#crime fiction fans

[screamingeyepress]

Step into the shadows with The Interior Decorator. An unexpected read for #noirvember. 🖤🔗https://www.screamingeyepress.com/pubs/rumble/the-interior-decorator-by-chauncey-haworth/

#noir #crimefiction #mystery

[that-anxious-enby]

why are there non-smutty hilson fics? if i wanted to see 2 old men live together, flirt, and have intense homoerotic tension with no payoff, id just watch the show???

[aardvaark]

i don’t mind suspending my disbelief for leverage’s person-sized ventilation shafts bc that’s pretty standard for the genre, but that doesn’t mean i won’t laugh a bit at some of the egregiously large vents. particularly in the crowning acheivement job (lev: red s2 finale) because - well just look at this lol! harry and parker, two adults, can kneel side by side in those vents. parker can sit upright.

that museum was made for vent crawling purposes. that’s just an extra room in the museum they forgot to decorate. the leverageverse has a thief union that successfully lobbied for a better working environment. these vents double as a playground for museum-goers’ children. i was crying with laughter thinking about this and harry’s vent crisis was NOT helping me remember that there was a serious heist thing going on lol, i love this show.

[mossysoupfrog]

MY WIFE (ao3) HAS COME BACK FROM WAR (scheduled maintenance) AFTER 30 YEARS AWAY (10 hours for which I was asleep for 9) OH HOW I HAVE MISSED HER

[megraen]

After about seven hours of Work, I have put together my variation of the CSI Las Vegas Crime Lab based on what I observed while binging the show. Why the fuck do I do this to myself...

Edit: Added in a storeroom. Edit 2: Added walk-in fridge.

Morgue drop off.

Morgue.

Morgue wash-off.

Morgue storage.

Morgue prep room.

Grissom's office.

Break room.

Evidence garage.

DNA lab.

Trace.

Audio and Video lab.

Ballistics.

Handwriting.

Layout room one.

Junior supervisor's office (Catherine).

Fingerprints.

Layout room two.

Layout room three.

Intermediate supervisor's office (Conrad Ecklie).

Reception.

Locker room/showers.

Woman's bathroom.

Men's bathroom.

Walk-in fridge.

Storeroom.

[robinsegghead]

Inspired by @glow-in-the-dark-death 's prompt Danny's Daycare! Chapter one and two are out! Let me know what you think!

[lucienne-thee-librarian]

Just to minimize my chances of being genuinely misunderstood OR deliberately misinterpreted, and crucified for something I don't think, How Dare You Say We Piss on the Poor website etc...I'm gonna say this right up top. I absolutely understand why people don't like Thessaly as a character, if anyone does completely unironically stan her as some kind of feminist hero who Did Nothing Wrong uwu, I personally see it as a bit of a red flag. I don't like terfs real or fictional. In a vacuum, I could even completely sympathize and agree with the people who want her cut.

HOWEVER.

It's really something to me to see people clamoring for her to be cut, because she carries and expressed an ugly indefensible prejudice (transphobia) in words towards (1) person. Meanwhile Hob fucking Gadling enacted one of the most violent forms of antiblack racism I can even think of against thousands no, millions of people, the ripple effects of which still affect billions more today. Just a little light idk, profiting off the fucking slave trade and had to be told by someone else that it was bad...and he's a fan favorite.

People are saying Thessally being Dream's love interest reflects badly on him or is somehow endorsement by the narrative (?!?!?!?!?!? Didn't she (SPOILER ALERT AS IF IT MATTERS BY NOW) help participate in his extended assisted suicide? She's not painted as a great person to me just another character what are y'all SMOKING whatever fine. It's fine this is fine.) But shipping Dream with Mr. Former Slaver is not only not verboten or frowned on widely in the fandom but its THEE most popular pairing by far. So...why the difference?

Like where are the same fans who are saying Thessaly shouldn't just be more clearly shown to be wrong, she shouldn't even be in the show at all when it comes to Hobert's crimes??? Yes, transphobia is indefensible. Isn't racism?

And I hear the cries of "it's fiction!!!" Already rallying (if anyone who needs to hear this even sees it lol) to which I say:

HORSESHIT. I KNOW you don't, deep down, really agree because if you did, why get upset about Thessaly being included??? Why does what she said to one person matter if it's Just Fiction You Guyze. Fictional characters are allowed to do bad things and fiction isn't reality sweaty....except when you only apply that standard to fictional racists you like and simp for, but fictional transphobes you don't are SO HARMFUL they shouldn't even be portrayed in fiction.

Like. Give me a big fat BREAK. This looks like bullshit, no? I'm sorry, but I'd love for someone to try and give any other explanation besides one personally offended you or hit home for you, and the other doesn't.

And if that bothers you or you feel like it says something negative about you...idk what you want me to say??? You can't control how other people perceive you and that's how people outside this majority-of-the-fandom bubble see it. You don't need to respond, I just wish and genuinely hope this gives you a moment to think about why fans who ARE bothered by both (and not just paying lip service to being bothered by the one but railing against the other) are so frustrated with people saying everyone is welcome but in practice only bending over backwards for the comfort and emotions of themselves, and people they can easily relate to.

You don't have to like Thessaly (I don't. I find her an interesting antagonist, I don't stan her. And frankly imo likability is not. the point of her character) but you'll pardon me for feeling more than a bit cynical and side eying people's motivations for what seems a...pretty obvious double standard, on what fictional crimes related to real world issues matter to y'all, and which clearly don't. Either actually bring the same energy to the table for fictional people who committed atrocities, even if against a group you're not part of and thus don't feel the need to empathize with, or just carry on, but accept that you don't have the SLIGHTEST room to talk about cutting characters who do immoral things. And you also need to accept that you look like a hypocrite when you do.

[hilsonamore]

i could read hilson fanfics, drinking coffee, eating freshly-baked bread and cuddling with the love of my life in a quiet, heart-felt home in the countryside for the rest of my life and i would be perfectly happy

[chjidk]

New comic! It pays off to be friends with Edd and Matt! 🕵️ Find Out why in Noir Partners in Crime part 1!

Read it here: https://m.youtube.com/watch?si=plAHs0V3Ho217WkT&v=dQw4w9WgXcQ&feature=youtu.be

🎨: @chjidk

.

.

. 🎨character(tom) // bg’s taken from: @eddsworld

[hollygl125]

All I Ever Wanted Was to Stand Beside You: Costa Rica to the Ishmael, and Then Some: A How They Fell Apart & How They Came Back Together Story

[storyofmychoices]

Hidden Romance

[Trystan Thorne x Lilah Rose Masterlist]

Pairing: M!Trystan Thorne x Lilah Rose (F!MC)

Book: Crimes of Passion

Word Count: ~800

Rating/Warning: Mostly teen, but bc of one line mature to be safe.

Prompt: @choicesmonthlychallenge: rainy day; @choicesficwriterscreations; drabble request by nonny

A/N: It's been such a long time since I've written these two that I feel like I didn't get it quite right, but I hope it's still enjoyable.

Synopsis: Lilah makes an interesting discovery at Trystan's apartment.

Her fingers grazed over the smooth silk fabric of his grey button-down shirt that had pooled on the floor from where she had tossed it the night before. A smile tugged on the corner of her lips as the events of the previous night flickered back into her thoughts. Yet, the rhythmic pitter-patter of the rain on the penthouse windows and the aroma of freshly brewing coffee kept her from lingering too long in what was. 

She pulled the luxurious fabric over her arms, bringing the collar to her nose. Inhaling his familiar scent, her smile widened despite her attempts to temper it. Deftly, she slipped three buttons through their respective holes, one after another, letting his scent wrap around her.

Her bare feet padded through his apartment, stopping in front of a large ornate bookshelf. Her fingertips danced gently over the cool spines of the many books lining its shelves. Each row was arranged neatly, every book in its place. 

She marveled at the number of titles on display, some she recognized, some she didn't, others in a language she couldn't read—Drakovian, she imagined, but she couldn't be sure that was the only language included.

She paused over a section of philosophical texts. Her brow arched as she curiously pulled one from its place on the shelf, marveling at the ornate gold filigree on its cover. She half expected the book to be unread, but the pages were worn, and she recognized his handwriting from the notes in the margins. She was about to slide it back into the open spot on the shelf when something else caught her eye. 

She removed a few more books from the shelf only to discover a series of well-worn, soft-cover romance novels hidden behind the books she had removed. A smirk tugged on her lips as she pulled the books forward, revealing a series of increasingly steamy covers with melodramatic titles.

"I hope this is to your satisf—" his voice trailed away as he found her still looking over his secret collection of books. 

"What a diverse reading collection you have here." She held one up with a particularly handsome fireman on the cover, his taut chest dripping with sweat. "I didn't know you were such a literary connoisseur." 

"You know what they say," he began, placing the tray of coffee and breakfast treats on his end table. "Variety is the spice of life, and I do life so well."

In a few long strides, he stood before her, his loosely tied robe left little for her mind to wander. "They're also a masterclass in—" his lips drew into a devilish smirk, his fingertips curling under her chin, lifting it toward him. "—human anatomy. There's nothing quite like it."

Her gaze remained unphased, not swayed by the mischievous glint in his eyes. "I take it you've never heard of Grey's Anatomy, the book, not the series?"

"Too many illustrations for my taste. I prefer the written word," he attempted to defend, his voice smooth as his thumb brushed over her lip.

"Uh-huh..." Lilah frowned, her head tipping to the side questioningly. She took a step back, picking up a book and opening a page at random. "Let's see... ah, here we go, an excellent example of said description of human anatomy," she mocked before continuing with reading a line from the text. "...he thrust his swollen spear into the glistening portal of my womanhood, a rhythm so seductive our bodies danced as one until love's sweet lava overflowed, blinding us in its brilliance." 

Trystan stifled a chuckle at her tone and the choice of passage.  "What a shining example of American literature, don't you think? I particularly enjoy the metaphors the author uses."

"You mean euphemisms."

"Still very descriptive!"

"Oh, absolutely," she nodded with a playful roll of her eyes. "Very enlightening. I'll have to add it to my reading list."

"See that you do," he encouraged. "Perhaps even borrow my copy."

"I think I'll pass." Lilah tossed the book back at him, sauntering away toward the delicious scent of the fresh coffee. "I will take that, though." 

With a delighted smirk, Trystan watched Lilah walk away from him, enjoying how the silk fabric from his shirt fell on her body. "If literary devices aren't your thing, I can certainly think of some hands-on anatomy studies we could engage in." 

She sipped the steamy beverage, letting the coffee warm through her as she picked up her phone, reading the new message on the screen. "We've got a case. With any luck, there will be a body for you to—um—assist Ruby with... for your anatomy studies."

"That's not—"

But before he could finish his protest, she had disappeared into the ensuite bathroom, her clothes gathered in her arms. 

Thank you to the Nonny who sent the request. I had fun with this even if I'm not 100% happy with how it came out. I love the idea of Trystan reading trashy romance novels lol but as I wrote this, I also considered that Trystan wouldn't hide them but I was already half done. 🤷‍♀️

[wilsons-three-legged-siamese]

little thing i cooked up

word count; 302

summary; SPOILERS FOR HOUSE MD!!

cuddy gets a letter from house, explaining whats happened since she went..

as i held the letter, a sense of nostalgia hit me. the handwriting was oddly familiar, it was messy and in all capitals.. but i cant recall why it was familiar. it was strange. lucas and rachel were in the other room, i could hear them playing together softly through the closed door - yet i felt disassociated. i go to hesitantly open the letter, delicately ripping at the adhesive. i pull at the letter, it coming out. i unfold it, it was all handwritten.

"dear cuddy,"

the first line read. i skimmed through the rest- wait- wait a second. why did it say house on it? plus, why where there tear marks on this? this must be a prank. so, i read it closer.

"you probably never wanted to hear from me again, and i get it. i fucked up real bad. but you deserve to know what has happened."

i almost audibly gasp, it really was house. but what happened?

"after i was let out of prison, wilson, my dear wilson.. was diagnosed with thymoma, stage two."

then i gasp. wilson, with cancer? no, no this must be a joke. this is awful.. no, he should've never. no.. god, thats horrible. wait, did it say his dearest-

"i ran away with him, as i was going back to prison. and we went on a roadtrip, around america."

i smiled a little at that, it was a very housian thing to do. good, trying to give wilson the life he deserved..

"he unfortunately passed this morning.. it was peaceful. my dear, dear partner..

i wrote this to invi-"

hang on, partner? this must not be right.. no.

"-te you to his funeral. i will be there, though i am under the name hugh smith.

farewell,

hugh, aka, house."

.. i need a drink.

[lupeloto]

"i can live without you, i just don't want to" one-shot

so i made a post here about one of my fav tropey prompts:

"I can live without you, I just don't want to." so i wrote a mickey and ian post reunion in 9x06 drabble about it! (it includes artist!mickey because he is everything to me)

Ian’s hand lingers on Mickey’s cheek, his gaze fixated on studying the sight before him; Mickey. He finds it nearly impossible to wrap his head around. Mickey was right there, laying under him, a soft closed-mouth smile spread across his face, piercing blue eyes staring back at him, the light dusting of freckles that covered his face. The ones Ian missed so goddamn much. Mickey lets his stare linger for a while, giving him time to process before bringing his hand to cup the back of Ian’s neck, guiding their lips together. 

They lay on the bottom bunk together, shortly before lights out, Mickey sitting between Ian’s legs with his back leaning against Ian’s chest, doodling on a piece of paper. Neither has spoken much in the past half hour, not too interested in talking, more so just basking in each other’s company. That silence had always been one Ian enjoyed. It was always a comfortable silence when he was with Mickey, a warm one that blanketed the room rather than making it tense. Fuck, he missed him. With that, Ian leans down, pressing his nose deep into the tuft of messy black hair on Mickey’s head and inhaling deeply. He wasn’t subtle about it either, a loud, breathy noise accompanying it, one that caused Mickey to chuckle lightly.

“What the fuck you sniffin’ me for, ya weirdo?” Mickey questioned, turning his head slightly to look back at Ian.

“Just missed you…your smell,�� Ian says, realizing it came out slightly creepy after catching a glimpse of Mickey’s raised eyebrows, “Okay I went so long without this, just let me have this.” He jokes, pressing a quick peck to the top of Mickey��s head as he turns back around, getting situated between Ian’s legs.

“Okay, creep. Fuckin’ sniff away I guess,” Mickey returns to his drawing.

“Just couldn’t live without me, huh?” Mickey asks, a smug grin plastered on his face, pretending to be focused on his sketching

Ian sighs dramatically, “Yeah that’s it,” he jokes, rolling his eyes, lifting his head up slightly to steal a glance at Mickey’s drawing. 

He yanks it close to his chest in response, “No peeking, asshole,” Mickey scoffs. 

Ian rolls his eyes and leans his head back against the wall, his smile quickly fading, “That’s what fucking sucks the most,” he says, eyes fixated on the blank wall before them.

Mickey turns his head slightly, not completely facing Ian, rather a gesture to say What the fuck are you talking about?

“I could live without you, I had to live without you,” Ian references Mickey’s earlier comment, “But fuck, I don’t ever want to. Not ever again.” Ian’s gaze doesn’t break from the wall until he feels Mickey’s hand grip his thigh.

Mickey has almost completely turned around to face Ian, situated between his legs with his own crossed. His hand comes up to cradle Ian’s cheek with such a delicacy that he barely feels his skin, just the dusting of stubble that covered his cheeks and jaw. Ian’s eyes have shifted down, staring at his lap.

“Hey,” Mickey caresses his cheek with his thumb as Ian’s eyes finally meet his, “You won’t have to again. Okay? Promise…you fucking soft bitch.”

His stare lingers for a while on Ian’s eyes, he missed the feeling of getting lost in those soft green eyes. The ones that have pulled him out of so much shit, the ones that can instantly ground him with just one look. He brings their lips together aggressively, their mouth smashing into one another.  Once they pull away, Ian manages to catch a glimpse of Mickey’s drawing, immediately softening at the sight. An incomplete outline of Ian’s side profile filled the page. Some areas were clearer than others, but Ian noticed Mickey had started on his freckles, sending a wave of warmth through his body.

Mickey notices what Ian was looking at, turning to him with a smug smile.

“And I’m the ‘soft fucking bitch’, huh?” Ian teases.

“Fuck off,” Mickey’s eyes roll to the back of his head, preparing to spit another sarcastic comment before Ian yanks him back in for another starved kiss.

[ipreferfiction]

man the only fan spaces i will ever be in these days are the ones full of people with fucked up nasty reprehensible ships and fondness for the worst characters EVER. everywhere else is a god damn minefield but those bitches? yeah baby this is the freak zone and we are all freaks here

[elliespuns]

Well, you patronising little fuck!

Every time I end up reading a new chapter of my favorite story I tend to hit the heart button to hug the author with love and instead I see this? And they even have the audacity to go like... ":)" eh

[rats-and-robots]

Abelard is used to the Rogue Trader’s… eccentricities. It isn't heretical to simply enjoy tighter spaces… but it certainly is odd that the man is often curled up–fingers silently flipping through some tome or another–high up in a crevice of the ship’s walls where he could, potentially, listen in to the goings on of his retinue.

Abelard has learned to scan the upper lines of the ship’s walls when searching for the Rogue Trader, but has also taken to doing so idlely, just to see if the oddly dexterous operator has found somewhere new to inhabit.

He doesn't do this to hide, he is easily spotted if one knows where to look. Most don't bother looking up. 

Odd indeed. But right now, it is some measure of very, very humorous.

Garion von Valancius is lounged in the intricate mechanics of the ship like some feline beast on some jungle tree branch watching and listening to the ongoing bickering between Marazhai and Argenta. Abelard has taken to standing aside, noticing that Argenta–having been around the Lord Captain as long as he has–has also spotted him, throwing glances upward at the man every few seconds to glare at him for finding amusement in this. Marazhai, on the other hand, has just made a scathing comment about the Lord Captain, using that insulting word to refer to the Rogue Trader.

“I believe I instructed you not to call me mon’keigh, Aezyrraesh.”

The drukhari jolted with all the grace of shattering glass, whipping around to look for where the voice came from. Argenta just laughed, and Abelard quietly chuckled into his hand.

“Up here.”

The dark eldar finally looked up, his face suddenly flush with fury and embarrassment, at a loss for words for a moment. Garion smirked down at him, the stretch of his cheeks distorting the warp-burn scar on the side of his face, patiently waiting the stunned xenos’ expression out. Finally, something came out of that fanged mouth, “What are you doing up there?”

“You haven't apologized–” Garion’s head tilts to the side, “–for your blatant disregard for my orders.”

Marazhai flinched, his eyes looking hard to one side, reminding Abelard of a spurned canine. He bowed his head ever so slightly, “My… apologies, Lord Captain…”

The Rogue Trader laughs openly, the metal claws of his replaced arm tapping along the metal he reclines on. “How obedient... You should behave even when you think I'm not around. Farris learned that lesson decades ago.” Abelard would swear an almost… hungry look crossed the drukhari’s face, but he promptly ignores it.

Garion clicks his tongue, the taunting grin falling away from his face, “However, as I've told the rest of my retinue; I am from a Forge World, I am far more comfortable in the recesses of machinery and cable than the open spaces. Out there,” he motions to the hallway, “I am exposed from many angles. Here, I am exposed from only one. Much of my idle time is spent in places like this.”

The drukhari considers that, head tilting to one side, “How interesting. Yet you're cornered there, not exposed and yet trapped. And what of your large open throne and Cathedral?” 

“I despise the openness of both, but they are expected of me.” The smirk does not drop from the Rogue Trader's face, “Do you really think I am trapped, Aezyrraesh? Do you plan to attack me? With a sister of battle and my loyal Seneschal behind you?”

“No, but–”

“I am not trapped.” The interruption comes with a tone of finality, “And even were they gone and you with every intent to kill or torture me…” Fabric shifts, and the man draws a long blade previously sheathed in his sleeve, “You would swiftly find that I carry as many weapons as you have spikes in your armor.” The blade is hidden again, “Are you satisfied?”

A snicker and a sneer, “Never.”

Argenta makes a disgusted noise and the argument starts anew. Garion and Abelard share a glance, a simple look that simply said ‘don't let them kill one another’ before the Rogue Trader rolled from his side onto his back in the small space and drawing his datapad back up.

Abelard walks over, leaning against the wall below his Lord Captain, “Should I stop their bickering?”

“They can handle themselves against one another. Just make sure they don't stain my carpets or waste their lives on one another if they draw their weapons.” A small ‘beep’ from the datapad as the man has fully tuned out the argument once again, “Ones with passion such as theirs should have the opportunity to deal it out with one another. The battlefield will be more tolerable if they settle themselves now.”

Abelard tilts his head back. He forgets, often, that this is not, in fact, the Lord Captain's first time commanding such a large group, he still seems so young, and yet he handles the rabble with astonishing grace. He had once been a Crime Lord, had a council beneath him of valuable assets as likely to stab him in the back as they are to be doggedly loyal. He supposes someone like Marazhai may even be more familiar to him than someone like himself.

“Will you openly spar with him as you have the rest of us?”

This seems to make the trader pause. Abelard can only guess what is on his mind in the silence that draws out after it–from Garion, anyway. Did a drukhari, of all xenos, deserve the tradition of the von Valancius flagship? Much less the same one that had antagonized them for so long? At least, that is the line of thought he assumes.

“...Yes. I simply have to finish recovering from Commorragh.” The barely-audible murmur was followed by another small beep. A quiet admission that his oldest wounds still scream at him from being back in the blackened city.

A nod, “I will have the observation deck prepared as soon as you are ready.”

The two warriors huff at one another and part ways, finally. Marazhai shoots a curious look towards the Lord Captain before making his way down the hall.