#Well its implied. Why else is he wearing a way oversized shirt in the middle of the night

[hajihiko]

what if.

[vivpurple7]

Poison In The Dark |4| Normal

Pairing: BTS OT7 x reader

Rating: explicit

Genre: mafia au, 1.4k

Summary: You can’t run from your past, no matter how hard you try. The shadows are scary, but why does it feel so much like home?

Warnings for series: poly, mafia, blood, guns, violence, fighting, swearing, illicit and legal drug mentions, weapons, arson, near death, torture, smut (eventual and mentions/implied), some crack (or attempts at it)

A/N: This is so much fun to write, I hope you guys are enjoying it so far! Feel free to let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist however you'd like to tell me, or ask me/characters questions! 

Taglist:@nanie5, @geminidrawsstuff, @sami4life, @missseoulite, @xxqueenwxtchxx, @daydreambrliever

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The next morning you wake up, startled to find yourself in an unfamiliar bed. Right, the events of yesterday come flooding back, instantly giving you a headache at, what time was it, 5 in the morning according to your phone. Last night after the much needed bath, you had walked over and knocked on Jungkook’s door wondering if he had any spare clothes that you could change into. He had opened the door, saw that it was you, and stared for a good minute. You had waved your hand in front of him to try and catch his attention, but it seemed as if his mind was imploding. Hoseok had coincidentally come up the stairs with a mug in hand, and chuckled at his youngest brother.

“Jungkookie~” he sang as he made his way to stand in front of the poor boy.

“I think I just broke him.”

At that, Hobi had laughed and turned his little brother around and pushed him back into his room. He turned and winked at you before closing the door. Muffled talking and loud shuffling was heard, then silence. After a moment, the door was reopened and Jungkook’s hand appeared, shoving a bundle of clothes to you. You take it, thanking him, before he quickly closes the door again, with a blush evident on his cheeks. It didn’t come to mind that Hobi never emerged from Jungkook’s room. You had shuffled back to your room, changed, and plopped yourself onto the inviting bed.

  You find yourself in the luxurious bathroom, slowly waking up in Jungkook’s oversized T-shirt and too-large sweatpants. Stomach grumbling, you quickly throw your hair in a messy bun and make your way down the stairs and head for the kitchen. Surprised to already smell the comforting scent of coffee, Seokjin greets you with a warm smile. “Good morning Y/N! Did you sleep well?”

You nod, not trusting your morning voice yet.

“I’m making breakfast. Pancakes okay?”

You nod again, smiling shyly. Jin turns back to the stove, humming as he concentrates on making breakfast for everyone. Slowly, the other boys emerge from their rooms. Taehyung strolls in, bedhead in tow, as he stretches and yawns. Making grabby hands to Jin, the eldest passes him a cup of coffee and Taehyung sits down a seat away from you on the island table. He doesn’t notice you until he’s taken his first couple of sips, and grabs his chest dramatically as if he’s shocked to see you. He quickly composes himself before mumbling a good morning greeting. You hum in response as you nurse your own cup of coffee. The rest are lured from their beds with Jin’s brilliant cooking skills and show up in a similar fashion as Taehyung. Namjoon doesn’t show up for breakfast. Jungkook politely greets you but avoids your gaze throughout breakfast.

  “So Y/N, I wanna set you up with some stuff. Boss said you can go home and get your belongings after.” Yoongi drawls in between bites of pancake.

Confusion flits across your face, causing Yoongi to chuckle. “Don’t worry, it’s just safety protocol shit.”

You nod, trying to wrap your head around what could he possibly want to set you up with. You follow Yoongi to his office, and you notice on the door hangs a sign “Genius Lab”. You smile to yourself as he directs you to sit in one of the chairs.

“Hand me your phone for a sec.” Yoongi proceeds to plug your phone in, and starts typing on his computer. His lab isn’t small, but crowded with all the technological knick knacks he’s got laying around, as well as the massive six desktop screens he’s got going on. Yoongi proceeds to speak to you, while his eyes are trained on his screens.

“As you can see, I have eyes and ears everywhere. Now on your phone too.” He unplugs your phone and hands it back to you before he’s wheeling himself over to one of the shelves and digging around until he finds whatever he’s trying to find.

  He comes back to you and hands you a black metal ring. At first glance, it looks like any other thick-banded ring, but you have a feeling that it isn’t as simple as you think.

“Wear this. Choose your finger wisely. It’ll tighten to fit on the finger. I won’t go into detail and bore you, but essentially this gives me access to your location and transmits sound back to me. You won’t be able to remove it unless you chop your finger off, or if your swipe your thumb on the top. Swiping on the underside activates the camera, and again to turn it off. Got it?” Yoongi demonstrates to you as you stare.

  “So, you’ll know where I am always, and who I’m talking to and what I’m doing twenty-four seven?” You ask incredulously. You weren’t keeping secrets or anything, but that seems like an invasion of your privacy. Yoongi scoffs.

“Look Y/N, you’re important, but not that important. I keep tabs on everyone but I have other shit to do and track. It’ll only be when we need you or if it’s pertinent. If it makes you feel better, all the other guys have one. I have one too. Safety first, right?” He tilts his head, and smirks.

You sigh before taking the ring from his palm and sliding it on your middle finger. Instantly, it tightens around your finger to the perfect size. Its unfamiliar heftiness makes you frown.

“You’ll get used to it. Take one of the cars from the garage and get going. Training starts in an hour.” Yoongi turns around, dismissing you. You roll your eyes as you make your way out, still fiddling with the ring.

  You bump into Hoseok, who wraps you around into a hug and lifts you off the floor, twirling you around. “Y/N!” he squeals as he sets you back on the ground.

“You’re really energetic, you know” you mumble as you try to gather your bearings.

“Don’t be afraid to say loud and annoying” another male voice joins the conversation. You peer behind Hoseok’s shoulder and see Jimin smirking, flawlessly dressed in a suit.

“Where are you headed?” he tilts his head, making his blond locks sway.

“Uh, just back to my place to get my stuff. And find coverage for the pharmacy.”

“Oh! That’s exciting! Don’t forget training is in an hour, and you’ll meet the rest of the gang. It’s going to be at the gym located behind the house. Jungkook’s running today’s session so you know it’s going to be ass.” Hobi chuckles as he spots today’s coach coming your way.

“Hey! I head that! I’ll make you run an extra lap!”

Hobi grunts in retaliation. “Aish. I’m getting old Jungkookie, be nice to your elders.”

Hobi hooks his arm around Jungkook’s neck as they start play-fighting.

Jimin stands to the side rolling his eyes. “Better get going or else you might not be able to leave”.

You duck your head as you quickly find your way to the garage.

  You manage to get to your apartment without a hitch, and you quickly head to your bedroom. You take out your duffle bag and begin throwing in clothes and other necessities, digging into the back of the closet and grabbing the darker colored clothes you had tried to hide from yourself. You sigh as you look around your small apartment, barer than it was several minutes ago. You make your way to the bed, and grunting, manage to push it to the side. Loosening one of the floorboards, your heartbeat quickens as you see the cold, hard silver metal suitcase you buried there. With shaking hands, you pry it out of its hiding spot and place it on the floor next to you. You unbuckle the clasps and take a deep breath, steadying yourself before lifting the lid. Sitting snugly in the perfectly carved out space within the protective padding, is your beloved Beretta 92 pistol and custom-made hand-weld blade. You don’t realize you’ve started crying until a teardrop falls onto your lap. You take a moment to revel in your emotions before sniffling and wiping away the snot with the back of your sleeve. You carefully re-clasp the buckles, pick up the full duffle bag and make your way to the front door. You glance back once more at your apartment, before closing the door to the normal life you had tried to live as over the years.

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 17

On Ao3

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC

Rated: M

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

Chapter 16 - Chapter 18

Chapter 17- Rue

~~~

'Tis the damn season.

~~~

December 26th- 1 am

As it turned out, Hades was a woman. Or so she proclaimed herself over the DJs speak system to a screaming crowd. The music was turned back up, drunken party-goers mashed into one another on the massive dance floor.

StyX certainly lived up to its reputation of leading people to darkness.

Sherlock had bribed a bartender in a back alley on a smoke break to let them in. Fortunately, he was able to find John suitable clothes for the scene, his own jacket and shirt blending in with the well-dressed clientele.

“So Jessica owns this place?” John asked his friend, trying his best to avoid staring at the nearly naked dancer on a nearby platform. “Not what I expected for her.”

“Last time I saw her she was throwing herself all over Amelia,” Sherlock mused. “Granted, she was diligent in her work. Here’s hoping she got the binge drinking under control.”

He scanned the room, looking to the edges for where an administrative suite might be located.

“Don’t you two stick out like a couple of sore thumbs,” a female voice laughed behind the men.

“Miss Reynolds,” Sherlock turned with a smirk on his face.

“Long time no see, Mr. Holmes,” she gestured over her shoulder for the men to follow her to a secluded hallway. “Moriarty mentioned you would be stopping by.”

The music was non-existent by the time they stepped into Jessica’s office.

It was a neatly organized, modern space, with no trace of the lewd debauchery outside.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t realize he was going to be kidnapping your girlfriend,” she continued with a low sigh. “Have a seat.”

Two black seats were in front of her large glass desk. She turned and started to rummage through a filing cabinet before taking a seat in her chair.

“He left this,” she slid an envelope across the desk.

“What did you tell him?” Sherlock demanded, eyeing the envelope. “Why would he help you set all of this up from your father’s accounts?”

“He’s laundering money through the bar,” she explained so casually, it almost didn’t seem like she was referencing a very serious crime. “I have one of my security guards pass his guy a large duffel bag every other week, and he makes sure my shithead of a father stays out of the picture.”

“He’s dead then,” John stated and she shrugged.

“As I’m sure you’ve done a full inventory of my life, he isn’t the best person,” she replied truthfully.

“Why are you telling us this?” Sherlock examined the envelope in the light, checking for any stray hairs or fingerprints.

“Because, despite how it looks on paper, I’m not a bad person,” she answered earnestly, leaning back a little in her chair. “Neurotic? Definitely. A little unstable? My therapist thinks so. But I do have good intentions.”

“If you had good intentions, you wouldn’t have gotten in bed with Moriarty,” Sherlock scoffed, peeling back the edge of the envelope. “He’s a maniac.”

“He has good business acumen,” Jessica frowned. “I’m not thrilled about it, but I needed my father's money to finally get my own. If he’d been indicted, it would have been locked up in legal fees and government agencies for years.”

“A nightclub is getting your own?” John snorted.

“I hire homeless folks,” she explained, narrowing her gaze at him. “People coming back into work, retirees who need a little spare income, addicts looking for a second chance. I’m on track to donate a quarter of my profits to local domestic abuse programs. I’m not a monster.”

“God, you sound just like-,” Sherlock stopped when he pulled out the card inside.

Written in neat script was a small snippet of dialogue from Hamlet.

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love,

remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.

There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you,

and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays.

O, you must wear your rue with a difference! There’s a daisy. I

would give you violets, but they wither’d all when my father

died. They say he made a good end.

“Ophelia,” Sherlock’s words were barely above a whisper, passing the paper to John.

“Wear your rue with a difference?” John looked at his friend. “Why is that underlined?”

“It’s the implication that I have different rue than the speaker,” Sherlock muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Rue for you and rue for me.”

“You can’t tell us anything about Moriarty’s whereabouts?” John demanded, waving the card toward Jessica.

“I can’t,” she replied softly. “He just told me that you’d be by after giving me the envelope. It was one of his security guys that mentioned Brenner.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Sherlock stood up abruptly, racing toward the door of the office, his mind moving at top speed.

Ophelia. What did he know about the character?

It inspired Amelia’s middle name, no coincidence there.  

Flowers. Intentional.

Ophelia went mad after Hamlet killed her father. She goes to the river and drowns.

But it isn’t intentional, or so it’s implied it isn’t.

She’s pulled into the river after falling in.  

But she doesn’t struggle and drowns in her misery.

There’s of course the medieval belief that Rue was a means of abortion.

No, Sherlock frowned. That was too barbaric for someone like Moriarty.

He’d pick his tortures carefully. Toying with his victims. He wanted to prove his genius. Show it off.

“Sherlock!” John caught up with the detective near the end of the block, grabbing his sleeve and shoving a phone in his friend's hand. “A body’s washed up. Molly’s meeting us in the morgue.”

~~~

Allison Nell, a 30-year-old real estate broker, avid swimmer. Newly engaged, but lost her fiancé during his deployment two weeks previously.

Suicide is the presumptive cause of death. Overdose of pills then wandered into the Thames.

“Why would you think otherwise?” Sherlock asked as Molly unzipped the body bag.

“Because of this,” she used a gloved hand to open a large incision in Allison’s stomach.

Pills.

Undigested pills.

Meaning they weren’t metabolized at the time of death.

“Toxicology shows a slight increase in the substance, but not a lethal dose. Or even a strong enough dose to render a woman of her size unconscious. It wasn’t the pills that killed her,” Molly explained, a small look of pity at the woman’s swollen, blue face.

“She drowned,” John lifted the police report and skimmed it over. “If she hadn’t passed out, why didn’t she swam to shore?”

Ophelia. A voice in the back of Sherlock’s mind whispered.

“Was she wearing winter garments?” he directed the question to Molly.

“A large wool coat, and heavy winter boots,” she confirmed with a nod.

“She was pulled down,” he decided. Against his better judgment, his gaze fell on the woman’s face. “With the shock of the cold water, she would have tired out, especially so with the extra weight pulling her down.”

All he could see was Amelia.

“She could have been trying to come back,” John realized, his expression set miserably. “Second guessed herself...”

“She likely fell into the river after trying to get help,” Sherlock pointed to the woman’s address. “Ran out of the house, and stumbled along an embankment, and slipped in.”

The trio stood in silence, considering the sad fate of the woman in front of them.

His phone chirped with a text message from an unknown number.

As one incapable of her own distress,

Or like a creature native and indued

Unto that element; but long it could not be

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,

Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay

To muddy death

~~~

“He wanted you to figure out how that woman died,” John was summarizing when they returned to Baker Street near dawn. “To tie it with the clue from Jessica... why am I getting deja vu? Is he going to lead us on another round of crimes to solve?”

Sherlock tossed his coat on the hanger by the door, stewing over the text while the men made their way up the stairs to the flat.

“I just don’t know what he’s trying to prove,” John huffed from behind. “You’ve done this before. What’s the difference?”

Sherlock stopped short at the landing, gaping into the main living room of 221B Baker Street.

Photographs of Amelia were taped all over the room, plastering the walls and bookcases with candid images that seemed to range in date from her first few weeks in London to the day she was taken.

“That’s the difference, John,” Sherlock breathed, trying his best to steady his heart rate. “He wants to prove that sentiment is a detriment.”

“He’s trying to use her to distract you,” John translated. “He’s waiting for you to slip up, but what does that mean for Mia?”

Before Sherlock could reply, both their phones indicated new messages.

A video message, followed by a second text: “Happy Christmas.”

Amelia, looking fiercely defiant was slamming her hands against a metal wall, screaming a song out of tune. She was still wearing the jeans and oversized red sweater from Christmas Eve. Her blue coat was discarded on the floor.

There was no furniture or windows, so far as Sherlock could tell from the video.

“Country roads, take me home to the place I belong,” she screeched. “West Virginia, mountain mama take me home, country roads!”

There was a significant amount of background noise and the flicker of an unseen screen outside the view of the camera. She continued her rebellious shriek, clearly trying to be louder than whatever else she was exposed to.

The clip cut off from there.

“Alive,” John whispered first, his shoulders deflating just a little. "She's alive."

It certainly was a bit of good news in an otherwise depressing evening.

~~~

January 3rd

Nothing.

Sherlock rewatched the video religiously.

He’d left the photographs on the wall, walking through the room over and over, hoping for any indication of a clue.

Nothing.

John made sure he ate. Mycroft had called once, only to confirm that they had no leads either.

Even Jessica Reynolds texted him to inform him that Moriarty’s men hadn’t made their scheduled pick-up.

Lydia Brenner was almost hysteric when she called from a secured government line. She begged him to find her daughter, knowing full well what Amelia’s fate was otherwise.

~~~

January 6th

13 days.

He received another video message.

It had no sound and was short, a five-second clip of Amelia slumped over in a metal chair.

Same room.

New clothes.

He threw his phone across the room with a shout, nearly decapitating John in the process.

~~~

January 11th

A single red rose was sitting on the fireplace mantle after Sherlock and John returned from a crime scene.

When the detective stepped forward, he must have hit a tripwire because the television flipped on a scene from Disney’s Sleeping Beauty.

“I know you I walked with you once upon a dream. I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam. And I know it’s true that visions are seldom all they seem. But if I know you, I know what you’ll do-,” and the scene repeated.

Over and over as Sherlock studied the simple flower.

“Briar rose!” John guessed, looking to his friend with a satisfied nod. “That’s the princess in the movie and the story. She gets locked up by the evil witch and rose thorns overgrow the grounds to stop people from saving her. She had to have true love’s kiss to wake up.”

"Why do you know this?” Sherlock quirked a brow, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

“I have a sister,” John shot back, growing defensive. “She was quite fond of the movie growing up.”

~~~

January 12th

Briar Rose Gardens is where they found the next clue, as well as a dead body, frozen on the ground from the cold winter air.

And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day,

Grown to this faction in the Temple-garden,

Shall send between the red rose and the white

A thousand souls to death and deadly night.

King Henry the Sixth. More Shakespeare.

More flowers.

At this point, Sherlock knew he was playing by Moriarty’s hand, whatever that may be.

At least, however, he was familiar enough with the Temple Gardens, practically dragging John along to their next destination.

“Rose plant… rose plant…” Sherlock was frantically searching the dormant gardens for the horned plants.

“Sherlock,” John held up a small envelope, a large rose plant next to him.

It was an invitation; a date and an address.

Chapter 18

[shoujofiedgirl]

He glows in the dark just a wee bit

what if.