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sportsfest2018-06-16 12:14 am
Bonus Round 1: Time and Place
Bonus Round 1: Time & Place
Who, when, and where? Send your favorite sports animanga characters to any time and place you want—but the filler decides what they do there.
This bonus round will close on June 29th, 2018 at 11:59PM PT. (Countdown Timer)
This Round is CLOSED, but is perpetually open to new Fills.
Rules
Submit prompts by commenting to this post with a time and place, along with any character/ship/group/etc. from one of our nominated fandoms. Your prompt can include characters from any animanga title regardless of your team affiliation.
- Please format your prompt like so:
TIME: [Time]
PLACE: [Place] - The place can be any real or fictional location.
- The time can be as specific or vague as you want.
- Your prompt MUST include one or more specific nominated fandoms. Please do not prompt “Fandom: Any”.
- If your prompt includes a relationship, make sure to use the proper notation. Platonic relationships are indicated by an "&" between the names (e.g., Natsuo & Yuzuko). Non-platonic relationships use "/" (e.g., Natsuo/Yuzuko). Feel free to add additional clarifications as needed.
Here are a few examples to get your creative juices flowing:
TIME: Victorian Era
PLACE: The catacombs of London
TIME: Monday morning
PLACE: The coffee shop down the street
TIME: The last pitch
PLACE: Koshien
TIME: June 16th, 2018 at 4:20 PM
PLACE: 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney
Fill prompts by replying to the prompt with your time and place-inspired fanwork.
Please make sure to adhere to the specific prompt/fill formats!!! Otherwise, the BR scorer may miss your fill. If you make a mistake, please edit your post, or delete and repost if editing has been disabled.
If Prompting
Please use the following subject line for prompt:
Prompt: [Your Team]
Replace [Your Team] with the name of the team you belong to. Nickname or Official Name are both acceptable
Copy/Paste the following into the body of your comment. Delete all instructional text in parentheses.
NSFW Prompts
EXPLICITLY NSFW PROMPTS must be posted to the After-Hours comm. To join, click here.
After joining, you will be able to access the AfterHours BR1 post.
“Explicitly NSFW” means that the prompt includes outright sexual content (whether in a photograph, drawing, or in words), and prompts that in the additional requests are asking for explicit fills. Prompts are posted with the same HTML format, in the same manner as a SFW prompt, just under the designated post for that Bonus Round in the After-Hours comm. See ‘Filling’ for the procedures for NSFW Fills.
If Filling
Minimums
Required Work Minimums:
400 words (prose)
400px by 400px (art)
14 lines (poetry)
There is no max work cap.
Format
FILL: [Your Team], [Rating]
- Replace [Your Team] with the name of the team you belong to. Nickname or Official Name are both acceptable
- Replace [Rating] with the rating of your fill (G-E).
- Find a guide to tagging HERE.
- Copy/Paste the following into the body of your comment. Delete all instructional text in parentheses.
NSFW Fills
All NSFW fills MUST be posted in the corresponding Bonus Round post in the After Hours community. To join, click here.
After joining, you will be able to access the AfterHours BR1 post.
If filling a prompt that has been posted on the after-hours comm, simply reply to that prompt. If filling a SFW prompt, let the prompter know by replying to the original prompt on the main comm with a link to your fill on the corresponding after-hours Bonus Round Post. Please DO NOT use the Fill subject line or Fill header when cross-linking. This will cause the BR scorer to count your fill twice.
Scoring
The scoring for bonus rounds depends on the number of people (n) on your team. You’re welcome to make as many prompts and fills as you like!
For prompts: 5 points per prompt, limited to 5 times the number of team members (5n)
For fills, where (n) = number of members on you team:
- First 5n fills: 20 points each
- Fills 5n to 10n: 10 points each
- Fills 10n to 15n: 5 points each
- All fills after 15n: 2 points each
All scored content must be created new for this round.
Additional Information
If you're hunting through the prompts looking for what to fill, a good trick is to view top-level comments only (see the line of links below this post). We’ll also have a prompt/fill database up and running soon that will help you filter through BR posts.
A Tip: We all want SportsFest to be a fun and safe environment. If you notice someone has made a mistake in their required tagging, or any other html or rules related aspect of their comment, do let them know, message them privately rather than replying - if you reply, they can’t edit the comment! If you aren’t comfortable letting the commenter know directly, contact a mod and we will make sure they update the required tags.
If you have any questions, feel free to contact a mod.
FILL: Team Victuuri, T
Fandom: Yuri!!! on Ice
Major Tags: Drug Use, Torture
Other Tags: Historical Fiction, Cold War, not sci-fi
Word Count: 1508
Remix Permission: I'm going to continue this so maybe don't write more, but art/music/anything else is welcome!
***
Viktor was good at English. It wasn’t so surprising; he’d been thirteen years old when he’d walked through Ellis Island at Yakov’s shoulder, his hand in Mila’s, Yuri still little enough to be carried on his hip to prevent him from wandering off. He’d been cute then. He’d been less cute when he grew up, when he spit curses in Russian and Yiddish instead of using his English. Viktor had given up bitterness, when Mila preferred to gossip with the other Jewish girls, when Yuri refused to use English at home even though he’d practically grown up with it. Viktor was the eldest and so he was the one who fought his mother tongue, who stumbled his way through broken sentences in immigration, and then at the doctor’s, and at the boarding house where they stayed and then the apartment they rented. He recited the sentences to enroll them all in school over and over again into the surface of the frozen pond that first winter, and the week after Christmas he went to the office and only had to ask them to repeat themselves once and didn’t drop a single ‘the’.
When he filled out the form with his birthday, she let out a little gasp. “Why, is it really?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re born on Christmas, honey. That’s real lucky.”
Viktor wasn’t used to American pet names yet, but he knew what honey was and he figured it was a good thing, that she thought he was a sweet kid. So he didn’t say, we don’t celebrate Christmas, we’re Soviet and also we’re Jewish. He smiled at her. “I guess it is!”
Viktor became good at English, and he became good at that smile.
He tried to coax Yuri into practicing with him, particularly as they got older, but even though Yuri never learned to read and write in Russian, five years old that first spring in New York, he never lost the thick accent. Viktor smoothed out his consonants, added contractions, chatted with their neighbors and got a card at the big public library. Yuri rolled his eyes. Mila flirted with the Jewish boys in Yiddish. Viktor assimilated.
None of them, not Yakov, not Mila, not Yuri at his most contrary, would have argued that Viktor was the most American of all of them.
It was not, he realized the day when the men in dark suits came to their house, enough to save him.
Viktor had been confused, and then afraid. Yuri had been angry and afraid all at once and Mila had hushed him and gone stone-faced. When Viktor realized what they wanted, when they asked him questions about bombs, about plots, about Stalin in sharp, perfect English, the kind Viktor would never have for all he tried, he went quiet and pale and looked at Yakov, who stared back and understood nothing but understood perfectly.
When they handcuffed him, Viktor turned to Yiddish, to Yakov, “Yakov, I didn’t do anything, I promise, I—“
“I know, Vitya,” Yakov said. “Do what you have to and come back to us.”
“I’ll come home,” Viktor promised as they pulled him out the door.
He was not sure, anymore, how long ago that had been. It was time enough for his fingernails to grow long, long enough that he scratched himself sometimes when he wrapped his arms around himself for warmth. Long enough for his long hair to start to mat, even if he finger-combed it whenever he had the presence of mind.
Long enough for him to rarely have presence of mind.
They were drugging him. They were open about it, which didn’t help the terrible distortion of reality as much as he might have hoped. What he thought was two weeks in, in the dead of night, he pried a tiny screw out from the bench in the cell. He’d had wild hopes, then, still half-high from the previous day. He’d imagined picking the lock, escaping, waking up from this like it was a terrible dream. But by dawn all he had was a tiny screw in his hand, smaller than a fingernail.
It was no lockpick, but during the worst trips he pinched it between thumb and forefinger, reveling in the pain of the edges digging in, thinking this is real, this is real.
It was after one of those terrible nights when he first met the Japanese man. Viktor was in the observation room, screw in his hand, hunched in on himself. He’d combed his hair, he thought, but it was tangled again. And then the man.
He came in like the others, dark suit, notebook, but he gave Viktor an odd little nervous smile and Viktor was so afraid and so alone that he did what he’d given up on days—weeks? decades?—ago and he begged.
“Please,” he said. “Please, I want to go home.”
He had kept smiling, a little confused, but indulgent. “Of course, you’ll go home soon.”
Viktor had stared at him. “I don’t understand.”
“We appreciate your participation,” he said, “And obviously you can’t go when it’s still in your system, but—“
“They don’t—they don’t let me leave,” Viktor said, faintly. “You don’t understand.”
“Have you had a bad reaction to LSD before?” the man asked.
Then another man had come and pulled the Japanese man away. “He’s not a volunteer, Katsuki,” he said, “And he’s not CIA. He’s a spy.”
“A spy!” The man—Katsuki—stared at him.
Viktor shook his head. “I’m not, I’m not, I want to go home,” he begged. “Please.”
“I thought,” Katsuki said, still in English, and now Viktor could hear it—the faintest hint of an accent. “They were volunteers.”
“Don’t feel bad for spies,” the man said, and led him out.
Viktor woke the next morning with the screw still pinched in his fingers, crusted in dried blood. That night he prayed in Hebrew, a foreign tongue but utterly familiar. Yura, I’m sorry. Mila, I’m sorry. Yakov, I’m sorry. I told you I’d come home.
The next morning, the Japanese man was back.
“I’m Yuuri,” he told Viktor. There was something soft about his r’s and Viktor clung to it when he spoke. “What’s your name?”
“Viktor Nikiforov.”
“Where are you from?” Yuuri said softly.
“New York,” Viktor said. “Please. I have—they’re my cousins, really, but they’re like a brother and sister.”
“Okay,” Yuuri said. “Shh. I’m going to help you, you need to trust me.”
Viktor wanted to say, how could I? But he had no choice, and the way Yuuri looked at him, the way he’d spoken like he’d really thought Viktor had chosen this, the way that English was so obviously not quite his native tongue, made Viktor believe he could.
“I will,” Viktor said, “I trust you. Please help me.”
Yuuri had nodded, a little grim-faced, and then he had gone and not come back. A night turned into a day turned into what might have been a week, and Viktor thought he had dreamed the whole thing until the night that Yuuri came back.
He opened the door, quietly with the key, and then he winced under Viktor’s gaze, seeing his pupils blown wide.
“Are you high?” Yuuri asked, faintly.
“They drug me every day,” Viktor said. The world shifted, unsettling and warping around him. “It’s—fading, now. It’s been hours.”
“Hours,” Yuuri echoed. “Can you walk?”
The truth was that Viktor’s legs felt like jelly beneath him, that it felt like the floor bucked and rolled like an ocean, but to get out of here, Viktor would do anything. He looked at his hands and realized they were shaking. “Yes,” he said.
Yuuri slipped Viktor’s arm over his shoulder to help keep him steady. He led him to a small blue car, American-made, and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders in the front seat when he saw him shiver. The landscape was vast and grassy.
“Where are we?” Viktor said.
“Pennsylvania,” Yuuri said. “You said you’re from New York? I’ll take you home. I can’t drive all that way but we can take the train from Philadelphia.”
“What about you?” Viktor asked.
Yuuri shrugged. “I resigned last week. I told them I was afraid of Soviet spies.”
“I’m not a spy,” said Viktor.
“I know,” said Yuuri. “But they won’t ever think I was the one who helped you.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a psych student,” Yuuri said. “I’m getting my PhD. They asked me to help with these experiments with LSD, but—they told me it was all volunteers.”
“It isn’t,” Viktor said, softly.
“I know that now,” said Yuuri, and hit the gas.
To the rumble of the car engine and the crackle of the radio, perpetually just out of focus on a pop station, Viktor slept on the highway to Philadelphia. When he woke, the world had come back into focus, the drugs working their way out of his system. The tremor in his hand remained, and something told him it might never leave him.
Re: FILL: Team Victuuri, T