referees: (saso 2016)
SASO Referees ([personal profile] referees) wrote in [community profile] sportsanime2016-07-07 08:59 pm
Entry tags:

Bonus Round 4: Quotes

Bonus Round 4: Quotes

A shipping olympics favorite, this round uses quotes of all sorts to fuel your creative endeavors.

This round is CLOSED as of 7PM on July 21 EDT. Late fills may be posted, but they will not receive points.

  • Submit prompts by commenting to this post with a quote attributed to a specific person or character, along with any ship/ot3/etc. from one of our nominated fandoms.
    • Example: "You must be the change you wish to see in the world." - M. Gandhi
    • The quote can come from anywhere. Famous people, poetry, songs, books, movies, your neighbor, etc.
    • Your prompt MUST include some kind of relationship. (This is not the sports anime gen olympics.) Platonic relationships are indicated by an "&" between the names (e.g., Makoto & Rin). Non-platonic relationships use "/" (e.g., Makoto/Rin). Please don't say "Any pairing," either!
  • Fill prompts by replying to the prompt with your quote-inspired fanwork.
  • Remember to follow the general bonus round rules, outlined here.

Bonus round shenanigans all happen in the comments below. Brand-new works only, please.

Required Work Minimums:
  • 400 words (prose)
  • 400px by 400px (art)
  • 14 lines (poetry)
There is no max work cap.

Format your comment in one of the following ways:

  • Replace [YOUR SHIP] with the name of the team you belong to, including Grandstand or Sports Teams
  • Place the prompt's relationship in the first bolded line of the comment. Including the canon isn't required, but it's nice.
  • Below that, place applicable major content tags (when applicable; otherwise write "no tags" or "none")
  • Visual example
  • Replace [YOUR SHIP] with the name of the team you belong to
  • Replace RATING with the rating of your fill (G - E)
  • Place applicable major content tags and word count before your fill (when applicable)
  • NSFW FILLS: Please cross-link these fills and use clear tags in your comment. Written/text fills should be hosted at AO3 ONLY as a new, unchaptered work. Art/visual fills can be hosted anywhere. You may include a small safe-for-work preview of the fill in your comment.
  • To place an image in your comment, use this code: <img src="LINK TO YOUR IMAGE" alt="DESCRIPTION OF YOUR IMAGE"/>
  • Visual example
  • Replace RATING with the rating of your fill, G - E, as explained in the rules
  • Place applicable major content tags and word count before the fill, where applicable
  • NSFW FILLS: Please cross-link these fills and use clear tags in your comment. Written/text fills should be hosted at AO3 ONLY as a new, unchaptered work. Art/visual fills can be hosted anywhere. You may include a small safe-for-work preview of your work in your comment.
  • To place an image in your comment, use this code: <img src="LINK TO YOUR IMAGE" />
  • Visual example

Posts not using this format will be understood to be unofficial discussion posts, regardless of what they contain. They, like all comments in this community, are subject to the code of conduct.

These numbers apply to your team as a whole, not each individual teammate. Make as many prompts/fills as you want!

For prompts: 5 points each (maximum of 50 prompt points per team per round)

For fills:

First 3 fills by any member of your team: 20 points each
Fills 4-10: 10 points each
Fills 11-20: 5 points each
Fills 21+: 2 points each

All scored content must be created new for this round.

If you're hunting through the prompts looking for what to fill, a good trick is to view top-level comments only.

Have a question? Check The FAQ first. If you still need help, feel free to contact the mods. Happy fanworking!
catlarks: (SASO: Cards)


[personal profile] catlarks 2016-07-21 06:45 am (UTC)(link)
tags: asphyxiation (fill is mildly suggestive but not sexual so I'm posting it here)
Word Count: 1,999

This isn't even your thing but I got like 200% too excited for breathplay, at least there's... like... heaps of banter around it. I hope you can enjoy it. ;;;


"Did you give up on those old goals of yours?" Chris asks, head lifting from where it's been bowed above papers spread across his desk. "That doesn't seem very like you."

They're in Chris' study, an austere room dominated by the desk stationed in its farthest corner. When Chris brings work home from the office, he does it there, and always there — never in bed, or at the kitchen table, or seated at the couch in the sitting room downstairs. He prefers to keep his life compartmentalized that way. He might bring work home, but on his terms, at his dictates.

Miyuki sprawls across the sofa opposite Chris' desk, leaning back against its arm and idly tossing an old stress ball he'd found in the back of a drawer into the air, again and again. His eyes follow the rhythmical arc of its motion, up and then down, up and then down, catching it before it hits the lowest point of its parabola every time.

He feigns unconcern, but he knows exactly what Chris is asking him.

"No," he says, at some length. "I've changed them."

Chris' gaze has lowered again to the work before him, but his eyebrows raise, and he makes a noncommittal hum that rises in his throat. Though his attention is split, he never fails to divide it fairly — half for the task before him, half for Miyuki, in equal shares. His words will come again in due time.

"What are your new goals, Kazuya?" Chris asks.

It weighs on Miyuki's ears, whenever Chris says his name like that. There's a roundness to it, Chris' tongue curving carefully around each syllable, tasting the way it feels in his mouth. He makes a point of this personal gesture, of subtly highlighting whatever relationship it is they have between them, the one where Miyuki pretends he doesn't have a key but comes in at all hours, the one where they sit in shared space and talk around work, then over work, then through it, sharing in the stress of what passes for ordinary within their lives.

Chris isn't looking at him. Chris' eyes are on his papers, his hand curled around the thick barrel of a nibbed pen, the sort that requires filling from an ink bottle with a dropper. Its details glint gold in the low office light, and Miyuki knows it's genuine, an expensive gift from a business colleague. The gold grabs his eyes but it's Chris' fingers that hold his gaze, as he lingers over Chris' deft touch with the pen. He's gentle with the delicate metal nib and his handwriting spools out beautifully before the motion of its tip.

"Kazuya?" Chris repeats.

Miyuki shakes his head, squeezes the stress ball tight inside his hand. "They're a work in progress."

"I know a thing or two about working toward a goal, I'd think," Chris says. "Why don't you tell me a little bit more."

"I thought you told me once not to reveal my goals so easily," Miyuki says, slice of a smile cutting across his face. "I thought you told me that if I did, you might have to deliver on them."

His brows tilt up, the curve of his mouth a challenge. Chris looks back at him, his lips pressing into a thin, considering line. Miyuki never has been able to run a game on Chris worth anything, he's tried, he's never been able to stop himself from trying, but they're too much two of the same. They think the same way, play by the same rules. When Chris weighs him in judgment, Miyuki knows he'll divine the substance of Kazuya down to the ounce.

There's something terrifying about being seen through so easily. There's something exciting about it, too.

"I did say something like that once," Chris allows. "And I would not want to go back on my word."

Miyuki's hand squeezes again, compressing the stress ball down to a tense lump of putty clenched in his palm. Then, slowly, he lets his fingers release.

"Heads up," he says, to get Chris' attention, and then: "Catch!"

He throws the ball, a gentle, underhand arc which Chris fields easily for the warning. For a long moment Chris stares down at what he holds in his hand, so that Miyuki knows he sees the even, creased lines from where Miyuki's fingers pressed into the worn-out flesh of the ball. His eyes lift, and there's a new question in them.

Miyuki's throat feels tight, but the words come out even. "Do that," he says. "Do that to me."

"I could crush your windpipe," Chris says, voice coming out gentle, soft. "I know exactly how much pressure it would take."

Miyuki swallows, and his stomach drops, a lurching feeling like he's about to be sick. He swallows and it feels like swallowing down bile, like gulping down his own heart from where it's lodged in his throat. His gut churns and rolls but his nerves sing, sparking with an excitement that courses beneath his skin.

"I know," he says. He's speaking more softly, too. "But that's why you won't. You know when to stop."

Chris looks at him, and Miyuki looks back, with as bland a gaze as he can manage. There's no fear on his face, no uncertainty, he can feel it in the way his features sag into a resting pose before he flashes Chris the crooked edge of a grin. There's a tension in Chris' face that eases when he sees it, though he doesn't relax; his spine remains perfectly straight and his eyes are cool amber chips of stone.

Chris stands up from behind the desk, pushing his chair back so the legs don't even scrape the floor.

Miyuki doesn't think to move. He knows that Chris isn't as gentle as he looks, behind the calm facade and the mild looks. He knows that there's a ruthlessness beneath that, knows that with Chris' intimate, studied knowledge of the human body there comes a danger more deadly than any uncontrolled violence. He knows this, but he's never known when to be scared, his fear feeding into excitement feeding into eager, thrumming anticipation.

He's breathless with that expectation, sitting up straight on the couch as Chris closes the distance between them with slow, measured steps. He stands over Miyuki, face cast in shadow with the sole light in the office centered at his back. Miyuki wouldn't know how to read those features in the best of light, smoothed into the thoughtful mask Chris wears on the job, his face a facade to keep him out of reach.

"I believe I also told you once," Chris says, "that if you regret the things you've asked for, it will be at a point too late for us to turn around."

His hand reaches out, curls its fingers around Miyuki's jaw and smooths its thumb across his cheek. It isn't what he's expecting; it's alarmingly tender in the face of what he's asked for. He pushes his face into Chris' palm, hard enough to maintain his resolve, stubborn at the sight of Chris' sneaky attempt to gentle him.

"Are you sure?" Chris asks.

"I don't make wrong choices," Miyuki tells him.

Those, too, are familiar words. There's a flicker of something across Chris' face, lost to the half-light before Miyuki knows how to place it. His hand shifts, sliding from Miyuki's face to instead follow the line of his neck to the dip where it meets his shoulder, squeezing as if in reassurance before he centers it instead around the column of Miyuki's throat.

His touch is light, his hand nothing more than a gentle weight with no pressure behind it. Miyuki swallows, and light as the touch is, he can feel his throat bob past Chris' fingers, and back up again.

Chris is watching him, that familiar appraising stare, that look like he's weighing Miyuki down to the finest of Miyuki's own brain's calculations. Miyuki stares back, waiting, encouraging. Chris' fingers close, squeezing until Miyuki starts to feel it.

Chris has large hands. He has square palms, broad and solid, but his fingers are clever. They're fingers that know how to spin a pen, how to wield a knife, hands that manage perfectly julienning carrots in the kitchen and flawlessly shaving with only a straight razor in the bath. He's capable of a light touch, or a firm hand.

With Miyuki, he uses both. Always has, ever since they met. He knows just how far to tighten his hand, so that Miyuki can feel every breath in, shallow and slow, snuck past the constricted passage of his throat with the utmost of care. His hands come up, hooking into the belt loops of Chris' pants and curling into the fabric like claws. Miyuki holds on, and he breathes, and he watches Chris' face, composed like he's making the finest study of Miyuki's struggle.

If he pulls, if he taps out, he thinks Chris will let go. Or he hopes. Or he chooses to believe.

But it's a challenge, in the purest form, and that Miyuki will grasp with both eager, shaking hands. He breathes. It becomes harder, tighter, a struggle to suck in the smallest gulps of air, a challenge he loses by inches as his head becomes light, euphoric, as his thoughts float above him and hover on the air. There are no other considerations — only the couch where he kneels, the fabric beneath his hands, the pressure of Chris' palm as his fingers squeeze tight, and the oxygen Miyuki's brain can only progressively lose.

It's a four-step puzzle, deceptively simple, near-impossible to solve. He breathes. It sticks, shallow in his throat, too little and he's dizzy. His hands are looser where they fist into Chris' pants; his pants are tighter in the front. He breathes. There's a prickle up the back of his neck and a sizzle beneath his skin, a strange tingling across his face and down his arms and something is numb, but it isn't alarming. It's exciting. He breathes. Or he tries, but he doesn't succeed.

He can't see Chris' face any more, can't make out what his expression is doing. His vision swims, and his head feels so light it's verging on floating away. He can feel every one of Chris' fingers, a line around his throat.

Chris lets go. Miyuki breathes, a big gasp in all at once that his body takes without warning, without his bidding. His body jerks, a fish hooked on the line and flopping to the deck, flops himself limply back against the arm of the couch.

"I should have stopped a moment earlier," Chris says.

Miyuki is light-headed; his brain is catching up to his lungs and he wouldn't trust himself to judge on anything. Nevertheless, he thinks Chris sounds a little shaken. He thinks, mysterious wonder of wonders, Chris sounds concerned.

"It's fine," Miyuki says, because it is. "I'm fine."

Chris is watching him, but Miyuki's strings are cut. He cannot yet puppet himself into a performance of normalcy, cannot prove that he is no worse for wear. He breathes, and is increasingly aware that the adrenaline is still there, the thrill of danger hot along his veins and sparking off his nerves. He pretends, badly, that he isn't hard. Chris pretends along with him.

Miyuki licks his lips, the thank you heavy in his mouth but unwilling to roll off his tongue. He feels the weight of Chris' appraisal, hedges that it's Chris' own position he's feeling out, as much as he's testing Miyuki's response to his actions. Miyuki chooses to make it easy for him.

"I'm taking a shower," he says, as he pushes up from the couch. "Make us some tea?"

His feet are unsteady. He doesn't want to know what Chris decides, what he divines from the smallest telltale twitches out of Miyuki's body. He's out of the room before he can hear the response.