yurishippingolympics | YURI SHIPPING OLYMPICS 2024

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bonus round

YURI SHIPPING OLYMPICS 2024 - BONUS ROUND 3

For this bonus round, we're looking for prompts inspired by plant/flower symbolism and the language(s) of flowers!

Here are some resources on flower meanings:
Script Florist
Farmer's Almanac
Wikipedia: Hanakotoba
Wikipedia: Plant Symbolism

This round will end on July 1st.

Fills can be in any format, and you can fill your teammates prompts, but you cannot fill your own prompt.

You can post as many fills and as many prompts as you want!

for your prompt post title, please use the following format:

PROMPT: TEAM [TEAM NAME]

for your fill post title, please use the following format:

FILL: TEAM [TEAM NAME]

POINTS - BONUS ROUNDS
For prompts: 10 points each (maximum of 150 prompt points per team per round)
For fills:
First 4 fills by any member of your team: 100 points each
Fills 5-10: 50 points each
Fills 11-20: 40 points each
Fills 21-50: 30 points each
Fills 51+: 25 points each

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

HELP l'ara deflecting onto her horse is so perfect, but what I love most about this drabble is how you show, subtly, that despite l'ara's perspective on war, and eirika's coming from similar origins (they're both thrust into it suddenly, as all of magvel is) there's a serious contrast between eirika, who has to be stoic, who is forced to become a leader, and l'ara who is... complaining about horse-riding haha! I think you capture the ways that l'ara admires and looks up to eirika really well, especially with A beautiful princess of peerless beauty such as herself mustn't set a poor example for commoners. it's great because that idealised peerless princess, the one she admires and attempts to become so much, is so clearly shown in the prior paragraph to really be eirika ( If Eirika doesn't deign to voice her complaints, then L'Arachel shall choose to follow her stoic example ) eirichel 5 ever, u write them so well, a delight to read!

Fandom: Fire Emblem Sacred Stones
Pairing: L'Arachel x Eirika
WC: 549

“L'Arachel, please try to hold still for me,” Eirika murmurs behind her, gentle but firm. Her fingers weave through L'Arachel's wavy hair to separate it into even lengths, then twist and fold the strands under and over each other, deftly working them into forming braids. “I have no desire to pull your hair by accident.”

“Why, I strive to be the very portrait of refinement, elegance, and patience at all times,” L'Arachel announces too loudly, gesticulating in the air for emphasis. Her knee jiggles as she squirms in her seat, positively brimming with restless energy. “You need not remind me of virtues I already extol!”

“Well, it's just...” Eirika sighs, pausing to select her words with care. “You're still moving quite a bit, even after I asked you the first time.”

Spots of flustered color redden L'Arachel's cheeks. Her lips press into a tight line as she demurely chooses to hold back her reply. She can't exactly help but fidget when her dearest Eirika is leaning against her back like that, touching her hair, radiating such glorious warmth and femininity, one beauty tending to another...

What a peerless picture of perfect princesses they must portray, paired like two peas in a pod!

As she wiggles with barely restrained excitement, L'Arachel reflects on one of her earliest childhood memories, of a red-faced Dozla's clumsy, callused hands tugging a comb through her hair. How gruff the man's repeated apologies were, how gallantly he offered to find her a female attendant to replace him – and how vehemently L'Arachel refused to allow anyone but Dozla the honor of affixing her daily pigtails!

She can't recall her late mother ever having assisted with the styling of her hair before that, but surely she must have, as surely L'Arachel's stubbornness was some juvenile product of her grief and seeking comfort in the familiar. Therefore, it must be inspirational to acknowledge how mature and wise and heroic the L'Arachel of present-day has become by comparison – and how soothing the intimate act of allowing one's hair to be handled is for her personally.

After all, L'Arachel could hardly entrust something as important as her appearance to just anyone!

“I haven't had much practice at this, since I wear my own hair loose,” Eirika admits modestly. She ties a red ribbon into a bow to secure the pleat, then allows her hands to drop to her lap. “Is it acceptable, L'Arachel? I can brush it out again if you dislike it.”

L'Arachel raises her looking glass to inspect Eirika's neat handiwork. It's not her usual style, but oh, how her heart soars at the sight of wearing braids personally woven by Eirika's delicate hand! She solemnly vows in that moment to commission one of the Rausten court painters to preserve this monumental occasion on canvas later. It shall make for a glorious centerpiece at her future wedding to this woman.

“I do not dislike it,” L'Arachel proclaims. She touches her mouth with a pensive finger as she turns the glass to admire herself from every angle, quite taken with the result. “In fact, I would even graciously permit you to continue practicing on me... if that would please you, Eirika.”

“Perhaps I shall, then!” Eirika brightens, visibly relieved by L'Arachel's reaction. “It would be my pleasure.”

wahhh, thank youuu (*/ω＼*) i'm glad you got a kick out of it, hehe

ahh, this is a really insightful comment, thank you <333 i'm fond of the idea of l'arachel lightening the mood for eirika, who really has so much tragedy and darkness to bear, l'arachel can still make her smile ♪(´▽｀)

hidden unn, we need you now. we grow tired away from you. our leaves are falling.

- hollow knight

Apple blossom - Preference

from Flower Meanings: The Language of Flowers

Character A keeps trying to give Character B flowers but Character B is deathly allergic to them

"In the end… all girls are like the Rose Bride.”

Revolutionary Girl Utena

Striped carnation - refusal

from Flower Meanings: The Language of Flowers

mmmm i love toxic yuri

Lady's Slipper - Capricious Beauty

from Flower Meanings: The Language of Flowers

Forget-me-not - True love, memories, do not forget me

from Flower Meanings: The Language of Flowers

Holly - Defense, domestic happiness

from Flower Meanings: The Language of Flowers

Willow - sadness

from Flower Meanings: The Language of Flowers

Oleander – beware, caution (and in Hanakotoba also danger)

from the Victorian flower language and Hanakotoba

Waterlily - innocent heart, trust, faith

from Hanakotoba

Zephyrlily – tainted love, letters, expectation

from Hanakotoba

Fleur de lis - Flame, I burn

from French Countryside Flowers

Anemone (Purple) - you believe and wait

from Hanokotoba

omg a dozla mention... you spoil us!!! I know it isn't the focus, obvs but gah that little detail about her insisting that she wants him to be the one who does her hair made my heart gooey, just a little :"} hair-brushing as a form of bonding and trust, especially for l'ara, who, as you rightly emphasize in this passage is fundamentally nostalgic is so sweet. After all, L'Arachel could hardly entrust something as important as her appearance to just anyone! HEHE cute, and I love how u strike that balance between l'ara's self-absorption, and her desire to be close to eirika. ALSO EIRIKA BEING RELIEVED AT THE END SHOWING THAT SHE CARES ABOUT L'ARA'S OPINION OF HER TOO AUUUUGH....

ship: phila / emmeryn (fire emblem awakening)
word count: 1,644
no warnings required!

The day is ripe and warm. With burning fingers, the sunlight peeks between tree-leaves and, like a frivolous child, scatters a few golden favours upon the rows of its elect: flat yellow roses and bright honeysuckle, lilies vase-like, and pungent. A horde of ungrateful beneficiaries. Each nodding head held a disdainful glint to it, a sickly, imitative yellow that said, in no uncertain terms, that the sun gave them nothing that they did not already own. Cruel things, donning the colours and sweetness of the sun, playing at a pretence of detachment whilst they lapped up what they could never possess: her warmth.

Phila allows herself a sigh, and circles the beds. Between her boots the grass curls upwards, leaning against the leather, and staining it with a mincing, fawning attitude that she can't quite brings herself to tolerate. It had rained, almost continuously, two days prior. She'd been forced to herd her outraged pupils towards the shelter of the stables, only to compound their indignation by conducting an impromptu class on pegasi grooming which had carried them through the worst of the storm.

She had certainly found the class instructive. A few hours of their fumbling had caused a swift mental note made: set aside some hours to talk through the different equipment. She could not afford the conflation of a body and a mane brush again, for the sake of the pegasi’s coat and the good name of Ylisse.

And yet, whilst she had recieved further education on the need for a refresher on pegasi care (when was the last time she had brought them inside, taught them something a little more... meditative?) Phila couldn't help but direct a fragment of her attention back towards the castle. This was a frequent occurrence, and where her students struggled to distinguish one bristle form another, they were plenty sharp, able to take quick notice of this, and - if a fit of boldness took them - make a few teasing remarks, wondering aloud what the Exalt would think of her sudden absent-mindedness.

This was usually sufficient to dispel any such mental wayfaring, and the ill-fated recruit who had let the comment slip would find themselves sweeping the stables after class. But the rain has a quality of nostalgia to it, blurring the world at the edges. That day, Phila had surrendered herself to her thoughts, given herself over to the chance of glimpsing a halo in the window with a little more involvement than she had previously.

A hope that was dashed from the start, really. No doubt Emmeryn was pacing the carpets of her private chamber, the only tell of her fraught inner dialogue being that gentle furrow which was pinched as a kiss between her eyebrows, miles away from the windows which faced into the courtyard.

She had been deeply preoccupied the last few days; the serenity of her expression as they walked the streets of Ylisse in marches and parades more troubled than usual. How best to manage the fury of the houses of Lowood and Daphnaie? A failed marriage proposal, offence, threats of a civil war that could break the nation. These concerns were the preserve of an Exalt, but that did not stop Phila’s thoughts from flying to her side, silent and far from the eyes of most.

She knew though, the moment she left the stables, cleared the worst of the rain from her boots, and made her way into the castle, that her Exalt had landed upon a solution.

‘Phila, I have something to ask of you.’

It was clear, to her, in the way she leaned against the throne, allowing it to support her back which, in tumult, forced itself straight of its own volition. Evident too, in the ease with which her voice received her in the throne room, drawing her, still slightly damp, closer, and closer, until she could see that familiar closed-lip grin, more suited for the face of the young princess.
Such an expression betokened the genius mischief that only the Exalt could devise. Already, she was kneeling.

‘Of course, Your Grace. I strive to attend to your will.’

A hand brushed against her cheek. It was warm, spreading a dry heat across the rain which beaded her skin. Emmeryn.

‘Please, stand. I’ll need your full attention if we are to succeed.’

‘We?’

‘Yes,’ whispered the exalted one, the memory of a smile on her lips. ‘Phila, you and I are to play matchmaker.’

Who better to serve Love’s intent than a winged messenger? The letters were sent, personally, by the head of the Pegasus Knights to each royal house. Phila had presented one, and then the other with their letter, and noted the way that their distaste had morphed into a sickly simper once they realised the commoner heralded the Exalt’s word.

Needless to say, they had agreed to meet with Her Grace at the soonest possible convenience. Who would deny so excellent an opportunity? The rain had deferred an immediate invitation, but today the sun was bright, and Emmeryn’s promises of bright lights and sweet smells had augured true.

It was strange, that matters so fundamental to the stability of their peace relied upon the whims of the clouds. That whether the farmers of a land would be forced to stomp their crops into a battlefield lay on the success of a sunny turn around the Royal Gardens. Such was the genius of the new regime. War was an ugly non-presence in these dove-days.

And yet, Phila was, ultimately, a soldier. She was a strange corrugation in the scenery, steely grey and smelling of iron. Her early arrival had done little to negate this fact. It had always been a foolish notion. To pretend that this setting became her, to be greeted there as if she had grown amongst the carefully cultivated, thornless buds, was a fantasy. She was nothing but points and sharp edges.

The gate groaned, almost swallowing the gentle steps that followed.

‘Emmeryn.’ Phila whispers to the crawling ivy.

‘My knight.’ And she’s before her, hair combed and parted to bear the royal coat of arms, the emblem of her ascension. There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, and Phila knows without looking that her lips rivals the brightest of the sweet red berries. ‘Dutiful as ever. I knew you would be early.’

‘I am not alone in that, Your Grace. You have come at an early hour.’

‘I wished to take my own turn of the garden, before any tour is made. Lovers always drive one to solitude, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Perhaps. Please, call upon me when I am needed.’

And then her arm is being encircled by another’s, and her step is falling into line with a much surer tread.

‘I think you will find, Captain, that I have need of you now. Have you seen the lavender yet?’

She is promptly removed from the presence of those perfumed sprigs, pushing through the dirt as if their true origins were the heavens, strutting with a scent that sickened her at heart. They smell like the court; sweet, garish and perfumed.

The lavender is similarly overwhelming. Sticks of purple incense sway their perfume into the air, and directly into her nostrils. But Phila is resilient, and when Emmeryn’s arm is in hers, she would endure any and all olfactory offenses.

‘You do not like them.’

A statement and not a question.

‘No, Your Grace. They put me in mind of the Countess of Casian.’

An answer, and a truth. Emmeryn giggles, and Phila musters all her remaining willpower to bury the answering pattern her heart thumps.

‘Such a devout spiritual governess! Why, she had so many sage words of advice to impart, it was a miracle she possessed any of them for her own use by the end of the evening.’

The instinct to scan the area, to defend Emmeryn from the scandal of their words is lost in a matching clatter of laughter from Phila; it sounds strange and uneven, breathy with disuse. There is not a moment's pause though, before she is being pulled along to somewhere new.

‘Here, follow me.’

And Phila follows; there is no other choice.

They burst into a clearing, a grotto of green and bright white fists of petals which put Phila in the mind of the delicate inner leaves of the cabbages her mother would make soup with. A gesture to sit places her on damp dew, sparkling in the sunlight.

‘I had this planted specially, a relief from all the perfume.’

Phila inhales and smells nothing.

‘These camellias are scentless, I hope they are to your liking.’

There isn’t a hint of shyness in the Exalt’s expression as she reaches past Phila’s ear and plucks one. For a moment she twirls it between her hands, cradling the densely packed petals as they attempt to scatter in the wind. And then, moving quite easily past carefully trained defenses, she skirts Phila’s ear once more, depositing the flower to lie heavily there, drooping against its own weight.

‘Emmeryn-!’

‘No need to fuss. It suits you.’

She’s smiling, and Phila bites back the urge to move closer. But there is no such thing as a perfect silence, here, and the voices of the two suitors, raised to the highest peak of exasperation and surprise intrude.

‘Ah, I believe that is my cue. Once you’re ready, come along to oversee if you will. I’ll have need of your guidance to bridge this gap.’

She stands, shaking her skirts free of the dew.

‘Dispose of the flower as you wish.’

And then she’s gone, and Phila is left to linger with the honey scent of her closeness, alone in the scentless grotto. It is then that the camellia falls, finally, into her lap; bursting into stray white petals. Recovering what she can, Phila weighs her options.

The right thing to do would be to leave it, to soak up the dew, and perhaps live fresh for the rest of the day. But Phila cannot bring herself to relinquish it. As she stands beside her Exalt, observing the two lovers slowly smile over cups of tea, and sweet roses, the head of the camellia rots close to her chest, wilting over her heart.

"You're staring down the road,
Burying your heart in the ashtray;
And you think it's gonna grow,
Like a wildflower on the side of the highway"

- wildflower, mel bryant & the mercy makers.

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Ship: Aylin/Isobel

Words: 706

Aylin was alone.

Her dearest Isobel had perished decades ago–she had no way of knowing how long now, no method of marking her mourning with every little anniversary, as though she would grieve less deeply on every other night without her. Even her mother, with all her power, could not reach her in this wretched place. No one but servants of villainy, cultists and that terrible necromancer, could reach her here. Not even Isobel’s father dared visit her after that first time, the coward.

And now, not even her own wings. Not content to harvest her very life, no, Balthazar had to take even that from her.

She roared and pulled at her chains, but try as she might, they held fast. Dark wizardry designed to snuff out her light. Blood trickled down her back from weeping wounds at every movement, the pain of it only fueling her rage.

Aylin would kill them. She would slaughter them all.

But when she finally sat down to rest, there were no feathers to wrap around herself as she wallowed, and she knew not whether hours or centuries awaited before she could fulfill her vow.

“Aylin?”

A gentle hand shook her shoulder, and Aylin’s eyes snapped open in a flash of silver.

“Aylin, it’s only me. You were crying while you slept.” Isobel’s voice, the one she’d yearned to hear for so long. Aylin tried to relax at its tone, but she found she could not.

“Damn it all.” Aylin sat upright. Her hands shook still. She had slain Ketheric Thorm; her hands should not be yet shaking. She should not weep beside her beloved.

Isobel rose as well. She huddled close, her hand going to Aylin’s back to stroke softly. “It’s alright, you know. It’s not a failing.”

“They do not deserve my tears.” The words came out angrier than she intended. She curled her hands to fists, but did nothing with them.

“There is a flower named after Selûne’s tears, you know,” Isobel went on. “Called just that, a beautiful midnight-blue blossom. If your mother could cry enough for a flower to be named after the event, you’re certainly allowed.”

Aylin hated it when Isobel had a point. Though at the same time, she could never hate anything about Isobel at all.

“I dreamed of your return to me so often that sometimes, I’m unsure which one is the dream and which is reality,” she admitted.

It felt as though she were admitting defeat, utterly infuriating. Balthazar was dead. Ketheric was dead. She alone had risen from Shadowfell, glowing and glorious.

How could it then feel like defeat?

She summoned her wings, flapped them once, then dismissed them just as fast, just to prove to herself that she could.

“This is real. I am real, and I am here,” Isobel assured her, as if it were perfectly natural to have to assure such a thing. She stole a quick kiss, an attempt to prove her point. “I am not going anywhere.”

Aylin knew that was not true. Isobel may have been revived, but she was still mortal. But she had long made her peace with that, so long as she was able to live out her days to their natural end this time.

“And I am ever grateful for it,” she said instead.

“Come, lay down. I know an enchantment good for fright.” Isobel patted the bed.

Aylin laid as directed. “Hah. I am not frightened.” Yet, she did not protest.

“Of course not, my darling. Te absolvo.”

With that, Isobel’s hands glowed sky-blue but for a moment, and Aylin felt as though her heart were wrapped in a warm embrace, the fear and unease and even rage driven straight out of it for the time being. It would not last, she knew, and she would not like it to–she was not one to run from her problems, even when said problems could not be cut down with a sword.

But she would not turn down a single night’s undisturbed rest, either.

“Better?” Isobel asked, wiping the tears from her cheeks now that they’d stopped, her fingers running painlessly along the scars traversing Aylin’s face.

One night of peace. She would face it tomorrow.

“Always.”

Ship: Sayeon/Ryujin from the webtoon, Hand Jumper

had a lot of fun with this prompt! here's the link to my ao3 fic!

Ship: OC/OC (Kiara/Mandy from magicmooshka's comic, GO GIRL GO!)

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

Mandy is skeptical when she receives the bouquet. Her cheeks are flushed a bright red that puts the blush roses to shame and Kiara chuckles.

“What is this?” Mandy asks, eyeing the petals warily. She already has her hands shoved into the pockets of her cargo shorts but she pushes them in another two inches deeper. “Is this a break-up bouquet?”

Kiara laughs at the ridiculousness of the notion. The stammering, the side-eyes, the anxious glances even as her eyes light up with the proposition–these are all par for the course for Mandy.

“No, it’s not a break-up bouquet,” she replies evenly. The lady at the register had tied the whole thing together with a silk red ribbon and she twirls it absent-mindedly around one finger. “Come here and I’ll tell you what each one means.”

Mandy steals closer like a reluctant cat. She has a scowl affixed to her face but she gingerly scoots the few inches across the couch to close the distance and tucks her head into the crook of Kiara’s neck. She’s close enough that Kiara can wrap her free arm around her shoulders and though Mandy jumps at the contact, she doesn’t shrug it off like she would have a couple months ago. Small steps but they’re getting there.

“You’re sure it’s not a break-up bouquet?” Mandy says again and Kiara laughs as she rubs small circles into her skin.

“Positive,” she replies and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Mandy keeps her hair short but it still has a bad tendency of getting in her eyes. “Let me show you what they mean.”

Mandy’s still eyeing the flowers like they’re a ticking time bomb but she doesn’t make any sounds of protest. The grumpy cat plastered onto her shirt does all the frowning for her though. (The colors are fading from the washer but Mandy loves that shirt to death and refuses to give it up to the donation trucks. Besides, Kiara thinks it’s cute.)

She pulls a rose out by the stem and kisses the petals before offering it to her. Mandy fumbles to hold it, dropping it once on the carpet before curling her hand around it in a fist like she’s trying to choke it.

“Blush roses represent blossoming romance.”

“B-Blossoming romance,” Mandy echoes, tripping over the words and Kiara can’t think of anything more adorable.

She plucks a blue one out of the bouquet next.

“Cornflowers for hope in love,” she says and Mandy adds it to the collection in her clenched fist. The stems bend dangerously from the pressure. “Honeysuckles for devoted affection.”

Kiara picks the fourth and final type of flower from the center, Mandy’s gaze fixed on the motion.

“And Sweet Williams for gallantry.” When Mandy goes in to grab it, Kiara places a kiss on the back of her hand and all the flowers go tumbling to the floor in a colorful explosion.

“I thought the flowers would look good on the dining table,” she says, pressing another kiss–this time to the inside of Mandy’s wrist–before she can recover.

Mandy’s like an overloaded server–steam practically blowing out of her ears.

“Right,” she echoes although Kiara knows she has no idea what she’s agreeing to. She kisses the top of her head and Mandy flushes brighter than a red rose.

“Happy anniversary, Mandy,” she says, smiling. The fading sunset bathes them both in gold. “Love you.”

Mandy looks left, then right, then left again like she’s about to cross a busy intersection and Kiara has a feeling that’s an accurate representation of what’s happening in her mind. She squeezes her eyes shut and then pushes herself off against the couch to crane her neck upwards. Kiara thinks she’s aiming for her cheek but the kiss lands on her nose instead and then she’s too embarrassed to try again.

Mandy won’t look up from where she’s buried herself into Kiara’s shirt, cheeks flushed, but Kiara can still make out her words.

“Happy anniversary, Kiara. I love you too.”

Ship: Minato Asahi/Mitsurugi Saki
Canon: Ultraman R/B
Words: 534

----------

Next week is the end of the world.

Saki, in the end, has almost zero regrets. Every step she has taken, for thousands of years, has led up to Leugocyte’s downfall, once and for all. Soon, she too will be amidst the stars, reunited with her brothers in their eternal slumber.

“You’ve done well.”

Their voices grow fainter by the day, but to not etch them into her memory is sacrilege. Grigio, Mitsurugi Saki — what say you — is the only person still walking these grounds that can. Isn’t that what she’s committed every single one of her mistakes for?

Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Saki’s grey is neither.

“Tsuru-chan!”

Saki blinks.

In front of her eyes lies another that could not possibly be categorized as red or blue. Minato Asahi’s brothers may put on her brothers’ powers like a costume — nay, adapt them for themselves, and fight to protect their homeland. But their younger sister is all smiles and candy, colouring everyone’s hues in neither red, nor blue, but a brilliant orange.

“Yes,” Saki responds, monotone.

Asahi’s smile is unwavering. Silly girl, there is still hope in her eyes. But would Saki have preferred another version of her, one dulled by the inevitability of planet Earth’s fate?

Such a version is impossible to imagine. Who is Minato Asahi, without her upbeat swinging of Saki’s hands, or without her eager hands stuffing dessert-sweet into Saki’s mouth, or with the glimmer in her eyes that rival the stars itself?

“It’s boring sitting here for a while,” Asahi says, “Let’s walk around!”

The thing about Asahi is this: not even Saki’s words are aware of how to shape themselves into the saying, “no,” anymore. At least, not on a humble walk. So Saki complies, letting the heavy thumping of her space-black boots harmonize with the lighter clicks of Asahi’s ballet-pink flats.

Flowers bloom, unaware of the unavoidable. They, too, are not red or blue. Instead, they dare to combine the two together, standing in a royal fashion.

Purple hyacinths, Saki realizes. To them, too, she must make an apology.

Mitsurugi Saki, in the end, has almost zero regrets. The lone regret she has falls entirely within the girl next to her, for when Saki rests among the stars, she will never meet Asahi again.

To Minato Asahi. The world as you know it will end next week. And with that too, I shall be gone.

“Wah! Tsuru-chan, look! They’re so pretty!” Asahi exclaims in the back.

Yes, indeed. They are. Saki’s heart hangs, lower and lower. Maybe, the very rope supporting it may be weaved of these purple hyacinths. And within a week’s time, this rope will snap.

“I suppose they are,” she replies.

She turns to Asahi. Asahi had mentioned weaving flowers into her hair — how would these appear, should they be nestled within the crooks of a braid?

Saki will never know. The world will soon become extinct of these flowers, and she will never see Asahi again. Will someone grieve the sight, when Saki is gone — will someone’s wracked sobs cross the galaxy, telling the universe over and over?

Minato Asahi. Even if I may no longer be conscious of receiving it, please forgive me.

Edited 2024-06-24 01:30 (UTC)

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Page 6 of 10

YURI SHIPPING OLYMPICS 2024 - BONUS ROUND 3

Re: FILL: TEAM FIRE EMBLEM

FILL: TEAM FIRE EMBLEM

Re: FILL: TEAM FIRE EMBLEM

Re: FILL: TEAM FIRE EMBLEM

PROMPT: Team Ace Attorney

PROMPT: Team Kittyuri

PROMPT: Team Kittyuri

PROMPT: Team Kittyuri

PROMPT: Team Kittyuri

PROMPT: Team Kittyuri

PROMPT: Team Kittyuri

PROMPT: Team Kittyuri

PROMPT: Team Kittyuri

PROMPT: Team Kittyuri

PROMPT: Team Kittyuri

PROMPT: Team Kittyuri

PROMPT: Team Kittyuri

PROMPT: Team Kittyuri

Re: FILL: TEAM FIRE EMBLEM

FILL: TEAM FIRE EMBLEM

PROMPT: Team Ace Attorney

FILL: TEAM OC MOON

FILL: Team Kittyuri

FILL: Team Kittyuri

FILL: TOKUSATSU YURI SHIPS UNITED FRONT