yurishippingolympics | YURI SHIPPING OLYMPICS 2024

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bonus round

YURI SHIPPING OLYMPICS 2024 - BONUS ROUND 7

For this round, we want to see prompts that are based on settings or locations! For your prompts, please provide a location or setting. It can be as specific or as abstract as you want, and can be in any medium you prefer!

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: Snaibsel from Young Justice

yes... i have also never been to a mosh pit...

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Artemis has never felt more exposed in her life. Not for the first time, she wishes she wore a jacket, or a t-shirt, or literally anything else besides the matching leather jeans and top she’s wearing right now. Why’d she let Zatanna talk her into this? Why does she let Zatanna talk her into anything?

She wants another drink–the lukewarm beer from an hour ago sloshes pitifully in her stomach.

“This is so not my usual scene,” she huffs and Zatanna turns at the sound, tapping her ear meaningfully. “I SAID–THIS IS SO NOT MY USUAL SCENE!”

Zatanna dips in low to be heard over the din of the concert and Artemis shivers at the contact.

“Sorry, Artemis, no super-villains or mastermind criminals here today.”

She smiles wryly in response.

“Pity.”

Someone crashes into her shoulder and she shoves them back, twice as hard. Zatanna crests closer in the aftermath, pushing against her side.

It’s warm. Artemis shakes her head to get a grip on herself. It’s hot as fuck, that’s what it is–this venue was built for 50 people, max, and they’re pushing 200. God, how does Zatanna even pick these places?

She shouts the question into her ear and the resounding grin on Zatanna’s face spells mischief. (Hardy har har.)

“Magic,” she says, wiggling her fingers enticingly and Artemis gives her a visceral eye roll in response.

One song bleeds into the next in a non-stop stream of blaring noise. It’s distracting–she has to give Zatanna that. She can hardly hear herself think over the music.

Whatever expression she’s wearing right now must tip her off–or maybe that’s just Zatanna, maybe that’s just the charm of a girl who’s pure magic–because she steers her towards a marginally less-crowded part of the pit and looks her dead in the eye.

“Is it helping? Please say it’s helping and I didn’t wear this top for nothing,” she says.

Zatann’s lace top that showcases her bare shoulders and a strip of her belly is admittedly, very distracting.

“It’s helping,” she replies obediently and Zatanna grins wide at her.

“Great,” she says, steering her back towards the center of this mash of people. “Now get back on the floor and dance until you drop!”

Artemis rolls her eyes but complies regardless.

Inspired by miyukitty's fills, I decided to try my hand at a chiptune as well: Parking Lot (originally by Mineral)

Parking Lot is the final track from Mineral's 1997 album The Power of Failing. It's one of the classics of the raw, lo-fi emo of the 90s, but it's also unusual for having a recurring theme of religious guilt and inadequacy. I associate this song in particular with Harrow's last appearance in Nona the Ninth:

She looked away from him, and she said: “I want to journey to find God. Maybe, at the end of that road, I will find God in you, Teacher … the God who became man and the man who became God. Or, perhaps, the child of the Nine Houses will recognise a different divine. But I am the Reverend Daughter—I am the Reverend Mother, the Reverend Father—I must find God, or some aspect of God, and understand it for myself … even if she lies, right now, within the Tomb.”

The album starts off the same place Harrow does in Harrow the Ninth - lost, miserable, and burdened by inexplicable guilt and inadequacy. It ends in parallel with Nona the Ninth too - still feeling like shit, but feeling like shit optimistically.

Idk. I have lots of feelings about Harrowhark being devoutly religious. Yes, she was raised in a cult founded by a con man that lives on the suffering of its members while weaponizing them to hurt people on the outside. She became a heretic because she believed too hard, not because she believed too little. ~~This is definitely all real and not just me projecting.~~ I am desperate for Alecto the Ninth because Gideon and Harrow have not had a single fucking conversation with each other for the last 67% of the series and I NEED that to change. But I also can't wait to find out just where, exactly, Harrow's devotion to Alecto will take her, and what the two of them will do to the man who became God and the God who became man.

Pairing: Kitty Song Covey/Yuri Han (XO Kitty)

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Edited 2024-08-31 13:18 (UTC)

Pairing: Kitty Song Covey/Yuri Han (XO Kitty)

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Edited 2024-08-31 13:30 (UTC)

Pairing: Kanoka Amanai / Yachi Hitoka (Haikyuu!!)

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Pairing: fem Hinata Shouyou / Kozume Kenma (Haikyuu!!)

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Pairing: Kitty Song Covey/Yuri Han (XO Kitty)

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Pairing: Yuzuki Murashihe / Makoto Kurume

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“That’ll be twenty lien to take out for the weekend,” Cinder says. Winter kicks her under the table.

“Swipe your card here,” she says to the terrified-looking student, extending the reader from her side of the desk. “Ignore her, she’s being pedantic.”

“I’m not being pedantic,” Cinder starts, and Winter kicks her again. She huffs and kicks back.

The student wanders off, as most tend to do once they start bickering. It’s on days like these that Winter questions her entire sense of ambition in the first place. All it’s been good for thus far is days like these, where she winds up having to play the straight man to Cinder’s bullshit.

“Does being an asshole come naturally or do you have to work for it?” she asks idly, settling the reader back in its place at the top of her desk. Her computer buzzes gently as it registers the input; Cinder’s eyes flick between her profile and the screen as she double-checks it.

“Naturally. Why?”

Winter shrugs, too tired to follow it up with another ironic comment. She’s never been good at thinking them up on her feet. “Just wondering. When does your shift end?”

A pointless question; she has Cinder’s schedule memorised. She tells herself it’s just so she can avoid her more effectively.

Cinder shrugs. As soon as she’s sure no one’s watching the front desk, she curls her knees up to her chest, the sharp heels of her boots digging into the fabric of her chair. “Three hours. Sick of me already?”

“Very much so,” Winter mutters.

The corners of her mouth flick up into a smile. “Only three more hours. Hey, do you reckon if Jaune comes back I can make him cry?”

“This sucks,” Cinder says delightedly, “you really know how to make me hate myself, babe.”

Winter makes a noise too dignified to be a laugh into her cup, tactfully avoiding meeting Cinder’s eyes over the table. “I can’t count the number of meals I’ve had at this place. My father loved meeting contractors here.”

“Oh, that explains so much about him.” She picks up another piece of steak with the end of her fork and studies it in the half-light, mouth working into something that could be a smile. “G-d, even you can’t fuck food up this badly.”

“Tell me about it,” Winter says idly. She picks her own fork up and takes the steak from Cinder delicately, looking amused. “So, do I win?”

“Well, I don’t know how I’d beat this,” Cinder hums. “So yes, you win.”

Winter settles back into her seat, tilting her head up. “Excellent. I’ll mark this down.”

“Catering for the wedding?”

She kicks her shin under the table. “I’ll hire some place halfway decent for that. You haven’t tried any good Atlas food.”

“I refuse to believe Atlas and good food belong in the same sentence. You were posted in Mistral; you should have had all the time in the world to find somewhere better than this,” Cinder laughs, flashing a grin at a waiter as they pass by. Winter, being Winter, just sort of stares in a way Cinder’s sure she thinks is friendly.

“Well, maybe. I was sort of preoccupied with being in the military at the time.” She picks another piece of steak off Cinder’s plate and adds, “But I’d like to try, if you’d be so willing.”

“Maybe when we’re not engaged in a ‘worst date ever’ competition,” Cinder says. She finds Winter’s leg under the table and hooks her ankle around her shin, pulling her close. It’s the kind of thing she would have called gross a few years ago, the kind of thing she revels in now. “You know, I am so endlessly glad that I lost.”

“And why’s that?”

“It means I’m incapable of making a date bad.”

Cinder sits in the grass and holds Winter for a long time after Jaune passes by, listening to her heartbeat through the front of her shirt. Winter’s arms don’t uncurl from around her back; her fingers stay fisted in her jacket, but she doesn’t wake up.

She won’t wake up for a while, Jaune said before he vanished. Cinder doesn’t want to believe him. She doesn’t know how to live in a world without Winter, even if it’s just for a few hours. She stays with her while her body reconstructs itself, threads her fingers through her hair, waits for someone to notice them. She can’t take her back to the camp on her own.

There are people moving through the bodies behind them, assumedly from Beacon. She recognises the voices drifting through the smoke, the figures she sees in the distance. They won’t come for her, Cinder thinks; she looks as though she’s grieving. They’ll recognise the symbol on her back and give her a wide berth.

She smooths Winter’s hair out of her eyes and kisses the top of her forehead, drawing her thumb through a patch of drying blood. Winter stirs in her sleep, drawing in a shaky, deep breath that sounds like it settles hollowly in her lungs.

She’s alive, Cinder decides, and that’s all that matters.

She waits until the sun sets. The sky dips purple, then blue, then black. Cinder stays wrapped around Winter’s body, trying to match their breathing for as long as possible.

Then, when the first stars are starting to appear, she shudders into awareness.

Cinder hardly even notices at first, face buried into the crook of her neck as it is. It only really sinks in when Winter’s fingers tremble against her back, when she breathes, “Cinder?”

“Oh, G-d,” she gasps, “Oh my G-d.”

Winter’s hands curl experimentally into fists, then uncurl. “Cinder,” she repeats, airless, “you’re here. I missed you.”

“But I didn’t even go anywhere.” Cinder lifts her head to look at her, blinking away tears. “I’ve been right here the whole time.”

Ship: Sherry/Madeleine from Gourmet Hound

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Sherry pops her head into Madeleine’s room, fully expecting to see her mid-costume preparation. Instead she sees her reclining against the headboard, a book propped up on her chest. She flicks her gaze over to Sherry exactly once before going back to poring over the pages.

Sherry is dismayed to see that she’s still clad in a t-shirt and jeans.

“You’re still going to Brie’s Halloween party tonight, right?” she asks.

Madeline grunts affirmatively in response.

“Aaaand where’s your costume?”

Madeleine points at her chef’s outfit hanging on the door without even looking up.

“Madeleine!” she huffs, stomping indignantly into the room. She plucks the book straight out of her hands so she has no choice but to look at her. Sherry nearly buckles under the weight of her full gaze. “You are not going to a costume party as a chef! That’s literally what you are every other day out of the year.”

Madeleine shrugs, noncommittal, in response. Sherry grins and grabs her by the wrist to drag her to her room.

“Come on, I’ll fix this before we leave.”

And that’s how they wind up on the floor of Gourmet Hound, dressed in matching angel-devil costumes. Sherry re-adjusts her halo when someone stumbles into her and Madeleine looks like she’s two seconds away from literally murdering someone with the death-grip she’s got on her pitchfork.

“I see,” Graham says in an all-knowing tone that she does not appreciate when she explains their costumes. At least he looks ridiculously out of place with the pair of cheap dog ears wedged onto his head. “Why are you the angel again?”

“Gotta go, Graham cracker!” she says instead of responding, dragging Madeleine away with her. “I see Lucy in the corner over there!”

Lucy is in fact stowed in the corner with a bowl of punch and a tray of appetizers. Sherry takes a handful and feeds Madeleine one. She chews slowly and deliberately before jerking her head once in approval.

“Brie’s food is like always,” she says, which is as close to a compliment as she’ll ever give. Sherry giggles and drags her along to the next group.

By the time they get home, Sherry is tipsy, the warm fuzzy feeling stirring in her gut only accentuated by Madeleine’s presence. She slips into her pajamas and is pouring herself a cup of water in the kitchen when Madeleine stalks to the doorway, rapping twice on the frame.

“Sherry,” she says and Sherry notices that she still has some red eyeshadow smeared onto her skin. “That was fun. Let’s do it again sometime.”

Sherry’s so shocked she nearly drops her glass of water.

Ship: Mizisua from Alien Stage

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“Aw, Till looks adorable in his suit!” Mizi coos, pointing like he’s a show dog on display. Sua follows the line of her finger and stares at a very nervous, very freaked-out Till standing by the altar.

“It’s just for the tax benefits!” he yelps, jabbing one hand in Ivan’s direction like that’s enough to ward him off. Sua pities him. She really does.

“If by adorable, you mean like a mangy dog then sure,” Sua offers, waving her hand. Maybe she should be more accepting of her new brother-in-law but well, old habits die hard.

Mizi tips her chin up in a gesture and Sua complies, bemused, as she lifts the wineglass up to her lips. It’s only through this slow-and-steady ritual that she makes it through the torturous 2-hour-long ceremony and onto the wedding party after.

“Enjoying the party?” Ivan asks when he remembers that there’s guests other than his fake-fiance at the wedding. His tone, however, betrays his true intentions.

“It’s alright,” Sua offers, surveying her brother. “Not half as good as mine and Mizi’s.”

Mizi, wine-drunk and wrapped up in her embrace, giggles happily.

Ivan grips a glass so hard it threatens to shatter.

“Well, nuna, I don’t have your flair for extravagance,” he says sweetly. “And Till and I wanted to keep it simple.”

Sua stares at the gold-plated silverware and arches one eyebrow.

“Simple,” she echoes drily. “Sure. Just admit that you don’t have any taste.” She says the last part with a meaningful look towards the altar.

It is only Till’s reappearance at the other end of the banquet hall that saves the rest of the wedding party from witnessing another sibling spat in the middle of the room. Ivan excuses himself with little grace and no one is sad to see him go.

Mizi pokes her cheek when she’s gone, twisting in her lap.

“You two are so alike,” she laughs. “It’s cute.”

Sua blanches and rolls her eyes but a smile is pulled from her lips when Mizi reaches up to press a kiss to her cheek. She misses and lands on her nose instead.

“I guess so.”

Lug/Anode, no warnings!

Weeks and weeks of planning had finally come to fruition. The costumes Lug and Anode were now wearing had been easier to make than the ones for the Terran animation convention, if a bit different than their original visions. They were metal, but it had still been an ordeal. Most human outfits needed fabric, and even the plastic polymer fabrics from the aforementioned convention had been expensive. Natural fibers? They could have purchased a small vehicle as a pet. The human who had suggested they both should go, Verity, had hemmed and hawed over possible options before tossing up her hands and suggesting they go as knights.

A museum exhibit in a nearby country had provided the inspiration. Both of them had assumed they'd go in, transscan them, and spend the rest of the day admiring the other exhibits, but it hadn't really worked. Those knights were very deceptively made; there was no machinery inside their hollow shells.

Silver paint had been acquired, armour patterns altered, and they were indeed rolling. Those armour patterns had taken a lot of work, and could be permanent depending on how they felt. The battlemasks were quite stylish... it was tempting.

Despite the difficulty, the impressed looks as they made their way across the parking lot to the ticket tent indicated it was going to be worth it. They'd recorded metal clangs to give that authentic effect; their own armour was too insulated to give the proper noise (reduced of course so as not to sound like a fight in a saucepan cupboard).

It had felt a bit like cheating to do a metal being, but the cost of period-accurate Renaissance fabrics for patterns scaled to their size was enough to purchase property in the area. The cost of the space bridge to the planet had already been more than enough for their shared bank account.

Both femmes' dreams of strange organic outfits had fizzled at the first cost estimate.

Anode picked up more fascinated whispers as they were given their armbands. It was mid-morning, and both bots had plans.

Touring the artists' tents earned them excited exclamations and many requests for selfies. Other faire-goers had similar requests. Collecting gifts of various types, they meandered around, enjoying the various smells of human food and drink. Fermented grains poured from casks and sugars caramelising over flames, alongside more standard fare. On the second round they decided on a few items for themselves. A quilt for the organic-sized sofa installed in their jump-ship. Some sharp objects for display. More sharp objects. Some honey and tea for their occasional human visitors. Beeswax for polish, which blew out almost half their budget.

Doe-eyed looks poured in from the LARPers' booth, and had they been the types to rest on one planet, there would have been serious consideration.

A few hours past noon, the sword fights began from the local academy, and Lug was dragged over by Anode as soon as the sound of clashing metal was heard. They were invited to join the amateur trials (humans often assumed all Cybertronians were involved with the war), where they fought against each other (poorly, neither had experience, Lug losing on a technicality), and another Cybertronain attendee dressed in armour from a more eastern country (both thoroughly trounced even 2-on-1, the bot had clearly been a combatant). Having exhausted themselves with laughter and shared some smuggled engex with the other bot, they parted ways to enjoy the plot up near the stage.

There was some on-the-fly mental translation going on as they watched, far more closely than had been intended, as they attempted to parse the calcified clichés and plot beats. Such styles of play often left gaps that were easily filled by audiences familiar with them, but left others a bit in the dust. Both Lug and Anode were very experienced with it, but organics had never made it easy.

The area was them dismissed after the curtains had closed and the clapping had stopped, and checking the schedule left them excited — dancing.

The dance teacher, an older male with long, braided facial hair dressed up as Geralt from a foreign book series, was a bit bewildered at teaching two students ten times his size, but took it in stride. Each heavy step of the conjuges made the adjacent couples stumble, and it took a while to move light enough that they weren't sabotaging the other dancers. Soon, cast members came to fill the gaps as the waltz shifted into a jig, and a member with a tightly curled beard and darker skin (apparently titled "Balderdash the Wizard" (Anode suspected it was not his real name)) came to teach them. Both femmes sadly stepped out as they didn't want to shake down the performance tent.

Once again they enjoyed the company of the other bot, who happily showed them his very real, very sharp Cybertronian blade as the sun eased down, and slowly they were all rounded up by the jester to clear the field. It would begin again tomorrow morning, and perhaps they should practise their dancing before they returned. That had been embarrassing.

General Strika/Slipstream, no warnings.

"We could," said Slipstream, nervous, "but why?" She clearly didn't have any imagination, the poor thing.

Strika turned, gesturing at Megatron's magnificent berth. The general had known their commander too long and been too close as friends with him to have any of that hero worship left. Slipstream had a look like she thought they'd be defiling his room if they used it. Megatron, the fool, had been out scouting for months — for what Strika wasn't sure. He'd dodged her questions like he knew she'd judge him. But he had always appreciated the finer things in life, and his berth was no exception.

Imported organic silk drapery, a massive plush padded platform, and a juicy trio of charging cables, all going unused while their commander was off doing nonsense. Strika thought it was a right waste. She turned back to her mentee.

"We should because it's a lovely soft surface to shag on. Do you want to try storage closet 1513-B again?"

Slipstream shuddered. As with many flightframes were with their tight tolerances, she was quite the prim bot. The incident in the closet had left her coated in industrial rust stick-scented disinfectant. The shelves had fallen off their brackets, leaving them covered with scuffs, and the closet's cleaning drone had kept interrupting their activities trying to clean their pedes.

Strika herself was not too keen on going back to 1513-B. Her own room was more of an office than a berthroom, full of work she kept bringing back. Her berthpad was dusty from many nights spent sleeping on the cot in her office or on the padded floor of the training room, and Megatron's room was right there.

The general attempted to walk in a manner a little more seductive than her normal heavy stomp, hard with her massive, bulky frame. She turned to the violet seeker and patted the berthpad invitingly.

"Come on, he's not here to care and I certainly won't tell him."

"What if he comes back while we're here?"

"Then he can join in, of course!"

Slipstream looked violently embarrassed at her obvious interest. Megatron had that effect on bots.

Strika laughed. "Only if you want to, but he won't be coming back for a while, the fool. She plucked her mentee up with one hand wrapping around the tiny dip of her waist and brought them face-to-face.

"Now, why don't we enjoy his berth and fine oil, and I won't tell if you won't."

Slipstream laughed brightly as she was tossed onto the plush berth.

General Strika/Black Arachnia, no warnings. They're on the bridge of the Nemesis in space.

"Bah! I won't have my troops be touching that Autobot woo woo," Stika said, watching the techno-organic with a distinct disdain.

Black Arachnia glared back, wishing that she'd opted to get the laser optics when she'd had them changed to Decepticon scarlet. Half of the time, they couldn't get over their hatred of Autobots long enough to realise that the best option didn't have to be made by beings you liked — or even tolerated. Black Arachnia suspected that General Strika knew that this was their only option. She was a wily old bot. She just had to be convinced. Sometimes loudly. Often pressed out over the conference room table as Lord Megatron left in exasperation. Black Arachnia put that thought away for after they'd dealt with the Autobots' new trick.

"I promise that this is the only was to bypass the Autobot Science Division's new bi-linear shielding phases. Do you have anything else than can neutralise the effects of lunar halite? No? Then we need to get some chromic salts to dope these new reflectors!"

"Listen, you. Do you think I can just pull those out of my tailpipe?!"

"No, you stubborn old rustbucket, but I think you can get Swindle on the line right slagging now."

"Can I," said Strika, all deadpan annoyance. She did, however, have the look of someone on comms, which meant that the hulking, purple and magenta general had probably taken her advice.

Black Arachnia sighed and leaned over on the massive conference table. Her many optics flickered and offlined; command hadn't stopped arguing since the moment the last battle had ended. And it had ended poorly.

Their ground troops had poured onto the field, expecting an Autobot defense pockmarked with craters from the seekers' ablative bombs, given a bombing run had occurred only minutes before, but they'd found the Autobot forces completely untouched.

The seekers had done their flyover under Starscream's sharp optic, but reports had poured in that indicated that the damage seemed to just wash over the entrenched enemy combatants, leaving nothing to show for the thousands and thousands of tons of explosive that had been dropped onto their trenches and bunkers.

Half a day later the Decepticons had been forced to retreat, leaving the valuable moon under Autobot control.

In recharge, her fluxing processor churned through the data, hoping her decision was right. Before she'd defected from the Autobots, she'd heard whispers of such technology coming down the pipeline, but it had been expensive, unreliable, and unscalable. It seemed that the Autobot Science Division had ironed out those issues, the xenophobic bastards.

Strangely, into her projections of numbers and matrices, she smelled of whiff of warm, leaded energon with sugar crystals (something pure Cybertronians couldn't digest like she could, and she pitied them for the lack).

Strika's massive, pitted hand lay warm and heavy on Black Arachnia's back, the other pushed the blessedly warmed cube into her own hand.

"I don't think either of us has much energy to do our normal routine in the conference room. Perhaps we should rest somewhere that will not make our spinal columns snap and medics nag."

Black Arachnia grumbled her agreement as she began to drink, letting herself be led to her own berthroom and be plugged in for the night, tucked in with a quilt that the fully mechanical never needed. They'd tally that missed opportunity up for when they next got a break. Whenever that was.

Ship: Yumeko x Mayumi Joutouguu
Sequel? Sequel.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/58615609

Ship: Alice/Wendy

Fandom: Disney

Type: Manip

Link: https://www.tumblr.com/esteicy-blog/760409516118573056/wendyalice-wonderland-for-the-bonus-round-7

Ship: Undine/Kokoro (Sleepless Domain)
Words: 392

---

Look. It's not that you don't like parties. It's not even that you don't like this party specifically, or that Kokoro is late and you still sort of think of everyone here as her friends that you're also sort of friends with. You're just really tired today, and no matter how you sit, you can't get comfortable. When Bud catches you shivering under a blanket, she touches your forehead and immediately sends you to her room. She won't take no for an answer, not that you're particularly interested in objecting. You're exhausted, and there's a dull ache coming from your bones, and a bed sounds really nice right now, even if it isn't your own.

You must have fallen asleep instantly, because the next thing you notice is the sound of the door opening and the bed creaking as someone else climbs in and wraps an arm around you from behind.

"Kokoro?" you say dully.

She responds with a kiss to the back of your neck. "I'm here."

"But... the party. And this is Bud's room."

"I know, silly, she's the one who sent me here. And there'll be other parties. Right now I've got a sick girlfriend. That's what Bud said - 'your girlfriend's sick, go take care of her.' "

Girlfriend. You're still not used to that. You're not sure if you ever will be.

And then, with a belated realization: "If I'm sick, won't I get you sick too?"

"That sounds like a problem for future me," she responds. "Maybe future you can take care of future me. Current me is here to take care of you. Is there anything you need?"

"No," you say, and you wiggle your way closer to her. "I'm just cold."

Kokoro gives you a squeeze. "Then I'll warm you up."

You should probably feel awkward about this. You've only kissed, what, five times now? And now you're lying in bed next to each other, and it isn't even your bed, and there are a bunch of people just down the hall who all know you're there. But you can't care about any of that. All you know is that you feel safe, and you finally feel warm, and you are so, so very tired. If Kokoro says anything else, you don't hear it. You're already asleep.

She's still there when you wake up.

Edited 2024-09-01 19:15 (UTC)

She's trying so hard to be a person!

I love seeing Azula utterly out of her element a la The Beach. It's a reminder of just how tragic her character is - she's supposed to be a high school freshman, not a tyrannical killing machine who's totally incapable of relating to her peers.

I love this AU! So much potential for the party to bounce off of each other in interesting ways (literal as well as figurative) in such a small enclosed space.

Laios’s “Actually,” and Marcille’s reaction capture the tone of the manga perfectly.

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Page 14 of 14

YURI SHIPPING OLYMPICS 2024 - BONUS ROUND 7

FILL: Team Kittyuri

Fill: Team Webcomics/Webtoons

FILL: TEAM KITTYURI

FILL: TEAM KITTYURI

FILL: TEAM KITTYURI

FILL: TEAM KITTYURI

FILL: TEAM KITTYURI

fill: TEAM KITTYURI

fill: TEAM KITTYURI

FILL: Team Anime/Manga

FILL: Team Anime/Manga

FILL: Team Anime/Manga

FILL: Team Kittyuri

FILL: Team Kittyuri

FILL: TEAM TRANSFORMERS

FILL: TEAM TRANSFORMERS

FILL: TEAM TRANSFORMERS

FILL: TEAM WEBTOONS AND WEBCOMICS

Fill: Team Touhou

FILL: TEAM OC MOON

Fill: Team Webcomics/Webtoons

Re: FILL: Team Kittyuri

Re: FILL: Team Kittyuri