#apparently this is the bee in my bonnet tonight

[beck-a-leck]

Ya know what.

More fanfic writers have got to start using "And Cast" character tags. (Or something similar)

I personally glaze completely over a huge Wall of Character Tags on AO3. I absorb nothing. I lose all concept of which characters are actually in the story in a meaningful way because Every Single Character is tagged. (And I know I cannot be the only person who does the same thing)

I hate looking for fics about a certain character and finding a thousand fics with them tagged but they're background, they're mentioned by other characters, maybe they have one line.

(If there was one thing I liked about fanfictiondotnet it was that character tags were limited. So only the actual main characters of the story were tagged.)

I don't need all 30 characters from a game or book or movie tagged for one story. Even if they all have scenes with the main characters. Even if they have dialogue. Their presence in the location of the story is implied and understood because they're canon characters.

'And Cast' succinctly encompasses the concept that "More characters will be here but they won't be the focus of the story." It's a beautiful 2-word shorthand tag to communicate something important to readers.

It would help declutter tag lists, so people can get a better idea of what's inside a story. It would help eliminate false positives for people looking for stories focusing on their blorbos. It would just help SO MUCH!

And I'm going to stand on my soapbox and shout about it tonight

[tgmsunmontue]

Season to Taste - 8/? WIP

Explicit Hangster - Celebrity Chef Bradley and Naval Aviator Jake Seresin who have a relationship spanning the globe before they realize how tightly bound they are to one another. Heading into this little world.

PROLOGUE/ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

                “I have a friend in Paris, I want you to go there and work in his kitchen.”

                “Why?”

                “You’re too comfortable here. Time to remind you that you never stop learning,” Leandro states and Bradley lets out a slow breath. He’s been here for three years, and he’s learnt so much, and Leandro and Silvia’s hospitality has been amazing. He feels part of their family.

                “I don’t speak French.”

                “It’s okay. You didn’t speak Italian either when you started with me. I will teach you.”

                “You speak French?”

                “Of course. It’s where I trained.”

                “Trained?”

                “I went to Le Cordon Bleu. Now I teach you,” Leandro says, and he rolls his eyes but he’s grinning. Bradley feels like there must be a joke there that he’s missing.

…            …            …

                He’s never spent so much time with a guy he’s not in a relationship with and also having sex with. Spending time with Jake feels so easy, like they’ve somehow skipped ahead over weeks of dating and awkwardness by simply forging ahead with lots of sex and hanging out. They haven’t had deep or meaningful conversations, other than some quite frank discussions around preferences in bed. They’re wonderfully compatible sexually and Bradley hasn’t had as much sex in the last year as he’s had in the last forty-eight hours.

                Jake has gone home, well, to his sister’s house across town, to where he is apparently babysitting his nieces and nephew so that his sister can have a date night with her husband. And also so he can have a night chatting with Vi before her flight home tomorrow. Although chat might be pushing it, because he’s pretty sure Vi is going to have a brain aneurism with all the muttering she’s been doing under her breath. Every time Jake put sauce on something her nostrils flared just a little and he wonders when she got a bigger bee in her bonnet than him about shit like that. She doesn’t even cook.

                “He puts sauce on pickles…” she mutters, and she’s pouring two glasses of wine, so he guesses he’s drinking wine tonight. Clearly because she doesn’t want to drink alone.

                “He does seem to put sauce on everything.”

                “Oh my god…” Vi says, pulling a face.

                “What?”

                “You would normally flip your shit at someone adding sauce to everything and yet… here you are looking like it’s cute. You actually like this guy.”

                “I mean, I don’t like his taste in sauce. But yeah… he’s pretty… uh… great.”

                “Oh my god. Leandro and Silvia are not going to believe it.”

                “How about we don’t share the details of my sex life with them until it’s something more than just sex?”

                “Oh, I’m calling it now. It is definitely more than sex. You wouldn’t be staying if it was just good sex.”

                “What about mind blowingly great sex?”

                “With a guy that adds sauce to everything?”

                “Well, he hasn’t brought it into the bedroom. Yet.”

                He supposes he deserves the punch to the arm.

…            …            …

                Leo is an active rester. That’s the only thing he can take away from watching him be completely unable to just sit. Even after sex he seems to buzz with energy until Jake wrings another orgasm out of him, which had been a delight to learn. Now he’s making more food and he watches as Leo cuts, his hands, fingers and blade flying and it’s mesmerizing, like watching the flicker of flame but instead it’s the flash of a metal blade.

                “Damn you’re good with that…”

                Leo doesn’t stop but he looks up to smile at Jake.

                “The knife is an extension of my arm… just like when you fly. Muscle memory and training.”

                “Huh. You know a lot about flying huh?”

                “Navy brat remember?”

                “Even after you dad died?” Jake asks.

                “Yeah… my godfather stepped up and he helped my mom raise me. So I know all about the military lifestyle. How I was raised.”

                “So your godfather was also an aviator?”

                “Yep,” Leo says, tone clipped and okay, not touching that subject then.

                “So, raised a Navy brat then. Not how you live now, we do not eat this well.”

                “Well, not for lack of trying. I ran away from home when my godfather pulled my papers for USNA. And you put sauce on everything, so it’d all taste the same anyway,” Leo says, winking at him and Jake grins, reaches over and steals a slice of pepper.

                “Wait. You were going to go to USNA?”

                “That was my plan. Instead I got on the first plane out and ended up in Italy.”

                “Holy shit… you kind of brushed over how young you were when you did that.”

                “Yeah. I got very fucking lucky.”

                “Is Violet actually your cousin?”

                “No,” Leo laughs. “Her family pretty much adopted me though.”

                “Huh. Okay.”

                “Here. Try this.”

                Jake obliges, although he’s not quite sure what Leo is hoping to achieve here. Jake hasn’t ever been able to differentiate different flavors, not like some people seem to. He licks the spoon, grinning a little when he sees Leo’s eyes tracking his lips.

                “Could use a little sauce,” he says, just to be an asshole.

                “Don’t be a dick… Come on, I'm trying to make a new dish...”

                “A new dish. Why not just use a recipe?”

                “I wouldn't be much of a chef if I used other people's recipes...”

                “Huh. Okay. You want to have someone that’ll actually talk about the flavors with you? Because I know I’m just going to think everything needs sauce, because I think everything needs sauce. You know who would be really good at this?”

                “Who?”

                “My sister. Well, two of them specifically, but Maria is easiest. She loves all this tasting things over and over stuff.”

                “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

                “Are you saying I have no other redeeming qualities?”

                “Oh, you have plenty of redeeming qualities. Your tastebuds just don’t happen to be one of them.”

                “I’ve got good taste where it’s important…”

                “Smooth, real smooth.”

                “I do alright.”

…            …            …

                “Shit shit shit…”

                “What?”

                “I burnt the rice.”

                “You? You still burn stuff?”

                “Yeah, when there’s a guy in my kitchen naked who decides that fucking me on the dining table is a good decision…”

                “Mmm. Sorry baby. I didn’t think about the food.”

                “Yeah well, the smoke alarm kind of killed the afterglow,” Bradley mutters and Jake snorts against his neck before licking a stripe and he groans again. God. He’s never going to get enough.

…            …            …

                “Hey. I have a favor to ask.”

                “Shovel or money?” Maria asks, clearly distracted by something but Jake is still trying to parse what she’s said.

                “What?”

                “Am I burying a body or am I bailing you out?”

                “Wow. Do you guys have a bet going what will come first?”

                “Yep. So which is it?”

                “Neither actually. Fuck. Maybe this is a terrible idea.”

                “Well, I still don’t know what it is and I’m a little busy so… either piss or get off the pot.”

                God his sisters are all so classy.

                “Do you want to be a taste tester?”

                “What,” Maria asks, and Jake doesn’t hear an inflection, she’s just surprised so he waits. “A taste tester… for a competition or something? Oh god, don’t tell me you’re trying your hand at cooking again, because you’d have to pay me danger money…”

                “Hey! I can make some things! But, no. Leo is a chef and he’s trying to perfect this dish and I’m as useful as tits on a bull.”

                “You’ve got a guy who can cook as well as everything else? How is this fair?”

                “You ain’t even seen him yet Maria, he’s fucking gorgeous.”

                “You get all the luck, I swear. So what… you want me to eat some of his cooking? Oh my god. Let me guess, he asks you and you just keep on adding fucking sauce to it.”

                “Yeah. It kind of makes his eye twitch a little, but he still lets me do it.”

                “Does he now?”

                “Yeah. His cousin uh… actually. Nevermind.”

                “No no, his cousin what?”

                “Just said… well, she said it in Italian, so I could have gotten it wrong, but…” Jake can’t believe he’s sharing this with his sister. “Just that, uh, the dick must be good?”

                “Ew.”

                “You asked!”

                “Remind me of this conversation next time I ask a question you think I won’t like the answer to.”

                “I’ll try. You never listen to me anyway.”

                “Maybe I’ll start.”

CHAPTER NINE

[lucysweatslove]

Well tonight sucked.

I don’t know what bee has flown up my sister’s bonnet but she has been… very volatile lately? Oreo pawed at Rob this evening- his way of communicating he wants to snuggle on his belly- and it was so cute my husband sent it to the group chat with me and my sister. My sister said something in jest about how we should just anticipate his needs and not make him communicate. I was joking back about how he likes communicating with us instead of having us make hasty assumptions. This got into a debate about communicating needs and desires vs anticipating them. Personally, I like when communication is direct and have no issues directly communicating expectations. My sister was saying most people want you to anticipate their needs so they don’t have to communicate.

Now in my experience, this isn’t true. Most people I have worked with do NOT like when you make an assumption and then make a choice based off of that assumption without consultation, because it could be incorrect. They like when you are thinking and anticipating a desire, but not when you strip them of the final choice (or, the choice to make the final choice). My experience is that the people who get mad at you for NOT assuming and then acting on said assumption without consultation are typically the people who would be mad at your for making those same assumptions on another day if the assumption wasn’t accurate.

Example, some customers brings in their own bags regularly for groceries. If the cashier asks, “would you like us to use your own bags today?” most people wouldn’t be angry at all, and will just say yes. They may register that the cashier remembered them and their bagging preferences. But let’s say there is a customer who gets annoyed that the cashier had to ask. Fast forward to the next week, and the customer usually brings in their own bags. If the cashier asks, “would you like us to use your own bags today?” most people wouldn’t be annoyed and just say no, I forgot my bags, [paper/plastic/a box] is fine instead. But, if the cashier assumed the customer had their own bags and didn’t, the customers on average will feel a little more annoyed. And the same customer who was pissed a week ago that the cashier asked would be among the most pissed that the cashier didn’t ask. Because for that customer, they want their needs anticipated no matter what, without communicating it, so anytime you may get it wrong, they’re going to be mad. But it is IMPOSSIBLE to know 100% of the time without any further communication.

When I shared MY experience, my sister decided to deride my experiences.

I have been in the workforce longer than she has, as I started working in college (she hadn’t). I worked at a grocery store doing “store support” which was, at its core, mostly customer service. I did a LOT of cashiering. We had boxes, not bags. Many brought their own reusable bag. Many were regulars. Sometimes they forgot. Sometimes it was in their purse and they hadn’t fished it out. I NEVER got an angry customer for asking if they’d want their groceries boxed, carried out, or in their own bag. I DID get a verbal reaming for assuming a regular knew the policy and NOT asking her upfront what she wanted. (She came in later and actually apologized to me, but you get where I’m going with this).

Anyway, I made a hasty judgment based on the fact I’ve worked actual retail-based jobs where we deal with hundreds of customers on the daily, and I’ve been in the workforce longer.

My sister got pissed about that and had to shit on the jobs I’ve done- you know, the nearly a decade I’ve been in the workforce apparently is nothing compared to her volunteering for our little sister’s grade school basketball teams, or working (truly shit hours) during her two years of clerkship + two years of residency.

She honestly thinks working in psych she deals with 4x the number of Karens as the general population deals with… like yes working in psych is demanding and psych patients are very demanding.., and I worked with them in a 100% patient facing role as a tech for over two years, longer than your residency. I didn’t say that though- I just validated that yes she has had experience too, and yes her jobs have been hard, shitty, emotionally draining in many ways.

I thought we had moved last all of this when she started getting into more semantic bullshit about communication (she was like “you’re lumping communication into one generalized category” to which I was like yes, because it IS a generalized category, that’s why it’s it own entire field of study people get degrees in?). She tried to say it’s about recognizing a pattern to anticipate needs in the future (this requires communication of some sort to know what to do about said pattern). I even tried sending a photo of Oreo snuggling the octopus to distract her and change the subject (I shouldn’t have to do that though, right, under her initial postulate? She she should just ANTICIPATE my needs right? Shouldn’t she have pattern recognition, that whenever we argue I try to retreat because I’m over it and don’t want to engage with this bullshit? No? OH because COMMUNICATION is needed! Go figure).

At one point she brought up her SO, who rob and I both don’t think is right for her and she complains about all the time, and how nice it would be and how it would take off mental load if he anticipated her needs without her having to ask. I didn’t argue any of that. I just said I understand why that is true for her. I however don’t like that, because I like to have the ability to change what I want at any point. Like, messes stress me tf out, but I would be PISSED if rob decided to “anticipate my needs” and clean my messes up. He’s done that and I HATE it. My point was- yes her experience is valid, here is my opposite experience, we have different experiences! That’s it. The whole time I tried to be neutral regarding her SO. I didn’t bring up sore spots.

Anyway she cycled BACK to the job thing and got VERY rude and belittling. I told her I wasn’t claiming to be better than her, nor did I say her job wasn’t important, valid, or customer service (I merely stated, again in a hasty judgment based on gut reaction) that I’ve been in the real world, making my own money and paying for my own life and being responsible for my own life, for longer and thus have had more real world experience. She conflated the two and then claimed I was gaslighting her “like mom” (a SUPER deep dig btw when I had worked so hard to be civil).

I tried to assert myself by saying look your work is hard, emotionally demanding, interaction-heavy, but that does NOT mean that she trumps over all of my experience- nearly a decade. I tried to remind her that I’ve done more than just the paid stuff she knows about too and gave an example. You know what her response was? “I listen to everybody in the family so of course I knew about the hotline” (no she didn’t because I actually didn’t talk about it???) and then she just went off again that I was invalidating her experience “just because I wasn’t getting laid working in a grocery store” (she kept coming back to my grocery store time but never mentioned the medical work I’ve done or even my teaching?). I have done nothing but validate her fucking work experience and how important it is, I’m just saying to GROW TF UP and realizing OTHER PEOPLE HAVE EXPERIENCES THAT MATTER TOO.

My final text, which she won’t see until tomorrow and likely won’t reply to in any real capacity (she’ll probs turn it onto me) was me asserting myself and boundaries. She has more medical knowledge. She does not have more knowledge on the human experience. She invalidates my work frequently, regardless of how much I validate hers. That whenever she perceives any slight against her she can get very judgmental and CRUEL no matter what the reality of the situation was. That she chooses words and actions that belittle those around her. That she doesn’t monopolize shitty, demanding work. ThT respecting others jobs doesn’t take the respect away from here. That maybe she spends so much time pretending to care about people around her that she doesn’t have two shits to give to her sister, or maybe I’m just an easy target or a safe person to lash out at. Or maybe she just truly doesn’t respect any of my lives experiences because I’m not a doctor.

And at the end I basically told her that if that was the case, to let me know. Because I know I’m going to be faced with disrespect and belittling frequently, in situations I just have to put up with because that’s medicine, but I do NOT have to put up with it from her. If she is going to treat me like I am somehow beneath her, I won’t give her opportunities to do that to me directly.

So yeah I had to assert a very strong boundary. I didn’t outright say I will never talk to her again, because that’s extreme. But I have to protect myself and my boundaries where I can. If she continues to insist that my experience is worth less than hers because we chose different paths? Fuck no I’m not going to force myself to be around that bullshit when I don’t need to. I won’t be around for holidays if she’s there. I won’t take care of her dogs or be there to listen to her when she needs an ear.

As full adults, I have never told her that her experience wasn’t valid, that it means less than anybody else’s, that her hardships aren’t real. Things were going so well post-college for us as sisters. She was even my maid of honor at my wedding. So asserting this boundary sucks. But if she can’t respect me as another human, as her equal in many ways, I don’t want to spend the emotional energy on dealing with that anymore.

I know right now is a difficult time for her in many ways and I don’t want to compound to that. But honestly, respecting me shouldn’t compound that anyway. If disrespecting me is the only way she can deal, she needs a better therapist.

(Also I want to say: for years I have felt belittled by my family, that my contributions haven’t been recognized. I can’t bring any of this up because I will be told I’m wrong. I’m so tired of this).

[arabellaflynn]

Text of a test monologue. Would you like to see me deliver this on camera, with no makeup, no lighting equipment, and using Notepad as a TelePrompTer? Head on over to my https://www.patreon.com/ArabellaFlynnPatreon, and for a dollar a month you too can see me waffle on in real time.

Hi, all. You may notice that I am on video now. I was going to shoot a couple of tests and apologize for the poor quality of the footage, and explain that I want to start vlogging and streaming in addition to writing, but I need some equipment to do it properly and for that I need to raise some funds... But fuck it. This is going out first instead.

As I record this, it is the fourth of July. You can probably hear the fireworks outside my window. I know I can. There are a lot of those, because we've all been inside and bored for the past four months. 

I know a lot of people who have opted not to observe the holiday this year. The 4th of July is often viewed as a celebration of the American institution, which is a little bit on fire right now, with a few people determined to squirt lighter fluid all over the flames like a bored suburban dad at a barbecue. On the other hand, it's also Independence Day, and marks the end of the long, painful process by which a population broke free of distant, uncaring overlords who cared mainly about the financial dividends of their colonies, and ignored the grievances of the people until they started breaking shit. So YMMV.

I would comment on some of the details, but I don't know them. The Late Show is on hiatus, and John Oliver doesn't air until tomorrow. I, like a lot of my demographic, get most of my current events from comedians. There's a reason for that.

I actually watched a lot of news as a teenager.

Well, "watched" might be too strong a word. It's easier for me to fall asleep if there's some sort of droning noise in the background. When I was about fifteen, I discovered that, unlike the main CNN channel, which has actual shows and documentaries, CNN Headline News just runs the day's top stories over and over again in an unending 30 minute loop. Interesting enough to keep me from falling into a train of thought that will prevent me from sleeping, boring enough that I don't want to stay up and listen.

I have no memory of the desk anchors. I'm sure they were consummate professionals, but they also had no distinguishing human characteristics whatsoever. I know they were updating the loop live, because occasionally a story would be added to the list and another one would drop off the back, and occasionally one would flub the text on their prompter, but other than that there was no hint that the face at the desk was attached to a living, breathing person.

I do remember a couple of the correspondents. One was Christiane Amanpour. Her voice stood out; CNN is an American news station that was originally restricted to American cable networks, and the vast majority of the staff is from the US. Amanpour is British-Iranian, having split her childhood between Tehran, before the revolution, and London, after. They liked to send her to the bowels of Eastern Europe to report from the war-torn streets of Citygrad in Countrystan. She had already caught some criticism on her reporting of the Bosnian War, for advancing the apparently controversial opinion that genocide was bad. I didn't know that at the time; I just thought she sounded more like she told real stories than read off lists of facts.

Another was Anderson Cooper, who was not nearly such a big deal then as he is now. Cooper, a self-described adrenaline junkie, was a war correspondent at the time, with a habit of ducking only briefly for explosions before standing back up to continue his piece to camera. He wouldn't be infamous until his coverage of Hurricane Katrina years later, both for the overall stellar job he did, and also for that one time he got tired of getting non-answers from some government toad in a live interview and very professionally flipped his shit at the lady, asking if she realized how tone deaf it was to sit there thanking other politicians for doing essentially nothing while there were still bodies in the street.

I quit watching the news when I moved away to college. It wasn't necessarily that knowing was worse than not knowing, but I felt a lot of pressure to be "adult" about it at that point, and watching proper news shows made me anxious to the point where I wouldn't sleep. I outright avoided it to the point where I made it to a canceled class at 4 pm, Mountain Standard Time, on September 11, 2001, before anyone told me what was going on.

I wasn't able to put my finger on why I found the news so horrible until many years later. I can't remember what rabbit hole I'd fallen down, but I ended up sitting on YouTube watching segments of the live news coverage of the 1981 assassination attempt on President Reagan. Reagan was shot in the side and later recovered without complications, but his Press Secretary, James Brady, was struck in the head and sustained considerable neurological damage. Brady, together with his wife Sarah, later went on to be a noted advocate for gun control, but at the time was reported to have died on the scene. 

I wound up watching a lot of one of the news desks -- ABC, I think. It started out like all the others, until the anchor tripped up a couple of times and referred to Press Secretary Brady as "Jim", and I realized: He knows these people. Personally. He's a member of the White House Press Corps, or a friend of the Bradys, or both. I'm watching a journalist reporting on a moment of historical significance to the American people, and a human being who has to tell the entire nation about someone's personal tragedy. His investment did not make him any less professional or informative than any of the others, but it did make his coverage feel very grounded in reality in a way that most news, then and now, does not.

The older I get, the more disquieting I find it to have a talking head behind a shiny desk read me a list of horrible things that have happened today without any apparent reaction. It makes it seem like these things are a randomized representative sample of the cruelty of the universe, rather than what they are, which is a list of things so unusually terrible they made the news. I realize that this is part of an effort to remain impartial so that the viewer can decide how they feel about events, but it's also disturbingly normative. Yes, everything is on fire, everything is always on fire, this is nothing new. 

I can't say I'm any more enamored of the opposite, either, the more recent style where the news anchor's entire job is to tell you that entirety of human existence is awful and here's what you should prioritize being afraid of this week. Everything around you is on fire, the fire is racing right at you, and here's whose fault the fire is.

A lot of Americans, especially younger ones, have taken to getting their news mostly from political satire because-- well, one, because for about the past twenty years, our comedians have been better at fact-checking than our actual newsrooms. You can thank Jon Stewart for getting a bee in his bonnet over that. But also because their coverage of major issues takes neither of those paths. The Daily Show alumni write up stories like they actually live on the planet they're reporting from. You're on fire? They're on fire too! Holy shit, let's all find some water! 

The conceit behind the comedy of The Daily Show and the Colbert Report and Full Frontal and Last Week Tonight and now the monologues on The Late Show is not that this is a normal amount of fire for everything to be on so it's fine, nor establishing that someone has set you on fire on purpose and here's who should be punished for it. It's bewilderment and frustration at the way we somehow keep catching on fire over and over again. Yeah, they crack jokes, because it's their job, but all the jokes are predicated on the idea that this is, above all, just very, very, inexplicably stupid. We can, and we should, be better than this. And the hosts stubbornly refuse to just give up and internalize as immutable all the reasons why we aren't.

You wouldn't know it to look at him, but Jon Stewart has accumulated "fuck you" money from his time on The Daily Show, among other things. I really hope the rest of them are doing the same. Because we need some figureheads who are able to say "fuck you" to a lot of authority figures right now without having to worry about how their family is going to survive the next month. John Oliver has HBO backing and I'm pretty sure Last Week Tonight has roughly equal budgets set aside for handling lawsuits and shoveling money at charity. Stephen Colbert has been insulting Donald Trump as hard as he possibly can since day one, and he just re-upped until 2023. Samantha Bee has her husband holding the camera to shoot her monologues out in the woods. 

They've all figured out how to produce their show over the internet, so at least we have something to watch in the After Times.

I really hope the neighbors run out of fireworks soon. Aside from not wanting the neighborhood to be literally on fire at any point, one of my housemates has a dog, and the dog has epilepsy, so this has been an interesting evening. Sorry about the fireworks, sorry about the camera, sorry about the country, sorry about the state of the world. Imma go find my Xanax. G'night.

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[tiaragqueen]

Bee In Bonnet

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Kim Namjoon x Reader

✂ Word Count: 3,5k

✂ Trigger Warning: Mentions of sex and death, obsessiveness, manipulation, stupor

✂ This story is fictional and for amusement only. I don't believe any of the members would do this in real life. As always, thank you for reading and I hope you have a good day!

Do not re-upload my writing to another website or use it without my permission.

[Edited]

***

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

"Wise men say only fools rush in, but I can’t help falling in love with you. Shall I stay? Would it be a sin if I can’t help falling in love with you?" - Can’t Help Falling In Love [Elvis Presley]

          Namjoon knew what he felt was wrong.

          He knew he shouldn't have gotten close with you.

          No matter what angle you see it, no matter how many times you'd try to defend it, their relationship would and always be forbidden. Because this wasn't a fictional world where you can date your own boss.

          No, you weren't like that. You kept your relationship strictly business. Just like any other decent worker would do.

          He knew it. He acknowledged it. But that doesn't mean he liked it.

          Besides, it wasn’t as if he could automatically erase every sentiment that had bloomed on his chest. The very same sentiment that would eventually drive him into the pit of unquenchable desire.

          Jimin crouched on one knee before you, holding out an opened crimson velvet box. A silver ring – not too big and not too small, either – encrusted with little diamonds and a bigger one in the middle laid inside. You tried to laugh at the cheesiness of his proposal, knowing just how romantic Jimin could be, but joy overpowered any hilarity that you found from this situation. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you let him take your hand gently and put the ring on your ring finger.

          It fit, just like what you expected.

          Jimin had always been an attentive person. It was a trait that attracted you in the first place, and for him to buy the ring you were eyeing at the mall a few days ago warmed your chest.

          Your female colleagues cooed at the sentimental scene, shouting congratulations. Some even expressed their envy for being proposed by such a handsome man. The males were busy patting Jimin’s back like proud brothers they were – being familiar with him due to his frequent visit – and whispered innuendos on what to do during the honeymoon. Overwhelmed with the barrage of compliments and attention, you hid your glowing face on to his chest. Jimin giggled, stroking your hair with such loving eyes that made your nape reddened even more.

          Everyone was happy. Everyone was smiling. All, except one.

Namjoon stood in the threshold of his office, jaw stiff and hands clenched so tight the knuckles turned white. He hadn't expected to see this kind of thing during a break; the only time where he could meet and chat with you over a hearty lunch. Work has been very hectic lately, and he figured taking you out to that new café down the street would ease his stress.

          Yet, here he was, watching future husband and wife basking in the spotlight.

          It was terrible. How could that man be able to freely hug you with those disgusting limbs, while Namjoon had to resist his urge to even touch a single strand of your hair?

          Because he was respectful like that.

          And because he already knew you were taken.

          Namjoon hadn’t planned for this to happen. For his feelings to go out of control. You were smart and cute, yes. He liked cute things and people.

          But the more time you've spent together, the more time his opinion of you rose. Higher than any other woman he'd met before.

          You were unknowingly charming, hardworking, ambitious, and other positive adjectives he could think of. If anyone were to ask him to write a novel about you, he'd surely do it in a heartbeat. And possibly create a new one for your angelic appearance.

The cover would be your concentrated face because that was when you looked at the cutest. Not that your other expressions weren't cute either. It was simply his favorite amongst many photos he'd captured without your knowledge.

Well, everything you did enchant him anyway. Even your elated smile of finally being Jimin’s fiancée.

          Namjoon sighed, skulking back into the office. The hollow thud of the closing door echoed like a broken record in his ears.

          If only it was him that put the ring on your dainty finger and proudly stood beside you.

          If only it was him that you hugged.

          If only you loved him, he would surely give you everything. The world, the sky, the universe. Everything that you wanted, he would gladly give it to you.

          Except he couldn’t have you, could he? Because you already belonged to someone else. Someone other than him.

          And it hurt. It hurt not to be with the person you love, no matter how much you pray or wish to the stars.

          Why did fate have to be so cruel to him? Sure, he could have anything - anyone - in a flick of a finger, but why couldn't he have you? Was it wrong to love you? Was it wrong to want to make you happy?

But you were happy, weren't you? You were smiling brightly, brighter than he'd ever seen before, with Jimin. If Namjoon wished for your happiness, then he'd have to be prepared to see you in another man's arms. Because that's what true love is, right? If you can't have them, then you have to let them go so they can seek their own happiness somewhere, anywhere.

          Of course, he understood. He was famous for his intelligence, after all. But it didn't make the heartbreak any less painful.

          Namjoon glanced around the place. Despite the papers that scattered on his desk and a few items of furniture here and there, it was still empty. Funny that he had been working here for years, and yet it was the first time he'd felt this way.

          Sighing, he shuffled towards the rolling chair and plopped down. His body felt so, so heavy. Like someone had put the weight of the world on him. He unlocked his phone and stared down the bright screen. It displayed a selfie of you and him, standing in the snowy sidewalk. You looked cozy wearing that dark coat, wrapped in a red scarf. He remembered that he used to sling an arm over your shoulders, pretending that the scarf was a red thread of fate which connected the two of you.

          It was obviously a delusion, but Namjoon just wanted to enjoy the moment. The moment where he was the boyfriend protecting you from the cold, and you snuggling up to him like a cute girlfriend you would be.

          Oh, how wonderful it must be if that could become a reality.

          Namjoon frowned. Well, he supposed he could get rid of Jimin through an assassin. He didn't look particularly strong. In fact, he seemed rather... fragile. So it would be an easy job for Namjoon.

          No, he shook his head. If the news of Jimin's downfall ever reached your ears, you'd surely spiral down into depression. It was what most people tend to behave after the death of their loved ones. Namjoon refused to see you sad and, inevitably, lower your work standards.

          He needed to think of something nonlethal, yet enough to make you change your opinion on Jimin complete. But the question is, how? How could he think of anything unrelated to death, when his brain was already filled with Jimin's gruesome demise? What was the least painful route?

          Think, Namjoon, think!

          It was obviously easier said than done because hours after the proposal ended and his employees had long gone back to work he still hadn’t had an inkling of an idea. God, was it hard to think of anything less toxic...

          Glancing at the reminder that glued on to the wall beside him, an idea immediately popped on his head. Namjoon gasped before snickered, finding it amusing how he hadn’t thought of that before.

          The most used excuse in the business world. How silly of him to only finding it out now.

          He snatched his phone from the tabletop with the eagerness of a child about to receive their present and sent a short, yet detailed message to you. Pressing the send button, he rested his head against the cushioned backrest and hummed. Now all he had to do was carry out the second phase.

          A giggle pierced through the quiet evening. Namjoon reached out a hand to grab the air, pretending that it was you atop of him. Everything would go according to plan, he was sure of it. Otherwise, he wouldn't mind using his high intelligence for... unrighteous purposes.

          You came.

          Of course, you came. How could you relax after receiving such an emergency text from your boss? Not to mention, it was sent half an hour after you went home. As much as you wanted to spend more time with Jimin, you knew that it would have to wait. Besides, you were sure that this meeting whatsoever wouldn’t take so long. Hopefully.

          To be honest, you didn't know that you had a meeting tonight and even thought of refusing.

          But orders are orders, anyway. If you wanted to keep the job, then you have to obey your boss.

          You smoothed out the wrinkles on your maroon dress. It was the dress code because apparently the meeting was held in some fancy restaurant in the city. It wouldn’t be appropriate to wear formal clothes, although that was what you were planning before you read the postscript.

          Screw that. You didn't want to add other dirty clothes on to your already piling up laundry, but it was bound to happen soon. Might as well finish this quickly, so you could go back to cuddle Jimin in his full chubby glory.

          The dress was a gift from Jimin after your first date, along with a bouquet of red roses that had withered the next week. It was your favorite dress among others, for some reason. Thus, you resolved to only wear it for important matters.

          Although Namjoon wasn't aware with that fact, it didn't hinder him from smiling appreciatively at the sight of your amazing looks.

          Standing up from his seat, he approached your confused figure and held out a hand.

          “Good evening, [Name]. You look gorgeous, as always.” he greeted, exhibiting the persona of a gentleman. Namjoon kissed the back of your palm, letting his lips lingered against the soft skin. It smelled coconut, must be new body lotion. He had to buy it later.

          “Good evening, Sir,” you mumbled distractedly, paying no heed to the rather intimate gesture. Pursing your lips, you glanced around the empty restaurant. Where the heck was everybody? “Um, I thought it was supposed to be a meeting...?”

          “Indeed,” Namjoon nodded patiently as he pulled a chair for you to sit in. “A meeting of you and me.”

          He didn't mention that he had excluded this small detail from you, but you were still clueless it was almost endearing. Understandable; you must have read the text in a hurry.

          “... What?”

          Namjoon ignored your quiet inquiry and instead seated himself in front of you. Even such a simple action was so elegant in your eyes. You wondered if a graceful class existed in rich people's worlds because he might be mistaken for a butler due to his smooth movements and impeccable suit.

          Without wasting another time, Namjoon poured some red wine into one of the glasses. Your glass.

          “Here, drink it.”

          You reluctantly took the glass from his hand and took a wary sip. The cautious side of you kept telling that he might have adulterated the drink, even though you saw it with your own two eyes that he did nothing to warrant such suspicion.

          “Thank you...” you muttered. It tasted the same as other expensive wines you'd drunk before. Namjoon was too kind to do vicious things such as poisoning.

          Namjoon proceeded to ask you some questions - nothing too intrusive because he still respected your privacy; yet - and filled wine after wine in your glass until you were inebriated. You weren't aware of your own condition until you abruptly stood up and almost fell headfirst on to the table.

          Good thing Namjoon was there to save you, otherwise you'd go home with a huge bump on your forehead. Jimin would fuss over it like a mother hen he was, and you didn't think you could bear the onslaught of questions so late at night. Especially when you just wanted to hit the hay.

          Slurring a soft thank you under your breath, you attempted to leave but to no avail. Namjoon watched you struggling while still maintaining his grasp around your stomach. How could he release you when he already had you in your weakest and vulnerable moment?

          “You’re drunk,” he whispered huskily in your ear. His other hand twirled a lock of [h/c] hair that framed your darling profile. “I know a place where you can rest.”

          Somehow, the gesture managed to lull you into sleep. The world grew darker in each second as you nodded dumbly and blacked out on his arms.

          The next day, you woke up in an unfamiliar bed. Recalling the past, or at least the event that led to this situation, proved to be a challenge. You sat up against the headboard and massaged your head, hoping to assuage the headache for a little. It wasn't until memories from last night suddenly rushed in like a flood; the text, the meeting, the conversation, and the... loss of consciousness.

          Eyes widening at the size of a saucer, you ripped the blanket from your body only to discover a myriad of hickeys littering the skin. From the neck, chest, stomach, thighs, even legs. There was no area left uncovered, and you weren't sure what to fear more. The hickeys or the throbbing pain in your vagina.

          Tears welled in your eyes. What have you done? You promised to yourself that you would give your virginity after marriage, and now here you were. Laying naked on someone’s bed. Or more specifically, your boss'.

          This was infinitely worse than having a one-night stand with someone because the person you've slept with was the same one who you encountered nearly every day.

          What would your parents say later? No, what would Jimin say later? He had always been a possessive one; it took you almost half an hour just to convince him to let you go. Now, you had broken the promise you'd made both to yourself and him.

          You were such a terrible human being.

          A door opened to your left. Namjoon - the cause of your current mental breakdown and possibly more in the future - strolled inside, carrying a tray of steak and hot tea. You immediately pulled the blanket back on to your nude body, trying to retain what was left from your dignity.

          If you still had any, that is. You doubted its existence now.

          “Good morning, honey.”

          Honey? You gripped the seam of the white comforter, resisting the urge to lash out. How dare he called you with that nickname when you had no special relationship prior? No, that wasn't what angered you the most.

          It was the fact that he had tricked you into the so-called meeting. Or maybe you were the dumb one here. Either way, you were boiling.

          “Did you sleep well? I hope so. I have changed the bed and set the air conditioner so you would be more comfortable.”

          You frowned, finding it ridiculous the lengths he'd gone through just to satisfy you. As if. “What are you talking about?”

          Sighing, Namjoon put down the tray on the nightstand and started to crawl towards you.

          “S-sir?” Screw your nervousness. Why did you have to fucking stutter in front of the one person you were supposed to be brave towards? Now he knew just how much you began to fear him; his little smirk proved that to you. “What are you-?”

          A hand stopped you from falling backward from the bed. You stared wide-eyed into his darkened eyes, chest heaving at the thought of tumbling and possibly have a concussion. It was a rather unlikely scenario, but it still scared you nonetheless.

          The hand lingered on your back, before slithering lower to grasp your waist. You shivered at the coolness of his palm and put your hands on his broad chest to push him away.

          “Sir, I’m sorry but I have to go now. Jimin must be worried sick and I-”

          “Do you think he’d still accept you, after what you did with me?”

          You fell silent, hands slowly slid down and fell on his bent knees. Somehow, while you envisage Jimin's reaction, you hadn't thought that he would probably call off the engagement. A one-night stand, however accidental, is still a form of disloyalty.

          Simply put, you've indirectly cheated on him.

          Jimin might be understanding in some aspects, but nobody told you that he'd accept this betrayal. It was understandable if he chose to break things off. Still, you refused to see him leave and abandon of what could've been a happy ending; you loved him too much to let him go.

          “Bold of you to assume that he’d still love you after having sex with another man,” Namjoon mocked, his other hand went to pat your bare stomach. It churned at his touch, and there was nothing you desired more than taking a bath. Who knows, you might be able to cleanse some of his germs from your body.

          But of course, it wouldn't magically solve everything. You've slept with him, for goodness' sake!

          “... And carrying his sperm. You know what will happen right?”

          He did what-?

          “No...” The severity of the situation finally dawned on you as you shook your head frantically, hair whipping around. “No, no, no!”

          This must be a joke. It had to. There was no way you’d be pregnant with his baby. No way. Nuh-uh, you refused to believe it. This must be a dream; a nightmare.

God, how you wished you could just wake up and forget all of this ever happened. You couldn't stand another minute with this crazy man. You wanted to get out.

          But the door was behind him, and if you wanted to escape, then you had to face him first. After that- what? Running to the police station stark naked? What would people say later? They must think that you were a lunatic, while the true one was this CEO who somehow managed to impregnate you.

          What did you do in your past life to deserve this kind of reality?

          “You’ll get pregnant.” There goes that dreaded, absolute unnecessary answer. But it wasn't over yet. Namjoon was still hell-bent on shaming you even further as if this bombshell wasn't enough for you to digest.

          “I'm not!” you screamed, dismissing the fact that you literally shouted at your boss. Something that you used to not have the guts to do considering he could be quite intimidating if he wanted to.

          But now, you just couldn’t give less of a shit.

          “I’m not and I’ll never be! Jimin would still accept me cause he’s my fiancé! Now let me go, you freak!”

          Namjoon threw his head back and laughed. It was the kind of laughter that send chills down your spine. You never thought that you'd lived to see the day where he would finally lose his sanity. He'd always been the calm, composed one. So what caused him to snap?

          “Really?” He ignored your flailing limbs and gripped your waist, leaving indents of his nails on the skin. “Then how about you? Would you still accept him after what he did?”

          The struggling ceased as you frowned. “What the fuck do you mean?” He really needed to stop giving you confusing questions and be straightforward already.

          Namjoon reached out to take a remote from behind you and pushed the red button. It flickered on, conveniently displayed a piece of breaking news regarding the discovery of a young woman’s corpse in some nondescript apartment.

          "It was such a hassle to find the exact location. But with a bit of hard work, nothing can't be achieved."

          You ignored him in favor of watching Jimin thrashing about when the police took the body from the bathtub. A torrent of tears streamed down his cheeks as he begged them to touch her; to hold her for one more time. He looked desperate and heartbroken. Normally, the sight would've saddened you too.

          And now, you weren’t so sure anymore.

          “He might have proposed to you,” Namjoon murmured provocatively, kissing your jaw like a husband appreciating his wife's body. “But that doesn’t mean his heart fully belongs to you. You’re just another woman in his life, you know?”

          You bit your lower lip. It stung, you admitted, it stung because it was the truth. And there's nothing more painful than the truth being shoved on to your face, forcing you to accept it as though it's that easy.

          There was nothing left to say anyway. At this point, you didn’t know whether you should feel betrayed or ashamed. It was an agonizing mixture.

          “Do you know that girl? She is, and will always be his love. After all,” he inclined his head slightly and bit your earlobe. “Nobody forgets their first love, even if they want to.”

[omg-imatotalmess]

Amortentia ~Part 1~

Hey guys! So, I got this request and I have so many thoughts about it. Like, I can’t even make it just one part because it would be too long. I hope whoever requested this doesn’t mind that I’m splitting this up into two parts. Hopefully this is kinda what they were looking for. Hope y’all enjoy! 

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader 

Requested: Yup

Anonymous Requested: Can you write a Draco x Reader where they completely loathe each other, but they amortentia in class one day and it just kind of flies over their head that it smells different to each person, so they’re yelling each other’s scents out and Snape or Hermione is just like “you idiots” ??? Thanks love! Your writing is so brilliant, I’m completely in awe. 

Warnings: Swearing

Draco Malfoy. Draco Fucking Malfoy. The blonde bane of your existence. You couldn’t even begin to articulate how much you hated the little prick. All he ever did was go out of his way to fuck up you whole day. Literally any time he thought he could do something to annoy you, he did. Not that you were any less guilty of the same thing. Basically, you became thorn in his side because he’d decided to be a pain in your ass. 

Of course, you ended up having nearly every class with him from first year on, so he had plenty of time to make you hate him all the more. Sometimes it was just stupid things, other times he made dangerous potions explode in your face. Your eyebrows had only just grown back from his previous stunt. Growling under your breath, you twisted your hair into a bun and stabbed a pencil through it. Potions was your next class and you were already pissed. Just the thought of Malfoy made your skin crawl. 

“Easy, (Y/N), you’re gonna pull your hair out if you keep at it,” Harry said, keeping a safe distance between the two of you. You grunted in response. 

“Come on, mate, you can’t let Malfoy ruin your day before you even see him,” Ron said. 

“My eyebrows just grew back,” You snarled. Both of the boys gave you a wider berth as Hermione fell into step beside you. She always seemed amused by how terrified the boys were of you. 

“You know, Ron’s right. You really shouldn’t let him,” She said. 

“I know,” You sighed, stopping just outside the classroom, “But he’s just such a... a...” 

“Vulgarian?” Hermione offered. You clicked your tongue. 

“I was gonna go with dickheaded ass face, but yours works too,” You said, shrugging. The three of you shared a giggle before heading inside for the longest hour of your life. 

Now, it wouldn’t be quite so bad if you sat with your friends, but oh no. Snape decided that you’d cause less trouble sitting beside Malfoy. That only lead to more disruptions and arguing, but he stood by his decision. Greasy bastard. Glaring, you tossed you bag by your stool and readied yourself for the usual arguments. 

“Merlin’s beard, (L/N), must you wear such a repulsive perfume?” Draco exclaimed, dramatically pinching his nose and waving his hand in the air. 

“Must you always wear such a repulsive mask?” You retorted. “Oh, that’s just your face.” 

 “How clever,” He sneered. 

“I thought so, Dragon,” You said. He glared at you. 

“It’s Draco, you filthy little mudblood,” He snarled. You placed your chin in your hand, letting a bored look settle over your face as you turned to the front of the room. 

“My condolences,” You deadpanned. By the sound of his offended snort, you knew you’d won this one. You could barely manage to keep the impending smile off your face as Snape stared you down. That was the worst part of sitting in the font. Snape always found a reason to yell at you. 

“Something funny, Miss (L/N)?” He asked. 

“No, sir.” He scrutinized you for a moment longer before finally beginning class. 

“Our next potion will be Amortentia, can anyone tell me what it is?” Snape droned. You knew exactly who the first hand to be up was. 

“Miss Granger.” 

“Amortentia is an extremely powerful love potion. If made correctly it should smell like one or multiple things a person loves. It smells different for every person,” She answered. You smiled. Go Hermione, you thought. 

“I believe I ask only what it was, Miss Granger. Ten points from Gryffindor,” He snapped. 

“Jerk,” You muttered, under your breath. 

“It’s a good thing no one loves you, (L/N), they’d get a nose full of that awful perfume you wear,” Draco whispered. You shot him a glare. 

“At least it wouldn’t smell like daddy issues and self importance,” You shot back. 

For the next hour, you were forced to listen to Snape drone on and on about the potion. You weren’t even going to make it until next week. On top of that, Draco just wouldn’t shut up. Usually he didn’t do much while Snape was talking, but he really had a bee in his bonnet today. By the end of class you were just happy you’d left your wand in your last classroom. You were pretty sure casting an unforgivable curse on someone in class was grounds for detention at the very least. 

“What did that chicken ever do to you?” Ron asked as you as you violently sunk your teeth into the drumstick. 

“She’s just upset because Malfoy won’t leave her alone,” Hermione said, closing her book and looking across the table at you. 

“Damn straight,” You said, glaring past your friends towards the blonde. He was currently making faces at you as well as crude gestures. You had a few crude gestures yourself. Feeling your friends eyes on you, you focused back on them. 

“Maybe you should try and relax a little,” Harry said, glancing down at the poor roll that you’d practically mutilated. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” You said, “I think I’ll go do some studying by the lake tonight and try to chill out a little.” 

“Good idea! It’s lovely out,” Hermione said, cheerfully. 

So that’s what you did. You took your books, a blanket, and an extra roll that you’d snagged from dinner and made your way to the lake. Hermione was right; it was a great night. The air was crisp and warm with a cool breeze blowing over the lake. Smiling, you set out your blanket, laid on your stomach, and opened up your divination book. A soft wind blew towards you carrying and earthy scent that you loved. Your eyes closed as you enjoyed it. 

The feeling of the last rays of the sun warming your back and the tickle of the grass where your feet went past the blanket was grounding. You could hear people skipping stones. It was nice. Everything was quiet and the lake was as still as ever. You could feel the stress melting away as you enjoyed your rare moment of peace. Not even your friends were there to disturb you. 

“Sitting out here with all your friends, (L/N)?” Nevermind. 

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” You grumbled. 

“Such foul language,” He gasped in a mock scandalized tone. 

“Don’t you have something better to do?” You asked, glaring up at him. 

“Not particularly,” He said, smirking at you. 

“You know, with the amount of time you spend following me around, I’m beginning to think you have a crush on me,” You said, looking up at him. He snorted indignantly. 

“You’d like that wouldn’t you, (L/N)?” He spat. You rolled your eyes, sitting up. So much for you relaxing trip to the lake. 

“Sure, I mean, who wouldn’t want Slytherin’s finest bigot asshole?” With that you began gathering your things. Just one time you’d like him to just walk by you without saying anything. All you wanted was a little bit of peace and quiet, but, apparently, that was too much to fucking ask. 

“Say that again,” He challenged, drawing his wand. Instinctively, you disarmed him because he was close enough to do it by hand. Without even thinking, you turned and hurled it into the lake. 

“Oops,” You said feigning innocence. 

“You filthy little mudblood! My father will hear about this!” He sapped. You rolled your eyes. 

“Sure, Dragon, whatever,” You said, brushing past him. A little smile took over your lips as you turned back to watch one of his friends use a spell to fish it out of the lake. You almost wished you were sorry. 

You’d almost made it inside when Draco caught up with you. He grabbed your shoulder, spinning you to look at him. If looks could kill, you’d be dead ten times over. His entire neck and face were taken by an angry flush that you knew all too well. The red he turned had become your favorite color. You watched him with the best look of cool indifference you could muster. Part of you wanted to laugh and the other wanted to flat out deck him in the face for laying a hand on you. You did neither. 

“I’ll get you for that,” He growled. 

“Okay,” You said. 

“I mean it, (L/N), I’ll make your miserable like a living hell,” He said darkly. You blinked slowly at him. 

“You literally already do that. Can I go now?” You could almost see the smoke pouring from his ears, but he released you.

By the time you were supposed to make Amortentia, the trio and Draco’s friends had to keep the two of you physically separated. You had been at one another’s throats all week. Everyone was a little concerned that you’d slit one another’s throats if you weren’t kept apart. It was probably true. 

Well, it just made you all the more glad when Draco didn’t show up for potions. You hadn’t exactly had a lot of time to get ready this morning, so you were happy he wasn’t around to comment. You hadn’t even had time to put on your perfume. Grumbling, you finished off the potion just as the blonde walked through the door. Think of the devil and he shall appear, apparently. Snape made no mention of the fact that he was late. You watched as he made his way to your desk with his face all scrunched up. 

“Merlin, (L/N), did you bathe in that damn perfume?” He asked, glaring at you. 

“I’m not wearing any, you damn fool,” You snapped. 

“As Miss Granger pointed out, if done correctly,” Snape shot a pointed look at you, “It should smell like something you love. Would anyone care to share what they smell?” Surprisingly, Draco’s hand was the first in the air. 

“Mr. Malfoy.” 

“It smells foul, like too much perfume,” He said. You glared at him, taking a wif yourself.

It smelled offensively masculine. Clean, but offensively masculine nonetheless. It smelled expensive and oddly familiar. You weren’t sure what it was exactly. You knew it from somewhere. You sniffed it again. It wasn’t your dad or any of your friends. There was also the underlying scent of fresh linen. What was it? Where had you smelled it before? It bothered you. 

“Mine smells like fresh linen and very masculine,” You said, staring Draco down. 

“I smell old books as well,” He said, staring back with narrowed eyes. 

“I smell something old and expensive.” 

“Like you’d know what that smells like,” He huffed. You were kinda surprised that Snape was just letting the two of you go back and forth like this. 

“Oh? And just what else do you smell?” You asked. He leaned close to the potion, sniffing delicately at it. 

“Chocolate,” He said, slowly, “And something earthy?” 

“How original,” You said, rolling your eyes. 

“You try it then.” You leaned down, copying his prior movements. You could just make out the smell of clean, crisp air. In a strange way, it smelled like Quidditch. You couldn’t really explain how though. Even deeper under that, you could smell a strong black tea. 

“Tea and what I can only describe as Quidditch,” You said. He gave you a withering look before turning to look at Snape. 

Snape stared down at the two of you like he couldn’t believe how stupid you were. When you glanced back to Hermione, she had the same look on her face. You eyes flicked between the two attempting to decipher why they held that expression. Snape stared down his nose at Draco like he was waiting for an answer of some sort. You blinked slowly. What could they possibly be looking at the two of you like that for? You ran over your list of scents again in your head before it hit you. When it did, you nearly fell over. You were smelling Draco in your Amortentia! 

“Sir, I’m feeling a little ill, may I leave?” You asked, suddenly feeling woozy. He looked at you, nodding once. 

“Miss Granger, please escort her back to her dorm and hurry back,” He said. 

“Yes, sir,” She said, leading you out. You only made it around the corner before she said something. 

“Figure it out?” She asked smugly. 

“Figure what out?” You asked nervously. 

“Did you figure out what you were smelling or, who, rather,” She laughed. You felt heat rush up your neck. 

“I smelled Malfoy, didn’t I?” You said. She nodded, looking incredibly amused. 

“I believe so.” Great. That pretty much drove the final nail into your coffin. You finally had to face something you’d been running from since you were thirteen and you weren’t happy about it. 

[divagonzo]

Do you think they practiced, umm the word is also a slur so Tagging with an F instead of T, at Hogwarts? It was apparently a common thing at british boarding schools, and I can easily see Draco Malfoy and other students like him practice it (it was basically a younger student being the servant of an older one, and they would bully them and make them do all sorts of menial tasks)

*Took a few for the brain cells to rub together*

Honestly? That might be something almost exclusively in Slytherin House (and maybe some other lads for the younger ones) but I think the idea would be dead on arrival if anyone in the other houses tried it, especially in my House (Hufflepuff.)

I can see Ernie McMillian and maybe Zacharias Smith trying it but then having someone put a bee in their bonnet that if they didn’t cease immediately then they might find themselves in serious jeopardy from others in the house. (Those two would have been ickles my 7th year and I doubt they’d want to cross a Dragon for such foolishness.)

But I want to delve the idea for a moment here if anything to amuse myself tonight.

Young Mr. Malfoy walks in brash as can be into the Slytherin common room and start that mess in on, say, Marcus Flynt and Marcus, being another Pureblood, puts Young Master Malfoy in his place immediately, and gets him schlepping for him the entire first year - when the others are “released” at Halloween. (Because he’s a cheeky sod and Mr. Flint probably thought it might do him some good. It didn’t.)

But for giggles, let’s imagine that Mr. Flint had Young Master Malfoy tidying their dorm room, making beds, running to the kitchen to get a late night snack. He’s constantly complaining, mentioning servants and his father. Each time he complains, his servitude lasts another day. By the end of the first fortnight, he’s guaranteed to keep at it ‘til Easter.

And he only realizes later he’s the last one doing it because the other guys knew when to shut it and endure it. Mr. Malfoy never learned that vital lesson, even when his father was curt with him in an early letter.

And when his complaining continues, Mr. Flint has him tidying other rooms, including head Boy and girl, etc.

it’s only when Lucius hears Draco whining to his Mum about “being made to do servant stuff” and “They should be doing it for me” that his father intervenes (and this is after the end of term and tells him that he missed a vital and important lesson, one that every Malfoy before him learned - that some things you have to endure quietly while biding  your time.

Mr. Malfoy never does learn patience or quiet endurance until years later.  He’s always running his mouth about something. Poor Astoria learns early on to tune him out when he’s whining about the inequities of his existence. 

His tune changes the first time he lays eyes on the Toe-headed blond green eyed lad named Scorpius.

After that, he only complains to her behind closed doors where his son can’t hear about it.

[mystery-moose]

BIG OL’ WIP LIST

List all the things you’re currently working on in as much or little detail as you’d like, then tag some friends to see what they’re working on.

I got tagged by @philosoverted, who has been wonderfully supportive of all her friends’ writing even when it’s for fandoms she isn’t even a part of. Because she’s fantastic.

I’m going to be kind of vague with some of these, though, because I like to preserve some semblance of surprise for anyone who happens to be following me for writing!

I’d put them behind a cut but apparently tumblr hates readmores right now? So instead I’ll just apologize for this long post that’s about to break your dash please i’m sorry it’s not my fault tumblr sucks eggs

AMatMMP

This is the direct sequel to Angus McDonald and the Flight of the Flying V. It is very long, not the longest thing I’ve ever written (yet) but certainly the longest thing I’ll have finished when it’s finally done. It’s also very complicated, because I like mysteries and plots and hate myself. I especially hate what I’ve done by setting it so close after the first one because it means I can’t write anything else with these characters until I’ve finished this.

But I swear to you and God and whoever is listening: this summer it’s happening.

Shelter

Think of everything I’ve ever written. Thematically and emotionally. Now, multiply it by a thousand and make it even more self-indulgent. You should have some idea of what Shelter is. It’s not plot-heavy (thank christ) and it doesn’t have any action or adventure. But it is everything I’ve connected with over the past year and a half, made into a single super-specific-to-me thing that stretches into a hazy future that I might never actually finish. But the fun thing is I don’t have to finish it, necessarily; I just want to write enough to get to the One Big Moment, the thing I’ve been thinking about since, oh, a year ago. That’ll act as enough of a catharsis that I can feel good about posting it, if I never end up finishing the rest.

Basically this is the epitome of me being Back On My Bullshit. I adore it. Someday soon, I hope to start posting it. Probably after AMatMMP, though.

Money and Fame (working title)

A few months ago I came up with a little adventure for Taako and Kravitz to go on. I really liked it at the time, but I waffled on writing it because I felt like... well, it involves Sazed, and I thought I might be being too charitable to him? But I haven’t been able to get a couple scenes of it out of my head, so it’s almost certainly getting written at some point. But it’ll likely be a much shorter, more focused thing than my usual plot-heavy junk. No flashbacks in this one, I don’t think!

The Lucretia Longfic (title TBD)

I got a bee in my bonnet last summer (thanks to @epersonae and her posse) and wrote, like, twenty thousand words of a Lucretia thing. I’ve since realized that it is Bad, and needs so, so much more time than I was giving it. It’ll happen at some point, I’m sure -- I like Lucretia too much to never finish it -- but it’s... she’s probably the best character with the strongest arc in the entirety of TAZ, and she deserves the best I’ve got, and my best so rarely feels like enough for her.

Candlenights

This is set after AMatMMP, so it’s getting finished after AMatMMP. It’s a meet-the-fam fic, with almost zero conflict whatsoever, but I’ve since realized it needs a different third act and I haven’t figured out how to end the damn thing. I’ve got a few thousand words for it already, but as soothing as I find writing it, this might not get finished for a while.

Fighting Words

This was gonna be a simple little series of one-shots for each of the THB (and maybe the IPRE) just gettin’ into some scraps. It’s still going to be that thing, but it’s just been set aside for a long time in favor of, uh, every other project I’ve got going. I’ll get back to it when I feel like posting something in short order, I’m sure.

The Great Taako-Burnsides Fight (title TBD)

I wrote a whole outline for a thing where Taako gets into a fight with Magnus about Lucretia, and then Magnus literally throws him out of his house and Taako feels really bad about it for like a week and Magnus fumes for a bit and then there’s a big ol’ forced sit-down with Lucretia and it’s yet another vision of mine for how Taako and Lucretia could ever, like, be okay again. It’s like the third version of this idea that I’ve plotted out (the Lucretia Longfic and Bygones being the other two) because apparently I’m just really into semi-forgiveness, as a concept. The funny thing? I’ve kind of settled on one that’s my personal “canon” for how it happens, and the other two are just AUs. I don’t normally do that! Normally when I establish a personal “canon” that’s all I write. TAZ has been really weird for me, in a lot of ways.

Anyway, it might get written at some point? It’s not super long, in the outline I’ve got. But there’s so many other things above it at this point, I think it’ll only happen soon if I get a real hankerin’ for it.

Cycle 95

This is a semi-follow up to Cycle 71, but it’s a different thing. The gang ends up on a planet where the Light is being held by a farming town terrorized by raiders, and have been bullied by them for generations. They have to help them fight the bandits to get the Light. (Taako is frustrated and suggests just taking it by force, but the townsfolk make it clear they would die fighting.) They end up training the townsfolk over the course of a year, defeat the bandits, and save the town. Their victory is an inspiration to surrounding communities, who create their own bands of protectors clad in red, and long after the IPRE has left, their legacy remains in the peace they create.

So this is straight up some Seven Samurai bullshit, because why not? The twist is that the town elder is something of a prophet, and as the IPRE train the townsfolk, he has a solitary moment with each of the seven in which he gives them advice that foreshadows what they’ll go through on Abeir-Toril. It’s not a lot, certainly nothing that changes how anything goes down, but I enjoy the cutesy foreshadowing and reassurance of who each character has developed into. (The only person who doesn’t get one is Taako. He avoids the elder like the plague. He gets his own moment, to himself.)

I will almost assuredly write this someday. Probably soon. It’s just so much fun to me. And it won’t be that long, either! Comparable to Cycle 71, I’d imagine. As with anything in the Stolen Century, I’d want to keep it short. There’s just too much room to lose yourself in that arc, any single year could be a hundred thousand words, and I just refuse to fall into that hole.

AMatItCJ (working title)

This is the “Angus at Neverwinter University solves a mystery with the help of his college buddies/Persona-style Investigation Team” and it is VERY loosely plotted but will almost certainly be VERY long and TOO complicated and I REFUSE to write it, do you hear me, I REFUSE.

(I’ve got character outlines and a basic plot and a few flashbacks and a final parlor scene and that’s basically it. I’ve actually thought about collaborating with someone on it, but I’m afraid I’d be too much of a control freak about it. This one might never happen.)

TaakoQuest (title TBD)

Kravitz is taken by a demonic entity anathema to the Raven Queen and is trapped inside a plane where no celestial entity or emissary can venture, purely to taunt her. Lup and Barry are helpless. Every other member of the IPRE and the founding Bureau is long dead. The Raven Queen asks Taako to do it. So he does.

This one literally came to me in the car ride home tonight, when I was thinking about Luster and how much I enjoyed the Taako-as-scientist scenes in that fic. I might write down some bits and pieces for it right now. It won’t be long. Maybe won’t even be multi-chapter. It’s just yet another exercise in showing Taako caring for other people through action, and in which he gets to act like a total baller.

I have very few settings, apparently.

This’ll almost certainly get written at some point, but maybe not soon. I’ve still got school stuff to do, but I like the bits I’ve thought of enough that I’ll almost certainly inflict them on you all at some point. But don’t worry, it won’t be nearly as emotionally harrowing as Luster. I can be cruel, but not THAT cruel.

THE ULTIMATE MOST SELF-INDULGENT GARBAGE EVER WRITTEN

I love Pyre.

I love schmoopy, slow-burn romance.

I will probably finish this someday.

I will never post it.

THAT’S IT

I’m almost certainly forgetting one or two, but I’m pretty sure that this is all I’ve got percolating in my head and WIP folder right now.

I’m sorry it’s so long, and I’m extra sorry I’m so bad at writing things regularly.

But I’m not sorry I don’t post things until they’re finished. I learn from my mistakes. I will never leave my readers hanging again!!

oh i guess i have to tag some people huh

uhhhhhhh @orchidcactus @fistfulofgammarays @anonymousalchemist @marywhal aaaaaaaand @emi--rose

TELL ME YOUR SECRETSSSS

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 8

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 7 - Chapter 9

Chapter 8- Blood

~~~

Since meeting Sherlock, I’ve tried to remind myself that things aren’t always as they seem. Just when you think you have the bad guy, it turns out to be a ruse or a red-herring. It’s always someone you least expect, but are never surprised about in the end.

~~~

Sherlock wasn’t one to leave questions unresolved.

He requested the security footage from the hospital immediately after Amelia was discharged and he was back on his feet. The first viewing had been largely uneventful until he spied a coated figure entering Amelia’s room.

He waited until the figure returned to the hall, his eyes glued to his laptop screen. The timing lined up perfectly with when he and John were fumbling around the lab area. Barely five minutes had passed when the figure walked out of the room and stole a bold look at the security camera.

Sherlock’s stomach dropped and he snapped the laptop shut, practically tossing it onto the desk, as if the action would change what he’d just seen on the screen.

“I swear John, you’re going to get us banned from Tesco,” Amelia was complaining, entering the flat with a bundle of bags in her hands. “The coupon was expired.”

“Not all of us have limitless funds to spend willy-nilly,” the doctor countered. “It was a good deal and it was ridiculous they weren’t honoring it.”

“It was three dollars,” she sighed, setting the bags in the kitchen. Unbundling herself from her bundle of clothes, she looked over at Sherlock. “You look like you saw a ghost, you alright?"

Sherlock snapped his attention back at her, mechanically nodding his head. He grabbed his laptop, shuffling away to his bedroom, asking not to be disturbed.

“But we’re making curry-!” Amelia tried shouting after him, frowning when the door to his room slammed shut. “What’s got the bee in his bonnet?”

“He gets moody sometimes,” John shrugged it off, unpacking the groceries and stuffing them into the fridge and pantry. “I tend not to worry until he doesn’t leave the room for a few days.”

Amelia pursed her lips, unsure what to say. She’d seen plenty of his fits, but this seemed different. He looked unsettled, almost… dare she say it, scared.

“We’ll make sure there’s some extra,” she decided, trying to throw a little pep into the statement as she started digging out cooking utensils.

“Good luck with that,” John laughed, shaking his head.

~~~

“William Scott Sherlock Holmes,” Amelia stood outside the detective’s bedroom door, her hand on her hip, a plate of steaming curry and rice in the other. “If you just open the door and take the food, this would all be over.”

There was no response.

Sighing, she fidgeted with the lock. Of course it was far more complicated than the ones she’d grown up with, where one could shove a bobby pin into the hole and unlock the door.

“I’ll kick the door down,” she threatened with another knock.

“I’d like to see that, to be perfectly honest,” came Sherlock’s response.

“Just take your dinner so I can go back to my evening,” she sighed, leaning her head against the wooden door. “I have important things to do.”

The door opened, revealing an amused Sherlock in the doorway.

“Important things?” he asked, taking the plate and setting it on the bed behind him.

“It’s almost Thanksgiving,” she reminded him.

“We don’t do that here,” he replied dryly.

“Or whatever thing you all call it- Harvest Festival, semantics. It involves lots of food and people,” she rolled her eyes. “You were standing right next to me, remember? I guess my uncle wanted to do something with the family, and invited Mrs. Hudson… it’s next week and I still have to track down Molly and Greg to invite them, plus John’s giving me Mycroft’s number…”

“Do not invite him,” Sherlock shut the door, locking it for emphasis. Amelia heard his footfalls on the other side before he settled on the bed, the frame creaking slightly.

“I have a meeting with him tonight, you know?” she continued through the door. “About the case? Apparently there was another whistleblower who gave him my information.”

Silence.

“Though, I suspect, given from what John’s told me about him, he’s well aware of both my involvement and our activities, despite your best intentions,” she waited, listening for any movement.

More silence.

“The whistleblower was Jessica Reynolds,” Amelia paused, hearing a shift on the bed. “John and I talked to him on the phone yesterday, filling him in while you were getting permission for the security footage.”

The door opened abruptly again.

“You told him?” he asked, exasperated.

“Not everything, but I figured that would get you to open the door,” she grinned. “Did you want to come with me tonight? John is busy, going to a late show with the teacher. I’m a little nervous to go alone.”

“You should be,” Sherlock sighed. “He’s the absolute worst.”

“That’s a pretty high bar for you,” Amelia mused.

“He’s going to be condescending, it might be best if I go alone,” he suggested, but Amelia chuckled.

“He was a perfect gentleman over the phone,” she pointed out. “Besides, I live with you. I think I can handle an older version.”

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” Sherlock warned tersely.

“I’m leaving in an hour,” she smiled. “Don’t forget mittens and a hat. It’s cold out.”

~~~

“Subtle,” Amelia commented when a black town car pulled up outside Baker Street. “Is everything is ostentatious with him…?”

“Wait until you see the Diogenes Club,” Sherlock murmured, grabbing his coat and scarf, ushering Amelia out the door. The weather had taken a slight turn for the worst, the windy evening adding a bit of sleet once the sun had set.

“Good evening,” Anthea greeted, typing at her phone when the pair had settled into the backseat of the car.

“Anthea,” Sherlock greeted with a curt nod of his head. “Mycroft’s assistant.”

Amelia hummed in acknowledgement, watching the woman’s fingers type at rapid speed across the device.

It was terrifyingly impressive.

The drive to the Diogenes Club was spent mostly in silence, with Amelia occasionally looking down at her own phone to answer texts from Mrs. Hudson or Ruthie about the upcoming dinner.

“Anthea, does Mycroft have an opening in his schedule for this upcoming Sunday evening?” Amelia asked, elbowing Sherlock when he tried to protest. “We’re having a dinner and I know both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson would love for him to join us.”

Amelia could have sworn she saw the tiniest smile on Anthea’s face, but the assistant remained professional, making a note and letting her know that she’d double check, to Sherlock’s horror.

“I hate you,” the detective muttered.

“Hate is a feeling of passion, don’t forget,” Amelia reminded him, patting his hand.

“We’re here,” Anthea broke contact with her phone to look at the large white building.

“You have to stay silent, unless you’re in one of the meeting rooms,” Sherlock explained as they were guided out of the car and through the club.

“You’re kidding me…?” Amelia asked, but fell silent when they entered the ornate space, noting that the large collection of members were all quietly attending to their business.

Anthea opened a large wooden door, waiting for the pair to move inside.

“Thank you Anthea,” Mycroft folded a book shut, moving from behind a large desk once the door had been closed. “Sherlock, I didn’t expect to see you this evening. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I wasn’t interested in letting you verbally attack my flatmate,” Sherlock shot back, dropping into one of the chair near a large fireplace with a huff.

“He’s in a mood today,” Amelia warned, pulling her gloves off and shaking Mycroft’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he gestured to the seat next to Sherlock. “Please.”

Amelia shot Sherlock a look that said ‘behave’, while the detective rolled his eyes.

“She’s nervous,” Sherlock stated, earning a scowl from Amelia’s direction.

“This is all formalities,” Mycroft sat across from the pair, gesturing to the tea set in front of him. “Tea?”

“No thank-,” Amelia started but Sherlock helped himself.

“Americans,” he smirked toward his older brother.

“Did you bring the data in question?” he cut to the chase and Amelia fished through her bag, pulling out the thin external hard drive.

“Everything we have, including, the equations for the contaminated spores,” she passed it to him.

“But no cure?” he asked the pair, turning the thin memory drive over in his hands. “What a shame.”

“We’re working on it,” Sherlock cut in.

“I imagine you reviewed the hospital footage?” Mycroft asked. “What a miraculous turn of events.”

“I did,” Sherlock challenged, sitting up. “Did you?”

“Of course,” his brother’s gaze briefly flickered to Amelia, returning to Sherlock before she could even notice. “Dr. Brenner, how are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you,” Amelia replied. “A little frustrated that we haven’t fully worked out the ‘cure’, but I’m sure we’ll be able to figure something out once you’re able to access the more up to date records.”

“This should be more than enough to put that into action,” Mycroft promised, tucking the hard drive into his pocket. “Though I must admit, I’m disappointed, having heard such high praise of your skills.”

Amelia looked like she’d been caught off guard by the subtle shift in tone. Sherlock, instead, jumped in to try and at least try to save her dignity.

“Is that all?” Sherlock asked, standing up, pulling Amelia up with him. “Because we did have business to attend to this evening.”

“Aside from wallowing in that decrepit hole you call a home?” Mycroft chided back.

“The smell is almost gone,” Amelia insisted jokingly, trying to pull back to the formal conversation they’d begun with. Sherlock could see the nerves fading as she analyzed the exchange.

“Charming,” came Mycroft’s reply. “Though if you’re using the place as a make-shift lab, I would be concerned about cross contamination and the confidence of your calculations.”

Oh.

Amelia’s jaw clenched.

Sherlock kept his mouth shut, knowing full well the storm that was about to be unleashed.

“Excuse me?” Her voice raised slightly in pitch, still trying to maintain a polite demeanor. It was Amelia after all, and she was infamously friendly, even to those rude to her face.

But when someone challenged her research or intelligence?

“Did you work at the bodily fluid coated kitchen table or the dust covered desk in the living area?” He continued.

Sherlock knew his brother was confident he was poking a nerve. It didn’t take a genius to recognize the level of pride Amelia Brenner put into her work.

Still, it was amusing for Sherlock to watch. Mycroft had no idea the dangerous waters he was wading into.

It was phenomenal.

“If myself or your brother did work within Baker Street, do you really think us so stupid that we wouldn’t properly sanitize our workspace when dealing with components of quite literal life or death?” She challenged sharply, scowling at the government official.  “We both are quite well educated in the basics of scientific process, though I imagine that must be difficult to fully understand when you’ve probably never stepped into a lab.”

“I’ll just have to make sure my people can replicate the results,” he replied, unfazed by the lashing. “You’ll have to forgive my hesitation in fully trusting the research of a disgraced scientist and the daughter of a CEO whose company I’m now investigating for fraudulent medications.”

Sherlock saw dozens of emotions flash through Amelia’s expression at that.

Considering her options, she threw on a smile.

Oh. Oh.

“Let me know if you have any trouble with interpreting the equations,” she replied calmly. “There’s a lot of big numbers, and some of them even have letters, so it might be a bit confusing. After all, you seem to have trouble taking all variables into consideration before jumping to conclusions.”

She reached for her phone in her pocket, pretending to be surprised by something.

“Look at that,” she feigned an apologetic look. “Ruthie is calling. I have to take this outside. Very important stuff. She might not have the right sweet potato recipe.”

She left the room in a huff, accidentally leaving her scarf on the seat. Sherlock plucked it up, tucking it under is arm.

“For the record, Ruthie did not call,” Sherlock stated. “She just dislikes you.”

“I like her,” Mycroft confessed. “A bit emotional, but she isn’t dull. John is too accommodating sometimes, you need someone around with a solid head on their shoulders.”

“She’s solidly stubborn,” Sherlock replied. “Trust me, it’s exhausting.”

“I’ve heard she is quite keen in ensuring you make decisions that don’t involve self sacrifice.”

“As I said, exhausting,” he replied, moving toward the exit. “I should make sure she isn’t trying to set your car on fire.”

“I’ll see you on Sunday,” Mycroft called out with a final grin.

~~~

On the rid back to Baker Street, Amelia kept her opinions about Mycroft Holmes to herself.

She hadn’t decided if she truly disliked him, or if he had just been playing games with her (much like his younger brother, who thrived on coming up with new ways to make her lose her mind).

Sherlock had fallen back into his mood the duration of the ride. Answering any questions Amelia chimed toward him with nods or grunts.

Regardless of what John said, something was wrong, and she knew he wasn’t going to give it up unless she shook it out of him.

The town car came to a stop outside of Baker Street and Sherlock all but sprinted back to the apartment building before Amelia could get a word in. She looked apologetically at Anthea, who was back to her phone and didn’t notice.

Fortunately, the front door was locked, so that bought Amelia a little time to catch up with her friend.  When Amelia intercepted him, she caught him by the arm, standing in the middle of the living room with a concerned frown.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked. “I mean, we don’t have to do anything this Sunday. I’m sure Ruthie would have no problem hosting.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned. “No, that's not what I’m- Sunday is fine.”

“What is it?” she released his hand, giving him permission to leave if he so choose. Her eyes searched his expression, trying to read any change he would allow her. “The hospital footage.”

It was more of a statement than a guess, but Amelia knew she’d hit the spot when he began denying it. It explained the strange exchange between Mycroft and Sherlock a few moments earlier.

“How bad?” she pressed, but stopped when she saw his face pulling into a sour expression. “I guess, you don’t have to tell me, I do trust you. It just doesn’t… you shouldn’t have to burden yourself with something on your own. It isn’t fair to you.”

He considered her words, or at least, that’s what Amelia could interpret as he stood with his shoulders back and his body language stiff.

“It wasn’t good,” he finally admitted. Amelia could feel his gaze sweeping over her, observing her, waiting for a reaction or another barrage of questions.

“We didn’t catch anything in the bloodwork that would have raised any red flags,” she reasoned, trying to remain optimistic. It was becoming more difficult these days. “Maybe… you’re overthinking it?”

“I’m not,” he looked miserable, an unusual state for the normally confident detective. He took a breath, turning toward his room in what Amelia assumed was an escape.

Instead, to her surprise, he returned with his laptop.

Setting it on the desk in the living room, he pressed play in the section he’d replayed hundreds of times that day.

Amelia hunched over the device, watching the graining footage shift slightly when a man with a familiar build walk confidently into her room with a bouquet of flowers. None of the nurses even batted an eyelid.

“John had just stepped out, hadn’t he?” she asked, and Sherlock nodded with a low noise of acknowledgement.

“Watch,” he pulled her focus back to the screen where the man was exiting the hospital room.

The man walked out of the room, stealing a look at the camera, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

“Do you know him?” Amelia asked quietly. She felt like her blood had chilled when she saw that familiar smile. That same smile that had dumped the near lethal spores in her lap not even two weeks previously.

“I do,” Sherlock looked to Amelia, waiting for her to fully process the information.

The last few seconds of the video continued on a loop on the screen.

“It’s same man from the train station,” she met his gaze. “Why would he…?”

“You wouldn’t have recognized him,” Sherlock’s voice was low, his attention returning to the computer screen. “And of course I should have dug deeper into the financial records, it would have been clear once I’d isolated individual transactions-”

“Who is he?” Amelia’s interrupted, her voice shaky. “He wasn’t in the shop when it burnt down…”

“He wouldn’t have been,” Sherlock assured her quietly. “He doesn’t work for people. He works for himself.”

“If that’s… who I think it is…?” she could feel the blood draining from her cheeks.

“Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock confirmed, pausing the screen when the infamous criminal looked up at the camera. “And for some reason, he changed his mind about killing you.”

Chapter 9