for this bonus round, the theme is competition! pretty open-ended, prompts that are about some sort of competition! this round will end on july 31st!
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! To participate, reply to this Dreamwidth post!
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]
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yurishippingolympics2024-07-16 11:56 pm
PROMPT: TEAM ANIMANGA
FILL: TEAM ACE ATTORNEY
This was a mistake.
Nightfall doesn't stop to wipe at her tears. She hates how easily she cries around Yor. It's like seeing her kind, gentle smile just — unlocks something inside Nightfall, something she's been trying to keep down in all her years as an agent.
It doesn't even happen around Twilight. No, around Twilight, Nightfall is always perfect. Always performing at the best of her skill. She has to in order to impress him, after all.
But Yor — Yor Forger, wife of Loid Forger, a city hall worker who is nothing and no one —
Nightfall dodges another attack, then lunges to swipe at Yor's ankles. Low blow, maybe, but Nightfall is a spy at heart, and she's starting to realize that absolutely nothing in the standard fighting regimen can bring Yor down.
Yor catches her by the wrist — even though Nightfall is moving so fast that from any outside perspective she'd look like a blur — and hauls her upright, like she's holding a cat by the scruff.
Nightfall kicks at her.
Yor laughs — a gentle, tinkling laugh, oh god Nightfall hates her so much — and drops her. Doesn't even do her the favor of pretending to be surprised. Nightfall scrambles to put some distance in between them, to assess her next move —
It's too late. In the blink of an eye there's a hand on her throat, and grass under her back, and Nightfall is staring up into Yor Forger's brilliant ruby eyes.
There's something dark in them.
Nightfall blinks. She knows she can be biased, thank you very much Handler, but — no, she's not imagining things. Yor has the tip of her small knife to Nightfall's throat, is gazing down at her with nothing but blank darkness curling behind her face, like a predator looking down at its prey, like Nightfall's nothing —
She should be — calculating. She could tell Twilight that his wife was inhumanly good at fighting and was surely a risk to the operation. She could tell Handler. She could finally have her place…
But Nightfall isn't thinking about any of that. There is only Yor's kiss of metal on her throat, and Yor's ink-black hair falling around her like a curtain, and Yor's thighs bracketing her own, and Yor's eyes boring into her own.
"Do you yield?" Yor says. Her voice is the same and yet unrecognizable.
Nightfall should be terrified.
"No," she whispers.
The knife presses harder against her throat. Oh god. Oh god. Yor's face is inches from her own.
"Do you yield?"
Nightfall stares at her and — and wants —
She lifts her hand to try to pry the knife away. Yor slams her fingers down between Nightfall's own. A burst of pain fractals out through her bones.
She can't breathe. Not because of the knife. Yor's face is making her dizzy.
She has to get up. She has to —
"Mama!"
"Anya!" And the darkness, whatever it was, flees from Yor's expression in an instant. She stands up. "What's wrong?"
"Um." Anya's expression darts between Nightfall (still on the ground) and Yor. "Um, Bond, um, he saw… I mean! Bond fell asleep on Papa and he needs you to carry him to bed."
"Of course I can carry your father to bed, Anya," Yor says with a smile. "Alright! Thank you for the exercise, Fiona!"
A brilliant smile in Nightfall's direction, and then she's gone.
"I meant Bond!" Anya yells in Yor's direction, then turns to Nightfall. "Um… Miss Fiona… are you okay?"
Nightfall does not think she will ever be okay again.
"Yes," she wheezes. "Just — help me up."
"Oui!" Anya pulls on her arm. Nightfall stands and brushes grass off of her.
Oh. Her wrist might be sprained. Oh well, the daily life of a spy is never easy.
"Bye-bye then, Miss Fiona!"
Nightfall puts up a stoic hand in response, strides over to the gate of the lawn, and leaves.
(She dreams about Yor.)
FILL: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
Words: 265
Notes: Harrow Nova exists for only one scene in canon, and Camilla isn’t in that scene. I don’t care. I am biting and tearing and ripping.
Contains blood, description of non-serious injuries, and a brief casual fantasy of suicide, all of which the POV character seems to enjoy.
——
If anything, it’s even better than Harrow Nova imagined it.
Camilla stands atop her, her boot digging into Harrow’s sternum, her rapier at Harrow’s throat. If Harrow wanted to, she could impale herself before Camilla had time to react. She savors the cold steel pushing up against her skin without puncturing it, savors the equally cold glare of her opponent, savors the taste of blood in her mouth and the feel of new bruises forming within her arms and chest, layered over the old ones.
“Yield.”
Camilla doesn’t even give Harrow the dignity of a question.
Harrow won’t give her the satisfaction of an answer.
Camilla holds her gaze for perhaps a second longer than necessary, then abruptly withdraws both sword and boot.
“You’re impossible, Nova. You could have won this duel if you wanted to, or you could have stood down and prevented it, but you didn’t. Why?”
Silence. Harrow recalls the moment Camilla’s shoulder slammed into her chest, relives the sensation of striking the floor. And, finally:
“The Reverend Daughter has forbidden you from fighting. I won’t help you violate her orders again.”
She probably believes it in the moment, is the thing. But Harrow knows which buttons to press, which pages from her catalog of weaknesses to exploit, how to keep her fighting but force her to win.
No, Camilla Hect will duel her again.
Harrow laughs the moment Camilla is out of earshot, lets the blood spill over her lips to stain the white of her paints red.
Sure, sex is great (or so they say), but this?
This is perfection.
Re: FILL: Team Webcomics/Webtoons
FILL: Team Anime/Manga
let me know if this is a bit much lmao
//
“Spar with me,” Cinder suggests, and Winter has never been one to say no to a fight.
This is how they wind up here: Winter’s own sword at her throat, Cinder crouched over her, hands caressing the hilt like a lover. The tip of the blade presses against her skin, cold and unforgiving, and there’s something in the danger of it all that makes her want to —
Cinder pushes a little, as much as she can without breaking skin. It may as well be her blade now. As if she notices the way Winter is looking at her, she slips up, draws the hilt of her sword under her chin and tilts it up, and smirks when an involuntary whine slips past Winter’s lips.
“That desperate, huh?”
“No, I — fuck you,” Winter says. It comes out weak, choked. She swallows thickly.
Cinder tilts her head to the side, smirk turning pitying. Has her boot always been on Winter’s thigh? “Oh, sweet thing,” she purrs, moving the sword away from her throat, “you want this back?”
Winter can’t think of a response. She resorts to gaping up at her, which communicates basically everything.
Her smirk widens, grows sharp. Cinder removes her boot and stands up to her full height, which of course makes everything markedly worse. When she offers Winter a hand, it takes her a second to process the intention.