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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)"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
Date: 2024-07-03 10:07 pm (UTC)word count: 583
pairing: winter schnee/cinder fall
fandom: RWBY
characters: winter schnee, cinder fall
a/n: winter would so never work in a record shop but i like to think she could in spirit
//
“Quit your job.”
Winter looks up from the records she’s sorting to frown at Cinder, leaning over the front desk at the other end of the shop like she owns the place. “Why?”
“Join my emo band.”
She snorts, turns away. “No. You’re insane.”
“It could be good,” Cinder says. The rustling sound of her layers and layers of fabric shifting indicates that she’s pushed herself off the counter. Winter braces herself for impact, slots an R back into place where it belongs behind an S, steps back to slide the box back into its place on a low shelf and finds Cinder behind her, lurking awkwardly like a lost ghost.
“Good how?”
“Well,” she begins, tracing a finger over Winter’s shoulder. Winter slaps her away and goes back to sorting her records. “You’re great at guitar. I’ve got a kid from a couple of blocks down who sings like an angel, and there’s —”
“I’m mediocre at playing the violin,” Winter corrects. “And I refuse to be in a band with an actual child.”
Cinder laughs. The sound fills the shop, cascades down the walls. “You’re nineteen.”
“I’m twenty in a month. I’m going to Atlas in a year.”
“So, you know. Fill that time with something worthwhile.” She steps back up to Winter again, presses something small and hard into her hand. A guitar pick. “Besides, I want to see you more.”
Winter turns down the aisle and makes her way to the end, avoiding Cinder’s eyes. “You think I have it in me to be in an emo band? Cinder, have you met me?”
“Yes,” she says sincerely. “And, look, it doesn’t have to be emo. It just has to be something.”
“My little sister is a trained opera singer,” Winter says, picking up a label from the floor. It’s for the classic rock section; it’s been trampled on significantly and will probably need to be replaced. Avoiding Cinder’s aisle, she loops back around to the front desk and starts hunting for the paper they keep loose in one of the drawers. “You want me to rope her in too?”
“I mean, if she’d be up for it. How old is she?”
“Twelve. And a half.”
She emerges from the bottom drawer to Cinder’s you’re fucking weird, you know? look. “Sure, why not. We can call ourselves the babysitters’ club.”
“You’re the one who asked me to quit my job,” Winter says, scribbling down Classic Rock, A-F on a sheet of folded paper. “What do you expect me to do?”
Cinder hums, which is good. It suggests she’s more spitballing than hurt. “Well, will you at least help me carry the speakers into my garage?”
“You’re at the speakers stage already, are you? Where’d you get those from?”
She grins, electric. “I stole them. Duh.”
Winter has been long past trying to talk her out of being a weird miscreant for the past five years. She heads back to the classic rock section, label in hand, and rolls her eyes. “Oh, of course. How silly of me. Yeah, I’ll be your roadie. Why not.”
“It pays well,” she says, inspecting her fingernails.
Winter slots the label back into place and looks up at her, flicking hair out of her eyes. Cinder smirks back at her, like she’s in on a joke Winter doesn’t know about. “Uh huh. What’s the hourly fee?”
“Well, I mean. If you come over at four we can have an hour to make out in my bedroom.”
FILL: Team Griddlehark
Date: 2024-07-16 03:49 am (UTC)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.