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yurishippingolympics2024-07-16 11:56 pm
a1c0bb) wrote in yurishippingolympics2024-07-16 11:56 pm
Entry tags:
idealogical differences. think winter and qrow from rwby, glimmer and catra from she-ra
d&d au where two players are building up a toxic yuri competitive romance between their characters, or between a dmpc and a player character
you know how some social discord servers have members run campaigns to see who will be elected as a moderator or is that just my experience
competing for another's hand but the competitors are secretly in love! bonus points for emotional conflict (i'm only doing this for you and so on)
thunderclan vs riverclan fighting over sunningrocks >:3
word count: 745
pairing: winter schnee/cinder fall
fandom: RWBY
// “Another red bill,” Winter says, looking over the top of her glasses at Cinder. It’s less intimidating and more cute, but she doesn’t point that out. “Do you know why?”
Cinder shrugs, lifting her coffee mug to her mouth. She waits for Winter’s eyebrows to vanish into her hairline before making a show of swallowing and saying, “Dunno. I’m a very good girl. I turn all my lights off before I go to bed.”
Winter looks to the left, to where the sun is rising over the top of the skyline of apartment blocks opposite their window. She looks very pretty like this, Cinder thinks, all gold and silver edges. “Well, this had to come from somewhere,” she says eventually — good mood effectively ruined — “and I don’t feel like trying to figure it out.”
Her hands twitch impatiently around the paper. Sensing a rant coming on, Cinder puts down her coffee mug and removes the bill from Winter’s grip. She doesn’t bother reading it, just begins folding as Winter’s eyes find something else to latch onto and nods along when she starts rambling. This is how she is supportive: sitting and listening, feeling out Winter’s edges. It’s a perfectly effective method, thank you very much.
“I don’t even know what they think they’re doing,” she’s saying, “you know, the, the —”
“The fuckass government.”
“ — yes, exactly. Energy bills and water bills and all that shit. I don’t know how they expect us to be able to — I mean, I’m twenty-five and since my father cut me off I’ve only ever lived in apartments, and that’s something else, what kind of country lets people like Jacques fucking Schnee hoard their wealth while Mantle — what are you doing?”
Cinder looks down at the paper airplane in her hands, then back at Winter. “What?”
She scrunches up her nose, which Cinder graciously avoids calling adorable. “Are you folding our bills into paper airplanes?”
Cinder sets the completed one down and starts rifling through the papers on their kitchen table for more bills. “Yes,” she says pleasantly, “why, my love?”
“I don’t think you can do that,” Winter points out, but the corners of her mouth are tugging up, seemingly against her will. Coming from her, it’s practically hysterical laughter. Cinder also graciously avoids calling this cute.
“I do whatever I want, love. I’ll make two and we’ll throw them out of the window.”
“I don’t think you can —”
“I do whatever I want,” Cinder repeats, reaching over the table to press a finger against her lips. Winter goes cross-eyed trying to look at it, then glares at her, and it’s really not that intimidating at all. “Bet you I can go further.”
Winter snatches her finger away from her mouth, glowering. “You’re shit at throwing things.”
“I’m great at throwing things. Watch me,” Cinder says, and starts folding a third bill just to prove a point.
“Besides, you’re already bringing me breakfast as repayment for the laundry incident, anyway.”
Cinder glances up from her hands, quirking an eyebrow. “What?”
Winter has never been particularly good at looking mischevious, but she manages it now. She settles back into her seat with her arms folded, eyeing Cinder up and down. “I’m assuming the stakes would be breakfast-related. And you’d probably lose, is what I’m saying.”
Cinder snorts. “Wow, that’s bold. I was going to say you’d have to let me whisk you away from work for a charming afternoon date, but if you don’t want that I can just aim low.”
“Oh, fuck you.” Winter picks up an airplane from the table and starts towards the window, halting only to watch Cinder send her third creation in loops around the kitchen and duck when it sails past her. “If we’re doing this —”
“You’d better have a great idea in mind, if you’re planning on winning,” Cinder grins.
“I have fantastic ideas all the time. I have never had a bad idea in my life.” She opens the kitchen window with one hand, curls Cinder into her side with the other when she approaches. Unfair, Cinder thinks, since Winter is a good four inches shorter than her, but it’s not like she doesn’t mind being held by butches who speak like they were born in 1820.
“You sure about that?” she says, and then, just to psyche her out, “You’re gonna lose anyway, so.”
“Want to bet?” Winter asks, all too smugly.
Cinder bumps their shoulders together, taking aim. “You’re on, sweetheart.”
competition to make the best paper airplane. perhaps with love confessions written in one?
word count:385
pairing: miorine rembran/suletta mercury
fandom: mobile suit gundam: the witch from mercury
//
“There you are,” Miorine says, propping her hands on her hips, “I was starting to think I’d lost track of you.”
Suletta grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. Her other hand rests on the hilt of her sword, which doesn’t go unnoticed — she watches Miorine’s eyes flick down, then up again, like she’s cataloguing, calculating — “Sorry. I was busy.”
“I bet you were,” Miorine hums. She crosses her arms over her chest, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Are we gonna do this or what?”
Right. She’s always been very down to business Suletta swallows and tries not to look nervous, which generally tends to be a futile endeavour. “Do we have to?”
“We do,” she confirms. And that’s it, isn’t it? They do. It’s a cycle, a pattern: as long as there are Rembrans and Samayas on the face of the Earth they’ll always have to do this. There isn’t any peace for them, any future.
Suletta tilts her head up, taking Miorine in as best as she can: her eyes, her smirk, the way her hair pools from where it’s been shoved into her collar. Why she doesn’t just tie it up, she’ll never know — she thinks about saying the same thing to Miorine when they were ten and twelve and eighteen and twenty and learning how to spar, feeling each other out. “Alright,” she says, “but I don’t want to hurt you.”
Miorine’s lips press into a thin line. She uncurls her arms, settles her fingers on the hilt of her own sword. Anesidoria, Suletta remembers. Naming her weapons always made her feel stronger, safer. “We have to,” she says, and, “I’m sorry. I think in another life, I would have liked to marry you.”
“I would have too,” Suletta says quietly. “I would have offered.”
“Not if I offered first,” Miorine grins. She draws her sword, silver fluid in the cool afternoon light, and takes up a fighting stance. “Maybe it would have made our parents come to their senses.”
Suletta draws her sword too, just so they’re on even ground. “Probably,” she agrees — although it’s hard to imagine Prospera and Delling getting along at all. “Or maybe they’d just be the peaceful kind of spiteful.”
“The peaceful kind of spiteful,” Miorine echoes, smiling wistfully, “that sounds nice.”
two ghosts competing to scare some poor, hapless, mortal!
Edited 2024-07-17 22:10 (UTC)
two strategy rpg nerds fighting over which tactics are superior (best unit, best way to clear a map, the legitimacy of zapping a boss killer to the boss with a warp staff)
two literary critics arguing over an interpretation of a text
putting someone's name down for a competition instead of your own
the brutalest, most bloodythirsty competition of all... wii sports faceoff (or, wii sports resort)
a jousting tournament!
Edited 2024-07-18 09:22 (UTC)
They lock eyes across the room, and this is the start of the trouble, Cinder thinks. They lock eyes across the room, somehow, in the middle of all this — light and sound and someone yelling, some kind of soccer match in the background, hands on her back as someone scoots by, tables sticky with beer and g-d knows what else — and there’s something about her, something familiar —
She ducks her head, stares at her drink. All of the people she came with have since ditched her for other, more fun people they know; the event they came here for has been pushed back at least three times by now because they keep losing track of the organiser, and the girl by the bar she’s just found herself staring at has the clearest blue eyes she’s ever seen. Cinder worries at her lip and tries not to look too desperate, too lonely.
And this is how it begins, really: a hand knocks against her shoulder and she startles, the girl from the bar looks down at her and says, “Winter.”
Cinder blinks. She has to practically shout to be heard, but she looks patient, looks still. Somehow, in the sea of movement around them, she’s leaning easily against the side of Cinder’s table with one hand shoved in her pockets, and she’s so striking that the only word Cinder can manage is, “Huh?”
The girl points to herself. “Winter,” she repeats, “I saw one of your friends going out back.” She winces. “I assume she was feeling sick.”
“Oh,” Cinder says, “pretty name.”
Winter’s eyebrows shoot up. “Thank you?”
She points to herself, leaning closer over the noise to be heard. It’s stupid, she thinks; the organiser kept getting fucking lost and now they’ve got to wait for the match to finish and she probably won’t get home until midnight — “I’m Cinder.”
“Cinder,” Winter echoes. “You’re not here for the match?”
Cinder shakes her head, laughing. “Can you imagine? No, I’m backing up my friend. Pub quiz.”
Her eyes light up. “That is almost exactly what I’m doing.” She gestures back to the bar, to where a younger girl with similarly striking white hair is pretending not to watch the two of them over the top of her drink. “My sister needed a teammate.”
Cinder looks her up and down, finding her footing. “I’ll buy you a drink if you wind up beating me, how about that,” she says.
“I don’t drink,” Winter says — off Cinder’s surprised look, “parents.” She glances around the room — and now she’s remembered how to talk to pretty girls, Cinder finds herself admiring the slope of her jaw, the way her hair frames her face, “There’s a diner opposite. Should be pretty empty. I’ll owe you a dance.”
“A dance,” Cinder echoes, “just what century where you born in, exactly?”
Winter grins. It looks awkward on her, fumbling. She doesn’t seem like the type of person to smile a lot. “Don’t act like you aren’t charmed.”
And she is, Cinder thinks; she’s very charmed. “Well, you’re on,” she says. “I hope you’re good at trivia, darling.”
Winter flushes. She gets up, slinking out of her seat, brushing past her, and heads out to the back to go and find Emerald.
Winter is fussing with her equipment when she hears something shift behind her. The room spins instantly, the floor seems to heat under her feet; this is always the effect Cinder has had on her, and she would know her anywhere, would know her in death —
“Bit on the nose, don’t you think?” she drawls, fingers clicking on the beads in her uniform, “Winter at the Winter Olympics. You know, when they announced you were competing, I thought it was just some kind of joke at your expense.”
Winter straightens up, tugging at the front of her shirt self-consciously. “My coach is a very funny man,” she says dryly. It doesn’t quite hit like she wanted; Cinder barks a laugh and circles around behind her, heels clicking in time with her nails, seemingly still intent on coming here to fuck with her.
“Oh, I’m sure,” she hums. “I always just thought he was a bit of a dick, but each to their own, I guess.” There’s a soft thud as she leans against a locker, a soft hum as she regards Winter’s profile, and Winter determinedly does not look, does not look —
“So why are you here? Just making fun of me?”
“I wanted to see your costume,” Cinder says, sounding almost delighted. “I heard you were dressing up tonight.”
Again, Winter does not turn, knows full well that it’s exactly what Cinder wants from her. She busies herself with checking the blade of her skates, then with the sleeves of her suit, then pointedly turns away so she has her back to Cinder and starts to leave the locker room.
Her eyes burn into Winter’s back. It feels, she thinks, a little like she’s being cursed. A little like Cinder is drinking the last of her in, like she’s looking for the person she used to know and coming up empty, like she’s trying to find a weakness, an edge. “Good luck,” she says as Winter pushes open the door, “try not to fall over, baby.”
“How on Earth did she do that,” Cinder says to no one in particular. Winter’s gaze on the computer screen stays fixed decidedly forward, head tilted up to capture the sunlight, hand on the sword at her hip — and it feels all too much like a taunt, a challenge, even though they haven’t seen each other in years and they certainly weren’t hitting each other with swords for a while before they lost contact. “How on — how the fuck?”
Mercury snorts from where he’s fidgeting with some circuitry, lips curling up into a smirk. And he has a distinctly annoying smirk. “Sheer talent, probably.”
“Sheer talent,” Cinder echoes, narrowing her eyes at the screen so hard she’s surprised when it doesn’t burst into flames. “Miss I Don’t Want To Touch A Sword In Your Presence Because What If We Both Trip And Fall And Stab My Baby Sister won a world record in hitting things with swords based on sheer talent?”
She grits her teeth, curls her fingers into fists. It’s a dumb thing to be upset about, probably. She must look like a petulant child missing her friend, fed up that she’s gone on and succeeded and all without her there. But the thing is, they were never really friends in the first place, so that accusation is mostly baseless.
Mercury snorts again, because of course he does. “What, you think you can beat her? I know you don’t pay attention to the news, but she’s like, the most famous swordsman in the world.”
“No she’s fucking not,” Cinder says. It doesn’t come out quite as smooth as she’d hoped. “She gave up when she was twenty because she wanted to be a politician.”
(‘Wanted’ isn’t quite the right word, but she doesn’t make a habit of explaining herself to Mercury.)
“And then she picked it up again,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining the concept to a small child. Smirking again, crouching low over his work table, he adds, “and no, I’m not helping you with practicing to beat her.”
“I’m going to do it anyway,” Cinder says hotly, getting up from her seat. “Stupid fucker. All she wanted to talk about was dreams and hope and the future and now she’s —” her hands clench around themselves, her fingernails dig into her palms. “Now she’s here.”
“Now she’s here,” Mercury echoes, and then yelps when something on his table sparks.
A duel (see especially this passage from Wikipedia on offense and satisfaction, preparation for a duel, and the role of seconds)
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