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

Ship: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, The Locked Tomb
Words: 178
Notes: Part of a series of River bubble AUs.

——

The chatter of the nuns ceases as the Reverend Mother enters the room.

“Well, is there word of the prospective novice?”

“Yes, Abbess,” Sister Abigail responds. “She is working the fields diligently as we speak, awaiting our decision.”

“I see,” the Reverend Mother says. “And what say you: is she prepared to receive the vows and commit her life to our order?”

“She is strong, but she lacks discipline,” offers Sister Marta.

“She has a kind heart, but a sharp tongue,” adds Sister Dulcinea.

“She is a child - not unlike yourself, I must add, Mother Harrow,” Sister Abigail says, bowing as she does so. “She has virtues yet to cultivate, but her soil is fertile, and the seeds are already sowed. What better place to water and prune them than our convent?”

“You speak well,” the Reverend Mother says. “I wish to speak to her myself, before I come to a decision.”

“As well you should,” Sister Abigail responds, pressing a hand gently to her shoulder, “but pray keep in mind: is this truly how it happens?”

Edited 2024-07-15 20:35 (UTC)

Ship: Giselle/Meg

Fandom: Disney

Type: Aesthetic, mood board

Link: https://www.tumblr.com/esteicy-blog/756102797959790592/gisellemeg-ancient-greece-aesthetic-for

Edited 2024-07-15 20:40 (UTC)

Ship: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, The Locked Tomb
Words: 235
Notes: Part of a series of River bubble AUs

——

Harrow is jostled amid the faceless throngs, her tiny frame pushed this way and that as she approaches the counter, her ticket to a new life. The land she fled was dying, she its last living daughter, sent abroad to keep its memory alive at any cost.

She clutches the packet of dirt from her home, the one that lay under her thin pillow every night on that accursed tomb of a ship. It’s a keepsake she doesn’t dare part with - a reminder that she is the avatar of an entire country’s hope, buoyed by two hundred skeletons, tasked with a single mission:

To live.

She squeezes her face. This is no time for tears. This is the culmination of her father’s dream and her mother’s sacrifice. They would not see her accept it like this.

The crowd parts, and through blurry eyes Harrow sees the counter far ahead. There is another girl there, taller than all the others, red hair wild in the harbor wind. She wants to run, to catch this girl by the hand and ask her to be her guide and protector in this new world, but as she moves the crowd closes in again and she smacks into the side of a sturdy, somber man.

“So sorry, sir, I just need to get around you.”

“That’s alright, Harrow,” Protesilaus responds, “but I don’t think this is how it happens.”

Ship: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, The Locked Tomb
Words: 266
Notes: Part of a series of River bubble AUs.

——

“No quarter for witches,” Ortus spits. He’s brave enough, now that Harrow is bound and gagged. He had never dared to speak like this before. “Confess your sins and repent, and we’ll give you a merciful death. Persist in your wickedness, and you’ll be cleansed by fire.”

Harrow shakes her head, her voice muffled beyond recognition, and with a grimace Ortus releases the rough cloth binding her tongue.

“I confess that I am a sinner!” Harrow screams. “I am the basest of sinners, a crude beast atop the bones of two hundred graves! I have abused and oppressed all the days of my life, and whatever judgment is rendered against me for that, I confess that I deserve it! But of this thing you call ‘witchcraft,’ you know nothing! I have only ever practiced what the Kindly Lord has taught us. I have only ever used it for the purposes with which he tasked me. Judge me, but judge me righteously - let my other sins be laid at my feet, but relieve me of this burden!”

“That’s out of my hands,” Ortus replies. “The judge is coming now. Make your case to her, and hope that she will listen.”

He gestures into the torchlit night, and Harrow sees a figure approaching, tall, imposing, head bathed in orange as if she too is alight. Fear courses through Harrow’s veins - fear, and traces of hope, and shame, and something far more powerful whose name she doesn’t dare speak…

“Calm, it’s okay,” Abigail says from her place tied beside her. “You know this isn’t how it happens.”

Edited 2024-07-15 21:37 (UTC)

word count: 1217

pairing: winter schnee/cinder fall

fandom: RWBY

They land on a beach.

Winter isn’t conscious for the landing, has been unconscious for a long time, but Cinder is. She sees the land hurtling towards them and slows their fall, guides them into the surf — this is what she tells Winter later, slurred with exhaustion, sand in her hair — and lets go of her at last.

(There was no point in killing you in your sleep, she says, because I’m pretty sure if I left you alone you would have died anyway.

Winter smiles. Probably, she admits.)

Winter wakes up just as the sun sets. She lies on her back in the sand for a little while, searching for memories, and finds that the more she thinks about it the harder it hurts. It’s not much, but it’s there: Penny’s hands in hers, blood in her mouth, Weiss reaching for her, falling — and then, Cinder, and the void sucking them down, and blood, always blood —

“There’s no point,” someone says, “we’re probably both dead.”

She blinks up at the fading sky. “I refuse to believe I’d be in hell with you.”

“Who says we’re in hell, darling?” Cinder’s voice purrs. Winter’s fingers curl into fists, and this is how she discovers her sword is still in her hand, encased in ice, sticking to her fingers.

“I have a hard time imagining you anywhere else,” she snaps. It’s not very convincing; her voice breaks on the last syllable.

Cinder pauses, audibly. Winter stays on her back, staring up at the sky, and waits for her to speak. When she does, it’s halting, unsure: “You were crying in your sleep.”

“Pain response,” she bites out. Distinctly untrue. She knows she was crying because she knows she was dreaming, and she hasn’t dreamed of anything good since she was seventeen.

It occurs to her, then, that Cinder hasn’t tried to kill her yet. Maybe they really are both dead.

Strength returns to her slowly. She stays in the sand, surf kicking against her feet, until she’s sure she can sit up again — and Cinder remains out of view all the while. It should be unnerving, but she isn’t feeling much of anything right now.

She aims for sitting up and fails miserably, winds up gasping for air on her side. Cinder’s gaze prickles uncomfortably into the back of her head.

“Tried depositing your aura anywhere?”

Winter grits her teeth. “I don’t have any.”

A laugh. “You’re sure? You’ve been out for a while.”

“I don’t have any,” she repeats, “because I have almost died three times in the space of about three days —”

“Four,” Cinder corrects.

“ — and I’m not convinced I should have survived at all.”

Cinder falls silent.

Winter blinks sand out of her eyes, determined not to cry. It’s strange, how distant this all feels. Cinder, her enemy, sitting on a beach in the void between spaces with her, somehow not attacking her the entire time. It’s almost completely dark out now, and there are no stars. “To be honest with you, I’m not entirely sure how I’m conscious right now.” I’ve never been in this much pain in my life.

“There we go, then.”

“What?”

“We’re probably not dead.” Fabric shifts. “I’m going to see if I can find us any food. Don’t kill me or I’ll kill you back.”

“That doesn’t even — what?”

Cinder sighs, like it’s obvious. “We’re probably not dead, so we fell somewhere. That means if we jump right into killing each other all over again we won’t make any headway. You want to get out, don’t you?”

Winter looks up at the starless sky and finds she doesn’t have a good answer to that.

“Whatever. I want to get out. I’m taking you with me so your idiot sister doesn’t murder me on sight.”

That’s right, she thinks, suddenly indignant, that’s right; you —

Fabric shifts again, and sand with it. “So what I’m saying is: you try to kill me, I’ll try to kill you right back. You’re not in a position to negotiate, look at you. You can fuck off once you can stand if you want; all I’m asking is that you leave me the fuck alone. Sound good?”

It doesn’t sound like anything Cinder Fall has ever said before. Winter turns until she’s sprawled awkwardly across the sand, searching for her face; she finds her hovering behind her, hands propped on her hips. There’s nothing angry in her eyes, but nothing else, either. She seems — blank, unfocused. It’s weird.

“What happened to you?” Winter asks.

Cinder’s eyes narrow. Her Grimm arm flexes, leaking shadow. “There’s nothing left for me up top.”

Winter peers at her, and finds what she’s looking for: dried blood smeared on her shirt, her neck, her jaw, scratches and scars from where she’s tried to claw the Grimm out of her. Falling with her must have been an act of betrayal, it seems.

“Huh,” she says. “Well, that sounds fine to me.”

She comes back with food that looks edible enough. The moon — un-shattered, which is weird as shit — is high over the beach by the time she returns, and Winter has pulled herself upright and propped herself up against a log.

“That’s my log,” Cinder says. “I found us something.”

Winter eyes the plants in her hands. “How do you know they aren’t poisonous?”

“I’m not dead yet,” she grins, “and plus, I saw some like, bipedal mice eating these, so. They’re fine.”

“Bipedal mice,” Winter echoes.

“Of course, what else?”

Cinder looks at her expectantly then, like she’s waiting for her to laugh. Winter doesn’t think she’s laughed at anything in about a year, so she turns away and goes back to staring at the horizon, watching the sky and the sea melt into each other.

“Oh, right,” Cinder says, “I forgot you’re you.”

That raises a lot of questions, most of which Winter isn’t sure she wants the answer to. The moon drifts along the surface of the water in time with the waves lapping against the beach, the heartbeat of the world, and she wonders for a moment what it would be like to fall beneath it. The image of a mirror shattering comes to mind, of gold bursting through her fingers, of shifting white lights the size of her hand —

“Can you walk yet?”

She jolts a little, snapping herself out of her thoughts. “What? What sort of question is that?”

Cinder gestures at her, smirking. It’s one hell of a smirk; she is, Winter thinks distantly, absolutely gorgeous, as much as it feels like betrayal to admit. “You’re sitting, aren’t you? On my log. Can you walk?”

She looks stunning out here, framed in silvery moonlight. Winter blinks up at her — rubbing a bit of smeared blood off of her cheek, free hand propped on her hips, cradling food that looks like cheese if it was absurd — and finds herself short of breath (anger, she decides; anger), floating free.

“No,” she says without thinking about it. “I’ll camp on the beach.”

Cinder worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “And/or wait here to die, got it.”

“I — no? What?”

She gestures to her again, flame dancing across her fingertips. “Your idiot sister is here somewhere. Come on; we’re going to the treeline.”

“What? Why?”

“More shelter.”

word count: 415

pairing: winter schnee/cinder fall

fandom: RWBY

“Winter,” Cinder starts — and then, lips curling up appreciatively, “Ooh, that’s new. You should have told me you were coming like that.”

Winter tugs self-consciously on the lapels of her blazer, avoiding her gaze. “I thought I’d surprise you.”

Cinder looks her up and down, scrapes her raw. Trapped inbetween her and the wall, Winter swallows thickly, aware of the places where her gaze lingers and where it doesn’t like she’s aware of her own heart beating against her chest. When she speaks again, her voice is low, sharp: “You have. You’ll save me a dance?”

“My dance card is looking a little full,” she says, unusually high-pitched. Cinder’s answering smile unwinds slowly, pins her in place — she knows she’s trying and failing to tease her. Not for the first time, Winter wishes she was a better liar. “I’ll have to find you later.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” she grins.

Cinder winds up filling as much of her dance card as she can get away with. She looks gorgeous tonight, which is why Winter lets her take up as much time as she does — she has no idea who she had to kill to get her hands on that dress, but it makes her seem starbound, limitless — and the smirk she gives her when they finally wind up arm in arm makes it almost worth the hassle of politely telling Henry Marigold to fuck off about twenty times in a row.

It’s a good thing the music is loud enough to hide their conversation, because Cinder does an awful lot of talking.

She steps up to Winter’s ear and talks rapidly, low and urgent and heated: “You’re looking awfully busy tonight. Mind stepping away with me later?”

“You’re the reason I’m busy,” Winter mutters, brushing her fingers against her arm. Cinder’s entire body shivers at the contact.

“So you won’t have a problem accompanying me home, then.”

She looks up at the chandelier overhead, at the ceiling of the ballroom, and imagines Cinder’s mouth on her neck, fingers curling into the back of her shirt, pressing her closer — “I’ll have to see.”

“We’re adults. We can do what we like.” Cinder’s fingers slip through hers, tugging them closer and closer until their shoulders are bumping. “Who’s going to stop you, hmm? Who’s going to find out?”

It doesn’t matter, is the thing. Winter has a suit and a dance card and Cinder’s hand in hers, and it’s getting harder and harder to give a shit anymore.

word count: 1264

pairing: winter schnee/cinder fall with room for winter/cinder/robyn if you squint really hard

fandom: RWBY

“I can’t believe I’m stuck here with you,” Cinder mutters.

Not that she looks particularly upset about it. Winter eyes her as she drapes herself across the couch, wine glass in hand, and resumes dusting all their shelves for something like the fifteenth time today. Trying not to sound too annoyed, she says, “Well, you could always quarantine yourself in your room,” and pointedly ignores the glare Cinder throws her way.

“Like I give a shit.” She sets the glass down on the coffee table; Winter winces at her bookshelves and tries to forget what it felt like to be sixteen. “Did Robyn really have to leave?”

“She wanted to be home,” Winter says blandly. As annoyed as she is that Robyn left her alone with the roommate she doesn’t like, she supposes some things can’t be helped — she has a job, after all, unlike the rest of them, and she’s determined to clean up Winter’s father’s messes. And it’s not like she hates Cinder; she really wouldn’t have agreed to live with her if she cared all that much.

Cinder huffs. “Well, good for her.”

“Good for her,” Winter agrees. “Have you thought about calling your coworkers?”

“Ex-coworkers,” she says snippily. “Why should I? What am I going to do, contribute to the collective air of misery?”

And to that, she doesn’t have a response. Winter was never all that close with her coworkers, either; she’s convinced most of them hate her, after all.

“What are you doing?”

Cinder gestures to the TV, pointedly avoiding looking Winter in the eye. “Watching anything but the news. Why?”

Winter runs a hand through her hair — still slightly damp, annoyingly. “Can I join you?”

That gets her to look — and oh, Winter thinks, that’s why they avoid looking at each other so much; Cinder has beautiful eyes — “Why?”

“Nothing better to do.”

It’s true. Cinder eyes her like it isn’t.

“I’m sick of sitting around in my bedroom,” Winter supplies, “and you know I don’t use social media, so.” She waves a hand in the air.

She nods, once, like that’s good enough, and shuffles sideways.

Winter sits down next to her on the shitty couch she’s pretty sure Robyn stole from a tip somewhere and curls up as far away from her as possible. It’s — weird; she feels awkward, displaced. Cinder has always had that effect on her, really.

She stops paying attention to the movie they’re supposed to be watching after about fifteen minutes. It’s old, and one of Weiss’s favourites; she’s probably seen it a million times in the past decade. Besides, her mind is too occupied with Cinder’s presence on the other end of the couch — the way her fingers curl around her chin, her thumb nestled against her pulse point, the arrangement of her legs on the couch cushions, the slow movement of her hands as she tucks her hair behind her ear.

Winter has been telling herself for over a year that it’s stupid, that it’s superficial anxiety; that she isn’t nervous around pretty girls and she’s instead trying to predict when Cinder will look at her next, whether she’ll try to touch her. It’s natural to be alert around people you don’t know all that well — at least, it’s natural for Winter, it has been ever since she was small — and it’s not like they’ve ever made any effort to get comfortable with each other, anyway.

The thing is, though: Cinder is gorgeous. The thing is, she’s not so sure it’s anxiety any more.

She watches her watch a movie from a thousand miles away, feeling distinctly untethered — and she’s always felt untethered, so this is nothing new.

It becomes a thing, she thinks.

At least, it’s a pattern: most days they sit on the couch before dinner and watch a movie together, or sometimes Cinder puts on a series on Netflix or pirates something Winter hasn’t seen before. She suspects it’s because she’s noticed the staring — which she’s been doing less and less, thank you very much — and is trying to get her to stop it.

Whatever the case, it’s nice. Robyn calls them about two weeks into official lockdown and Winter gives her a long list of the things she’s seen because of Cinder’s efforts.

“Sounds like she’s been holding you hostage,” Robyn says, smirking, and the two of them exchange a look that feels all too familiar for their state of relative unfamiliarity. “Winter Schnee watching horror movies?”

Winter raises an eyebrow at her. Cinder laughs. “She’s weird as fuck,” she says — not an explanation, Winter thinks; fuck you — “I couldn’t have her watching nature documentaries all day.”

“You know, not that I’m complaining, but we really need to get you an Instagram or something,” Robyn grins.

“That’s my sister’s job,” Winter mutters, sinking onto her folded arms. “And I’ve seen horror movies before, you know.”

Cinder drums her fingers against the tabletop. She’s dropped the weird prickly act, which is a relief; Robyn said it was how she made friends when Winter first moved in and after about a year of knowing her, she’s inclined to disagree. The Cinder left behind in the wake is different, quieter, and she seems to dislike Winter a lot less. “We’ll catch you up, don’t worry. Tomorrow: ATLA.”

Robyn’s jaw drops. “You haven’t seen ATLA?”

Winter sucks her bottom lip between her teeth reflexively, avoiding both of their gazes. “You know how I grew up.”

“But still,” Cinder says emphatically, “come on, we have to fix that, right?”

“I mean, I’m not protesting —”

“You know she hasn’t played any video games either, right?”

“Not true,” Winter mutters, looking away from the screen. Robyn’s expression has gradually sloped into something more and more teasing, and she doesn’t want to have to bear witness. “You forget I have a seventeen year-old brother. I’ve played video games.”

Cinder snorts. “Yeah, like what?”

“First person shooters, mostly,” she lies — it was Minecraft, and only once, and only because Whitley begged her to help him do some calculations. Both Robyn and Cinder seem to sense the lie, judging by the matching half-smirks they’re wearing, and she groans and covers her face with her hands. She really does need to get better at lying.

Cinder, true to her word, makes her play games, too. They start out small — “Animal Crossing? Really? Come on, I was raised in a shithole and even I’ve played Animal Crossing,” — and graduate to stealing the VR headset someone got Robyn for Christmas from her bedroom.

“If they knew Robyn they’d know she fucking hates VR,” Cinder says blithely when Winter flat-out refuses to take anything from her roommate, “it makes her feel sick. She’s not even taken it out of the box, look.”

“Still,” Winter protests. Cinder levels a Look at her, and suddenly she can’t think of a convenient way to end the sentence.

Being locked in a house with Cinder doesn’t seem like so much of a chore anymore.

“So how’re you getting along?”

Winter bites her lip, glancing between the door to her bedroom (closed) and Robyn on her phone, propped up against her bed’s headboard. “Much better than we were. Why?”

Her smile grows sly. It’s annoying. “No reason. I just, like — I know you didn’t really get along beforehand. It’s good to see you talking.”

“We got along just fine,” she protests — categorically untrue, but she can dream — “and we’re getting along better now. Don’t look at me like that.”

“I know you think she’s hot,” Robyn sing-songs.

Winter groans and hangs up on her.

ohhh this is the perfect discordant tone for a river bubble fantasy, love this buff historical paladin gideon and fancy lady harrow >:D

kaossandra/golden queen/mesmeralda yt collab channel <3
bonus round 4

Edited 2024-07-16 03:07 (UTC)

i did not get silly. i got very sad. sorry
based on the forest fic, aka stay in place (sing a chorus) by SoloChaos

SHIP: Gideon/Harrow (The Locked Tomb)
WARNINGS: religious trauma, gaslighting, psychosis, suicide, internalized homophobia

-

"The dark," Harrow says. “The cold.”

Kiriona’s brow furrows in question.

"It has become..." Harrow stops, searching for the word.

"Kinda… crispy," Kiriona offers.

"Hm. Sharper, certainly,” Harrow agrees.

"Almost... black?"

"Predominantly," Harrow confirms. "With a hint of cobalt."

“…Ain’t that just blue?”

“Yes. Blue.”

“Right.” Kiriona snaps her fingers, directing her pointer toward Harrow. "I keep forgetting that one."

"With my synesthesia,” Harrow says, tone as softly dull as the dust covering the church basement they stand in, “a lot of things are blue."

"Not where I'm from," Kiriona says, draping herself over the couch. "Everything's white ‘n’ gold there."

Harrow stares at her hands in her lap. “I cannot fathom that.”

"Don't even try.” Kiriona‘s expression darkens. Her eyes dim.

Harrow spends a particular amount of time musing on Kiriona’s gaze — a rich mocha till the light filters through. The bulb above them manages to highlight traces of a warmer brown — though to Harrow, it feels like dandelions and sunburnt skin — and this is usual.

The only time she must worry is when those eyes seem bright yellow, and Kiriona’s mouth goes curved and mean.

Kiriona, abruptly, fumbles to sit up straight.

Harrow alerts in suit. “My caretaker?”

“If you mean ugly ass Crux, sure.” Kiriona pulls herself up, striding toward the hatch that leads outside.

“Do not demean him.”

Hobbling boots clunk down the steps.

“See ya on the flip-side,” Kiriona calls, giving an exaggerated wave with her back still turned.

Crux’s cane makes an appearance before his face: tapped against the wall so Harrow does not startle as badly.

“Harrowhark, what beckons you here?”

“…Kiriona,” she murmurs, promptly swallowing a chaser of regret.

Crux’s gaze is now unmistakable; and yet, unreadable to her. “My lady,” he begins, ghost of a sigh forming on his cracked lips.

“I am aware,” Harrow cuts in, “that she is more apparition than alive.”

“You cannot keep indulging this,” Crux says, voice hard but not unkind. “Indulging her.”

“I am aware,” she repeats, more sharply — before deflating. “I apologize.”

“You needn’t apologize, my lady,” he says. “It is not your fault this hallucination of a girl exists.”

“No, it is not.”

Swirling in Crux’s gaze is something gray-blue-green. She forgets, sometimes, what other people might call such an emotion. Kiriona would know.

Crux releases his sigh. “All right, Harrowhark.” And: “Have you been eating?”

“Yes,” says Harrow.

“Have you been sleeping?”

“Yes,” says Harrow.

“Have you been taking your medication?”

“Yes,” says Harrow.

“Very well,” he says, and Harrow remembers: spring green sings doubt. “My lady, shall we depart?”

She is careful not to cast a glance behind herself. “We shall.”

-

There is, also, the matter of The Body.

Currently, she stands in the darkest corner of Harrowhark’s room, clawed hands hanging as limply at her sides as her wet hair does down her back.

The Body seems a separate entity, but sometimes she shares in the shock of blindingly yellow eyes — like headlights — or eyes as dark as drowning. This is how she knows The Body is incorporeal; saintly; worthy of portrait and statue, yet reduced to stray photographs of a dead girl.

They had found them in the church closet.

Instead of evoking restlessness, Harrowhark feels peaceful with The Body. Angels watch over her whether she likes it or not.

When she dreams, she dreams of another corpse: the only other child there had been in their church.

Sometimes she swears she remembers her, though the girl died before she was born.

-

Harrow sits among boxes of old books. Albums, primarily. The quality of the photographs are questionable. Some have been torn, or replaced, or are simply very much missing.

The young girl is there. So is The Body. Curiouser and curiouser.

It is hard to remember which hallucination came first. It is hard to remember if she had seen the photos before the people. It is hard to remember the reasons why she kneels at confessional with Father Gaius, afterward, for his words twist and turn her mind around.

She is cramped up on the floor, made small by comparison — and the hatch door swings open.

“Well, this is boring.”

“Kiriona,” she greets without looking up.

The Body does not often deem to talk. Occasionally she wishes Kiriona were the same, for she spews idiotic nonsense and pretends it is charming.

“You’re looking kinda pale, sunshine,” Kiriona says, now hovering over her shoulder. “Maybe we stop searching for a while, huh?”

There is no bite to Kiriona’s words, but there is a soft note of panic.

“Red-orange-yellow,” Harrow mumbles, still scanning pages.

“So we know our rainbows! Good job,” she drawls, gently prying the book from Harrowhark’s hands. Harrow looks up, finally, and watches the girl’s throat bob as she swallows hard.

“You’re not green,” she says, “or blue or violet. But you’re very red.”

Kiriona flushes. “Jeez. Is my acne that bad?”

“Not like that,” she scoffs, fighting a slanted smile.

“I know,” Kiriona says, pushing boxes away with her foot in order to sit down at Harrow’s side. “I always know.”

“…Do you ever mind the way I speak?”

“Nah. ‘S just you.”

-

Harrowhark kneels once more, emerald shades roiling in her gut; lingering at the tip of her tongue like bile.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

-

"So. How ya feelin’?” Kiriona asks as she slouches into the room.

Harrow glances at her. Her eyes are black coffee. “It is none of your concern how I ‘feel’.”

“C’mon. You can tell me in *your* words.”

Harrow shifts on the couch. It sags uncomfortably.

“…I worry about you, y’know.”

“Blue-green-violet.” The words spill out. “Spider silk and storm-clouds.”

“Gotcha,” Kiriona says, immediate. “Confused how?”

“Neither Crux nor Father Gaius believe you exist,” she says. “They are vehement I am currently experiencing a delusion.”

“Well, what the fuck does the *Father* know.” Kiriona plops herself down beside Harrow. She sounds a bird in a gilded cage, and her eyes glint as gold as one.

Harrow goes silent.

Extremely carefully, she leans into the older girl’s side.

It takes a beat of hesitancy, but Kiriona wraps an arm around her slim shoulders.

“Thanks, sugarlips.”

“That’s repulsive.”

“…Yeah, I didn’t think that one suited.”

-

Crux brushes her hair back from her forehead with one gnarled hand. Harrow allows it.

“My lady… have you seen them lately?”

“I have not,” says Harrow.

The Body looms closer; drips water onto Harrow.

“You’re certain?”

“Yes,” says Harrow.

“Good. Here.”

The pill bottle rattles in her hand. “And these are?”

“Sleeping pills, my lady. I’m concerned about your habits.”

Something pings in the back of her head — something like black skies, like rope from rafters —

“I shall accept them.”

“Good. You’re in great need of rest.” And: “Perhaps it’ll help with… Kiriona.”

Harrow does not quite think so, but still she says, “Thank you.”

-

Harrowhark can hear Kiriona humming some disgustingly poppy tune as she descends the steps. There’s the idle smack of a stress ball against Kiriona’s palm, being tossed up and down and up again. To match, to create their own little cacophony, Harrow spins the lid on her medication open and shut and open and shut and —

“Hey, honey, give it a break.” Kiriona’s tone is frustratingly gentle.

And yet, Harrow ceases the anxious habit. “What is the matter?”

“You’re gonna hurt your hands, and then what will I have to hold on lonely nights such as these?” Kiriona laments, falling backward onto the couch.

Harrow sits down next to her — only to hit her across the arm. “Absolutely unseemly.”

“Damn. Hand-holding privileges revoked, I guess.”

Harrowhark stews in her own silence.

“Sorry. Tough day. The grays are all gold, yunno?”

“Yes,” says Harrow.

Kiriona pauses — only to pick back up with a sharper tone, harsh and glinting yellow. “But you don’t know. You can’t. You have no idea what it’s like, and I wish I could fucking tell you, but I can’t. It’d blow your little brain up, yeah? Father looming over me.”

Harrowhark remains quiet, uncertain, heart thudding in her throat.

“All white and gold,” Kiriona growls, “and dove feathers and baby bones.”

“I’m sorry,” she says finally.

“Everybody’s fucking sorry.” And, softening: “C’mere, you bitch. You haven’t been sleeping.”

“Whatever do you —”

“I know,” she says, words low and soothing. She takes Harrow’s hands, and the contact does not burn. “I always know.”

-

“Bless me, Father,” Harrow chokes, “for I have si—”

-

“Sorry I got weird on ya,” Kiriona says the next time they meet.

"I'm sorry I deemed I understood," Harrow says.

Kiriona huffs a laugh. "Everybody's fucking sorry, and nothing’s what it should be."

Harrow glances around the dimly lit basement, full of dust mites and delusion, and she nods in agreement. Casting her gaze back to Kiriona only proves their point, for Kiriona’s appearance is odd today; warped, derealized.

"You're not quite what you should be, either.”

"That's okay," Kiriona says, "as long as you remember me."

The quiet between them grows thick, all tender yellow, weighted green. Harrow can somewhat taste it.

“Perhaps you’re not real after all.”

“What do you mean?”

"Everyone tells me you aren't," Harrow answers.

“Of course you’re drinking the Kool-Aid.” Kiriona barks a grating laugh. “Why do I even fucking bother.”

“My caretaker,” she argues, “my congregation —”

"Don't listen to them," Kiriona says firmly. “Don't listen. You can see me, right? Hear me? Feel me?"

“Of course I can,” she says, half-scoff, half-sob, “but I am insane.”

-

Harrow tries to avoid the basement. She cannot. Kiriona does not show.

Everything tastes of sallow white; dirty fibre; copper-and-face-paint.

Harrow leans her head into Crux’s solid shoulder. She used to cling to him so dearly, when she was young and younger and scared out of her own mind. Then Kiriona came. Then Kiriona went.

“She has not returned,” Harrow admits softly.

“Well and good, my lady.”

“…Her absence feels a loss.”

“She did not exist.”

“…I held heightened affection for Kiriona.”

“Harrowhark, you couldn’t have.”

“I know you think she is not real,” Harrow hisses. “Everyone in church says there has never been another child. But that — that would leave me missing a nothing-girl.”

“…I’m sorry, my lady.”

"Everybody's fucking sorry,” Harrow echoes, an unheard whisper.

"But Kiriona… I’m not certain you understand. You started speaking to her after the Reverend Parents passed."

"And this means…?”

"Harrowhark," Crux creaks, "Kiriona is a machination of your own broken mind. She is not real."

"No," says Harrow — or she tries, but her thoughts whirl around her impossibly fast.

"I apologize for this," Crux says.

“Leave me.”

-

Harrow sits at the edge of her bed, staring up into the drowned face of The Body. She senses, somehow, innate: The Body will carry her out. Carry her home.

She outstretches a hand to touch one clammy cheek.

"Remember us three," Harrow whispers.

She steps down. She shuts the door; locks it silently. Each breath seems to come more easily than the last — which would be funny, if Kiriona were here. If Kiriona were real.

She palms through her bedside drawer. The pills, willingly, spill out into her hand. In the right light, they look white-and-gold.

“I understand now,” she mumbles deliriously. “I understand. Please come back.”

But everything's becoming brighter, and Harrow can feel the tiredness in her bones; her marrow akin to clouds. She's shuddering, and she's calm, and she's clean. She will be clean.

“I needed you, and you weren’t real. Why couldn’t you be, for me? I was real for a while, for you. I don’t think I am anymore.”

The Body strokes her hair as she tips her head back, swallowing sleep like cotton.

There is no chaser of regret, this time.

She shudders, and is calm, and is clean.

She’s clean.

-

The funeral is a hollow affair. The congregation gathers around a pit in black dirt.

“Would anyone like to say a few words?”

A girl with clipped dove’s wings and golden-cage eyes pushes past her Father.

“Yes,” says Gideon.

And now, without further ado, the finale!
Ship: Kagerou Imaizumi x Wakasagihime
Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57290725/chapters/145732042

Ship: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, The Locked Tomb
Words: 240
Notes: These River bubble AUs are getting more and more dire. Oh dear.

——

The street is empty and the sun is high. Harrow stands alone in the dust.

“She’s a good shot,” Marta tells her from her seat on the shaded boardwalk. “If you don’t outdraw her, you’re dead.”

“Good, I’ll just have to do that,” Harrow responds, too high on fear and adrenaline for anything more coherent.

“You could still call this off, you know,” Dulcinea adds from the opposite side, leaning on her cane. “Take your horse, ride off into the sunset before she gets here and all that. You’d never get to show your face around here again, of course, but you can’t do that if you’re dead either.”

“I’m not leaving,” Harrow says. “If I die, I die.”

“Gallant as always,” Dulcinea responds. “I don’t know if I should admire you or fear for you. Both in equal measure, perhaps?”

“All depends on who wins,” counters Marta. “If you live, you’re a hero. If you die, you’re a fool. There’s going to be one hero and one fool on this street, we just don’t know who’s who yet.”

On the far side of town, a rider dismounts from her horse. She’s shrouded in black, a red bandana across her face, red hair above it. She twirls her pistols, holsters them, and approaches slowly.

From Marta: “Shoot her dead.”

From Dulcinea: “Don’t make a choice you’ll regret.”

And from Abigail: “This had bloody well better not be how it happens.”

Ship: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, The Locked Tomb
Words: 325
Notes: The last of the River bubble AUs.

——

Harrow is, after all, alone.

The remnants of her raft lay broken on the island (if you could even dignify such a small thing with that term); her empty canteen abandoned, useless. She will not die at sea, at least. She will die on land, and her skeleton will wait to greet the next unfortunate sailor to be stranded here.

There is a black shadow on the horizon. A hallucination, Harrow thinks. The dehydration is acting quickly. She sits, sun beating down on her unshaded head, and considers how best to lay out her future corpse.

The hallucination grows, materializes, shifts in form until it becomes a vast galleon, decked fore to aft with jet-black sails. Its flag, fluttering in a breeze that Harrow cannot feel, is a skull, bleached white and jawless, but in its gaping sockets are two golden eyes.

Pirates, Harrow thinks desperately, pirates of the Ninth Sea! Come to ravage her or to save her - come in fact or in vision - Harrow cannot know. But if she is not to die here, there is only one option.

“Help! Save me! Help!”

She stands as tall as she can, ignores the pain from her parched throat.

“Help me! I am lost without you! I have no recourse but your mercy!” Then, without understanding: “Please! I have needed you from the beginning. I am without purpose and void without you. Please.”

And, finally: “I have loved you.”

The dinghy is made ready, but the pirate captain does not board. Her silhouette vanishes, and Harrow is filled with a new despair.

As the boat lodges in the sand, Abigail steps forward, cups Harrow’s face in her palm, and pours water into her gasping mouth.

“Harrow,” she says with a sad smile, “she can’t save you. None of us here can save you. That’s not how it happens. It’s time for you to get up and save yourself.”

The world shatters.

Harrow awakens.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?”

“Come on, Sooze, they’ll love you,” Gina says for the third time. They’re holding hands — only because Gina has to show her the way, Susato reminds herself. That’s the only reason.

She glances around anxiously at the towering metal walls that stretch around narrow passageways, one of which Gina is leading her through, steps more confident than anywhere Susato’s ever seen her. She wonders how Gina even knows which turns to take; Susato usually prides herself on her memory, but she can’t even remember whether their last turn was a left or a right.

“I don’t want to impose,” she says, almost squeezing Gina’s hand before she forces herself to stop.

Gina rolls her eyes. “You’re not imposin’. Not even when you use ’em long fancy words.”

Susato feels herself blush. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not wot I — oh, we’re ’ere!” Gina’s stopped in front of a thin, winding maintenance ladder built along the wall, something Susato surely never would’ve noticed on her own. She cups her hands around her mouth and yells upwards: “OI!”

There’s a rustle, and then a black-haired man — no, boy, probably younger than her — pokes his head out from above.

“Gina! Where the ’ell’ve you been?”

“Iris got to me,” Gina shouts back, almost sheepishly. “Ya know how she is.”

“Oh, the pink girl! Tell ’er I said hi!”

“I did!” Gina hops onto the ladder, then extends a hand to Susato. “C’mon, up ya get.”

“Is it… safe?”

Gina snorts. “’Course it’s safe, I’ve climbed it for years.”

Susato hesitantly grabs onto a rung. It’s surprisingly unrusted, now that she really looks. She pulls herself up, then again, then again, don’t look down don’t look down — until somehow she sees sky instead of wall, and a pale hand reaching for hers.

Gina pulls her up and grins. “There ya are.”

The boy from earlier cocks his head at Susato. “Friend of yours?”

“Yeah,” Gina says, as though it’s obvious, and Susato really shouldn’t feel as warm as she does from the reminder. “Sooze, this is Eddie. Eddie, Sooze.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Susato says awkwardly.

The boy — Eddie — squints at her for a beat. “Haven’t seen you round these parts.”

“You could say I’m new,” Susato says, increasingly awkwardly. How to explain my brother landed himself in prison on purpose and disappeared and I’ve been looking for him ever since? She still doesn’t know who to ask about the squid people!

But Eddie isn’t looking at her with suspicion or disgust, just plain curiosity. “Well, d’ya want to do the form?”

“The…?”

“Y’know,” Eddie explains. “Are ya a sir, or ma’am, or somethin’ else?”

Half a year ago Susato would have said ma’am easily. Now something gives her pause. “Er… what are the other options?”

“’Ang on a sec,” Eddie says, and produces a… is that a governmentally signed scroll? What is happening? “Right, ’ere: Citizen, Deacon, Lieutenant, Private, Doctor, Lady, Lord, Captain, Professor—”

“Sir is fine!” Susato blurts. Wait, no — although the idea of being called “sir” does send some sort of thrill down her spine — “I mean, madam! I mean—”

“Oh, got it,” Eddie says, nodding as though Susato has not been spluttering for the past minute. “See ya later, si—er, mad—er, yes!” And then he’s off.

“That was strange,” Susato says, blinking.

“He’s off to tell coves what ya like to be called,” Gina explains. “It’s his job. Sorta.”

Susato has so many London customs to learn, still. But she clears her throat. “So, um… What did you bring me here for?”

“Oh! Right.” Is Gina blushing? No, the light from the sunrise is just playing tricks, surely. “I, er… well. You said ya liked looking out the window in the mornin’.”

“I do,” Susato says, surprised. She hadn’t thought Gina would remember that; she doesn’t even remember telling anyone.

“And, well—” Gina kicks a rock. It skitters off into the eaves. “Ya know. It’s the mornin’ of New Years, innit? And this is the place I know wiv the best view, so… So.”

Susato looks around, then, careful to maintain her footing. It is a sprawling view; Spite is all factories and smoke, even on January first, but she can see each individual alleyway, the specks of people darting about their everyday business. If she squints she can almost see the ferris wheel, ascending into the hole in the glittering sky.

Oh, she misses home.

But with Gina at her side: London takes on a beauty all its own.

“It’s gorgeous,” she whispers, and pretends she’s not enraptured with the way Gina’s whole face lights up. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothin’,” Gina says, looking at the ground again.

“It isn’t,” Susato insists, and on some instinct catches Gina’s hand again. Gina looks up at her, eyes wide. “Thank you, Gina. Mr Sholmes and Mr Naruhodo and Iris are all wonderful, but—” She swallows. She suddenly can’t bear to look into Gina’s eyes, blue like the sky she’s never seen. “You’re one of the best friends I could ever ask for.”

Gina is blushing, Susato realizes, a pink dust settling on her cheekbones. She’s beautiful. “Shut up, Sooze,” she says, but she’s smiling back. “And, um — happy 1900, I guess.”

“And you as well,” Susato says earnestly, before remembering. “Oh — although I suppose it’s still 1899.”

Gina snorts. “Couldn’t Iris tell ol’ Vicky to change her mind?”

“I doubt any tea would be convincing enough for that,” Susato sighs.

A beat. Then two.

Susato glances over, and recognizes the conspiratorial look in Gina’s eyes instantly.

“Wait ’ere, Sooze.”

“What?”

But Gina’s already gone.

It takes no more than five minutes for her to return, five minutes that Susato spends gazing out at the sunrise again.

Her mind wanders to Kazuma. He always loved the sunrise.

“Sooze!”

Gina’s out of breath by the time she races back, waving… a can? A red can?

“What is that?” Susato asks.

“Spray paint,” Gina answers, grinning, extraordinarily cat-like.

“You — have that?”

“Where d’ya think all the murals come from?”

Susato turns in the direction of Gina’s point. The wall rises upward in the southwest. What Susato had taken at a distance for rust, she realizes now, are paintings — tiny ones. Crude stick figures, a few landscapes, a stunning render of a cat…

“’Ere,” Gina says, and holds out the canister to Susato. Susato takes it, too startled to refuse; it’s heavier than she expected. “Er, you can — I dunno. Draw somefin’.”

“But—” Surely this can’t be legal, but for some reason, Susato’s first objection is: “I’m not an artist.”

“Don’t look at me like that wiv ’em big ol’ eyes!” Gina pushes at Susato’s shoulder. “It’s a New Years tradition up ’ere, alright? Ya don’t have to do it.”

The heft of the canister weighs on her arm.

New Years, 1899. Again.

For some reason, the thought of that is suddenly unbearable. Not when so much has changed. Not when she’s met Naruhodo, and Iris and Mr Sholmes, and the girl standing next to her right now, giving her a living canvas and letting her draw.

Susato raises the can. Her handwriting is normally neat, but she doesn’t have any experience with spray paint, so the lettering that comes out is wobbly and uneven and new:

HAPPY 1900

Susato exhales and steps back.

Gina whistles. “Never took ya for a rebel, Sooze.”

“Perhaps I learned from the best,” Susato says; and looking at Gina then, at her smile and her stance and her ponytail in the wind — she’s never felt more alive.

Colette/Seffie (Girl Genius)

Edited 2024-07-16 07:15 (UTC)

AAAAAH OH MY GOD THANK YOU FOR WRITING SUCH A LOVELY FILL FOR MY PROMPT!!!! the tension between the stage and reality, the performance and the truth... so good. thank you for the yiddish yuri food

ship: Lanamia (Lana Skye/Mia Fey, Ace Attorney)
word count: (currently) 809
notes: this is currently unfinished!! for which i apologise,, but i'm already late so i figured i may as well share what i have now. i will hopefully finish this in the future because i have Ideas.

spoiler warning: contains spoilers for aa1; finished version will also have vague spoilers for tgaa2

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1c4WuUJ78HrglPzV53I-RAjdeIzeisLxuUzQZ7Z7i2Ek/edit?usp=sharing

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YURI SHIPPING OLYMPICS 2024 - BONUS ROUND 4

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