comment-fic
Here's some more of what I've written for comment_fic:
Title: sees feels is
Fandom: NBC Hannibal
Word count: 242
Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal.
Warnings: Bloody, murderous implications
Pairing: Hannibal/Will
Prompt: Hannibal, Hannibal/Will, sharing a bed with a monster.
Will looks into Hannibal's eyes and he knows. More than that, he becomes.
There is a reason that he avoids eye contact as best he can, always, since he was very young, since before he even knew how unusual his particular way of seeing things really is.
Will sees feels is. The monster slithers into his skin and in that moment he can't tell them apart. It seems only right to reach out to the other, draw him close, kiss and bite his mouth bloody.
Later, he still can't tell them apart, as they tangle together physically as well as mentally. He is a monster sharing a bed with a monster, marking him and being marked by him.
Later still, he feels the chill of a scalpel ghosting over his throat, and he knows just how the final cut shall be made if he doesn't play his hand just right.
"I see you," he whispers. "I'm curious." And he licks blood from his lips, slow and obscene. "Your mind is fascinating."
He still can't tell them apart. He doesn't even really know which of them is speaking.
Perhaps the other knows, because he chuckles low and moves the scalpel away, just a little. "Let me show you."
This is the way to live, bound together by blood and murder, another layer of curiosity and entertainment. The ravenstag is circling, moving closer, and it is him and he knows what he will do.
Title: Heart Grown Cold
Fandom: Disney's Beauty and the Beast
Word count: 346
Disclaimer: I own nothing that Disney owns.
Warnings: Dark AU
Prompt: Beauty and the Beast (any), author’s choice, Beauty doesn’t fall in love with him
Trapped in the castle, isolated from everything she has ever loved and the only family she has ever known, Belle's heart grows cold like the stone walls. Bit by bit, the warmth and feeling is leaving her eyes, and the furnishings take notice.
"Perhaps we should tell the poor dear," frets Mrs Potts. Eventually, the others agree.
They gather around Belle, whose hair is loose and tangled, and who spares them no smile as she would have not that long ago. Taking turns, sometimes talking over one another, they tell her the whole sad story; the spoiled prince, so very young, and the curse he recieved for his cruelty.
Belle listens, and for the first time in awhile, she smiles.
The next time the Beast comes to her, she takes his large, clawed paw between her small, pale hands. "Poor Beast," she whispers. "Do you really think I, or anyone, will ever love you?"
He pulls back abruptly, sudden pain ill-hidden. He growls long and deep, but Belle no longer has the heart to be sorry or intimidated. She meets his gaze evenly, coldly, and his face begins to twist with anger.
She laughs, and there is nothing of joy in it. "Will you tear me apart, Beast? Will you kindly leave my bones to the carrion birds, or will you feast on them yourself?"
"No!" he roars. "I would never!"
"Why not? You've already glutted yourself on my innocence and my soul."
He grows still, then; his eyes wide with horror, with guilt.
"You were always a Beast," says Belle. "The curse changed nothing except who can see it."
She turns away. She walks down the hall and down the stairs. She walks all the way out of the castle, and the Beast does not stop her. He does not even move at all.
Everything looks different and she no longer remembers the way home. She keeps on walking anyway because, she realises, she no longer feels quite like herself either.
If she walks far enough, she might find out what she has become instead.
Title: Pale Rider on a Pale Horse
Fandom: Highlander + Norse mythology
Word count: 388
Disclaimer: I don't own Highlander, but I'm pretty sure mythology is public domain ;)
Warnings: Death on a horse counts as a warning, right?
Prompt: Highlander/Norse myth, Methos + Sleipnir, Death on a Horse
Loki's greatest trick is that Odin Allfather only thinks he rides Sleipnir, the best horse in all nine realms. Dear Sleipnir is, of course, the very best of horses, but Odin's steed is a more average horse under layers of subtle enchantment and illusion.
Once, Loki did not know that he could weave magic to fool the Allfather, but then his younger children were banished and bound, and Loki was bitter and furious and...
And he did it. He wove his illusions around a fine horse that he fed with the golden apples that grant forever youth, and he lead Sleipnir away through the secret paths in between the known worlds.
They stepped off into a Midgard desert where the night air was chill, and there was Methos. "Old man," Loki greeted. "It has been some time."
Methos' gaze lingered for a moment on Sleipnir, and he smiled. "Little trickster. So this is your eldest."
"Yes. Take him in?"
Methos raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm honoured." He raised a palm to Sleipnir, who nudged it and snuffled.
So Loki returned to Asgard, his son well-hidden, and continued to feed the golden apples to the impostor. If the horse grew more clever as the centuries passed, well, it made the trick all the more convincing.
~
"That is a fine horse, brother," says Kronos, and there is covetousness in his voice.
Methos frowns. "Yes, and he is mine."
Kronos' lip curls, but he bows his head ever so slightly; acceptance, at least for now. Methos allows himself to relax.
He would fight Kronos for Sleipnir, if he pressed. Sleipnir would fight, too, and he is his dam's son. Kronos would not win, and his wounded pride would make him even more vicious than usual...
That might be entertaining, actually. But not, ultimately, worth it.
Silas calls, his voice a deep rumble as it always is, and Sleipnir's ears twitch. He trots toward Silas, eager for the treat that he knows the incongruously kindly killer brings.
Methos smiles.
Tomorrow they will raid and kill, Methos with his sword and Sleipnir with his trampling hooves; four more of them than any but Methos will see. Ragnarök is, for the most part, a self-fulfilling prophecy, but there is nonetheless a spark of it in Sleipnir's blood.
What more fitting companion for pale Death?
Title: Beautiful Monsters
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale
Word count: 720
Disclaimer: I don't own Welcome to Night Vale.
Warnings: Animal cruelty, murder of a child by a child, forced kiss, suicide of an OC, non-human Cecil, somewhat dark Carlos.
Pairing: Cecil/Carlos
Prompt: Welcome to Night Vale, Carlos/Cecil, a beautiful monster
When Carlos was nine years old, the kid next door was found dead in his bedroom. The coroner ruled it poison. They never did find out who did it.
Carlos watched from the stairs as the police questioned his mother about anything odd that she might have noticed. He was a little angel of a child, with straight white teeth and beautiful brown eyes that would put a fawn to shame.
They asked him some questions after they had finished with his mother, and he was given a sweet for his co-operation. He was solemn and polite and he didn't tell them that he knew Joey had taken his pet rat and dashed her brains against the wall.
When Carlos was fifteen years old, his English teacher kept him back after class. Mr Harden placed his left hand on the back of Carlos' neck and kissed him, savage and bruising.
Carlos waited until Mr Harden drew back for a moment of air, and then he started to talk. Mr Harden grew still as he listened, and that night he hung himself from the big oak tree out the back of the school.
When Carlos was twenty-five years old, he travelled to Night Vale. He didn't miss anyone he left behind; he had preferred science to people for as long as he remembered, and anyway, they were all terribly dull.
The people of Night Vale were much more interesting; so nonchalant about things that would have most other people screaming and sobbing. Carlos appreciated that.
The first time he heard the radio in Night Vale, the presenter bored him. It was some guy called Cecil who said that Carlos was perfect with perfect hair and who claimed to be in love. Carlos was a little bit amused, and considered how he could use it, but mostly he was bored, at least until Cecil moved on to other topics.
The first time Carlos saw Cecil, he thought that the radio host looked perfectly average. Cecil was neither tall nor short, neither thin nor fat, and nothing about him stood out, except perhaps for his sonorous voice.
It was unnatural, how ordinary Cecil looked. Carlos was instantly fascinated.
He listened to Cecil's program often after that, and found that Cecil was far more interesting than he had initially thought. He got a haircut, and Cecil had the barber driven out of town with a single tirade, and Carlos laughed.
Alright, Cecil, he thought. You're not quite like all the others before, are you?
As though that thought had opened up new perspectives, Carlos afterwards started to notice certain things about Cecil. They were little things, like the way his eyes sometimes changed, and his shadow sometimes shifted or mutated independent of the man himself.
He studied Night Vale, and he studied Cecil more secretly but just as avidly. He never felt homesick or missed anything that had come before; sometimes he had idle thoughts that he might have been born for Night Vale. He thought he would like that.
He lay bleeding out underneath the pin retrieval area of lane five at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley, and all he could think about was Cecil. How strange. "Cecil," he whispered. "Cecil..."
Carlos gasped for breath, bleeding, and realised that he had come to care for someone, after all this time. He choked on a laugh and whispered, "Cecil."
Everything was fading. He could see violet eyes, dozens of them, inhuman with white crescent pupils, brimming with distress, right there at the very edges of his vision. He smiled.
The first thing he did after waking up, alive against all expectations, was call Cecil. He felt nervous and jittery in a way he never had before, as he said, "I'm calling for personal reasons."
On their sixth date, Carlos clasped one of Cecil's hands between his own. "Show me?" he murmured.
Cecil looked confused. "Show you what, perfect Carlos?"
"I saw you. Really you, I mean... at the bowling alley, when I, um, your eyes..."
Had he ever before been this ineloquent?
Cecil was still. His eyes, his two average human eyes, were wide, and was that a hint of something like fear?
"It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," said Carlos.
Cecil's smile at that might have been a close second.
Title: sees feels is
Fandom: NBC Hannibal
Word count: 242
Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal.
Warnings: Bloody, murderous implications
Pairing: Hannibal/Will
Prompt: Hannibal, Hannibal/Will, sharing a bed with a monster.
Will looks into Hannibal's eyes and he knows. More than that, he becomes.
There is a reason that he avoids eye contact as best he can, always, since he was very young, since before he even knew how unusual his particular way of seeing things really is.
Will sees feels is. The monster slithers into his skin and in that moment he can't tell them apart. It seems only right to reach out to the other, draw him close, kiss and bite his mouth bloody.
Later, he still can't tell them apart, as they tangle together physically as well as mentally. He is a monster sharing a bed with a monster, marking him and being marked by him.
Later still, he feels the chill of a scalpel ghosting over his throat, and he knows just how the final cut shall be made if he doesn't play his hand just right.
"I see you," he whispers. "I'm curious." And he licks blood from his lips, slow and obscene. "Your mind is fascinating."
He still can't tell them apart. He doesn't even really know which of them is speaking.
Perhaps the other knows, because he chuckles low and moves the scalpel away, just a little. "Let me show you."
This is the way to live, bound together by blood and murder, another layer of curiosity and entertainment. The ravenstag is circling, moving closer, and it is him and he knows what he will do.
Title: Heart Grown Cold
Fandom: Disney's Beauty and the Beast
Word count: 346
Disclaimer: I own nothing that Disney owns.
Warnings: Dark AU
Prompt: Beauty and the Beast (any), author’s choice, Beauty doesn’t fall in love with him
Trapped in the castle, isolated from everything she has ever loved and the only family she has ever known, Belle's heart grows cold like the stone walls. Bit by bit, the warmth and feeling is leaving her eyes, and the furnishings take notice.
"Perhaps we should tell the poor dear," frets Mrs Potts. Eventually, the others agree.
They gather around Belle, whose hair is loose and tangled, and who spares them no smile as she would have not that long ago. Taking turns, sometimes talking over one another, they tell her the whole sad story; the spoiled prince, so very young, and the curse he recieved for his cruelty.
Belle listens, and for the first time in awhile, she smiles.
The next time the Beast comes to her, she takes his large, clawed paw between her small, pale hands. "Poor Beast," she whispers. "Do you really think I, or anyone, will ever love you?"
He pulls back abruptly, sudden pain ill-hidden. He growls long and deep, but Belle no longer has the heart to be sorry or intimidated. She meets his gaze evenly, coldly, and his face begins to twist with anger.
She laughs, and there is nothing of joy in it. "Will you tear me apart, Beast? Will you kindly leave my bones to the carrion birds, or will you feast on them yourself?"
"No!" he roars. "I would never!"
"Why not? You've already glutted yourself on my innocence and my soul."
He grows still, then; his eyes wide with horror, with guilt.
"You were always a Beast," says Belle. "The curse changed nothing except who can see it."
She turns away. She walks down the hall and down the stairs. She walks all the way out of the castle, and the Beast does not stop her. He does not even move at all.
Everything looks different and she no longer remembers the way home. She keeps on walking anyway because, she realises, she no longer feels quite like herself either.
If she walks far enough, she might find out what she has become instead.
Title: Pale Rider on a Pale Horse
Fandom: Highlander + Norse mythology
Word count: 388
Disclaimer: I don't own Highlander, but I'm pretty sure mythology is public domain ;)
Warnings: Death on a horse counts as a warning, right?
Prompt: Highlander/Norse myth, Methos + Sleipnir, Death on a Horse
Loki's greatest trick is that Odin Allfather only thinks he rides Sleipnir, the best horse in all nine realms. Dear Sleipnir is, of course, the very best of horses, but Odin's steed is a more average horse under layers of subtle enchantment and illusion.
Once, Loki did not know that he could weave magic to fool the Allfather, but then his younger children were banished and bound, and Loki was bitter and furious and...
And he did it. He wove his illusions around a fine horse that he fed with the golden apples that grant forever youth, and he lead Sleipnir away through the secret paths in between the known worlds.
They stepped off into a Midgard desert where the night air was chill, and there was Methos. "Old man," Loki greeted. "It has been some time."
Methos' gaze lingered for a moment on Sleipnir, and he smiled. "Little trickster. So this is your eldest."
"Yes. Take him in?"
Methos raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm honoured." He raised a palm to Sleipnir, who nudged it and snuffled.
So Loki returned to Asgard, his son well-hidden, and continued to feed the golden apples to the impostor. If the horse grew more clever as the centuries passed, well, it made the trick all the more convincing.
~
"That is a fine horse, brother," says Kronos, and there is covetousness in his voice.
Methos frowns. "Yes, and he is mine."
Kronos' lip curls, but he bows his head ever so slightly; acceptance, at least for now. Methos allows himself to relax.
He would fight Kronos for Sleipnir, if he pressed. Sleipnir would fight, too, and he is his dam's son. Kronos would not win, and his wounded pride would make him even more vicious than usual...
That might be entertaining, actually. But not, ultimately, worth it.
Silas calls, his voice a deep rumble as it always is, and Sleipnir's ears twitch. He trots toward Silas, eager for the treat that he knows the incongruously kindly killer brings.
Methos smiles.
Tomorrow they will raid and kill, Methos with his sword and Sleipnir with his trampling hooves; four more of them than any but Methos will see. Ragnarök is, for the most part, a self-fulfilling prophecy, but there is nonetheless a spark of it in Sleipnir's blood.
What more fitting companion for pale Death?
Title: Beautiful Monsters
Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale
Word count: 720
Disclaimer: I don't own Welcome to Night Vale.
Warnings: Animal cruelty, murder of a child by a child, forced kiss, suicide of an OC, non-human Cecil, somewhat dark Carlos.
Pairing: Cecil/Carlos
Prompt: Welcome to Night Vale, Carlos/Cecil, a beautiful monster
When Carlos was nine years old, the kid next door was found dead in his bedroom. The coroner ruled it poison. They never did find out who did it.
Carlos watched from the stairs as the police questioned his mother about anything odd that she might have noticed. He was a little angel of a child, with straight white teeth and beautiful brown eyes that would put a fawn to shame.
They asked him some questions after they had finished with his mother, and he was given a sweet for his co-operation. He was solemn and polite and he didn't tell them that he knew Joey had taken his pet rat and dashed her brains against the wall.
When Carlos was fifteen years old, his English teacher kept him back after class. Mr Harden placed his left hand on the back of Carlos' neck and kissed him, savage and bruising.
Carlos waited until Mr Harden drew back for a moment of air, and then he started to talk. Mr Harden grew still as he listened, and that night he hung himself from the big oak tree out the back of the school.
When Carlos was twenty-five years old, he travelled to Night Vale. He didn't miss anyone he left behind; he had preferred science to people for as long as he remembered, and anyway, they were all terribly dull.
The people of Night Vale were much more interesting; so nonchalant about things that would have most other people screaming and sobbing. Carlos appreciated that.
The first time he heard the radio in Night Vale, the presenter bored him. It was some guy called Cecil who said that Carlos was perfect with perfect hair and who claimed to be in love. Carlos was a little bit amused, and considered how he could use it, but mostly he was bored, at least until Cecil moved on to other topics.
The first time Carlos saw Cecil, he thought that the radio host looked perfectly average. Cecil was neither tall nor short, neither thin nor fat, and nothing about him stood out, except perhaps for his sonorous voice.
It was unnatural, how ordinary Cecil looked. Carlos was instantly fascinated.
He listened to Cecil's program often after that, and found that Cecil was far more interesting than he had initially thought. He got a haircut, and Cecil had the barber driven out of town with a single tirade, and Carlos laughed.
Alright, Cecil, he thought. You're not quite like all the others before, are you?
As though that thought had opened up new perspectives, Carlos afterwards started to notice certain things about Cecil. They were little things, like the way his eyes sometimes changed, and his shadow sometimes shifted or mutated independent of the man himself.
He studied Night Vale, and he studied Cecil more secretly but just as avidly. He never felt homesick or missed anything that had come before; sometimes he had idle thoughts that he might have been born for Night Vale. He thought he would like that.
He lay bleeding out underneath the pin retrieval area of lane five at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley, and all he could think about was Cecil. How strange. "Cecil," he whispered. "Cecil..."
Carlos gasped for breath, bleeding, and realised that he had come to care for someone, after all this time. He choked on a laugh and whispered, "Cecil."
Everything was fading. He could see violet eyes, dozens of them, inhuman with white crescent pupils, brimming with distress, right there at the very edges of his vision. He smiled.
The first thing he did after waking up, alive against all expectations, was call Cecil. He felt nervous and jittery in a way he never had before, as he said, "I'm calling for personal reasons."
On their sixth date, Carlos clasped one of Cecil's hands between his own. "Show me?" he murmured.
Cecil looked confused. "Show you what, perfect Carlos?"
"I saw you. Really you, I mean... at the bowling alley, when I, um, your eyes..."
Had he ever before been this ineloquent?
Cecil was still. His eyes, his two average human eyes, were wide, and was that a hint of something like fear?
"It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," said Carlos.
Cecil's smile at that might have been a close second.