Stories, Stories for Everyone
They're DONE. Squee! Three very different ficlets this time, and I have enjoyed writing each. Pretty self-explanatory, just click on the one you want to read and, well, read. Read one, read two, read all three... they're posted for your perusal ^_^
1.
For ee970, Her eyes Were Watching Him, PG/G? (something really tame), 454 words.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Warning: Remus/Tonks (my first first R/T story!) HBP spoilers. This takes place sometime before or during HBP.
She saw him everyday, even though he didn’t know.
Sometimes, she would be the cloaked old witch with spotted white-gray hair, shakily bent over a crooked oak cane as she toppled after him. Sometimes, she would be the unsuspecting customer in The Three Broomsticks, sitting in the table next to him, caressing his back with her eyes as she watched him gobble down what meager items he could afford. Still other times, she would be a new neighbour, a passerby, a beggar on the street… she always tried to see him at least once each day.
Her profession as a field Auror made it easy for her to move about the country. She was free to go anywhere within her assigned area. She chose to follow him.
Then one day, he was gone. Gone on some assignment for the Order, she was told, gone to persuade werewolves to join forces with the side of Light.
That night, she received a letter. It was full of phrases such as “too old for you” and “too poor to support you.” But to her, the letter only repeated one line over and over: I love you.
She picked up her quill and wrote back.
* * *
She saw him everyday, and he knew it.
She’d been old, young, tall, short, fat, skinny… everything. But she was always there, by his side, at least once per day. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t call her out. She had been too intent on covering her natural scent that she forgot to conceal her other quirks. His sharp sense of smell may have been deceived, but his eyes knew a klutzy young witch when he saw one, white-hair or brown-haired, with or without facial warts.
Still, he pretended not to notice. He wasn’t a good match for her; he would never be. But he was drawn-dare he say attracted?-to her. These daily anonymous encounters were perfect. It gave them the illusion of being together.
Illusion was the most a werewolf could ever hope for.
When Dumbledore sent him away as an ambassador to werewolf colonies, he realised that the illusion was over. He sent her an owl, thinking it would resolve everything. He didn’t expect such a quick reply.
Remus,
I don’t care if you’re too old, too poor, or too dangerous. I. Don’t. Care. And when you come back from your mission, I’ll tell you the same thing over and over again until you believe I mean what I say. Because you will come back safely from the mission, you will.
Tonks
He placed the letter securely inside his robes. This was only the first day of his mission, and already, he wanted to go home.
2.
For lynkemma, Moriarty's Miscalculation, PG-13, 847 words.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: 1. Holmes/Moriarty-ish, I dunno if it worked. 2. American attempting to imitate an English Classic. 3. And a bigger warning: I'm so completely foreign to the Sherlock Holmes fandom, so be prepared to lower your expectations. (And for all I know, this exact scenario may have already been explored to death in fics.) I hope this works for you, lynkemma, but if not, well it's my first attempt at Sherlock Holmes, and jumping right into slash at that ^_^;; But no matter, I was extremely piqued by your request, so I hope you're equally piqued by the ficlet.
Mr. Moriarty was brilliant and meticulous, commanding thousands with the finesse of someone taking but a leisurely afternoon walk, a true leader whose strategies had every detective in London chasing after his own tail. Sherlock Holmes included.
But Mr. Moriarty committed one grave miscalculation: in his final rendezvous with Mr. Holmes, he had entrusted the task of diverting the detective’s ever present assistant, Mr. Watson, to me-a lad just like any other blond gracing the villages of Switzerland, Mr. Moriarty’s accomplice notwithstanding.
In employing me, Mr. Moriarty had conducted extensive background checks and required that I passed various tasks designed to screen out those unfit for a life of crime, as well as those who wavered in loyalty to his leadership. I passed. But, alas, such comprehensive examinations had failed to identify the sole factor on which all my other traits lay.
Mr. Moriarty failed to uncover that I have never been fond of those who belong to the fairer sex. And having this peculiar leaning in my preferences, Mr. Moriarty had unknowingly made me privy to his secret-that he held the fairer sex in the same regard, respect, but never passion.
On the day Mr. Moriarty were to meet Mr. Holmes for their alleged final encounter, I was assigned the simple task of making a false doctor call for Mr. Watson. The task was over quick enough, as it was rather inconceivable how gullible Watson, Holmes’s famed cohort, turned out to be. Released from my task, I returned to the fall.
It was upon my return when I heard the unthinkable.
“…return by the same route under guise, and I shall meet you in three days at Paris,” the undeniable voice of Mr. Moriarty said.
“I shall leave Watson a note to discourage his search for me. Upon your arrival in Paris, you will find my belongings awaiting you, at the usual place,” Holmes’s voice responded.
The conversation continued thus. To the untrained ear, it would sound rather like two men confirming formerly made plans. But as I have followed Mr. Moriarty for more than three years, I knew he and Holmes were but hastily putting a plan together for another rendezvous, in Paris-their complete mutual knowledge prompted one to speak so confidently of the other’s next steps. Indeed, a better equal Mr. Moriarty shall never find. Holmes was a thoroughly fitting match for him, and I was heartened to discover that Holmes was no longer set on claiming Mr. Moriarty’s life, or intent on taking down his organisation.
My heartiness was short lived. No sooner than three more exchanges between the two gentlemen I was now spying on, did I discover the nature of their planned rendezvous: today, they met at the fall as enemies. In three days, they shall meet in Paris as lovers.
They set to feign Mr. Moriarty’s death. Shoe prints in muddied soil based on the trajectory of a body’s fall from great height, mapping of Mr. Moriarty’s escape route-each detail scrupulously executed. As I watched the two men working thusly, one in complete accord with the other, sorrow multiplied in my bosom. The veils of my eyes were lifted as I realised, too late but now with absolute certainty, that I had rather fancied Mr. Moriarty myself. I dared not term it jealously, but following my epiphany, a sentiment of utter bitterness arose from the base of my stomach and seized me each time I saw the two men’s hands meet, always lingering longer than necessary to perform simple tasks such as one passing the other a muddied shoe.
When Mr. Moriarty departed, I was finally able to set my eyes elsewhere. And then I saw them-several boulders of enormous size, teetering on the edge of the cliff, looming but metres above Holmes. I went to loosen the rocks, and did so with only one intent: to kill.
The first boulder had missed. I cast another. Then another. Rock after rock I pushed over the cliff, knowing I would not stop until I crush the body of Sherlock Holmes. At last, I no longer saw Holmes when I loomed my face over the cliff. I considered the possibility of his escaping, but there was no trace of him anywhere. No new shoe tracks, no body travelling upon the only safe way of descent. Nay, Sherlock Holmes had fallen victim to the terrible Reichenbach Fall.
I succeeded where Mr. Moriarty had failed, performing the deed he had never intended to accomplish on his lover-in-secret. I rid the world of Sherlock Holmes. I dashed Mr. Moriarty’s hope of a union with a companion of his equal. Mr. Moriarty will find out the truth soon enough, for Holmes will never appear in Paris in three days. I daresay I have but three more days to live.
It is an oddly comforting thought, to know that one’s life will soon end in the hands of someone one fancies-a lover. Or a would-be lover, as Mr. Moriarty is, now and always shall be, lover and admirer of Sherlock Holmes.
3.
For nenyaentwhistle, Through Ciro's Eyes, G, 399 words.
Fandom: Based on Nenya's original work, The Glasshouse.
Warning: This story might be confusing to anyone but me, nenyaentwhistle, lesameschelle, and tanechigai, as it is written in a universe not known to anyone else. Spoiler alert to tanechigai: this contains some plot from later scenes!
Ciro blinked. And blinked again. He did not just hear that. But he did, and knowing his Master Daedalus’ taste in fashion, or lack thereof, it was a perfectly legitimate request.
“Of all the things…” He hoped his voice didn’t sound too insubordinate. “That’s what you want me to do?”
Even as he asked, he knew Daedalus wouldn’t change his mind. Especially not since it was only hours before Alba’s performance.
“Oh, fine…” He would go buy the dress.
* * *
Alba was truly talented, considering that she was an Intolerable. Ciro still remembered the time when Daedalus dragged him to the Sanctuary to meet her. He had been so unwilling that he was sure he scowled during most of the visit. Good thing Alba couldn’t see him.
But Alba… she grew on him. After that initial visit, his opinion of her was now only positive. He picked up a blue-gray dress. No, not good enough for her. How about this yellow one? It would fit her torso just fine. But the sleeves were puffy and designed to be long. No, it wouldn’t do for someone who was about to perform a piano piece.
Green… no. Purple… too long. Brown… too plain. Ciro picked out a beige-colored dress. There, this was the perfect dress for Alba. This would look perfect on her.
* * *
A million things warred in Ciro’s mind. Nonononono, this was not happening. Everything was ruined. Everything. Williamson had crashed Dadalus’ lab and trashed it. No patron meant no money. No money meant no opportunity for Daedalus to use his skills as an inventor. No job for Daedalus meant no future for Ciro.
On top of that, they now had no place to stay.
He should care about all that, and he did. A lot. He even panicked in front of everyone… in front of her, who had performed the piece so well.
And that was it, that was what Ciro found strange-in the midst of the maelstrom of pessimistic thoughts, he was thinking of Alba. Blind, outcast, and rejected by Society, but by no means weak. Today, she showed the world what an Intolerable was capable of doing. Ciro felt proud of her, even more proud than finding her the perfect dress for today’s occasion.
Fleeing Central Tower Square with Daedalus and Bosch-Alba’s piano instructor-Ciro no longer felt so scared.
Wish you should have requested a ficlet? No problem, go here to make a request :)
.
1.
For ee970, Her eyes Were Watching Him, PG/G? (something really tame), 454 words.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Warning: Remus/Tonks (my first first R/T story!) HBP spoilers. This takes place sometime before or during HBP.
She saw him everyday, even though he didn’t know.
Sometimes, she would be the cloaked old witch with spotted white-gray hair, shakily bent over a crooked oak cane as she toppled after him. Sometimes, she would be the unsuspecting customer in The Three Broomsticks, sitting in the table next to him, caressing his back with her eyes as she watched him gobble down what meager items he could afford. Still other times, she would be a new neighbour, a passerby, a beggar on the street… she always tried to see him at least once each day.
Her profession as a field Auror made it easy for her to move about the country. She was free to go anywhere within her assigned area. She chose to follow him.
Then one day, he was gone. Gone on some assignment for the Order, she was told, gone to persuade werewolves to join forces with the side of Light.
That night, she received a letter. It was full of phrases such as “too old for you” and “too poor to support you.” But to her, the letter only repeated one line over and over: I love you.
She picked up her quill and wrote back.
* * *
She saw him everyday, and he knew it.
She’d been old, young, tall, short, fat, skinny… everything. But she was always there, by his side, at least once per day. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t call her out. She had been too intent on covering her natural scent that she forgot to conceal her other quirks. His sharp sense of smell may have been deceived, but his eyes knew a klutzy young witch when he saw one, white-hair or brown-haired, with or without facial warts.
Still, he pretended not to notice. He wasn’t a good match for her; he would never be. But he was drawn-dare he say attracted?-to her. These daily anonymous encounters were perfect. It gave them the illusion of being together.
Illusion was the most a werewolf could ever hope for.
When Dumbledore sent him away as an ambassador to werewolf colonies, he realised that the illusion was over. He sent her an owl, thinking it would resolve everything. He didn’t expect such a quick reply.
Remus,
I don’t care if you’re too old, too poor, or too dangerous. I. Don’t. Care. And when you come back from your mission, I’ll tell you the same thing over and over again until you believe I mean what I say. Because you will come back safely from the mission, you will.
Tonks
He placed the letter securely inside his robes. This was only the first day of his mission, and already, he wanted to go home.
2.
For lynkemma, Moriarty's Miscalculation, PG-13, 847 words.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: 1. Holmes/Moriarty-ish, I dunno if it worked. 2. American attempting to imitate an English Classic. 3. And a bigger warning: I'm so completely foreign to the Sherlock Holmes fandom, so be prepared to lower your expectations. (And for all I know, this exact scenario may have already been explored to death in fics.) I hope this works for you, lynkemma, but if not, well it's my first attempt at Sherlock Holmes, and jumping right into slash at that ^_^;; But no matter, I was extremely piqued by your request, so I hope you're equally piqued by the ficlet.
Mr. Moriarty was brilliant and meticulous, commanding thousands with the finesse of someone taking but a leisurely afternoon walk, a true leader whose strategies had every detective in London chasing after his own tail. Sherlock Holmes included.
But Mr. Moriarty committed one grave miscalculation: in his final rendezvous with Mr. Holmes, he had entrusted the task of diverting the detective’s ever present assistant, Mr. Watson, to me-a lad just like any other blond gracing the villages of Switzerland, Mr. Moriarty’s accomplice notwithstanding.
In employing me, Mr. Moriarty had conducted extensive background checks and required that I passed various tasks designed to screen out those unfit for a life of crime, as well as those who wavered in loyalty to his leadership. I passed. But, alas, such comprehensive examinations had failed to identify the sole factor on which all my other traits lay.
Mr. Moriarty failed to uncover that I have never been fond of those who belong to the fairer sex. And having this peculiar leaning in my preferences, Mr. Moriarty had unknowingly made me privy to his secret-that he held the fairer sex in the same regard, respect, but never passion.
On the day Mr. Moriarty were to meet Mr. Holmes for their alleged final encounter, I was assigned the simple task of making a false doctor call for Mr. Watson. The task was over quick enough, as it was rather inconceivable how gullible Watson, Holmes’s famed cohort, turned out to be. Released from my task, I returned to the fall.
It was upon my return when I heard the unthinkable.
“…return by the same route under guise, and I shall meet you in three days at Paris,” the undeniable voice of Mr. Moriarty said.
“I shall leave Watson a note to discourage his search for me. Upon your arrival in Paris, you will find my belongings awaiting you, at the usual place,” Holmes’s voice responded.
The conversation continued thus. To the untrained ear, it would sound rather like two men confirming formerly made plans. But as I have followed Mr. Moriarty for more than three years, I knew he and Holmes were but hastily putting a plan together for another rendezvous, in Paris-their complete mutual knowledge prompted one to speak so confidently of the other’s next steps. Indeed, a better equal Mr. Moriarty shall never find. Holmes was a thoroughly fitting match for him, and I was heartened to discover that Holmes was no longer set on claiming Mr. Moriarty’s life, or intent on taking down his organisation.
My heartiness was short lived. No sooner than three more exchanges between the two gentlemen I was now spying on, did I discover the nature of their planned rendezvous: today, they met at the fall as enemies. In three days, they shall meet in Paris as lovers.
They set to feign Mr. Moriarty’s death. Shoe prints in muddied soil based on the trajectory of a body’s fall from great height, mapping of Mr. Moriarty’s escape route-each detail scrupulously executed. As I watched the two men working thusly, one in complete accord with the other, sorrow multiplied in my bosom. The veils of my eyes were lifted as I realised, too late but now with absolute certainty, that I had rather fancied Mr. Moriarty myself. I dared not term it jealously, but following my epiphany, a sentiment of utter bitterness arose from the base of my stomach and seized me each time I saw the two men’s hands meet, always lingering longer than necessary to perform simple tasks such as one passing the other a muddied shoe.
When Mr. Moriarty departed, I was finally able to set my eyes elsewhere. And then I saw them-several boulders of enormous size, teetering on the edge of the cliff, looming but metres above Holmes. I went to loosen the rocks, and did so with only one intent: to kill.
The first boulder had missed. I cast another. Then another. Rock after rock I pushed over the cliff, knowing I would not stop until I crush the body of Sherlock Holmes. At last, I no longer saw Holmes when I loomed my face over the cliff. I considered the possibility of his escaping, but there was no trace of him anywhere. No new shoe tracks, no body travelling upon the only safe way of descent. Nay, Sherlock Holmes had fallen victim to the terrible Reichenbach Fall.
I succeeded where Mr. Moriarty had failed, performing the deed he had never intended to accomplish on his lover-in-secret. I rid the world of Sherlock Holmes. I dashed Mr. Moriarty’s hope of a union with a companion of his equal. Mr. Moriarty will find out the truth soon enough, for Holmes will never appear in Paris in three days. I daresay I have but three more days to live.
It is an oddly comforting thought, to know that one’s life will soon end in the hands of someone one fancies-a lover. Or a would-be lover, as Mr. Moriarty is, now and always shall be, lover and admirer of Sherlock Holmes.
3.
For nenyaentwhistle, Through Ciro's Eyes, G, 399 words.
Fandom: Based on Nenya's original work, The Glasshouse.
Warning: This story might be confusing to anyone but me, nenyaentwhistle, lesameschelle, and tanechigai, as it is written in a universe not known to anyone else. Spoiler alert to tanechigai: this contains some plot from later scenes!
Ciro blinked. And blinked again. He did not just hear that. But he did, and knowing his Master Daedalus’ taste in fashion, or lack thereof, it was a perfectly legitimate request.
“Of all the things…” He hoped his voice didn’t sound too insubordinate. “That’s what you want me to do?”
Even as he asked, he knew Daedalus wouldn’t change his mind. Especially not since it was only hours before Alba’s performance.
“Oh, fine…” He would go buy the dress.
* * *
Alba was truly talented, considering that she was an Intolerable. Ciro still remembered the time when Daedalus dragged him to the Sanctuary to meet her. He had been so unwilling that he was sure he scowled during most of the visit. Good thing Alba couldn’t see him.
But Alba… she grew on him. After that initial visit, his opinion of her was now only positive. He picked up a blue-gray dress. No, not good enough for her. How about this yellow one? It would fit her torso just fine. But the sleeves were puffy and designed to be long. No, it wouldn’t do for someone who was about to perform a piano piece.
Green… no. Purple… too long. Brown… too plain. Ciro picked out a beige-colored dress. There, this was the perfect dress for Alba. This would look perfect on her.
* * *
A million things warred in Ciro’s mind. Nonononono, this was not happening. Everything was ruined. Everything. Williamson had crashed Dadalus’ lab and trashed it. No patron meant no money. No money meant no opportunity for Daedalus to use his skills as an inventor. No job for Daedalus meant no future for Ciro.
On top of that, they now had no place to stay.
He should care about all that, and he did. A lot. He even panicked in front of everyone… in front of her, who had performed the piece so well.
And that was it, that was what Ciro found strange-in the midst of the maelstrom of pessimistic thoughts, he was thinking of Alba. Blind, outcast, and rejected by Society, but by no means weak. Today, she showed the world what an Intolerable was capable of doing. Ciro felt proud of her, even more proud than finding her the perfect dress for today’s occasion.
Fleeing Central Tower Square with Daedalus and Bosch-Alba’s piano instructor-Ciro no longer felt so scared.
Wish you should have requested a ficlet? No problem, go here to make a request :)
.