comment_fic 666-670: HP, Thor/SN, HL, SN
Title: strike the match
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: AU for book 4
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 370
Point of view: third
Prompt: any, any, firestorm
Being an elemental is even rarer than being a parselmouth. Isn't Harry so lucky to be both?
Distantly, far away from the shouting and the fear and the roaring, he wonders if his mother or father had been the elemental - it's a family trait. He remembers that.
He's so lucky. Fate must just love him.
The dragon is staring at him. The spectators, those fickle sheep, are still panicking.
Elementals are Dark creatures, and Harry's so tired of this life. Give him back to the cupboard and the Dursleys' constant hate. It's better than being adored and then despised. He always knew where he stood with the Dursleys. He always knew what to do.
The dragon blinks, slowly lowering her head.
The handlers are on the other side of the fire, trying to put it out. It rages even higher.
Harry knows how that feels.
What do you want? the dragon asks. Her tail twitches; the eggs all vanish.
Harry shrugs with a bitter smile. Does it matter? he replies. I'm bound for Azkaban either way, right?
He can talk to reptiles and make a wildfire without a wand. It doesn't matter that he defeated Voldemort (somehow) - he'll never be seen as anything other than Voldemort's successor, now.
Firechild, the dragon says, hunching over so that her face is directly in Harry's. Kinspeaker. We have not seen your kind in a long time. What do you need?
Harry reaches out to touch her jaw, throwing the fire up over them without looking, stopping the handlers on brooms. His element is so much easier than his magic to control. Is there somewhere better? Somewhere away from here, somewhere I can just… rest for awhile?
It seems like the dragon smiles. Harry can hear it in her voice. You need a mother, small one. Come with me.
.
The fire is snuffed out in a rush of air that muggleborns and half-bloods call a 'sonic boom.' Once they've recovered from the shock, everyone realizes Harry and the dragon are gone. So are the eggs, and the other dragons, and, in fact, every dragon in the UK.
It's a long time before anyone from the magical community sees Harry Potter again.
Title: an angel and a god, sharing a peanut butter cup
Fandom: Thor/Supernatural
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: AUish for SN; spoilers for Thor
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 240
Point of view: third
Prompt: Thor (2011)/Supernatural, Loki + Gabriel, "So you are the one who has been using my name."
"So, you're the one who's been usin' my name?" he asks, biting a Reese in half.
The pretty-boy godling blinks at him, not lowering his weapon. "How did you get in here?" he demands, and something pokes at Gabriel's mind. Coyote, Anansi, Loki - whoever he is today.
Maybe he's just a simple janitor. Hmm.
He shrugs. It doesn't really matter.
"Answer me!" the godling hisses. He sure does have a temper problem. The janitor looks closer. Not just a temper problem: an insanity problem, too. And a paternal/fraternal problem.
Awesome. The janitor knows just what to do with those.
"Come with me, kiddo," he says, holding out another - untouched - Reese.
The godling stares at him. "Are you mad?" he asks, that pretty accent adding something shivery to the words.
"Yup," the janitor says, shaking the Reese. "I know no one ever taught you not to take candy from strangers, so c'mon. Places to go, brothers to bother."
The weapon vanishes from the godling's hand and he hesitantly takes the Reese. Without letting his eyes drop, he nibbles at one side. Then he devours the rest in one bite, moaning, "Oh, my."
The janitor grins. "C'mon, kiddo," he says, holding out a hand. "I got a whole factory of those."
"If this is a trick," the godling starts.
"Yeah, yeah, hellfire and fury raining down, I know," the janitor interrupts. "Don't worry."
The godling takes his hand.
Title: wolves make the best shepherds
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: primordial!Methos; AUish
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 360
Point of view: third
Prompt: Highlander, Methos, sometimes bad guys make the best good guys
MacLeod cannot see past Death; Methos understands and forgives the fault. Many people, he knows, would be the same.
But Joe, dear Joe, stares at him from across the bar, and says, "It was a different time."
Methos nods, adding, "A different world."
That is a lie. The world has not changed. The time, yes, because of the people themselves, the bleating sheep.
The world never changes. He was Death before he used the name; he is Death now, smiling at Joe, in this day of bombs that could destroy half the world in one go.
Many people would call him the greatest villain of all, Death and his gleaming sword, Death and his glinting scythe, Death the Pale Rider. Death the mastermind, Death the great planner, Death.
Yes, he doesn't tell Joe, yes, I formed the Horsemen. Yes, I commanded Kronos so gently he never knew. Yes, I killed them when they were a liability, for all that MacLeod swung the deathblows. Yes, it was me, all of it.
And he doesn't tell Joe, I've done it before. I'll do it again.
MacLeod is so young. Joe is younger still. Methos is older than comprehension of age, and he will grow older still.
Methos is not the villain of this story. Yes, he once put down entire villages, overran nations, rode a pale horse and ruled the world.
But Death does not care, is the thing. It's what MacLeod can't understand, and though Joe tries, it's beyond him, as well.
Villains are villains because they have a plan, and they know it's wrong, and it'll hurt however many innocents get in the way, and they keep going anyway. But Death doesn't see 'right' or 'wrong.' Death kills indiscriminately.
And whenever he needs to, Methos will swing back onto that horse.
So he assures Joe, "I was different then. Morals as you know them didn't exist yet. Crimes now weren't crimes then, and of course, I'll never do such a thing again."
Joe smiles, relieved and at ease.
MacLeod will take a little more time, and probably won't be alive when Methos reveals it all to be a lie.
Title: if not victory
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Milton
Warnings: spoilers for up to season 5; language
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 155
Point of view: third
Prompt: Supernatural, Michael, since it's him who is working 24/7 you better don't dare to tell him not use his father's name in vain. Cursing God is the only joy left in Michael's pitiful life
He knows, because of the tiny spark of his father left in him, that every time he uses that name in vain, it hurts. Every time he growls 'goddamned,' every time he hisses, 'jesus christ, you motherfucker,' every time he snarls, 'god, fuckin' waste of space' at one of his brothers, at one of his sisters - it hurts their maker. God aches. God flinches.
Once, Michael had been strong, and great, and beautiful. Once, he had been the Thunderer's Fist. Once, he had been loved and feared, adored and respected.
Then Sammael threw himself from Heaven and became Lucifer, and everything changed. Everything went wrong.
And now, Michael is one of the few angels left, and this stubborn Winchester boy refuses to listen, and all Michael has is hurting his father, the damned bastard who let everything get like this.
Every time God flinches, Michael feels a little better, and that's better than nothing at all.
Title: My bones hold a stillness
Fandom: Highlander
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Sylvia Plath
Warnings: Methos rambling
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 200
Point of view: third
Prompt: Highlander, Methos, I have prayed to so many gods, it simply god boring after a while. So I became one myself
Methos remembers when the wind was a god, the rain, the sky and the dirt. Spirits were prayed to, and cloth, and women who bore children, and the men who fathered them.
Methos died and opened his eyes, and he knew then that he was a god.
He never worshipped anything else again, and he slew the ones who were like him, gaining their power. Gods need sacrifices of blood and lightning, and he was the only god walking.
Even now, sitting in Joe's bar and laughing with MacLeod - he knows there are no gods. Nothing but him, and the children following in his wake, always floundering, always thinking themselves new and better and the best.
Methos remembers when gods were everywhere, and he remembers waking after death. He remembers Death and Pestilence and Famine and War, gods on horseback, and the world they conquered.
Methos is the oldest. Not the first, he's pretty sure, but the greatest, since he's still here and no one else is.
And after the next great war, after the nuclear holocaust when the little people are screaming for a strong hand to lead them to safety…
Methos will become a god again.