#I WROTE THIS AT WORK

[xnorthstar3x]

Tmnt Headcanons

Leo

NSFW content ahead minors dni

Fem! Reader mentions of clit pussy core ect;(I’m so awkward)

Everything Leo did he strives for perfection. In his training he wouldn’t quit until he’d performed the move beautifully. His perfectionist attitude also extended to you. When he had his first kiss with you he would continue until you were drunk from his kisses. Until you could no longer comprehend anything else going on.

Which is why he was currently burying his face between your folds. He had made the first move on you and when he began eating you out he strived for perfection. What is perfection you ask?

Making sure you forget your own name.

He was definitely achieving this goal no doubt.

The only sounds coming from your lips were either his name, or some form of vowel sound as a product of your pleasure.

With each mention of his name he gave a heart throbbing suck to your clit. Drawing you closer and closer to your climax. He added a finger in your core to which he deemed stretched you out beautifully. His digits were soaked and he moaned a little as he gave your sex a kiss not unlike he would if he were making out with you.

That’s what it felt like. It felt like he was making out with your pussy. His lips long ago found a rhythm that made your legs feel weak and shake as if you had ran a 10k.

“Say it again, who can make you feel this good?”

Needless to say he did make you forget your name as well as loose consciousness.

[dystopia-daily-trash-1]

I'm headcanoning that dan wanted phil to get and wear the preciousbabyangel shirt bc he's dans preciousbabyangel but phil was like "you should get one too 🥺 you're a preciousbabyangel too 🥺 look I found one in your aesthetic" and dan caved instantly

[buzziightqueer]

Common Ground (more common than you think)

crack fic

(casey gets jealous at a work dinner, oblivious that the man she's fuming over is gay)

1.1k words

Casey thought they would attend dinner together. Casey thought she and Alex had been dating for well over a month now.

Casey had been pining over the blonde since she started at SVU, months after she finally got the courage to ask her out. She’d be damned if she let some man get in the way of her new and all-encompassing escapade.

The two were deeply involved in conversation, Alex even letting out one of her real laughs which were typically reserved for Casey. The man was short, barely making it to Alex’s shoulder. Alex standing at five-foot-ten meant that many men fell short compared to her. Did she like that? Was it a power thing? Casey was almost directly Alex’s height– just barely hitting five-ten on a good day.

He wore a smart suit with a crisp blue shirt and a striped tie. He looked well-off, the suit tailored to fit him perfectly. His dark black hair combed back, letting a single strand fall forward– he was meticulous.

Casey couldn't stand it; the laughing, the brushing of hands, the whispering and sharing of secrets, it was all too much.

She made her way over, silently seething, but holding it back the best she possibly could. When she got close to them, it made her sick how his cologne and Alex’s perfume mingled in the air. Two rich scents intertwining as one.

Casey tightened the front of her maroon suit before reaching out a hand:

“Casey Novak, ADA working white collar crimes ,” she said, using her full title to, I don't know… intimidate him? Show him that she could be rich and important and smell like vanilla mahogany and a freshly pressed suit too?

He smiled, seemingly unaware of her strained attitude.

“George Huang,” he shook her hand gently. “FBI.”

“George, you’ll scare her. He’s working psychiatry at SVU,” Alex joked, shoving his shoulder gently. “This is a work party, no place to flash your FBI badge.”

George laughed, seemingly used to Alex’s teasing. How long had this been going on?

“I’ll make my rounds,” he said, reaching over to squeeze Alex’s hand. “Save me a spot at the table? Don’t leave me with the psychiatric department, please.” He joked, Alex immediately nodding and agreeing.

“I always do,” she rolled her eyes. “You can hide in the corner spot between me, Olivia, and Warner.”

They shared another brief laugh, Casey facing her body away to fully roll her eyes and rub a hand across her forehead.

When he left to socialize, Casey linked an arm around Alex’s waist.

Alex raised a brow. “In public? You’re not typically one for PDA.”

“I can be,” she objected, kissing her cheek chastely.

Alex briefly leaned into the touch, keeping her posture and persona professional. It wasn't like how she was when they were alone– Alex was colder, her usual ice-queen .

When the food was brought out, Alex indeed did put her suit jacket on the back of a seat to reserve for George. The act was so colloquial, Casey felt sick.

What kind of womanizer is integrated into a group of all women? The ADA, the best SVU detective, the most talented M.E in the city– he damn-near collected them all!

“Why doesn't George sit with some male friends in the psychiatry department?” Casey quipped genuinely, but Alex only laughed it off. She wasn't really joking.

“He says they all need psychiatric care. The men especially– apparently they all have this grand ego. He always sits with us since he practically lives at SVU with how much Cragen trusts his experience.”

Great. So now Alex’s boss also viewed him as some mastermind?

“I just feel like he–”

“Just in time!” George appeared, sliding in and giving Olivia and Melina a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’re a lifesaver, Lex.”

He reached across to grab a bread starter, Casey could only stare, mouth agape. Lex? No one called her Lex! Casey had never ever heard of the nickname. Alex wasn't short enough for Alexandra he had to drop the A?

Casey knew that she didn't belong in the group– she was younger, worked white collar crimes, she didn't fit into the conversation here. They talked about past cases, Alex almost turned in a way that completely iced her out from the table. Alex’s hand rested on her thigh, but it wasn't enough to ease Casey’s worries.

She got up suddenly, chair scraping across the ground loudly. The group and a few others turned to face her and find the source of the noise.

Casey left for the bathroom, walking quickly and not looking back.

She leaned over the sink. She wished she wasn't she jealous. She wished she fit in better. She just wanted to–

“Case?”

Casey whipped around to see Alex. She relaxed her posture, facing her, but not meeting her eyes.

“Casey, what’s wrong?” Alex said, increasingly worried. She placed a finger under Casey’s chin, asking for eye contact.

“I just… nothing. I don't know. It’s stupid,” Casey said, eyes flitting up.

“It’s not stupid if you’re upset, baby, you’ve been off all night,” Alex combed her hand across the back of Casey’s head, smoothening it.

“It’s… George.”

“George?” Alex’s brow furrowed at the unexpected turn.

“You two have been flirting all night! He’s all over you! “Oh, Alex, thank you soo much for reserving me a seat,” she made an exaggerated kissy noise. “You’re such a talented ADA, and I’m such a great FBI agent, let’s have smart babies!”

Alex let out a choked laugh, covering her mouth. “He’s not an FBI agent.”

“That’s what you heard out of all that?”

“God, Casey, you really don’t know do you?”

Casey squinted at her nonchalant nature. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Alex pulled Casey’s sleeve to align her with the door before slowly pulling it open just a crack so she could see the table where the group was sitting.

Huang, Melina, and Olivia all stared appreciatively at the male waiter. Melinda making eyes, Olivia fanning herself, and Huang making a whistling noise.

“He’s… gay?” She sputtered, disbelieving.

“Shh!” Alex said, shutting the door. “It’s no secret, but you’re shouting.”

“Sorry,” she ran a hand through her hair. “You’re serious?”

“Case, darling, your gaydar is horrendous, seriously,” she said, laughing while she scolded the redhead.

“Okay, one minor blunder,” she rolled her eyes.

“You thought I was straight until I practiced eye-fucked you at the hearing.”

Casey blushed a deep red. “That’s irrelevant.”

“Overruled,” Alex muttered, yanking the door open.

When they made their way to the table, Casey sheepishly sat down. The group acknowledged her, Huang, a knowing look in his eyes.

“So..” she started, Huang’s brow raising. “Did you see they put Lady Gaga’s VMA performance back on YouTube?”

[thicc-ray-of-sunshine]

Of course he had to be there, why wouldn't he? The very object of your frustration right in the very spot you came to cool off. You'd recognize that stupid busted up stetson anywhere. He was lounging back, long legs posted up on the table in front of him while his chair was tipped back. Part of you itched to swipe your foot under it and knock his chair down, taking the smug grin he was giving you with it. You turned back to the bar with a huff and ordered two fingers of whiskey from James. Typically you were a nuka cola and rum kinda girl but tonight you were here to get drunk and needed something with some bite to it, especially since you knew there was no way you were going to avoid Cooper.

Realistically you didn't really have anything to be mad about, it was the wasteland after all so of course nobodys gonna be upfront or honest so you really shouldn't have been surprised when he jilted you and skipped town with three quarters of your radaway. He at least had the decency to leave you some caps but overall your profits took a hit because of the whole debacle. Well that and your pride. But that wasn't really what you were mad about, no not at all, you were upset because you wanted him, pure and simple. It was all encompassing and ate at you every time you even thought about his weathered face and dangerous demeanor. Sure he was mean but you always liked it when men had some bite, it was more of a snark anyway.

James offering you your drink pulled you out of yourself. You took your whiskey in hand and knocked it back, willing your face to not scrunch up at the harsh feeling it left in your throat. Speaking of keeping cool, you were having an increasingly hard time ignoring the stare Cooper was burning into the back of your head. Taking a deep breath and sliding your caps onto the countertop you slowly turned in your seat. As suspected he was just staring at you, his body relaxed and languid in his chair, drink held loosely in our and and a smoke in the other while his eyes pinned you with a stare that made you feel like you were on fire. You watched him as he clicked his teeth together and tilted his head to the side, motioning you over. Again you felt anger welling up underneath your skin at his smug attitude, yet that wasn't the only thing that was itching at you.

It didn't help that he downright grinned when you stood up and wandered over to him. You chose to stand in front of him, a little to the left of his legs but enough to be directly in his line of sight, hands crossed over your chest, displaying your displeasure.

"Aw it ain't gotta be like that sweetheart. It ain't like I did nothing untoward."

He said playfully as he leaned forward and set his glass on the table.

"Yeah nothing but stealing my shit. Totally normal friendly behavior."

You retorted, cocking your hip, knocking against his crossed legs at the thigh.

"You still owe me for that by the way. Not too pleased to have been robbed, especially after giving you some of my supplies on the house."

His eyes followed the line of your body down to where your hip touched him, giving you a brazen up and down that had you barely suppressing a shiver.

He took a long drag from his cigarette before he spoke again, eyes never leaving yours.

"You and I both know that ain't what this is 'bout darlin. You're mad because I left you high and dry."

You didn't know what to say, the way he said it was so matter-o-factly, like he was making fun of you. Yet the look on his face was damn near salacious. You felt naked, uncomfortable and unbearably angry that he had the absolute gall to even say something like that. Before you could even think about raising your hand to slap him you felt pressure on the small of your back your whole body suddenly tipping forward. Just as quick as you fell, you were hauled up into Coopers lap. Some part of your brain registered that he had kicked you but the rest of it was focused on the sudden close proximity and the gloved hand that had made its way to your hip. You watched him through your lashes as he worked his cigarette in his mouth before he exhaled, leaving you in a haze that burned your nostrils.

"So how 'bout we cut the shit and you let me show you what you've been missing out on?"

[0o-junebug-o0]

Just To Hear Her Voice

Here's my first Criminal Minds fic!

summary: In the aftermath of Emily's death, Spencer starts calling and texting her number to cope as his life spirals down around him. He has no idea that halfway across the world, Emily is listening.

content: drug addiction, grief/mourning, angst, hurt/comfort, near relapse, angst with a happy ending

word count: 3.2k

Spencer calls Emily for the first time a week after her death. He’s sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest on the floor of his apartment, pressed between a chair and the wall, rocking forward and backward. He holds the phone to his ear and sobs when he hears Emily’s voice.

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The dial tone sounds. Spencer chokes on a sob and hangs up. He redials the number. 

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

He hangs up before the tone and calls again. 

He only speaks on the sixth call. 

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The dial tone sounds and Spencer takes a deep, shaky breath. “H-hi, Emily. I, um, I don’t know why I’m calling you. It’s– it’s not like you’re going to answer. You’re dead. I helped carry your coffin. It—” A sob pushes up his throat and cuts him off. “It was so heavy,” he whispers. 

He bows his head and presses his knees against his face, he can feel the tears seeping through the fabric of his slacks. “I just– I really miss you. It doesn’t feel real, none of this feels real. I’m sorry. I—” Spencer cuts himself off with a wet chuckle. “I should go eat something.”

Spencer pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up. He doesn’t push himself off the floor for another three hours and when he does he goes straight to his room.

He calls her again three days later just to hear her voice. He doesn’t speak.

Spencer lays on the floor of a Nashville hotel room four weeks and six days after Emily’s death and dials her number. 

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.” 

He waits for the tone.

“I saw someone that looks like you today,” he says weakly. He breathes deeply and stares at the ceiling, tracing the perimeter of the room with his eyes. “It was uncanny. I, um, I really thought she was you. I was with Rossi, heading back to the Nashville police station, we’re on our first case since—” he pauses unable to finish the sentence. “It was good he was there. I might have called your name if he wasn’t. It feels wrong without you here.” Unable to think of anything else to say, Spencer hangs up. 

He doesn’t know that halfway across the world his voicemails are transferred from one phone to another and Emily Prentiss, newly arrived in Paris, listens to them and cries.

After the case in Nashville, calling Emily becomes a part of Spencer’s routine. Most of the time he doesn’t talk, unable to force himself to speak, and just listens to her voice. On those days he goes over to JJ’s house once he hangs up and cries in her arms. 

Emily receives records of those calls too, the times and dates are sent to her new phone and she stares at them when they arrive, hoping that she’s not the only person Spencer is talking to.

After three months he shifts from leaving messages to texting because it’s easier than talking. He still calls to listen to her voice but always hangs up before the tone. He texts her about his day, about the cases they’re working on without giving away any details, about how much he misses her. He still goes to JJ’s house at least once a week, he feels safer there on bad days.

Five months and thirteen days after her death, Spencer calls Emily’s number and yells.

“You should have told us! We could have helped you! We’re family, Emily! It’s our job to take care of each other.” Spencer's voice cracks and he lets out a screaming sob as he grabs a plate from the sink and throws it to the floor. “And now you’re dead! You’re dead and there’s nothing we can do about it! You’re so fucking stupid, Emily! We– we could have helped you! I hate you! I hate you! Why’d you have to leave?” He falls to the floor and trails off into uncontrollable sobs, not caring that the ceramic shards dig into his knees and the palm of his hand. He leans against the cabinets next to him and sobs, painfully and violently. He knows he’s being loud, loud enough that his neighbors can probably hear him but he can’t bring himself to care, not when he feels like he’s dying. He slams his head against the cabinet and the pain of it combined with the pain of the ceramic stuck in his skin helps ground him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice wet with tears. “I’m sorry, I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you. I’m so sorry. I could never hate you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeats those two words until his phone dies in his hand eleven minutes later.

Halfway across the world, Emily Prentiss sits in her Paris apartment, listens to the voicemail, and cries.

Spencer doesn’t call or text for twenty-four days after that. He knows she’s dead. He knows she can’t hear or see what he says to her, but he feels painfully guilty for his last voicemail. The kind of guilt that burrows into his chest and stays there, squeezing tight around his heart and lungs whenever he thinks about it. 

He lays awake in a hotel bed in Sedona, Arizona staring at the ceiling. With a sigh, he rolls onto his side, grabs his phone from the nightstand, and opens his text conversation with Emily. 

“I don’t know why I’m still doing this,” he types. Spencer squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I know you’re not going to see this, but I want to say I’m sorry again for when I last called. I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you. I was just angry and sad and didn’t know what to do. I don’t know why I still feel so stuck. Obviously, everyone else is still sad but they seem to be moving on while I’m still here.” He sends the message and pauses for a moment. “I’ve been craving again, ever since you died. It’s getting worse the longer it’s been. I don’t know why. I thought it would get easier but it’s just getting harder. I’m scared, Emily.” His finger hovers over the send button before he changes his mind and deletes the message. He’s not going to tell anyone that, not even someone dead. Emily doesn’t deserve that. “I miss you,” he writes. He hits send and puts his phone back on the nightstand, curling into a ball with the comforter pulled up to his chin.

He squeezes his eyes shut and wraps his arms around his chest, trying not to scratch at the crook of his arm and trying not to think about getting high. 

The next two weeks pass in a haze and Spencer can feel himself getting worse. He calls and texts Emily’s number more frequently and visits JJ’s house nearly every other day. Being around Henry is the only thing keeping him from contacting his old dealer. He would never bring that shit into their home, he would never even think of being high around his godson. 

Spencer sits curled in on himself between a chair and the wall of his apartment with his phone pressed to his ear.

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The tone sounds. “I miss you, Emily,” he says, his voice weak around the lump in his throat. “It’s not getting easier, but I’m alright.” That’s a lie. He doesn’t know why he’s lying. Emily’s dead. She’s not going to hear it anyway. But he just can’t bring himself to say it. He hangs up.

Three days later, Spencer calls JJ to ask if he can come over. She apologizes and tells him that Henry has the flu and passed it on to Will. He tells her it’s okay and hangs up.

Forty-five hours later he calls a number he deleted from his contacts years ago.

Sixteen hours later Spencer is curled up on his couch, staring at the unopened vial of Dilaudid sitting on his coffee table next to a packaged needle. 

He knows he shouldn’t do this. He doesn’t want to. But he needs it.

He feels frozen, his whole body is shaking. He rubs his eyes hard and continues to stare at the vial. He knows he should call someone but he’s scared and ashamed. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this.

His hand shakes violently as he reaches for his phone and selects Emily’s contact. She’s dead. He can call her. She won’t know and maybe calling will give him the courage to dump it down the drain. 

The first ring startles him and he waits silently, tears streaming down his cheeks as the phone continues to ring.

“This is Emily Prentiss. I’m not available right now. Leave a message and I will call you back.”

The tone sounds and Spencer speaks.

______

Emily's phone pings as a new voicemail is transferred to her phone. She looks at her phone with surprise. It’s eight am in Paris and two am in DC. It’s much later than Spencer usually calls.

She turns her volume on and selects the voice message.

The first thing she hears is a shaky sob she’s become painfully familiar with.

“Hi, Emily. I don’t know why I’m calling,” Spencer mutters. His voice sounds completely broken and almost dead. “Actually, that’s– that’s not true. I know why I’m calling.” There’s a pause and all she can hear is the shaky sound of Spencer breathing and crying softly. “I can’t call anyone else.” He sighs. “I’m, um, I’m sitting in my living room in– in front of a needle and a vial of Dilaudid.” Emily’s stomach drops and she shoots to her feet. A broken sob plays from her phone. Panic builds rapidly in her chest and she hopes, prays, that Spencer hasn’t taken any yet. She’s pulled from her thoughts when he starts to speak again. “I don’t want to,” he whispers. “I promise I don’t want to. It’s just too much, I—” his voice breaks. “I need it, Em.” Emily raises her hand to cover her mouth as tears stream down her cheeks. This is her fault. This is all her fault. She should’ve told everyone. 

“I’m so sorry, Em. I just– I really miss you. I-I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” 

The playback ends and Emily immediately rushes to the toilet to vomit because that sounded horrifyingly like a suicide note. She coughs violently and spits into the toilet. She doesn’t even take the time to flush it before she clicks on Spencer’s number and her phone is ringing.

Halfway across the world, Spencer sobs as he rolls up his sleeve and wraps his belt around his upper arm. The sterile plastic crinkles as he removes the needle. He holds it and wishes he wasn’t like this. Wishes he was a better, stronger person. He reaches to grab the vial but as the tips of his fingers touch the cool class his phone rings. 

He startles, almost dropping the needle. Too large a part of him is glad he didn’t drop it because that means it’s still clean and he can still use it. He slips the needle back into the plastic packaging and sets it back down on the coffee table but he doesn’t undo the belt around his arm. His hand shakes violently as he picks up his phone.

He stares at the screen for a moment, it’s a number he doesn’t recognize with a Paris area code. He doesn’t know why but he answers it.

“Spencer!” Emily’s voice gasps through his phone. 

Spencer stares wide-eyed at the phone without responding. This isn’t happening, this isn’t real. She’s dead. He must be having a schizophrenic break, he’s the right age for it and he’s hearing the voice of his dead friend.

“Spencer!” the voice says again. He refuses to think of it as Emily’s voice. It’s not her voice, it can’t be because if it is that means she’s alive. That means that she and Hotch and who knows how many other members of his team have been lying to him for months. That means she heard and read all his messages. That means she heard him say that he bought Dilaudid and is about to shoot up. “Please, Spencer! Please answer me. Oh, God.”

“E-Emily?” he asks, his voice breaking. He hates that part of him believes it might actually be her.

“Yes, fuck. Yes, it’s me, Spencer, please tell me you’re okay,” she gasps. Spencer can hear her crying.

“Is–is this real? I’m not having a schizophrenic break?”

“No, I mean yes, I mean this is real!” Emily stutters. “I’m real. I’m alive. I’m so so sorry. But please, Spencer, tell me you haven’t done anything.”

Spencer doesn’t respond, just staring in disbelief at his phone. A moment later his phone beeps and a button appears at the bottom of the screen. Without thinking he presses it and immediately Emily’s face fills his screen. Her face is pale and her hair is all over the place and she looks terrified. She stares at him with wide eyes. In the bottom right corner is himself, and for the first time in sixty-one hours and twenty-three minutes, Spencer looks at himself. His face is red and blotchy and the bags under his eyes look like bruises. His hair is greasy and knotted. His shirt is buttoned incorrectly, his right sleeve is rolled up, and he can see the belt cinched around his arm.

“Spencer?” Emily asks, and her lips move on his phone as she speaks. “Did you—”

He cuts her off with a shake of the head and with a shaking hand, undoes the belt around his arm and lets it fall to the floor. “I was— I was about to,” he admits, his voice weak and wet. “I took out the needle. You called right— right as I grabbed the bottle.”

Spencer can see the panic fade from Emily’s face. “Okay, okay,” she says, her voice breathy with relief. “Thank God. Okay. Spencer, I need you to listen to me, okay?”

He nods and says nothing. 

“I need you to pick up the bottle and dump it.”

Spencer immediately bursts into tears. “I-I can’t, Em. I can’t!” he cries. “I want to but I can’t. You were dead. I helped carry your coffin! I can’t! It was so bad. I need it! I need to not feel!” He knows he’s not making any sense but by the look of her face, he can tell Emily understands.

“I know,” she says softly. “I know. But I need you to do this for me. Please, Spencer.”

He bows his head and sobs ugly and violent sobs. 

“You’re going to be okay, Spencer. I’m right here. I’ll always be right here.”

“But you weren’t!” he screams, the anger in his chest finally boiling over. “You weren’t here! You left! You lied! You let us believe you were dead! You let us mourn you! I hate you, Emily! I fucking hate you!” 

Spencer looks up at the phone when Emily doesn’t respond and freezes when he sees the tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“I–I’m sorry,” he says, panicked. “I don’t know why I said that. I don’t hate you. I don’t hate you. I promise I don’t hate you! Please, Emily, please. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I— fuck!” Spencer drops his phone on the couch and pushes himself to his feet, grabbing the needle and vial of Dilaudid as he stands. 

“Spencer? Spencer!” Emily cries frantically through his phone. He doesn’t respond and practically sprints into his kitchen. Quickly, before he can regret it, he breaks off the tip of the needle and stabs it into a banana to make it safe and throws it and the rest of the needle in the trash. He unscrews the cap of the vial and dumps it down the kitchen sink. He sobs as he watches the liquid flow down the drain. The vial slips from his fingertips and he sinks to the floor. He says there until he’s sure all of the drug is gone before shakily pushing himself up, rinsing out the vial with water, and throwing it in the trash with the broken needle.

He stumbles back into the living room and picks up his phone to see Emily panicking. She opens her mouth to speak but Spencer interrupts her. “I dumped it,” he says weakly.

“Oh thank, God,” Emily sighs with relief. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Spencer.”

“Who knew?” he demands. 

“What?”

“Who knew you were alive?”

“Just– just Hotch and JJ. But don’t be mad at them, please. I had no choice. Hotch knows because he’s Unit Chief and JJ only knows because she was assigned to making me disappear. It was too much of a risk to tell anyone else.”

Spencer scoffs. “What? You didn’t trust us? You don’t think we can keep a secret as important as this?”

A pained look crosses Emily’s face. “No,” she insists. “No that’s not it at all. I know all of you would have kept this a secret. I trust all of you with my life. But I couldn’t risk you knowing because it would put you in danger. Doyle will do anything to get to me. I wish even JJ and Hotch didn’t know, but I didn’t get a say in that. But I did get one in protecting you. You don’t– you don’t have to forgive me, or– or even be okay with it, but please—” a small sob cuts her off. “Please, I just need you to understand.”

Spencer stares at her for a while before slowly nodding. “I understand,” he whispers. “I hate it and I’m mad and I don’t forgive you yet but I understand.”

“Thank you,” Emily sighs weakly. “That’s all I ask. I just want you to be safe, that’s why I called, even though I have been ordered not to contact any of you. I couldn’t– I couldn’t let you relapse.”

Spencer nods weakly.

“I just need you to be okay,” she sobs softly.

“I’m not okay,” he admits, another sob forces its way up his throat. “I need help, Em. I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m going to call JJ, okay? And she’s going to come pick you up. I'm so proud of you.”

Spencer nods. “I love you, Emily.”

“I love you too, Spence. I’ll stay on the line until she gets here. I’m not leaving you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If anyone wants to be tagged in future fics, just let me know! Also if you have something you'd like me to write, my requests are always open!

[ghostcreaturetypething]

Alright. So I am very new and naïve to the Supernatural fandom. But I am also autistic as hell, meaning I get very into things very quickly, and I’ll be damned if I spent all that time in A Level English lessons and doing endless revision for nothing, so listen up.

I am halfway through season 1, episode 12, Faith. Quick synopsis of the first few minutes, maybe quarter: Dean gets electrocuted and almost dies; he’s in the hospital, looking like hell, and Sam has just found out that the amount of electricity that Dean accidentally tazed himself with caused a heart attack that severely damaged Dean’s heart. Suffice to say, Dean did not just almost die: he is dying. Dean has weeks, tops, and he knows this. So when Sam comes into his room, distraught, Dean says,

“I know it’s not easy, but I’m gonna die. And you can’t stop it.”

And Sam says, “Watch me.”

Now. Now. By god do I have feelings about this.

For some quick context, I am an older sibling, and I see my relationship with my sister as being quite similar to that between the Winchester boys, give or take a few traits.

That said, I… Hm. To me, this short exchange holds an unbelievable amount of weight. Just to begin with —

“I know it’s not easy, but I’m gonna die. And you can’t stop it.”

The first phrase,“I know it’s not easy” is directed at Sam. Dean is in hospital, dying, in pain, and his first focus is to acknowledge that the situation is not easy for Sam. Because that is his baby brother, and even at this very early point in the series, we all know that he loves him an unbelievable amount. And, god, the way he says it — “I know it’s not easy.” It’s so matter-of-fact, and yet so gentle. It’s almost as though Dean is apologising for being at death’s door, almost like he only cares at all because of the effect he knows it is going to have on Sam. That — yeah. That makes me feel… things. But moving on swiftly:

“I’m gonna die.”

Stupidly casual. Not that we would expect anything less from Dean but, dude. Now is not the time to be using contractions. But more than being very casual and very typically Dean, it is very certain. More so even than a phrase like “I’m dying”, which describes a state of being but not a definite destination. “I am going to die” leaves no room for nuance or last minute rescues. This coupled with the “I know it’s not easy” implies that already, despite everything the boys have been through and overcome, Dean is resigned to his fate. He has given up. He believes he is going to die, and the only concession he has made to this not being an ideal situation is his acknowledgment of how difficult it must be for Sam. I mean. Fuck.

Now, the second phrase: “And you can’t stop it.” This. This is three things and all of them stab me directly in the heart. Firstly, I wanna talk about the fronted conjunction ‘And’. It’s unnecessary. Without it, the statement is gentler; less combative, and more of a way of saying to Sam, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you can do, and we both have to be okay with that. But, BUT. With the addition of the “and”, Dean has made that statement into a challenge. A mock dismissal of anything Sam may or may not be able to do to save him. The two phrases now have the very typical structure of the way one would talk to a sibling: “I’m going out tonight and you can’t stop me.” “I know you don’t want to do that and I don’t care. Let’s go.” It’s PETTY. It’s unnecessary, and it makes it sound almost like Dean is… triumphant, in some way. Like he’s won, in his blunt laying out of what Sam can’t do.

“I know it’s not easy, but I’m gonna die. And you can’t stop it.”

It’s a juxtaposition of gentle and combative, the most sibling-relationship-coded combination known to humankind, and it just goes to show that, on a meta level, the writing for the interactions between these two is incredible. But going back to the second half; I said it was three things. This is the third: as well as being contradictorily resigned and strangely triumphant, this phrase is also proof that actually, Dean is decidedly neither of these things. “And you can’t stop it” is not a definitive condemnation of Sam’s ideas. It is a plea. For help. For Sam to save him. “I’m gonna die”, aren’t I? “You can’t stop it” can you? I’m fucked, right? Dean is scared. This is proven to us later when Sam says, “You know, this whole… ‘I laugh in the face of death’ thing? It’s crap, I can see right through it.” But here, here is his very first admission of it. And that realisation would be emotive enough, but it gets better. Or possibly worse. Because Sam really does see through Dean. He already knows he’s scared. And so, he… Well. In my opinion, as an older sibling… Sam’s response is… staggering.

He says, “Watch me.” He says fucking “watch me.” Are you fucking kidding??? Because hell, Sam is the younger one. He is and always will be Dean’s baby brother. There are four whole years between them. He very well could have taken Dean at his word. He could have accepted his brother’s fate alongside him, and then sat by his bedside and watched him die. But he doesn’t. Because, as Dean said to him over the phone in Scarecrow, Sam is his own person. Dean tells him, “you’ve always known what you want, and you go after it”, and he’s right. Sam is not just the baby brother. He is incredibly smart and incredibly driven and most importantly, he does not take orders. From his dad or from Dean. So he does not take Dean at his word. He does not believe him when Dean says that he is dying and there is nothing Sam can do. He lets Dean tell him that, and then he lifts his chin and he says, “watch me.” Watch me save you.

And it is an act of unimaginable love.

Furthermore, it is, yet again, the most sibling-coded way he could have gone about it. Like Dean before him, he is pushing back. He is challenging his brother. He is disagreeing, he is being stupidly contrary, but it isn’t actually against Dean, like it might be normally. It is for him. And, like, fuck. Sam sees that Dean is scared, and he tells him not to worry in a way that is not only incredibly familiar to Dean due to the fact that it follows the pattern of their normal conversations, but is also incredibly confident. “Watch me.” Like there’s no possible way he’s going to fail at this. Because he knows Dean needs to hear it, but also because Sam cannot imagine a world in which he fails. In which Dean actually dies. And he’s going to make sure he never has to. But then. But then. Sam calls his dad. And it is a perfect fucking parallel to when Dean calls their dad in Home — except it isn’t. Both brothers call their dad when they are faced with their worst fear. Dean’s? It could be argued that it’s having to face whatever is in his childhood home, whatever it is that killed his mum. But the first thing he says to explain to his dad what’s going on is, “I’m with Sam” before following it up with “we’re in Lawrence and there’s something in our old house.” Dean is scared of his old house, there’s no doubt about it. But I would argue that his worst fear is something happening to Sam. And Sam’s is the same. But Sam’s attitude towards his fear is very different. When Dean, the daddy’s boy out of the two, calls his father, he is crying. He says he knows he’s left messages before but “I don’t know what to do”. He asks his dad to “get here”, because “I need your help.” Faced with his worst fear, he asks his dad for help — as he should, by the way — because he has spent his life under his dad’s rules and mentorship, he’s never left home, never lived alone, and even at twenty six he trusts his dad to keep Sam safe more than he trusts himself. Now Sam, Sam’s phone call is very different. He’s crying too, for obvious reasons, and at the beginning he mirrors Dean in other ways too, acknowledging that his father probably won’t even receive his message before saying his brother’s name — “It’s Dean” — and laying out the problem. But then he takes on a very different tone. Because Sam decidedly does not ask his father for help. He simply tells him what’s happening before saying, “don’t worry, because I’m gonna do whatever it takes to get him better.” I. Not you, or we. I, as in, just Sam. Because Sam is the independent one. He is the one who always pushed back against his father, he is the one who went off to university and has been living alone for years by the time Dean comes to find him. He knows he can take care of himself, and he trusts that he can take care of Dean, too. In this way, Sam is actually more mature or grown up than Dean, despite being the younger, and I think he knows it. Furthermore, I think Dean knows it. He knows that in this area, his baby brother is ahead of him, and I would argue that his phone call to Sam in Scarecrow is proof of that. I believe that it was this knowledge that allowed him to, even incredibly indirectly, ask Sam for help.

For those of you reading who do not have younger siblings, you should know that that is not something older siblings tend to do. Ask our younger ones for help. I can only ever speak for myself of course, but this is definitely something I have noticed outside of my own family.

But Dean asks Sam for help. Because he trusts him. Because he knows what Sam is capable of, and that he is capable of this. Therefore, as well as being a plea, Dean’s “And you can’t stop it” is also a fragile admission of hope, proving that he is not nearly as resigned to his fate as he would have Sam believe. Which brings us to the NEXT point:

Later, when Dean stumbles into Sam’s hotel room, looking like he already has one foot in the fricking grave, Sam tells him his plan to save him, and Dean says, grumpy as ever: “You’re not gonna let me die in peace are you?” And Sam smiles and says, “I’m not gonna let you die, period.”

I mean COME ON. Yet again we have Dean pretending to be stoic, yet feeling the tiny hesitant flicker of hope that his little brother is lighting for him, and Sam, said little brother, being so damn confident that he can save Dean’s life it’s almost cocky. And then, to add to that, we have the word “let”. “Let me die”, “let you die”. A word not typically associated with things that are outside of one’s control. And a word which Dean uses first, despite his alleged resignation. As thought it’s a choice. And Sam agrees. “I’m not gonna let you die, period.” And then he doesn’t. That crazy motherfucker actually pulls it off, snatching his big brother from the jaws of death seemingly with never more than a second’s doubt that he could.

Are you fucking kidding me???

Anyway, I have to stop now, abruptly, before I either lose it completely over this or before it becomes a full blown essay but IN CONCLUSION: The Winchester’s have probably the best, most realistically written sibling relationship I have ever come across in media, and I love them, and they are fucking insane. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

[ryah-wolfe]

I’ve read the first Percy Jackson book for the first time and this crossover came to mind. I only know PJ universe through a quick and vague wiki search, so sorry if this is inaccurate.

The Foxhole Court x Percy Jackson and The Olympians

The message came in a sealed scroll, all formal and shit, asking for aid. Wymack wanted to burn the damned thing. But he knew a war between the immortals meant his foxes -his kids- would be dragged in anyways. Chiron asked for peace talks, wanting a reconciliation between the main camp and its runoff.

Most modern demigods are born for the modern aspects of their Godly parent, some kids though, are born from war for war. Their godly blood boiling in their bodies. Making them volatile, and perfect when in ancient times, there was always enemy forces that need slaying but in these times of peace? It made them more likely to lash out at those around them. Most burn up before hitting their teens, their blood consuming them. The few who make it to Camp Half-blood end up being sent away, being too dangerous to be around the other campers.

Chiron asked to send an envoy to Palmetto Academy.

Dan- daughter of Nike

Matt- son of Dionysius

Allison- daughter of Athena

Seth- son of Ares

Renee- daughter of Iris (edit: I can’t believe I forgot her)

Nicky- son of Aphrodite

Aaron- son of Apollo

Andrew- son of Apollo

Kevin- Won’t Say

Neil- unclaimed (favorited by Hermes)

[caycanteven]

@mothiepixie drug me right into another one and I fuckin' love pirates man...and I didn't even fight it lmfao. Enjoy this fun drabble I wrote up~ Fair warning, I just wrote this for fun; no idea how accurate appearances or any of the like are and I came up with "The Black Fiend" myself cause ships have cool names teehee.

The storm raged outside, but among the drunkard squabble and unrelenting retelling of stories on the seven seas, it was a hushed whisper.

This tavern wasn’t a first for her, but it was definitely one she came to seldom enough. Company wasn’t something she avoided like the plague, but she preferred to be alone when she drank her spirits. Cheers to the tavern mates who were Three Sheets to the Wind, but she wasn’t them.

She learned the hard way what it meant to take her eyes off her surroundings and get too comfortable.

She paid the price.

A minor price, but a price, one that wasn’t paid in silver.

She lifted her tankard to her lips, downing a swig of the rum within. With a lazy brush of her arm, she wiped her mouth of leftover sprits and breathed deep. It burned, but it felt so good. It always felt good.

Out of the corner of her left eye and beneath her hat, she noticed a body place themselves on the stool beside her. She grunted under her breath. Out of all the places in this damn tavern, they chose there to place their ass?

She stilled a moment before drinking once more from her tankard, her brow raised with sudden curiosity and surprise.

A lass? It was unlikely, but who would wear such robes like that around if they weren’t…though even she knew better than to judge first sight. After all, she hid well beneath her own rags just to make’er livin’ on the sea under the interpretation she was male.

Or used to.

She set her tankard down slowly in order not to draw attention to herself. She eyed the company sitting on her left thoroughly. They hadn’t requested anything, though perhaps they were already drunk. She could make out a tuff of orange below their own hat, hair no less. A rather beautiful color, like the embers on hot coals. So perhaps they too, understood the importance of hiding their appearance?

It was all too…odd. She snorted and she returned her attention to her drink. She didn’t need to bother her still sober thoughts with that of a random—

“Ye come ‘round here plenty?”

She stopped twirling her tankard, her lips just barely touching the lip of the cup. She hadn’t expected the body to speak. Why would they? She squinted her eye and she slowly put down her tankard with a heavy thud. She leaned against the counter, elbows pressed against cracked wood.

“Aye,” she muttered and she kept her eyes forward.

“Got a name?”

She glanced over, finally seeing the face of the company beside her. Feminine features, as expected, though their face was peppered in freckles and markings; their eyes were as crystal blue as the sea itself. She had to admit, they were a beauty.

“Aye.”

They seemed to be patiently waiting for more, but when she didn’t reply, they pressed further. “Gonna share it?”

“Lass, don’ ye think that’s a bit far for someone ye neva met?” She tilted her head as she turned to acknowledge them, brow raised in question.

“Isn’t that how you greet someone properly?”

Something about them was different from those she met before, behest unwillingly. Their dialect, their posture and their words…

“Ye ain’t from ‘round here, are ya lass?” She spoke with a chuckle laced in her words. They seemed naive, ignorant—perhaps she could indulge in their conversation.

The blue-eyed beauty huffed and looked away for a moment. “Ye can say that.”

She hummed softly with consideration, before taking a quick swig then placing her tankard back down again, half empty. “Ye trade me yer name, I trade he mine, is that fair lass?”

She watched them process her bargain before nodding once.

“Aye. Motti.”

Motti? Interesting, she thought as she looked this Motti up and down. Holstered to their front was a flintlock no doubt, but it was in poor shape. It made her skin crawl but she resisted the temptation to question its condition. The rest of Motti physically looked healthy, disregarding the cuts and bruises healing on her rather gentle skin.

She snorted softly before turning her body more so to face them, smiling ever so slightly, the corners of her lips curled in a smirk.

“Lexico, pleasure to make ye acquaintance. Ye call me Lex, fer short,” she hummed with a nod. Lex watched the expression on Motti’s face brighten with surprise. So she had not anticipated Lex being a woman perhaps?

“I wasn’t sure—“

“Ye’d find another like ye? Aye, don’ really. Not like how yer doin’…” Lex grunted as she swirled her tankard. She chuckled at the bewildered look on her companion’s face. She chuckled and she shook her head. “Ye don’t worry your pretty head ‘bout it. Yer still standin’, so ye good enough to believe yer well off.”

“I suppose yer right,” Motti nodded and turned to face the bar’s surface. “So Lex,” she continued after a moment, “ye happen to know anything about a captain of a ship…named Nightmare by any—“

It had happened far too quickly; a glint of metal in the tavern light, and before a Motti could register, a blade was held at a threatening point.

“Lass, ye be sure to swallow yer words,” Lex warned lowly, but there was tension in her voice. “Ye don’t speak so easily of the Black Fiend ‘round this port.”

Mottie swallowed, though gently placed the tip of her finger against the blade and pushed it away.

Lex narrowed her gaze, then slowly put her knife in her belt. “Ye brave, I’ll say that.”

“Please, Lex…” Motti pleaded quietly, moving closer to speak under breath. “I need to find him.*

Lex hissed softly as she hid her disapproval behind her drink.

She had almost finished it off before she returned a cold but curios gaze to Motti. Her eyes looked the lass over with scrutiny, but eventually relaxed slightly. “Why are ye doin’ that, lass,” Lex muttered and gave her a softer look. “The Black Fiend doesn’t sit still long enough to bring attention ‘bout. The captain more so,” she muttered, but hesitated when there was evident disappointment in her company’s face. “Royal fleet’s been chasin’ him for a long time.”

“Ye wouldn’t understand,” Motti huffed and grumbled curses under her breath, eliciting a chuckle from beside her. “I need to find him. He…”

Lex watched as the blue-eyed lass—no doubt a young pirate herself—beamed at the mention of the captain of a The Black Fiend. Lex knew that look, the glittering behind the eyes.

Lex nearly spit out her rum.

“Ye can’t be serious.”

Motti looked up quickly, the feather of her hat dancing and bobbing. She nodded once, yet hesitantly. “Yes. He’s a lost lover, to say less,” Motti huffed. “I’ve been searching for so long, but only now have I got something to run on.”

Lex nodded slowly, resisting the urge to question how that—the two of them—happened. Once Motti finished their quiet exchange, Lex sighed and pushed her empty tankard away.

“I need a crew for my ship.”

“So ye chose a tavern full of drunkards to look?”

Motti shrugged. “Easier to get them to say yes.”

Lex couldn’t stop herself from actually laughing the more she listened. “Aye, ye keep that tid bit about The Black Fiend to yerself and ye might have it in yer favor.” She sighed, though seeing as Motti was frowning and her eyes were focused on the bar top, Lex couldn’t help feel for her.

She knew what it was like to lose a lover.

She sighed, knowing she’d regret this if this didn’t go to plan. Though, it had been forever since she had a crew to call her own, a ship…a chance to sail those waters again. “Ye chose the right person to ask first,” Lex grunted and she tossed a couple shillings on the bar.

Motti beamed again in surprise and hope. “Ye considerin?”

“Aye. Ye need someone who can handle weaponry,” Lex nodded and gave Motti a smug grin. “I got all ye need to know about it. Not to mention, I got a good shot.”

Motti seemed to be in disbelief. Lex witnessed her eye move slightly to her right, obviously staring at an injury long scarred. “Ye sure?”

Lex chuckled. “Aye…” she smiled and she held out her hand.

“Don’t need two eyes to shoot a man dead. Now how bout ye let me take a look at that ol’ flintlock?”

[musicalmoritz]

Mitsukou lovers I am back with more food

[thehermitsaltar]

heyy i was wondering if you could do a carmy berzatto x male reader where they're getting to know each other, they don't need to start dating or anything but like a first meeting and how they'd end up being friends (w a romantic undertone) idk if this makes dense lmao but ty :D love ur fics)

This is so sweet<3 ily anon and I'm sorry this took so long

I like to imagine going to culinary school with him. He's very rough around the edges and eager to prove himself, but he's in a new place where he knows nobody so he's naturally closed off and a loner.

You spend a lot of time in classes and doing labs that seeing him and watching him cook has become routine for you. A part of your day that you grow to love. Especially when you see how talented he really is.

"That looks amazing, chef." You snapped your head up from your dish, finding Carmy peering over your shoulder, watching you plate the salmon. It was the first time he'd ever actually spoken to you. "Thank you." You give a curt nod, smiling a little before turning back to your dish.

After that, you two seemed to be always watching each other cook, almost studying the other. Even working up to sharing tips and eventually doing homework together.

You looked up from your homework, glancing at Carmy scribbling something in his notebook before his eyes met yours. "What?" He asked softly, running a hand through his messy hair. You shook your head and focused back on your own work. "Just copying off you." You chuckle and Carmy lets out his own laugh. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. Chef thinks I can't cook, maybe he's right." Your face scrunched up and you scoffed. "I've tasted your food. You can cook." Carmen remained silent but your words stayed with him for years, far beyond culinary school. It was the first time someone really believed in him.

[lovastian]

The universe is born, and then it lives, and then it dies, only for it to be reborn once more. A constant cycle of life and death and rebirth stretching over trillions of years, and each time, there has been the one who guides it. Most called him a god. Some saw him as many gods, and in a way, that's what it was. It was a being of infinite power, watching over the constantly expanding universe.

Until the universe died, and was reborn again. This time, instead of one, there were two. They didn't know how they became two, or why they were two, but they knew it happened. With their birth, the universe begins it's vast expansion, the first hints of space and matter finally beginning to form and spread.

No words were spoken, as there were no words to speak just yet, but even without words, the two knew who they were. One, with an inaudible voice that seemed to birth stars whenever it's formless mouth opened, was Arcedes, the divine being of creation. It's purpose began immediately, creating the matter that forms the delicate universe they are now in charge of. It created planets, comets, stars and suns, designing the infinite world around them.

The other, with a presence so large that the stars around it explode and die, with its own voice so impossibly loud and thunderous that the newly forming comets split apart, was Rametros, the divine being of Destruction. It, too, knew its purpose. It was to destroy, but only to make room for better, stronger creations. Its brother will not be happy with it, but that does not matter. It has a job to do and a balance to keep, and it shall do what it must to do said job.

[pardonmydelays]

haiku about the end of the year

it’s this time of the year

when you say goodbye

to moments of doubt and anger and tears

don’t let fuckers win

screw them

let’s focus on goodness and light

they will never know these feelings

goodbye bad bad people

✨✨✨✨

once upon a time, in a faraway land in a small and shitty mall there was this "luxury" store and guess what was it called? ****Trend

there was a girl, poppy was her name she used to work in this place and oh, it was once her safe space but not anymore, what a shame

the job was shitty, that's not a lie her workmates were amazing though they made her laugh, laughed at her jokes (she even befriended the new guy)

and then one day no fun, no more she got the worst news ever "we are transferring you", the bad bitch witch tells her "to a different mall, a different store"

the store was far away from poppy's and her new team couldn't accept her there was one guy who fucking hated her she couldn't take it, she wrote her notice

i guess you can say she wrote her way out but she still had to stay for quite some time tried to be nice to them, was that a crime? "i will survive this, without a doubt"

crying sessions in the bathroom that was poppy's way to cope but then one day she just said "nope" new idea, sick leave, BOOM!

who's laughing now? i guess not them she's gonna have long christmas break she knows for sure that wasn't a mistake that's why now she is writing this poem

she also got a new job offer her teerico merch is on the way good things are coming, also, hey! she's taking the job, it starts next year!

she saw in the heights live in koszalin she met jakub gierszał with her bestie, bel she wrote her way out of this hell (maybe one day she will also meet lin?)

here's to new year, here's to the new chapter here's to uk trip and the eras tour in poland! here's to my friends, my moots from foreign land may poppy's life be full of laughter!

[clickerflight]

Voltober - 1. The Beast of Pirates' Bay: The Adventurers

Author's note: Let's GOOOOOOOOO IT"S SPOOKY SEASON! I started working on these prompts yesterday so let's see if I can keep up.

Challenge Masterlist

Adventurer's Masterlist

Content: Mer whumpee, pirate whumpers, harpoon, bound, suffocation, semi immortal whumpee, implied past murders and trafficking

Nonhuman Whumpee|Harpooned|Netted/Trapped

@voltober

Mer were going missing. Usually the Underwater City Forces would deal with this, but there were some jurisdiction issues that kept them from working together well enough to solve the case of missing mer. It didn’t help that mer were going missing in the more rural areas where the ocean floor was too far down for any proper farming besides certain animals that were hard to keep in the first place. No witnesses, isolated waters, and a population of terrified mer who didn’t dare leave the cities anymore.

So, they had called the Kahtir, begging the organization to send someone to help out, and Matsu went. There weren’t any mer in the Teliar forces of the Kahtir since they were notoriously ocean bound, and ocean planets usually had things covered. That left the two half mer in the Teliar, which included Matsu. The other one was busy, family vacation, otherwise he would have come with Matsu on this mission as backup. As it was, no one was too worried about Matsu going alone. He was, after all, an Adventurer. One of the best teams in the whole of the Teliar, capable of solving nearly any problem. Add to that his rare exponential healing factor and he was easily prepared to handle any solo mission.

Anisha was going to come with him, able to breath water herself as a scaleon descended from a water dragon, but the Kahtir had needed her elsewhere dealing with a problem in a cliff face community that only she had the flying skills to really get to in the first place since their bridges and walkways were taken out during a recent disaster.

Matsu swam leisurely, tail sweeping back and forth gently as he made his way through the darkened waters of the Berian oceans of Cumenah. He hadn’t seen anything strange, watching the regularly scheduled ships passing by gently overhead, their caged off propellers spinning serenely.

Mostly, it was just quiet, and Matsu allowed himself to enjoy the quiet as the ground below began to slope down and away, the kelp farms fading into rocky outcroppings and small pastures for crab like creatures. Out a little farther, and even those pastures disappeared as the bottom became too far away to see. This was where people were going missing.

Matsu pulled himself out of his serene state and put himself on alert, feeling out the currents for any creatures or machines moving nearby as he swam out farther, lazily and slowly, it seemed, like he was just enjoying himself or perhaps just looking for something.

He felt the currents above him shift and look up to see a ship, set to pass right above along side him.

He swam a bit quicker to make sure they wouldn’t pass too close to him, but the ship changed course just enough to stay in line with him.

“Gotcha,” Matsu muttered to himself, pleased. He reached up to his throat where he had a communications band and touched his thumb and forefinger to the stones on either side of his wind pipe. “This is Matsu to home base. Possible suspect has been identified. A fishing ship at coordinates-”

Pain pierced through his torso and overwhelmed his senses as he screamed and let go of the comms band. He grabbed onto a cold metal rod that had been shot through his side and gasped, his damaged gills fluttering and twitching around the metal as his muscled cramped, trying to heal around the intrusion.

He felt along his other side to find what had pierced him and felt barbs on the other end. Barbs that sank into his skin as the harpoon was pulled on hard, dragging him up through the water and putting extra force on his wounded body.

His vision vanished for a moment as pain dragged through his torso and side where the barbs bit into his rib gills, his throat gills fluttering urgently as they tried to keep up with his demand for oxygen. With great effort, he pulled himself from the edge of unconsciousness and grabbed for the smooth end of the harpoon, latching onto it to take some pressure on his gills. He could feel the wounds where the harpoon’s hooks had slid through healing around the pole and hooks, his gills repairing a little, but the pain still shot through his insides like lightning as he held onto the harpoon and tried to make himself more aerodynamic so he wouldn’t be dragged so harshly.

The surface was approaching quickly now that he’d grabbed the line and turned himself to glide through the water and quickly broke the surface.

He chose not to switch to his lungs, still able to breath with his gills as long as they were wet. He knew for a fact that the harpoon had pierced his lungs and breathing might actually make him pass out.

“We got ‘em!” a loud voice called as a huge net was scooped under him to help haul him out of the water.

Matsu tried not to writhe, holding onto the rope, desperate to keep the harpoon from moving, but as he was dragged over the railing, the harpoon jolted out of his grasp and levered up through his organs, causing him to spasm as he was dumped onto the ship deck.

His gills flapped as he tried to collect himself, fighting the urge to have his legs back and breathe through his lungs.

“He’s a pretty one,” someone said, grabbing his finned ear to check out the patterns there. “Too bad he’s dead. He would have-AUGH!”

Matsu snapped his pointed teeth deeper into the woman’s fingers, determined to take a finger for his trouble.

Something hard smacked painfully into the top of his head, causing him to let go of the finger as his vision spun again, pain rippling through his skull and chest.

“He’s still alive! Wait, look at that.”

everyone went still and quiet, watching Matsu as he regained his senses, grabbing onto the smooth side of the harpoon, and just waiting for the strength to come back to where he could try and push it through and cut the rope.

“He’s healing,” someone breathed and Matsu stiffened, snapping his head around to look at the man. His eyes, changed to manage sight underwater, weren’t quite adapted to out of water and he could only make out the blurred colors of brown skin and hair and a bright blue jacket.

“Crap, look at the markings on his arms! Isn’t this one of the Adventurers?”

Matsu’s heart sank. Being caught out as one of the adventurers was not a good thing usually. It typically meant he was about to be bound up and sold on the Darke Market, or he was going have to wriggle out of an attempt on his life.

“It is! Crap! He’s going to tell them we’re here. We need to get out of here!”

“Cut the rope!” someone called as blue jacket grabbed his hair and forced his head down, turned away to where he could only see feet.

He tried to shove the harpoon through, but someone grabbed his wrists, binding them together behind his back as his headband and carack, a cape-like mer-shirt, was torn off of him, his bags undone and tossed away and his comms band cut off his throat, the scissors cutting harshly through his throat gills in their haste.

He choked, his drying out gills already having a hard time keeping up with the demand. He coughed, a small amount of liquid trickling out over his gills to help with his breathing as they finished stripping him. Two people grabbed either end of the harpoon, someone hooking their arm through his elbows and another grabbing his tail and he was lifted up off the slimy deck, set on the railing, and shoved over the edge.

He writhed, trying to dive gracefully into the water, but he smacked into it on his upper back, leaving him disoriented as bubbles went up around him.

By the time he regained some semblance of his senses, he realized that he couldn’t control his decent. The harpoon was too heavy for the movements he could manage while cosplaying as a fish kebab and all he could really do was to try and direct himself. It was going to hurt when he hit the ocean floor.

He looked down, writhing as he shot for a higher point of the sea floor, and curled up just in time to hit it.

The harpoon knocked into a rock, stirring his guts again, causing Matsu to gag and go blind with the pain. He lay still on the sand and rocks, gills flapping gently as the ones on his neck healed up.

He finally lifted his head, coughing through his gills to get the small particles of sand out after they’d been stirred up by his crash landing.

He clicked softly to himself as he gently twisted and tested the range of his movement.

After several gently maneuvers, he got himself on his stomach, the sand tickling his gills as he reached for the smooth end of the harpoon. With his hands bound behind his back, he was able to get a hold on it, but he wasn’t able to push it through.

Undeterred, he reached to the other side, trying to catch the rope on one of the hooks on the harpoon to cut the rope, but of the two rows of hooks, the tip hooks were too small and far away to reach, and the closer ones were buried deep in his flesh. He tried to pull or push it out a little, but once again, he couldn’t get enough leverage to do so.

He finally relaxed, laying his cheek in the sand with a little groan.

He took in his surroundings. His hit off of that rock had rolled him closer to the cliff that led down deeper in the ocean. He could actually peak out over it if he stretched his head a little.

He did so, looking down into the depths as his flesh cramped and grew around the harpoon, sending twinges of pain through him. He didn’t see anything moving down there and wondered how long it would take for the team at home base here on this planet would find him. Hopefully not too long. Or maybe he’d find a sharp rock to cut the-

Matsu startled as something moved under him, an unhappy flat bottom feeder fish who was tired of being laid on.

It moved again, tickling along Matsu’s ribs and making him lash out with his tail. Unfortunately, he tired to escape the sensation in exactly the wrong direction and he yelped as the sand slipped out from under him and he went down over the edge, the harpoon happily dragging him down again.

He had a lot more time to position himself for impact, turning himself onto his back to keep the harpoon from hitting anything first, though it was a constant struggle to hold the position as the hooked end was heavier than the other side.

Finally, the ground met his back, hard knobs of rock meeting Matsu’s spine as he landed heavily.

Matsu gaped, gills flapping in confused shock as pain shot up and down his spine. He held very still until he was certain his back wasn’t broken before he tried to move.

The water weight on top of him was extremely noticeable now, as he was laying at the edge of his depth limit. His gills fluttered and worked harder against the weight on top of them, and every movement sapped more from him.

He finally fell still once he was laying in a slightly more comfortable spot, looking up at the dim light that filtered through the water. If he had his pack, he would have liked to light a glow stick to make it easier to find him, but as it was, all he could do was lay there and hope he would be found. This far down, he knew his red and orange skin wouldn’t be seen that well, with red and orange light waves being unable to penetrate as deep as he was now.

He waited, dizzy and tired, occasionally keening at a frequency he hoped would be heard by rescuers or by a friendly motherly sea creature. He knew there were quite a few around here.

As much as he wanted to stay awake and make sure no predatory fish took their chances with him or smaller bottom feeders had a nibble, the weight of the water and the difficulty breathing lulled Matsu to sleep.

………………………………………….

Matsu was found by home team and thanks to his healing factor did not suffer ill effects. In fact, he commented on how good that deep sea nap felt and was perfectly capable in directing home team to the pirates who had been killing and selling mer. Local police forces could take it from there to track down the people who facilitated this market while Matsu went home and treated himself to several massages and expensive potion ingredient shopping.

Thank you for reading!

VTB Part 2

[obsessedwithtodoroki]

Summery:

Thoughts can hurt when you're alone, especially when you're scared or upset.

[mistabobalina]

I have known about Marvin Niccals for about an hour and I love him. Here’s the outline of my Reader fic:

- you go on a date with Murdoc. He acts like a complete wanker, steals your wallet and makes you cry.

- Unfortunately you are also incredibly petty and immature and you think that you’ll get your revenge by sleeping with his only known relative, Marvin Niccals. This makes sense to you because you are an idiot.

- you track down Marvin to his retirement community in Margate. He’s a sweet old man who seems pretty normal aside from his many missing fingers and burns on his hands and arms.

- he’s just a bit of a pyromaniac but otherwise a very decent bloke.

- you put on a ruse of being a distant relative but it cracks when you start sobbing about how badly you were treated by his nephew that he barely knows anything about.

- He’s sympathetic but also likes pranking people so he agrees to taking selfies with you to send to Murdoc telling him that you and his uncle fucked nasty.

- You don’t fuck. Instead you have a lovely day at the beach digging for buried treasure and setting off illegal fireworks. You still send Murdoc pictures of your fun times together with the claim that you are still fucking each others brains out. You really want Murdoc to care that you allegedly uncle-cucked him.

- Murdoc is slightly jealous but is mostly happy to hear from a relative who isn’t a piece of shit. Marvin becomes something like a second dad to you and you continue to have wonderful adventures until he passes away at a ripe old age.

- You finally get your apology from Murdoc at his funeral. It’s a Viking funeral of course.

[inkskinned]

i got rickrolled today but it didn't work because i have adblocker installed, so youtube just told me i violated the terms of service. yesterday i was trying to edit a picture as a joke for my girlfriend, and google made me check a box to prove i'm human because i wasn't "searching normally".

it isn't just that capitalism is killing fun and whimsy, it is that any element of entertainment or joy is being fed upon by this mosquito body, one that will suck you dry at any vulnerability.

do you want to meet new friends in your city? download this app, visit our website, sign up for our email list. pay for this class on making a terrarium, on candlemaking, on cooking. it will be 90 dollars a session. you can go to group fitness, but only under our specific gym membership. solve the puzzle, sign up for our puzzle-of-the-month-club. what is a club if not just a paid opportunity - you are all paying for the same thing, which makes you a community.

but you're like me, i know it - you're careful, you try the library meetings and the stuff at the local school and all of that. the problem is that you kind of want really specific opportunities that used to exist. you are so grateful for libraries and the publicly-funded things: they are, however, an exception - and everything they have, they've fought tooth-and-nail to protect. you read a headline about how in many other states, libraries have virtually nothing left.

do you want to meet up with your friends afterwards? gift your friends the discord app. you can choose to go to a cafe (buy a coffee, at least), a bar (money, alcohol) or you can all stay in and catch a movie (streaming) or you can all stay in bed (rent. don't get me started) and scream (noise complaint. ticket at least).

you want to read a new book, but the book has to have 124 buzzwords from tiktok readers that are, like, weirdly horny. you can purchase this audiobook on audible! your podcast isn't on spotify, it's on its own server, pay for a different site. fuck, at least you're supporting artists you like. the art museum just raised their ticket price. once, they had a temporary exhibit that acknowledged that ~85% of their permanent art galleries were from cis white men, and that they had thousands of works by women (even famous women, like frida! georgia o'keefe!) just rotting in their basement. that exhibit lasted for 3 months and then they put everything away again.

walmart proudly supports this strip of land by the street! here are some flowers with wilting leaves. its employees have to pay out-of-pocket for their uniforms. my friend once got fined by the city because she organized a community pick-up of the riverfront, which was technically private property.

no, you cannot afford to take that dance class, neither can i. by the way - i'm a teacher. i'm absolutely not saying "educators shouldn't be paid fairly." i'm saying that when i taught classes, renting a studio went from 20 bucks an hour to 180 in the span of 6 months. no significant changes to the studio were made, except they now list the place as updated and friendly. the heat still doesn't work in the building. i have literally never seen the landlord who ignores my emails. recently they've been renting it out at night as an "unusual nightclub; a once-in-a-lifetime close-knit party." they spent some of those 180 dollars on LEDs and called it renovating. the high heels they invite in have been ruining the marley.

do you want to experience the old internet? do you want to play flash games or get back the temporary joy of club penguin? you can, you just need to pay for it. i have a weird, neurodivergent obsession with occasionally checking in to watch the downfall and NFT-ification of neopets. if i'm honest with you all - i never got into webkins, my family didn't have the money to buy me a pointless elephant. people forget that "being poor" can mean literally "if i buy you that toy, i can't afford rent."

you and i don't have time to make good food, and we don't have the budget for it. we are not gonna be able to host dinner parties, we're not made of money, kid. do you want some kind of 3rd space? a space that isn't home or work or school? you could try being online, but - what places actually exist for you? tiktok counts as social media because you see other people on it, not because they actually talk to you.

there was a local winter tradition of sledding down the hill at my school. kids would use pizza boxes and jackets and whatever worked, howling and laughing. back in september, they made a big announcement that this time, rules were changing, and everyone must pay 10 dollars to participate. when im not scared shitless, i kind of appreciate the environmental irony - it hasn't gone below 40. so much for snow & joyriding.

i saw a bulletin for a local dogwalking group and, nervous about making a good first impression, showed up early. the first guy there grimaced at me. "sorry," he said. "there's a 30-dollar buy-in fee." i thought he was joking. wait. for what? the group doesn't offer anything except friendship and people with whom to walk around the city.

he didn't know the answer. just shrugged at me. "you know," he said. "these days, everything costs money."