

“I—I don’t have those anymore!” Her shoulders slumped. “It turns out, planning presents fifty years in advance works a lot better if you can see the future. They’re all out of style by now.”

Alya laughed at that. Nino couldn’t help noticing that Kagami had gone silent, though, her gaze locked on the ice in front of them.

“Something wrong, bro?” He asked her.

She shook her head. “Adrien’s party won’t be perfect if Marinette isn’t present. I thought she of all people would understand how much she means to him.”

Marinette gasped. “I… I’m sorry, Kagami. Adrien does mean the world to me, and… I promise, I’ll make it up to him.”

Nino was forced to stop as Kagami grabbed the handrail and locked eyes with Marinette. Some kind of silent conversation seemed to pass between them. He looked to Alya for help, but she just shrugged. By now he thought he’d understand the girls, but maybe some things would always be a mystery.

“See that you do. He deserves that much.”

This wasn’t some kind of love triangle over Adrien again, was it? Kagami had stayed good friends with all of them after she and Adrien broke up. Marinette was probably still crazy in love with him, but that was nothing new.

“It’s okay, dudes. The party’s still going to be perfect. I’ve got a special surprise planned for our favorite bro.”

He winked at Alya, who grinned back. She’d been the one to help him pull it off.

“A surprise?” Marinette clapped her hands together at the same time Kagami raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t factor any surprises into our plans. Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“It’s not much of a surprise if everyone knows, is it?” Nino said. “But you’re right, I should have told you, Kagami. I just wasn’t sure if it would be awkward for you, knowing who Adrien’s crushing on now and all…”

“It’s not an issue. Adrien is a wonderful friend. That is more than enough for me,” Kagami replied.

“Adrien’s... crushing on someone?” Marinette asked, her eyes wide.

Oops. Kagami might have taken it well, but Nino should’ve waited until Marinette was gone.

“What’s the scoop, babe?” Alya raised her eyebrow, and Nino threw his hands in the air.

“I thought you already knew! Why do you think we worked so hard to get Ladybug to show up for his party?”

Marinette caught hold of the hand rail before her legs slipped out from under her.

“Adrien has a crush on Ladybug?”

“Oh. That’s all?” Kagami asked. “I’ve known that for months.”

“You have?”

“Was it supposed to be a secret? He keeps posters of her in his fencing locker.”

Marinette still looked like she was blue screening. Alya glared at Nino, and he gave a nervous smile. What was he supposed to do? Kagami had a point; the dude wasn’t exactly subtle.

“Anyway.” He coughed. “Our bro likes Ladybug, and she’s coming to his party, so he’s going to have a totally cash money time.”

“Cash money? You’ve been hanging out with Luka and XY too much, babe.”

Marinette giggled at that. She got her feet back under her, and they started skating in unison again. So… she wasn’t that upset? Whew.

“Oh, speaking of XY, I gotta get him here to help set up the special effects,” Nino said. “I already got permission from Phillipe. We’re going all out, courtesy of the actual cash money Kitty Section and XY’s last collab made.”

“How did we end up friends with so many rich people?” Alya mused under her breath.

“It sounds like the plan is in motion, then,” Kagami said.

“Yeah, it’s going to be perfect! Adrien will love it.” Marinette grinned. “Thank you two for putting all this together.”

“Anything for my best bro.” Nino shot her finger guns.

“He deserves a party worthy of his friendship,” Kagami added.

And he was going to get one. This year, of all years, Nino refused to let anything go wrong.

XXX

Three weeks later, on the night of September twenty-first, Nino paced the blue chairs surrounding the perimeter of the ice rink. His friends wove between the chairs, setting up tables of food and games. His turntables were already in place at the head of the rink, and XY was hooking them up to the speaker system.

“Nathalie’s schedule?” Nino asked as he passed Max.

“Hacked and adjusted.” Max flashed a thumbs up.

“Great job, dude.” He clapped him on the shoulder before moving on to Rose and Juleka’s station.

“Presents?”

“Stacked and organized!” Rose saluted.

“Sweet. Make sure to leave some extra space, there’ll be more where those came from.” He continued his path to where Chloé was lounging in a chair and scrolling through her phone.

“Chloé, status report.”

“No trace of Adrikins on Instagram, Twitter, Tumblr, or YouTube.” She flipped her ponytail. “You should check your tone, though. I’m not some peon you can just order around.”

“Right.” He rolled his eyes. Classic Chloé. At least she was taking her job seriously, though. “Thanks for all your hard work.”

“You’re welcome.” She smirked.

Her job was one of the most important. If the media caught wind of Adrien’s location, the party would have to split before he even got here. To prevent that, Max had jammed the wifi and cell service so that only his computer, Chloé’s phone, and Nino’s phone had wifi. If anyone wanted to post about the party on social media, they’d have to wait until after it was over.

Everything was looking perfect. There wasn’t much else to do but wait for updates from Kagami.

19:00. Arrived at the court. No sign of Adrien.

19:04. Adrien has arrived. Bodyguard bribed and driving away.

19:05. En route to ice rink. Adrien was suspicious, but believed my excuse of buying him birthday orange juice.

Nino shook his head with a smile. How did Kagami type all that without Adrien noticing? At least everything seemed to going smoothly on her end, too.

He started pacing again. According to Kagami, a casual stroll from the school to the ice rink took twenty minutes. It was longer than Nino wanted to wait, but the location had to be far enough away to avoid notice.

His phone beeped again. He unlocked it to see a selfie of Kagami and Adrien smiling wide, though Adrien was practically unrecognizable in the oversized hoodie and bright blue wig Kagami had borrowed from Juleka.

Alya’s chin rested on Nino’s shoulder. “Aww, look at them. All grown up and ready to rebel.”

“Psh, Kagami’s been rebelling for ages. Adrien could still learn a thing or two from her.”

“Oh look, she sent another one!” Alya clicked his phone.

In this photo, the two of them were pulling funny faces. Adrien stuck out his tongue, while Kagami puffed out her cheeks and gave him bunny ears.

Nino laughed and put an arm around his girlfriend. “We did a great job with them, didn’t we?”

“Absolutely.” She smiled before zooming in on the background. “Looks like they’re in front of the parking lot. They’ll be here any time now.”

Sure enough, Kagami texted, 19:25. Two minutes away.

“Right!” Nino gave her cheek a quick kiss before running to his turntables. He snatched up the microphone, and his voice blasted through the speakers. “Alright, dudes! Adrien’s about to walk through those doors, so everyone hide!”

Their friends dove behind tables and chairs. All of them except XY, anyway.

“What’s the point, dude? He’s gonna see all our sick lights.” XY pointed to the laser lights next to the turntable.

“That’s why we switch them off,” Luka said, pressing the button. The rink fell into darkness.

“Ohhhh.”

Nino pulled the two of them under the table with him just before the double doors opened.

#what an ice surprise #fic tag #miraculous ladybug #kagami #nino lahiffe #nino #tali writes #mlbforblm

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elmaxlys · 4 years

Note

21 QUESTIONS FOR JUOKA, LETS GO! 3 4 5 6 11 12, also 20 because I am acutally curious ! (i shall ask the other ones in another question)

ALRIGHT THEN HELL YEAH 👀👀👀

3) What is your favorite AU/prompt idea/trope for your pairing?

Fav trope is obviously enemies to lovers because come on XD

But favorite AU, oh boy. I have so many of them how do I choose... But probably any canon divergence AU in which Juo survives - be it against his will (as in Yuri got close enough and grabbed him by force) or because his “don’t want to die”-ness was strong enough to overshadow his convictions and he took her hand. The infamous Redemption Arc AU that lives in my brain and I haven’t written one line for because I have too many versions of the same thing lmao i just really like that AU

HOWEVER I can’t not mention the Juo’s Apostle AU here. I rarely ever talk about it but damn... Rika as Juo’s Apostle... I don’t even have any definite or real idea for this AU other than “wow. that’d be dope” but jesus christ the simple idea of it puts sparkles in my eyes

4) Do you prefer canon ideas or do you have your own headcanons for them?

I’m gonna go with canon, here. Miura’s characters are pretty solid yet, in Juo’s case, vague enough to allow hc to fit in without disrupting canon. And their storyline is why I ship them so much in the first place. Also they both incredibly stick to character all along and that’s very hot of Miura to stay consistant in depiction. We say “Thank you Miura”

5) Favorite canon moment of them?

*inhales* YOU ASKED *talks about the Juo arc for so long you’ve stopped reading after the first few paragraphs but it goes on for 50 pages*

I’m only half kidding, because my fav canon moment of them is every single of their interactions and I could go on so long... They’re constantly trying to outsmart the other, to try to manipulate the other into lowering guard, but they’re so evenly matched both in terms of brains and in terms of raw power that they just can’t and they’re stuck and jfc the tension, the undressing, the shameless flirting. The entire phone conversation.

Tho if I really have to chose, it’d be either “If I have a demand, it’s you” or both of the “I surrender please don’t kill me”.

6) Least favorite canon moment of them?

It’s kind of fucked up on my part but I love the ugly parts of their relationships. That’s what it’s like to ship enemies. I can’t answers the threats, the manipulations or the murder attempts because that’s what their interactions are made of and that’s what I like. For the first seconds they saw each other they already went the full “hey let me just point a gun at your face while you manipulate me into not killing you despite how much I really should do exactly that”. I saw that and went “nice 👀”

11) If they aren’t a canon pairing, how would you get them together?

OKAY SO. HEAR ME OUT.

The mask proposal and then boom- careful it gets long

It’d go approximately like this: canon divergent of course but: Juo manages to stop Okihara from destroying the mask or kills Okihara so he doesn’t use the mask he kept for Rika. Then they get on the helicopter and Juo gets the code before allowing Rikuya from seeing it. Having seen the code, Juo is strong enough to resist the Administrator who took Rikuya’s body (then if okihara isn’t dead yet, Admin kills him because heh). Then either Juo pushes him off either Yuri just shows up for their fight and takes them elsewhere. We now have 2 almost full gods + one complete devil. Yuri fights the Admin, defeats him and becomes the new Admin, leaving our final two god candidates to the last level (that we actually don’t know of. how fucked up is that)

So. Judges VS Juo. Juo is like “whatever I only wanted the code because it sounded fun you can be God if you want” and the Judges are like. Bitch we went through all this just for that? And Juo’s like *shrug emoji* “I wanted to test something tho” *takes out his mask* “I want a proper fight with Rika-kun” and Rika is like dude seriously? i sorted my intensities, I’m as strong as the mfing Judge here why would you want to make me wear a mask to then fight me and Juo really doesn’t care because come on that’d be so fun. and they do fight. Rika becomes a 2nd Juo and Juo is having fun. But they’re of equal power. Juo has some vague thoughts of “ah I don’t want to die” like every time but then he realizes that it’s the last fun thing he could do. he’s so powerful no fight will ever have flavor again, you know?

Fighting Rika was his goal and he accomplished it, he didn’t get him to beg but he’s fulfilled but also really really empty now that it’s over so they’re both like huh. I can’t kill you you can’t kill me what up with that and Rika refuses to give up because hey his family, man. So Juo. Man Juo would tell Rika to kill him. No irony, no fake smile, just a tired but honest one, if a little sad, and Rika lowers his hammer like. No. I won’t give you the satisfaction of having me kill you. You were right from the beginning, I won’t kill an unarmed human that’s not resisting. And Juo is like “dude there can’t be two Juos anyway that’s against the rules” and rika is like “that was your idea in the first place wtf” and yuri is like “i make the rules” and, just like she was so ready to give him a second third chance in canon when she jumped to save him, she fully recognizes both Juos as one (like the Judges, you know?) and Juo is like okay yeah I was wrong, that’s nice. And he has an excuse to hold onto Rika because none of them can stand straight on his own

Bam, they’re married by the Admin power and they work through their issues together and Rika slowly accepts his title as Juo - which would be a metaphor of accepting the actual Juo - and they become real close and none of them really confesses they just. you know. are together. It’s smooth, they move in nebulous waters when it comes to their relationship. they don’t have an anniversary etc. But yeah, they’re together

12) If you had to take them and plunk them into another fandom, what fandom would that be? Why?

I’ve only watched the first season but probably the Walking Dead. It’s gore, it’s violent, it’s post-apocalyptic - it suits them.

20) What made you decide to ship them?

I actually have no idea sskksk I think I’ve shipped them for approximately as long as they’ve been seen interacting so I can’t remember exactly but it probably was a mix of the following elements:

“I’ve been thinking about you all this time”

man, the sexual tension in this room o_O

man, they’re both hot, they’d look well together and also I’m crushing hard on both of them so, you know,,,

“If I have a demand it’s you”

“I’m glad to see you, Rika-kun”

everything about Juo

his every line

how alike they are

shipping my faves together because why the hell not ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

oh.

oH.

OH.

UTAREN VIBES HOLY SHIT (was my ultimate otp at the time etc but that probably was on a less conscious level than the one i’m writing here because I’m a dumb idiot that only realized the similarities recently)

I just really like the bad boy x good person trope, okay? even more than the actual enemies to lovers (that I enjoy a lot)

all of that buried under the stupid guilt of “yo hey why would I ship them that’s so messed up haha,, ha :’)))” that made me deny to myself that I shipped them for a loooong time

#long post #sorry about the length i'm really passionate about them #but thank you so much for asking about them ;v;#juoka #juo #suzuki emiri #honjo rika #tenkuu shinpan #romance

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aniimvs · 4 years

Note

"plots please" !!! cause yessss

subject plots please // accepting : :

i'll respond with three or more potential relationships // connections // plots between our muses. a creative exercise with no pressure to follow up, but we can if you'd like!

𝐢. fairytale

i see you, i see you liking that fairytale verse post and yessss. look, imagine if you will:

jaina couldn't give a toss about courtly life. not her thing, not her jam, not her cuppa tea. and expectations on what she'll do with her life are slim pickings. become an advisor for her brother? eh. become an ambassador? meh. a political marriage to ensure peace between nations? bleh.

responsibilities of the state are her brother's problems. his book is filled with expectations, but jaina has a lot of blank pages just waiting for her. she's got her eyes on the horizon and, much to leia's dismay, she follows it. jaina decides to find her adventure and maybe even a ship called the falcon whose captain might the estranged consort, mhm.

but then tragedy strikes and suddenly, jaina is heir to throne. leia sends out riders to bring her home but she isn't the only one looking for jaina though. the black knight kylo ren is on the hunt and unlike the couriers, he doesn't stop till he gets what he wants.

i imagine when he finds jaina, she doesn't know who she is. she wasn't there to witness her brother's fall and while on the road, it's hard to keep track on the current happenings across the world. but maybe there was a rider who found her first, told her a blip of the bad news that her brother was dead and that jaina was expected to take his place. tells her all this right before he's struck dead by the violent arrival of kylo ren.

from there i can see it becoming a fight/capture arc that kylo ren most likely ends up winning. so now poor jaina is not only a prisoner but by the man she believes may have/did kill her brother. and then what if on the way back to snoke's domain or wherever it is that kylo wants to take her, something far more frightening than the black knight of the fae seeks to slake its thirst.

𝐢𝐢. carnival row

critch hunter kylo and critch smuggler jaina? they're at complete odds with each other. her brother is a ruthless killer who uses the powers his hybrid lineage gave him to kill others exactly like him. and his sister uses the airship she inherited from their father to not only transport refugees but supplies to the row.

anytime they see each other ─── which most of the time is right when jaina sails off with ren's quarry ─── it's all glowers and growls. but for all the animosity, neither of them will betray each other's secret: they're half-bloods. jaina doesn't want her to see her brother dead or imprisoned by the very people he works for and kylo doesn't want to see his sister treated like...well, how critch are treated. even in the burgue, if it were to slip that she wasn't fully human despite her appearance? they wouldn't let her keep her ship or the government would surely give her a hard time about it. she'd be under constant threat of losing all she's worked for, she be under such scrutiny that she'd become an ineffective smuggler and then what? as much as her brother hates what she does, he won't put her at risk no matter how tempting it might be to be rid of such a persistent nuisance. he doesn't want to see his sister in the row or anywhere that'll punish her for being strongwilled.

i'd assume the feeling is mutual. kylo's line of work has made plenty of enemies that would pounce on even a hint of his lineage. he's crafty, like his sister, and while they both use the magic in their blood to their benefit ─── it's not kylo's freedom that's threatened, but his life. and for all the bitterness that might stew between them, a dead brother's not on her wishlist.

as for the plot? i feel like there's a lot of interactions they could have. a fighty, cat-and-mouse thread of kylo ren chasing after his sister as she tries to guide a group of refugees to her ship. i can see them meeting in the burgue, her wondering why her brother is there and him trying to avoid her finding anything out at all cost. jaina would be much more the aggressor in that scenario. not in a violent way, but i can see her tailing after him, demanding answers, tracking him down, spying on him, and kylo just incoherently screaming in his head about it. playing off that, how the events of the first season would affect them during their hide-and-go-seek on steroids. especially since their mother is an augur and they've inherited her gifts.

fortunately and unfortunately, carnival row doesn't have any source material beyond a screenplay for a movie from a decade or so ago. so while that means we don't have any canon to that replicates what force-sensitivity would best translate as and what otherkin that would be, it does leave room for our own speculation. a human-passing witch-like otherkin with telekinetic abilities isn't a reach for what we've seen in the show so far. and even if leia isn't full otherkin either, and their powers are from an ancestor, that doesn't change the targets between their eyes if anyone ever found out because "blood impurity" of any kind is enough to turn society against you.

𝐢𝐢𝐢. tolkien

i've been speculating about this one for a looooooooooong damn time because frankly it feels sacrilegious to change anything about middle-earth. i need to reread at least the silmarillion and the children of húrin or at least dig into the deepest, darkest pits of my mythology notes to sparknotes myself. i'm not entirely sure where to place it at the moment but i imagine alderaan is a small, very beautiful and very cursed kingdom of men. the ruling bloodline has been thoroughly plagued by internal conflict with their alliances flip-flopping every generation or so. and it's because of that there's inherited weakness to the call of the dark and a very young ben would've been susceptible to the whispers of a servant of sauron.

i'm sure ben is good at hiding it but it's only a matter of time before someone hears him mumbling to himself in the dark tongue and wondering where the fuck he picked that trick up.

but yes! this verse is very theoretical at the moment because there's a lot of events to work around, especially with the specific placement of alderaan. i do fancy the idea of them being within the sights of angmar though and leia having screaming matches with the witch-king since the day she was born. it would also lend to just how corrupted their lands are and why there's a strong influence of evil bleeding into its heirs. but i'm also digging the idea of having them border ithilien, so they get to have that look of "the prettiest in the westlands" look but the corruption of the morgulduin seeps into their soil.

that latter idea is what i'm really focusing on because the idea of rebellious scamp royals ben and jaina sneaking off to go adventuring and seeing minas morgul is a such a morbid mood because just imagine feeling the evil radiating around them. ben, of course, wants a closer look. he's drawn to it and jaina's just like "haha we're in danger."

𝐢𝐯. time period horror

i'm not entirely sure on what time period because i'm very drawn to a colonial setting for the vvitch and sleepy hollow oomph but also early 1900s is a such a fantastic gothic period that would put them through the gauntlet. it's modern, but with still a lot of untouched wilderness for them to get dragged through by a pair of clawed hands attached to gnashing teeth. but either way, something that mixes american horror classics like witchcraft + washington irving + lovecraft + edgar allan poe.

i don't have a solid idea for an over-arc plot but i imagine something episodic. like different mysteries and hunts that they go on and experiencing the strife that goes along with the real world events happening as they get dunked on by cryptids. plus, i doubt they'd be fully human themselves.

i think in this verse, we would get to see what they'd be like as brother and sister without corruption physically taking jaina's brother away from her, but i do think ben would still have dark tendencies and the deeper they go into an unseen world of monsters and magic... *cue maniacal coffee sipping*

𝐯. the children of indi-han-a jones

a verse with indiana jones and the mummy vibes? mhm. yes please. also gives the solo sibs to be their solo-iest because i don't think ben would be evil. he might be morally grey with that good old hollywood american ability of getting himself into completely avoidable trouble, but an heir of darkness he is not. he might be prone to dark influences/curses but s'little different. anyway, this in the late 1800s to the early 1900s setting? gimme.

#⋞ answered ⋟ // the voices never stop.#yunharlaquin #*projectile word vomit*

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sketchesbydean · 4 years

Text

A Book I’m Writing: The Island Crown Ch. 1

A day would come when the tide might drop like the sky from above and vanish you in the closing mouth of a wave. Then the earth would turn black and dark with stillness, the light never to be seen again. That day was tomorrow for all Bali could see.

A sudden crackle spit white light across the gray-washed horizon and Bali grimaced. Then, like the two had corroborated together, a hand whacked her shoulder and sent her pencil in a jagged scribble down her brown page. But her string bound notebook laid unmoved on her lap, so she continued to write.

The hand came from a looming figure behind her. It crouched down again and delivered a series of whacks to her shoulder, knuckled and quick as to result in a mess of graphite punctures on her page. It was not enough to harm her, but irritating enough to enlist a response. Without a sigh, without a glance up, Bali slides her pencil into the book like a bookmark and confronts the horizon once more.

The unseen person had no effect on her, but the expanse of water was worrying. This time the figure nudges with their knee, leaning their weight on and off her back.

“Bali. Ba-li. Baa-li,” the figure whines.

She breathes in deep, mind nowhere near the interaction.

“Dinner’s ready.”

Bali gets up, as if she meant to do it of her own will all along. She turns to face Dewa, who towers over her like he does over everybody. Time had curbed her pride of being outgrown by her younger brother, but the thorn that said to splinter any challenge to her authority remained unmoved.

She walked towards land from the wide platform of the bamboo dock without acknowledging him, watching her feet land as a solid color beside the ever-shifting ripple of water.

As they walk back, Dewa nudges her with his shoulder again. It became bothersome and she tried with every ill-tempered cell in her body to remind herself that it was a coping mechanism. His behavior was affection that is not to be misinterpreted as malice, because although no one kept track of it and no one mentioned it, he knew about tomorrow too. Tomorrow was the day another sibling was sacrificed to the fairies.

Nine siblings had been sent to Nusa Irian to be fostered. Two were already gone, put on a ship and sent to the First Land where the fairies would eat their hearts for breakfast. Jusuf and Wayan had been gone nearly a year and no word reached the younger siblings of whether they had survived the journey. The seven remaining on the island thought about them everyday, waiting scared and silent for their turn to be taken away. Bali wondered what the ship that carried her tomorrow would look like.

The fifty or so meters went quick and before Dewa could adjust to the solidness of dirt at the end, Bali suddenly nudges him back with more strength than he knew she had. He stumbled towards the forest but stayed off the ground, smirking at her and resorting to words instead.

“We’re going to be late. Nearly an hour’s ride and you’re slow. A fallen tree in our path sends you around instead of over,” he said.

“That’s Suri, you idiot. I can ride.”

Bali slides her notebook into her back pocket and uses the dock’s railing as a pedestal to get on her horse. Dewa pushes at Bali’s horses’ shoulder to stir it awake before getting on his own.

“Ugh. I have too many sisters, that’s a fact.”

They chuckle only to realize they had it wrong. A quiet moment.

“Tomorrow, there’ll be one less,” Bali whispered.

Dewa raises a sarcastic shrug, “Heartless. You’re heartless leaving me like this.” It’s a coping mechanism indeed.

“I’ll be the one without a heart soon, stabbed or eaten no less.”

“Good, Suri is definitely the better rider.”

“Rude! You can’t talk to a queen like that.”

“You can if you’re a king!,” Dewa is off into the woods. She watches him for a moment, a flash of competition in her eyes, but the quiet creeps in again. Bali turns to squint at the sea. Beyond the horizon, hidden by the clouds, was a place she didn’t allow herself to think of. Tomorrow she would cross the water to set foot there, once there the First Land would be the only thing on her mind. Everything in Nusa Irian, including her six younger siblings and her foster parents would be only a dream.

The next time her younger siblings see her would either be at their coronation or her funeral. Bali turned to the trees and rode forward. She thought she heard another crackle but could not distinguish it from her breaking heart. Her stomach sunk into a chasm she didn’t know existed and her mind told her why: there would be no farewells after dinner, the events of her last night as a child would start and end as a blur. Then, the next day would appear swiftly, and she would walk to the ship as a blank canvas, without a thought in her mind. Her body would move by its own volition to the Main Shore.

And she was right, the next morning when she left, she had no recollection of leaving her bed or walking out the front door. All she knew was that she took a small backpack and fit inside it a single book, praying there would be paper wherever she ended up. In her head, she listed the names of the siblings she would leave behind on Nusa Irian: Tanu, Dewa, Asia, Merah, Suri, and Java. This might be the last time she ever saw them.

Outside, the air felt tight and humid at first, but as the sky lightened up, a freshness and clarity came to her breath. That is all she remembered from her walk to the house to the shore.

The ship was sitting silently by the wooden dock, not to be spotted in yesterday’s horizon but now monumentally present. Mugi Rahayu was painted in golden cursive on the ship’s side. The Captain of the Mugi Rahayu was a man of shorter than average height with skin like coffee and white hair. He dressed simply and had a red headwrap protecting him from the heat. Bali noted the most jewelry she had ever seen collected on his fingers, arms and ears. Nothing ostentatious with pearls or colored gems, only bands of silver and gold. But for all of this he was barefoot. His name was Nyoman.

Nyoman sat on the railing by the plank that served as a stairway up. He saw her and croaked in the voice of an avid sailor with never enough water in his throat, laughed at by the salty sea.

“You’re late.”

He waved at the plank and waited for her in his seat. She climbed up, peaking at the deck. The Crew sprawled playing cards, they didn’t even look up when her head bobbed into view. It was clear to her from then that she wasn’t royalty to them, not yet. Nyoman beckoned her over, he had twisted around, legs now facing the Crew.

“Bali Batavia?”

She nods. Bali bit her lips from inside her mouth, unwilling to let her mouth open. Any word to come would crack in half and tears would stream out before she would have the chance to blink. Nyoman figured as much. He jumped off his seat, held a steady hand on her arm and walked her to the middle of the deck where a cluster of wooden crates were.

“Sit.”

She does.

“Two nights. Three days.”

She nods.

“When we arrive, I will give you some information. The same information I give to all the siblings that have ever made this journey. We will not anchor when we reach land, you will step off a moving ship and you will not turn around to watch us leave.”

Bali opens her mouth to ask a question, but he cuts her off.

“Yes, I sent your brother and sister. They came just after midnight on their seventeenth birthday. Which makes you late.”

He saw her eyes plead for more.

“I have known all the siblings. You parents and their parents. I send you to the island as an infant and I take you away from it. And when the Old Kings and Queens die, I will be the one to deliver you to your coronation. This was my job before you, it will be my job after you. That is all.”

This is what he said when the ship lurched forward and left the island, Bali hasn’t moved since. She learned that the crew was pleasant enough. They brought her food and asked her to join the card game or dance at night. She supposed they knew something about living quietly before abruptly being called into service. Just like Uncle Wayan and Indra, the Crew inherited this ship. The Mugi Rahayu and its Crew was married at birth. Most jobs were inherited in their history.

But islanders were a distinct creature, they were forced by the sun to take on their true colors inside and out. Dark with warmth and freckled from dappled rays obscured by formless clouds. And their hair was always tinged at the ends, like the sun was slowly creeping its way in from outside. The blonde mess of tips appeared on braids and dreads, curls and locks. It’s an agreement the sun had with the sea, these people were theirs and it would show. Meanwhile the fairies turned red in the blistering shine, and their skin began to peel.

Night one came and went, the time between sunrise and sunset a mere breath. Night two was the same. Bali couldn’t talk if she wanted to, it would have come out as a whisper. She felt that if she held all her thoughts inside her, she kept something from snapping. If she talked now then the chances of this being a dream came to an end. Hands worked all around her while she read the only book she brought once, and then again. She had overheard several conversations during the course of the second day, but only one was of any import to her. The first sailor whispered in the same croaking voice the Captain had,

“So there are six siblings left?”

“Yup, there are nine siblings inheriting the Thirtieth Reign,” the second sailor replied, “She’s the third, and the other six are waiting to turn seventeen. At seventeen they become property of the crown, before they are called into service as Rulers, they must sacrifice themselves to the fairies..”

“The fairies don’t tolerate anyone but their own people, they wouldn’t be safe there. They could die!”

“That is how they prove themselves worthy to be crowned the New Kings and Queens of the Nusa, that’s why it’s called a sacrifice. If they can live long enough for the crown to call them home, we will sail them home.”

“But how long must they be sacrificed to the fairies?”

“That’s easy. When the Old Kings and Queens die.”

They both shrug and so the conversation ended, Bali left contemplating her fate once again. It seemed everyone knew what the future held for her except Bali herself.

At the helm, Nyoman watched her and croaked to the crew around him.

“She’s so damn quiet. Don’t know if it’s retardness or poise.”

“Cap, they’re getting more and more aloof this Ruling Family. I’m not even sure we’ll have anyone to sail back to the coronation,” a sailor said.

“Traitors. fairy lovers,” piped another man.

“No,” Nyoman croaked, “Free.”

Bali read on though she heard every word. Then it was the third day and by midday she saw the island running towards her. The Crew’s eyes made their way towards her, waiting for any reaction. They wanted fear or delight, hate or wonder. So she gave them nothing. They saw her eyes peer up at the horizon and back down onto the page without even a sigh. Uncle Wayan and Indra taught her exactly one thing, every lesson, lecture or yelling fit all boiled down to a single fact. They raised her to know they were equal. Kings and Queens or not, fairy or not, Islander or not, neither was superior. Words still wouldn’t emerge from her lips so Bali hummed, it was just another island, and if the fairies were to enforce their superiority over her, she would relay the lesson.

That was the last time she looked up until she saw bare feet approach from the side of the page she was reading. Nyoman stood in front of her, his fingers outstretched. Bali glanced at the varying bands, then at his face.

“Your silence discomforts me, girl.”

She only looked back. Nyoman huffed and wiggled his fingers nearer to her face. Bali inched back.

“Pick one for fuck sake!”

All Bali could do was stare at the rings. Nyoman huffed again and she pointed quickly. He twisted a small ring off his left middle finger, the ring had rested just above his nail. Bali outstretched her palm and he dropped in. It was a small thing, thin and braided together from three smaller bands of silver. Bali quickly found that it fit snuggly only on her right pinky.

“I’ll be wanting it back.”

She squinted at him.

“When it’s time for your coronation. I’ll be having it back,” Nyoman growled. He couldn’t stand her silence any longer and walked away. As he left her view, the land of the fairies appeared, covered in thick mist.

Bali frowned. The docks were dirty and dark. No mountains stood behind them and as their ship came closer, all she saw was dirt and cobble stoned streets. Low rise buildings filthy with dust. Ships and boats of all sizes cramped and tied onto the deck with rotting rope. This couldn’t be where the fairies lived, this couldn’t be the First Land.

The fisherwoman who had braided and cut her hair appeared by her side. She handed Bali a bundle of cloth, a dark grey cloak that Bali put on. Then a cotton pouch filled with bread.

“Thank you,” Bali said.

The woman nearly dropped the bread, startled to learn this silent child spoke.

“I never got the chance to ask, what’s your name?,” Bali asked.

“Bajau.”

Bali smiled a thanks and walked over to Nyoman. He stood at the side of the ship, holding a rope in one hand. The mist was worse now, Bali was lucky to see the dock. Nyoman held up a piece of paper.

“You don’t talk, so I figured writing would save any misunder- standings,” he croaked.

Bali took the paper. She couldn’t see the ships around them though she knew there were plenty, she couldn’t see any people in the thick white smog. But she saw the dock inch closer and Nyoman handed her the rope.

“Much luck, Queen.”

She took it. It felt heavy and rough in her hands, dampened by the misty air. But it was real, like a sip of water or a slap on the face, she felt its weight. The dream had ended and the tide came rushing in. She stepped on the boat’s railing and held onto the rope with both hands. Her body awoke after three days of stillness and her back flexed, stretching itself ready. Bali smiled, and the words felt like morning air in her mouth.

“Why doesn’t the ocean laugh at jokes?,” she asked.

Nyoman’s fingers twitched, confusion trickling from his brow but not reaching his tongue.

“Because it hates dry humor,” Bali said in a voice older and clearer than she had owned before. Then she leapt into the fog, landing on the small chunk of dark wood she could make out as the dock. She let go of the rope quickly fearing it would snap back and bring her into the water. Her legs buckled against solid ground and a knee fell to steady her landing. An odd cackling croak echoed in the mist behind her, it cackled and cackled without apology. Then the sound sank away and the only safety Bali had left disappeared.

She tidied her cloak and stood up, the cool air brushed her cheek and she tugged her hood overhead. She would need warmer clothes and her normally white attire would have to be put away. Bali took her first step forward and the mist began to fade.

More and more of the dark wooden dock became visible and noise broke through. Men yelling, the thumping of footsteps carrying crates and barrels up and down planks from ships, and the waves hitting shore. Everything was grey and brown from the street to the buildings. People wore ragged clothes and stood on old wood. For the first few steps, Bali didn’t look anywhere but ahead. But then she began to see the pale faces of the fairies.

Their skin was fair, white and hidden from the sun. Their noses were pointed and thin. Their eyes big and blue, staring well past your face and into your soul. And their hair was all light, the color of the sun but void of all warmth. They moved like her and she understood them thanks to the mentoring of uncle Wayan and Indra. She admitted that their language was stupid, full of arbitrary excetions to grammar and spelling. They looked human to her eyes, but it wasn’t what they looked like that scared her.

Bali froze. She awaited for an attack of any kind but the fairies stood still. She had been taught of their danger, but perhaps it is not as visible as they would have her believe. Maybe the fairies posed a threat that could reach further and harm deeper than a physical blow. Whatever it was, it was not here yet.

She saw people who weren’t fairies too, lands bordering water had the wonderful feature of bringing in all manner of life. Dark and tan skinned sailors and fishers walked the dock, unbothered by the fairies.

Another step would land her at the end of the docks and onto a street bordering buildings of the dock-dwellers. She stood against a fishing house and took out the sheet of paper Nyoman gave her. It provided a single address and a name, she knew then what her exact route would be. It was getting dark and she meant to reach her new home before daybreak. Bali kept her head low and walked with a sure foot. She walked along the street until she found a path leading into the land at a steep incline, she took it.

Java loved breakfast, simply because everyone was together at the table. And the first few days after a sibling had to leave were the most critical.

On an occasion as Bali’s sacrifice, or when any older sibling was shipped away, their chair at the table was removed to the basement and the younger siblings were given a little more room for their elbows to rest. It was a small victory and Java didn’t get many. He was the youngest on their island and he had come to accept that.

For the first few years of his conscious life here, Java had hoped he would not be the last, that he would spot a ship from the tower and a guard would come ashore with another baby brother or sister. At four, he sulked and cried in fear of being the last until Jusuf picked him up and sung him to sleep. At five, he would wait in the moonlight by the beach before Bali, having scoured high and low for him, dragged him home by the ear. And at six, Wayan was tasked with the gut-wrenching job of telling him that his future was set in stone, six years was too long a gap to hope another sibling was on its way. It marked something for the older siblings too, their wait was over and their safety taken.

He was the youngest sibling on their island, the one to be left behind slowly as everyone grew old enough to leave. This was why they didn’t celebrate birthdays, and even if no one kept track of anyone else’s, everyone knew when their time came to vanish, to live or die by the fairies.

By eleven, Java was a master table-setter, breakfast-cooker, and sibling-wrangler. The reason being this: he couldn’t keep track of everyone’s birthdays, but if someone was leaving he needed to be the first to know. The first time an older sibling left, he was the last to wake and the last at the table. The discovery of Jusuf’s departure was made without him and he felt all the more abandoned. He set upon the task of calling everyone to breakfast from then on.

The first time he called out to an empty room that breakfast was ready, he had run back crying, Wayan had left. But practice breeds expertise and soon he was top pick as deliverer of bad news. In fact, after Wayan left, he managed to core strawberries and whip cream as consolation for their loss.

Today, he chocolate-chipped the pancakes and honey fried the bacon. Sided with mango smoothies and spiked coffee for the adults. He removed Bali’s chair and rearranged the seats. It was perfect and he didn’t even have to look at the clock to know it was time to go from room to room with a glass of fresh orange juice.

Only he didn’t have to. They were all still feeling the loss of their sister. Suri and Asia walked in, they never awoke early and so their eyes were puffy. Then Merah walked in. They must have slept in the same room because Merah did wake early, but her eyes were puffy too. They slumped in their seats. Tanu appeared next. A deranged arrangement of wrinkled scowls and reaping glares. Uncle Wayan and Indra strolled in a little easier. The slowest footsteps were Dewa’s. They knew he would take it the worst.

Of all the siblings, Bali and Dewa held the most resemblance, which is to say that they came from the same parents with warm caramel skin and dark hair, wavy and thick. Of course many had caramel skin, but it was also something in their eyes, slanted but bright like honey. Suri had the same slant but her eyes were dark, her hair the color of her caramel skin. Java had those bright eyes but his skin was like brewing coffee.

They all had their theories of who was directly related to who, but it made no difference. They were siblings by virtue of being marooned on the same island and sharing the same fate. In reality, they were cousins. And in the years to come, they were to be crowned the New Kings and Queens of the Thirty-first Reign of the Nusa. Their parents would then become the Old Kings and Queens of the Thirtieth Reign. And that was how it had always been, the children never meeting their parents, and the parents never raising their children.

Dewa sauntered in, half asleep and his eyes a puffy, ugly thing. He stood in front of his chair, incapable of sparing muscle movement. Java moved with the tray of orange juice to the table. He had prayed to have a seamless transition, he thought it would be one less voice to block out. Only, he misread the importance of his sister.

Bali was wise. Not with books, though she read and wrote endlessly, but with understanding. Her mind grappled and grasped for novelty and individual responsibility. She was aware of how monumental everything was, that there was a bigger picture. This crown confined her to think one way and for one purpose. Some people shouldn’t be kept from seeing the world, they were meant to free it and be free of it. That was the hope that rested in Bali, and if she had to leave, then no one else had a chance.

Jusuf was loyalty and honor. Wayan was brain and duty. Bali was heart and perspective. And it felt, to Java, and the rest of the six younger siblings, that they fell short of any valuable qualities to compare. They waited for Dewa to stumble into his chair. The room stood still, there was that creeping silence again. Finally, Uncle Wayan spoke,

“Eat. We have things to do.”

But the food was sour to the taste, Java’s efforts were met with anxiety and sorrow. So the siblings ate in silence. Java’s mind did the only thing he told himself not to do, he remembered his older siblings and how they all came to the island. And from the faces on the table, everyone was doing the same.

They knew the current Rulers, their parents, were a reign of five people: Sula the Good, Oto the II, Adonara, Timor, and Tagalaya the Small. Of those five, only three of them got married. The siblings were the children of those three. Jusuf was the first child, and he was sent to the island by his parents with Uncle Wayan and Indra. One baby was easy enough for the two to foster, but then the children came like clockwork.

Every several months, a ship with white sails could be seen from the tower. A basket would be left at the main shore with some trunks of supplies. The first basket held Wayan wrapped in a dark blanket. Laid side to side, Jusuf and Wayan did not look alike. Jusuf had chocolate skin and hair to match, a nappy, tangled puff on his head. Wayan was the color of wholewheat bread with straight, pitch black hair. But though the lids that hooded their eyes folded differently, the irises stared back in the same amber glaze, like pools of honey.

Bali followed. Then it was Tanu, who looked like Jusuf in every way but the hair which was a mess of loose curls, sprouting from the roots dark and growing the color of toffee. When Dewa came along, there was no question that his parents were Bali’s parents, they looked exactly the same. Asia and Merah were brought together as a pair. Both had a fuzz of curls on their heads, one was dark and the other a brown on the verge of orange, they were both caramel skinned and honey-eyed. All of them were shades of brown, told to be so by the sun.

The ships slowed after that, Suri came a long while after, and then Java a longer while after that. Uncle Wayan and Indra knew then, things had to begin and they were eager to start. Their role as the Fostering Family was inherited, just like an isolated childhood in Nusa Irian was the inheritance of the ruling family. Common sense and life skills, domestic and otherwise, was left to Indra. Books and arts were left to Uncle Wayan. He wasn’t an uncle, he wasn’t even uncle-aged, but there had to be some distinction between the man and the child. Uncle Wayan and Indra were in their thirties. They would have preferred the title of professor, but having cared for the siblings since infancy made it hard to deliver any hierarchical suffixes without giggles from both parties.

There were, at their peak, six babies squealing in one household. The wooden walls didn’t do much to silence cries. Wailing would domino from room to room and no one would get any sleep. Indra used to joke that she would bring everyone on to the sun deck and let everyone tan, dehydrating in the sun until the point of exhaustion. Then they could all sleep and silence would befall the tall wooden house. But that restful silence had left with Jusuf, now the only silence that would ever be heard was a threat.

Java peeked around the table, no one would look up. He was pretty sure he saw a teardrop fall into the scrambled eggs on Suri’s plate. Breakfast, which was supposed to be a moment of togetherness, uniting them in the endeavor that dictated their childhood, was now the first funeral of many to come.

Nevertheless, the empty plates came piling into the sink and the siblings slowly migrated into the study. They filed in and sat at their desks from oldest to youngest, all except for Asia who crawled in last and glared at the chalkboard to the front of the room. Then, the lesson began.

Asia hated that chalkboard and she was sure it hated her too. The white that dust infiltrated her nose and the chalk’s screeching squeak. Asia wanted to throw a javelin at it and crack the surface unwritable, no matter how pretty it looked against the book filled shelves. Asia’s head wandered as she settled into her desk, she knew she was the only one deep in thought because everyone else dutifully wrote notes as Uncle Wayan lectured.

In her mind, she saw Bali on the bow of a white sailed ship. She saw her covered in mist and muddied in damp dirt. The warmth of the sun couldn’t find her and that was as good as dead. Asia imagined her climbing steep steps and nearly slipping in the rain, cold and wet. Bali fell and scraped at a wall for support. Her ring scratched at the crumbling cement, creating a long scar on the wall. Bali took a moment to catch her breath, she looked at her scratched hand. She noticed two more scars beside, precisely like the one she made with her ring. Bali smiled and continued on. In Bali’s mind was a vast library on top of a hill. At this image Asia snorted.

“Yes, Asia? Something funny?,” Uncle Wayan paused with incorrigible eyes, his chalk pressed halfway into a word.

Asia came back to the room and sat up. She shook her head. He continued and Asia went back to daydreaming. She thought of Wayan, their older sister. Her older sister if Asia was allowed to bet on it. Wayan would write endless notes during class but Asia couldn’t distinguish important from boring. But that wasn’t the convincing factor in Asia’s argument that they had the same parents. It was because of the beauty marks that spotted their bodies. Every year or so a new little dark dot would appear on her nose or back, ear or toe. Studiousness didn’t constitute genetics, but the beauty marks did. Here they called them tai lalat, or, fly poo. She snorted again. The whole room turned to look at her.

“What now, Asia?”

Uncle Wayan had endless patience. They were going over the transatlantic trade and it was not a laughing subject. She allowed a small shrug of apology, but Uncle Wayan put his chalk down anyway.

“I suppose three days isn’t enough time for grief,” he said, “But you all know the history, this is how it’s done. The Ruling Family is given their title for this very reason, they are sacrificed to the enemy to prove themselves worthy of the crown. It just so happens that our current enemies are the fairies of the First Land. If it came to war, we have the lower hand, we are a thalassocracy. Write this word down: tha-lass-o-cra-cy.”

A hand raises.

“Why don’t we infiltrate allies?,” Java pipes.

“We have none left, the fairies conquered them all. Now, a thalassocracy rules over more sea than land, both are territories that make up a country but they cannot be ruled in the same way. How do you rule an archipelago? Can anybody guess?”

“You keep the peace on the water between islands,” says Tanu.

“How do you rule a population of different islands?”

“Equally,” the words came out of Asia’s mouth like melting butter.

“Good. It’s time for your ride,” Uncle Wayan sets the chalk down and the siblings push in their chairs. They leave one by one, arguing about something or other. Uncle Wayan places the book he was teaching from in its slot on the shelf. Not far from it was an empty space, a book had been misplaced and he knew exactly who took it. From a window, Uncle Wayan saw the siblings take their horses by the rein and walk into the woods, disappearing from view.

The woods of their island, Nusa Irian, were varied, but the ones to the north, the ones that surrounded their house, were tall and thin. The leaves grew towards the tops and made helpful shade during the day. Their barks were white and smooth. It was easy to spot everyone on their horses, only Suri was trailing behind.

Suri was easily the neatest rider. Her posture was pristine-- arms straight, heels pressed, shoulders back, but this meant she rode slow. She didn’t like going fast anyway, wind would splinter against her cheeks and dry up her eyes, she shuddered just thinking about hitting a loose rock and tumbling off the horse.

The siblings headed Northwest towards the pink beaches below Cliff’s End, where waves crashed into caverns when the tide rolled it. Suri would surely take the longest so she didn’t bother moving fast. She walked her horse, waking up its muscles and stretching its legs. Ubi was a yellow mare with white hooves, whose legs would prance in a pretty step if you tapped at her feet. The others rode ahead until Suri saw Java’s chubby belly disappear in the distance.

Suri found the tropics an odd place to live, and even though she didn’t know what it was like before the water rose, she knew the speed with which the air moved was strange. Days would be hot and nights would be cold, rain would turn into snow, and wind would crystalize into fog, all within minutes. Perhaps the most alarming part of island life was the visible rise of the ocean. Whenever the tide rode in, it left behind a drop or two more water at the shore. A day would come when the creeping beach swallowed Irian entirely, the earth to renew itself below the water and the island would break free of the nail that kept it in its place. Suri giggled at her preposterous imagination, this kind of thinking would land her washing duty at home.

Uncle Wayan was ever the scholar and he taught them to believe in rational, historical patterns. He paid close attention to human tendencies and massive movements of people or practices, how a mindset was produced or which reoccurrences convinced a stereotype. He liked natural thinking, where one thought follows another, proving facts from visible progression. Suri understood where he was coming from, it had to do with equality, looking at the bigger picture and understanding all of it to understand bits of it. He fought, most often, with Asia who believed the opposite, that to understand everyone else, she needed to know herself. Because it was impossible for anything in her not to be in anyone else, and anything in anyone else not to be in her.

Bali and Indra were of the same thinking, they loved tall tales and unpredictable stories of great valor through humanity. Often their discussions revolved around Greek mythology, beings that were superior to humans but even more fallible. The two side’s arguments made Suri sensitive, it wasn’t tangible and as much as it had to do with people, it didn’t require interaction with people. Suri thrived on interaction, people simply liked her, though all she had to go on were the few on the island. But she considered Ubi a person, and Ubi liked her too. A snap sent her head towards a section of trees. Something had broken a branch.

Suri turned Ubi towards the noise, holding her reins short. She saw movement in the brown of fallen leaves, a small flash of white dots. Suri smiled, it was only a mouse deer. She turned away only to hear another crackle of twigs.

“Foolish, child. Never mistake what it looks like for what it is,” a voice sneered playfully.

Suri froze, a cold sweat broke down her neck. She tugged Ubi around again with the slightest tension of her ring finger to the reins. Where the deer had stood was a boy with tan skin and hair dabbling between grey and brown. He grinned and Suri saw sharp canines, like those of a mouse deer.

“Are you scared, child?”

“I- I’m not a child.”

“You’re all children to me, I’m Kan.”

“Sang Kancil is a folktale.”

“So you do know my name.”

“You’re a trickster.”

“A trickster? Try again.”

“You’re the trickster.”

Kan snickers, he walks in a circle around her.

“Well, if you say so,” he says, “Here is my trick. I will disappear, and one day soon you will need to find me. Ask her.” Kan points.

Suri follows his finger to a puddle that has seemed to appear out of nowhere. She looks to him in confusion, only he is no longer there. Suri digs her heel into Ubi’s rib to nudge her forward, she glances into the puddle but sees only a reflection of herself. A stillness fell upon her surroundings then, the crickets chirping felt a world away.

“Suri!,” Java comes trotting in from behind her on his dark pony, “Come on, you gotta see it. The Komodos are out!”

Suri is still stuck in the moment from before, did she fall asleep and dream it all or what.

“It’s not Komodo season.”

“I know! Come on!”

Java canters away. Suri follows in a fast trot, but a shiver travels down her shoulder as she recalls Kan’s grin.

They reach Cliff’s End in the next half hour and Suri spots the siblings low on their bellies, sneaking towards the edge of the rocks where the grass grew thin. Java jumps off and joins them in a hurry. Suri walks softly, staying on her two feet. She peers from a safe distance down the cliff to Pink Beach. Asia is to her side, muttering a low hush to group.

Below, large black lizards settle in the sun, soaking it up in peace. The Komodos flick their long tongues in and out, ever so often swaying their tails. One of them stood up and that was sign enough for Suri to crouch down low, she whispered at Java on her other side.

“Why are they out so early?”

Java only points to the greenish blue water some meters away from the pink sand. A large white mound sits unmoving in the water. Suri squints to make out the figure, she snorts, having had enough fun with her imagination today.

“What did our island have a baby?”

Asia whacks her and gestures her head towards the white hill. Suri takes a closer look. The mound didn’t have the texture of smooth sand, it had a pattern that looked like the bubbles in boiling water, and it was shiny. Then, the white hill moved. It turned a full circle and Suri could see it turn into a pointed shape, the circular mound transformed into an island the shape of a carrot. Suri nearly shrieked. Java punched her arm to keep her quiet. She heard Tanu’s voice.

“It’s a white crocodile.”

“It’s the size of our kitchen,” Dewa whispered.

The slithering white mound splashed into the deep waters head first and disappeared.

“It’s just an albino croc,” Merah said.

“Did you miss the part where I said kitchen-sized?”

“It’s not albino,” Java cooed, “the eyes were black.”

“Aji Saka,” Suri said simply, “If the giants are coming out of hiding then we’re all in danger.”

“Shut up with your Aji Saka,” Dewa snapped, “Raksasa are myths from before the water rose. They’re human constructs like religion and culture. Not real.”

“Fairies are real.”

“They’re our enemies not stories, Suri. Grow up,” Dewa ups and gets on his black gelding, he gallops into the white woods. Suri turns to Tanu.

“It’s just like spotting a whale, or dolphins, right?,” she asks.

“Yeah, pretty cool huh,” Tanu chuckles unconvincingly, “Alright, fun’s over. Back to studying.”

The siblings smile, happy at their adventurous discovery. A giant white croc was a rare yet rewarding sighting even in island life, but a shape-shifting mouse deer might be more cause for concern then Suri thinks. She kept quiet the entire ride back, and when they sat back in their desks ready for another lecture, Suri found herself daydreaming about Kan.

Uncle Wayan had assigned presentations last week. He gave out a list of historical events and allowed them to pick whichever one interested them most. By the time Suri lifted awake from the daydream, Merah had taken the stage.

Merah began reciting the history of the Nusa and she wondered if Uncle Wayan could see the paragraph of notes she had inked onto her palm the night before. Every time she snuck a peek at her cheat sheet, her siblings choked down a laugh. She was a great story teller, but historical accuracy was a demanding burden.

“The Old Kings and Queens of the Seventh Reign were assassinated before the New Kings and Queens of the Eighth Reign had grown old enough to be sacrificed to the First Land,” Merah said, taking a deep breath before continuing.

Merah peeked at her palms, if she sweat anymore her writing would smudge. Uncle Wayan was behind her, listening for accuracy while sitting on his armchair. Dewa stifled a snicker and Tanu glared at him with laughter in his eyes too, both of them resorted to biting their lips.

“Nusa Raja, where the Old Kings and Queens resided, is the most densely populated island in the Nusa,” Merah continued, “it is also the largest with the hoarder’s pick in natural resources even after the water rose. The--”

Uncle Wayan lifted his hand up, “Name the resources.”

Merah obliged, “Wood, coal, and minerals. Not to mention manual labor. Now, the assassination plan began with the Rulers of the Fifth Reign who, to this day, gave birth to the smalled number of siblings to be sent to Nusa Irian.”

Uncle Wayan lifted his hand again, “Name the four.”

Merah bit her tongue, this wasn’t in her notes. From the back of the room, she saw Suri pantomime the names. Merah squinted and listed for the room to hear,

“Rach...malia. Rachmalia was the eldest. Then...then it was…,” she tilted her head to decipher Suri’s hand gesture, “To...ba, no! Samosir. Samosir of Lake Toba. And tw- twu- two- twooins! The twins! Moa and Morotai. The four rulers of the Fifth Reign.”

At the back of the room, Suri broke a sweat.

“Anyway, the Sixth Reign saw the largest number of siblings sent to Nusa Irian, twenty-two siblings. No one knows what happened during their near twenty-five years sacrifice in the First Land, but only ten siblings sailed back for their coronation. Twelve siblings were lost to the fairies. Twelve--”

A piercing snore came from the room. Java had fallen asleep on his desk and he snorted air out every few seconds. Uncle Wayan sighed sadly. He gestured a circle with his finger,

“Well done, Merah. Wrap it up. The assassination itself, please.”

“The rumor is that those twelve divulged secrets under torture. Secrets that led the fairies to the Nusa, and to Nusa Raja. In a short time, a drug sneaked into the Nusa market. And by the time of the Seventh Reign, it became prized in island to island trade, sickening the minds and bodies of many islanders.” Merah was into it now, her voice high and low in suspense.

She was about to jump and yell to a climactic end when Uncle Wayan cleared his throat. Merah paused abruptly, and in the silence Java let out a roaring snore. The room exploded in laughter. Dewa and Tanu were near tears, and Asia was on the floor. Merah frowned and finished her story quickly, hurt that no one was paying attention.

“People began disappearing in flocks. Then fruits that should have been in season were gone before harvest. Oil and coal began to leak out of their holes and caves. And trees were cut down at their roots.

The Rulers were tirelessly scouring the seas, but that’s the problem with a thalassocracy. Communication came slow, and travel from island to island could not be overcome by breeding the fastest horse.

Then, an offer came. It came through an emissary with pearl-white skin. They promised payment enough to restore all the islands for a settlement on land. The Rulers refused, and now, knowing the cause of their problems, they built a barricade. A thick fog began covering the horizon of the Nusa, nothing came in and nothing came out.

On the third week of the barricade, the fairies could not hide any longer, the sun had burned their skin to a crisp and they scurried out like ants. And we killed them, we burned their war ships and we killed them. The--”

“Dinner’s ready!,” Indra’s shout rang through the study and a cheer erupted. Merah frowned some more. Java stirred awake,

“Is it over?,” he asked.

“It will never be over,” Asia grunted.

“Continue, Merah,” Uncle Wayan said calmly.

“But dinner!,” Dewa protested.

“Do you want to finish it then!,” Merah shouted, frustration finally boiling over.

“Yeah! Before we caught all the filthy fairies, one of them named Flinder disguised gunpowder as ash in the chimney where the Seventh Reign met. They lit a fire and scorched to their deaths, leaving a wing in the palace destroyed. There. Done. Dinner!,” Dewa left.

Chairs scooted and footsteps hurried out the door. Merah sighed and stumbled to the kitchen, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“That was really, really good, Merah. You should write if ever you find the time. The Poet Queen, it has a nice ring to it don’t you think?,” Uncle Wayan smiled and ushered the now beaming girl out of the study. He turned to stack away books. Indra walks slowly to his side.

“Dinner was a distraction,” she said to Uncle Wayan’s surprise, “A disease has spread through Nusa Raja. The Old Kings and Queens are in the hospital.”

Uncle Wayan’s mouth went dry. Indra lets out a shaky breath.

“They’ll die within a month and...,” she trails off and gives his arm a squeeze. Wayan finished her sentence for her,

“The siblings have been called to their coronation.”

Outside the study, Suri had stayed behind to tell Uncle Wayan about her shape-shifting mouse-deer. She was not prepared to hear this.

#ya fiction #ya novel #ya fantasy #ya novels #young adult #fantasy #crown #kings #queens #kingdom #throne #fiction

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takaraphoenix · 5 years

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I’m finally reading Out of Oz, or rather I am continuing it. For referrence, that’s the fourth book in the Wicked Years, of which the first book inspired a quite unrelated musical somehow. (No knock on the musical, I love it, but bloody hell does it have little to do with the actual book...)

I hadn’t touched it in... surely five years. For reasons.

You all know me to not be someone who necessarily needs, or even wants, her ships to be canon. But on the rare occasion that I do sail a canon ship, I so hate when something happens to it. Like, say, it gets broken up so one of the characters can get married to his rapist. That just... doesn’t really do it for me...

For context - because guys, I really need to vent about this so I can keep going (it’s literally the last book and I want to finish it) - Elphaba Thropp, our green-skinned protagonist of the first book/the musical, has, among many things the musical changed, a son named Liir.

Liir Thropp is the protagonist of the second novel in the series, The Son of the Witch. Wherein he falls for a dragon-rider named Trism and the two, both men in the army, have a heated romance.

While Liir is hurt, he stays with a bunch of nuns where he meets a girl named Candle. And while Liir is literally in a coma, she decides to have sex with him, figuring “eh, he’s hard, he wants it too”, which is not how that works. She ends up pregnant with his child. It’s wildly plausible that she was driven by some mystic magical force to allow for the conception of our latest protagonist, but that’s kind of beside the point because he still was in a coma.

The end of the book is relatively open, as Liir goes to a cottage to meet Candle, but only finds the bundled up, newborn and very green-skinned baby. Candle fled the scene, abandoning the newborn baby.

That’s been in 2005. And between that and Out of Oz in 2011, I spent quite some time thinking on the potential continuation of it all.

Thinking about Trism, who makes it to the cottage and who gets to raise the baby with Liir, primarily. Because honestly, you already made the bio mom abandon the baby, so why not let Liir and the boyfriend he chose to be with raise the kid together? Just leave Candle out of the picture.

And, quite frankly, two dads is by far not the most unconventional family dynamic in this series. There is... not a single set of mother-father-child, not really.

Elphaba herself was, in the first book, raised by a polyamorous throuple, with two fathers.

Liir himself was, also in the first book, primarily raised by his mother and his stepmother - the wife of his bio dad, who does actually in fact die, good gods why did the bloody musical have to imply he turned into the Scarecrow that was some Solid Bullshit Right There.

And the third book, A Lion Among Men, is literally about a Lion married to an asexual human woman. (Who is Liir’s half-sister; yeah no seriously the Wicked Years have an insane family-tree. I’d also like to add, to make it less weird, that Capital Letter Animals are talking, sentient animals who dress in clothes, have jobs, are articulate and such. And she mainly got married to him to be safe from men, after having been sexually abused for years. They’re... honestly a very interesting relationship to read, because it’s based on respect, gentleness and kindness?)

So... two human men, raising a child together? It would not have been that far off to hope for it.

Which means that, when book four hit and it hit me in the face with husband and wife Liir and Candle, I revolted so hard, I put the book down for five years and hadn’t touched it since. Because... even single-dad!Liir would have been indefinitely better than him marrying her, of all people.

But I picked the book up again. Because the gods know I love this series and am deeply attached to the Thropp family and now, after everything, I do want to know how it all ends.

But... they’re not even portrayed as a good relationship and it’s just killing me. As bad as it sounds, but had they... managed to move on from it and be stronger together for the sake of their kid and the literal future of the world, it would be more endurable, but she keeps manipulating and gaslighting him??

They just had a fight, in the scene I’m at. Because she neglected to tell him about a prophecy from a sorceress regarding their daughter. Their daughter who, mind you at this point in time, is already twelve years old.

She didn’t tell him. He gets upset and angry about it. She deflects by redirecting the whole conversation and accusing him that it’s actually about Trism.

Because - because, back in that cottage, where she had given birth to the baby, before Liir had gotten there, Trism had been there. He had come. Just as Liir had asked him to. He had come for Liir. And Candle just... never told Liir, not even after the two of them met back up and got together, for years she lied to Liir that Trism had never shown up.

And she is still refusing to talk to him about it! She still refuses to tell him what Trism said, what Trism had wanted.

She... She keeps lying to him, twisting things, manipulating him and... just... for fuck’s sake, why do you make me sit through this farce, Gregory?

Especially since all this drama and tension is unnecessarily bloating this book; Out of Oz is a total of 592 pages long. Every single page dedicated to their relationship drama and to Liir wasting time reminiscing on this relationship so we’re all caught up (since we spent the years between book 2 and 4 with the Lion and his wife). Truly, if you’d just said “Trism had come to the cottage and the two have been together ever since, they raised the kid and No Drama”, we could have moved on in peace to all the plot happening around it. Relationship drama is literally the last thing I want to read about, especially not one with these particular... circumstances.

(He has claimed to love her. But it’s been twelve years, the two spent most of those years completely isolated together and she’s been manipulating him every step of the way so far, so I’m not really buying it, to be quite frank. Their interactions with each other can be described as cold and tolerable of each other, at max. Even Liir’s thoughts of Trism in this book are filled with more emotion and warmth than any actual interaction between him and his wife...)

Which. You know. Makes the series sound bad. The series isn’t bad. I love the series. It’s just this one (1) plotline that is driving me insane. And it’s not like skipping the Liir/Candle chapters is much of an option; the book is about two main plots and one of them is Liir/Candle’s daughter, who is with them and about whom they have the knowledge to share with the reader.

The Wicked Years is such a fascinating read on a political level, the plot is... way deeper than the candy-striped musical makes you assume and the characters are amazing. Also there’s gay dragon-riders in the second book. There’s a poly throuple and a gay side pairing in the first book. There’s an ace character in the third and fourth book. There’s magic.

#man this rant really #needed to happen #sometimes you gotta vent #to put an uncomfortable issue #behind you #and move on #I REALLY want to know #how it all ends #you know #Wicked Years #Out of Oz #Gregory Maguire #tw: rape #just to be safe

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shedreamsofstars · 5 years

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Eggman’s Misadventures in Shipping - Chapter 1

What use is an IQ of 300 if you don't use it to enact an elaborate scheme to set up your arch nemesis. Eggman's had enough of getting his butt kicked every other day by that stupid blue pineapple. To regain his spark, it's time for a plan the Doctor knows is fool proof … at least, according to certain 'shippers' on the internet

Phase Zero: Prepare for Misadventure

“Orbot!” The round bellied man yelled, floating into the base riding in his custom built Eggmobile. “Cubot!” He landed it with the effortless grace that one could expect from a metal contraption holding an oversized man, which is to say none at all.

Eggman planted his feet onto the ground at almost the same moment his two minions appeared, seeming to slink out of the walls themselves.

“Doctor!” they called, their robotic voices melding in unison as they addressed him. Their blue eyes were bright and unblinking as they waited for a response from their creator.

Eggman only frowned at them deeply, a deep growl escaping through his thick moustache. “I have had enough of that stupid blue rat besting me at every turn!” the man yelled, falling into a rhythmic trot as he headed into the complex. “It’s like he doesn’t even care that I spent hours making sure everything was set out perfectly before crushing my dreams under those red sneakers of his.”

The two robots shared nervous glances as they followed behind him, pointing at one another to speak first. With a robotic sigh, Orbot took the lead.

“But Doctor Eggman, Sonic always beats you. That’s just how it goes.”

“Do you think I don’t know that Orbot?!” Eggman snapped, sending a furious glance over his shoulder.

The two robots shrank back a little at the sight as they stumbled after him. Orbot gestured for Cubot to try and console their creator. The robot looked hesitant, but after a little prompting from his spherical counterpart, he tried regardless.

“Perhaps you are just aiming too high Doc,” he started, following Eggman into a large room furnished only with a single sofa and a large television screen mounted on the wall.

“What are you going on about?” the man said, collapsing onto the sofa and stretching his legs out before him.

“I just mean, world annihilation seems like the final step on the ladder of success. The end goal. What if you tried to achieve it one small rung at a time instead of just going straight to the top?”

“Yes,” Orbot chimed in. “A more … manageable goal might be just what you need to boost your confidence Doctor. Perhaps we should start by stealing all the candy from every baby in the land?”

Eggman scratched at his chin slowly, his glasses flashing as he considered the bots words.

“Hmm, not candy. I already have two vaults full of those peppermint cane things I stole from those yuletide celebrations last year. But perhaps the two of you are onto something. I mean, it’s no surprise, I was the one who programmed you after all,” he mused, a proud gleam in his eyes.

“Maybe I am aiming too high.” He squinted at the two bots before him as the cogs in his clever mind began to spin at an alarming rate. “Or maybe Sonic is too focused on me.”

“We thought you liked having his attention,” Orbot said tentatively, knowing full well that Eggman might not like hearing those words spoken out loud.

“I do,” the man said vaguely. “But he enjoys destroying them too much, and I am tired of losing to him. I think I need to focus on something else for a while.”

“Doctor,” Cubot said. “If Sonic is the problem, then perhaps we need to find a way to distract him.”

“That’s what I made all of you robots for,” the man said, gesturing to the walls and the countless bots that thrummed behind them.

“Perhaps what you need is a more long-term solution,” Orbot clarified. “Something that will distract him for longer than it takes him to destroy us with his spines.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I have ever heard,” Eggman said offhandedly, twisting the rough edges of his moustache between his fingers. “I’ve got it!” he said suddenly. “What I need is to find a more long-term way of distracting Sonic!”

Orbot hummed sadly as he nodded his head in agreement. “That’s a great idea Doctor.”

“I need a win right now, and I also need to divert that damned hedgehog’s attention. So maybe, just maybe … I can kill two birds with one stone.”

The man jumped off the sofa, rushing over to a hidden panel beside the screen on the wall. A keypad popped out the wall and a seat sprang from the floor instantly. Eggman made himself comfortable, his lips forming soundless words as his fingers began furiously tapping away on the keypad.

Flashes of the blue hedgehog popped up on several sections of the large monitor as sets of diagnostics scrolled across the reflection of Eggman’s glasses. What the doctor was looking for, the two robots had no idea. But they stood by his side steadfast, twiddling their thumbs as he plotted away.

Eventually, with a cry of ‘aha!’ the man turned back to his robots with a look of glee plastered across his face.

“According to the internet, the best distraction aside from something called ‘may-mays’ is another person. So, say for example if Sonic the Hedgehog had a needy girlfriend who demanded all his attention all of the time, then it would just be an absolute shame if he had no time for me anymore.”

“But doesn’t Sonic already have a girlfriend?” Cubot interjected.

“No, he doesn’t. But … oh ho, he will by the time I’m through with him!”

“Who are you going to set him up with?” the two bots asked, peeking at the screen to try and get a glimpse of whatever was going on in his mind.

“I ran his personality with every person he’s known to have interacted with and I have a shortlist of three.”

With a simple tap, three images popped up onto the screen.

“The first, is Sonic,” Eggman said. “Gosh, that rat loves himself,” he added with a shake of his head.

“The second, a chilli dog. Unfortunately, I have neither the time nor the inclination to try to animate a food of all things. But the third,” he said, expanding the image so it filled half the screen.

“Amy Rose.”

Cubot and Orbot shared a knowing glance but said nothing as the Doctor continued.

“They both have similar personality types and apparently having the same values is essential or some nonsense like that. Besides, she’s always running after him and saying she loves him. What else is there to it?”

“Doc, setting Sonic up with a girlfriend just seems like another failure to add to the pile … especially given his track record of no relationships to date,” Orbot said. “I strongly suggest we focus on something a little simpler, just to remind you what winning feels like.”

“I remember exactly what winning feels like,” Eggman replied. “Right now, it tastes like Sonic and that whiny pink hedgehog paying so much attention to each other that they forget all about dear old me.”

A covert smile graced the man’s thin lips as he scribbled the words ‘Operation Get Sonic a Girlfriend’ onto the top of the notepad he’d seemingly pulled out of thin air. The words sprawled across the page in a solid script as Eggman began scrolling through his multiple open tabs.

Hundreds and thousands of scrolled pages and scrunched up balls of paper later, Doctor Eggman had compiled a shortlist of four different scenarios that he could execute to get the win he so longingly deserved.

“Here,” he said, flapping the list at the two robots. “I’ve analysed several hundred situations, and this four-phase scheme will give me the exact results I need. Each phase is filled with nauseating romance and perhaps they’ll be enough on their own, but this is where my genius comes in,” he said dramatically.

“String these four scenarios together and throw Sonic and Amy into the mix, suddenly the plan becomes foolproof! No one can withstand this much romantic subtext without falling head over heels in love with the person next them, especially not that cocky pineapple,” Eggman chuckled with excitement.

“What exactly are the four phases?”

“Ah, you’ll know all in due time my robots. But first, I must prepare myself for phase one … and the two of you I suppose.”

The man laughed maniacally as he pulled up the first of his blueprints on the screen. The words ‘Picnic for Two’ flashed before him as the details of the plan transmitted right into Orbot and Cubot’s robotic minds.

“Oh,” Cubot said, his mind scanning through the data. “This just might work,” he said to Orbot, who only nodded in agreement.

Eggman adjusted his blue glasses on the bridge of his nose with a curious smile. “Alright bots. Let’s get this adventure in shipping started!”

Do I have a zillion other things I should be doing? Yes. Do I care? Only slightly, but I have been excited to write this for so long and I couldn’t hold off anymore.

I wrote this purely for the fact that I thought it would be funny to have a series where Eggman is actively trying to pair up Sonic and Amy. This chapter is absolutely a set up chapter for what’s to follow so I’m sorry if it’s a little boring, but things will get much more exciting as the story progresses.

Thanks so much for reading, feel free to let me know your thoughts if you fancy. I’ll see you guys in the next one, chao :)

#sonamy #sonamy fanfiction #eggman #sonic #amy #iheartsonamy

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