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yurishippingolympics
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
PROMPT: Tokusatsu Yuri Ships United Front
Date: 2024-07-02 01:55 pm (UTC)(Whether this is straight-up Dominion of the Fallen fic or a fusion AU is up to you)
PROMPT: Tokusatsu Yuri Ships United Front
Date: 2024-07-02 01:55 pm (UTC)"why"
"JOIN MY EMO BAND"
2000s alt music scene. let's get sillay
FILL: Team Rosemary
Date: 2024-07-02 05:10 pm (UTC)ship: terezi/aradia (homestuck)
FILL: Team Anime/Manga
From:FILL: Team Griddlehark
From:PROMPT: Tokusatsu Yuri Ships United Front
Date: 2024-07-02 01:57 pm (UTC)The girlies are going in the Dostoyevsky novel.
PROMPT: Tokusatsu Yuri Ships United Front
Date: 2024-07-02 02:02 pm (UTC)FILL - TOKUSATSU YURI SHIPS UNITED FRONT
Date: 2024-07-12 02:42 am (UTC)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.
Re: FILL - TOKUSATSU YURI SHIPS UNITED FRONT
From:PROMPT: Tokusatsu Yuri Ships United Front
Date: 2024-07-02 02:03 pm (UTC)PROMPT: Tokusatsu Yuri Ships United Front
Date: 2024-07-02 02:05 pm (UTC)FILL: Team Anime/Manga
Date: 2024-07-05 10:00 pm (UTC)word count: 1391
pairing: winter schnee/cinder fall
fandom: RWBY
characters: winter schnee, cinder fall, a very dead arthur watts
extra tags: alluded-to gore/violence. my apologies to the inventors of gothic fiction for the genre i just butchered to write funny detective winter schnee
//
It is, characteristically, a particularly stormy night.
Winter looks up into the sky overhead as she waits for Cinder to come outside and open the fucking door, counting the seconds between the thunder and lightning. The storm is practically on top of them; the wind hasn’t stopped whipping rain directly into her face for the whole walk over. She isn’t looking forward to heading home in the morning.
That is, she thinks, if she can stand to leave.
She knocks on the door again, then kicks it for good measure. Something inside clatters, assumedly Cinder rolling halfway down the stairs in her blankets. Around her, the wind picks up again, and she draws her hood further over her head, determined not to let her hair get too wet.
“There’s been a murder,” Cinder says as she opens the door.
“Of course there has.” Winter steps inside, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head, and wrestles her coat off in the hallway. “There’s always a murder when you’re involved.”
“I didn’t kill him this time,” Cinder says haughtily, drawing her blankets higher around her shoulders. “It was ghosts, or something. You know, the ghosts.”
“Right,” Winter agrees, setting her briefcase down by the door. “And that’s why you were sleeping. Because there’s been a murder that you didn’t do.”
“I mean, I’m glad he’s dead.” She scrunches up her nose, looking petulant. “But I didn’t kill him. That would have been effort.”
Winter sighs. “Well, we’ll see. Where is he?”
She gestures to the living room. “In there. Fair warning, he’s a bit —”
She rounds the corner, gets a good look at the state of the corpse, and backs away again. “Mangled?”
“See? Not me. Ghosts.”
“Ghosts don’t exist,” Winter mutters, “and if they did, they certainly wouldn’t do that. Have you thought about how you’re going to clean your living room of evidence?”
Cinder makes a face. “I’ve been trying not to. I was hoping you were going to do that.”
“I mean, I can try.” She runs through the contents of her briefcase in her head, winces when she remembers she didn’t think to bring gloves. “You may need to cut your losses and move.”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Cinder says. Her disgusted expression twists into a thoughtful frown. “That’s Arthur Watts. He’s my landlord.”
“Oh, that looks terrible, Cinder.”
“I know,” she groans, “but do you really think I could gut him like that?”
“He may have swallowed an explosive,” Winter suggests. The thought makes her grimace. “Did you hear anything? Why is — actually, why is he here in the first place?”
“Not very good at collecting evidence, are you?” Cinder grins. She steps up into the circle of Winter’s arms and settles her head on her shoulder, humming softly. “He was like that on my carpet when I woke up. I called you. I went outside. I came back and went to bed. That’s all.”
Winter rests her chin on the top of Cinder’s head. She believes her, obviously. They’ve long moved past the need for dishonesty. A little ironic, perhaps, given the number of murders under Cinder’s belt, but still. “So someone wanted you to see his corpse? That seems pretty safe to assume, don’t you think?”
“Eugh,” Cinder says eloquently. “A favour?”
“Or a threat.” She fixes her gaze on the mirror in the hallway, finding their reflections and the awkward curve of Cinder’s half-smile. Winter would never say it out loud, but she adores it when Cinder smiles like that, like she’s unused to letting herself relish in the sensation of being held. “Friends with any murderers?”
Cinder hums against her collarbone. “Mm. Many. No one insane enough to do all this, though. That’s why it was ghosts.”
Winter snorts, but plays along. “Why? Any vengeful axe murderers lurking in the floorboards?”
“He probably killed the last tenant,” she muses, “maybe it was them.”
“How do you figure?”
She lets go of her blanket to gesture into the living room, rolling her eyes. “There were bloodstains on the carpet when I moved in.” She wrinkles her nose. “And now there are more. It’ll take forever to get those out.”
Winter sighs. That’s probably her cue to get on with actually looking around, then. “I’ll ask my brother nicely. I’m sure he knows someone who won’t ask questions.” She lets go of Cinder, ignores her protesting whine, steels herself, and walks back into the living room.
//
“Any news?”
Winter runs a hand through her hair as she looks over. It’s probably meant to look dashing, but it comes off a little more awkward than anything. Indescribably charmed, Cinder props her chin on her hand and watches her pull herself back into ‘talking to people’ mode. “Nothing concrete yet. How many escaped convicts do you know?”
Cinder, an escaped convict, tilts her head to the side. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I doubt anyone with a track record of actual murder would be this sloppy.” She gestures to the room around her, to the blood caked on the walls and the gutless man draped over the sofa.
“See? Ghosts.”
Winter’s brow furrows. “Swallowing an explosive seems more likely.”
“And more Watts,” Cinder concedes. “He always was a bit — well. You know.”
She removes the gloves she stole from Cinder’s sink with a sigh. “Stuck up? I remember.”
Cinder grins to herself. Winter’s only met him twice, both times because there was a similarly gruesome murder in her living room and she’d needed letting into the property to investigate. He really did suck. “Maybe another tenant got fed up and decided to leave me a present.”
“Maybe,” Winter mutters, circling around to the back of the sofa. Her expression seems to be caught between a wince and a scowl. Cinder watches her get onto her hands and knees and peer at her carpet with no small amount of satisfaction. “Tenants don’t generally tend to exhibit the same behaviour as cats, though.”
She gets up, nods to herself, and walks briskly out of the room. Cinder has to scramble to her feet to follow her, leaving her blanket draped over one of her more irrelevant chairs. She’ll regret that when they inevitably wind up in her bed. “Where are you going?”
“To get a glass of water. You do still have that, don’t you?”
Cinder rolls her eyes. “No, I gave it all away to charity. Diverted the pipes and everything.”
Winter is already wandering around the kitchen when she catches up, skimming her fingers along her countertops and making weird, detective-y faces to herself. There’s a glass in her hand that she’s somehow avoiding filling, skirting around the sink and poking things like it’s a game. Cinder would be offended if she hadn’t already done it every time she’d come over for murder-related purposes before. “Nothing’s been taken,” she murmurs — and, turning to Cinder, “Did you notice anything different in the rest of the house? Missing items, that kind of thing?”
“Someone stole the doormat,” Cinder says, which goes without saying, “but that was about six months ago.”
“Oh, of course. How relevant.” Winter turns around and resumes inspecting the contents of her cupboards. “No glasses missing, right?”
“Nothing sharp,” she confirms. “Nothing at all, actually.”
Winter glances over at her again, and this time there’s something different in her eyes, as awkward and new as it always has been. “Well, I’ll need to sleep on it, see if that helps.”
She’s still so bad at flirting. Cinder steps up to her, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “In my bed?”
“Perhaps.”
“Well,” she lets her gaze drift through the windows, to where the rain is still hammering at her shitty garden in her shitty neighbourhood in the middle of nowhere, “there’s not a guest room. So I suppose we’ll just have to share.”
//
Cinder wakes up when Winter lurches out of bed and shouts, “Fucking obviously.”
She rolls onto her side, groaning when Winter starts digging around for her clothes in the dark. “What’s obvious?”
“The evidence,” Winter says passionately. It shouldn’t be attractive. “I’ll be back. Hold tight.”
Cinder watches her tug her shirt over her head and disappear downstairs with her tongue caught between her teeth. Winter is, she reminds herself, one of the strangest people she’s ever met.
PROMPT: Tokusatsu Yuri Ships United Front
Date: 2024-07-02 02:10 pm (UTC)FILL: TEAM CATRADORA
Date: 2024-07-14 03:45 am (UTC)Fandom: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Ship: Adora/Catra (we're going to just pretend that their names would be totally normal in 1910s Eastern Europe Yiddish-speaking communities)
(featuring barely-edited lines from an English translation of גאט פון נקמה, or God of Vengeance. I cannot stress enough how little I edited the on-stage dialogue, it is almost entirely verbatim. Thank you so much for the prompt and the push to work with yiddish yuri.)
The blue lights shimmer on the stage like the rain it's pretending to be. Catra's hair flows loose behind her, and the stage is warm and alive under her bare feet.
Adora smiles at her from offstage, waiting for her cue. She's nervous. Tonight, playing these roles for the first time with an audience, everyone is. But Adora's always nervous no matter how many shows she does.
Catra taps the ceiling with her stick, and Adora leans out the wood-cut window. Her white nightgown glows under the stage lights. "Manke," Adora says, Romanian accent making her Yiddish dance. "Manke, did you call me?"
"Yes," Catra says. She reaches towards Adora's hand, clasping. "Yes, Rivkale, I called you." The want that spills over Adora's face as Catra's lines entice her into the rain will never stop making Catra's heart stutter.
Catra says, "I'll let your hair down," and unweaves the braids Adora so painstakingly readied in the dressing room. You needn't put so much effort in, Catra whispered over her shoulder an hour ago, when I'm only going to undo you.
Adora had pushed her playfully away, cheeks pinking and eyes darting for listening ears, but on stage, Catra has permission to run her fingers through her hair and say, "Now let me wash it for you in the rain, just like this."
"All night," Adora said, "I laid awake waiting to steal out to you."
Catra wraps her arms around her, cupping the back of her head in her hand. She's standing on a chair to reach, but Adora's replying embrace makes her feel steady as they exchange their lines, sweet and soft and exactly what Catra thought she'd never be able to do outside of their bed.
When they step offstage to let Scorpia give her monologue, they stand exactly as close as they want to. Adora only speaks her feelings when the words are written for Rivkale, but she wraps an arm around Catra's shoulders, cool in the dimness of the wings.
They walk back on. Catra never knew how to wax lyrical about Adora, but Manke does. She's been terrified to speak them aloud on the stage, but with Adora in her arms, the audience melts away and they're running lines in the dark of their room again.
"How sweet your hair smells," Catra's lips say. "Your breast so white and soft, and the blood in them cools under my touch, just like snow, frozen water, and their fragrance is like the grass on the meadows. Cool me."
Catra can feel Adora's breath stumble, even though she's heard the words dozens of times. There's something magic about the lights, the echo, the quiet waiting from the crowd that hasn't turned into a mob after their blood.
"I'll comb your hair like a bride's," Catra says, stealing another stroke through it, gold and silk, the only riches she'll ever need. "Do you want me to?"
"Yes." Adora's chest vibrates with it.
Manke's words keep spinning the fantasy - the Shabbos table, parents aglow, a bride bringing her groom to join the family. Catra and Adora both lost their families long ago, to disease and hunger and mobs with knives and guns, but that's not the reason this can be no more than a dream between two imagined women.
"Your parents have gone to sleep," Catra says. Until Adora mouths louder, Catra hadn't noticed her voice dropping. "The lovers meet here at the table. We are shy with each other, aren't we?"
Adora swallows. "Yes, Manke."
Catra forces her voice steady. "Then we come closer to one another, for we are bride and groom, you and I." Adora's cheeks flush, barely visible under the stage makeup. "We embrace, ever so tightly." Adora's skin is just as warm as it looks. "And kiss, very softly. Like this."
They knew this part before they'd set foot in this theater. The director insisted that this play had been put on before, in other theaters across the continent. He said everyone would understand it wasn't real. Some days, kissing Adora is one of the only things that makes Catra feel real.
It's not in the script, but Catra brushes the droplet from Adora's eye before it reaches her makeup. "It's nice, Rivkale," she says, "isn't it?"
Adora nods, breathing hard, pausing long before her next line. "Yes, Manke, yes."
Catra rests her forehead against Adora's and the next part rises to her lips to keep her from kissing Adora again. "And then we go to sleep together. Nobody knows, nobody hears. Only you and I, like this. Do you want to sleep with me tonight, like this?"
The script calls for Rivkale to get nervous now, worry about being caught, fear her own lust, and Adora's never needed to act to show anxiety. The scene moves away from the two of them soon. But before Adora speaks her lines, she gives Catra one more moment of softness.
"Yes," Adora says, exactly like she has for years in every way but volume. "I do."
Re: FILL: TEAM CATRADORA
From:PROMPT: Tokusatsu Yuri Ships United Front
Date: 2024-07-02 02:31 pm (UTC)PROMPT: Team OCs (Moon)
Date: 2024-07-02 03:03 pm (UTC)PROMPT: Team OCs (Moon)
Date: 2024-07-02 03:04 pm (UTC)FILL: Team E-Rated Games
Date: 2024-07-16 03:07 am (UTC)PROMPT: Team OCs (Moon)
Date: 2024-07-02 03:06 pm (UTC)FILL: Team Kittyuri
Date: 2024-07-06 09:48 pm (UTC)PROMPT: Team Rosemary
Date: 2024-07-02 04:09 pm (UTC)FILL: Team Ace Attorney
Date: 2024-07-09 09:40 am (UTC)Prompt: Team Magnus
Date: 2024-07-02 04:47 pm (UTC)FILL: Team Anime/Manga
Date: 2024-07-03 09:53 pm (UTC)word count: 409
pairing: winter schnee/cinder fall
fandom: RWBY
characters: winter schnee, cinder fall
a/n: my apologies to ea nasir et al. i churned this out in like 15 minutes at 11 pm
//
“I don’t care if you smelted it by hand,” Winter says impatiently, “the seams are clearly visible.”
Cinder shrugs, tapping her foot impatiently. “I heard you the first time. Do you have anything new to complain about — sorry, inquire after — or are you leaving?”
Winter crosses her arms. Her ‘thoroughly unimpressed look’ stopped being intimidating after the first time she walked into her shop and started whining about unstable-looking seams. And yet, Cinder thinks, she keeps coming back and purchasing more. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re actually selling copper or if this is a front.”
“A front for my criminal empire,” Cinder says sarcastically, crossing her arms too. “In which I sell people imperfect sheets of copper and pray they come back for more. What is this, your sixth time here this month?”
“Why do you care? Business is business.”
This is true enough. Cinder gives up on tapping her foot — it cuts through the stillness in the shop too sharply and somewhat ruins her stern-looking image, she thinks — and drums her fingers against her forearms instead, struggling to come up with a suitable reply.
She doesn’t usually get caught on her own tongue like this. Winter just has — weird effects on her, she supposes. “I care because you keep coming back to complain. Over a bad product from literal months ago. And then buying more. If this is an official investigation, it isn’t a very good one.”
Winter’s face screws up. It’s the most expressive Cinder has ever seen her be. “You smelt the copper by hand. I’m trying to figure out how you keep producing such shit results.”
“Hey, everything else you’ve had from me is good,” she says defensively, “great, even. You know I take complaints seriously?”
“That’s why I’m complaining.” Winter steps closer, out of the sunshine cascading through the door into Cinder’s forge and into the darkness of the room. The closeness feels like it’s supposed to be a threat of some kind, but it passes Cinder by. “You have an interesting attitude to your job. It fascinates me.”
//
Winter pulls away from Cinder long enough to murmur something along the lines of g-d, you make shit copper before she kisses her again.
“That was one time, and I refunded you in full,” Cinder says, chasing her mouth. “You just keep coming back to moan about it because you want to make out with me.”
“And look at what I’m currently doing.”
Prompt: Team Anime/Manga
Date: 2024-07-02 06:07 pm (UTC)FILL: Team Anime/Manga
Date: 2024-07-06 09:29 pm (UTC)word count: 386
pairing: winter schnee/cinder fall
fandom: RWBY
characters: winter schnee, cinder fall, neopolitan 2 second cameo
//
“You built your own ship?”
Cinder raps her knuckles on the side of the shuttle, grinning widely. Winter shifts her gaze away from her, suddenly finding her too bright to look at. “Partially.”
“You stole it,” she guesses. Cinder grins wider.
“Right out of Torchwick’s idiot hands. Say hi, Neo.”
A bi-coloured head pops up from inbetween the slats of the top deck and waves, then vanishes again. Bemused, Winter waves back. “And his sidekick?”
Cinder hums, leaning over the railing. The shuttle’s paneling creaks warningly. “Nah, she came willingly. We’re, ah, travelling.”
“Travelling,” Winter echoes, “right.” Cinder is hardly ever just travelling. The circles she moves in are always shifting with the winds, and Cinder shifts with them, digging her claws into power. She should have arrested her years ago, but something about her is alluring, captivating.
Cinder’s smile turns sharp, as if she knows this. She’s seen all of this in Winter’s eyes before. “You don’t believe me?”
“I never believe you,” Winter says easily. “How many times have I caught you doing something illegal with someone else’s property?”
“Only every time I come by,” Cinder says. She taps the side of the ship again, springs off the railing and slides down the side of the cargo hull. It’s a Valean model from a decade or so ago, but it still works just fine for her, apparently — her fingers move over the wood of the hull with familiarity, trusting it to guide her down to Winter’s end of the dock without slipping away or breaking. “Is it a crime to want to show off my nice new shuttle?”
“It’s a crime if it doesn’t belong to you.”
“Don’t be like that,” she laughs, stepping over a heap of old mechanical trash. Winter has never claimed her workshop to be a particularly tidy space. “I thought you’d like it. Being a shuttle expert and all.”
Winter has also never claimed to be a shuttle expert. She peers around Cinder’s shoulder at the ship, still determined not to catch her eye, and frowns. “You just wanted to get my attention,” she decides. Cinder laughs again. “You think it’s attractive when I enforce the law.”
“Only in my presence.” She steps closer, fingers curling around the hem of her jacket. “Generally I’m ideologically opposed.”
“Generally,” Winter echoes.
no subject
Date: 2024-07-02 06:39 pm (UTC)FILL: TEAM ACE ATTORNEY
Date: 2024-07-15 09:52 am (UTC)notes: I am not Filipino and have no direct experience with any of this, please let me know if anything is incorrect/insensitive!
There was a pounding on the door.
Yuujin had only just gotten up, but he shambled over from his place on the sofa and pulled the handle regardless. “Oh, Murasame-kun,” he said, surprised; he’d prepared both Filipino and English greetings on his tongue, just in case it was a government official, but not Japanese. “What are you doing here this early?”
“THE BASTARD’S DEAD,” Haori shouted.
Yuujin blinked. Then blinked again. Haori Murasame, his student who he’d always known to be polite and punctilious, was at his door at 6 a.m. and soaked in rain. It was no wonder it took a while for her words to process.
“The… who?”
“Oh!” Haori said, eyes widening. “I’m so sorry! I thought you were Susato-chan.”
“Ah,” Yuujin said. That made sense. “Well, I’m afraid she’s currently asleep, but you can come in out of the rain in the meantime—”
“Haori-sama!” His daughter’s voice. He’d somehow not noticed her coming down the hallway. “You’ll catch a cold!”
“Oh, right,” Haori said, and stepped in at last. She was beaming, Yuujin noticed, despite her hair being impossibly tangled. “But look, Su, the newspaper!”
She shoved a piece of paper at Susato as Yuujin stepped out of the way.
“…Haori-sama,” Susato said, “this is soaked through.”
“Oh.” Haori frowned. “I knew I should have brought an umbrella,” she mumbled.
Susato was smiling at her. Yuujin had figured his daughter out years ago, but it was still present now: whenever Murasame-kun was around she would develop a new sparkle in her eyes, a fond angle to her smile, leaning towards Haori ever so slightly as though drawn in by her orbit.
As a father, it did concern Yuujin; but then again, if his daughter had to fall for one of her classmates, Haori was probably the best he could hope for. It wasn’t something he knew how to bring up, at any rate. He could only hope that she wouldn’t break her heart.
Looking at the way Haori had turned red as she covered her mouth with her sleeve, he thought, with no small amount of relief, that the possibility was rather unlikely.
“Anyway,” Haori said, tucking the sodden ex-newspaper away, “I’ll just have to tell you myself!”
She leaned in and whispered into Susato’s ear.
Susato gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. “You’re serious?”
Haori nodded.
Susato broke into a grin, grabbing Haori’s two hands. “That’s wonderful news!”
“Isn’t it?!”
“I should like to point out that I am also here,” Yuujin said with some amusement.
“Ah! Father!”
Haori shot a look at Susato that Yuujin didn’t know how to decipher; but apparently Susato did, because she added, “It’s alright, Haori-sama, he’s safe.”
“Marcos,” Haori said — practically spitting the name. “Ferdinand Marcos is dead.”
It took a moment for it to sink in.
“How?” Yuujin asked. “Lupus?”
Haori smiled grimly. “Pneumonia.”
Yuujin was silent for a second.
Twenty-one years. Two entire decades that his children had grown up in, of corpses on the streets and statues crusted in gold, of looking over their family’s shoulders every single second to check for any uniforms. Ferdinand Marcos had been exiled three years ago from hundreds of thousands of people protesting on the streets, a significant fraction of whom were students. The rumors that he might come back, even if they were nothing but propaganda, had been petrifying on some days.
Dead. Pneumonia.
What an utterly human way for an inhuman bastard to die.
“I’m glad,” Yuujin said.
Haori and Susato exhaled matching sighs of relief.
God, Yuujin thought, looking at his daughter. Thinking of his son, sleeping in a college dorm hundreds of kilometers away. God. He wondered if Susato and Kazuma knew how many times he’d heard them slipping outside with signs concealed under their shirts. He couldn’t have been more proud knowing what his children stood for. He couldn’t have been more scared.
Marcos was dead. His armies remained. Any shift for the better would be slow, the matter of years if not decades.
Susato and Haori were still holding hands.
Yuujin swallowed. For a second, he feared he would cry. “I’m glad,” he said again, rough. “Now, Murasame-kun, do you want breakfast?”
a/n: i got really into my feelings about a lot of older people i know who participated in student protests here. thus always to tyrants
no subject
Date: 2024-07-02 06:39 pm (UTC)FILL: TEAM ROSEMARY
Date: 2024-07-03 09:15 pm (UTC)As she fully regained consciousness, Kanaya began rifling through her memories to see if she’d been expecting someone. It was obvious she’d overslept, but after a long morning spent digging out Crocker’s car from a ditch that had taken considerably longer than expected, Karkat had insisted she return home to rest. And truth be told, the ache in her muscles had eased considerably, even if the ache in her stomach had only worsened. But from what she saw outdoors, it was already pitch black. She didn’t feel as if she’d overslept that long. And who would want to visit at this hour?
The whistling of the wind finally registered in her ears. Kanaya’s eyes went wide. The knocking started again, and this time she practically sprinted to the door. When she opened the door, she was greeted by a gale of sand that swept in alongside a figure caked in dust who appeared on the verge of collapse.
It took notable effort to shut the door, enough that the figure held off on her collapse to assist in pushing it back against the wind. Both of them managed to close it, then collapsed against the door. By then, everything inside was covered in sand. Rather unfortunately, it was not as significant of an aesthetic difference as Kanaya would have preferred, given how it complimented the preexisting coat of dust.
“My apologies for such an unexpected visit,” the figure pulled a bandanna off the lower half of her face. “But I found myself in rather dire straits and yours was the nearest sanctuary I could think of.”
“Rose!” Kanaya exclaimed. The upper half of her unexpected guest’s face remained so coated in grime that there was a clean line between what had and hadn’t been left exposed to the elements. “Why on earth did you venture outside in such weather?”
“This current situation is not one I ever intended to land in, though I will shoulder a portion of the blame due to my carelessness,” said Rose. “Maplehoof had escaped again. I set out in search of him, and by the time I noticed the black blizzard it was too late to return.”
Any further explanation Rose might have provided was cut off by a coughing fit, at which point Kanaya retrieved a jug and ladle, bringing sips of precious water to Rose’s lips when the coughing died down. The walls of her house in that moment suddenly felt all too thin.
“Thank you,” she found her voice eventually. “I sincerely hope I’m not imposing.”
“I do not believe that anyone can impose on their neighbor in these times. Not if we are to survive,” said Kanaya grimly. “Unless one includes the scarf that Eridan has taken to wearing.”
They shared a laugh over that, and that launched them into a conversation about Eridan’s recent attempts at what could charitably be described as courtship, and so they whiled away the hours together that way. Sometimes, their words nearly drowned out the howling wind, and they forgot the cause of the visit.
At her own insistence, Kanaya acquired her least dirty towel from her room and gave it to Rose when she complained of feeling like a walking sandbox.
“The endeavor of cleanliness has always had something of a Sisyphean aspect to it, but I do confess, our current conditions have me often returning to a sentiment of futility on the matter,” Rose pondered aloud.
“Well, if you truly feel that way, then you are more than welcome to open the door for some air,” Kanaya said with a perfectly straight face. Although, now that she thought of it, the winds outside sounded as loud as ever despite the fact that hours had to have passed by now. Had they? Every time a black blizzard struck, she found herself wishing for a watch.
Rose’s stomach growled, and so the two of them split a half-empty can of beans between themselves. Kanaya swept the floor as best she could manage, while Rose attempted to wipe off the counters, and by the time they were finished, they were almost certain it was the evening.
“I myself have already enjoyed plenty of time on the cot today, so I believe-” Kanaya began, but Rose held up a hand.
“Keenly aware as I am of the level of hospitality you believe it is your duty to uphold, I cannot allow you to be driven from your own bed for my sake,” said Rose. “You have already gone above and beyond what could be expected of any host in such conditions.”
“Rose, to allow you to spend the night on the floor would be unconscionable.”
“Then surely you realize that I cannot ask the same of you.”
“As much as it is admirable, such a refusal will do you no good, for I refuse to deprive you of what little I may be able to provide you with.”
“Then we are at an impasse.”
“You can be as frustrating as you are beautiful,” said Kanaya without thinking.
“Well,” Rose blinked. “I suppose that there is one possibility that the both of us had overlooked.”
“Oh?”
“We could both make use of the bed. Simultaneously.”
The cot was far too small for two people to use it at once, not unless they were both thin as a rail. And yet, when both she and Rose tucked themselves back-to-back beneath a quilt, Kanaya could not say she was entirely uncomfortable.
The wind had not ceased in the slightest. By now, it sounded more akin to screeching than any gust of air had a right to. Kanaya turned around to face Rose’s back, watching her body rise and fall ever so slightly. It was steady. Almost graceful, somehow.
Suddenly Rose turned over to face her. Even in the dark, Kanaya could see the dull expression on her face.
“What is it?” she whispered.
There was a pause before Rose answered. “Maplehoof is still out there.”
“Oh,” said Kanaya. She’d half-forgotten about the horse.
“Do you suppose that there’s any chance of finding him alive by the time the storm ends?”
Kanaya opened her mouth to reassure Rose that yes, she would certainly find her horse after all this was over. Then she was reminded of the constant ache in her own stomach, and Rose broke into another coughing fit. Half by instinct, Kanaya reached out a hand to stroke her along the shoulder. It was all she could do besides wait for it to subside.
“Maplehoof is a clever enough horse to survive in unlikely circumstances. These, however, strike me as extremely unlikely,” were the words she had decided on by then.
Rose sighed. “Thank you for not sugarcoating your words.”
Another pause. Rose had not removed Kanaya’s hand from her shoulder. Kanaya pressed on. “Something else is on your mind.”
“How perceptive of you.”
Had she overstepped her bounds? “My apologies, consider the matter forgotten.”
“No, it’s fine, I suppose this thought needs to be expressed,” said Rose quickly. She pursed her lips, then her eyes looked away from Kanaya’s face. “This area- it’s one that Maplehoof has been familiar with his entire life. We have previously established that he is intelligent and tenacious enough to have a chance of surviving such circumstances. But now I cannot help but wonder if perhaps, despite how he might have convinced himself that life is tolerable in the status quo, it might not be time to seek greener pastures.”
“We are still discussing your horse?”
“Of course,” Rose’s face wore an expression somewhere between comfort and weariness.
“Well,” Kanaya’s mind filled with glamorous images, photographs she’d glimpsed of scenic landscapes and elegant models posing in cities. They quickly disappeared, replaced by pictures from the newspapers of people standing in line for miles at soup kitchens. “I would wonder if the proverbial greener pasture exists for a horse of his beauty. The horse economy is rather far from stable.”
“True,” Rose sighed. She closed the distance between them, putting her head on Kanaya’s chest. “As painful as it is to face that reality- and that particular worldplay- the facts are inescapable. Perhaps it’s foolish of me to imagine that any corner of the world isn’t in dire straits at the moment.”
Kanaya felt her heartbeat pick up. “It isn’t.”
“I have so many dreams that feel impossible, as much as they deserve to exist.” as Rose snuggled in closer, her words growing almost imperceptibly quiet, Kanaya moved her arm so as to embrace her rather than hold her shoulder. “But if I could make one come true, do you know what I’d choose?”
“What?”
When Rose didn’t respond, at first Kanaya thought that she was taking her time to think again. Then she realized that her breathing had changed subtly. The other woman had fallen asleep.
Kanaya shut her eyes and tried to sleep as well, wishing she could provide more than her tiny home and arms. She drifted off eventually despite the howling wind, dreaming of a better world where dust didn’t settle in their lungs.
no subject
Date: 2024-07-02 06:41 pm (UTC)During the Dark Ages, before the Traveler arrived to Earth
no subject
Date: 2024-07-02 06:42 pm (UTC)PROMPT: TEAM ACE ATTORNEY
Date: 2024-07-02 06:58 pm (UTC)FILL: TEAM ACE ATTORNEY
Date: 2024-07-04 03:01 am (UTC)Ship: Susato Mikotoba/Haori Murasame
Notes: oh my GOD doing oldtimey writing almost killed me dead and this isnt even that oldtimey. ohhh god. this round is going to kill me but i’ll have fun while it does
“I fear to stain you,” Susato rasped.
The candlelight played over her face, twisting odd amber shapes over her cheekbones. Her eyes glinted dark brown, though I was certain, looking at her sidelong, that they flashed red under the light.
So this was him, I thought, in a sort of dazed wonder. All the whispered rumors that they thought I couldn’t hear, the grim looks on Dr Mikotoba’s face, the sheep and cattle drained dry within a single night — they had suspected unnatural forces, I knew, even while they’d told me to just keep brewing medicine for anemia, there’s a sweet girl, Haori — this was the cause.
Susato Mikotoba. My dearest friend.
“Stain me, I don’t care,” I said, and held out my arm. And oh, Mother, if you are reading this you will think me foolish, perhaps fatally so; but if only you had seen the look on her face then, so raw with sorrow and hunger.
I would do anything for her. Anything.
And before you suspect unnatural forces again: this has always been true. I love her, with all the moods and tenses of the verb, and there is nothing that could be more natural than that.
She was shaking her head. She had tucked her hair into a cap and was wearing a cape, but I would recognize her by voice anywhere. “I could not ask you to,” she said, voice dangerously weak. “I may not be able to stop.”
“Su, you look half perished.”
“Father was so worried about the animals,” she said quietly. “I thought — I could survive without for a few days —”
“Of course you did,” I said, meaning it with fondness. From her stricken expression I knew I had failed, so I took a step forward and brushed a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. She inhaled, sharp and ragged. I noted dilation of the pupils for purely scientific reasons.
“Please,” she said, her voice cracking. “I shouldn’t…”
“I’m a doctor, remember? I’ll be alright. Perfectly fine, even.”
She took a shuddering breath, biting her lip. The anxiety on my dear friend’s face warred with another expression I’d never seen from her, something sharp and focused and almost predatory.
“You must promise me,” she said finally: “Haori, pull me away when I take too much. By any means necessary.”
“I will.”
She almost made to cup my cheek (which, to be truthful, almost made me black out) then startled at herself and reached for my arm instead. I scarcely dared to breathe. She lifted my wrist to her mouth; in the dim light, I thought, we might have been mistaken for a knight swearing a vow to his lady.
She looked up at me. Our eyes met; a silent promise.
She bit down.
FILL: Team Anime/Manga
From:Prompt: Team Anime/Manga
Date: 2024-07-02 06:58 pm (UTC)PROMPT: team tokusatsu
Date: 2024-07-02 07:12 pm (UTC)PROMPT: TEAM OC (Moon)
Date: 2024-07-02 07:50 pm (UTC)FILL: Tokusatsu Yuri Ships United Front
Date: 2024-07-14 10:33 pm (UTC)Ship: Lissa/Maribelle
Words: 772
Before Lissa got up to pitch for her first game in the league, she felt as if all the buzz and bustle of the day were happening outside of her, to someone else, and she was just watching.
She'd been training for months, and still the lead-up to an actual game was more surreal than she imagined. Everyone present in the locker room, all at once, setting their hair and painting their faces because their bosses' approval depended on it. Having people other than Maribelle fuss over her, saying their new pitcher had to be absolutely picture perfect. The coach, mistaking Lissa's unusual quiet for nerves and assuring her she'd do a wonderful job.
Lissa knew she would. If there were anything in the world she had confidence in it was her ability to throw a ball with power, stronger than any other girl in the softball leagues she played in before getting scouted.
Frederick had made sure she was strong, prior to his enlistment, ensuring that even if Lissa were hopeless at fancy parties she'd never find herself in a scenario entirely without hope. And Chrom had always played ball with her, despite everyone in the world telling him he was too old for catch with his little sister. He caught her throws without complaint even when he started having to wear catching gloves for it, and from the way two of them talked about her throws Lissa knew without a doubt she was about to stun everyone in the audience with her pitches.
Still, she didn't feel embodied as the team walked out and the crowd cheered. This couldn't be her life, not clumsy little Lissa Ylisse, who'd never be as proper a lady as anyone wanted. They must have been straining to get a look at the other team's new pitcher, or looking at her for faults.
Those were the kinds of thoughts plauging Lissa through the start of the game, until it was time to take their positions and before she let Lissa go to the mound, Maribelle grabbed Lissa's hand.
"Are you alright, darling?"
Lissa thought for a second that out of the two of them, perhaps Maribelle should be the one finding the present surreal.
It was Maribelle who'd never played before when she offered to help Lissa train, it was Maribelle who tried to demure when she was invited alongside Lissa, and it was Maribelle who eventually conceded to being catcher even though it was "easily the least attractive" position, she had said, "what with all the padding".
In spite of all of that, when it came down to the wire it was Maribelle whose eyes were clear on the field.
"If you need to sit down I can get you some water," Maribelle said, frowning and looking Lissa over as she took both Lissa's hands and squeezed, "perhaps even some iced tea if you need some sugar, Coach can't object if it's absolutely necces-"
Her concern brought Lissa back to Earth.
Maribelle was here, they were going to play baseball, and that was real. Never mind what field they were on or who was watching - Maribelle was here and they were going to play together, and that was the most natural thing in the world.
Lissa felt herself come to life again, and even managed some energy in her voice for:
"No no, I'm fine."
Lissa even found herself smiling, as Maribelle's concern turned to confusion.
"I've got you, Mari, I can't be anything but fine."
Maribelle's confusion turned to a deep flush, and she dropped Lissa's hands. Adorable, Lissa thought, though that was the kind of thing Maribelle started to protest if LIssa said it.
"Good then, let's get to the game!"
She left Lissa for the catcher's box and Lissa, finally, got on the pitcher's mound.
Lissa could take it from here, she realized. It was a beautiful sunny day with only the loveliest, picture perfect clouds in the sky, and all Lissa had to do was throw the ball to Maribelle.
The rest, the complicated stuff, could come later.
Lissa waited while everyone else got into position, eyes firmly on Maribelle. The batter walked up as the announcer started saying it was time to play ball, and still Lissa watched her best friend, whose eyes remained clear behind the cage of the helmet.
A whistle signaled it was time to begin, and Lissa barely even waited. She threw her best ball, with all her heart, and the batter didn't stand a chance.
Maribelle caught the throw, heart and all, and Lissa knew it was going to be a wonderful game.
PROMPT: Team Rosemary
Date: 2024-07-02 07:54 pm (UTC)FILL: TEAM TRANSFORMERS
Date: 2024-07-10 02:09 am (UTC)Pairing: Firestar/Moonracer
Continuity: Sunbow G1 (So everyone's a moron)
An assignment on Earth ought to have felt exciting. It honestly still was after four million-some years spent in hiding on Cybertron. But even parked between throngs of partiers in the middle of the Earthen Double New York the duo couldn’t shake the underlying current of anxiety.
It was the start of a new millennium for the human race! And the excitement was tangible. Why wouldn’t it be after the little primates that could had leapt and bound forwards technologically just through the past century, and with the Autobot’s alliance formalized they were on the cusp of scientific exchange to spring both forward even further.
But the technology was the problem in itself, the background noise for months had been about the “Y2K Problem” and no matter where you stood on the issue… It was hard not to let it under your plating.
At least a little bit.
Moonracer sure couldn’t think of anything else at least, the only thing in the skies above her were fireworks and she was starting to think that the Decepticons weren’t going to try to steal the Goodyear Blimp at all. After all it was nearly midnight, and the only Cybertronian she could spot was Firestar in the next parking spot beside her.
She flicked her windshield wipers in mock nonchalance and asked, “so uh, you see what they’ve been saying on TV?”
Firestar sounded distracted when she replied, “I’ll sit through ‘As the Kitchen Sinks’ if it’s on but I don’t watch much.” A long pause, “why?”
“Oh just, I was wondering if you heard about the Y2K thing?” Moonracer explained, “like that all the computers are going to break as soon as it turns midnight?”
“Oh, that. Yeah, let’s hope not. It’s going to be a nightmare driving out of here if the streetlights break.”
“All kinds of things could break!”
“Yep. Uh… All sorts. Any idea how it actually works?”
Moonracer’s engine stuttered, “well, I’m not really sure. They were mostly talking about how everything could brick at midnight, but the broadcasts didn’t go into how exactly, just that it had to do with the clocks.”
“But it’s Earth technology?”
“I… Think so? We’ve been sharing a lot more, so it’s harder to tell.”
The red muscle car rolled back a couple inches, “But there’s no way it could…”
And the powder blue sports car next to her matched the movement as they toyed with the idea of leaving the parking spots, “of course not. How could it?”
Getting out of town as if they had the time, “there’s no way it could. The software’s nothing alike.”
Because the countdown had already started.
“Should we be on the planet for this?”
“There’s no reason we shouldn’t be… I think.”
And with fully self aware irrationality an arm shifted out of each alt mode to hold hands while the display in Times Square ticked closer to zero.
As it struck there was a deafening roar from the surrounding crowd, the fireworks struck a crescendo, and two perfectly functional Autobots awkwardly pretended they hadn’t been worried.
Moonracer giggled, “see? I told you nothing would happen.”
Firestar shot back, “you brought it up in the first place.”
The stress bled out of the evening and they enjoyed the people watching, until both noticed the conspicuous shadow scaling the side of the Empire State Building.
“Is that Rumble with a grappling hook?” Moonracer asked.
“It could be Frenzy, let’s roll.”
Re: FILL: TEAM TRANSFORMERS
From:PROMPT: Tokusatsu Yuri Ships United Front
Date: 2024-07-02 08:39 pm (UTC)Deterrence Era AU, where humanity lives seemingly at peace with the invading Trisolarans under threat of mutually assured destruction and human culture becomes softer and brighter with the Trisolarans' cultural export that seems awfully human-like and filled with longing for humanity's love...
PROMPT: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Date: 2024-07-02 09:06 pm (UTC)