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sportsanime2015-08-08 08:50 pm
referees) wrote in sportsanime2015-08-08 08:50 pm
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Bonus Bonus Round: Encore
Bonus Bonus Round: Encore
SASO 2015 is over, but this round is perpetually open to new fills (no new prompts).
This is your last chance to get fills for unloved prompts from all previous rounds. Let's party!
(Pay attention to the prompt format this round, located below; it's different from previous rounds. Don't forget about the "Recs" bonus round either!)
This round ends at 7PM on August 22 EDT. Countdown Timer.
RULES
- NO NEW PROMPTS ALLOWED. It has to be a repost from a previous bonus round.
- You can repeat any previous bonus round prompt, whether it received fill(s) or not.
- You can repeat your own prompts.
- One prompt per post, post as many times as you want.
- If you're posting a prompt that's not yours originally, please check the toplevels to avoid posting repeats.
- Fills work the same way as every other round: don't fill your own or your teammates' prompts, including old reposted prompts. It works like this:
- Your teammate posts a prompt that was originally posted by a different team? You can fill that.
- Someone else posts a prompt originally created by you or your teammate? You cannot fill that.
- You post a prompt originally posted by another team? You can't fill that either.
- Fill prompts by leaving a responding comment to the prompt with your newly-created work.
- Remember to follow the general bonus round rules, outlined here.
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 Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi, E
4k words help me
[ I had to drift away from the prompt a little bit, sorry! I hope you enjoy this anyway. Please forgive all sex worker industry inaccuracies; I did my best.
Despite how much I poke fun in this fic, I wrote this entire thing while listening to indie music.
Part 1 of 2. ]
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Kuroo Tetsurou is a professional.
He is a professional, he tells himself, as he discreetly checks the address in the e-mail for the fifth time. That means he's always on time to his appointments. That means he's in-character before the client lays eyes on him. That means he's not at all fazed by the fact that he's standing on an apartment's doorstep at ten in the morning and that the faint music trickling under the door sounds like raspy indie pop. Kuroo's ears have picked up two banjo solos so far.
He can probably make that work for him, Kuroo thinks to himself. He is super hot and has an excellent sense of rhythm besides.
He sets his shoulders back and slips his trademark smirk on his face before ringing the doorbell. "I'll get it!" a female voice calls from inside.
Kuroo blinks. That is not what the e-mail said. His smile freezes in place but inside he's stewing: he hates it when clients break contracts, he's going to have to find a way to bow out of this gracefully, the hour train ride here was all for nothing.
The door swings open and he looks up. He's not sure who between them looks more shocked. Kuroo's in a tight black leather jacket and slashed jeans, ears full of piercings and with a face mask to ward off the early-autumn chill. Meanwhile, the woman in front of him is dressed in pretty pastels and she's...going to be a mother soon, if the size of her stomach is anything to go by.
He slips the mask from his mouth. "Excuse me," he says, using the gentle tone he reserves for children and cats, "is Oikawa Tooru here?"
"Oh, you're one of Tooru's friends? I'm his sister. Tooru!" she calls over her shoulder, "you didn't tell me one of your friends was coming."
She steps back, allowing Kuroo inside. He hears footsteps coming down the hall and wonders what a guy who schedules a lap dance during his pregnant sister's party would look like. "Excuse the intrusion," Kuroo says automatically before kneeling down to remove his boots.
"Neechan, who is it? I didn't—"
Kuroo glances up and his fingers freeze on his boot laces. Of the two of them, he's not sure who looks more horrified.
"Kuroo Tetsurou?" Oikawa asks, sounding faint. "From Nekoma?"
Kuroo's mouth works for a second before he composes himself. Pointedly he says, "We talked a bit via e-mail, didn't we? About meeting up today."
Something flickers in Oikawa's expression. Kuroo's not surprised he's so quick on the uptake, considering his reputation. "Oh, yes!" he says, his cheer as immediate as it is false. "You're a bit early though, aren't you?"
"I'm right on time," Kuroo retorts.
Oikawa's sister is looking back and forth between the two of them, looking gradually more suspicious. "Did you guys have a fight?" she says.
"No!" they both snap.
Oikawa glances away and takes a deep breath. When he looks back, his smile is breezy and relaxed. "Kuroo-kun," he says, "why don't you come in? We were just about to cut the cake."
It isn't the first time Kuroo's ever eaten cake while on a job, but it's probably the first time the cake has had hand-frosted baby booties on it.
--
"So Nekoma's captain is a stripper now?" Oikawa says once everyone has left. His cheery tone does nothing to hide the sharpness of his words.
Kuroo agreed to help Oikawa clean up so that everyone else could leave, and is now pulling paper streamers from the couch. "And you can't keep your own appointments," Kuroo replies without looking up. "Your e-mail said 10AM."
"It did no—"
Kuroo whips the phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and shoves it in Oikawa's face with the speed of someone who has just suffered through two hours of people happily discussing baby names while listening to unoffensive indie music. Oikawa flinches back before reaching out with one finger to gingerly scroll through the e-mail.
"...Oh my god," Oikawa says in a small voice.
"You're way over time, by the way," Kuroo says. "Don't think I'm not charging you for this."
"I meant ten PM," Oikawa says, but the ire in his voice has been replaced by mortification. "Oh my god. I'm sorry. We can—you didn't have to stay this long. You can go, if you want."
Kuroo shoves his armful of collected streamers into the garbage can under the sink. "Does this mean you don't want me to dance for you anymore? There's an additional cancellation fee for that."
Oikawa stares at him from across the room. "You're kidding."
"I'm a professional," Kuroo snaps, straightening and folding his arms. "When you hire me, you get what you pay for."
Oikawa's eyes narrow, speculative. "A professional stripper," he says.
"The term's 'male performer,'" Kuroo sighs, walking back towards the couch, "but you know what, close enough. Get off your high horse, anyway, you're the one who hired a stripper."
Oikawa turns red. "You're the one who crashed my sister's baby shower!"
"You're the one who invited me in," Kuroo drawls. He's grinning now; back-and-forth banter is comfortably familiar territory. He steps forward until he's in Oikawa's personal space, his hips jutted forward in clear invitation with his thumbs hooked through his belt loops. "Seems like you're the one who didn't want me to leave."
Oikawa''s slightly shorter but Kuroo's slouching, so he's able to look Kuroo in the eye without tipping his chin up. He doesn't give room but he takes in a short breath at the closeness, his teeth worrying at his lower lip.
That won't do. Uncomfortable customers give shitty tips. Kuroo tips his head to the side, dragging his eyes down Oikawa's body. "Then again," he says, "I kind of wanted to stay." Oikawa's eyes widen slightly at that, and Kuroo's smirk broadens.
Kuroo steps forward again, nudging Oikawa back towards the couch. "What's a handsome guy like you doing hiring someone like me, anyway?" Kuroo says. "You could probably get any guy you want."
Oikawa's smile turns sharp, self-mocking, even as he allows Kuroo to push him back. "I don't like attachments."
Kuroo hums. "I can appreciate that."
"What about you, stripper-san? What brings you to this business?"
"I like mixing work and pleasure," Kuroo replies, which is the answer he always gives when he's asked. Oikawa's eyes narrow, and something in the look prompts an extra push of honesty. Maybe it's their shared history; maybe it's the fact that he just spent an entire afternoon in the midst of Oikawa's private life, watching him give genuine smiles to people he actually cared about.
Kuroo shifts to a more neutral expression and steps around Oikawa to sit on the couch. "I'm good at reading people. It's interesting work, I have a good time, and it pays the bills. Law school isn't cheap."
"Law school?" Oikawa seems to consider this. He's relaxed now that Kuroo is below his eye level; Kuroo's not surprised. "So stripper-san has brains as well as looks."
"Tetsurou," Kuroo offers. Oikawa blinks at him; Kuroo rolls his eyes. "If you won't call me Kuroo, at least call me that." He leans forward, splaying his fingertips across the narrow stretch of Oikawa's hips. He smiles up at Oikawa, slow, and watches the look in his eyes shift from surprise to cautious interest.
"Your e-mail said to call you something different," Oikawa says, but the corner of his mouth is tilted upward. Kuroo chuckles.
"You can call me whatever you want," he says, his gaze going heavy-lidded as he smiles up at Oikawa. "Why don't you sit down? You've got a nice couch, it'd be a shame for me to enjoy it all by myself."
Oikawa huffs a laugh at Kuroo's awful and transparent flirting, and some of the tension around his mouth eases. He remains standing, though.
Kuroo thumbs the arch of Oikawa's hipbones. "Come on, take a load off," he murmurs. His voice drops low, practically a purr. "Let me give you your money's worth."
Oikawa finally allows himself to be pulled down onto the couch. Kuroo climbs into his lap, bracing his hands against Oikawa's shoulders and the backrest beneath them, spreading his thighs wide to bracket Oikawa's waist.
"Better, right?" Kuroo says, settling back so that his weight pins Oikawa's legs. He shimmies a little, getting comfortable, and grins at the slow flush that fans up Oikawa's neck and floods his cheeks.
The hesitation fades from Oikawa's eyes to be replaced with that firm determination that Kuroo's seen before, on TV news clips and across gym floors. Oikawa's hands rise to grab a hold of Kuroo's hips, fingers digging into the curve of his ass. Kuroo grins, tipping his head back to expose his throat, and begins to reach for the metal pull on his zipper. Then he pauses.
"...Unless you'd like to do the honors?" he says with a small grin. He expects Oikawa to laugh or turn red again. Instead he gets a long, measuring look that makes the mirth fade from his face.
"Actually," Oikawa says, "yes, I would."
Part 2/2
Kuroo's eyes rise to meet Oikawa's gaze, now dark with intent, and then flick down to his lips. He has a policy—no kissing when he's working—but he can't stop himself from wondering what they would taste like. He imagines the fading aftertaste of frosting from the cake and shivers, despite himself.
"Are you cold, Tetsurou?" Oikawa's voice is weighted with desire. Kuroo shivers again at the way Oikawa's slight Miyagi accent curls around the syllables of his first name.
The hoodie is fully open now, the zippered edges brushing cold metal shocks against Kuroo's chest when he moves. Kuroo tips forward until their noses are almost brushing. "Just enjoying myself," he whispers. "Hey, do you have any music?"
Oikawa blinks at him, the predatory look in his eyes fading. Kuroo's answering smile is lopsided.
"I mean, I could make up my own music to dance to," Kuroo says, "but I can promise you don't want to hear me sing."
Oikawa snorts. "I'd have to get up," he says with a meaningful bounce of his thighs. The movement makes Kuroo's thighs tighten, reflexive, to hold Oikawa in place.
Their eyes lock. Kuroo grins.
"You're not going anywhere," he confirms. "I'll get it. What do you need? Your phone?"
"The remote." Oikawa gestures behind Kuroo to the black remote on the coffee table. "Just le—"
Oikawa's voice goes high and sharp on the last syllable before cutting off entirely. Without preamble Kuroo has bent backwards, stretching his arms above his head to snatch it off the table. He feels Oikawa's hands seize his hips again, as if afraid he'll fall without the added support.
Kuroo tries to chuckle but the strain of the position causes it to get caught in his throat. Once he's got a hold on it, he pulls himself back upright slowly, letting Oikawa watch the ripple of his abs from the effort, and draw his own conclusions as to how useful Kuroo's flexibility might be in other situations. When Kuroo is settled in Oikawa's lap again, he's a little breathless and bright-eyed from the exertion, and Oikawa's jaw has sagged open.
"I told you, you're in for a ride," he says. "Here."
Oikawa takes the remote from his hands without taking his eyes from Kuroo's face. His expression is more relaxed than before, though no less calculating. A few clicks later and there's something slow and sultry coming from the speakers, the low bassline weaving its way through the beat.
"Oh, yeah," Kuroo says. He can feel his whole body relaxing into the rhythm. It's always so much easier when he's got some good background music. "I can definitely work with this."
The secret to a good lap dance, he's learned, is in the sway. He squirms as if he's settling the kinks from his spine, as if he's making himself at home in Oikawa's lap. Then he starts to move back and forth, his eyes locked onto Oikawa's like a snake watching its charmer, turning the song into a slow liquid roll that starts with the backwards tilt of his head, moves through his shoulders, and ends in a tiny, sharp switch of his hips against Oikawa's thighs. Imagine me fucking you like this, the movement says.
"I don't think I need this anymore," he says, long fingers tangling in the drawstring of his hoodie. "What do you think?"
Oikawa doesn't need to be asked twice. His hands rise from Kuroo's hips to slip beneath the cloth on his shoulders, tracing across body. Kuroo is not soft at all—he's all solid muscle laid over bone, and he can feel Oikawa mapping out the breadth of his frame, the latent strength of his deltoids and biceps, as he pushes the hoodie from his shoulders and down his arms.
Kuroo can barely hear the rustle of fabric hitting the floor; the music nearly drowns it out.
"Much better," Kuroo murmurs. "Don't you agree?"
Oikawa's eyes are riveted upon him as he dances, his eyes drinking in the small details: low light glancing off of his pale skin, the way the tendon stands out in his throat when he turns his head. Kuroo leans forward and presses his hands to Oikawa's belt buckle, his hips tilting back. The movement makes Kuroo's back arch deeply, brings his mouth close to Oikawa's ear as his fingers map out the length of him beneath his pressed slacks.
"Do you like this?" Kuroo breathes against the sensitive hollow below Oikawa's ear, his hands lightly stroking.
Oikawa shivers, his hands resting on Kuroo's flanks, and then nods.
"Good, good," Kuroo says. "But I want to make you feel even better."
He doesn't give Oikawa a chance to answer, instead leaning forward and fixing his teeth against the lobe of his ear. Oikawa groans for the first time, his head automatically tilting back, and Kuroo shifts forward with it, pressing his open mouth against his neck, half-kiss, half-bite. Nothing that would leave a mark, of course; just enough to make sensation flash across the surface of his skin.
"I'm dying to get my mouth on this," he says, grinding the heel of his hand against Oikawa's slacks. "What do you think?"
Oikawa's hips buck beneath him and Kuroo gives a breathless small laugh, leaning back.
"Take these off for me," Kuroo tells him, digging in his back pocket for a condom. "Can you do that?"
"Yeah," Oikawa gasps, and Kuroo watches his hands shake as he undoes his belt buckle and opens his slacks. Kuroo takes it from there, sliding from his lap onto the floor and drawing his clothes down his legs as Oikawa lifts his hips up.
His slacks and boxer briefs puddle around his ankles and Kuroo settles himself between Oikawa's spread knees. He rests his hands on Oikawa's knees and slowly draws them up. Oikawa's hair is fine, dusting darker across his shinbones, and his thighs are even paler than the rest of him, heavy with muscle. An athlete's legs, slim but strong.
Kuroo leans over to bite one, since Oikawa seemed to like it when he did that earlier. Oikawa's hips jump beneath his hands and he can hear a strangled curse from above his head.
"Good, huh?" Kuroo says, and then bites again. "Do you want me to go harder? Softer? Tell me how you like it."
Oikawa's lips are red from his own teeth when Kuroo looks up again. They're a little unfocused from sensation but more than that they seem to burn with desire, eyes wide. "Harder," he hisses. "You can leave marks if it's there."
Kuroo's lips curve, his fingers flexing claw-like into the meat of Oikawa's thighs. "O ho," he says, "you're a wild one, aren't you?"
So Kuroo gets to work; sharp nips lower on the thighs that settle into long, hard sucking at the juncture where the hip meets the thigh. It's still not really enough to leave marks, at least not lasting ones—very few people like it that hard, and he's not going to risk losing a potential repeat customer just to see if he's an outlier. Oikawa doesn't tell him to go harder, anyway. He can hear his breath going heavy and labored above him, listens to the trembling whine that spills from his lips as much as he feels out the trembling beneath his hands.
Then he feels hands threading through his hair. Oikawa doesn't break eye contact as he uses the grasp to lift Kuroo's head up until they're staring at each other. Oikawa's hands tug a little, not enough to hurt but enough to ask a silent question. Kuroo swallows against the pulse of desire that runs through him in response.
"Yeah," he agrees, even though Oikawa hasn't said anything. "I like that." His mouth tilts into a smirk; "You're not the only wild one here."
It's the work of a moment to slide the condom onto Oikawa's length. Kuroo doesn't use the flavored kinds, because he loves himself, but every sex worker develops condom preferences after a while. The taste of this one isn't thrilling, but giving head sure is, especially to someone like Oikawa, who he's always thought was more than he seemed.
Oikawa's hold on his hair firms when he's done. Kuroo's mouth opens willingly as Oikawa guides him onto his dick, tongue lolling out with eagerness. Oikawa's much politer about this than others he's worked with; he doesn't shove, he allows Kuroo time to get used to the heft and size of him inside his mouth. But the pressure on Kuroo's head, while slow, is still inorexable.
Kuroo can't help but moan around the thick mouthful he's got as Oikawa pushes him down onto it. His hands dig in, anchoring himself, the cool plastic warming between the dual heat of Oikawa's body and his own mouth.
Condoms make it harder; the sensation is dulled. But Kuroo's always liked a good challenge, sucking on the tip to make Oikawa curl over with near-overstimulation, relaxing his throat so that his lips can stretch filthily around the base. But mostly he lets Oikawa run the show; he knows what he likes, and he's clear at what he wants Kuroo to do, and when. Kuroo adds his own flair here and there but mostly listens to the slow beat of the almost-forgotten radio and the rising pace of Oikawa's heavy breathing, feels for the telltale tremble of Oikawa's thighs.
"Tetsurou," Oikawa gasps when he comes. Kuroo's eyes drop half-lidded with satisfaction, tonguing gently at the underside, holding Oikawa in his mouth, the tip of the condom filling with pulse after pulse. Oikawa's hands clutch in his hair, too far gone to be polite. Kuroo takes it as a compliment.
Eventually Oikawa's hands slide free of his hair and he slumps back onto the couch, still catching his breath. Kuroo rises to his feet, masking a wince at the stiffness of his knees, and fishes around until he finds a bathroom and a washcloth. He comes back and wipes Oikawa down, gently removing the condom and tossing it into a nearby wastecan.
Once clean-up's done he sits down next to Oikawa on the couch, listening to his calming breaths. His dick is pressing insistently against his slacks. He can feel Oikawa staring at it.
"Um..." Oikawa swallows, his brow furrowing. "Do you want me to..."
"Nah," Kuroo says, waving a hand. "I'll just consider it a party favor."
Oikawa's eyes go round, and his face goes a little pale. Then he's punching Kuroo's arm, gasping "Oh my god, oh my god you asshole, I can't believe you just brought the baby shower into this—"
Kuroo's laughing, holding up hands in mock self-defense. Oikawa starts punching at those instead, more mortified than angry. "Besides," Kuroo says—and then he hesitates—"besides, if you wanted, you could always pay me back another time."
Oikawa's punches stop immediately, and his head comes up.
Kuroo looks down at the small space between them on the mattress. He tries to force a laugh, but it comes out a hiccup.
"You mean to hire you again?" Oikawa says, in a tone that says he knows exactly what Kuroo meant.
"Whatever you want," Kuroo said. "I'd be down for that."
"What do you want?" Oikawa asks, and Kuroo blinks at him. It's not a question he gets in this line of work very often.
Kuroo simply says, "I want to see you again."
Oikawa's eyes narrow, speculative. "So if I asked you to dinner, you'd say yes?"
"Why don't you try it and find out?"
"Will you go out with me?"
"Will you get mad if we don't have sex after?" Kuroo immediately retorts.
"No."
Kuroo's next question is quieter. "But would you be okay if we did? And you wouldn't be weird about it?"
Oikawa cocks his head. "Weird how?"
"I'm not quitting my job just because you take me out to dinner once or twice," Kuroo says.
Oikawa thinks about it. Kuroo is somehow gratified by the delay in response, the serious consideration. "I can't guarantee anything," he says, "but I'll be up front with you about it. Right now I just know I want to get to know you better. Is that all right?"
Now it's Kuroo's turn to think about it. As he considers, Oikawa reaches for the forgotten remote control and turns the music off. The silence returns the space back to Oikawa's living room, ordinary, unremarkable. The kind of place you could gather your family and friends and celebrate milestones with cake and presents.
Kuroo laughs and extends his hand. "I feel like we've done this all backwards," he says, "but hell, at least we'll have a hell of a meet cute story."
"I don't think this counts as meet cute," Oikawa retorts, but his hand slips into Kuroo's, and it seems okay like this.
Kuroo checks his watch and rises from the couch with a sigh. The hand-hold lingers for a moment longer before it slips free. "I have to go," he says.
"I'll see you out," Oikawa says, handing him his hoodie off of the floor.
"Might want to take care of that first," he says, pointing. Oikawa colors, hastily yanking his pants off as Kuroo laughs.
He sends Oikawa the bill when he gets home. Oikawa pays immediately, in full, and without protest. A good sign, Kuroo thinks.
--
Oikawa 10:53PM
I found a good ramen place last week. Do you want to go?
Kuroo 10:55
Ramen, how fancy.
Oikawa 10:59
Is that a yes?
Kuroo 10:59
Yes. ;)
Re: FILL: Team Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi, E