#fff353

Sherlock fandom

(As an homage to @totallysilvergirl, I wrote this in first person. Guess which stories came up as I searched for examples just for the fun of it? The tales about Sherlock Holmes... Forgive my inside joke.)

Hiding in Plain Sight

They all think you are unassuming, nonthreatening, dull, harmless. You are none of these things, of course. But people are idiots who don’t observe. They are unable to see behind the surface, the façade you have constructed around your true personality. 

I saw you - the true you - after mere seconds in your presence. Of course, I am a genius, but still.

My genius notwithstanding, you do a brilliant job of hiding yourself in your horrendous jumpers, which I refer to as sheep’s clothing. It fit perfectly because you are a wolf; dangerous, certainly, but wolves are also known to be extremely loyal, intelligent, and playful. 

I was lying earlier. It wasn’t until I stood by the ambulance (a hideous shock blanket around my shoulders and deduced the killer for Lestrade) and I saw you standing some feet away looking like you were patiently waiting for me to join you, that I saw you for who you really are.

Our brief conversation before my meddling brother turned up, made my heart beat faster, and a certainty built in my mind: this man is it for me. 

Your sass – the way you stood your ground – how you called me an idiot, as if it was a love declaration, made me want to kiss you senseless.

But again, it was you who took the lead, who surprised me when I least expected it. We had just walked away from Mycroft.

“Dinner?” I asked.

“Starving!” you exclaimed.

When I led you down the road to my favourite Chinese place – it was void of people at that hour of the day – you stopped me, grabbed the lapels of my coat, pulled me closer, and kissed me. 

“I’ve wanted to do that ever since we chased that cab around the city,” you panted.

“Not that long ago,” I remarked.

“It would be silly to wait any longer. When I knew you were amenable – yes, I saw the way you looked at me earlier, I’m not a complete idiot – I decided it was time.”

You said this so matter-of-factly, as if you were telling me that we needed to buy more milk for our tea.

So, if you knew that I was more than a little eager to kiss you, I knew that you were my new addiction. Drug busts at 221B would no longer be necessary. I would gladly watch the man or woman trying to banish you from the flat for having an unhealthy influence on me. It certainly wouldn’t be my brother. Before you kissed me, I had spotted the CCTV-camera move in our direction.

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Molly Hooper stood in the lab’s humming quiet, a bad day wearing on her like a damp lab coat. The spectrophotometers were spitting out data that looked like gibberish—random spikes, numbers that refused to align with anything she knew. The main computer, the one that stores every slide, every trace, flickered, as if winking at her frustrations.

She tried to stay calm, to pretend it was a normal glitch, but the data wasn’t glitched so much as seemed offended that it should work properly. Molly rubbed her temples. The thesis loomed—the one that would either crown her career or bury it beneath a stack of failed files and coffee-stained notes.

“I’m not calling IT again,” she muttered, knowing the routine by heart. The last time she did, the lead, Bobbie, had treated her like an imbecile: “Did you flip it off and back on again?”  along with a list of other basic steps she had already performed numerous times before calling. The memory of his condescending tone gnawed at her. “Anyone. I’d take anyone but him.”

And there was Sherlock. He was counting on her information. He was due in an hour, and the thought of letting him down, of showing him, of all people, half-trimmed data and excuses made her all but itch with panic. He deserved the precise, clean truth; he deserved her best. Not a messy day, not a telly melodrama. A part of her still smarted from the sting of his blindness at her very failed attempt to flirt with him. She should have known better.

Lost in her thoughts, Molly nearly jumped when someone knocked, then the door clicked open.

A shadow fell across the floor, and a dark-haired, casually dressed man stepped in with a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes were intense, almost black, and he moved with a kind of loping ease that suggested he’d seen a lot of trouble and still believed in solutions.

“Can I help you?” Molly asked, recovering her composure.

“Uh, yeah, Hi!” he gave a small wave. “You, Dr. Hooper? New guy here. Robbie was complain- er…” he quickly cleared his throat, “…just saying about you having some issues?” he said, voice even, eyes curious but kind. “I think I heard of a similar issue. No promises, but… could I look it and—well, hope for miracles?”

Molly blinked, half suspicious, half hopeful. “God, please! Have at it. Robbie didn’t listen to me.”

“Robbie is a misogynistic knob; a wolf in sheep’s clothing who shouldn’t be around nice lambs like ewe.” The man shook his head playfully.

 “Cute.” Molly couldn’t help the giggle at the silly pun.

“You are.” He slipped the bag from his shoulder as he approached one of the machines. “Let’s start with the spectrophotometers.”

He studied the screens, his fingers dancing over keys; his head tilted as he listened to the whines and whimpers of the machines. He asked questions and made adjustments as data that made sense shifted into place. The spikes straightened, the graphs realigned, and the main computer’s cursor settled into a familiar rhythm. The data was once more legible, coherent, and obedient as he turned his attention to her laptop.

Molly exhaled with relief as the information she had expected finally came through. “You fixed it?”

“I believe I did.” He stood back, his dark eyes shining, as if he’d done nothing miraculous.

She barely, just barely refrained from throwing her arms around him in relief. “How can I thank you, ye so gentle rescuer of data?”

He smiled, warm and more than a touch flirtatious,  “You, me, and maybe coffee after… shift?”

Molly realized then that he had been subtly flirting with her as he worked, complimenting her lipstick color, while implying lips like hers didn’t need it. His asking was not really a question; she knew he fully expected her to agree.

So, she did.

“Okay,” she smiled almost shyly, kind of liking his taking charge. “But can I have your name, or should I call you Aries?”

“Aries the ram.” He chuckled, “Cute.”

“You are.” She echoed his earlier words.

“I’m the Big Bad…” he stopped just at the door, the words hung in the air as he paused, his smile widening before going through. “Jim from IT.”

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(Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt: FFF 353 Wolf in Sheep's Clothing. Enjoy!)

Sometimes, she wanted to be whole again.

            It was easy to forget this, when the shine of the ink was still wet on a page, and where the magic sparked to life in a way that took your breath away. It was easy to forget this when the sun was high or when the moon glittered across the balconies of an open hallway in a ballroom one had just escaped.

            But in the moment between when the sun set and the moon had yet to rise, when the tips of her fingers were numb from spinning light into thread and thread into glamour, she closed her eyes for a moment and let herself indulge.

            And then she opened her eyes again, and pulled on the needle to keep going.

            Truth be told, the kind of ball she was preparing for was beautiful enough to be deserving of the glamour of old. She had been working on this gown for the longest time, with the edges of it bled from dewdrops in the morning and the scalloped edges cut from the breath of a dolphin as it surfaced.

            The trick about magic is that you just have to hold it firm in your mind and convince the world to turn it. Use the world. Turn it to your advantage.

            The moon was about to rise, and in fact, the edges of it were already peaking across the horizon. She knew she wasn’t the strongest mage, but she had patience. She had sunk deep into the forests in preparation of this, waiting for the moment when the world was between phases to cast.

            “You don’t have the raw strength of half the others.” The old faerie told her. “You were not brought up like them. You are not like them.”

            “So how do I beat them?” She had asked, frustration beading her eyes with tears.

            “You change the rules of the game.”

            “Inari.” She turned to the woman standing at her doorway. “You have ten minutes.”

            She calmed herself and smiled at the younger woman, already dressed up in the black gown she intended to go in, hair pinned back. “Of course. I’ll be there.”

            “I feel like I should be telling you that you don’t need to be doing all this, but I don’t think that you’ll listen to me.” Swan shrugged, “But I’m telling you anyway, because I still don’t know what you’re planning for tonight.”

            Swan didn’t know. She couldn’t know, because she had deliberately kept all the details from her. They would know, of course, that she had help, but the point was that as far as possible she knew the plan, and only she needed to be responsible for it.

            It wasn’t quite revenge. It wasn’t quite justice. But it would benefit somebody, and maybe that was close enough.

            “I’ll be fine, stop fussing.” Swan huffed at her, but she barrelled on. “You have your mask?”

            “You wouldn’t let me come here without it.”

            She took one last look at the gown. It was more important to get there without drawing attention, which is precisely what would happen if she was too late.

            “Then let’s get going.”

            The ballroom was a gorgeous, ornate affair. It gave off all the impression of the inside of some grand opera theatre, with gold trimmings, deep velvet along the walls, and sconces everywhere. But the moment you tried to identify the precise design of the gold embroidery, it slipped away. The velvet was rose, then deep green, and then black every time one tried to focus on it. The music was charming but not strictly classical in any definable way. The champagne glittered in glasses, and the chatter was light.

            It had the absolute precision of what the old faerie had described. It was glamorous beyond anything a human could have envisioned. There was the faint hum of a violin somewhere in the orchestra.

            Hopefully that meant that all had been in order.

            Her dress in this light took on an unearthly quality. It glittered with all the ghostly beauty of a river just before dawn and shone in the dim light. Her mask was beautifully set, inlaid with pearls and gemstones adorning her face and her lips a pale rose on the coolest day of spring.

            The rules of the game were simple, for a mage. Everything here was magic. Everything here was malleable. Everyone here was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. All you had to do to survive the night was to play the game right.

            She didn’t intend to survive. She intended to win.

            She closed her eyes, and smiled at the nearest dancer next to her. And with a step, she stepped into the circle and spun.

            The game was simple. All you had to do was convince the magic to listen to you. All you had to do was convince the world that it was something it was not.

            And the House always wins.

            She waited. She listened, and she let the pearls drop from her dress into the floorboards, let them morph back into ink and art on the ground in the precise design. She had mapped this out carefully, accounting for the changing floor, and the way the walls would shrink the closer they all got to dawn. She smiled and she accepted the little kisses to her forehead and the edges of her cheek and mask, but always spun away before they could remove her mask.

            And then the clock struck.

            “Yes. I want it back. That which was taken."

            “That’s not right.” The old faerie’s gaze remained fixed on her. “You don’t want that. You want to do that while taking from them what was taken from you.”

            The black curled from the ground outwards, spiralling outwards. There were no gasps, because the charms cast on the room smothered them before they got out. Here, the music would take over.

            She stepped outwards, letting the magic trail her, as she approached the stage. “I’ve come to ask for an audience.”

            “And you have one.” It echoed in her mind. “What do you want?”

            And she smiled.

            “I want the truth.” She let her teeth bare. “I want the names of the faerie that took me and my sister’s names.”

            She wanted to be whole again.

            “You’ll become like them if you take that.” And so, the warning went. “You’ll take the power, and despite your best attempts, you will never be the same again.”

I'm not good at short stories. I've decided I'm going to do my best not to let that stop me. Learn by doing, and all that :-)

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Prior might be the face of a new world, but he's only as good as the minds that put him there.

Prior wasn't a prophet in anything but name. But names were power, and Prior was the only thing standing between the cults, and the crowns, and so-called rulers.

A prophet who lost a fight was a failure, and failure was doom. The Keepers couldn't afford another catastrophe so close to the end of the old world.

So Prior stood silent, heart racing, and held out his hands out in submission so the aides could approach him with their syringes. The injections barely stung, a quick, familiar heat in his veins that fading to nothing. First it would take his hearing, then his vision.

Prior stayed still, face impassive as his traitorous heart jumped. He couldn't see Nivya, but he had to trust she could see him. Her mind pulsed in his, and he let her in, staying still even as song and color flattened. The world vanished, his senses fading fast. Faster than sleep, faster than drowning, faster than truth.

Breath rattled in his throat, a quaking he never noticed when he could hear. He inhaled slow, and exhaled slower, settling into a loose fighting stance. It wasn't a bluff, Prior could fight. In a normal combat, he was better than Niv. But prophets weren't chosen because they could fight, anymore than they were chosen for some fantastical ability to see the future. When they'd learned the legends of prophets fighting without sound or sight to guide them, the Keepers had ensured there was always a backup plan.

Niv settled into his neurons, a familiar weightlessness taking him. His joints floated, well-oiled and ready as she wove her way through him. Muscles flexed, his body flaring slightly as she adjusted to his nervous system.

Prior hung, a puppet of tendons and nerves suspended in Nivya's mind. She wasn't the best fighter of the Keepers, but she was one of the best pilots, and an excellent mimic. She could make sure Prior still moved like Prior, albeit Prior not at peak performance.

His body twitched, and he surrendered to her will. His hand drew a knife, raising it in salute, and then movement claimed him. He lost the knife, but soon bones ground under his palms, and Niv must have heard the fatal snap. It had taken practice, her learning to use his superior strength without pulling her punches, but she'd never once flinched at the harm.

The fight wasn't long. They rarely were.

Niv pulled him back. His feet moved him, lining him up again, and then she was gone from his mind. He caught himself, holding steady, and waited in the silent darkness. He'd already won, and they cared more about who lived and who died than the words that followed. Niv would be spinning stories, weaving a Keeper's careful web, leaving him a legend. Niv, who everyone would forget the moment they walked out of here. Niv, who people ignored. Niv, who would make very sure the only thing anyone talked about from today was Prior's victory.

They could call him whatever they liked. Hero, prophet, messiah. It was all part of the plan. It was all Niv.

for Flash Fiction Friday 4/25/26, from @flashfictionfridayofficial

Title: wolf in sheep's clothing (im doing this so last minute i may rename it later hdjasflhsadl

Universe: Caelum: Thornsweet

Synopsis: the pivotal first meeting--expectations dashed, and then raised once more

Word Count: 988

Authors Note: started this like 30 minutes the morning of the deadline dhfjkafhlasd there may be errors, tried to edit as i go but as i type there are six minutes to spare! set before blackberries and sugar, but during everybody talks. our two favorite idiots meet.

enjoy

[Continue below the cut, or click here for more of my writing!]

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial using the prompt FFF353 ~ wolf in sheep’s clothing to continue the Teacher AU vignettes. This time Hitomi and Nachi are going to notice something.

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Fandom: Medalist (anime & manga)

Characters: Mario Nachi, Hitomi Takamine, Jun Yodaka, mention of Tsukasa Akeuraji

Word count : 543

“Can we change the sports festival from summer to spring?”

Mario Nachi asked no one in particular fanning herself with a deserted program leaflet the whole time. Teacher Nachi was small in stature. A youngish looking woman with bleached blond hair and piercings on both of her earlobes. Beads of sweat made her forehead shine.

She was with the other colleagues from the sports department.

“It wouldn’t matter which season to Akeuraji-san if you’d ask him anyway,” Hitomi Takamine nudged the person next to her and added, “Isn’t that right, Yodaka-sensei?”

He stared at the two women who were talking about Tsukasa. Teacher Nachi viewed him as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Couldn’t trust the guy. Granted that he was good-looking and many of the female teachers swooned because of him. Even heard that the young exchange teacher from the United States was head over heels in loved with him. Still he never interacted with the rest of the faculty unless he was forced into it. It was as if he was looking down at them.

Today's @flashfictionfridayofficial flash fic for #FFF353 A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing. With love to everyone who's returned from their adventures and discovered that they didn't quite fit.

Fandom: Zelda (Spirit Tracks)

Words: 851

[Ao3 link]

“So, how's the body?”

“Small.”

“Hah, I think you're taller than me, at least.”

“Am I really?”

Link jumped up to his feet, then held his hand down to where Zelda was still sitting on their picnic blanket. “Come on, let's check!” He smiled at her, and she couldn't help but smile back as she reached out to grab his hand. In a nearly smooth motion he pulled her upright and spun her around so they were back to back with their joined hands on their heads. 

She giggled as he used their clasped hands to pat them both on the head so she could feel the height difference. “I'm only a bit taller but you're right!” Zelda leaned against his back, delighting in how solid he felt. It hadn't been that long since she was stuck as a disembodied spirit and she would have passed right through her friend. 

“Of course I'm right. I pay attention!” Link gave her hand another squeeze then stepped away to plop down on the blanket and start digging through their basket for snacks. 

The smell of fresh bread wafted up to Zelda as she resettled on the blanket more gently. She’d had an awkward week where she'd thumped into everything because she'd somehow forgotten what it was like to get bruises, but years of princess lessons had eventually reasserted themselves and she was enjoying being graceful again.  “Even if I'm a bit taller than you, I still feel like I'm being squished down to size.”

Link finished spreading jam and offered her a carefully prepared slice of bread, his eyes big and wide with concern as he looked at her. “Did Malladus mess something up? Or did we?”

Reaching for the bread, Zelda shook her head. “No, not like that. It's not a physical feeling. More… metaphorically? Socially?”   She took a bite and closed her eyes with pleasure. “Oh, that's good. I missed food. And texture.”  Zelda thoughtfully chewed the bread, enjoying the contrast between the crust and the softer crumb. Enjoying the contrast of the salted butter with her favourite berry jam.

She opened her eyes to find Link enjoying his own slice but also watching her. “What do you mean?”

Zelda sighed. “So, you see me as, well, me. But everyone in the castle sees me as, well, the princess that I was before you left. Content to delegate and let other people do the work.”

“You did tell me that princesses just wait and that I should go be a hero on my own,” smirked Link. 

“I know!” Zelda went to cover her eyes in shame before realizing that she was still holding her unfinished piece of bread. Devouring the last few bites, she chewed thoughtfully for a moment before continuing. “I don't feel like the tiny princess who could tell something was up but wasn’t confident enough to tell anyone but you. They want me small and cute and harmless. I’m not sure I was ever harmless; I was always curious and suspicious. But I felt like I fit in my skin before and now not so much.”

“Are people giving you a hard time?”

“Not intentionally, but… ugh. The other day someone tried to tell me that I couldn’t possibly understand the social nuances of the folk in the snow realm, like we hadn’t spent a whole day figuring out how to arrange everyone so they got along! It’s frustrating. They're expecting who I was before. And who I was before feels…”

“Small?”

“Small like clothes you’ve outgrown that pinch under the arms, yeah.”

“You'll always be a giant Phantom Armour to me! Plenty of room in those.” 

“Eww! But those things were so ugly. I don't want to be a clunky, scary suit of armour!”

“But you do want to be powerful,” Link grinned at her and punched her arm.

“I don't need to be ugly to be powerful!” she declared, shoving Link hard enough that he fell over, laughing.  When he tried to sit back up, she shoved him over again.

“I yield, O powerful and beautiful princess!” Link faked a cringe with his hand thrown as if to protect his face.

Zelda laughed and lay back on the blanket with him, looking up at the few clouds in the sky above. “If only it was that easy to convince everyone that I’m more powerful now.”

“I suppose they didn’t get to watch you fight Malladus. Or maybe it’s that you always seemed powerful to me, being a princess and all? But you’ll find another way to convince them.”

“Eventually. But it’s taking for-ev-er.” She punctuated every syllable with a shake of her hands. “I’m glad I’ve got you to gripe at, at least.”

Link rolled over onto his side to grin cheekily at her. “I have to listen to you. You’re terrifyingly powerful! And now you can actually hit me!”

Zelda rolled her eyes and punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Thanks, my tragically short engineer.”