yurishippingolympics | YURI SHIPPING OLYMPICS 2024

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bonus round

YURI SHIPPING OLYMPICS 2024 - BONUS ROUND 4

for this bonus round, the theme is historical fiction! prompts inspired by specific moments in (real or fictional) history.

this round will end on july 15th

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

Filling her dance card at a Viennese ball in the 1830s (https://historicalhussies.blogspot.com/2012/05/dance-cards.html?m=1)

Okay but the way this could totally be the start of a comic!!! This was so cute and absolutely had me giggling throughout!!!

Fandom: PMMD
Pairing: Madoka (Maude) x Homura (Holloway)
WC: 716

“Maude!” The little boy, no more than four years old, screams as he bolts from the ship's cabin. “Pirates! Help me!”

Captain Holloway steps through the doorway and watches coldly as the boy's sister – Maude, presumably – throws her arms open to catch him. Sprawling on the trading ship's deck in a pile of useless petticoats and ribbons, Maude nevertheless shields her sobbing brother from view with her body. Her brother clings to her frilly pink dress with both fists, wailing and sniveling in a pitiful display of terror.

Maude's got a little more spine than she looks, painted and cossetted doll that she is, but she's still defenseless. All she can do is hold back tears as the pirates raid the cargo hold, hauling every chest, crate, and barrel abovedeck just to loot the contents.

Holloway's eyes narrow. Typical merchants. They only know how to pay others to do their fighting for them. Their sullen crew already surrendered their arms when the ship was boarded. Now they're lined against the railing with their wrists bound, dully watching their employers as they await their fate.

Even the ship's mascot, a white cockatoo with unpleasantly piercing red eyes, perches quietly in wait. No one will be interfering.

“Lady Maude, is it?” Holloway calls with chilling indifference, pointing a cutlass in her direction. “Step aside, and nobody has to lose their heads. I only need one hostage for ransom, and I expect sons are worth more than daughters. It's bad luck, taking a woman onto a ship.”

“Leave him alone, you bully! Take me instead,” Maude demands, even though her squeaky voice wavers unconvincingly. “I-If you kidnap him, I'll... I'll tell Mother and Father not to send you a single thrupenny bit!”

Holloway's lip curls with dark amusement. Just as planned.

Black boots hit the deck with a thud. In but a few strides, Holloway looms over Maude, expression hardened from years of harsh living on the high seas. The cutlass slides neatly back into its sheath, beside the flintlock pistol. Maude recoils from the weaponry, shrinking in on herself.

“That eager to sacrifice yourself, fair Lady?” Holloway grips her by the chin, forcing her to rise obediently to her feet. She's like some spoiled, tenderhearted pet that never needed to learn how to bite, and is now unable to figure out how. “Come with me. Next time, save yourself first.”

“You...” Up close, Maude's gentle eyes shine with sudden pity and understanding. “You're a woman... aren't you?”

“What fool woman would shear her hair this short, or parade about in men's trousers on a pirate ship? Are you mad?”

Holloway's fingers dig cruelly into Maude's arm, dragging her away from her brother and toward the gangplank. But Maude won't be dissuaded so easily. Her shaking hand presses to Holloway's smooth cheek, finding it untouched by stubble nor razor's edge.

“It's true...!” Her whisper is small enough that the wind and the waves vanish it. “Oh, you poor thing... You must have suffered so greatly to be driven to court the gallows so. Your men can never know your secret, so... Have you been alone all this time?”

Holloway grits her teeth.

In her dreams, this girl, the girl with hair as pink as cherry blossoms and just as fleeting, trades her soul to save the life of a friend, or a family member, or even a common cat. Over, and over, the dream ends in tragedy for her, and Holloway is never able to convince her to change her decision. It's frustratingly impossible to save her from herself.

If someone like Maude has the means to help, then how could she ever knowingly turn her back on those who need it?

And how can Holloway ever turn her back on Maude?

“Don't act like you could ever understand my feelings,” Holloway hisses as they cross the gangplank and reach the deck of her pirate ship. “Even pain is dear to me. It makes me who I am.”

“Well, I'm your captive now, so...” Maude trails off with a pensive, distant expression. “I suppose that means you're not the only woman aboard anymore, so long as you want to keep me?”

Holloway snorts.

Under her breath, she mutters, “As if I'm ever going to let you go.”

The Great Canadian Maple Syrup Heist! Maybe it's actually maple syrup! Maybe the fic's spec fic world has a weird fantasy/sci-fi equivalent to maple syrup! Does our couple steal the goods together? Is someone stealing it from their crush? Are they reading about this in the news and laughing? Could be that or more.

A piece inspired by the Christmas Truce. Who doesn't love bonding during wartime? Especially if it's enemies to lovers.

Buckle up because this one’s gonna be a doozy

Entry 1
Ship: Byakuren Hijiri x Minamitsu Murasa
https://archiveofourown.org/works/57290725/chapters/145731790

…yes. That says “chapters”. We’re submitting a whole fic to this sing prompt.

Here's the second entry:
Ship: Nue Houjuu x Minamitsu Murasa
Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57290725/chapters/145731847

Words: 508
Fandom: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Ship: Adora/Catra

The new girl latches onto Catra immediately. The rumors are that she was found in a field, alone, and needed three full-grown soldiers to bring her in. She doesn't speak, follows directions slow, and fumbles plenty of simple weapons, but her hand-to-hand combat is like nothing Catra's ever seen before. When she smiles, it makes Catra's heart seize under her ribs, so she puts up with her.

When Catra thumps on her chest and says her name, the girl makes sounds that are close enough to "Adora." And something quiet in Catra squirms with it, even though the girl doesn't seem to know what Adora means. What Adora doesn't understand about speech, she more than makes up for on the sparring mat.

They're on their way to a training session on the other side of the compound when Adora stops short.

Catra, holding Adora's hand to guide her and not any other reason, tugs lightly. "C'mon," she says. "We're going to be late."

Adora points to the wall, where jagged lines connect circles and triangles. Nonsense sounds spill from her lips.

"It's just First Ones stuff." Scattered across the Fright Zone are more designs. The Horde doesn't have the time to waste on such things, but some of the old markings are still here. "It doesn't mean anything."

Adora's learned a few words over the week since she arrived. "Stop," she says, with the same intonation that Cobalt does during training. Adora points again, insistent. Her eyes plead.

They're going to be late, and probably get half-rations, but Catra hasn't figured out how to make herself tell Adora no.

Adora runs her fingers over the carvings, emotion raw on her face. She trails along each line, murmuring sounds one after another, almost like she's reading. But Adora can't read, she can barely speak, and besides-

Something clicks in Catra's head.

"You're a First One," she says. They should be centuries extinct. Adora's right here, warm where their hands still clasp.

Adora looks up, eyebrows furrowed. Catra touches the wall, then Adora's arm, and back. That impossible smile unwinds on Adora's face, glowing.

Catra listens to the sounds Adora makes when she talks, close this time. It's melodic, bubbly, notes tumbling over each other. It's beautiful. Catra could listen to Adora talk all day.

Catra catches a word that might be Adora's name, or it might be - "Door," Catra says. "Did you say door?"

"Door," Adora says, lifting a hand in a half-circle. She taps on her chest with one hand and sweeps it through the other. "Go. Door."

This has to be magic, which can do terrifying, horrible things. It might as well be able to make people travel through time.

Catra swallows. She mimes the same signs back, in reverse. "Do you want to go home?"

Adora pauses, hand going back to the wall. "Go," she says, halting. She finds Catra's hand again. When she taps a tangle of carved lines, she squeezed Catra's palm. "C'mon."

Catra's hand pulses back while she blinks hard. "Okay," she says, and Adora's eyes go bright enough that, maybe, she understands. "We'll try."

As a special treat for its 10th anniversary: Dashcon (July 2014)

Title: destination: 500.000.000 miles from your ex
Ship: Ittasha/Mira Shifuto (Bakuage Sentai Boonboomger)
Words: 729

Ittasha was never a woman of great means - she was born a beautiful sports car right after the crisis that made being a sports car way too expensive to be worth it and her mama wasn’t so good at racing to surpass that -, but she had always made up for that with gusto. Deco’ed so flashy and pretty it hurt to look at, it made it all that much easier to swipe people’s wallets, suss out their credit card details, clone their phones while they struggled to process her.

“Mmm, you sure we’re up for this Ittasha?” Her darling little adoptee and partner in crime Yarucar complained to her as she punched in the credentials to gain access to the inner workings of a spaceship just about to launch after dispatching the flight attendant she stole them from with a knock over the head.

“Don’t be silly, Yaru-chan! This will be easy as cake!” She could already see in her head the beautiful beaches of the vacation planet she was planning on hijacking this ship to, now all she needed to do was work her magic.

Quiet as she could be, she sneaked to the main cabin, looking for the Richie Rich she had to flatter and convince to change plans. (A clean hijacking! No threats, only charm~)

What she found ended up being rather more curious.

“But I don’t really want to…” A young woman pacing from side to side in a wedding dress occupied the main cabin, talking to herself. “But I really have to! I have to pay my debts! Agh!”

The bride looked very conflicted… This meant Ittasha was so much more likely to succeed!!

“Hello, hello, Milady Bride!” The crafty pickpocket greeted sweetly as she tried to shut up Yarucar’s complaints that it was a bad idea. “I’m Ittasha, your attendant for this flight! But it looks like you're not all happy, are you? Do you wanna talk about it?”

The human grimaced, held her hand to her chin, still so conflicted! But even still-

“Ittasha, do you ever feel like you completely lost control over your life?”

“Eh?” That was… deeper than she thought she’d hear from someone she was about to scam. “I… used to? I used to have this real nasty boss, but now I’m the boss of me! Do you… feel like this, what’s-your-name?”

The pretty young thing blushed, realising maybe she threw too much of a curveball too quick.

“Mira. My name is Mira. Like ‘future’.”

“Wish mine was nice like that and not after waifumobiles.”

Mira laughed, and it was such a nice laugh. That groom sure was a lucky guy.

“Well, ah, Ittasha, I guess I… got myself in this really bad situation and I guess I’m gonna marry a guy I barely know at all because his dad bought my debt from the casino in Titan I dealt blackjack at because I whaled all my earnings on their gacha? It had so many cute sirens though…”

“Oh, Sirens of Titan really gets everyone down bad, huh?” Ittasha patted her back, just as a show of compassion, but damn, this girl really was down on her luck… “Hey, Mira, can I give you a very blunt solution?”

“Like what? How do I even get back on my horse like this?”

“Let’s just run away!” Ittasha exclaimed, holding Mira’s hands. “I honestly wanted to hijack this spaceship to keep fleeing my debt collectors, but we can join forces! Just you and me and Yaru-chan!”

“Finally you remember me!” He yelled from outside the cabin where Ittasha left him.

“Yaru-chan?”

“I’ll show you later, but do you want to? Do you wanna take hold of the fugitive lifestyle with me?”

Mira looked both shocked and marvelled, as if it was such a scary but exciting idea. Then something unpleasant dawned and her face soured.

“...Just one thing.”

“Yes?”

“My fiancé’s family. They’re from the mob.”

…That was a bit more than she had expected, but in for a penny in for a pound, huh?

“...We’ll deal with that.”

“Then I’m going with you, Ittasha! I’m gonna take back control of my life!”

That’s my girl!

And thus began the space adventures of the criminal duo Pink&White, last seen at the Autosalone Itauchusen exhibition with their stolen spaceship decorated entirely with characters from hit gacha game Sirens of Titan.

Ship: Hanaori Kotoha/Shiraishi Mako
Canon: Samurai Sentai Shinkenger
Words: 992

-----------

Hanaori Kotoha, to be honest, had never intended to fight.

Being a daughter of the Hanaori clan meant one thing; be well-mannered and proper. Being the second daughter of the Hanaori clan meant another; let her older sister commit to the duties of being the next family head, and to do as she is told.

So to leave all that she has known to join a ragtag group of wandering samurai, all clearly meant for greater things than the girl herself? Unheard of.

Her swordsmanship is lacking, compared to everyone else. Why learn the way of the sword when it is clearly Mitsuba who will shine on in the family’s legacy? Even worse, there’s nothing really that she has to stand out amidst the others. Takeru is a just leader, surely destined for the world. Genta is honest. Chiaki is brave. Ryunosuke is loyal. And Mako… Mako is ever-benevolent, and ever-patient, and ever-perfect in every way.

And Kotoha, on the other hand, lies in a humble tent, as the cause of concern for the day.

“The spirits must have hurt you a lot,” Mako says, carefully bandaging up her crimson-streaked arm.

Kotoha can only nod. Best stay unmoving, and give Mako an easier job.

Mako is fast in her craft, but even Kotoha can understand; too much blood flowing out of her, and she can essentially be considered a corpse, like countless ronin the group had seen in the vast grasses of the land. That would be too much of a hassle to deal with, she supposes — there are several grounds for objection, at least in her case, but any pleas to leave her behind in times past had been swiftly rebuked.

We need to keep all the hands we have. We need all the hands we can get.

These words repeat in the halls of her mind, over and over, voices changing at random between any of her five companions. While the pickings of who her consciousness chooses to emulate are for the most part random, Mako’s seems to be its favourite. Even now, Kotoha can hear that gentle tone, cloaking genuine worry, panging guilt through for depressing Mako.

Battle-worn hands gently trace around her shoulder, feather-light in its approach of assessing damage. There lies the biggest danger for the group so far; claws had dug deep when Kotoha had tried to slash at it, and there had been no opportunity for any mid-battle healing.

At least she had actually done away with that one, she thinks.

“Your wound is not as bad as it looks,” Mako says, “I should be able to heal it fully.”

I’m sorry, Kotoha wants to say. For it being a major wound, Mako will need a few hours to regain her energy. Of course, there no longer remain any spirits in the area, but still, for inconveniencing her-

Her eyes blow wide as Mako’s hands once again warmly touch her skin. The sparks flying through her shoulder must be the works of the heavens itself — no, are the works of the heavens itself, or at least the graceful air surrounding them both. A gasp escapes her mouth as skin and sinew knit itself together, bloodless and uncomplaining.

Her unscathed hand flies to her mouth moments later, fingers and palm hopefully covering the flush on her cheeks. One can leave the clan, but the clan’s methodisms stay saturated within her blood; to delight in simple healing is certainly not the way of a proper lady.

“You should be alright now,” comes Mako’s voice.

It is effective in breaking the buzz fluttering just under Kotoha’s skin. Kotoha looks up, and Mako’s face comes into her view once again.

Her brow is knit, but there is an unmistakable smile. Thank goodness.

“You’re amazing, Mako-san,” Kotoha says, voice barely above a whisper, “Thank you.”

Mako shakes her head in return. Kotoha is quick to notice: even her hair is elegant in its movements, not a single one out of place when she stops.

“Thank you,” Mako replies, “Without you handling all those spirits, someone would have had to heal everyone here.”

“Eh?”

Her hand is warm on Kotoha’s shoulder. Should it leave a print there — unlikely, given how gentle Mako’s hand is — Kotoha will not object. In fact, she might just wish for it to rest there forever. But right now, instead of being a steady, supporting rock, it is in turn grabbing onto Kotoha for support.

It’s her fault, once again.

“You’d taken on three or four before any of us had even gotten to the scene,” Mako says, “And you managed to beat them all. So, instead of healing everyone, or even being healed, I’m just healing you.”

But Kotoha is still here, at the end of the day. Were it Mako instead of her, surely, Mako would have taken them down without a single scratch. That’s just the way Mako is. Even now, Kotoha can’t help but admire, and dream to reach for an unattainable future where she can stand like that herself.

But… but what is she to do, then? As all of her teammates have recounted, they took many efforts that shaped them into the way they are. Those efforts are why their mastery over the sword and themselves are the way they are. For Kotoha, then…

It’s settled. She just will have to work harder herself, and pray her own efforts make her less of a deadweight.

Starting tomorrow, she will rise before the sun to train her blade. On other days, she will push the limits of her own energy, to expand the horizons of her abilities.There surely must be some methods to the others’ madnesses; she can attempt the workings of her teammates, and in turn do her best.

If not for anything else, then to not be a nuisance.

And, perhaps, in their next fight, she will give this day a second act, and Mako a much happier ending.

Edited 2024-07-12 02:43 (UTC)

you said "villainess isekai" and i couldn't resist

Fandom: Original work / Otome isekai

Ship: OC/OC

Words: 1296

CW: Heavily implied suicide (prior to the start of the story)

-

It was a nice fantasy, to imagine being sucked into a world where you knew all the rules. It was certainly better than real life. When the villainess isekai genre took off, she was instantly enamored. Story after story about regular women like her, taken to lands full of magic where they knew exactly how to manipulate every person and event around them. Even if they don’t know, they figured it out along the way. She imagined herself in their shoes, wished to be whisked away. She could do it even better.

One night, she became tired enough of the real world, and she got her wish.

She didn’t wake in her crappy apartment, the hard surface of her bathtub forming bruises where they crushed her skin against bone. She didn’t even wake in the hospital.

The dungeon was dimly-lit, torches casting faint light through heavy bars. There was little else in the room besides her, only the barest necessities for survival and a simple hammock strung up, where she lay.

Her name was gone. She could remember everything else about her life, even her online usernames. But whenever she tried to think of her name, it was like it had been carved out of her. All she knew was her body’s name: Alice.

Alice, the villainess of her favorite otome game. She’d completed a run one last time before her death. She had no doubt she could use her knowledge of the game and its characters to charm her way into a fulfilling life full of friends and love by starting the game as Alice.

But she wasn’t starting the game. This was the cell from the epilogue, after Alice’s murder plot had been discovered. There was no chance to avoid the doomed fate of the villainess: she was already here, picking right back off after the credits.

It was even worse than her previous life. At least there, she could distract herself with games and novels. Here, there was nothing.

Alice began to cry.

She curled up in her hammock and tried to shut it away. Maybe it was all just a bad dream. Even as she thought it, she knew better.

Sniffling, she held her hands out to the ceiling. Alice had fire magic. She was a prodigy, even, something she’d bullied Lillian about, the assumed-magicless protagonist. She could feel the magic waiting in her fingertips, just begging to be released.

Her hands stayed sparkless: she couldn’t. It hadn’t been mentioned in the game, but there was no way dungeons in a world like this wouldn’t have precautions for magic-users, right? She could draw more scrutiny, perhaps be executed. Or she wouldn’t inherit Alice’s talent, and she’d burn herself alive. Either way, she could end up reincarnating somewhere even worse. Maybe all she was made for were terrible lives, and she would be forced to live them all, death no longer a possible escape.

“Lillian!” Alice cried. She needed help, and Lillian was the only person she could think of. She knew Lillian better than anyone. She’d lived Lillian’s life tens of times, through every playthrough she’d painstakingly completed. “Lillian, help me!”

“Hey,” a gruff voice interrupted, a guard stepping into view from just beyond her cell. “That’s Her Grace, Duchess Lillian to you.”

She wiped at her face with the back of her wrist. Duchess. So this Lillian had gone down the Duke Norvin route. That was the tragic one, it always ended with Norvin succumbing to his illness, even in the ‘good’ ending.

“I need to see the Duchess. Please,” Alice insisted.

The guard scoffed on his way out. “Nice try.”

-

Over the coming weeks, Alice tried again and again to plead for some kind of visitor. She begged mainly for Lillian: she knew Lillian was kind, and if she could just have a moment of her time, she could get out of here. She tried for her father, too: Alice was a noble, and surely, her family would be able to at least get her better accommodations. That was a bust; it seemed Alice’s family had disowned her.

She felt more and more for the woman whose body she inhabited. They were more alike than she’d realized. She wondered where the old Alice had gone, if anywhere. Maybe Alice had gone on to a new life, too. Maybe Alice had felt the same thing she was feeling.

Finally, one day, she had her visitor.

Lillian was instantly recognizable, even in person, rather than the lovingly-rendered art Alice was used to admiring. Her flowing hair, fading from gold to deep orange to warm pink. Her eyes, even full of suspicion, shone like jewels. Her skin seemed to faintly glow, a remnant of the light magic she’d unlocked in the game’s climax.

A burn scar crawled up her cheek in the shape of a hand.

“Your Grace.” She performed a small curtsy before intertwining her tingling fingers behind her back. Best to hide those. “Thank you for coming to see me. I’ve been asking the guards to see you for some time.”

“I’ve been recently informed.” Lillian tried to sound stern, Alice could tell she was trying, but there was a gentle waver she couldn’t hide. “What is it you want, Alice?”

Alice dropped to her knees. “I want to beg your forgiveness.” She bowed her head. She didn’t know the customs, she didn’t have Alice’s memories, only what she saw in the game. But this seemed polite enough. “I was cruel to you, and I am sorry. I would do anything for a second chance.”

Lillian was silent for a moment. “I wanted to be friends, you know. When we met.”

“I’m ready to. I wasn’t ready before, but I’m ready now. I’ve changed, and I’ve come to realize I was jealous of you all along. I always wanted to be like you, to live your life. I would be grateful for the chance to even live on the edges of it.” She couldn’t even call it a lie. “Please, Your Grace. Have you ever known what it’s like to desperately need just one chance?”

She already knew the answer. Lillian had been the only one accepted to the program who couldn’t harness her magical potential, and was only accepted when she offered to do work for the university without pay. It would have been a ridiculous decision for anyone else, something else Alice had mocked her for, but of course it worked out for her in the end if you played it right. It was a game, and she was its shining light.

Lillian’s gaze softened. “I could take you on as a servant,” she offered hesitantly. “You would be paid fairly, but you could not leave for the duration of your sentence, and would be sent back to the dungeons for any attempts at foul play. That is the best I can give you. Is that… something you would be willing to accept?”

Alice burst into a grin. “Yes! That would be perfect!”

She would be out of this dead-end of a dungeon and back into the story. She could make something of herself. She could be around Lillian, bask in her light, witness what happens after the events of her favorite game.

It would be something to live for.

Lillian’s eyebrows raised. “Truthfully, I’d expected you to say you’d rather go to the gallows.”

“I said I’d changed, hadn’t I?” Alice stood, smoothing out her dress.

Lillian touched the scar on her cheek. “Perhaps you have.”

“Thank you for this opportunity.” Alice followed behind her, watching the way Lillian walked, mesmerized. She hadn’t imagined she would ever see her so animated, so real. More than anything, Alice wanted to reach out and touch her.

She refrained, for now.

Another historical kiss for someone to make gay: the V-J Day in Times Square kiss.

images

And here's the third:
Ship: Minamitsu Murasa x Kyouko Kasodani
Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57290725/chapters/145731898

Followed by the fourth:
Ship: Minamitsu Murasa x Mononobe no Futo
Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57290725/chapters/145732000

jane/roxy (homestuck)

oc/oc

jupiter/neptune (wktd)

oc/oc

oc/oc (izzyyk belongs to unidentifiedfroggy!

for the tokugawa era, i went with the great meireki fire of 1657!

Fandom: PMMD
Pairing: Madoka x Homura
WC: 974

“Madoka!”

Homura shivers against the cold as she waits, burying her numb fingers in the long sleeves of her informal kimono, shifting her weight from sandal to sandal. The servants' quarters are divided between a number of small, squat buildings clustered at the far end of the compound. Madoka's quarters are relatively far from her own, so the chill has already started seeping into her joints and extremities.

Finally, she hears shuffling behind the door, and looks up expectantly.

“Homura...?” A dozy head peeks through the crack of the sliding door. Behind Madoka's halo of rumpled hair, Homura sees an unmade futon on the floor, with wrinkled clothes spread out beside it. “Um, did... did I oversleep again?”

“Hurry up and get dressed!” Homura catches the edge of the door and slides it wide enough to admit herself. Madoka blinks in confusion, momentarily blinded by the brightness outdoors, then recoils from the drafty air Homura let in. “The great fire everyone spoke of yesterday, in the south end? The winds shifted! It travels this way!”

Madoka rubs her eyes and yawns. “The Hikeshi brigade will put it out before it reaches the castle,” she says, with none of Homura's urgency. She smiles when she sees Homura is still wearing her ribbon, then picks up her favorite comb to begin the long work of detangling knots. “Everything will be okay.”

“No, it won't,” Homura says despairingly. She plucks the comb out of Madoka's hands, then spins her by the shoulders to face her kimono, undyed and plain by shogunate decree. “We need to leave Edo Castle before it's too late!”

“But we have work,” Madoka points out. Obediently, she slides her arms into the sleeves, then wraps the plain fabric snugly around herself. “We'll get in trouble if we just disappear.”

“Please listen to me, Madoka,” Homura pleads. In a few deft movements, she ties Madoka's obi around her waist, then pushes her toward her socks. “Come with me and I can show you!”

They emerge from the servants' quarters hand-in-hand, huddled together against the cold. A blizzard is surely on its way. A gust of wintry wind snatches the ribbon tying Homura's long hair and sends it dancing out of her reach, a sliver of tsubaki red against a backdrop of falling ash and snow.

“Oh no,” Madoka says sadly, watching the ribbon snag on a high branch. Purple and red are forbidden for the lower classes to wear, so the ribbon was their little secret, one they would pass back and forth and hide during the day. “Do you think I can climb that tree? The wind is so strong today...”

Homura isn't even looking. Her shoulders have gone rigid.

“It's too late,” is all she says.

The breath catches in Madoka's throat as she turns around, and suddenly, the ribbon is all but forgotten.

Edo Castle is already ablaze. The tenshukaku, towering stories taller than the other buildings inside the walled complex, is hemorrhaging gouts of black smoke into the sky. Thanks to the fierce winter winds, flames spread to the roof of the retainers' quarters, the square watchtowers stationed along the perimeter wall – even the wizened old pine trees in the garden where they used to have lunch together. Beyond the castle walls, telltale plumes of smoke spiral from the surrounding districts. Shouts and chaos can be heard from the crowded streets.

“Sayaka and Hitomi could be trapped inside,” Madoka realizes with dawning horror. “And all the other servants, everyone working today – ohhh, who's going to save everyone?”

“The Hikeshi brigade,” Homura says, however unconvincingly.

“They'll try to save the castle before any of the servants,” Madoka points out as a matter of fact. A fire of this magnitude, sweeping through the wood and paper buildings of Edo, could mean the entire capital will be lost. “I, I have to do something...!”

Homura's eyes soon water from the stinging, abrasive smoke clogging the air. She rubs them until they're puffy and sore in order to clear her vision. When she looks again, she spots a white tomcat with a frightened, puffed-out tail bounding across the lawn towards them. Madoka automatically kneels to catch him, cradling the animal to her chest as she rises again. The cat purrs in relief, rubbing his cheek affectionately against her shoulder.

Homura catches a glimpse of the cat's features, and shudders. Youkai. The cat's hypnotic, unblinking eyes shine as red as the lost ribbon.

For a moment, everything changes, like a dream is overlaid atop her sight – she sees a Madoka clad not in a simple servant's garb, but beautiful, gauzy robes as white as clouds, her hair impossibly long and flowing like a river around her, radiating an aura of such resplendent luster that she could only be described as a goddess worthy of the Amatsukami. She descends from the Ame-no-ukihashi, sinking towards earth – and then Homura's mouth curls into a cruel smile, and she catches Madoka by the wrist, and with the most merciless and terrible of sounds, tears her bodily in twain.

The cat leaps from Madoka's arms and bolts in the direction of the conflagration. A dazed Homura tries to catch Madoka by the wrist before she can give chase, but Madoka tears herself free, eyes wild with anxiety and guilt.

“If I can just save one of them – even if it's just the cat – I, I have to try! Wait for me, Homura!”

“No!” Homura cries, panic lurching her heart into a frenzied speed. She loses one of her sandals in her rush to catch up to Madoka. “If you're going, I'm coming with you!”

Homura manages to get close enough to grab Madoka's hand. Madoka flashes her one last smile of gratitude. Then, steeling their nerves, they turn to face the burning tower together.

Now this is the kind of content I was looking for posting this prompt XD

Based on the amazing fic Flowers in Full Bloom by SummerMermaid!

Fandom: PMMD
Pairing: Madoka (Mathilda) x Homura (Hope)
WC: 751

“Mathilda!”

Hope's hands plunge into the freezing water to grab her – and not a moment too soon. Mathilda is pulled with a gasp from the river, coughing violently and white as a sheet, but alive. Her hapless bonnet races away from her on the swift current and vanishes around the bend.

The girls collapse on the riverbank to catch their breath, fingers laced together for comfort. The summer sun beats down on them from on high, baking the cracked earth into red dust. Hope's anxious heart is still thundering as swift as a horse's hooves. There have been so many close calls on this harsh journey west. Crossing the ford is a risk every pioneer in the wagon train must take if they wish to proceed, but the thought of losing Mathilda now, after all these months of survival...

Hope could not bear such cruelty. Everything she's done thus far, she's done for Mathilda.

Hope sits up and begins stubbornly wringing water out of her sodden petticoats. Her ears are ringing with the lowing of reluctant oxen, the creak of protesting wagon wheels, the shouts of families, the braying of mules – it's so noisy. The line of covered wagons still waiting to take the plunge stretches as far down the trail as she can make out.

Hope tries not to linger on the splintered wreckage of the wagons that didn't make it, piled up like spars of driftwood along the banks, but it's impossible to ignore the ugly reality. The odds are stacked against them.

As she watches, a pure white crow alights atop a ruined axle with the wheel still attached. The carrion bird cocks its head to regard her with one glittering red eye, then bobs its head, croaking a raspy note of amusement.

Hope shudders.

“What do you reckon it'll be like in Oregon?” Mathilda asks, gently breaking her from her reverie. “Tell me about the house again. Please.”

Hope smiles as Mathilda lays her head on Hope's lap. “We're going to build a little house, just for us,” she murmurs. Her fingers stroke a soothing, repetitive pattern through Mathilda's damp hair. “The government promised us a homestead no matter who we are. We'll keep chickens in the yard, and farm the land. I'll hunt for you, and you'll sew for me. Maybe we'll buy a little cart, and have a nice old mule to pull it into town, for when we stock up on flour, and sugar, and salt.”

“Just for us,” Mathilda sighs happily, closing her eyes. “No families pressuring us to marry. No one who knows we broke off our engagements back home.”

“The West will be our new home,” Hope agrees firmly. “No more tears and sadness. No more dwelling on what we had to leave behind. Look instead to the future I'm going to build with you.”

Mathilda sits up, healthy color returning to her cheeks. “I should very much like to kiss you right now,” she giggles, mischief bright in her rose-tinted eyes. “Pity we're in full view of the entirety of the Oregon Trail.”

Hope calmly unlaces the ties of her modest cap and slips it off, letting her long hair unfurl down her back. She holds the hat up as a shield to obscure both of their faces, and with a sly smile, leans in bold as brass to peck Mathilda right on the cheek.

Mathilda's face is scarlet as a sunburn when Hope refastens the laces beneath her chin, smug in her triumph.

The dream always starts with her waking in the same bed. It's like no doctor's place she's ever seen, everything pristine and white, gleaming metal instruments and moving screens around her, but instinct tells her it's heart medicine that she ends up taking with her. She's short of breath in the labyrinthine halls of the bafflingly large schoolhouse, and it's a struggle just to make her way up the stairs, let alone carry her books at the same time. Her body is so much frailer than she remembers it being.

Introducing herself in front of the class makes her so anxious she just wants to curl up in a corner and weep. Even the name she gives is wrong. Instead of Hope, here she is Homura.

Then everything just... stops. The other voices fall away until only one remains, one bastion of safety in the sea of unfamiliar things. Mathilda – no, Madoka – is here.

That means everything is going to be alright.

Canon: TFP

Pairing: June Darby/Arcee

WC: 747

Every once in a while, the kids got to have sleepovers with their robot companions at the Autobot base. That’s how June really got to know Arcee, as she’d stay over too, since the other parents thought the kids were at the Darby’s house.

Sometimes, June would enter the base in the dead of night, after a shift at the hospital. The kids would already be asleep, and the Cybertronians were often still up and about, having sleep cycles that eclipsed the twenty-four hour span of a human day.

It was nice to have calm conversation after a night of helping out with cut off fingers and eye injuries because of a lack of PPE (theirs was a working town, even if others like to act otherwise).

So, she had gotten around to spending a lot of time with Arcee, time where she needed to wind down.

June may have been a mother, but she was a divorced mother with blood in her veins and a sexual history that would have sent her teenage boy squirming for the hills, shooting her shot with Optimus had only been half a joke.

Shorting her shot with Arcee had been worth it. Double worth it, since these moments in the quiet were so interesting too.

It wasn’t the average quiet, not the kind she had with her previous husband, where silences were still and they barely acknowledged each other was there. It hadn’t been malicious; it was that their interests had continued to drift farther and farther apart, and more importantly, they had stopped being able to infect each other with said interests.

When June got back to the base and spotted Arcee with about twenty-five different Wikipedia tabs open on the main computer, June had been immediately curious to watch the Autobot warrior was studying. The human climbed the catwalk that allowed them to have conversations with the Autobot’s that didn’t leave them staring down at the humans like they were lost puppies. She certainly had no interest in Joan of Arc or onna-musha, and she hadn’t read The Second Sex since university, and she hadn’t even wanted to touch medieval history with a ten foot pole in her electives, so chivalry was just a word to June, but it was intriguing to wonder how Arcee had ended up with such a Wikipedia rabbit hole collection at 2AM.

“What dots are you connecting together?”

Arcee’s fins wiggled in what June had quickly learned was a greeting. “It’s stupid, but I noticed that “woman” and “women” and other words like them are used as a weird modifier in your language. I’ve thought of them as somewhat similar to “femme” like we would use to describe my spark type, but now I’m thinking I’ve vastly misunderstood the connotations.” She moved open windows around, focusing on the chivalry and Joan of Arc tags. “The fact that she was a “lady knight” seems significant, to the point that it’s odd and some even consider it evil, I think? But that seems utterly stupid.”

“Well, they did burn her at the stake.” That much June knew, but she didn’t consider her common knowledge impressive.

“Yes, but I’m struggling to understand why.”

June pursed her lips as she thought.

Acree spoke again. “Okay, maybe not struggling, more so hoping that my anger is unjustified, but I’ve also spent an hour reading about feminist movements and getting more angry.”

“Because they were needed in the first place? There’s no sexism on Cybertron?”

Arcee’s plating rattled in agitation. “No? But there’s similar cruelty? The civil war started for some legitimate reasons after all, Megatron just fueled already burning tensions to a breaking point, but as far as I’m concerned, you humans,” at this, Arcee waved a servo towards June, “don’t have different frame types. That’s where most of our discrimination came from.”

June crossed her arms and sighed. Arcee’s mind was one of her attractive traits, for all that she acted like a hot head warrior. It wasn’t surprising that she was going straight to anger, but June had helped pull a saw blade out of a man’s cheek that night. She did not have the energy for this conversation. “I think this is a conversation for when I’m not dead on my feet.”

Arcee finally turned around from the computer to face her body towards June. Her smile was apologetic. “Right, you were working. Rough shift?”

June smiled back, “Well, let me tell you…”

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