comment-fic
Here's another set of comment-fic, in which I re-discover the joys of mythology, among other things:
Title: There's a drumming
Fandom: Greek + Norse mythology
Word count: 655
Warnings: Non-explicit drunken slash
Pairing: Dionysus/Loki
Prompt: Dionysus/Loki, drunken rambling
Loki has a quick mind and a sharp trickster's smile. One day he will bring about the end of all things, so they say.
Dionysus clasps a cup between his hands, and holds it out to Loki as though he were a mortal presenting an offering to his god. The liquid inside is deep red, like rubies or like blood.
"I'm not certain," says Loki, "that it would be wise for me to drink anything you offer."
Dionysus laughs. "Wise? Of course it's not wise." He doesn't withdraw the offering. "That isn't the point, is it?"
"No," Loki murmurs, thoughtfully, and accepts the wine. He tilts back his head, he swallows. Dionysus observes the movement of his throat, and smiles.
Loki finishes draining the cup, and already he can feel the alcohol working in his blood. Usually he has rather a higher tolerance, but this is Dionysus' wine. Offered from his own hands, it is always just as intoxicating as Dionysus wants it to be.
Just as Loki noted only moments ago - was it only moments ago? - and Dionysus merrily confirmed, accepting this gift was not a wise thing to do.
Dionysus is holding out another cup, and the red inside gleams brightly where it catches the light, and this time Loki doesn't hesitate. His hand brushes against Dionysus' as he takes the cup, and he drains this one as well. The cup falls from his fingers and rolls away somewhere in the undergrowth. He hardly notices.
Dionysus steps up to Loki, wraps an arm around his shoulders, and pulls him away through the forest. Faster and faster their footsteps drum; Loki stumbles or trips countless times, but Dionysus is always there to catch him and urge him onwards.
Finally they collapse onto a bed of moss. Loki's head is spinning. He doesn't know where he is anymore. Dionysus' hand is splayed over his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
"Your people like scripts, don't they, Loki?" says Dionysus. "They've even got one written up all nice for you to follow."
Loki frowns, pedantic in his intoxication. "I don't believe anyone's bothered writing it down," he says. "I could be wrong, possibly. I don't think I am. Wrong, that is. Am I?"
He feels more than sees Dionysus' shrug. "Who knows? Who cares?"
Loki has to think about that, he's not sure how long. "Someone, somewhere, probably," he eventually concludes. "What were we talking about?"
"Scripts."
"Scripts. You must like them, because you're a god of theatre. And other things, theatre and other things, but theatre too."
"I actually prefer improvisation."
"Improv...?"
"Yes, you know. Make it up as you go along."
"Yes, I like that too. It always gets the best results. Surprise. It surprises people."
There is something feral about Dionysus' grin, but that isn't so unusual. There's something like triumph in his grin and his eyes, too. "So throw out the big script, the Ragnarok," he says. "Improvise. Make their faces go slack with shock."
"I don't think that's allowed," says Loki, but he's grinning. At some point in the recent past he has bitten his lip or the inside of his mouth, and now the white of his teeth is tainted with red.
Dionysus leans over Loki. He joins their lips, and he licks all the blood from those even white teeth. He draws back, but keeps his hands on Loki's shoulders.
"Darling," he purrs. "You're not saying you care what's allowed, are you?"
"Never," Loki laughs. He strains upwards, but Dionysus keeps him pinned down. Again, their lips meet.
It is uncertain how much of this Loki will remember, but with a touch of magic Dionysus can ensure that his suggestion to throw out the script, at least, is retained. If he knows Loki, the mischief-maker will not reject the idea out of hand, and if they can change enough...
"I want to see them dance to our drumbeat, Loki," he whispers.
Title: Your Cold Embrace
Fandom: Highlander + Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Word count: 596
Disclaimer: I don't own Highlander or Buffy
Warnings: Horror themes and a mistaken identity of sorts
Prompt: Buffy + or / Methos, "Stop trying to kill me! I am not a vampire!"
Methos wakes to complete darkness and a hard, uncomfortable surface beneath him, at his back. He raises his arms, and soon finds them blocked by another solid surface. Wood.
Wood below and wood above. Wood to the sides as well. He's in a coffin, again.
There's only so much air here in the coffin, so he suffocates several times before he manages to break through the lid. Dirt comes pouring down on top of him, but he must not stop. He claws his way up through dirt, splinters and small stones, uncaring of the way his fingers are crushed and torn and bleeding, before blue sparks heal the damage.
There's dirt in his mouth and nose. It's becoming more and more difficult to breathe. That might be why his lungs are burning, or it might be because of the weight of the earth pressing down on him.
He revives with a gasp that uses up too much precious air. It takes only a moment to orient himself, and then he's once again clawing his painful way upwards. Well, he hopes it's upwards, because his disoriented, light-headed sense of direction is the only indication he has.
It takes dying a few more times, but eventually one of his hands encounters the glorious chill of open air. Just a little more scrabbling, and then he's pulling himself up out of his grave.
It is only thanks to millennia of practice that he is able to dodge the kick aimed at him the moment he stands up. The wooden stake embeds itself in his shoulder instead of his heart.
"Wait, what are you doing?" he asks as he backs rapidly away from the pretty blonde trying her damnedest to kill him.
"Slaying, it's what I do," she quips. She's still coming after him, and shows no sign of stopping.
"I don't need slaying," he says. "Really, I don't."
"Well, you would say that, wouldn't you?"
Wooden stakes. Inhuman reflexes. Adolescent girl. He's climbed out of a grave in front of the Slayer, hasn't he?
"Stop trying to kill me! I'm not a vampire!" He doesn't know how long he can keep this up; he's good, but this is the Slayer. Even with his usual tricks...
She gives him a scornful, disbelieving look. "Really? You get up out of your grave and you expect me to believe you're not a vampire?"
"But it's true! Do I look like a vampire?"
"Dark, no tan, and covered in grave? Gee, I wonder."
Alright, he can tell she isn't going to believe him, and unlike most humans the Slayer just might think to decapitate him. It's time for desperate measures.
It's lucky that burials must be fairly common and insignificant around here, because he's still in the same outfit he was before the mugging, complete with hidden weapons. He slips a hand inside his coat as he pretends to stumble, and draws a dagger when she takes advantage to come close again.
Pain burns sharply in his wrist at the same moment he hears the snap of his breaking bones. It only takes a moment of loosened fingers for the dagger to slip from his grasp and fall down onto the ground. He catches a glimpse of blood flowing out from under her skin; it seems that he succeeded in wounding her, but far from enough to serve him any good.
The stake enters his heart. He crumples, like a marionette whose strings have been cut, and for a moment he feels the agony of dying. And then it's all over, for now.
Title: Homer
Fandom: The Addams Family
Word count: 403
Disclaimer: I don't own The Addams Family
Warnings: Mention of a gun in a school
Prompt: my pet would have your pet for breakfast
Wednesday adores all of her spiders, but her favourite is Homer, and has been ever since he hatched. She feeds him with her own blood, so that he grows large and dangerous and loyal. His favourite place is underneath her bed, and he continues to skitter into the shadows there even after her teachers at school would claim him too large to do so.
Her teachers at school don't know anything, really. That's why she plans to quit as soon as she's allowed.
About halfway through Wednesday's fourth year at school, Miss Morgan brings a gun to school and almost kills a couple of students. She's taken away after that, which Wednesday thinks is a pity. Miss Morgan didn't know any more than the other teachers, not really, but the recent hallucinations made things more interesting.
She doesn't understand why no one else seems to have realised that Miss Morgan was hallucinating, but that's not-family for you. Maybe they'll figure it out eventually.
Miss Morgan's replacement is called Mrs Swan. She has bright blue eyes and bright red hair, and she wears bright colours too. The first thing she instructs them to do is to take turns saying their names and something about themselves.
"I'm Joseph Hill," says the boy whose turn is right before hers. "I have a Rottweiler named Beast, and he's really badass."
The classroom erupts with appreciative titters. Wednesday doesn't react at all, because a Rottweiler isn't really that impressive.
"Settle down, class," says Mrs Swan, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Watch your language in the future, Joseph."
"Whatever, teach."
Mrs Swan frowns for a moment, but all she says is, "Next," and gestures at Wednesday.
"Wednesday Addams," she says. "My pet would have your pet for breakfast."
Joseph glares. "What's your pet, then, freak?"
"Young man!" says Mrs Swan, but no one's paying attention to her anymore.
"He's a spider."
"A spider can't eat a Rottweiler!"
"Homer can."
"Homer, like Homer Simpson?"
"Homer, like the author of The Iliad. Obviously."
"How's that obvious? You're lying anyway. Your stupid spider couldn't eat Beast."
"Children!" screeches Mrs Swan, and the class and the argument quiet down as she finally manages to get their attention. "Enough! That's quiet enough! Now, if the next child would..."
Wednesday tunes her out. She's already considering just how much fun it might be to introduce Joseph and Beast to her darling Homer.
Title: The Swan-Children
Fandom: Greek mythology
Word count: 607
Warnings: You might not want to think too hard about their parents
Prompt: Clytemnestra, what she was before she was queen
Clytemnestra's earliest memory is of a closed-in, secure world, with her brother slumbering at her side. She knows of no other life, no other world, but even so she cannot abide it. She throws herself at the borders of the world, again and again in wild frustration.
Her brother wakes when she accidentally kicks him in the side. He's confused and disoriented at first, but after awhile he follows the example of the only companion he has ever had. She's still throwing herself at the borders of the world, and she hardly notices the bruises that have started blossoming all over her body.
Within Queen Leda's quarters, a large egg cracks open, and two small children - a girl and then a boy - crawl out. The girl cries, because she's hurting, and because the new world is far larger and more frightening than anything she has ever known. The boy is silent and wide-eyed.
She settles down after a few minutes, dries her eyes and looks around. One of the first things she sees is something large, smooth and round. She looks at the broken remnants of the old world, and sees how they are like unto the other thing. She makes a connection.
She takes her brother by the arm and tugs him over to the unbroken egg. They pick up something heavy and hard, with a sharp edge, and break open the great sphere. Afterwards another two children blink up at them, dazed.
~
They are raised as good children of Sparta, and that is all very well, but what they really care about, more than anything else, is each other. They are the closest of siblings, Clytemnestra and Castor and Polydeuces and Helen.
The other children consider them creepy. Adults do too, although they're better at hiding it.
"Have you heard about how we were born?" says Helen, as they huddle together in a corner of the courtyard. "There was a swan, see, only she was really a nymph who had been cursed by Hera for catching Zeus' eye. It was too dangerous for her to keep her children, so she gave the eggs - that's us, of course - to the queen for fostering."
Polydeuces is shaking his head. "No, that's not right. Zeus was the swan, and Mother is our mother. You're always making things up, Helen."
"I do not!" cries Helen, and tackles Polydeuces into the mud.
Castor laughs and pelts them both with twigs and leaves. The original quarrel is forgotten in an instant, as Helen and Polydeuces each seize one of Castor's arms and work together to drag him down. Clytemnestra joins in a moment later, taking Castor's side.
~
It's a year after the mud-fight in the courtyard that Clytemnestra finds out why King Tyndareus always seems to favour her and Castor over their other siblings.
"It doesn't make any sense," she complains, as she and Helen share a fig. "I mean, I thought Tyndareus was smarter than this. We all hatched out of eggs, I know we did, because I remember. Why would that happen if Castor and me are his, but you and Polydeuces aren't."
Helen shrugs. "It doesn't matter. I'm going to run away one day, anyway."
Clytemnestra shakes her head. "No you won't."
"I will too, just you wait and see!"
~
What the four swan-children really care about, more than anything else, is each other. In Clytemnestra's case, the only thing she really cares about is her siblings. They fill up her heart, and there is no room left over for anything else.
She will marry because it is expected of her, but she will not love her husband.
Title: There's a drumming
Fandom: Greek + Norse mythology
Word count: 655
Warnings: Non-explicit drunken slash
Pairing: Dionysus/Loki
Prompt: Dionysus/Loki, drunken rambling
Loki has a quick mind and a sharp trickster's smile. One day he will bring about the end of all things, so they say.
Dionysus clasps a cup between his hands, and holds it out to Loki as though he were a mortal presenting an offering to his god. The liquid inside is deep red, like rubies or like blood.
"I'm not certain," says Loki, "that it would be wise for me to drink anything you offer."
Dionysus laughs. "Wise? Of course it's not wise." He doesn't withdraw the offering. "That isn't the point, is it?"
"No," Loki murmurs, thoughtfully, and accepts the wine. He tilts back his head, he swallows. Dionysus observes the movement of his throat, and smiles.
Loki finishes draining the cup, and already he can feel the alcohol working in his blood. Usually he has rather a higher tolerance, but this is Dionysus' wine. Offered from his own hands, it is always just as intoxicating as Dionysus wants it to be.
Just as Loki noted only moments ago - was it only moments ago? - and Dionysus merrily confirmed, accepting this gift was not a wise thing to do.
Dionysus is holding out another cup, and the red inside gleams brightly where it catches the light, and this time Loki doesn't hesitate. His hand brushes against Dionysus' as he takes the cup, and he drains this one as well. The cup falls from his fingers and rolls away somewhere in the undergrowth. He hardly notices.
Dionysus steps up to Loki, wraps an arm around his shoulders, and pulls him away through the forest. Faster and faster their footsteps drum; Loki stumbles or trips countless times, but Dionysus is always there to catch him and urge him onwards.
Finally they collapse onto a bed of moss. Loki's head is spinning. He doesn't know where he is anymore. Dionysus' hand is splayed over his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
"Your people like scripts, don't they, Loki?" says Dionysus. "They've even got one written up all nice for you to follow."
Loki frowns, pedantic in his intoxication. "I don't believe anyone's bothered writing it down," he says. "I could be wrong, possibly. I don't think I am. Wrong, that is. Am I?"
He feels more than sees Dionysus' shrug. "Who knows? Who cares?"
Loki has to think about that, he's not sure how long. "Someone, somewhere, probably," he eventually concludes. "What were we talking about?"
"Scripts."
"Scripts. You must like them, because you're a god of theatre. And other things, theatre and other things, but theatre too."
"I actually prefer improvisation."
"Improv...?"
"Yes, you know. Make it up as you go along."
"Yes, I like that too. It always gets the best results. Surprise. It surprises people."
There is something feral about Dionysus' grin, but that isn't so unusual. There's something like triumph in his grin and his eyes, too. "So throw out the big script, the Ragnarok," he says. "Improvise. Make their faces go slack with shock."
"I don't think that's allowed," says Loki, but he's grinning. At some point in the recent past he has bitten his lip or the inside of his mouth, and now the white of his teeth is tainted with red.
Dionysus leans over Loki. He joins their lips, and he licks all the blood from those even white teeth. He draws back, but keeps his hands on Loki's shoulders.
"Darling," he purrs. "You're not saying you care what's allowed, are you?"
"Never," Loki laughs. He strains upwards, but Dionysus keeps him pinned down. Again, their lips meet.
It is uncertain how much of this Loki will remember, but with a touch of magic Dionysus can ensure that his suggestion to throw out the script, at least, is retained. If he knows Loki, the mischief-maker will not reject the idea out of hand, and if they can change enough...
"I want to see them dance to our drumbeat, Loki," he whispers.
Title: Your Cold Embrace
Fandom: Highlander + Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Word count: 596
Disclaimer: I don't own Highlander or Buffy
Warnings: Horror themes and a mistaken identity of sorts
Prompt: Buffy + or / Methos, "Stop trying to kill me! I am not a vampire!"
Methos wakes to complete darkness and a hard, uncomfortable surface beneath him, at his back. He raises his arms, and soon finds them blocked by another solid surface. Wood.
Wood below and wood above. Wood to the sides as well. He's in a coffin, again.
There's only so much air here in the coffin, so he suffocates several times before he manages to break through the lid. Dirt comes pouring down on top of him, but he must not stop. He claws his way up through dirt, splinters and small stones, uncaring of the way his fingers are crushed and torn and bleeding, before blue sparks heal the damage.
There's dirt in his mouth and nose. It's becoming more and more difficult to breathe. That might be why his lungs are burning, or it might be because of the weight of the earth pressing down on him.
He revives with a gasp that uses up too much precious air. It takes only a moment to orient himself, and then he's once again clawing his painful way upwards. Well, he hopes it's upwards, because his disoriented, light-headed sense of direction is the only indication he has.
It takes dying a few more times, but eventually one of his hands encounters the glorious chill of open air. Just a little more scrabbling, and then he's pulling himself up out of his grave.
It is only thanks to millennia of practice that he is able to dodge the kick aimed at him the moment he stands up. The wooden stake embeds itself in his shoulder instead of his heart.
"Wait, what are you doing?" he asks as he backs rapidly away from the pretty blonde trying her damnedest to kill him.
"Slaying, it's what I do," she quips. She's still coming after him, and shows no sign of stopping.
"I don't need slaying," he says. "Really, I don't."
"Well, you would say that, wouldn't you?"
Wooden stakes. Inhuman reflexes. Adolescent girl. He's climbed out of a grave in front of the Slayer, hasn't he?
"Stop trying to kill me! I'm not a vampire!" He doesn't know how long he can keep this up; he's good, but this is the Slayer. Even with his usual tricks...
She gives him a scornful, disbelieving look. "Really? You get up out of your grave and you expect me to believe you're not a vampire?"
"But it's true! Do I look like a vampire?"
"Dark, no tan, and covered in grave? Gee, I wonder."
Alright, he can tell she isn't going to believe him, and unlike most humans the Slayer just might think to decapitate him. It's time for desperate measures.
It's lucky that burials must be fairly common and insignificant around here, because he's still in the same outfit he was before the mugging, complete with hidden weapons. He slips a hand inside his coat as he pretends to stumble, and draws a dagger when she takes advantage to come close again.
Pain burns sharply in his wrist at the same moment he hears the snap of his breaking bones. It only takes a moment of loosened fingers for the dagger to slip from his grasp and fall down onto the ground. He catches a glimpse of blood flowing out from under her skin; it seems that he succeeded in wounding her, but far from enough to serve him any good.
The stake enters his heart. He crumples, like a marionette whose strings have been cut, and for a moment he feels the agony of dying. And then it's all over, for now.
Title: Homer
Fandom: The Addams Family
Word count: 403
Disclaimer: I don't own The Addams Family
Warnings: Mention of a gun in a school
Prompt: my pet would have your pet for breakfast
Wednesday adores all of her spiders, but her favourite is Homer, and has been ever since he hatched. She feeds him with her own blood, so that he grows large and dangerous and loyal. His favourite place is underneath her bed, and he continues to skitter into the shadows there even after her teachers at school would claim him too large to do so.
Her teachers at school don't know anything, really. That's why she plans to quit as soon as she's allowed.
About halfway through Wednesday's fourth year at school, Miss Morgan brings a gun to school and almost kills a couple of students. She's taken away after that, which Wednesday thinks is a pity. Miss Morgan didn't know any more than the other teachers, not really, but the recent hallucinations made things more interesting.
She doesn't understand why no one else seems to have realised that Miss Morgan was hallucinating, but that's not-family for you. Maybe they'll figure it out eventually.
Miss Morgan's replacement is called Mrs Swan. She has bright blue eyes and bright red hair, and she wears bright colours too. The first thing she instructs them to do is to take turns saying their names and something about themselves.
"I'm Joseph Hill," says the boy whose turn is right before hers. "I have a Rottweiler named Beast, and he's really badass."
The classroom erupts with appreciative titters. Wednesday doesn't react at all, because a Rottweiler isn't really that impressive.
"Settle down, class," says Mrs Swan, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Watch your language in the future, Joseph."
"Whatever, teach."
Mrs Swan frowns for a moment, but all she says is, "Next," and gestures at Wednesday.
"Wednesday Addams," she says. "My pet would have your pet for breakfast."
Joseph glares. "What's your pet, then, freak?"
"Young man!" says Mrs Swan, but no one's paying attention to her anymore.
"He's a spider."
"A spider can't eat a Rottweiler!"
"Homer can."
"Homer, like Homer Simpson?"
"Homer, like the author of The Iliad. Obviously."
"How's that obvious? You're lying anyway. Your stupid spider couldn't eat Beast."
"Children!" screeches Mrs Swan, and the class and the argument quiet down as she finally manages to get their attention. "Enough! That's quiet enough! Now, if the next child would..."
Wednesday tunes her out. She's already considering just how much fun it might be to introduce Joseph and Beast to her darling Homer.
Title: The Swan-Children
Fandom: Greek mythology
Word count: 607
Warnings: You might not want to think too hard about their parents
Prompt: Clytemnestra, what she was before she was queen
Clytemnestra's earliest memory is of a closed-in, secure world, with her brother slumbering at her side. She knows of no other life, no other world, but even so she cannot abide it. She throws herself at the borders of the world, again and again in wild frustration.
Her brother wakes when she accidentally kicks him in the side. He's confused and disoriented at first, but after awhile he follows the example of the only companion he has ever had. She's still throwing herself at the borders of the world, and she hardly notices the bruises that have started blossoming all over her body.
Within Queen Leda's quarters, a large egg cracks open, and two small children - a girl and then a boy - crawl out. The girl cries, because she's hurting, and because the new world is far larger and more frightening than anything she has ever known. The boy is silent and wide-eyed.
She settles down after a few minutes, dries her eyes and looks around. One of the first things she sees is something large, smooth and round. She looks at the broken remnants of the old world, and sees how they are like unto the other thing. She makes a connection.
She takes her brother by the arm and tugs him over to the unbroken egg. They pick up something heavy and hard, with a sharp edge, and break open the great sphere. Afterwards another two children blink up at them, dazed.
~
They are raised as good children of Sparta, and that is all very well, but what they really care about, more than anything else, is each other. They are the closest of siblings, Clytemnestra and Castor and Polydeuces and Helen.
The other children consider them creepy. Adults do too, although they're better at hiding it.
"Have you heard about how we were born?" says Helen, as they huddle together in a corner of the courtyard. "There was a swan, see, only she was really a nymph who had been cursed by Hera for catching Zeus' eye. It was too dangerous for her to keep her children, so she gave the eggs - that's us, of course - to the queen for fostering."
Polydeuces is shaking his head. "No, that's not right. Zeus was the swan, and Mother is our mother. You're always making things up, Helen."
"I do not!" cries Helen, and tackles Polydeuces into the mud.
Castor laughs and pelts them both with twigs and leaves. The original quarrel is forgotten in an instant, as Helen and Polydeuces each seize one of Castor's arms and work together to drag him down. Clytemnestra joins in a moment later, taking Castor's side.
~
It's a year after the mud-fight in the courtyard that Clytemnestra finds out why King Tyndareus always seems to favour her and Castor over their other siblings.
"It doesn't make any sense," she complains, as she and Helen share a fig. "I mean, I thought Tyndareus was smarter than this. We all hatched out of eggs, I know we did, because I remember. Why would that happen if Castor and me are his, but you and Polydeuces aren't."
Helen shrugs. "It doesn't matter. I'm going to run away one day, anyway."
Clytemnestra shakes her head. "No you won't."
"I will too, just you wait and see!"
~
What the four swan-children really care about, more than anything else, is each other. In Clytemnestra's case, the only thing she really cares about is her siblings. They fill up her heart, and there is no room left over for anything else.
She will marry because it is expected of her, but she will not love her husband.