#so the interviewing detectives in the end just look stupid and kind of obvious which I don't love

[death-rebirth-senshi]

(Spoilers for True Detective)

Another funny thing about true detective is that the accusations against Rust never felt like they were meant to be taken seriously and I never considered it a real possibility that he was involved in the crimes, but that's sort of an intriguing idea and part of me wishes the show had strung it along a little harder.

(In fairness while I wasn't quite binge-watching it I did watch several episodes at a time, so, I didn't leave myself a whole lot of time for speculation and predictions. Still, I felt like we got to "okay they're on to nothing" quicker than I would've liked.)

[zachsgamejournal]

PLAYING: Resident Evil 7

I know I'm about 3 years late to the party, but I was hesitant to trust that Capcom could get back in touch with their Survival Horror roots.

My very regrettable mistake...

So: Resident Evil for PS1/Saturn was great!

Cinematic Storytelling: The game could be completed in under 2 hours (if you knew what you were doing). So that means you're not spending days to get through a feature-film level story (unlike SOME games). It makes the plot and characters a more crucial part of the experience.

Puzzles: Sure, the puzzles are little wacky: like clicking buttons under pictures in chronological order or you get attacked by well-trained zombie birds. But it made the game more than moving from point-a-to-b. It's about exploring and understanding your environment. Speaking of which...

The Environment: The Mansion (and it's other areas) was a character unto itself. It had secrets and a past. And since the game wasn't designed as a series of sequential levels, you really get to know the environment.

Zombies: Zombies were not the mainstream success they are now. Hell, Vampires were just barely getting attention through Interview the Vampire. I became obsessed with zombies and bought all 3 major films in existence.

Such a different time...

Anyway, the point, RE1 was great, RE2 was better, RE: Code Veronica was pretty good, and RE4 is stupid.

Well...not stupid, but it completely changed Resident Evil, and not for the better. While folks loved RE4, it really was the start of a new franchise, which RE5 and RE6 followed. And that's fine--except they sacrificed what Resident Evil was to make way for this new product.

Succinct, mystery-driven storytelling was replaced with nonsensical twist and turns that did little to grow the overall world or its characters. They just stretched contrived cliffhangers across overlong campaigns of mass murder.

Puzzles, as best i can remember, were sacrificed for challenge rooms filled with enemies while the player looked for the exit switch.

The environment, as great as the graphics were, simply became battle zones meant to offer shallow context to the bloodbath gameplay. RE4 did have a strong aesthetic, but you don't get to know each room and hall like you do in the classics. Nothing but well-dressed strangers to high-five as you pass by.

And what happened to the Zombies. I mean, they still had zombies--but they weren't zombies. Whatever. Resident Evil has always had a diverse set of monsters. They didn't have to sacrifice zombies...

All this to say, Resident Evil 7 is awesome!

The opening was a little cheesy with poorly synced dialog and a helicopter shot of Louisiana swampland I'm sure they stole from True Detective stock footage.

But once I took over the character, I was hooked. The game looks great on my phone and TV via Stadia. I enjoyed walking through the woods and house, looking at every little detail the artists meticulously placed.

I've seen most of a playthrough on Youtube (though I was distracted). So I kind of knew what to expect. It's way more intense when you play. Having dialog and cutscenes playout without leaving the first person camera is great at making you feel "there". So all that goes down and I end up in the house for dinner.

Watching this bit on YouTube, I was a little turned off by the obvious Chainsaw Massacre connections: but original RE was heavily influenced by horror films, why not this? (I also have a better understanding of this family cause I know some things.)

Once I gained control, roaming around the kitchen/dining/living room area was great. I was seeing hints to future puzzles, scavenging for supplies, and finding notes giving clues to events that were happening. Very Resident Evil.

I struggled a bit trying to get away from Jack. Since they gave me a hiding spot, I assumed stealth was gonna be a major component. Nope. Not really. Eventually I get to the save room (A SAVE ROOM!!) and then on to the garage fight.

I wasted all my ammo when I probably just needed to grab the car keys. Lesson learned. Jack trying to run me over was kind of crazy, and maybe a little laughable since I was just swiping at him with a pocket knife for five minutes.

After that, more of the house opens up. It's insanely huge and illogically designed. While it creates some great hallways, and helps the designers break the home up into controllable sections: there's no house build like this: wtf...

Going into the basement reminded me of RE2. The molded, I think, are people the family has kidnapped and infected with something. Some change and some don't. Know they've turned into very lethal zombie-esque creatures. Since they're infected people stumbling about, I'm gonna say they've rekindled the zombie. Kinda.

To fight these guys, I've resorted to my pocket knife. Saves ammo. I basically dance around them like I did guards in Thief, wacking where I can. Eventually I chop off their hands, often without taking damage. But the crab guy in the incinerator required a shotgun blast.

One of the fights, he cut off my leg and I was crawling around. I thought it was a scripted scene (I mean, I lost my arm already). Nope. You're supposed to pick it up and reattach it. Ah-well.

Jack wandering around the new area was frustrating. It seemed I could never lose him, so wasted a lot of health and ammo stunning him. His boss fight was pretty rough. I nearly gave up. It took some time getting used to the chainsaw. Right as I was about to switch to easy, I had a near perfect run and defeated him. My wife laughed at the way I was squirming on the couch trying to get a hit in without being cut in half!

Made it to the old house with the bugs. This went way faster. It reminded me of the guard house from RE1, which also had giant wasps. Without Jack or molded zombies, it was actually really easy to explore the house and solve its secrets. Once the old lady showed up, I thought I could lure her away from the exit room. She didn't buy it, so I just ran past her.

When it came to her boss fight, it reminded me a lot of Laughing Octopus in Metal Gear Solid. Which that boss was practically a horror movie in of itself. I thought the flame thrower was gonna be the way to go, but a guide suggested focusing on her belly. And I kept running out of fuel, then being harassed by flies. So I opted for the shotgun and had a successful run.

About a year and a half ago, I played through the original RE as Chris. I remember there was a point about a third of the way through that I had about seven rounds of pistol ammo, and a single green herb--yet several zombies stood in my way. I wasn't sure I was going to make it. But then, I unlocked the shotgun and the game became a breeze. Suddenly I had too much ammo, and too many healing items!

That has kind of happened here. I'm doing well on healing items (though I've used up my shotgun). Still, I feel confident sprinting around and doing quick searches of spaces. I don't even fight the molded much anymore.

Getting into Zoe's trailer was interesting, but you can interact with her bra. I thought that was kind of pervy. I'm guessing Zoe is a part of the family? I imagine she's some how the source.

I think it's great they keep putting the grandma in different places without explanation. The way she looks at you sometimes is creepy...

I'm not a huge fan of the VHS flashbacks. Often, they have you play areas you've either already played or will play. While it's inspired some game ideas of my own, it just feels like a cheap gimmick to get more playtime.

Anyway, this really does feel like a reboot of Resident Evil. It's capturing the strong environmental storytelling of the originals, and making it more about the horror, less about the action. I'm actually getting into the plot and mystery. I look forward to getting my answers.

[collective-laugh]

Detective AU - Muriel x MC Chapter 4

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three

Taglist:  @a-zoidberg-aesthetic @lesbiancountess @fartkittyonline @yaysam @y-all-dnt-ve @countgoatman-and-drleechboy @julians-chest-hair @vesuviass @caterpiller-tea @zaemoultrie75901 @saltywerewolfrebel @obsessedwiththearcana @thatsaltyseaman @xburningwitch @i-dont-speak-wolf @missrabbitart @softarcana

This chapter was highly inspired by ‘Private Investigations’ by the Dire Straits. @dr-devorak-will-seeyounow introduced me, and it fit the vibe, and I fell in love! I recommend listening while reading!

Also, please let me know if you would like me to put together some sort of playlist/mood music! I’ve done this before on AO3, and it really seems to help!

Thank you to everyone who has made this series such a success, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I have! Please let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

Chapter Four: Private Investigations

“You’re looking more miserable than usual, Muriel.” Ludovico leans against the handrail to the back entrance of the Raven, “Which is a feat, considering you always look miserable.”

Muriel lets the cigarette dangle from his lips, still worried about her, hoping that Julian got her back home safely, that he didn’t try anything…

If he found out he so much as laid a hand on her, he’d fucking kill him.

He didn’t really know why he cared so much, and he knew the doctor well enough to know he wouldn’t be stupid enough to try anything...sober.

“‘m tired.” Muriel claims, and though it’s a half truth, he wished he wasn’t so transparent, “Don’t worry about it.”

Ludovico smirks at him, tossing his cigarette butt out in the rain, “Wouldn’t have anything to do with the little broad you walked in with, huh?”

“No.” He answers a little too quickly, a little too sharply.

He raises his eyebrows, unused to Muriel being anything other than quietly benign, and asks, “Who was she anyway?”

Muriel knew it was none of his business, but he didn’t mind Ludovico, and it didn’t hurt to talk to someone, he guessed. That was always Asra’s advice - “feelings” and “talking” and all that bullshit.

“You wanna, ah,” He waggles his eyebrows, “make whoopee with her?”

Never mind.

Muriel rolls his eyes, smashing his cigarette on the hand rail. Trying to talk to people was shit, and definitely something he didn’t want to make a habit.

“She’s a friend.” He claims, which...isn’t a lie. He’s known her for years now, and knows more about her than he probably ought to, considering just how little they talked. Asra liked to talk about her to no end, sparing no detail about just how much he missed her.

He hopes she’s gotten home safely, that she’s managed to fall asleep so she doesn’t muck up her interview with the Countess later.

The Countess...he could hardly believe that the Countess of Vesuvia herself had resorted to a backwater private detective, no offense to her or Asra. She held no real title outside of being insanely rich and being the former wife of the most prominent crime boss in the city.

Lucio sickened Muriel. The thought of him made him sneer again, and the mere idea that someone could pull the right strings and make the right deals with the right people, and all his problems, all the sick shit he did, could just disappear.

“A friend, huh? Well, the last friend I had like that ended up in my bed, compadre.” Ludovico raises his brow, his sleazy intentions obvious, “You could always give her my number if she doesn’t have someone waitin’ for her at home.”

He was about to say she did, that there was Asra or maybe even Julian waiting for her back at the office, that she wasn’t going to be in that dank little hole all on her own.

Maybe it was selfish. It was definitely selfish to want to be the one waiting for her.

He curses himself, wondering when the hell he started considering her as anything more than an acquaintance he kept at arms’ length. He’s itching for another cigarette, especially as he’s facing the stupid grin on Ludovico’s face. Instead of lighting another, he’s looking at the watch on his wrist. It was a quarter past five, which meant he was free to go.

“Maybe.” He says, trying not to sound so cryptic, but, like Asra said, it was a second nature to him.

He debates stopping back by the office. He’d sent Jules home with her around midnight, and he did want to make sure she was alright. But, something she said to him earlier stuck out like a sore thumb, something about how she could walk herself home.

She was still a grown woman, even if she couldn’t really remember who she was, and he wasn’t certain she’d be all too thrilled about his breathing down her neck.

He does light a cigarette, with Ludovico yelling something crude about her after him, and he shuts his eyes for just a moment, trying to steady himself. It had been a long night, and he was so tired, but he needed to check on her, to make sure she got home alright…

The nagging voice in his head telling him to leave her be wins, despite his instincts screaming at him to do otherwise. He walks the opposite direction, straight back home.

His place is small, modest, and...decidedly not comfortable. The landlord insisted on no pets, but as soon as she saw Muriel, she made an exception, considering she claimed, “ruffians’ll go running soon as they see you, boy!” He couldn’t live anywhere without Inanna, he knows, and was thankful to the lady - Nonna Linka, as she insisted on being called - for letting him stay.

She wasn’t up yet, like anyone with sense, so he’s alone on his trek up the single flight of stairs. He isn’t surprised to find his door unlocked, considering the damn thing had been broken for months now, and all but collapses in bed alongside Inanna.

He dreams of her, of happier times, and wishes things were simpler than he made them out to be.

_

She’s scrambling to get dressed.

It’s embarrassing; the first time in months she’s had a case, and actual, honest to God interview with a client, and she’s running around like a headless chicken trying to gather everything she needed. Asra would have been no better, she knew, waiting until the last minute for everything, but she refuses to think of him now, today, at least until she’s gotten this interview over with.

It was a murder case. Not only a murder case, but a case surrounding the Lucio Morgason. It was more than she ever could have asked for, and she was squandering it because she could quite reach the button on her dress.

Once she’s certain she’s gathered everything - and certain that she’s forgotten at least one thing - she’s out the door, only half remembering to lock it and turn the tacky neon signs off. She only barely catches the train to the Heart District, and knows she must look a mess.

A gorgeous socialite looks at her, all legs and brown hair tied up in some elaborate braid, lips painted a red far too improper for the time of day, and arches a perfectly sculpted brow, as if the very sight of her was amusing.

It was enough to send her blood boiling, and remind her exactly what she was here for.

Nadia’s house - estate, mansion, whatever - is only a seven minute walk and a four minute run from the train station, and she makes it with five minutes to spare before she was considered tardy. It takes two minutes to have her looking presentable again, another three to even reach the door and be led inside by a butler - butler! - one to have her coat taken, and another seven before she even sees Nadia.

She’s the picture of perfection, and puts that socialite from the train to shame, effortlessly beautiful with her long, black hair, and long, golden dress. She greets her gracefully, as she does all things, and ensures that they’re alone, beginning the interview in Lucio’s private library, sitting across from one another.

“Can you tell me about the last time you saw your husband?” She asks, subtly looking over to the tape recorder to ensure that it was getting all of this. Her hand stood ready, just in case Nadia said anything important, and she settles into detective mode, trying to calm herself.

“I…” Nadia wrings her hands, eyeing the white gloves she set aside moments before, as if she was debating whether or not she really wanted to hold them. “I don’t remember my husband. The accident…” She shrugs, looking everywhere but at the detective, “I didn’t know where else to turn, detective. The law is thankful he’s dead, and his ‘friends’ are starting to call for my removal.”

“Removal?” She asks, “Removal from what?”

“I’ve been acting as an interim...boss, I suppose.” She finally meets her eyes, “You must understand, detective. This city isn’t kind to us.”

Truer words had never been spoken, but she only purses her lips before asking, “Is there anyone who might have wanted to hurt your husband? Anyone he had any bad blood with?”

“He was not known for his...subtlety.” Nadia hesitates, as if the gravity of the situation was just catching up to her, “Detective, you must know that I’m willing to pay you handsomely for your services. And that the law is not to know of this.” She says it with such vindication, with such authority, that the detective feels like she has to listen.

“Don’t worry about that.” She replies, thankful her voice didn’t betray her nerves, “This conversation will only ever be heard by you, me, and my associate.”

“Asra?” Nadia inquires, like she was quizzing herself to see if she could remember his name.

The detective nods, but moves on, “Did your husband have any enemies?”

Nadia purses her lips, eyes flicking over to the tape recorder before pulling a small notepad from between the chair and its cushion, sliding it across the table toward Nadia, “I, um...I compiled a short list of people it could possibly be, or people who might have wanted him dead.”

The detective flicks through the pages, though the only writing found inside is on the first and second slips of paper. “Consul Valerius…Vulgora...these are his associates, right?”

Nadia opens her mouth to say something, closes it, and shakes her head, “They are...suspicious at the very least.”

The detective purses her lips.

This was going to be a long interview.

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

Flynn and the ‘Murder Castle’

Or,

Once Again Flynn is Not a Villain (He’s Just Trash)

So, I was ranting at a friend the other night, as one does, and in the middle of this I suddenly remembered something about H.H. Holmes.

Yes, that H.H. Holmes.

See, I was actually going to be a historian once upon a time (le gasp) and one of the things that I did was I was a morbid little fucker and I just about devoured any biography or info on historical psychos that I could get my hands on.

I’d like to note, for the sake of people worrying for my sanity, that I also studied Ancient Egypt, the Vikings, and the American Revolution, just to name a few interests so I wasn’t entirely a budding psychopath but anyway. Blame my aunt and uncle for gifting me Horrible Histories when I was eight.

So when I was eleven (yes you read that right) I got my hands on my grandmother’s copy of Devil in the White City and proceeded to do a fuck ton of research on H.H. Holmes. And in my idiocy, something I completely forgot about all my research until just the other day was that H.H. Holmes wasn’t known as an indiscriminate murderer.

Later reports have greatly exaggerated how many people he murdered, saying he killed up to 200 people, but the original body count and the one that we can for certain verify is about 20 some-odd people. And of his many victims, the overwhelming majority of them were young women.

Holmes did in fact construct his hotel, that has come to be known as the Murder Castle, and he did murder a few guests in there. Easy enough during the shockingly busy Chicago World’s Fair. However, Holmes did not prefer to kill people this way.

What Holmes did was he was a real charmer (described as handsome with bright blue eyes) who would seduce lonely women who came to stay at the hotel for the fair, convince them to marry him (he was married to multiple women at once) and then have them sign huge life insurance policies over to him... then kill them.

This was really easy to do at the time because a) the state of police investigations at the time, don’t think I need to get further into that, b) these women had no relatives nearby and so letters took forever to reach their relatives which meant it took forever to realize they’d stopped writing and c) tons of people went missing during the fair. It was a madhouse in Chicago. Holmes easily and smoothly lied to anyone who came looking for a missing girl, saying she’d gone out to the fair and hadn’t returned, and a lot of the time the victim’s relatives didn’t even know about the marriage until much later. A lot of the women also signed their life insurance policies over not to Holmes but to one of Holmes’ aliases, which sent police chasing after a man who didn’t exist, some other fellow who’d done the vile deed.

The only confirmed male victim of Holmes was his partner in crime Benjamin Pitezel, a man who assisted Holmes in many of his schemes and who Holmes later murdered for the life insurance policy they’d taken out of his life (Holmes also murdered three of the man’s children).

The majority of the people who stayed in the ‘Murder Castle’ stayed without incident and left just fine. In fact the people from whom Holmes bought the property lived long and happy lives. Holmes was a vicious serial killer and I’m not denying that, but unlike how he’s portrayed in 1x11 on Timeless, he didn’t just gas and capture every single guest or even random guests. He specifically preyed upon helpless women, got them to their rooms at the hotel, gassed them, and took them downstairs from there once they’d signed their lives away to him for large sums fo money.

So, where does Flynn come in with that?

Flynn obviously knows about Holmes and is the kind of man who does his research. He knows who the members of Rittenhouse are in Chicago and where and when they’re meeting, for example. The journal can’t tell him everything, so you can bet he uses that as a springboard for his own research. He’s a team leader, an expert at a guerrilla warfare, and a strategist. He’s not going to do anything half-assed even if his plans have a habit of blowing up in his face.

That means Flynn knows what Holmes targets vulnerable young women, usually homely ones who will be easily swayed by flattery (historical fact, Holmes targeted quote ‘plain’ girls). He doesn’t target two men who can fight him back a lot more easily. And he’s not going to just gas two guys for no reason when he has women he can get tens of thousands of dollars of insurance money from. Wyatt and Rufus do not fit Holmes’ profile and are, therefore, presumably safe.

So why does Flynn send Wyatt and Rufus to the Murder Castle?

Because Wyatt and Rufus are going to get there and who are they going to run into?

Family members looking for missing women.

Wyatt and Rufus are good men, and they’re smart enough to smell a rat when there’s a dead one rotting around under the floorboards. Flynn’s plan wasn’t to straight up murder Wyatt and Rufus, it was to distract them by giving them a clear case of Something Rotten and have their hero mode kick in.

In fact, I posit that Flynn wanted Wyatt and Rufus to think that Holmes had Lucy.

Wyatt and Rufus go into the Murder Castle knowing Flynn’s been there. They hear about young women going missing. The name of the hotel pings something in their minds but they don’t know what. They interview family members and learn the women were last seen here.

And it clicks for them--there’s a serial killer in this hotel, and Flynn’s left Lucy there to be his prey!

Cue frantic detective work from our two heroes while Flynn and Lucy have their trash date.

Timeless annoyed the heck of me this episode (and annoyed the heck out of @captainofthefallen when she rewatched it with me because I would not Shut the Fuck Up about the historical inaccuracies and guessed every single plot twist) with Holmes because it’s wildly historically inaccurate. Holmes never pretended to be a victim along with the people he’d trapped, he didn’t hold them in a dungeon and allow them the chance to escape, and he didn’t target men.

Also he had a huge mustache but anyway.

Holmes’ capture of Lucy at the end of the episode and the box he puts her in are the historically accurate part. That’s what he did to victims. Lucy fits his victim profile (although I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to call her ‘plain’ or ‘homely’). Flynn had every reason to believe that Wyatt and Rufus would be relatively safe given Holmes’ M.O. and would instead be wasting their time chasing him down thinking he had Lucy.

And, y’know, ridding the world of a serial killer while they were at it.

This isn’t an example of Flynn setting Wyatt and Rufus up to die horribly. He’s setting them up on a wild goose chase and to get rid of an awful man and it backfires on Flynn when Holmes breaks with his M.O. and decides to gas Wyatt and Rufus and kill them instead. Flynn had no way of knowing Holmes would do that--that’s the downfall of serial killers, they always stick to their pattern even when they should change it up to avoid being caught--and so once again he’s tried to put out a fire with a bucket of water and ends up throwing gasoline on it instead.

Flynn probably figured Wyatt and Rufus would investigate, realize what was going on, go on a frantic chase for Lucy, find Holmes’ lair under the hotel, overpower Holmes, kill or turn him into the police, and search for Lucy only to find she wasn’t there. Risk of danger still but a minimal one, and certainly not the ‘mwahaha they’ve walked right into a trap’ scenario that actually played out.

“But what if Holmes thought Wyatt and Rufus were private investigators or police when they started asking questions!” you cry. Good question. Holmes was in fact questioned by family, private investigators, and police about the missing women. He never killed any of them and instead sent them on their way with false information about where the women had gone next. It was simply too risky to kill a member of law enforcement or someone who had connections with law enforcement, or to kill the family member of a previous victim.

Now, I get that maybe the Timeless writers didn’t care about any of this and wrote the episode the way they did because HIGH STAKES DRAMA, le gasp, but you can’t avoid history in a show about time travel, buckos. And history isn’t going to change to fit your dramatic 50 minute TV episode.

Wyatt and Rufus do not fit the profile for Holmes’ victims, and Holmes did not trap his victims in the way shown in the show. Flynn was a good researcher who would have known this. Ergo, Flynn did not actually set Wyatt and Rufus up to be quickly and horribly murdered, he set them up to go on a wild goose chase after Lucy when she was really safe with Flynn the whole time and he could get on with his business without interruption.

Because Flynn consistently, throughout the show, tries to inconvenience the time team. He ties them up in 1x06, he strands them in 1x07, etc. But he doesn’t actually ever make plans to kill them. It’s the same thing here: his goal is to inconvenience, not kill. It’s just that he put a bit too much faith in the behavior of a literal psychopath and Flynn, honey, really? Peak trash.

One more thing. You might be wondering why Holmes didn’t actually kill every guest who stayed in his hotel.

...because nothing is more obvious than having every or almost every guest in your hotel die and also that’s bad for business. Duh. Holmes was a psycho, not a dumbass.

Thank you for coming to my TEDTalk.

[sopewriters]

Superhero!Hyunwoo

I’ve been wanting to do this forever. Because fun :)

Ok, before I start, can we pls appreciate what an amazeballs superhero Hyunwoo would be?

Like mhm, I’d totally tap that what no I said nothing

Anyway, so you and Shownu have never met

You’ve seen him on the news a couple of times

He usually looks uncomfortable when the interviewers ask him questions

Like, he’ll be biting his lip all the time and awkwardly shuffling his feet

And you usually think ‘and this guy is a superhero???’

But you’ve seen footage of his work

Usually huddled under the covers of your bed pretending some city out there in the world isn’t getting ripped to shreds, but that’s not the point

He’s really, really powerful, and you know that enhanced strength is just the tip of the iceberg

But that boi has got them abs, not that you were staring creepily at them or anything

with hands pressed to your flaming cheeks at 2am in the morning

screaming your lungs out into your poor pillow

course not

the pillow deserved better #savepillows2k17

you sort of high-key wish you could meet him one day because damn

but at the same time, you remember your track record with talking to guys

ha…ha…ha…

okay so apparently, we have to talk about that part of your backstory that you’d rather repress for ever

like ugh, you actually still get cringe attacks because of those experiences but fear not, it’ll be quick

the first time you had a crush on someone, it was in the 7th grade

like, he was really cute (from what you remember anyway, you were like a 2-year-old then ok??) and he played soccer like all the cool kids, and he danced really well and I’m talking about god-level

and you and he never really talked ‘cuz you were terrified

like what if you said the wrong thing and he hated you forever????

besides, he was always hanging around 6 other really cool, really popular dudes

well, they were hanging around him, but details, psh

and one day you finally mustered up the courage to actually talk to him

you knew that he’d go to the basketball courts by himself to practice after school, all the time

so you decided to hijack  intrude visit him half an hour in

coincidentally, he was walking over to the side of the court then, reaching around to get to his water bottle

and you sort of froze then, all of your previous determination gone, dissolved like the salt in his sweat

which is a weird comparison but whatever, you get the idea

and you still can’t move when he turns around, surprised brown eyes meeting yours

“do you…need something?”

and of course your dumb brain had to malfunction then

and you knew instinctively that it’d make you blurt out something stupid

something like:

“oh, I just came to shoot a couple of hoops.”

which would totally have been cool if you could actually….y’know, play

which you didn’t, if that wasn’t obvious enough

so you rushed to do some damage control

“but, you’re obviously occupied so I’ll just come back another time haha!”

yeah, you actually added the ‘haha’ in

he just looked at you all confused like as he was prone to do

being like “uh, no, you can use the other half of the court.”

And you were like ‘nah, bro, you don’t have to.’

trying to not embarrass yourself any further

but he just shook his head, picking up his ball

“you know what,” he said, determination lacing through his words, “let’s play together.”

you were a bit busy then admiring how cute he looked like that, before you realized what the actual fuck he just said!!!

“no!” you blurted out in panic

“but you don’t have a ball?”

Well shit, he was right and you hated yourself so much

dumb. freakin'. brain.

“i…’ you stuttered, ‘gotta go bye!’

and you actually ran away, i kid you not

that year was a good year of avoidance

by which I mean you avoided the crap out of Hyunwoo and his friends

and once the school year ended, you were lucky to never see him again

yay!

anyway, coming back to the main story at hand

you’ve never really met Shownu and you really don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of him

you’re actually an intern at this popular news agency, but you never see the light of the day during work hours

before we start, no this is not a Lois Lane-Clark Kent romance I promise

because that’s lame, and Shownu totally doesn’t wear his underwear on top of his pants

omg what if he doesn’t wear them at all with that skin-tight leather

so the one day your boss decides to let you do some field work, you jump at the chance

of course, you’re not actually one of the writers on the main page, where all the action’s at

in fact, you’re going to be at a sports event, mainly because the actual reporter who’s supposed to cover it is sick

so chance!

and you go all determined like

yas, I got this and no im not terrified wut you talking about

it’s a racing game or something, basically a bunch of cars going really really fast

and you find it kind of boring tbh but take down notes like a good reporter because you don’t want to get fired

that’s when everything goes wrong obvs

because this is your life here hello

knocking on your door and being like lol did you think I forgot about you

so when you’re in the process of clambering down the stands to grab some actual action (not that kind, kids)

there’s a large squealing sound and oh shit, two cars have crashed

you know it’s like a given in the sport, but it’s still horrifying to watch tbh so you kind of call the 911 equivalent of your country

being like heLP IT’S AN EMERGENCY WE NEED SOMEONE

and lo and behold, Shownu comes to the rescue

since he can actually fly, holy shit, he manages to pull out the unconscious drivers from the wreckage all heroic like and fly them all the way to the hospital and get back

and by then the remaining brain cells you’ve got have withered away so

like an idiot

you scream out to him, being like

SHOWNU I LOVE YOU ❤

oK so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit

but you do the equivalent of a confession

in public

to a superhero

said superhero actually hears you

and flIES OVER TO YOU HOLY SHIT

his mouth quirks to the side all confused like

bad person you’re not supposed to stare at his lips

but you swear it looks familiar

only theres no time for your crazy detection skills to come to light

because heY HIS HAND IS AROUND YOUR WAIST

ALERT ALERT ALERT

HEART MALFUNCTIONING BRAIN MALFUNCTIONING WHAT IS A LUNG

and he literally sweeps you off your feet, landing on some building at the edge of the city

and your heart cant take this

he’s totally going to kill you isn’t he

but then he takes off his mask

and you balk

“I remember you” Hyunwoo says

“unfortunately” your mind supplies

but you only manage to get out half-garbled words

akjhfjhbkajns

he just stares at you like a lost puppy and wow he hasn’t changed

“you always were cute”

And you die

Happily and forever

ok, that’s a lie

Shownu gives you a lil’ peck on the cheek

and then you die, of happiness :)

Written By: Midnight

[yuriyuu]

Alone

Sometimes Viktor gets horribly depressed, but he learns he doesn’t have to deal with it alone.

Pairing: Viktor/Yuri

Rating: G (but with some language)

Word count: 2226

Read on AO3

Viktor walks through the door, looking more immaculate than he has any right to after a long day, a long week. He comes home wearing that fake-ass smile of his, acting overly jubilant over nothing. He comes home, and immediately sweeps Yuri up, showering him in love and affection. Yuri’s heart sinks. This song and dance, he knows it all too well. As much as he loves being in Viktor’s arms, as much as he loves feeling treasured by him, it’s only nice when it’s genuine, and not this contrived bullshit. So Yuri immediately pulls out of Viktor’s embrace, looks at him with worry flashing through his eyes, forgoes the usual pleasantries and says, “Cut the bullshit. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong! Everything is fine! I just really love you and am happy to see you is all!” He feigns confusion, as if he has no clue what Yuri’s talking about.

Yuri narrows his eyes, shooting him a look of that’s bullshit and you know it. Everything’s wrong. Nothing’s fine. That much is obvious, if it wasn’t already apparent by Viktor’s chipper voice, impersonal grin, and the hint of utter exhaustion Yuri can detect behind the glossed over enthusiasm in his eyes. “You’re lying right now, aren’t you?”

Immediately, Viktor frowns, and looks slightly offended by the accusation, offended by the audacity of partner to call him out on his little white lies. “What makes you say that?” His voice still remains falsely chipper, and fabricated happiness of it grates on Yuri’s ears.

“You always put on that fake smile when you’re horribly depressed, don’t even try to deny it. The worse off you are, the more you try to exaggerate it.” Yuri pauses, crossing his arms as he quickly tries to figure out how to word the next part, “You talk to me like you don’t even know me, like I’m some random interviewer interviewing you for a magazine or some shit. So damn impersonal. I know that’s not how you talk to me, you only talk to me like that when you’re lying about your feelings. So please, tell me what’s wrong. Stop lying to me.” He knows his voice sounds desperate, pathetic even toward the end, but that’s only because he is.

Now it’s Viktor’s turn to narrow his eyes at Yuri. “Why are you accusing me of this? I’m happy! Everyone was commenting on how happy I’ve been lately! Everything is fine.”

God, how stupid are the people in VIktor’s life to see that for the past week he’s been lying through his teeth? How can they be so blind? It’s either they are blissfully ignorant of how Viktor suffers in silence, or they are willfully ignorant because they don’t want to actually deal with Viktor, real Viktor, who really isn’t always the most pleasant person. The thought of that alone makes Yuri’s blood boil.

But it’s pointless to get Viktor to concede. He won’t admit something’s wrong, he never does. “Fine! Everything is fine!” Yuri snaps back, “Excuse me for caring.” It’s an instant regret the moment the words leave his mouth. Patience has never been his strong suite, and he rues each and every time his temper gets the better of him and he ends up yelling at Viktor when really, that’s the last thing he should be doing.

Yuri doesn’t bother waiting for Viktor to respond, because he just knows the minute Viktor says anything back, he’ll end up snapping again. He just sulks off to their room in a huff, and tries his best to ignore the gnawing feeling in his chest of how goddamn insulted and insignificant he feels when Viktor can’t even be honest with him and admit he’s sad. Honesty. That’s all he wants. Honesty and the ability, the privilege, to support Viktor just as he’s supported him all these years throughout their relationship.

But whatever, if Viktor wants to shut him out like that, then there’s nothing he can do, and the thought of that makes him seethe with how useless he feels.

Viktor doesn’t chase after him when Yuri sulks off to their room, nor does he really say anything when Yuri comes out a while later and states that he’s the one making dinner tonight.

“Oh? What are you making?” Is all he asks, still in his fake, impersonal voice.

“Something you’ll like,” Yuri says back before walking into the kitchen. If Viktor refuses to let him provide emotional support, then he’ll just have to show he cares in other ways. It’s a small gesture, making his favorite meal, but it’s one he hopes will say I’m sorry you’re sad and I wish you’d let me help you more than this because I love you very much but you’re a stubborn asshole who would never admit when you’re sad so this is all I can do for you.

Of course, as Yuri is chopping carrots, the thought of all the stupid, ignorant people in Viktor’s life comes to his mind. How can they not see that Viktor is clearly depressed out of his mind? And Yuri suspects it’s just been building up. How can they not realize that Viktor is fooling them all? It doesn’t fool him, it’s never fooled him. And stupid, stubborn Viktor, refusing to admit he could use some help. Yuri gets it, he does. Viktor’s been in the public eye, held in such high regard for so long that he’s expected to be flawless, but it still makes him grind his teeth in utter frustration. They’ve been together for how long now? Viktor’s seen him at all kinds of low points, and goddamnit, Yuri just wants to repay the favor.

The more Yuri mulls upon it, the more he works himself up again over it, and soon enough he’s chopping so aggressively he’s sending carrots flying across the kitchen.

But soon enough, somehow, dinner is ready to be served with a minimal amount of angry mishap, and when Viktor sees what Yuri has made, his eyes light up slightly before he says, “Oh, you didn’t have to go through the trouble of this!”

The slight flicker of genuine delight in Viktor’s eyes makes Yuri’s heart flutter in his chest. “Oh shut up, I wanted to.” And I just want you to feel a little better.

Neither Viktor nor Yuri say much while they eat. Viktor looks tired as they do, and he’s no longer wearing that awful fake grin of his. Perhaps Viktor realized it’s pointless to keep up the disguise around Yuri, that he’ll always see right through it, much to Viktor’s chagrin. Still, it’s progress at least, but Yuri knows better than to say anything. The last thing he wants to do is send Viktor back into game of charades, because then he’ll just end up snapping at him again, which does neither of them any good.

After he’s done eating, Viktor goes to get up and clean up the mess Yuri’s made in the kitchen, but before he can get up, Yuri grabs his hand and says, “Don’t. I’ll clean up tonight.”

“But you cooked, so it’s my job to clean up.”

Yuri gives him a look, a look which states his mind is already made up and they would not be arguing over this. “Well tonight, I’m cleaning up. Go relax in the bath or something.”

Again, Vitkor looks exhausted, exhausted, but glad that he’s been relieved of cleaning duty. “Thanks,” Yuri hears him mumble.

“Whatever, it’s fine. Go take your bath and leave some hot water for me.”

As shitty as it is that Viktor feels so terrible, Yuri’s just glad he’s no longer trying to blatantly hide it, even if he won’t outright ask for help or admit he might need some extra love and care.

Later, they both sit in the living room together, each of them doing their own thing and neither of them talking to one another. It’s a moment of neither of them knowing what to say to each other, neither willing to approach the elephant in the room of Viktor’s looming depression. Yuri knows he’ll be denied, and Viktor is unwilling to acknowledge it.

“I’m going to bed. Coming?” Yuri eventually says. He looks at Viktor, eyes pleading for him to come to bed with him so he can snuggle him until he feels slightly less crappy, but Viktor shakes his head.

“Go on without me. I’ll be there later.”

“Fiiiine,” Yuri whines, dejected. “But don’t stay up too late.”

What Yuri really means is I can’t sleep without you so please come to bed soon.

Viktor, unfortunately, seems to have forgotten that little fact, and does not come to bed soon. Yuri lays in bed, tossing and turning for what seems like forever, growing steadily irritated that Viktor has not come to bed yet. After falling asleep and waking up after a brief fifteen minute stint for what feels like the upteenth time since he’s laid down, Yuri decides he’s going to drag Viktor’s ass to bed whether he likes it or not.

Yuri makes his way to the living room, and all of his hopes of dragging Viktor back to bed with him are dashed when he hears the sound of...crying? Was Viktor crying? He walks into the living room, and his heart shatters when he sees Viktor curled up against the side of the couch, sobbing into a throw pillow.

“Oh, Vitya…” Yuri whispers as he crawls onto the couch next to Viktor.

“Yuri! Where’d you come from?” Viktor yells as he jumps slightly, “I thought you went to bed.”

Yuri nonchalantly shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. Now tell me, what’s wrong? And I swear to God if you say you’re fine…”

Viktor aggressively wipes away tears and sniffles, as if he’s trying to hide the evidence that he’s been crying to no avail. “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to see me like this,” he mumbles, burying his face into the throw pillow he’s been crying into the the past who knows how long.

Yuri decides he’s not having any of that bullshit. He slowly peels the pillow away from Viktor’s face, exposing his tear-stained cheeks and his puffy, red eyes. How long has Viktor been crying here, alone? Yuri decides it doesn’t matter, he’s here now and he’ll be damned if he leaves Viktor alone to wallow in his misery.

“That’s bullshit,” He says, “You’ve seen me cry plenty of times. Now please, tell me, what’s wrong?”

“You were right before. I’m not fine. Everything is not fine,” Viktor blubbers out, wiping freshly shed tears out of his eyes, “I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s wrong. Everything should be fine, but it’s not.”

“Shh...it’s okay, love.” Comforting people isn’t particularly a talent of Yuri’s, but he crawls into Vitkor’s lap and gently embraces him, holding him close

Viktor takes the initiative and hugs Yuri back, hiding his face into his shoulder and sobs, apologizing as he does.

“Don’t apologize, it’s fine, really,” Yuri says softly, running his fingers through Viktor’s hair in attempts to soothe him. “I just wish you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“I’m sorry. You really shouldn’t have to deal with me like this. I can deal with it on my own, I always have-”

“Stop right there,” Yuri demands, cutting him off and peeling Viktor away from his shoulder. He brushes Viktor’s bangs out his face and looks straight into his eyes. “We are partners. We’ve been together for how long now? A couple years maybe? How many times have you nursed me through my own bullshit? And it’s not like I haven’t seen you like this before, I know you get like this, I’ve seen you get like this, this isn’t news to me. It may be news to your friends, but it’s not to me.” He pauses and leans in to gently kiss Viktor’s forehead. “I want to be here for you. I know i’m not the most dependable or sympathetic person, I snap at you and yell a lot, but I want to be here for you. I’m only going to say this once, so don’t make me repeat myself, but I care about you a lot, okay?”

It’s not long before Viktor’s crying all over again. “I don’t want to deal with this on my own anymore. I...I can’t deal with it on my own anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” Yuri says to him, holding him close again and rubbing soothing motions onto his back, “I’m here for you, alright? I’ve always been here for you.”

“I...thank you, Yura,” Viktor mumbles into the crook of Yuri’s neck. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

If Viktor wasn’t currently crying into his shoulder, Yuri would shrug in response. “I don’t know. Dumb luck maybe.”

“This is the best dumb luck that’s ever happened to me,” Viktor says with a bit of a quiet, breathy laugh. He can’t quite get over how naked he feels in the conversation, that Yuri’s always seen right through him, especially when no one else ever has. It’s a bit overwhelming, really.

“You’re the best dumb luck that’s ever happened to me too, and that’s why I want to be here for you, you stubborn asshole,” Yuri says, snuggling closer to him.

“Thank you, Yura, really…”

“Anytime, love.”

[magicalthoughtsendinterriblefics]

That Boy is Mine - Request

Requested by anon: sherlock x transguy reader where their like visiting john and Sherlock accidentally hurts their feelings by revealing their trans in front of a bunch of people /could I request a sherlock x trans male reader where Sherlock I a bit rude at first but the realises he loves them /Um would you be able to write a sherlock x transguy reader type thing if that’s okay

Pairing: Sherlock x trans!male reader.

Word count: 1.545

Warnings: After debating for hours what Sherlock’s sexual orientation would be for this, I realised that Sherlock doesn’t give a shit. If he doesn’t care about the Earth spinning around the sun, he will definitely care less about finding a label that suits him. SO yeah, there’s that.

A/N & Disclaimer: I DO NOT know ANYTHING about this. I’ve only met one transsexual person and we talked three times, not a single one about her transition. I don’t know if I expressed myself correctly, or if I used the proper terms, etc. I DO NOT MEAN TO OFFEND ANYONE. Sherlock is meant to be rude, and so he makes some nasty comments; if these things trigger you DO NOT READ. This in fanfiction, nothing else.

**Feedback is highly appreciated.

Enjoy!

There he was: the great Sherlock Holmes in flesh and bones. With his perfect cheekbones and the collar of his trench coat lifted, giving him his characteristically mysterious look. Avoiding the paparazzi with grace and sassy comments, zipping his way inside the cab John had stopped.

(Y/N) was just a reporter then, trying to get a decent note to overshadow everyone else’s and, at last, gets his desired job as head reporter in one of the most important newspapers in Europe.

How on Earth did Sherlock set his eyes on him? That was a mystery Sherlock wasn’t willing to solve. However, the simple view of his delicate figure stuck in the crowd of paparazzi, fans and reporters had some kind of effect on Sherlock.

“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes, is it true that you are gay?” (Y/N) replied. Sherlock, who was mesmerized by him, shook his head and replied in the rudest tone possible.

“No, now move over.” Sherlock pushed the boy and everyone else away. He hated to be surrounded by people; he always felt like they were too close or too touchy, even if he had the perfect space to walk to the cab without pushing anyone.

In spite of his poor manners, (Y/N) was willing to get his desired paper and so he took a cab and followed Sherlock.

-

Outside 221B, (Y/N) had to run out to catch Sherlock before he entered that mysterious flat.

“Mr. Holmes!” He called again, and Sherlock rolled his eyes to cover up the fact that he was happy to see the young lad again.

“Now what?” He hissed and John placed a soothing hand over his shoulder.

“Be gentle, Sherlock, he is just a boy.” John begged.

“Clearly.” Sherlock spat, “A boy trying to become a big and famous reporter, using other people’s lives to forget his, since it is too terrible. What do you want, boy? I do not desire to give another interview, and I will NOT pose for a picture.”

“I just wanted to…” What did he want? He couldn’t remember. Sherlock Holmes was even more handsome when he wasn’t surrounded by a mob.

“Did the cat eat your tongue? What do you want?” Sherlock repeated.

“I want to know if the rumours about you being gay are true.” (Y/N) stated.

“Why? Do you like detectives that much?” Sherlock snapped and John mumbled an instant apology.

“Only detectives that wear decent outfits and avoid using stupid hats.” (Y/N) snapped back bitterly. Sherlock was even ruder than how John described him on the blog.

“My outfit isn’t stupid, just the hat!” Sherlock defended.

“You sound like a complete bottom, Mr. Holmes.” (Y/N) chuckled, hating to stereotype for the sake of his report.

“I am definitely a top.” Sherlock fumed.

“So you are gay?” (Y/N) cocked and eyebrow.

“I do not believe in labels, now why don’t you go buy a binder?” Sherlock whispered angrily.

“Why would he buy a binder?” John inquired, but Sherlock did not reply. Instead, both men entered 221B after John apologised once more.

(Y/N) promised himself that that wouldn’t be the end of it; Sherlock had touched a very deep wound and (Y/N) would not allow him to go unpunished.

-

Months had passed since the publication of Sherlock Holmes, written by a brand new reporter named (Y/N) (Y/L/N) who somehow had managed to make him open up a bit more about his sexuality. Not only that, but it was an article that called him out for being so mean.

“This is stupid.” Sherlock roared, “The fact that I don’t believe in labels doesn’t automatically turn me into a gay man.”

“But you are gay, my dear.” Mrs. Hudson replied softly.

“Not gay.” Sherlock specified.

“Right, what was it? Oh yeah, a-romantic a-sexual.” John chuckled, “Which is dumb since Irene…”

“Irene and I never… I mean not… Not the point.” Sherlock sighed heavily.

“I’d vote for pansexual.” John told Mrs. Hudson who was sure Sherlock was bisexual.

“Stop labelling!” Sherlock groaned, “It doesn’t matter what or who I like, what matters is that the reporters are messing with my case!”

“Then why don’t you call them all, invite them a drink and ask them kindly if they wouldn’t mind to stop stalking you while you’re trying to solve a case?” Mrs. Hudson suggested as it was the most obvious solution ever – and it was.

-

The club was crowded, but Sherlock had managed to get the whole corner for himself. He was sitting at a sofa, next to John and the rest of the head reporters from every single relevant magazine, blog, TV show, channel or newspaper in London.

(Y/N) was sitting right across the table, and he hadn’t stopped glancing at the detective. Sherlock had convinced every reporter to back off during his cases, everyone but him.

Eventually, most of the reporters stood up to dance and have fun at the club they had so “kindly” been invited by Sherlock Holmes. Only a few men remained seated; drinking, smoking and joking. Sadly, it turned into one of those conversations in which women don’t fit in.

Stupid questions were asked, and even more stupid theories were created in order to answer to the said stupid questions. Sherlock was starting to lose his temper.

“You can’t do that, it is physically impossible.” Sherlock corrected.

“Can you prove it?” One of the reporters dared.

“I can’t, but surely Mr. (Y/L/N) can.” Sherlock turned to look at the boy, granting him a mug smirk, “Tell us, (Y/N), is it possible?”

“Why would I know?” He trembled.

“Maybe because you have a vagina.” Sherlock replied listlessly and everyone in the table gasped; not because he was tans, but because Sherlock didn’t seem to have the slightest touch about such sensitive topics. “By the way, this binder is more convincing than the past one, I’m glad you finally know the proper size to wear.”

“Sherlock!” John scolded at the detective.

“It is fine, Doctor Watson,” (Y/N) muttered, “it is, after all, physically impossible to achieve what Mr Johnson is implying. I should know, as said, I do have a…”

Nobody said anything about it. London was too evolved to be scared of a transsexual man; however, (Y/N) was still uncertain. Was Sherlock Holmes really the kind of man to reveal such information for his own benefit? It seemed like it.

“Did you really have to do it?” (Y/N) argued. Sherlock had gone out for a smoke and (Y/N) had followed him.

“Do what?” Sherlock asked, as he turned his cigarette on.

“Tell them about me!” He cried, “Is this how you were planning to proceed? Humiliate me in front of everyone just so I stopped writing about you?” Sherlock didn’t reply, “That is low… You could have asked!”

“I was going to ask.” Sherlock mumbled, “I didn’t think it was that much of a big deal.”

“Right, because you are an expert in humans, right Mr Holmes?” She hissed.

“No, but because I happen to know nobody on the table would care whether you were a man, a woman or both.” Sherlock explained.

“I am a man.” (Y/N) stated.

“And I am too.” Sherlock shrugged.

“You are so cynical… It doesn’t mean anything to you because you’re not on this side… How would you react to a transsexual person flirting with you?”

“Depends on whether I like the person or not.” Sherlock answered without hesitation.

“Oh yeah, sure.” He rolled his eyes.

“For a person who writes so much about me, you barely know anything.” Sherlock mocked, “If you had paid attention, you would’ve known that I do not care about labels.”

“What does that have to do with this?”

“I don’t see men or women, gays, bi, pans… I only see humans.” Sherlock confessed, “It’s a bit like that when you are socially anxious, you see, because everyone is a threat, and everyone is too close and too loud. I do not have a problem with just men or just women, I have a problem with everyone and so they turn into people rather than a genre or a sexual orientation.”

“So if you met a transsexual person…”

“If I did meet a transsexual person – which I do – and liked them – which I also do – I wouldn’t mind about what is between their legs.” Sherlock winked at him, approaching slowly, “Brains are sexier than genitals.”

“Coming from you, I’d dare to suggest you mean it literally.” (Y/N) whispered. He was still, unable to figure out how to move at sudden confession.

“I meant it literally and figuratively.” Sherlock whispered as he blew the smoke of his cigarette out, all over (Y/N)’s face. Then, Sherlock left a tiny peck on his lips, grinning flirtingly. “The answer could be yes, after all.”

“What answer?”

“About the rumours.” Sherlock said, throwing the cigarette butt to the floor and stepping on it. He picked it up and, when he was about to get back in the club, he turned to talk to (Y/N) once more. “I hope you are ready to be chased by lots of people, because there are paparazzi across the street that just captured our intimate moment.”

“Is this your way of bargaining?” (Y/N) inquired softly.

“No, it’s my way of calling dibs on you.”

Masterlist.

Sherlock Tags: @oaisara @charlottemalfoy @zena-dukmak @just-a-blog00 @wefracturedmotivation @beccamullz @sugarshai @vancepter @roseyhxnt @thisisjessicatalking @foureyedsiopao @nicole-pierce @captain-sherlockomg @kissed-by-white-wolf @samanthasmileys @love-charmer-sketch @givemeamemoryicanuse @diesintheshower @demonminnion3 @thatmoodindigo @sexyporntime @jennajoseh @destiel5100 @peachyoshi64 @1enchantedfantasy1 @thesherlockblr @yehummno @jaspar-error404  Benedict Tags: @newts-fan-case @resurrection-huntress Forever Tags: @dekahg 

[anamelesstraveler]

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A Sterek fanfic, rated E.

Chapter 9/? | 6,563 words

Deputy Stiles Stilinski is fascinated with Beacon Hills’ serial killer cold case of 2011, to the point of obsession. He's going to solve it if it kills him. It's that last bit that lands him on mandatory health leave. It's his own bad decision-making that puts him in the middle of the woods at night. Going off the path to help a wolf caught in a hunter’s snare? That one he’s not sure about.

An AU where Scott was never bitten, Derek never followed Laura to Beacon Hills, and Peter was never caught.

This story includes a vague attempt at a murder mystery, human Alpha Stiles Stilinski (which he did not sign up for), full shift werewolves, Pack dynamics, OCs, Derek Hale having a life outside of tragedy, nonbinary Scott McCall, and titles that are way too long.

Warning this chapter for discussion of Kate and Derek’s relationship, and all the things that entails.

Chapter 9: Letting people down is my thing, baby (this town ain’t big enough for two of us)

——————–1———————

Derek Hale is brought in in handcuffs. Stiles leaps to his feet the moment Derek appears in the doorway, flanked by Deputy Haigh and a weary looking Deputy Parrish. (Stiles absolutely does not notice so quickly because he’s been watching the door since the deputies left. Not at all.) “What are you doing?” he hisses at them as they near. “This is a voluntary interview!”

“He assaulted me,” Haigh says with a nasty smile. Stiles ire ramps up just looking at it. He’d always known Haigh was a grade-A asshole, but his desire to punch the smile right off his face goes past that today. Why, he doesn’t want to think about.

Parrish’s frown at the declaration tells Stiles everything he needs to know. The resigned, guarded look in Derek’s eyes is only a bonus - and not a happy one. Stupid, rule-bending, bad cop posturing bullshit. “Get the handcuffs off him,” he orders.

“Last I checked, you weren’t above me on the chain of command, rookie.”

“No, but I am, Deputy Haigh.” All of them flinch as the Sheriff materializes behind them, his face stern. “Handcuffs off him, Haigh. I’ll speak with you later.”

Haigh at least has the grace to keep his scowling subtle as he steps behind Derek. But Stiles isn’t imagining the unnecessary tug Haigh gives Derek’s arms as he unlocks the cuffs. Stiles clenches his fists, eyes narrowing, glaring at the man until he finally makes the retreat back towards his desk. “Sorry, man,” Stiles says as soon as the deputy is out of earshot. “It was supposed to be voluntary--”

“Let’s get this over with,” Derek interrupts. But he’s not speaking to Stiles. He’s not even looking at Stiles. He’s looking straight past him at Sheriff Stilinski instead. He shoulders his way past without even the slightest acknowledgment. Stiles’ jaw clicks shut, stung by the cold reception.

“You okay?” Parrish asks him quietly, glancing from Stiles to Derek’s retreating back.

“Y-Yeah. Yeah it’s… no, it’s fine,” he stammers. But his reassurances sound flat even to his ears. The expression of sympathy that Parrish shoots him only brings a sour taste to his mouth.

Parrish pats his shoulder. “Come on. We can go watch.”

“Parrish,” Stiles manages to gasp with dramatic flair. “That is downright sneaky of you. You, our golden boy deputy!”

“It’s not sneaky when we’re on the case,” Parrish argues. He ushers Stiles towards the interrogation room (a glorified conference room that they sectioned off into two rooms and stuck a viewing window in), not that he has to convince Stiles.

They slip into the observation booth just as Derek and the Sheriff are getting past the pleasantries. Stiles tunes out the reading of his rights during questioning and the official apologies for Haigh’s behavior. Instead he watches Derek. Stiles can actually see the man closing off. He’s starting to get a sense of his body language now (which has nothing to do with his less than advisable fascination with the man - nope). Stiles has learned to gauge just how defensive Derek is in the tense line of his jaw, in the severe downward slash of his mouth.

“So uh,” Parrish begins, “what as that out there with Hale?”

For a moment, Stiles debates whether he should tell Parrish anything. But, in the end, he knows his fellow deputy is a good guy. Kind of unfailingly optimistic and loyal in a way that too few people are. It makes even Stiles’ cynicism waver.  “Surprised my dad hasn’t told you.”

“Ah, I’m not the lead on this case or anything. If it’s not pertinent, I don’t see why he would.”

“It’s… pertinent,” Stiles admits. He runs a hand through his hair. “I might have slept with the guy. And… then realize he could be involved after.”

Beside him, Parrish’s eyes go wide. “Like… like right after? So, what’d you do?”

Stiles winces. “Uh, well...”

“Did you… just run off?”

They share the next grimace. Because Stiles can’t even deny that he ran off like a complete coward. Under any normal circumstance it’d be definite grounds for Derek’s cold treatment of him. And then the next time they meet is when the man is being brought in for questioning? Under Stiles’ request?

Yeah, Stiles is an asshole. Even if it’s more complicated than just him sneaking away after sex, he’s still an asshole.

“That’s rough, buddy,” Parrish says helpfully.

He sighs. “Thanks.”

His father’s voice drifts through the speakers, forcing them into silence. “Why don’t you tell me why you came back to town, Mister Hale.”

“I came back to clean up the estate. Too many of our family properties are struggling. Or defaulting altogether.” Derek’s word are perfectly civil. And yet his expression gives off all the impression of a cornered animal - poised but dangerous, looking for an opening.

“They’ve been failing for a while,” the Sheriff remarks. “Why now?”

He shrugs. “Ever since the fire, we let investors take care of them. We were hands off. I didn’t look at any of the reports until this year.” Derek doesn’t avert his eyes. He doesn’t even fidget. The only outward sign of anything is the way his jaw clenches.

It’s so perfectly controlled that it can be nothing other than suspicious.

‘Get him, Dad,’ Stiles silently urges.

Inside the next room, his father leans his elbows onto the table. “Look, son, I won’t lie to you.” There’s no missing the way Derek bristles at the familiarity. “The fact that we couldn’t reach you for more than a month after your sister’s death, only when the killings had stopped, and the fact that you show up in town just as they’re starting again… it’s suspicious. I need to know your whereabouts during the murders. Both six years ago and now.”

Where anyone else might be indignant about being implicated in a serial murder spree, Derek Hale barely even flinches. If anything, he only seems exasperated. “Six years ago, I was in New York,” he deadpans.

“Humor me, son. We need hard evidence of your whereabouts.”

“You can check the attendance records from Columbia. I had a volunteer job through them too, so they’ll have records of my time.”

“We’ll be sure to look into that,” Stilinski says. “And the recent murders? Specifically…” He glances through the paperwork in front of him. “The hours between 3 and 5 AM the night of the 29th, 6 and 9 PM the night of the 5th, and midnight and 2 AM on the 11th.”

Derek’s frown deepens. “I would’ve been in my building by then.”

“And can anyone corroborate this?”

“The building’s tenants, I guess.”

“But no one specifically.”

“If I’m not meeting with contractors or meeting the needs of my tenants, Sheriff, I keep to myself,” Derek stresses, sounding outright annoyed now.

Unperturbed, the Sheriff hums thoughtfully. “We’ll mark that down as ‘no concrete alibi’ then. You’ve been recently seen going into the Preserve, or into places you really shouldn’t be wandering at night. Care to tell me why?”

Derek’s eyes flick towards the window, as if he somehow senses that Stiles is there watching. Stiles fights the urge to duck out of sight, even though he knows there’s no way for Derek to see him. “Last I checked, walking at night wasn’t a crime.”

“It’s not,” Sheriff Stilinski replies. “But it is questionable when we have a serial murderer on the loose.” When Derek says nothing, he grabs up a pile of photos from the file instead. Each of them are laid out one-by-one on the table between them. “Laura Hale,” he says, gesturing to her picture. “Garrison Myers. Jeremy Holmes. Marcus Reddick. Paul Unger. Edward Cunningham. Adrian Harris. Jennifer Kisler. Peter Hale. Three members of Argent’s security team. And Kate Argent.”

And this time Derek does flinch. Parrish takes a step closer to the window. It feels like the entire room holds its breath, waiting. Sheriff Stilinski pauses, and Stiles can see the gears turning in his head, the detective in him going to work.

“Just looking at them, they all seem random. No common physicality, nothing obvious that links them. Except…” He pushes the photos of Peter,  Laura, and Jennifer forward. “Two of the three survivors of the Hale fire and a caretaker of one of them.” Next he pushes the photos of Myers and Cunningham. “The insurance investigator who ruled it an accident. The retired contractor who worked on your family’s home prior to the fire.” Harris, Holmes, Reddick, and Unger are next. “Three convicted arsonists and a chemistry teacher who we know Kate Argent approached.” And last, he taps the pictures of Argent and her bodyguards. “And… an Argent and her entourage. You see the connections we’re making?”

Derek has gone pale now, his eyes trained on the photos spread across the table. And Stiles isn’t the only one who notices his gaze lingering on one in particular.

His dad picks up Kate Argent’s picture, brandishing it pointedly. “It seems like there’s no love lost between you and the Argents. You want to explain to me how you knew Miss Argent?”

“I didn’t,” Derek hisses, but the waver in his voice makes it less than believable.

“Really? You seem to recognize her.” Stilinski sets the glossy photo back on the table and pushes it towards Derek. There’s no hiding the way the man’s hands curl into fists, physically shrinking away from it. “We know that she was living in Beacon Hills before the fire, and considering she approached Harris we figure she’s either the orchestrator of the fire or one of the main accomplices. You can imagine why we’d want to know her movements while she was in town. Who she talked to. Who she knew--”

“I didn’t know her,” the other man insists, weaker this time. And that is when Stiles knows something has gone wrong. Because the look on Derek’s face is not the look of a man caught in a lie. No, Stiles has seen that look on him, has seen the cold panic of his mind working its way through one lie and into another. No, this is the same broken, hollow expression that Stiles had seen on him just days ago, back in his loft. It’s terror and knowing.

“I think we both know that’s a lie, son. Now why don’t you tell me, before I have to start asking around and find out from someone who saw you with her all those years ago.” It’s a longshot, really. A connection from twelve years ago is hard to prove, but if anyone can do it anywhere, it’s his dad in a small town like Beacon Hills.

Stiles just wishes he didn’t have such a bad feeling about it.

It seems like Derek is going to refute the accusations for a moment. The room is filled with tense, oppressing silence as he gazes hollowly at Kate Argent’s photo captured face. And then he gently, as though the item might come alive and bite him, pushes it back across the desk.

“We were in a relationship, before,” Derek confesses.

The Sheriff immediately leans forward. “Before she was killed.”

Derek heaves a sigh, like his next words physically pain him. It’s not until after they leave his mouth that Stiles realizes that might be true. “No, I mean… before the fire.”

The gravity of the admission dawns on Stiles about the exact same moment it does on his father. “Son, you would have been…”

“Just turned sixteen,” Derek finishes for him.

“That would have made her approximately twenty-five, correct?”

“I guess. She never told me.”

“And what was the nature of your relationship?”

Derek’s expression twists. “Sexual.”

There’s a moment where none of them dares to speak. The look of horror that spreads across Parrish’s face is exactly how Stiles feels in that moment. Inside the interrogation room, his dad leans his elbows on the table. His frown has taken on a different edge now.

“When did Kate Argent first approach you, Mister Hale?”

“I didn’t know her as Kate Argent, then,” Derek answers quietly. “She told me her name was Kate Mitchell. She came to one of my games, said she was impressed. She said… a lot of things. And I--” he cuts off, something hollow and terrible in his eyes. “I was so fucking stupid.”

“And why do you say that, son?” The Sheriff prods, his tone more gentle this time.

“I thought I loved her.“ Derek’s voice has gone quiet and small. “So when she was interested in my family, I told her. When she asked about the house, I told her. I’m the reason she knew when everyone would be home. And how to get into the house to rig the fire.”

The Sheriff folds his hands on the table. “Did she force you to let her in the house?”

Derek’s frown only deepens, grows more self-loathing. “If she had, I could at least say I tried to stop her. No, she only asked questions. She only seemed interested. She always made it clear what would happen if she lost interest. By then, I-- I answered every question. Like an idiot child. It’s my fault,” he says. And now he drops his gaze to his hands. “I never… told Laura. I never told anyone. Maybe if I had, Laura would have known it was my fault, and never came back.”

Stiles turns on heel and exits the booth, ignoring the hollow, sick feeling growing in his stomach. He doesn’t need to hear anymore to know they aren’t arresting Derek Hale today. Stiles returns to his desk to wait out the rest of the interview.

His hands shake as he sorts through the pile of reports on his desk, and he has to stop and take a steadying breath.

The interview answered a lot of questions, sure. It proves that the Alpha killings are intrinsically linked with the Hale fire, either for revenge or to cover up the crime itself. It proves that Kate Argent had been the likely mastermind behind the fire, even though they’re lacking in hard evidence at the moment. It explains why Derek and the Argents don’t like each other.

It also makes Stiles want to drag Kate Argent from her grave and set her on fire, but no one needs to know that.

Stiles can’t say he can see Derek, a man who seems to have internalized what happened to him and his family, turning that grief into a bloody revenge. Not anymore. Not after this. However, nothing in Derek’s statement absolves him of suspicion. A gut feeling doesn’t trump hard evidence.

Not that they have any of that either. And no grounds to request a warrant with all their speculation and circumstantial evidence.

Still, Stiles can’t help but feel a teeny, miniscule, little bit terrible about how he’s handled this whole thing. In the past week Stiles has slept with the man, left him almost immediately after, discovered a - shaky at best - connection to the Alpha, stalked him (let’s be honest), had him dragged into the station for questioning, and forced him to relive what was clearly an awful, manipulative relationship that resulted in the death of his family.

Stiles quietly lowers his head to the desk, and groans.

“You’re an awful person, Stiles,” he mutters.

[Continue on AO3]