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sportsanime2015-06-27 09:18 pm
referees) wrote in sportsanime2015-06-27 09:18 pm
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Bonus Round 3: FSTs
Bonus Round 3: FSTs
This round is CLOSED. Late fills can be posted, but they won't receive points.
We're halfway through all the bonus rounds now. If you're like us, every love song on the radio seems to apply to your OTP. In this round we'd like you to serenade us with some of your top picks!
This round ends at 7PM on July 11 EDT. Countdown Timer.
RULES
- Submit prompts in the form of a short playlist (3-6 songs) and a ship from any of our nominated fandoms. Submit only the track listing and a link to where they can be listened to; the idea is for others to interpret what you present. You may also link to lyrics if you would like.
- 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., Riko & Momoi & Alex). Non-platonic relationships use "/" (e.g., Riko/Momoi/Alex). Please don't say "Any pairing," either.
- Create content based on the playlists of others! Fill prompts by leaving a responding comment to the prompt with your newly-created work.
- Fills may be in any form you choose (except for another FST of course) as long as they are inspired by/fit the mood of the soundtrack they are filling for.
- Remember to follow the general bonus round rules, outlined here.
- You cannot fill your teammates' prompts or your own prompts.
FORMAT
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)
Format your comment in one of the following ways:
| If PROMPTING: | If FILLING: | If FILLING as a TEAM GRANDSTAND participant: |
PROMPT: TEAM [YOUR SHIP]
|
FILL: TEAM [YOUR SHIP], [RATING]
|
FILL: TEAM GRANDSTAND, [RATING]
|
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.
SCORING
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.
Etc.
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!
FILL: TEAM AKAASHI KEIJI/BOKUTO KOUTAROU/KUROO TETSUROU, E
It's not for lack of trying, Akaashi thinks, even as he stumbles back and yanks his shirt over his head.
His back hits the locker with a dull slam, barely moments later. Bokuto is already at his neck, nuzzling into the crook of his jaw and leaving heavy, hot breaths that trace the curve of his ear. Rough palms grab at his waist in an awkward fumble, but he recognises the faint tremour as eagerness rather than nerves.
Akaashi's own heart races, beating a tattoo against the underside of his ribcage. It's a victory high, Akaashi knows, that floods his veins and leaves him thrumming. They'd won the match: marched out of the gymnasium with the roar of the crowds in their ears and heady rush of pride flushing their cheeks. But here they are all the same, in the dark, cramped locker room sharing panted, stolen breaths between them.
"C'mon," Bokuto mutters, nipping at Akaashi's pulse as if he can taste the mix of endorphins and reckless arousal that flutters under his skin. "C'mon, I want this, I know you want this--"
They've run these ropes, rehearsed this script, far too many times to feign naivety at this point. Even so, Akaashi still tries. A strained, breathless, "We should stop--" but then chapped lips press against his own, and Bokuto knocks his head back against the locker as if he's trying to kiss the words right out of his mouth.
It works; Bokuto swallows the soft, desperate noise Akaashi makes, and any semblance of rationality he might've had evaporates. His mind spins too wildly for arguing to sound like a good idea, not when Bokuto finally pulls away and fervently says, "Not now, not now, come on, please Akaashi--"
It's not for lack of trying, because they have tried. Once, twice. Every time, they slot together like well-worn, ill-matched puzzle pieces; it works but then it doesn't, and Bokuto's impulsive energy and soft heart falter to Akaashi's fading patience and sharp edges. When harsh words bleed into exasperation, frustration, and when Bokuto finally lets his hand go and stares past his shoulder as he says, "Let's break up," -- Akaashi only breathes out in relief.
Sometimes, it's a momentary lapse in judgment; Bokuto says, wistful, "I miss you," even as he reaches out to play with Akaashi's fingertips, urging him closer, and Akaashi steps forward like coming home, long before he admits, "I do too." He doesn't think too long on how Bokuto buries his face into his neck.
These times, they drift apart. Bokuto sends him sorry glances for days, and Akaashi forces himself to remember that this doesn't work. They never have.
Other times, Bokuto drags him into the empty clubroom and with desperation tipped in his voice, he says, "Let's-- let's try dating again, Keiji, I still. I still--" before abruptly breaking off and Akaashi kisses him before he has to hear the words that Bokuto doesn't have.
These times end when they slink away to lick their wounds. Leaves them cold; like water that flows into the empty spaces between them and slowly freezes over until something cracks. "I want this to work," Bokuto will say later, frustration hardening his expression. Akaashi watches him pull his shirt back over his head. Watches the flex of Bokuto's spine, the way eight faint lines have formed angry welts across his shoulder blades. "Why doesn't this work? I want you so much sometimes-- "
(Familiarity breeds not contempt, but lingering dependence and Akaashi eventually starts to wonder when giving in became so easy.
Bokuto doesn't give up. Akaashi doesn't let go. What a pair they make.)
Now Bokuto's hands run a restless pattern up along the sides of Akaashi's waist, a caress that veers the line between greed and possessiveness, and Akaashi sucks in a breath. Holds it and stifles a shudder when Bokuto's fingers dance across his stomach like pinpricks of heat. Hips grinding forward of their own volition, Akaashi exhales loudly when his cock meets the length of Bokuto's thigh, pressed between his own legs.
He's hard already, so hard. He looks up and sees victory and hunger twined in the grin stretched across Bokuto's face; he wonders when he shifted from conquest to prize, but then Bokuto nudges his thigh higher, spreads his legs wider and Akaashi doesn't care anymore.
"Down," he says, forcing the words through his own gritted teeth. He pushes at Bokuto's shoulders, his grip slipping on the sweat that collects along the curve of Bokuto's collarbone. "Down, please--"
Relief rushes through Akaashi as sharply as the arousal that curls in his belly when Bokuto obliges, sinks to his knees as easy as grace and noses at the half hard bulge in his volleyball shorts. He feels the drag of Bokuto's hands, hooking under the waistband, fingernails scratching faintly into the skin of Akaashi's lower stomach when he pulls.
Then Bokuto sucks him down, envelopes him in hot, wet warmth and Akaashi has to bite back a shaky groan that borders on grateful.
Bokuto sets a fast pace, works his throat down Akaashi's cock and vocalises pleasure enough for them both; Akaashi feels the rumble of Bokuto's resounding moan, trembles under the slick rasp of Bokuto's tongue when it runs along the ridge of his frenulum. A trail of saliva and precum drips down, past the base of his cock and onto the timber floor.
Akaashi jolts when he feels a hand squeeze his balls, once, before nudging them aside. "No, wait--" he starts urgently and Bokuto's arm comes up like an iron bar locked across his hips. Shoves him back into the locker, when seeking fingers press up hard and Akaashi sways dangerously, legs threatening to give out.
Irritation nips at the heels of dull pleasure. Bokuto has always been loud, unabashed and unashamed; he'll work relentlessly to drag out every muffled, bitten back sigh from behind Akaashi's lips too.
(Bokuto finds delight in it, a kind of validation that speaks more to pleasure than ego, and it's one that Akaashi finds himself loathe to give. One of them is selfish, but he's not sure who it is.)
Tipping his head back, Bokuto's throat opens up to take him deeper, and this time Akaashi can't help when he curls forward, mouth opening in a silent gasp. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bokuto abruptly shove his other hand down his own shorts.
Sees the flex of that muscled forearm, and envisions a hand squeezing tight around Bokuto's cock in counterpart.
His hips jerk forward and Bokuto gags, throat tightening around the head of Akaashi's cock and this time Akaashi whimpers, fingers digging into Bokuto's back as the intensity of the pressure sends his head reeling. He hears Bokuto start to stroke himself off-- feels the groan that reverberates through his throat like he enjoys hearing Akaashi take his pleasure.
It shouldn't stir something in him, but it does. He's keenly aware of the way Bokuto's arm eases off his hips, as if satisfied to just hear his voice; the way Bokuto thumbs over the jut of his hipbone with something closer to affection than arousal and reckless indulgence has Akaashi's heart skipping a beat.
Part of Akaashi still wishes, so hard, that they might work.
Heaving for every breath now, he gasps out "Move," and jerks at Bokuto's shirt half-heartedly, trying to pull him away. Bokuto's hand drags down one thigh, with fingertips that sink into his flesh with enough intention that Akaashi knows Bokuto would kiss along the bruises to later bloom, if he could. "I'm gonna, Koutarou-- I'm going to--"
Then Bokuto swallows-- pushes down as far as he can, deftly flicking his tongue across the join between Akaashi's cock and his balls and Akaashi curls all the way over as he comes, choking on his own breath.
He blinks back to awareness, still braced against the locker in a position that almost cradles Bokuto's head between his lap and his chest and the intimacy of it burns.
(It's an effort not to jerk back; he has nowhere to go but forward, so why does he keep going back.)
Bokuto draws away, licks his lips with a grin tugging at the corners of his reddened mouth and Akaashi hauls himself back onto his feet, stomach sinking as he already finds it within himself to regret.
"That was good, right?" Bokuto asks. He carelessly wipes his hand with the end of his shirt, leaving a tell tale streak of his own climax.
He sounds too eager, Akaashi realises, and it's an oddly bleak thought. That Bokuto sees beginnings, fresh-starts when all Akaashi can think is, not again. "It was fine," he says instead, as he suffers the indignity of tucking himself back in his pants. "Congratulations on winning Nationals, Bokuto-san."
He turns as he says that, bends over with the guise of picking up his abandoned shirt, so he doesn't have to see the way Bokuto's face fall.
He tells himself that this is kinder.
(Bokuto finds comfort in the planes of Akaashi's body, finds a way to stave off starvation in the familiarity of sweat-damp skin.
And to the constant pull of Bokuto's gravitational force Akaashi is drawn like a moth to a flame; he yields and willingly burns around the edges until he finds resolution again.)