SASO Referees (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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sportsanime2016-07-07 08:59 pm
referees) wrote in sportsanime2016-07-07 08:59 pm
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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.
RULES
- 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!
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)
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!
Prompt: Team Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
death, body horror
"really though, if i was being attacked by a ghost i wouldnt even be scared. like whats it going to do? ghosts cant touch things. the worst thing it could do is stick its head in my stomach and then criticize me for how much macaroni is in there. as if my parents havent been doing that for 10 goddamn years
also they can’t kill me because i mean how fucking awkward would htat be? I become a ghost and now i can kick their ghost ass fuckign piece of shit"
- this Tumblr post
FILL: Team Kyoutani Kentarou/Yahaba Shigeru, T
word count: 542
There's a ghost living in his new apartment and Yahaba can't muster anything more than utter disdain for it. He doesn't know what it's trying to achieve, but it keeps disturbing him just as he's trying to sleep, or as he's trying to get his university work done.
It's been there even since he moved in, and perhaps his first night in his new bed was a little sleepless, but it's been a week now, and Yahaba is tired, cranky, and entirely unimpressed. He's been brooding over the ghost in every spare moment he gets, trying to work out why it's there and what it wants, but he isn't really getting anywhere.
That evening, when the lights begin to flicker a little while Yahaba is in the middle of doing his homework, he sighs and looks up at the ceiling.
"Who are you, and what the fuck do you want?"
His voice sounds a little too loud in the room, and Yahaba feels a little silly for it, for all of a minute, before he feels the presence of someone else—or something else—in the room with him.
"I mean," a voice speaks up behind him, thin and distant, like the words are being spoken through some sort of barrier, "this is my apartment."
"I signed the lease," Yahaba replies, turning around, blinking with surprise when he's met with a boy who appears to be around the same age as he is. He's transparent, and his legs fade out of sight until there's nothing there, making him look like he's just floating there.
"That's nice, but it's my apartment," the ghost replies. "One of us is going to have to leave, and considering that you can't physically push me out of here, I guess it's going to be you."
"I'm sorry, what?" Yahaba asks slowly. "You think you're going to convince me to move out? What does a ghost need an apartment for anyway?"
"Uh." The ghost looks at him like Yahaba has asked the most ridiculous question in the world. "I live here."
"You're a ghost," Yahaba points out. "I don't think you live anywhere. I don't think you live, fullstop."
"Wow, you're fucking rude," the ghost mutters. "Didn't anyone teach you to be respectful to the dead?"
"I'll be respectful to the dead when the dead isn't being a pain in the ass," Yahaba replies. "What are you going to do, fight me? You said that I can't physically push you out and guess what? You can't touch me either."
"I can…" the ghost blinks. "I can fly through the wiring again and make the power flicker. I can be really annoying."
"Yeah," Yahaba sighs. "I've kind of noticed that already. What's your name, anyway?"
"Futakuchi," the ghost replies.
"Great, Futakuchi," Yahaba says, rubbing a hand over his face. "I have homework that's due tomorrow, and I really don't have time to deal with this right now. I'm going to turn the TV on, and you can amuse yourself while I get this done. Because if I don't, my tutor is going to kill me, and then I'm going to turn into a ghost and kick your ghost ass. Understood?"
Futakuchi turns away with a huff. "Whatever. It better be cartoons."
Re: FILL: Team Kyoutani Kentarou/Yahaba Shigeru, T
FILL: TEAM OOKIKU FURIKABUTTE, T
It starts when Futakuchi is laying down an audio track for a group project, sweating in his too hot apartment. It’s pure labor. He’s stuck at that bizarre stage in an assignment where you know you’re shit at something but have to keep at it anyway: him and his freeware editing program and his freesound.org and the stifling summer heat, his lonely box fan turned off because it was making too much background noise.
When he plays the song back he hears a scratchy noise that he definitely hadn’t included and definitely isn’t just static. No matter how much he fiddles with it the aberration refuses to grow away. Futakuchi gets close enough to wanting to rip his hair out to consult a friend about the issue, which is how he winds up on Ennoshita’s doorstep, a self-proclaimed weirdo and aficionado of all things supernatural that could be stuffed into a terrible horror movie, who hooks a pair of earbuds into his ears to listen to the track, hums, and says as if affirming a day’s dismal weather by looking out the window: “Yep. Ghost.”
And so Futakuchi’s dilemma: A ghost dwells somewhere in his shoebox of an apartment. Of all places – what was the appeal? There is hardly any room to haunt. His fridge is nearly empty. He has a scenic view of the parking lot. His couch is covered in plastic and tries to suck the skin off his legs every time he sits down.
Ennoshita suggests talking to it. Peaceably, he adds, because they’ve known each other for a while now.
“Kindly fuck off,” Futakuchi mutters into his empty apartment. He half expects the lights to dim or a bulb to shatter in response.
Nothing happens.
Futakuchi walks to the door and opens it, sweeps an arm in a polite ‘after you’ gesture, and says, “There’s an entire complex out there. See? Lots of other people to bother who aren’t working to meet a freaking deadline. Clap once if you just left.”
He waits. He earns a baffled look from a passing neighbor.
There’s not much else for it then, except when he pauses before his bathroom mirror an hour later he recalls the story of Bloody Mary. How did it go? Chant her name three times and she’ll appear? It’s no Bloody Mary that he wants to summon, and he doesn’t even know this ghost’s name, but if the trick works maybe he’ll get a chance to tell it to go away properly.
And if it doesn’t work, well. He’ll only lose a little dignity in the privacy of his own home.
Determined, Futakuchi sets both hands on the rim of the sink basin, looks his reflection straight in the eyes and chants, “Nuisance, Nuisance, Nuisance!”
Behind him, the temperature suddenly plummets.
“That’s not my name.”
“Holy shit,” Futakuchi curses, spinning around.
If Futakuchi wore glasses this would be the comedic moment where he takes them off and to wipe away the sight of the smudge that’s hovering near the towel rack, but he doesn’t, so he rubs his eyes instead. The smudge remains. When he blinks again the figure stutters into a more solid form, a flicker of a human-shaped light brown haired something, but in the next moment the vision is gone, replaced by an ambiguous, fuzzy presence.
“Are you haunting me?” Futakuchi demands.
The ghost scoffs. Scoffs, and then disappears not in a puff of smoke or some other cool cg spectacle, but simply vanishes, leaving Futakuchi gawking in his bathroom before he stomps out to see it blinking back into existence on his sofa. A glowy, oblong shape taking a seat like it’s something it does every day.
“God dammit. Don’t think I won’t hire an exorcist and bring him in here.”
“Don’t bother. I’m only here because of this,” Nuisance announces, moving like a glitchy stop motion animation toward Futakuchi’s music set-up. Which is to say, his laptop, a small pair of portable speakers, and a borrowed soundboard that still looks like a panel from an alien spacecraft with how many buttons it has and little he knows what to do with them.
“What, petty theft? Hate to break it to you, but ghosts can’t touch anything so that’s a pretty lame threat.”
“The music, you… Whatever you’re making, it sounds terrible.”
“You don’t know what I’m making.”
“I’ve been watching and it sounds terrible. You clearly don’t know how to use any of this stuff.”
“First of all: creepy. Second of all, you think you can do so much better?”
The ghost reaches for a switch. Its finger phases through the soundboard. The speakers emit an awful nails-on-a-chalkboard screech that makes Futakuchi’s teeth grind.
“Wow,” he says. “Because that was such a wonderful addition.”
Nuisance gives a frustrated look at its own hand before whirling on Futakuchi. “Hit that switch right there.”
“Hit it?”
“Push the lever up – you knew what I meant.”
What an attitude for a dead thing. Futakuchi heaves a sigh and slides the switch up until Nuisance says stop.
The instructions keep coming. The ghost quite literally hovers over Futakuchi’s shoulder while telling him what to do, which buttons to push, what sounds to edit away or enhance. It’s almost feels like a collaborative efforts until Futakuchi remembers that he’s the only one literally sweating over a laptop, bossed around by a know-it-all ghost who makes a passing comment about producing like it’s a dead dream with a voice that sounds like it’s eating gravel.
“Now play it again,” it demands.
“I don’t see how a few little changes like that will magically make anything better –“
Nuisance lunges for the laptop in a streak of ghostly residue like taillight caught in long exposure, trailing comet-like behind it. It loses shape, melting into wispy things that reform a second later and righteously jabs an entire arm straight through Futakuchi’s laptop. Twice. A fission of static scrolls down the screen; the mouse cursor turns into the pinwheel of death. The lights even begin to flicker above, shadows playing on the wall like some dripping macabre puppet show, and it’s all so horrifyingly cliché that Futakuchi rushes to hit play just to make it stop.
Music begins to pour from the speakers as the lights give a final flicker. That scratchy note which plagued Futakuchi’s earlier recording is now mysteriously gone and, even more baffling; the track isn’t total shit anymore. The melody is cleaner, the bass less muddled, extraneous parts trimmed away to reveal a halfway decent result.
“You’re welcome,” Nuisance says afterwards while Futakuchi is too busy frowning into the silence to admit thankful defeat. “And my name is Yahaba.”
“You do know that you’re dead, don’t you?” Futakuchi blurts out.
Yahaba graces him with a look. A real look, that shapelessness shifting into concrete features; the face of a young man with eyes as light brown as his hair, lips downturned, brow furrowed, gore dribbling down one side of his face hinting at a gruesome death that Futakuchi didn’t even want to know about.
Futakuchi shrinks back, and then heads toward the couch. “Fine. Fine, whatever, yay we’re done. I’m turning on the fan to celebrate.”
So he does, flopping onto the couch with an ugly squelch of plastic.
After a long moment Yahaba joins him, the fan blowing noisy between them, sitting all silent and cold until he isn’t.
“If anyone ever wants to raise the dead,” he says, “I’ll just refer your original song to them.”
“Ha fucking ha,” Futakuchi bites back.