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yurishippingolympics
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
FILL: Team Kittyuri
Date: 2024-06-24 04:05 am (UTC)Word Count: 1022
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At the ripe old age of twenty-two years old, Kitty Song Covey is the sole owner of KISS Flowers. Or at least she’s currently the sole owner, although she’s not sure how much longer she’s gonna keep that title if she keeps staring at her latest customer instead of helping her.
The customer in question has a black crop top and a sleeve of chrysanthemums blooming along her arm. The ink is a rich purple that blends into black at the edges and there’s a separate stem of smaller flowers that curl around her bicep. Kitty does not open her mouth and gawk because that would be weird.
“Hi?” the woman says, waving her hand haphazardly to grab her attention. Swallow. Kitty lets the thought do the mental equivalent of slapping herself straight across the face and remembers to close her jaw.
“Hi,” she replies and because she was an absolute mess at 16 years old and is just the same mess but with a Bachelor’s degree and six more candles on her birthday cake, her hands run absent-mindedly across the counter as she tries to figure out what the fuck to do with them. What does she normally do when there are other customers? Rest them on the register? Tuck them underneath?
She settles for wringing the stem of a rose like it’s a bird’s neck for lack of better options. The woman across the counter quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t raise a question. Kitty nearly topples from the relief.
“Is your power out?” Kitty blinks. She has a list of expected conversation starters filed away in her mind and that wasn’t in the repertoire.
“What?” Kitty replies eloquently. The woman points to the lamps they barely use, courtesy of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The plants need the sunlight and it saves money on electricity.
“The power. Is yours out too? I think it’s out for the whole street because none of our machines will start, but we weren’t sure.”
Kitty’s brain chugs through the questions like it’s swimming in molasses. She rubs her neck and is horrified to see her fingers slick with sweat. Is that why she’s been sweating through her apron all day? She just assumed Minho had forgotten to pay the power bill again.
“I think so,” she says and kicks herself in the shin. She’s 2 for 2 with the stellar responses today. “Our AC’s out.”
The woman finally relaxes, a smile easing onto her face. She sticks one hand out over the counter and Kitty notices that her nails are painted midnight blue.
“I’m Yuri,” she says and Kitty absent-mindedly thinks me too before yelling at herself to get a grip. “I work at the new tattoo place across the street. The heat’s been killing us all week long.”
“That’s not the only thing killing me right now,” Kitty says because her mouth has always moved faster than her mind. She swallows the mortifying squeak that tries to crawl out of her throat. “I meant that I’m Kitty and that there’s been a horrible… bug infestation lately! Pesky little things keep eating all the plants before they have a chance to grow and it’s killing us–you know what that’s like.”
Yuri stares at her for a bit but eventually takes the stammering in stride.
“Well,” she says awkwardly, pushing her hair out of her face. There’s an array of stars scattered on her side and Kitty stares. “That does sound like–”
“Fireweed,” she blurts out. Yuri blinks at her.
“I’m sorry?” she asks. There’s more confusion than annoyance laced into her voice though and Kitty decides to take it as a green light from the universe.
“Your tattoo,” she says, reaching for her arm absent-mindedly. She pulls her hand back when she’s halfway there with the realization and it hangs awkwardly in the air between them. “Those are fireweed, right?”
Yuri tips her head back in a real smile for the first time–one that spans the full length of her face. It’s a beautiful sight.
“Most people can’t tell that,” she says and Kitty laughs. She shrugs half-heartedly at the plants spilling out of their pots all around them, hanging on the walls and scattered across the floor. Yuri follows the line of her hand and grins.
“Fireweed’s an interesting choice,” Kitty says. “They’re one of the first things to grow after a fire, right? And that’s the best living conditions for them too.”
Yuri smiles again but there’s something hard twisted into her eyes this time.
“That’s right,” she says. She glances back at the doorway quickly and Kitty’s overcome with fleeting panic. The cold hook in her gut feels like folding on a winning hand. “Well, I better get going now–”
“Stay,” Kitty blurts out. If she had a nickel for every time she leapt before she looked, she could retire right now. Yuri blinks at her in response. She’s been doing that a lot. “You said all the machines were down right now so you can’t work, right?”
Yuri nods slowly, like she’s easing herself into cold water. Kitty grins.
“Stay,” she says, turning up the wattage of her smile to the max. Minho likes to say that it’s blinding and she should wear a cloth over her face to spare the rest of humanity but Minho likes to say a lot of things and over half of them are complete bullshit. “Stay and tell me more about your tattoos! Why fireweed? Why chrysanthemums? Why those colors?”
Yuri nearly buckles under the barrage of questions. Kitty’s aware she’s a bundle of nerves standing across from her, a ticking time bomb about to explode but Yuri’s studying her with more curiosity than annoyance.
She spares a glance at the clock and Kitty watches the moment she caves. Her mouth twists for a few moments before it hardens into something solid and she meets Kitty’s gaze head-on, leaning against the marble.
“Well, I guess I could spare a couple of minutes. And I was about to go on lunch break anyway.”
That’s all the permission she needs. Kitty grins and pulls her behind the counter.
FILL: TEAM FIRE EMBLEM
Date: 2024-06-24 07:28 am (UTC)Pairing: L'Arachel x Eirika
WC: 506
“I must return to the fray. My brother has need of my aid.” Eirika's grim face is drained of color, jaw tensing as she clenches her teeth. “Please... I need you to...”
L'Arachel gently cups her gloved palms around Eirika's face and nods, uncharacteristically quiet. She must focus fully on her task. Holy magic casts a soft glow from her fingertips, illuminating the dark bloodstain matting Eirika's hair into nasty clumps. Eirika makes a small mewl of discomfort, stirring briefly as the healing magic begins the unpleasant process of knitting the edges of her wound together, before willing herself to lay still and pliant again.
L'Arachel winces with a pang of sympathy. Blessing upon blessings, this wound is a shallow one, and it closes quickly.
The position of the gash on Eirika's scalp means it was most likely scored by an enemy wyvern's claws as it swooped overhead – and she's seen those fiends from Grado do much worse. Deep within L'Arachel's breast, her anxious heart is still thundering like horses' hooves, reminding her how close of a call this really was.
“That's... better,” Eirika murmurs. She struggles to sit up from L'Arachel's lap, blinking groggily at the bright sunlight. The illusory white dunes of Jehanna shimmer and ripple in the desert heat, making it difficult to orient herself in which direction the tides of battle flow. Then the reason for her confusion clicks into place. “Wait, did you use your Rescue staff...?”
“I suppose now would be as good a time as any to apologize for breaking formation,” L'Arachel admits with airy indifference, letting her hands fall aside as their healing light fades. “Natasha was assigned as the cleric for you and Joshua, whereas I was to remain under Rennac's protection, away from the front lines – is that not so? My derring-do may have altered those plans of yours just a teensy little bit, just a tad, but – a heroic banisher of evils such as myself simply cannot bear your suffering in silence! I cannot be expected to concern myself with trifling details such as strategy, so truthfully, you should have anticipated my act of divine providence and planned accordingly for me.”
L'Arachel heard the cry of pain and moved without thinking, whisking Eirika out of harm's way in a blink of magic.
Queasiness roils in the pit of L'Arachel's stomach when she chances a glance at Eirika to gauge her reaction. Eirika's conflicted expression is one torn between fondness and frustration. Eirika rakes a hand through her damp hair, then turns to face the distant clamor of the raging battle for Jehanna, shoulders trembling with terrible anticipation.
“Go on, Princess,” L'Arachel encourages, forcing her bravest smile. “I shall be here with my staff at the ready, so do not falter or show them quarter! Go get that brother of yours!”
“Thank you, L'Arachel,” Eirika says without turning back. “I promise you I shall return to you. You have my word.”
“And I shall hold you to it,” L'Arachel whispers, watching her go.
PROMPT: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Date: 2024-06-24 07:44 pm (UTC)‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
- T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land
According to Wikipedia, hyacinths were sacred to Aphrodite.
PROMPT: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Date: 2024-06-24 07:50 pm (UTC)Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
- T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land
The opening stanza of Eliot’s poem is a reference to and inversion of the opening line of Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, and may have also been inspired by the opening lines of the Walt Whitman poem from my next prompt.
PROMPT: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Date: 2024-06-24 07:53 pm (UTC)And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of [her] I love.
- Walt Whitman, When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d, an elegy written for Abraham Lincoln (and with one pronoun swapped out for yuri purposes)
PROMPT: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Date: 2024-06-24 08:01 pm (UTC)There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
- T. S. Eliot, The Hollow Men
FILL: Team Kittyuri
Date: 2024-06-24 11:48 pm (UTC)FILL: TEAM FIRE EMBLEM
Date: 2024-06-25 12:03 am (UTC)Pairing: L'Arachel x Eirika
WC: 640
L'Arachel takes a seat beside Eirika on the shaded bank of the river, neatly folding her legs to one side as a proper lady should. The water flows swift but shallow before them, tumbling over smooth pebbles with a soft but steady gurgle. Willow branches bend gracefully above their heads all the way to touch the glassy surface of the river.
Eirika remains silent as she works an oiled cloth over the worn blade of her rapier. It's seen much use of late. L'Arachel graciously allows Eirika time to finish her maintenance in peace, though she can't help but muse on what a chore it must be, constantly having to clean and sharpen one's pointy things, preventing against rust and whatnot. Magic staves are so much simpler. Either they work or they don't, and as soon as they're broken, they're simply discarded and replaced with a shiny new one.
(Why, in a pinch, L'Arachel can even whack a monster with a staff, so really, they're more efficient than swords! Twice as many uses!)
“L'Arachel,” Eirika says softly, startling her from her reverie. “Do you regret your decision to join this war? To join me?”
L'Arachel laughs outright. “Why, it is my life's very calling, my divine purpose, to rid the world of monstrosities as my sacred ancestor did, and be praised by the masses as a legendary hero! Whysoever would you think otherwise?”
“Of course.” Eirika smiles, although still she droops like a wilting flower, melancholia plaguing her soul. “You have never doubted yourself or the path you tread. You and Ephraim have that admirable trait in common. Would that I had half your assuredness...”
“My dearest Eirika, you are a princess among princesses,” L'Arachel babbles, leaning closer in her eagerness to convey her opinion. “There should be no word for doubt in your vocabulary! With you as a shining example of the marriage between beauty and strength, refinement and grace, brilliance and beauty – did I say beauty already? You are strikingly beautiful, after all, so it bears repeating! Anyway, the point is, anyone should consider themselves fortunate to find themselves at your side–!”
Eirika lays a light hand on L'Arachel's shoulder, cutting short her rambling stream of dialogue. “Do you, though?”
“Consider myself fortunate, you mean?” L'Arachel swallows around a sudden lump in her throat, her nervous voice pitching high. “I have no need of luck when I have divine grace on my side, but I would happily follow you wherever you lead, as long I should live, 'til death do us part!”
“Is that truly how you feel?” A small smile now plays on Eirika's lips.
“Most certainly! I would not jest about such matters,” L'Arachel says haughtily, straightening up as her cheeks color. “I would choose you a thousand times over! And take heart: troubadours shall sing for centuries to come of my epic exploits and womanly charms, and by association, they shall also sing of you! Is that not wondrous news indeed?”
“Indeed,” Eirika agrees, sliding her rapier back into its sheath. She gazes out over the river for a moment longer, then adds softly, “Thank you, L'Arachel. You do have a unique way of making even the most insistent voice of doubt in my mind seem inconsequential.”
“'Tis mere devilry at work! You must develop the mental fortitude to never listen to anyone, even yourself! If ill thoughts begin to torment you unfairly in the future, bring them to me sooner,” L'Arachel says fiercely, picking up her staff and waving it about for emphasis. “I shall beat some sense back into you, like this! And that, and that!”
“That is... certainly enthusiastic,” Eirika says, ducking beneath L'Arachel's wild swings. “Do promise you won't literally knock me senseless, won't you? You are still listening to me... right?”
“And that! And that!”
“...L'Arachel?”
“Aaand that! Hahaha!”
FILL: Team Kittyuri
Date: 2024-06-25 12:34 am (UTC)Word Count: 711
did i hear someone say reincarnation yuri??? i also combined it with doomed yuri which kind of goes hand-in-hand
CONTENT WARNING: blood and graphic depictions of violence because it is women with swords & also major character death but there's reincarnation
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There are white lotuses blooming when they die. The battlefield is spilled with blood, the mud caking flesh and metal alike but in sporadic patches across the valley, there are beautiful white lotuses blooming in the sun. Yuri sighs and thinks that there could be worse last sights.
She shifts in her armor, feels the wood dig into her ribcage as the spear that’s got her through the heart tears against her chest. She lets out a hiss of pain as she tries to claw at it.
There are no medics to find her on this field–they won’t come for a fortnight at least–and even if there were, she doesn’t need a doctor to tell her that she’s broken beyond repair. The last of the Emperor’s Guard, slain in an ambush like this. Outnumbered ten to one, but at least they fought valiantly before they died. At least they fought tooth and nail, scraped the bottom of their souls for resolve until they had nothing left to give and hopefully that’ll earn them a line in a two-thousand line sonnet and a seat at the golden table of heaven.
The last of the Emperor’s Guard–unless. Yuri turns on her side, gnaws through her tongue to dull the pain to find her.
Ah. Yuri doesn’t know if it’s relief or guilt that crushes her chest when she turns to see Kitty speared right through the neck. Still hacking wheezy breaths out of her chest–but the breaths of a dying man, not a living one.
They’ve always been together, attached at the hip by more than just sworn loyalty to the Emperor and it seems only fitting that they go out together. At least Kitty won’t have to continue on without her. At least Yuri won’t have to live without her. (She wouldn’t see the point in that.)
“Kitty,” she says, gripping her hand in hers. Kitty’s gaze is loose and languid as it tracks her face. Her blade is shattered on her knee, the tip impaled in a skull next to them. “Kitty, look at me.”
“I,” Kitty swallows, a line of blood trailing down her face. Yuri wipes it away with her thumb and licks it clean. “I guess I shouldn’t have skipped so much training, huh?”
Yuri laughs, her nose in the petals. Kitty makes her shredded heart feel light in her chest.
“You were a shitty lieutenant,” she spits out. It’s all spilling out of her–sincerity mixing with the blood that dribbles down her mouth. “But you’re not bad company to go out with.”
Kitty licks her lips and scowls, defiant even in death.
“Partner,” she insists stubbornly. They’re toying with the semantics even on the brink of death.
Yuri laughs and concedes because it’s Kitty–it’s always Kitty and she’s never been able to say no to a face like hers.
“Partner,” she echoes quietly and her arms buckle under her as she lands with her chin on the dirt.
She wonders if in a hundred years, they will remember the sorry excuse of a battle fought here. She wonders if in a thousand years, the Empire will still stand. She wonders if in ten thousand, there will still be people to walk the path of her graveyard.
She wonders if she will become fertilizer for the next batch of white lotuses, witness to another pair of star-crossed lovers meeting their untimely end.
She closes her eyes. Beside her, Kitty’s chest has gone still in her armor and her fingers have gone cold. Yuri stops wondering after that.
------------------------------------------------------------
There is a girl standing alone at the entrance ceremony, looking like a child abandoned on their first day of daycare. Yuri raises one arm in a greeting.
“Hi!” she yells across the field. “You lost?”
The girl turns and there’s something heavy in the weight of her expression. She’s drawn in bold, brash lines against the outline of the crowd, like she’s done in charcoal on a watercolor painting.
They’ve never met before but something like recognition crosses her face when she spots Yuri. She raises one hand and waves back, a smile pressed onto her face.
There’s something glinting in the sun and Yuri squints to make it out.
Pinned to her breast pocket is a small white lotus.
FILL: Team Kittyuri
Date: 2024-06-25 01:27 am (UTC)Word Count: 722
i love fairy yuri
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Minho makes fun of all the foxgloves she plants until a fairy shows up on her doorstep one day.
“Hi,” she says for lack of better options, hoping against hope that pleasantries are universal. The fairy blinks slowly at her in response.
The fairy in front of her doesn’t fit the typical stereotype from stories. She’s a little bit taller than Kitty with her feet an inch above the ground, the silver wings on her back beating back and forth in some cross between a hummingbird and a bee. They glint brilliantly where they catch the light.
No one told her fairies that wore denim jackets instead of ballerina tutus. No one told her that fairies were this pretty either. (She would’ve planted more foxgloves then.)
“I’m Kitty,” she says, wiping her palm against her apron to get the sweat off. She sticks it awkwardly out to her when it's not quite dry but at least less damp.
“Yuri,” the fairy responds. Her voice is a melody that would put a choir to shame.
Yuri noticeably does not take her hand and Kitty eventually lets it fall limp against her side.
“I heard that you guys sometimes use these things as hats!” she says, gesturing towards the pink flowers blooming between them.
They both stare at the petals that can’t be more than a few inches wide unfurled.
“A hat,” Yuri echoes dully. “For my finger maybe.”
“Ah,” Kitty replies eloquently and makes a mental note to find whoever the fuck published the latest almanac on fairies and beat the absolute life out of them for the inaccuracy.
“Why didn’t you come earlier–when I first planted the foxgloves?”
Yuri shrugs as she leans against the fencepost.
“Would you trust a pot of gold that appeared one day on the side of the road?”
“Touché,” Kitty says but Yuri still reaches for the flowers regardless. She plucks them up by the stem and folds them into a pocket in her jacket that seems to spill out into infinity. A pocket dimension in her pocket. Kitty giggles.
“What do you want, Kitty from KISS?” Yuri asks her.
She jolts at the words before remembering the shaky lettering going across the wood. Kitty’s KISS Cabin, she had spelled out in paint one time when she was twelve with too much free time on her hands and though the letters have faded, she keeps the colors around for nostalgic reasons. Or something like that.
“You don’t have to,” she explains, trying to cram a childhood into her words. “That’s–you can call me just Kitty.”
“Just Kitty,” Yuri echoes and Kitty doesn’t have the heart or the energy to correct her.
“I heard you’d grant a wish if I could find one of you,” Kitty says, voice hopeful. Yuri stares at her like she’s trying to study her in the sunlight.
“We don’t grant wishes,” she replies, bemused. “You’re thinking of genies. What would you have wished for?”
“For my neighbor to have bad skin for the rest of his life.”
Yuri blinks at her and Kitty’s not sure if it’s amusement or disappointment in her eyes this time.
“You summoned a fairy from the woods to play a prank on your neighbor.”
“It wouldn’t be a prank–he treats his skin like it’s made of gold or something! It would have devastated him.”
Yuri laughs for the first time in their conversation–laughs a real laugh that has her clutching at her stomach and wiping tears from her eyes. She looks almost human like this, save for the giant silver wings still beating behind her back.
“Just Kitty, you are the most interesting person I’ve met in a while,” she sighs, rubbing at her cheeks. “Why don’t you come with me–just for a little bit?”
Kitty stalls like an overturned engine. She’d been a good kid. She had all the rules drilled into her growing up–don’t riddle with trolls, don’t invite vampires in, don’t go home with fairies.
But clearly the people who wrote the rules have never met a fairy like Yuri and Kitty’s never been one to play it safe–she planted flowers on the off-chance they’d attract fairies after all. Kitty takes her hand amidst all the ringing alarm bells going off in her head.
“Lead the way.”
PROMPT: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Date: 2024-06-25 02:43 am (UTC)Like four feet dangling in the stream
But the Kingdom of God, it's a pressure machine
Every step, gotta keep it clean
…
I, I don't remember the last time you asked how I was
Don't you feel the time slipping away?
It ain't funny at all
It's gonna break your heart one day
…
Life'll grow you a big red rose
Then rip it from beneath your nose
Run it through the pressure machine
And spit you out a name tag memory
- The Killers, Pressure Machine
PROMPT: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Date: 2024-06-25 03:05 am (UTC)You belong somewhere close to me
Far away from your trouble and worry
You belong somewhere you feel free
- Tom Petty, Wildflowers
FILL - TOKUSATSU YURI SHIPS UNITED FRONT
Date: 2024-06-26 02:37 am (UTC)Canon: Tatort Zürich
Words: 1337
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Puddles are carefree in lining the walkways of Zürich, and even more so in mixing with the earth below Isabelle’s feet.
The flowers in front of her must be quite the performers; they refuse to hide themselves even under gloomy skies. Bubblegum blossoms stand bright — first against their dulled greenery, then the even more lustreless visage of the city altogether. Sugar and petrichor hang in the air, lingering around both her and her companion.
“They’re toxic, you know,” Ott mutters.
Isabelle replies, “What?”
“The oleander over there. They’re toxic. Or so Noah told me.”
Of that, Isabelle had no clue. But it’s very like Ott to keep note of these tiny little details; it’s quite useful, especially in cases like these, where flowers find themselves at center stage of a murder case.
Quite frankly, Isabelle isn’t sure if either of them should be here. Their lead is promising; times match up, and Ott’s solo investigations have proven quite the motive. But hearsay is a laughing matter in the courtroom; only empirical evidence can prove guilt.
And time continues to tick, counting down until the city can exclaim, “Tant pis, the case will be forevermore unsolved.”
Isabelle leaves both the flowers and her work partner out of her attention for now, instead crouching down. Surely, a bloodstained ring would stand out, should it be resting in the grass to her right? It could serve as a problem if it were to be completely caked over by mud, but if Ott’s testimony of the jewel being immense holds any truth to it, locating it should be easy if it’s here.
Well, immense is paraphrasing it. She had compared it to some American candy Isabelle had never heard of before. While the name long slipped out of Isabelle’s mind, the shape — gem comically larger than the ring itself — stays at the front.
“Could you remind me what the gem was again?” she asks, “Diamond?”
“Yeah,” Ott replies, “Pink, to be specific.”
Right, right. Pink. It’s a shame that Isabelle has no visual guide to assist her, but Ott is enough — in this case, more than. Even still, it is better that Ott stays within Isabelle’s sights than out, lest she end up being her usual reckless self.
It’s dangerous, more so than usual. Isabelle had perused through the letter on Ott’s desk. There, neat, violet-inked penmanship had gleefully spilled a long, increasingly colourful list of threats should the writer ever cross paths with Ott again. Anonymous, naturally; whoever’s hand had drafted such a horrid letter is still unknown.
Ott doesn’t seem as terrified about the prospect. But Isabelle’s mind has long lost the battle of keeping these scenarios out of her mind; she has seen too much, where letters just like these have led to a trip to the morgue.
And if Isabelle were to see Ott’s body growing colder on a morgue gurney, eyes glassily empty, if Isabelle were to have no one snarking in her ear, if Isabelle were to realize that her back has now been left bare, without a reckless soul to watch out for-
“Isabelle?”
Oleander and petrichor. Ott’s voice rings her name in her ears, and it is a much gentler landing for Isabelle’s consciousness compared to the promises of that accursed letter.
The ground below is a blank canvas, with nothing to feed Isabelle’s imagination. She takes in one breath, then two, before turning to Ott.
She replies, “Yes?”
“Something on your mind?” Ott asks.
Ah, crap. Isabelle has once again left herself in the open.
“No,” she tries, “It’s just…”
It’s silly. That’s what. For now, Isabelle’s worries have no longer focused on the possibilities the world has to offer, should Ott be alone. No, it locks onto Ott’s voice, laughter waving mockery her way; the mighty, cold-hearted Isabelle Grandjean, concerned for her? Unheard of.
Instead, she frowns, crinkling her nose at Ott’s answer to her query.
“Pink?” she states, “That’s a bit of an odd choice for a wedding ring.”
“Other gems are in vogue these days,” Ott replies, scoffing, “Everyone wants their own special gem.”
“Or it’s cheaper.”
Ott is no fool. Isabelle is aware of this. There will be a second attempt at cracking open Isabelle’s heart, later onward. Even worse, things are almost always successful the second time around; will it be through heavy tears or through beer-controlled lips that Isabelle will finally confess?
The sleepy air wakes up with the jingling of a ringtone; Ott’s ringtone, to be specific. Isabelle pays no heed to the light cursing under Ott’s breath as she fishes through her pockets, extracting her phone.
She gives Isabelle a certain look as she lifts the phone to her ear, one that Isabelle has long learned to understand within microseconds.
I’ll be back in a moment.
“Ott speaking.”
The static over the phone fuzzes even more so with every step Ott takes away from Isabelle, until the air deems it unable to be heard by her, let alone discerned.
By all means, Isabelle should resume her own search. Time continues to count down, and it surely does not stop at matters of the heart. But her eyes refuse to search further for the ring, instead staying locked on Ott. They raise a good point, however; what is to happen, should Ott vanish from her sights for even a moment?
Moments later, Ott’s other hand flies up to support the one holding her phone.
“There’s a what-”
Her hand drops.
Vines start to creep around Isabelle’s heart as Ott’s eyebrows hang low, frown tightening into a thin line. Worse yet, the air eagerly steals the sparkle in her eyes, fading them away. But she does not speak; there must be quite the bombshell on the other end, Isabelle thinks.
And suddenly, Ott’s eyes are on her.
Her expression is still as her gaze pierces into Isabelle. Isabelle’s eyes don’t seem to be the object of focus, though. No, Ott looks lower, ignoring Isabelle’s face altogether. How inconvenient; a thousand questions could easily be answered with a simple look.
About one or two are answered when Ott looks back at the ground just as suddenly, and with the statement right after.
“Fuck. Okay, I’ll be there soon. See you.”
No, Isabelle’s heart mumbles. If Ott meant both of them, she would have said it. But her reply confirming solitude only begs the question: what necessitates her lurking around the corners of danger and daring its jaws again?
But this is silly. Isabelle Grandjean continues her work even at near-fatal risk to herself. It’s her duty to. So why does her heart paint itself a hypocrite, and so much so to even stop her crucial tasks in their tracks-
Warmth rests on her shoulders, giving them a tight squeeze. Isabelle looks up.
Ott’s eyes are softer now, and her frown even more so. Therein lies the destruction of Isabelle’s charades; Ott must have connected the lines together, and come up with a conclusion of her own.
We have to talk after this is all done.
The lack of life in her eyes remains nevertheless.
“I have to get going,” she says, “You finish up your treasure hunt, and we’ll meet up at the station, okay?”
And before Isabelle can even say a word, Ott is off, hurried footprints imprinted into the soil. Isabelle’s heart only continues to protest in response. Why, she should have zero idea, but something creeps through the earth, snaking its way up to her mind.
Isabelle has always been one to bury herself with fact. Even her instinct is but a mere forgotten toy, covered in dust and hidden in the shadows for the eternities to come. Gut feeling — whichever one is to call it — has always been more of Ott’s jurisdiction.
And yet, the oleander bushes stand solemnly across the muddied path, a lone message stark in the rays that both colour the blooms pink and serve as a spotlight for Isabelle to behold.
Beware, beware, of what is soon to befall.
PROMPT: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Date: 2024-06-26 03:36 am (UTC)PROMPT: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Date: 2024-06-26 03:37 am (UTC)PROMPT: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Date: 2024-06-26 03:45 am (UTC)PROMPT: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Date: 2024-06-26 03:47 am (UTC)PROMPT: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Date: 2024-06-26 03:59 am (UTC)Thou pretty herb of Venus' tree,
Thy true name is yarrow;
Now who my bosom friend may be,
Pray tell thou me to-morrow.
then retire for the night without speaking and go to sleep with an ounce of yarrow sewn in flannel under the pillow." (from Wikipedia)
FILL: Team Rosemary
Date: 2024-06-26 04:24 am (UTC)pairing: June<>Terezi
FILL: TEAM FIRE EMBLEM
Date: 2024-06-26 07:34 am (UTC)Pairing: Chiori x Kirara
WC: 300+
this actually inspired me to write my own poem, haha;; it has formatting so i posted it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56926720
Re: FILL: TEAM FIRE EMBLEM
Date: 2024-06-26 08:00 am (UTC)That is quite the list of troubles and worries to get far away from.
FILL: TEAM TOUHOU
Date: 2024-06-26 05:14 pm (UTC)Word Count: 6,349.
I'll link the fic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56914486
FILL: Team Kittyuri
Date: 2024-06-26 10:11 pm (UTC)Word Count: 937
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It’s the outfit that gets her first. A little dated, sure–Kitty’s not sure the last time she saw someone under twenty-five sporting pinstripes–but drop-dead gorgeous. Kitty scoops her jaw off the chipped pavement and tells her legs to keep moving. They respond like buggy code, her nerves acting like frayed wires as she trips over a stone and struggles to right herself.
It’s the flowers that catch her attention second. The petals are long and thin, a rich purple that bleeds into black at the center. Kitty doesn’t recall seeing anything like those on campus–not that she’s exactly sightseeing as she’s running between classes.
And it’s her voice that gets her third.
“Kitty, these are for you,” the woman? girl? says, offering the bouquet. She can’t be any older than a college student but she certainly doesn’t look the part. She’s got a leather purse with little skulls emblazoned onto the handles that looks like it costs five times Kitty’s running tuition bill.
Kitty’s jaw hits the floor for the second time in twenty seconds when she remembers that she never introduced herself.
“Me?” she squawks, glancing around at the empty parking lot. The girl nods and pushes the bouquet into her hand when she doesn’t reach out to accept.
The flowers are undeniably alive but they smell like death.
“They’re straight from the underworld, by the way. They are everlasting. They won’t die,” the girl tacks on casually, like she’s offering a two-for-one deal at the supermarket. Kitty pinches her own forearm at the surrealism but she doesn’t wake up.
Flowers from Hell and omniscient beings. There is something very wrong with this picture and she doesn’t even think it’s the girl’s abnormal beauty.
“Who are you?” Kitty chokes out when her throat comes unstuck. She’ll need a name for the contact in her phone, after all–or she can leave it at Pretty Flower Girl / Maybe Stalker?
“Yuri,” the girl replies, sticking one hand out. “The King of Hell.”
Kitty doesn’t know whether you’re supposed to shake or kiss the hands of royalty so she ends up gripping it in some sort of bear-claw hold instead. Lovely. She can probably look forward to a hundred years in purgatory for that one.
Yuri’s skin is cool to the touch but she laughs at Kitty’s pitiful attempt at courtesy.
“You don’t have to look so nervous,” she says as Kitty tries to discreetly cover up her heart with that stupid, useless literature textbook Professor Lee makes them lug to every class. She can’t remember if demons feasting on live hearts is something from mythology or a wayward Reddit post she landed on at 2AM. Probably both. “I’ve come here with a proposition.”
I can think of twenty ways to proposition you–
The Q on her shoulder tells her to shut up and focus if she wants to retain her claim to her soul. For once, she listens–which is funny, considering she never listens to the real one.
“A proposition?” she says, somehow making it to the end of the sentence without laughing. Someone needs to update the archives of Hell with a thesaurus and a ten-volume series on the evolving memespeak.
“Come home with me,” Yuri says and the flowers land in a bundled heap on the floor. Maybe the King of Hell does keep a copy of the Urban Dictionary.
“How much is rent there?” Kitty asks instead of something normal like excuse me and find someone else to match your crazy. But still–Seoul apartment prices can be a real killer.
“Rent?” Yuri laughs, puzzled. “There’s no rent at my place.”
Kitty’s sold. (And she swears it’s not just because a pretty girl is offering to take her home–shut up Q! It’s only… economical.)
“I’d like you to come work for me,” she says and Kitty’s mind stalls.
“Pardon?”
“I’ve seen your work,” Yuri continues like Kitty hadn’t spoken at all. “It’s wonderful–no one has quite the inspiration that you do.”
Inspiration? The last time Kitty heard that word was when she drew a crooked parrot for second-grade art class.
“Your… pranks?” Yuri elaborates, like she’s fishing for the right world. Kitty gawks.
“Are you talking about the slime I left in Minho’s locker?” Yuri nods.
“Among other things.”
“You’re offering me a job,” she says, her mind playing catch-up. A job? In this economy? And she didn’t even have to do a 50-question personality test for it. “What’s the hourly rate? 18? 20?”
Yuri blinks at her.
“I can give you a whole realm if you impress me,” she says and Kitty stares. She wants to ask Yuri to elaborate on what she means by impress–how, when, why–but her last remaining brain cell tells her it’s not the time or place.
“And you’ll be royalty,” Yuri says, tipping her head towards the discarded lilies. Blood warms Kitty’s cheeks, even as Yuri tells her that all of her close officials have honorary royalty status as advisors.
“So, the flowers were a bribe?” Kitty asks suddenly, staring at them. They still reek of mothballs and Kitty’s pretty sure there’s actual dark ooze coming out of the center.
Yuri laughs like she’s said the funniest thing in the world.
“Sure, we can call it that,” she says and her smile makes Kitty shiver.
“Kitty Song Covey, do we have a deal?” Yuri asks, studying her closely.
Free rent, no student debt at the end and she’s getting paid? Kitty’s never signed up for something faster in her life.
“Yes,” Kitty says, sticking her hand out to shake.
Yuri grins and seals the contract with a kiss to the back of her hand.
PROMPT: Team Transformers
Date: 2024-06-27 05:23 am (UTC)The Victorians were absolutely nerds themselves over flower language, so how about a Victorian AU where they discuss the topic and/or receive/send flowers?
Here is an example of a guidebook from 1850 that has been digitized and is free to read.
PROMPT: Team Transformers
Date: 2024-06-27 05:40 am (UTC)