I've started writing up some drabbles too, after Ness sent me a few prompts from Circe's master list.
I'm not going to post the master list right now because that sounds like a nightmare, but feel free to grab any from there and throw them at me!
Warnings for death and violence so far.
181: I offer no excuses... (Ares/Melpomene)
The skin on Melpomene’s face had blistered and seared. She had no mirror, but she could feel the disfigurement scorched up her cheek, down her neck. The edge of the fireball had sealed her eye shut, but it had taken the whole apartment building with it.
She felt his presence approaching, boots crunching over the debris, and she turned to look at him, with her one eye.
Ares looked at the space where the building had been. “Aphrodite,” he said, his voice pushed so far beyond fury it burned worse than dry ice.
Melpomene smiled at him with what was left of her mouth. “Oops.”
212: Portals of discovery. (Hecate/Merlin)
The portal opened up at midday in the middle of Central Park, in the dead centre of the Great Lawn Oval, stretched between softball ovals three and four. It swallowed half a junior softball team, three and a half couples, and one Cocker Spaniel who ran in after. According to the shellshocked eyewitnesses, they could still hear the dog barking when the military arrived to encircle and contain it.
Hecate arrived at dusk, slipping past the military cordon and trotted her way to the middle. Merlin, sitting on a rock staring into the abyss like the archetypal philosopher, turned as she approached, watching without surprise as the large dog turned into a long legged woman.
Hecate joined him on his rock, watching the space in front of her. It rippled like water, but she cast no reflection. She could not see the rest of the park beyond it, either. It was like nothing she’d ever seen before. “Any thoughts?”
“Oh, thousands, my beautiful. A fold in reality? An open wound in the space time continuum? A pimple on the cheek of reality?”
As if from a very, very long way off, they could hear a dog, baying. Slowly, Hecate rose. “I wonder where it goes.”
“Hm,” said Merlin, stroking his beard. He was wise enough not to guess. “I notice we can hear the dog, but not a single human voice.”
“Yes,” Hecate agreed. She stood only inches from the surface off the thing. It made her eyes unfocus so badly she needed to close them. Beneath her feet, the ground felt no longer reliable. “I noticed that too.”
“I wouldn’t get too close,” Merlin warned.
“I know,” Hecate said with a small smile. “That’s why I’m doing it.”
“Hmph.”
For a few moments Hecate chanted under her breath. Merlin sat up a little straighter as the wind changed direction, as it grew warmer, blowing against his face.
As it changed direction again, and grew colder.
Like an inhale.
Like an exhale.
Hecate turned over her shoulder to look at him, her eyes bright as stars, her eyes wild. “I’m going to find those people,” she said. “I think I know what to do.”
She smiled at him, before she turned back into the large, black dog. Merlin wished for a day where her graceful transformation into the animal was the strangest thing that happened, so he could pay it the attention a metamorphosis like that deserved.
Hecate wagged her tail, and with a leap, bounded through the portal.
Inhale.
Inhale.
Inhale.
Fueled by her magic, the portal boiled, and reached upward through the canopy, and reached side to side, through the trees, and reached forward, for Merlin.
"Oh f–"
Merlin ran faster than he’d ever run in his life.
It swallowed him before he reached the edge of the oval, and it swelled.
It swallowed half of Manhattan before it slowed. Growing in a near perfect circle, it swallowed the gods on the Upper East and West (and swelled at a greater pace after each one) cut across the Hudson, it cut across the East River. Its edges hit Guttenberg and Astoria, it ate up Times Square, and slowed to a crawl at the edge of Harlem as the sun rose.
That day, it was still, as if something was sleeping, and the wind all over the city blew outward in every direction at once, shifted, before sucking inward. Over and over, and over.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
344: Hold still, I'm trying to kill you. (Prince John/Much)
“Calm the fuck down!” Marcie yelled at them both.
Much ignored her. He grabbed a knife from the small pile of dishes next to her tiny sink and hurled it with all his might at John.
John ignored her. He ducked the knife, picked up Marcella’s solitary chair, and hurled it toward Much. It ricocheted off his arm and smashed into the dishes.
Much picked up a broken wine glass and ran at John, shouting a wordless battle cry.
That was Marcella’s only fucking wine glass. “I’m warning you both!”
John ignored her and bolted, though there was limited space in her limited apartment to bolt. He ducked behind the freestanding rail of designer clothes.
Much ignored her, and threw himself (broken stem of wineglass first) through the clothes rack at John.
All three, John, rack, Much, topped to the ground.
Oh that was it.
Through the clothes, Much stabbed the stem of the glass into John’s shoulder. Through the clothes, John smashed his forehead into Much’s.
Much reeled back and straight into Marcie’s taser. Pain seared through his body, and Marcie used her heel to kick him sideways onto the floor.
John sat up, shedding a bloodstained Saint Laurent coat. “Good gi-”
Marcie tasered him too.
She’d fucking warned them.
312. Foreign serenade (Alan/Much/Scarlet)
"Scarlet?"
"I'm here Miller. Shit. Do me a favour and shut up, alright?"
"...That bad, is it?"
"Nah. Nah. Seen worse. Just don't want to hear your bellyaching."
"Hngh. Funny." Much shut his mouth after that, though. Gritted his teeth together so hard he flinched, convinced another bomb must have gone off nearby, but it was just the explosion of white behind his eyelids, and the pain in his middle. His hand dropped to his stomach; there was something sticking into him. Or out of him.
Oh yeah, this was bad.
"Anyone… anyone else make it?" His voice shook with the strain of being alive.
The pause from Will was not comforting. "Think it's just us, mate."
Much said, "hngh" again and closed his eyes. Not that it mattered. The blast had knocked his vision into a world of dark blurs. His head hurt almost as much as his middle.
Will cast his own eyes up at the sky. Starlight and moonlight illuminated his situation with an eerie gentleness. To their left, the trench had been ripped apart. To their right, it ended; digging further in that direction had been tonight's mission. Will knew three things for sure. 1: He could climb out. 2: Much couldn't. 3: There probably wasn't anything on the other side but more death, anyway.
"Will?"
"Still here mate."
“Can’t see you.”
“I know, mate. I’m still here.”
"Uh, lads?" From the other side of the cave-in, a voice.
"Fucking Alan!" Will hissed, scrambling to his feet. "Thought we'd lost you. Report?"
"SNAFU," Alan said, dryly, his voice rising out of his whole and into theirs. "Bit... bit more buried in the leg department than normal, actually."
“How buried?”
There was another pause of discomforting length. “Very,” Alan said. “I'm not… Doesn’t look like I’m getting out of this one, lads,"
"Shit," said Will.
"Copycat," gritted Much. "M'getting out first, I think."
“Shut your mouth.”
“Shut my stomach first,” Much said, then started laughing, then passed out from the pain.
“What...” came Alan’s disembodied voice. “What’s wrong with Much’s stomach?”
“I’m coming over,” Will said, rising to his feet. “Gonna dig you out. Then you’re gonna help me carry this bloody bastard home.”
The smell of Much’s blood followed him as he scrambled over the top, moving slow, moving careful. He stayed on his belly, cautious, in case there was anyone out there watching for the shape of a body silhouetted against a clear starry sky.
“Scarlet?” Much called into the darkness, swimming back to consciousness. “Will?”
“Much?”
“Alan? Where’s Will?”
“He’s not with you?”
“No. Will? Will?”
“Will?”
“Where’d he- ? Scarlet?? Where’d you go?”
Much’s strength faded far faster than Alan’s and soon all he could do was whisper. There was no reply, anyway, no matter how long they called.
Night dragged itself across no man's land, making its slow escape. Alan kept digging after his fingers started bleeding, the ragged, gravelly texture of the dirt torturous. Much didn't die. There was a rumble to the east. Thunder or tanks. When Alan’s hands hit the thick wooden beam pinning down his foot, the beam buried by so much dirt and rock, he knew he didn’t have the strength to budge that.
“Much?”
“...Will?”
“It’s Alan. I can’t get out, Much, I'm sorry, I can’t.”
“Hngh.”
Alan lay his head against the cool earth. His hands were on fire, and his legs were numb, and the numbness was creeping. He filled his lungs, and did the only thing he could possibly do: Alan started singing.
Less than eight feet away, Much pressed his hand against the slowly oozing wound in his side, his mouth moving along with Alan’s in a brave attempt to distract himself from the pain. No stray bullet had taken Will, they would have heard it, and Will never would have left them here to die.
But Will had been at war longer than Much. Will's ship, Alan’s ship, landed days before Much’s battalion set foot on this foreign land. This foreign land that was thousands and thousands of miles closer to Sherwood than the land they’d set out from. In his heart of hearts, when he’d left American shores, Much had hoped he’d be going home.
Now he just hoped he wouldn’t die alone.
Alan’s voice sang in the dawn, as the rising sun gobbled the stars.
And Alan’s voice was beside him when he realised that these smeary shapes in front of his eyes were as good as his vision was going to get.
And Alan’s voice was the closest thing to home he had.
And in the middle of a word, Alan’s voice stopped.
“Al… Alan?
“...
“Alan don’t… don’t be gone. Alan. Alan please.
“...
“Alan?” Much scrambled his legs beneath him, but they barely moved. He reached to the side of the trench, but there was no strength in his grasp. “...Will?” he called again, in fading hope. “Will?
“...Alan?
“...Rob... Robin?”
The only reply was the thunder-or-not-thunder in the east, growing slowly, and steadily, closer.
173: Portrait in black (Will/Luna)
It was Marian who located Luna’s phone, and, they all agreed, she deserved a medal for managing it with Will shouting and pacing and leaning over her shoulder and pacing while she was trying to concentrate. But they had the location, and every single one of the Merry Men had piled into the minivan and they were heading West for Colorado.
They poured out of the van in the parking lot of the pub, most of them searching, but Marian going inside to talk to the staff, find out what they knew. Will found her phone, shattered, under a parked car. His face was white, veering on green, and it only got worse when Marian came back out and told them about the murder. “She was here,” he whispered. “She was here and someone died.”
Somewhere relatively close, and yet untrackably far, Michele was painting Luna, in blues, in blacks, in the faintest touch of red.
27: A path to follow (Will/Luna)
They’d been on the run for five weeks, Will and Much. They’d ditched everything after their ambush of the Sheriff had gone so horribly wrong. No phones, no credit cards, just them and their wiles and Ruby’s old car, freely given, because Tuck had asked just right.
No communication with anyone back home, because it was too dangerous.
Keeping low, out of trouble, getting as far away from dodge as fast as possible.
Roadside picnic dinners and good, old fashioned poaching.
At least Much had stocked up on seasonings, before they fled the Parsonage. No cellphones, but their rabbit, whenever they managed to trap or shoot one, was always perfectly seasoned. “Life’s not so bad, eh?” Much said, stretching out under the night sky. He was being deliberately cheerful because he knew how miserable Will was.
He hadn’t got to say goodbye, to Luna. He’d given a letter to Marian, to try and get to her – a hastily scribbled letter as he poured his heart onto paper – but there’d been signs recently that the Sheriff and Hermes had been meeting and... Will didn’t believe Marian would risk trying to get the letter to Luna. He didn’t blame her, he just... ached.
Will pushed himself off the hard ground and wandered through the trees, too restless to sleep, too antsy to lie next to Much and talk bullshit or nostalgia. He wandered, not going too far, but not staying too close, either.
When he heard a rustle in the dry leaves behind him, Will spun, knife out, ready for -
Well, ready for anything but her.
The clouds had parted and there Luna stood, like a miracle. Moonlight drenched her pale skin, made her tattoos seem alive. Will ran to her, stumbling as he got closer. She reached out one hand, and their fingertips brushed gently against each other. She was real.
“How,” he whispered, pushing his fingers through hers, drawing her hand up to his mouth to kiss her fingers.
“I talked to Hecate,” she whispered back, drawing his hand to her mouth, kissing his fingers in return. She looked up at the sky, drawing his attention to the moon, as a low cloud scuttled across its face. “Anytime the moon touches us both, I can find you.”
Will shook his head, laughing. “What does that mean?”
“Magic,” Luna said, with a wide eyed shrug. “I’m here, but I’m also crosslegged in the moonlight on my bedroom floor.”
“But you’re here,” Will said, thinking that there was no magic more powerful than that of her smile. "I can touch you."
“But I’m here,” Luna said, and reached up on her toes to kiss him, quickly, because the wind in New York was wild, tonight, and she could lose the light at any moment. "You can touch me."
514. Anything is better than to be alone (Much/Marcie)
She was waiting for him outside the bar at closing, leaning against the streetlight like she could pretend maybe she wasn’t. Much frowned, but made his way over, and Marcie furrowed her brow at him in return, but as he got closer, she unfolded her arms.
“Hey,” he said, cautious.
“Hey,” she said, flat.
“What are you doing?”
Marcie stepped down onto the road and round the front of her car. “Get in,” she said, pointing at the passenger seat.
“Are you... kidnapping me?” Much asked, eyebrows raised.
“You’re like, hundreds of years older than me, how can it be kidnapping?” Marcie said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Get in the car!”
Much got in the car. There was a backpack at his feet. The back seat was full of boxes. He peered into them, then back at Marcie.
“I’m leaving,” she explained.
“Yeah I got that.”
“Your face said otherwise.”
“It did not.”
“It did. You have a very obvious face when you don’t know what’s going on.”
“My face isn’t obvious.”
“It’s being obvious right now.”
Much tried to smooth anything and everything off his face to prove a point. It didn’t really work. “Fine,” he relented. “I have an obvious face. Where are you going to go?”
Marcie smiled, lifting her chin. “I have a place booked for a week in the Hamptons, courtesy of one blackmailed ex-boss of mine.”
“Ex?” said Much, his face just bursting with pleased surprise. “Blackmail?”
“Don’t worry,” Marcie’s smile cut a little deeper. “He won’t follow us.”
“Us?”
“Yeah,” Marcie said, starting the engine. “I am kidnapping you. Ever been to the Hamptons – no, of course you haven’t.”
“I have,” Much protested, hearing himself protest the inaccuracy rather than the, uh, kidnapping, which he thought was interesting. Marcie was watching him as she waited for a break in traffic. “I woke up there once after a bender,” he admitted. “It was 1993. Shut up.”
Marcie shut up, but she looked rather smug about it. Another very interesting thing Much was noticing was that he hadn’t stepped out of the car when he’d had the chance.
“So,” he said, once she’d merged into the river of vehicles and they were heading East. “Why kidnap me?”
“Fishing for compliments?” Marcie asked with a little smirk.
“No," Much was finding it difficult not to smirk in return. "Just figuring out if I need to tuck and roll.”
“Maybe I need a bartender.”
“Oh, maybe she needs a bartender,” Much said, leaning back in his seat. He tried readjusting it, but there were boxes in the way, so he dug his foot further under the backpack for a bit more room.
“Don’t kick my bag.”
“I’m readjusting.”
“Don’t readjust my bag.”
“This is going to be a fun week,” Much said. “Oh boy. A whole week of being bossed around. Don’t touch my stuff, Much. Make me a Manhattan, Much.”
“You love it," Marcie said. "And a Manhattan? Much. I was thinking more along the lines of a Sex on the Beach.”
Much had stopped fiddling with her bag when she said his name. “Oh,” he said, his thoughts written plainly across his face, and Marcie laughed.