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Short fic: Greek Mythology
Title: Life of Lepidoptera
Summary: Hades/Persephone. Prompt: use rabble of butterflies somewhere in the text.
Words: 550
A/N: Sorry,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
seraphcelene, I broke our rules and didn't write a drabble!
Life of Lepidoptera
She is a vassal to fear. The only life down here akin to the bright, wild life she’s known is the fluttering in her stomach.
But underground the dead, the souls of dear departed, flock around her still-wild life. An alien star is she, a wildflower, to their lives that died. A ragtag team they are, a rabble of butterflies—blighted, albino; moths flap for the light.
She is their vessel of life. A womb in this tomb for youth/innocence they can’t remember. Meanwhile, surface-side, she is a vessel of dark, shadow and unlit corners, white underbellies. She’s a black hole of worldly knowing, not to be approached lest she youth/ignorance suck down, besmirch. Their trembling is genuflection.
Everywhere she goes, she’s the one who knows, she tells him, what the Other holds.
She is queen.
“Madam Butterfly,” he says, because he knows history that hasn’t been written yet and loves to tease her for it.
“I will be,” she seethes, because she knows he wishes she wished to stay and loves to torture him with it. “Just as soon as I emerge from this cocoon of Hell.”
“Shall you?” He smiles.
“Until I’m caught again, smothered in your silk, buried underground!” (He gave her the raiment of royalty to wear; pupae are sometimes hidden by the earth.)
“Are you sure you’re in the pupa?” He looks down at her. “Consider your propensity to over-eat.”
“How dare you.” Her eyes narrow. “Call me a pig.”
“Oh, no. A caterpillar,” he says lightly. “I’m speaking of your propensity towards curiosity, of course. You always did have to know what everything tasted like. You always did have to know everything.” His voice goes sensual. “Even the forbidden.”
Three times six months ago he spoke in that same sinuous voice, tempting her to taste the feast he’d laid out on the table. The arm that offered her the pomegranate had looked to her like a serpent.
“In the world of the alive,” she emphasizes, “I am not your wife.”
“Not Puccini, then.” He shakes his head. “Or if it is, you shall take the part of Pinkerton, and I of poor Butterfly.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She stamps her foot. “You mock me.”
“Only trying to return your favors.” But his voice is serious. “You’re free here, you know.”
“Some consolation, when I’ve been brought so low!”
“Yes, your highness.” He’s being sarcastic again. “Only, has it ever occurred to you the world above could be a chrysalis? Come now, you never once felt smothered?”
“Of course not!” She almost laughs in his face. “My moth—”
“I’m sorry,” he says smoothly, turning to leave, “I meant to say ‘mothered’.”
She had not been starving when she ate those eighteen months ago. There was honey, berries, seeds surface-side aplenty, so much she ached with repletion. Sometimes though she wondered whether that swollen ache in her lower half was starving after all, for something new.
So much that when his voice insinuated in her ear, and he offered her the fruit, she planted his seeds inside her, and wondered what it would be to be filled of serpents, too.
“If only you hadn’t pulled me down,” she laments so often.
“My dear,” sometimes sardonic, sometimes gentle, “are you sure you didn’t fall?”
Summary: Hades/Persephone. Prompt: use rabble of butterflies somewhere in the text.
Words: 550
A/N: Sorry,
seraphcelene, I broke our rules and didn't write a drabble!Life of Lepidoptera
She is a vassal to fear. The only life down here akin to the bright, wild life she’s known is the fluttering in her stomach.
But underground the dead, the souls of dear departed, flock around her still-wild life. An alien star is she, a wildflower, to their lives that died. A ragtag team they are, a rabble of butterflies—blighted, albino; moths flap for the light.
She is their vessel of life. A womb in this tomb for youth/innocence they can’t remember. Meanwhile, surface-side, she is a vessel of dark, shadow and unlit corners, white underbellies. She’s a black hole of worldly knowing, not to be approached lest she youth/ignorance suck down, besmirch. Their trembling is genuflection.
Everywhere she goes, she’s the one who knows, she tells him, what the Other holds.
She is queen.
“Madam Butterfly,” he says, because he knows history that hasn’t been written yet and loves to tease her for it.
“I will be,” she seethes, because she knows he wishes she wished to stay and loves to torture him with it. “Just as soon as I emerge from this cocoon of Hell.”
“Shall you?” He smiles.
“Until I’m caught again, smothered in your silk, buried underground!” (He gave her the raiment of royalty to wear; pupae are sometimes hidden by the earth.)
“Are you sure you’re in the pupa?” He looks down at her. “Consider your propensity to over-eat.”
“How dare you.” Her eyes narrow. “Call me a pig.”
“Oh, no. A caterpillar,” he says lightly. “I’m speaking of your propensity towards curiosity, of course. You always did have to know what everything tasted like. You always did have to know everything.” His voice goes sensual. “Even the forbidden.”
Three times six months ago he spoke in that same sinuous voice, tempting her to taste the feast he’d laid out on the table. The arm that offered her the pomegranate had looked to her like a serpent.
“In the world of the alive,” she emphasizes, “I am not your wife.”
“Not Puccini, then.” He shakes his head. “Or if it is, you shall take the part of Pinkerton, and I of poor Butterfly.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She stamps her foot. “You mock me.”
“Only trying to return your favors.” But his voice is serious. “You’re free here, you know.”
“Some consolation, when I’ve been brought so low!”
“Yes, your highness.” He’s being sarcastic again. “Only, has it ever occurred to you the world above could be a chrysalis? Come now, you never once felt smothered?”
“Of course not!” She almost laughs in his face. “My moth—”
“I’m sorry,” he says smoothly, turning to leave, “I meant to say ‘mothered’.”
She had not been starving when she ate those eighteen months ago. There was honey, berries, seeds surface-side aplenty, so much she ached with repletion. Sometimes though she wondered whether that swollen ache in her lower half was starving after all, for something new.
So much that when his voice insinuated in her ear, and he offered her the fruit, she planted his seeds inside her, and wondered what it would be to be filled of serpents, too.
“If only you hadn’t pulled me down,” she laments so often.
“My dear,” sometimes sardonic, sometimes gentle, “are you sure you didn’t fall?”
no subject
Spike, huh? As I said to someone else above, I had a friend whose version of Hades looked like Snape, and I'm afraid I rather stole her idea. Well, mine doesn't look like Snape, but he is something different than just a faceless Lord of the Underworld. He's horribly sarcastic and clever like Spike, but I'm afraid his propensity to brood is far more like Angel's.
And Hades has some weird shit going on with his brothers. *wants Hades/Zeus*
no subject
I'm sure it works much better in your head, but in mine it's very silly.
SORRY!
no subject
...it would be like totally old school Thor/Loki. Except I guess Thor/Loki is pretty damn old school too!