Scenes From a Hat
Scenes From a Hat: Fanfic Version
Summary: Sometimes you get those bunnies that are so awesome, you just have to write… and then you realize you can't think of a plot for the life of Pi. This is those scenes.
Warnings/Kinks: Loki, manipulative bastards, Connor Macleod, animal transformation…
Thor/Dresden Files
The cold didn't scare him as much as the dark. Even though his fingertips stubbornly remained blue no matter how often he rubbed them, or tucked them into his armpits, Loki was less worried about his digits freezing off than finding his way home. It had been a stupid, spur-of-the-moment, emotional decision… and while deep inside he still felt it was the right decision his running away had been poor planning. He was Prince, and he wasn't Thor.
They were right. He was a weak, stupid little coward and now he was going to die. Starvation or exposure. What kind of idiot thought they could navigate the Ways on their own? Given the choice, even full grown and fully trained war-mages used the BiFrost over the Old Ways.
Loki crouched down, sitting on his heels, and cried. It was dark, and cold, and white stuff -Snow, he thought distractedly, but he had only ever read about it before. It didn't snow in Asgard.- fell silently like a blanket putting the world to sleep. He missed his room. He missed his hounds. He wanted to run back home and apologize, confess his wrong-doing even if he had to clean the stables by himself for a month.
He just didn't want to be alone.
A howl broke the silence, and Loki's head snapped up as his heart attempted to fly from his chest. Several more guttural cries echoed over the emptiness, ringing against sparse skeleton trees and ancient rocks. Loki's head whipped around, but he couldn't follow the direction, and with stumbling steps -the snow was too high, it was like wading a river, but harder- he tried for the little circles of stone.
He almost made it.
Loki screamed as a hulking beast leapt over him, snow steaming in its wake, and turning a dripping mouth and glowing eyes on him. Arm shaking, Loki snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. The hound growled, stepping closer, head lowered, and Loki frantically snapped his fingers. Green sparks burst into existence and fizzled out. He wasn't going to die of exposure, or hunger; he was going to be eaten.
More hounds with coal-eyes and soot-skin circled, shark like, baying in joy and Loki huddled helplessly on the flat rock.
A whip cracked over his head.
"What have we found? A lost little lamb?"
Sniffling, wiping away half-frozen snot, Loki looked up to see a woman prettier than his mother. Red-red hair and layers of silk and furs on a great horse, Loki cried and reached out for the little bit of familiarity.
She dismounted, smiling, and the hounds cried piteously when her touch left them. Loki whimpered, but when her hand touched his he felt a wave of warmth, and calm, and happiness. "You should not be on that table, little lamb. 'Tis a dangerous place."
Table? Loki looked down at where the snow had been melted by his own body, the grooves and symbols etched into it, and felt an echo of power. Sleeping, now, but would wake soon.
Mother didn't like it when he put his elbows on the table. She would like his feet less. Wobbling, Loki climbed off his refuge, clutching at the red-haired woman's skirts as her hunting hounds snarled at him, herding him to her. Her hand rubbed at his hair.
"Why are you here, little lamb?"
"Mmnot." Loki sniffled. "MmLoki. Loki Odinson."
She smiled wider. "Is that so, Loki?"
Loki jumped, her saying his name had been like a finger trailing down his spine.
"Why are you out here, Loki Odinson, tell auntie Lea."
He did. He told of failure on the training grounds, of everyone laughing at him, and how he was so nervous when trying to show Father his new spell he failed at that, too, and was admonished for wasting time. He sat in his lap on her horse, her hand rubbing at his neck, and spilled words until he was too tired and warm from her cloak to see straight.
"Would you like to stay with me, my lamb?" She cooed. "I would happily take care of such a talented young wizard as yourself. You would be happy. You would be strong. You would be… mine."
"But…" Loki thought, sleep muddling him, but he was just the spare. He'd heard the servants whisper it enough. Thor was going to be King, it didn't matter what Odin said about them both being born to it.
But there was no Thor here. And Auntie Lea was nice. And she had magic. Maybe she would teach him to be great, strong sorcerer! "I want to stay with you." He burrowed into her stomach.
"Excellent!" Lea cried, happily. Loki's scalp began to itch. He blinked, sneezed, and felt a wave of horror as his fingers began to shrink. His nails lengthened. "Now, now. Do not worry. You shall not have any worries any longer…"
Lea rode home while feeding strips of bloody meat to her new puppy, pleasantly surprised by the white coat and red eyes of the hellhound.
Supernatural/Avengers
Like pulling the wings off of butterflies, brilliantly colored in gold and bronze and now more red then they ever wished, Lucifer muses as he moves through their ranks like a crashing train. He catches a fist in his palm, frost narcotizes the flesh with terrified shouts of 'Jotun!' and meat shatters like glass. He lets a sword catch in a clavicle (In the back of his mind, Nick grunts, but his vessel is long past caring.) to free him up to catch a spear thrust at his -assumed- open back. The Morning Star twists Nick's arm and grasps the handle.
It feels a little akward. He's used to having more limbs available for combat than this. Perhaps if he thinks of it as a challenge, a game…
Frost trails up the length of the polearm, and before the warrior on the other end can let go and retreat Lucifer pushes it back and the sheer force behind his action causes the blunted in to tear through leather and metal and nestle in a cage of ribs.
And so it goes. His vessel is battered, he can't bring his full power through to this realm with it, imperfect but perfect, and any of his generals would complain that he is wasting time.
But this is a family matter. Family. Matters.
He finds his brother at the end of a long, bloody road (aren't they all?) in a cage not unlike his. Looking up the Messenger, Lucifer can feel the tiny cracks of his heart widening. Gabriel's vessel is a mess, and the battered soul of his brother peeks out shyly from green-green eyes.
He shatters the prison and considers it well worth the dip in strength. His vessel's hands will heal. He offers his.
The Trickster eyes him, then turns away. Lucifer tries to hide how much the action hurts. "You've sided with Micheal, then, even though he leaves you to rot in this stagnating cesspit?"
"I'm not on Micheal's side!" Gabriel suddenly roars -He is not stable. Lucifer recognizes this and drops his Sword into reality.- leaping up, grace flaring. Shadows fill the chamber. Hundreds of wings flaring and beautiful because it is what Gabriel had been crafted for. His brother's wings had always been most lovely. "I'm not on anyone's side! Because no one is on my side!"
He stumbles forward, leaving bloody prints in the glass. The smile that breaks his vessel's face is titanic and mad. "I just. I just wanted it to be over. I wanted the fighting to be over. I thought, what better way than to annihilate the enemy, utterly, finally fulfill father's orders?" Lucifer can sense a maelstrom of memories, broken and bleeding, go through Gabriel's mind. He wonders how his laughing brother became so. "But it didn't work. So I thought, maybe, if I took over there would be nothing to fight for. And then, then,-"
Lucifer puts his hands on Gabriel's shoulders. "No one would have to fight?"
Gabriel nods. Quietly, he says "I missed you, brother. Bright and golden. Beloved. No substitute."
Lucifer thinks. Thousands -Billions from his perspective, time runs different in Hell.- of years in solitude leaves one time to do so. He is not wrathful at his brothers, or Micheal, or even his Father. He still thinks Mortals were a bad idea all around.
He doesn't want to fight his family, but he will, and Micheal is stubborn. He'll need all the siblings he can get. It isn't about Mortals or Earth, not anymore.
He holds his little brother close, almost misses the, "Can we go to Pandora?"
"Sure."
He'll need all the soldiers he can get. Even the broken ones.
Highlander/Avengers
He'd come back for Rachel's funeral, stayed for the mourning. First he'd had to get his daughter's affairs in order, though truthfully there wasn't much that needed doing. He could have left the selling off of the shop to the executor, but each item held some sentimental value and leaving the vases, bowls, little naked men and women alone to be fondled over by an uncaring third party didn't feel right. More than a few items he sent to the few immortals he could safely call friend, and Duncan always appreciated good, Damascus swords even if he was hard on them and often sent them back to Connor for touch ups and maintenance.
But New York was New York, a city so big an Immortal could get lost in and no neighbors commented at strange noises, oddly dimensioned rooms, or landlords that didn't age. It was as good a place as any to decide what he wanted to be for the next few decades: the highlander contemplated a retreat to Duncan's cabin, but going back to school also had an appeal. Computers had come a long way since the punch cards he remembers using to program.
A new name would be needed as well, Russell Nash was getting on up in years and Connor wouldn't be able to pass scrutiny much longer, which would require a degree of technical breaking-and-entering that Connor didn't yet have.
Then he felt the buzz, though it was like the caress of lover against his hindbrain, and Connor reached for his sword.
He followed those beckoning fingers with all the careful thought and consideration Rameriz tried to teach him, blade flashing as he headed for the blight on the city skyline -Rome's triumphal arches knew when to stop.- and thanked whatever gods looked after Immortals that the Kurgan's rampage had ensured his lack of competition for whatever lay at the end.
It flickered though his mind, the prize?
He claimed a fallen vehicle, took it to the top as the pulsing buzz in the back of his skull reached a crescendo as if he was surrounded by Immortals.
Child. A voice that was not a voice whispered, in what was more of a vague idea. HusbandLoverSonBrother.
And Connor knew nothing so much as knew that this was what all Immortals were born for, from, and this was what they all returned to.
Where does a quickening go if there is no other Immortals around to receive it?
Where do children with no mother nor father come from?
Why do they fight?
Connor stepped up to the pulsing energy surrounding the box, the prize, and it was like walking the bottom of lake. He laughed and reach out. "Hello."
Blue-white lightning lanced out from the Prize like arms and lifted him up.
---
Loki's scepter sat limp and impotent in her hands. Natasha had hurried to get it, only to find the portal shutting down as a man with a bloody sword picked up the Tesseract like a curious child would a toy block.
The portal was closed, small fires had broken out as all of Selvig's equipment exploded, and the man dropped from where he had been screaming at the sky. He held a hand to his face -eyes a brilliant blue, the Widow couldn't help but notice, too blue- and energy arched between his fingers.
The Tesseract lies shattered on the broken tiles.
Summary: Sometimes you get those bunnies that are so awesome, you just have to write… and then you realize you can't think of a plot for the life of Pi. This is those scenes.
Warnings/Kinks: Loki, manipulative bastards, Connor Macleod, animal transformation…
Thor/Dresden Files
The cold didn't scare him as much as the dark. Even though his fingertips stubbornly remained blue no matter how often he rubbed them, or tucked them into his armpits, Loki was less worried about his digits freezing off than finding his way home. It had been a stupid, spur-of-the-moment, emotional decision… and while deep inside he still felt it was the right decision his running away had been poor planning. He was Prince, and he wasn't Thor.
They were right. He was a weak, stupid little coward and now he was going to die. Starvation or exposure. What kind of idiot thought they could navigate the Ways on their own? Given the choice, even full grown and fully trained war-mages used the BiFrost over the Old Ways.
Loki crouched down, sitting on his heels, and cried. It was dark, and cold, and white stuff -Snow, he thought distractedly, but he had only ever read about it before. It didn't snow in Asgard.- fell silently like a blanket putting the world to sleep. He missed his room. He missed his hounds. He wanted to run back home and apologize, confess his wrong-doing even if he had to clean the stables by himself for a month.
He just didn't want to be alone.
A howl broke the silence, and Loki's head snapped up as his heart attempted to fly from his chest. Several more guttural cries echoed over the emptiness, ringing against sparse skeleton trees and ancient rocks. Loki's head whipped around, but he couldn't follow the direction, and with stumbling steps -the snow was too high, it was like wading a river, but harder- he tried for the little circles of stone.
He almost made it.
Loki screamed as a hulking beast leapt over him, snow steaming in its wake, and turning a dripping mouth and glowing eyes on him. Arm shaking, Loki snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. The hound growled, stepping closer, head lowered, and Loki frantically snapped his fingers. Green sparks burst into existence and fizzled out. He wasn't going to die of exposure, or hunger; he was going to be eaten.
More hounds with coal-eyes and soot-skin circled, shark like, baying in joy and Loki huddled helplessly on the flat rock.
A whip cracked over his head.
"What have we found? A lost little lamb?"
Sniffling, wiping away half-frozen snot, Loki looked up to see a woman prettier than his mother. Red-red hair and layers of silk and furs on a great horse, Loki cried and reached out for the little bit of familiarity.
She dismounted, smiling, and the hounds cried piteously when her touch left them. Loki whimpered, but when her hand touched his he felt a wave of warmth, and calm, and happiness. "You should not be on that table, little lamb. 'Tis a dangerous place."
Table? Loki looked down at where the snow had been melted by his own body, the grooves and symbols etched into it, and felt an echo of power. Sleeping, now, but would wake soon.
Mother didn't like it when he put his elbows on the table. She would like his feet less. Wobbling, Loki climbed off his refuge, clutching at the red-haired woman's skirts as her hunting hounds snarled at him, herding him to her. Her hand rubbed at his hair.
"Why are you here, little lamb?"
"Mmnot." Loki sniffled. "MmLoki. Loki Odinson."
She smiled wider. "Is that so, Loki?"
Loki jumped, her saying his name had been like a finger trailing down his spine.
"Why are you out here, Loki Odinson, tell auntie Lea."
He did. He told of failure on the training grounds, of everyone laughing at him, and how he was so nervous when trying to show Father his new spell he failed at that, too, and was admonished for wasting time. He sat in his lap on her horse, her hand rubbing at his neck, and spilled words until he was too tired and warm from her cloak to see straight.
"Would you like to stay with me, my lamb?" She cooed. "I would happily take care of such a talented young wizard as yourself. You would be happy. You would be strong. You would be… mine."
"But…" Loki thought, sleep muddling him, but he was just the spare. He'd heard the servants whisper it enough. Thor was going to be King, it didn't matter what Odin said about them both being born to it.
But there was no Thor here. And Auntie Lea was nice. And she had magic. Maybe she would teach him to be great, strong sorcerer! "I want to stay with you." He burrowed into her stomach.
"Excellent!" Lea cried, happily. Loki's scalp began to itch. He blinked, sneezed, and felt a wave of horror as his fingers began to shrink. His nails lengthened. "Now, now. Do not worry. You shall not have any worries any longer…"
Lea rode home while feeding strips of bloody meat to her new puppy, pleasantly surprised by the white coat and red eyes of the hellhound.
Supernatural/Avengers
Like pulling the wings off of butterflies, brilliantly colored in gold and bronze and now more red then they ever wished, Lucifer muses as he moves through their ranks like a crashing train. He catches a fist in his palm, frost narcotizes the flesh with terrified shouts of 'Jotun!' and meat shatters like glass. He lets a sword catch in a clavicle (In the back of his mind, Nick grunts, but his vessel is long past caring.) to free him up to catch a spear thrust at his -assumed- open back. The Morning Star twists Nick's arm and grasps the handle.
It feels a little akward. He's used to having more limbs available for combat than this. Perhaps if he thinks of it as a challenge, a game…
Frost trails up the length of the polearm, and before the warrior on the other end can let go and retreat Lucifer pushes it back and the sheer force behind his action causes the blunted in to tear through leather and metal and nestle in a cage of ribs.
And so it goes. His vessel is battered, he can't bring his full power through to this realm with it, imperfect but perfect, and any of his generals would complain that he is wasting time.
But this is a family matter. Family. Matters.
He finds his brother at the end of a long, bloody road (aren't they all?) in a cage not unlike his. Looking up the Messenger, Lucifer can feel the tiny cracks of his heart widening. Gabriel's vessel is a mess, and the battered soul of his brother peeks out shyly from green-green eyes.
He shatters the prison and considers it well worth the dip in strength. His vessel's hands will heal. He offers his.
The Trickster eyes him, then turns away. Lucifer tries to hide how much the action hurts. "You've sided with Micheal, then, even though he leaves you to rot in this stagnating cesspit?"
"I'm not on Micheal's side!" Gabriel suddenly roars -He is not stable. Lucifer recognizes this and drops his Sword into reality.- leaping up, grace flaring. Shadows fill the chamber. Hundreds of wings flaring and beautiful because it is what Gabriel had been crafted for. His brother's wings had always been most lovely. "I'm not on anyone's side! Because no one is on my side!"
He stumbles forward, leaving bloody prints in the glass. The smile that breaks his vessel's face is titanic and mad. "I just. I just wanted it to be over. I wanted the fighting to be over. I thought, what better way than to annihilate the enemy, utterly, finally fulfill father's orders?" Lucifer can sense a maelstrom of memories, broken and bleeding, go through Gabriel's mind. He wonders how his laughing brother became so. "But it didn't work. So I thought, maybe, if I took over there would be nothing to fight for. And then, then,-"
Lucifer puts his hands on Gabriel's shoulders. "No one would have to fight?"
Gabriel nods. Quietly, he says "I missed you, brother. Bright and golden. Beloved. No substitute."
Lucifer thinks. Thousands -Billions from his perspective, time runs different in Hell.- of years in solitude leaves one time to do so. He is not wrathful at his brothers, or Micheal, or even his Father. He still thinks Mortals were a bad idea all around.
He doesn't want to fight his family, but he will, and Micheal is stubborn. He'll need all the siblings he can get. It isn't about Mortals or Earth, not anymore.
He holds his little brother close, almost misses the, "Can we go to Pandora?"
"Sure."
He'll need all the soldiers he can get. Even the broken ones.
Highlander/Avengers
He'd come back for Rachel's funeral, stayed for the mourning. First he'd had to get his daughter's affairs in order, though truthfully there wasn't much that needed doing. He could have left the selling off of the shop to the executor, but each item held some sentimental value and leaving the vases, bowls, little naked men and women alone to be fondled over by an uncaring third party didn't feel right. More than a few items he sent to the few immortals he could safely call friend, and Duncan always appreciated good, Damascus swords even if he was hard on them and often sent them back to Connor for touch ups and maintenance.
But New York was New York, a city so big an Immortal could get lost in and no neighbors commented at strange noises, oddly dimensioned rooms, or landlords that didn't age. It was as good a place as any to decide what he wanted to be for the next few decades: the highlander contemplated a retreat to Duncan's cabin, but going back to school also had an appeal. Computers had come a long way since the punch cards he remembers using to program.
A new name would be needed as well, Russell Nash was getting on up in years and Connor wouldn't be able to pass scrutiny much longer, which would require a degree of technical breaking-and-entering that Connor didn't yet have.
Then he felt the buzz, though it was like the caress of lover against his hindbrain, and Connor reached for his sword.
He followed those beckoning fingers with all the careful thought and consideration Rameriz tried to teach him, blade flashing as he headed for the blight on the city skyline -Rome's triumphal arches knew when to stop.- and thanked whatever gods looked after Immortals that the Kurgan's rampage had ensured his lack of competition for whatever lay at the end.
It flickered though his mind, the prize?
He claimed a fallen vehicle, took it to the top as the pulsing buzz in the back of his skull reached a crescendo as if he was surrounded by Immortals.
Child. A voice that was not a voice whispered, in what was more of a vague idea. HusbandLoverSonBrother.
And Connor knew nothing so much as knew that this was what all Immortals were born for, from, and this was what they all returned to.
Where does a quickening go if there is no other Immortals around to receive it?
Where do children with no mother nor father come from?
Why do they fight?
Connor stepped up to the pulsing energy surrounding the box, the prize, and it was like walking the bottom of lake. He laughed and reach out. "Hello."
Blue-white lightning lanced out from the Prize like arms and lifted him up.
---
Loki's scepter sat limp and impotent in her hands. Natasha had hurried to get it, only to find the portal shutting down as a man with a bloody sword picked up the Tesseract like a curious child would a toy block.
The portal was closed, small fires had broken out as all of Selvig's equipment exploded, and the man dropped from where he had been screaming at the sky. He held a hand to his face -eyes a brilliant blue, the Widow couldn't help but notice, too blue- and energy arched between his fingers.
The Tesseract lies shattered on the broken tiles.