Bonus Round 2

[fantalaimon]

Bonus Round 1 is now closed, and Bonus Round 2 is now open!

This round, the theme is holidays/special occasions.

If you have an idea for something you'd like to see, please leave the ship, a holiday/special occasion, and any other details as a PROMPT below. After you've posted, read through everyone else's prompts, and leave a FILL for any which catch your eye. Fills can be in any media, and they need not be long, but please put a little effort in--if anyone starts spamming this post for points, we'll be able to tell.

 

You should place PROMPT/FILL, your current team affiliation and a brief summary in the comment title. Do not forget to change the title of the comment when posting a FILL as a reply to a PROMPT. NSFW prompts and fills should mention this in the summary or at the top of the post. Reminder that team names must be in alphabetical order (ie. Balthazar/Death, not Death/Balthazar) and that portmanteaus (ie. Lubriel, Annaby) are not allowed when identifying team affiliation.

You will be awarded five points per prompt for the first five prompts you leave. The first three fills posted for each prompt will receive 15 points, the next three 10 points, and the next three 5 points. Prompts with ten or more fills will no longer receive fill points.

 

Bonus rounds are still rarepair only, but you can post prompts or fills for any rare ship this round, including gen/platonic ones (which should be indicated with an & as above). Due to some unforeseen complication from last round, we have changed the rules. It is now 15 points per fill for the first three fills by three different people. So if someone does a fic for Fill 1 and a fanmix for Fill 2, then get 15 + 10 points, and then Person 2 does a fill and Person 3 does a fill, so even though those would be fills 3 and 4, they count as 15 and 15 points since they're fills by new people. You are still not permitted to fill your own prompt. We also encourage people not to fill prompts from their teammates, although the points will not be deducted if you do.

Bonus round fills can include links provided they are publicly viewable. Works can also be cross-posted to other websites, as there is no anonymity requirement in bonus rounds. However, works posted directly to comments will be limited to 16,000 characters by the Dreamwidth comment limit. Longer works should therefore be divided between multiple comments.

 

Remember, Team Chuck can participate in bonus rounds, and if you change teams, points earned will transfer with you until the end of the team shuffle period.

This round is now closed.

Comments

FILL: Team Anna/Ruby, Father's Day

[mllenightingale]

I tried to write a thing?

—

Hidden away in the town called Kripke’s Hollow is the home of one unassuming soul – one whose name is known with fame and infamy through his lifelong work. Upon the coffee-stained couch he lies, face buried within a cushion. Soft snores, almost completely muffled by fabric, can be heard, an accompaniment to the music that rolls out in a low rumble from the radio. The wall-mounted clock fills the air with another dissonant rhythm, a tick-tick-ticking of the passing of each second. Morning has yet to dawn, slivers of sunlight from beyond the horizon inching forward ever-so-slowly to possess and illuminate the landscape.

Unconscious and all but dead to the world, the man sleeps on.



The presence, one that resonates within the cramped realm-between-realms with an aura of humble omnipotence, immediately calls the attention of a gathering of corrupt grace, frigid with its fury. The other two who share this space – his treacherous brother and said brother’s human toy – appear oblivious, continuing on their courtship of viscera and screams.

Its wordless dwelling here is far from anything new. In the beginning, a mere few millennia after his fall – when his prison had still allowed him an utterly thorough quiet, even while it had closed him off from all else – he’d called out to it. Urged it to speak to him, an order (a plea) that had always remained unfulfilled.

Eventually, he’d abandoned the hopeful prospect of gleaning some form of temporary companionship from the foreign consciousness. (He knew nothing of it besides that it held immense power – no insignificant soul could reach to see behind the locks to his Cage – because although he’d had suspicions, once or twice long ago, he knew that a visit from Father Dearest would be a nigh-impossible occurrence.)

Now though, as it returns for the first time since his freedom by demons (and subsequent re-imprisonment), he looks to question it again. (Had it known that, only a few earthly years ago, Lucifer the archangel had been back amidst humankind? Had it deemed it worthwhile, even, to see him once in his physical form? Or did it only ever come for its own amusement, glancing over God’s most wretched son in curiosity and scorn?)

And with no expectation of any response, he puts forth his demand —

“Who are you?"

Even knowing that he will be given no answer, he can feel the stirrings of disappointment, a sentiment that is immediately halted by incredulity and undiluted rage as he suddenly knows its reply.

“Lucifer.” It’s not audible, not in the waves-of-sound way of the human cries and whimpers that populate the cage; it’s an almost-telepathy, as though the message is a thought that has been present all along. And it is one that carries startling familiarity.

“I’ve lost my mind, haven’t I? Finally let this cage break me.”

"Lucifer. I’m not any creation of your mind; I am here with you now.”

“Why?” He lets the rest remain unspoken, not that that matters; He is omniscient in the true sense, and all that is existent is known to Him. (The muddled jumble of why are you here how dare you come I miss you I’m not sorry apologize to me for what you did where have you been Father I’d like to come home.)

“You’re still my son.”

And how could He think that He had any right to make such a claim, Lucifer cannot even begin to understand, not after He had more or less disowned him, banished him from Heaven and condemned his name as forbidden to his brothers. He would say that they were only father and son as they were creator and creation; the title would not signify any greater bond (not anymore). And if he still felt pinpricks of warmth like joy at His recognition, that was to blame upon indoctrinated former affections and nothing more.)

“Break open this place and free me, or leave and don’t return. I don’t see why You’re here in the first place, but You are not wanted.”

“You know I can’t allow that. Not until you learn to love humanity.”

“It’s been millennia – and you’ve seen for yourself how they are. How can you still expect me to do that?” He recalls, too, with precise clarity, the names and faces of the legions of angels who have lost faith, who look upon the creatures with the same disgust and irreverence that he holds; and yet they are all allowed to continue on unfettered as they are.

“Not all of them.” And now Lucifer wonders whether He continues to believe that, whether it’s a lie He repeats to convince Himself as much as the others. From what he had learned while he walked the Earth his second time, the majority view was that God had forsaken their kind and submitted to an apathetic oblivion that meant becoming blind to the failings of his creations.

He wants to call out to Him the lie, scream out His hypocrisy, but far more than that, he longs for silence. “Just leave me, then. If You won’t return me anything else, allow me my solitude.” What little of it there might be when he was made now to share the space with the brother he used to love, but now could not bear to even speak to.

He has the audacity to whisper again, “I hope you’ll change your mind one day,” before the essence of Father and betrayer recedes, leaving behind heavy silence punctuated by a vessel’s demonstrations of fragile mortality.



Chuck Shurley awakens with muttered curses, finding himself sprawled on the ground, his ankle throbbing from a collision with the hard edge of a coffee table. The radio broadcaster announces the time and date with his perpetual tone of false cheerfulness, followed by a, “And to all those dads out there, Happy Father’s Day!”

Flinching at the light of early noon, he gathers himself up from the crumb-covered carpet, all the while muttering to himself, “I need a drink.”