#tw;; murder mention

[destielmemenews]

"Officials identified the man as 26-year-old Luigi Nicholas Mangione. He was born in Maryland and his last known residence was Honoloulou. He was arrested on firearms charges and taken in for questioning related to Thompson's death. He has not been charged with Thompson's killing at this time."

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[rhys-ravenfeather]

I had a vision.

[incorrectbatfam]

Jason: Okay, so get this.

Jason: You make ten meals, you're not a cook.

Jason: You make twenty paintings, you're not an artist.

Jason: But you kill ONE PERSON—

[literallyagod]

Btw it's not cool to hate on people without empathy..

I don't care what your reasons are,, just cause I don't feel sad when you're sad doesn't mean in suddenly gonna murder your whole family or something

[stellewriites]

very much inspired by a post i’ll link at the bottom to avoid spoilers

i love putting john price in situations

simon had known price for over a decade, had served under him as his lieutenant for a good portion of it, so he was pretty confident in answering yes when asked if he thought he knew the captain well.

he could acknowledge he wasn’t as close as say laswell may have been, but he knew that price’s wife was not common knowledge around the base either.

he’d pieced it together over the years on missions; catching the odd comment shared over coms; the glint of a ring around his neck; the odd teased mention of her when they sat in the rec room after barely scraping through a tough spot, when price needed the company as well as the silence ghost offered before returning to the real world.

it was how simon knew the sergeants were staying when price let slip about her one day. because he doesn’t let anything slip, wouldn’t, especially about her.

“got anyone at home waiting for you, sir?” gaz asked as he sighed impatiently over the coms, hour three of silently waiting and watching had finally gotten to him.

“i do,” price said simply, not offering any further information. ghost could imagine the amusement tugging at his daft facial hair as price refused to continue without prompting and simon smiled under his mask when he heard johnny scoff next to him before chiming in.

“c’mon sir, give us a wee bit more’n that,” he weedled. “when’d ya meet? is she nice?”

john hummed, the sound low and crackly over the radio in their ears. “met when i moved.”

“oh, a real meet-cute type thing, eh?” gaz teased.

john ignored him. “wouldn’t say she’s nice, soap. she’s more than that. ‘nice’ is your aunt’s new wallpaper; you have permission to shoot me point blank if i start calling her nice.”

“what is she then?” ghost piped up. this was the chattiest john had ever been on the subject and he was going to take advantage.

john went silent for long enough that the three men thought that was it, the end to their sharing session and knowing more about their captain outside of work. simon chewed the inside of his cheek.

“she’s devoted,” john whispered finally before his voice firmed. “heads up, team, movement 2 o’clock. anyone got eyes on the target?”

—

it was months later when she was brought up again, the team thinking. nothing of it until price’s phone pinged in his pocket enough times to pique johnny’s interest as they prepped to leave.

“that the wife, sir?” he asked.

john huffed, didn’t bother checking his phone as he turned and shook his head. “she’s clingy, but she doesn’t bother me when i’m at work.”

“how’d you know?” gaz asked. “could be an emergency.”

“‘n’ how’d you get her to agree tae tha’?” soap followed up quickly, having had issues with his own flings petering out when he was distant and slow to reply.

“been with her long enough now it’s routine,” john said simply. he checked his weapons before heading for the exit. “helo in 5, be air ready.”

—

the mission had gone to shit, and they were stuck hidden in a building that looked like it was 10 seconds away from collapsing under a brisk wind when ghost finally felt his patience snap.

it was no one’s fault, but being stuck in another country with no back up and a target on their backs for an extra three weeks wasn’t ideal and johnny’s insistence on playing cards at every opportunity to keep his idle hands and mind busy combined with gaz’s tinny whistling had made for the perfect scenario to grate on simon’s patience quicker than anything else ever had.

“tell us about her. ya wife,” simon asked, his gaze slipping across to john, watching him pick at his nails. his cuticles were red and raw from four days of agitated fidgeting since they’d ran out of cigars and cigarettes. every so often simon caught him pat his empty pocket before he’d remember and huff heavily through his nose like a bull.

john closed his eyes at the mention of his wife and sighed. he started his description without protest or hesitance. “shes soft spoken. christ, you’d hardly know she was there half the time, she’s so quiet. but she’s firm. stands her ground no matter what,” he chuckled. “don’t think i’ve ever won an argument against her.”

kyle laughed and ghost closed his own eyes, trying to picture what he thought the captain’s wife might look like. pretty certainly, but was she tall, plump, did she have an endearing gap between her front teeth, did she keep her hair short or long?

“she’s a bit of a homebody,” john admitted bashfully, unaware of simon’s drifting thoughts. “but i can’t say i mind it.”

“not wanting to leave the bedroom much when yer back?” johnny joked, hissing when ghost punched his thigh.

john just smiled placidly, eyes still closed. his eyebrows pulled down as he gushed, “god she’s gorgeous in red. wears it every time i come home.”

“lucky bastard,” gaz huffed.

“yeah.” john nodded and finally opened his eyes. “yeah, lucky.”

“you’ll be back with her soon, cap,” gaz reassured him when he saw price swallow thickly.

“thanks, gaz. now who’s taking first watch tonight? soap?”

—

john was quiet on the plane ride home, not unusually so, but ghost noticed the difference all the same.

he was pensive perhaps, worried what his wife would say when he finally got home a month later than scheduled, uncontactable the entire time. ghost could understand to a certain degree that john would have more important things on his mind than what his three subordinates were going to do as soon as they stepped foot on home soil, so he didn’t push when john ignored the few threads of conversation thrown his way by their younger sergeants. instead he nodded when john said a quick goodbye as they all parted ways in the airport.

simon could only assume john was the same all the way home in the cab that dropped him outside of his little three bed house.

he didn’t see however how john hesitated at the door to his home that evening. how he gripped the front door keys tightly in his fist, shook as he stared down at his feet instead of letting his eyes drift and catch on the windows, and felt as though he could crack a tooth from how hard he was clenching his teeth.

he finally opened the door when he thought the neighbours might begin to get worried and stepped inside, flicking on the lights as he went.

it wasn’t until he got to the kitchen that he found her.

stood bare foot, silent, eyes wide and pleading, blood seeping - always seeping. would it ever stop? would the blood ever end? - through her white pyjama top, his top that she’d borrowed for the night, and trickling down her bare legs.

her mouth opened and she visibly struggled for breath, but no sound escaped even as her tongue wagged on the floor of her mouth, lapping at the backs of her teeth as all words escaped her.

he swallowed back bile.

“hello, sweetheart,” he choked out. “sorry i’m late.”

the blood pooled at her feet, the panties she wore were seeped a dark purple from the viscus liquid dying the dark blue material and the shirt stuck to her front. john had remembered loving seeing her like this in a morning, had always thought she looked best in as little clothing as possible.

“i know you hate it when work keeps me busy, but it was unexpected. we were caught—“ a high screech, not dissimilar to that of a whistle that only a dog could hear, pierced through his ears and cut his words short. he curled in and covered his ears, but he knew it would do no good, he should’ve known better than to talk about work around her.

not after what had happened last time he got back late after overtime.

tears prickle at his eyes and the sound abruptly stopped. he’d never questioned why it seemed to be only him that could hear her protests, why his neighbours never mentioned a shrill cry every so often from his home. he had always said she was made for him and that had apparently translated literally into the afterlife.

he looked up at her again - it was best not to ignore her he found. it only made her angry.

“it won’t happen again,” he promised wetly. “i did my best to get back as soon as i could, i promise, sweetheart—“ he choked on his words, biting back a sob. she watched unblinkingly, silent except for the wet squelch of her feet on the laminate.

they both knew he wasn’t apologising for being late this time. he got like this sometimes, when her agonised face and mangled body was too much to bear after a long mission and the guilt bore down like a physical presence.

he couldn’t help but think if he’d gotten home even just an hour earlier he might’ve been able to save her, to have kept her company instead of leaving her on the floor alone and cold, maybe he could have caught the bastards that had hurt her while he was still travelling back from deployment after agreeing to hang back and finish his paperwork there and then instead of emailing it across.

he reached a shaking hand forward and blew out a ragged breath when his hand met nothing but frigid air. but when he brought his hand up to his face he could smell the copper tang of his dead wife’s blood on his skin. the stench unwashable, cloying, but if he concentrated hard enough it ever so faintly smelt like the vanilla perfume she used to wear.

“was telling the lads about you, love,” he forced an empty chuckle as he walked around her to the kettle and went through their usual routine. “think they might’ve fallen a little in love, not that i could blame them.”

he ran a hand over his face and gave himself a moment to let the tears fall as his palm hid his eyes. her silence was the worst part of it all, but he could see the glaring red of her in his peripheral when he dropped his hand to the counter.

it wasn’t pretending his wife was still alive if she was right there at his shoulder, was it?

“looks like i’ll need to grab you some more pg tips, sweetheart,” he said and poured the boiling water into two cups, sparing a glance over his shoulder at his wife. “we’re almost out.”

post link

[weirdo-from-bonesborough]

I love how in fanon Dick is all uwu jaybird has done nothing wrong I will do anything to bring him home and Jason is all fuck off you don’t love me, whereas in the comics it’s Jason who keeps trying to get Dick to join him and Dick keeps being like no, fuck off? You’re a murderous criminal why would I do that?

[skyeconch]

Y/N : I love you :>

Toby : I love you too baby :>

Toby : I can skin someone for you :>

Y/N : oh uh you don’t need to! 😅

Y/N : but I appreciate the offering!

Toby : for real though I’d do anything for you :>

Toby : in fact let me go do it right now to show my love for you! :D

Y/N : NO NO TOBY WAIT—

[thecorvidforest]

Today (May 5th) is Missing and Murdered Indigenous Persons Awareness day.

Native American folks continue to have very high rates of homicide and violence against them. Murder is the 3rd-leading cause of death for Native girls and women. More than 4 in 5 Native American people have experienced violence in their lifetimes, more than 90% of these from non-Native perpetrators. Most of these have not seen justice.

I want to uplift some events near me, and I would encourage fellow non-Native folks to look into the Native American communities in your area to find education, events, and fundraisers.

On May 6th, the MMIP Central Oklahoma Chapter is hosting a memorial walk and relevant speakers at the state capitol.

On May 10th, the CPN House of Hope is hosting a remembrance walk in Shawnee, OK.

On May 11th, the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma is hosting a community 5k/1 mile run in Antlers, OK with Choctaw vendor booths.

Here is a list of some other events for MMIP across the nation.

[mxfloof]

Tim: Do you think B would let me have our great grandmother's wedding ring? Dick: ... Dick: Didn't she kill her husband? Tim: That's why I want it.

[snowluvvie]

₊˚⊹ ♡ . CONFESSION.

₊˚⊹ ♡ . mutt!Rafe admits what he did. | word count — 2.7k it was supposed to be a drabble my bad DAMN | warnings — no smut, pretty much all angst with some fluff at the end, blood and an injured hand, crying, mentions of murder, mentions of a murder cover up etc. (you guys aren’t even together yet you’re just this codependent already)

You rubbed your eyes for what felt like the fifteenth time that night and glanced over at the clock, which blinked 1:04 A.M. You had settled into bed hours ago, an old re-run of some colorful cartoon played on your TV. The ambience was perfect, it put you straight to sleep every night.

But not tonight.

Rafe was always back by now, always. Sure, sometimes he went out drinking or played long games of golf or fucked off to do something probably illegal somewhere on Kildare—but not past midnight. He’d returned home… his family home, with Ward, not too long ago. You knew it took a toll on him from how quiet he’d been recently. And despite being welcome back there, Rafe still spent most nights here, with you. You knew he hadn’t told anyone that. He hadn’t even explained it to you, why he was still around so often. That would mean he’d have to think about it himself, though—he didn’t like to do that.

He was supposed to be there tonight, and you hated that it was keeping you awake. He was a big boy, he could handle himself. Still. No matter how long you laid in your perfect bed in the dark with your eyes closed, sleep evaded you.

You huffed, tossing the blanket off of you and sitting up. Your feet hit the floor with a creak, the house’s way of constantly reminding you that it was a million years old. Nearly the second your feet touched down, you heard something else—SLAM, followed by a mean rattle. The back door, not the front, and it sounded like someone was practically trying to slam it off the hinges.

“Rafe?” You whispered to the air of your bedroom. More to yourself than anyone else. You chewed at your lip as you listened for more noises, but none came. You got up tentatively, tip-toeing out of your room and towards the kitchen.

As you turned the corner, you slammed into what felt like a brick wall—though, as the moonlight filtering in through the window illuminated his face, you realized it was only—

“Rafe!” You whisper-yelled as you ran into his chest. “Why’d you come in through the back, I thought you were—”

You shut up, frozen, as you saw the look on his face. And the fact that he hadn’t even looked at you, or moved a single inch when you bumped into him. He was like a statue, and his face was all strange. Smooth like stone, eyebrows set, with that dead fucking look he got in his eyes when he talked to his father. He never looked that way around you, and you crossed your arms, eyebrows knitted together in concern.

“Rafe?” Your voice was small, but seemed larger than life in the silent room, with him standing so stiffly in front of you. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

You scanned him up and down, assuming he was sneaking through your kitchen and borderline catatonic because of shock, but he looked fine. His clothes were clean, though when your eyes reached his hand, you noticed the split along his knuckles, weeping blood.

“Ugh, come on.” You grabbed his hand, examining it, and he reacted a little bit—something, at least. “What the hell did you do?”

Rafe huffed a little bit, sounding like a petulant child. “Got mad.”

“Did you punch another wall?” You deadpanned, frowning up at him. He just nodded. Regularly you would’ve laughed at that, at the way he acted like a little kid when confronted with his actions, but not tonight. The air was stiller. Things felt… more serious, off in some way, you just couldn’t put your finger on how. “Come on, you gotta clean it.”

You tugged him towards the bathroom, and he didn’t fight you. When he sat down on the edge of the tub per your request, you were close to being face-to-face with him, but it only made it worse to fully see him in the fluorescence of the bathroom. Only made it more clear that something was wrong.

Your eyebrows creased as you rifled through the bathroom cabinet, the hinges squeaking something awful when you opened it, searching for the peroxide. You tried not to look worried or scared, you knew how zeroed in he could be when he thought you were pissed at him—he could practically hear if you breathed the wrong way—and you didn’t know if something was going to set him off right now.

Rafe didn’t wince as you poured the hydrogen peroxide over his split knuckle, or make the disgusted face he usually made when the wound audibly sizzled. He thought that noise was the grossest thing in the world, but he didn’t react tonight.

His skin was fiery hot, so much so that you became worried he might have a fever or something—maybe that was his problem. Your fingers dragged against his skin lightly as you wrapped the gauze pad around his knuckles and secured it in place, but he was back to being pretty much unmoving. He kinda just… stared off at the wall, jaw clenched slightly. You patted his hand gently and told him, “all done.” He nodded a little bit, but still didn’t look at you.

Your back was only turned away from him for maybe a minute, so that you could put the meager first aid kit back into the cabinet and shut it with another metallic creeeeeak.

When you turned back, your mouth popped open in shock—Rafe was crying, actually crying, eyes suddenly red-rimmed and wet as the first tear fell down his perfectly carved face. You’d never seen him cry, ever, and you froze for a half-second as you tried to think of what to do, before you ended up by his side automatically.

“Rafe?” Your hands went to him, to cup his face and his neck, but he caught you by both wrists before you managed it, and held them away from him.

“Don’t touch me.” His voice cracked a little, but he cleared his throat to hide it.

You kept fighting against his grip. “I was just touching you… c’mon, just let me—”

He only held you for a few moments before he gave up, freeing your wrists from his grasp. One hand went to his cheek, the other to the side of his neck soothingly. He squeezed his eyes shut at your touch.

“C’mon, what’s the matter?”

“I can’t.” He insisted, clenching his jaw harshly.

You rolled your eyes. “It’s me, Rafe. What am I gonna do, judge you? Just talk to me.”

“You don’t fuckin’ understand—I can’t.”

You were getting frustrated now, but you controlled your tone very, very carefully when you said: “Is it your dad, again?”

His eyes flew open, the oceanic blue already bloodshot from his tears. “No, it’s not, it’s me. It’s me, it’s always fuckin’ me, alright?”

“Is that who made you so mad you punched the wall and did this?” You demanded, gesturing to his now-bandaged hand. “Yourself?”

“Yes!” He insisted wildly. He dropped his head into his hands, smothering his own face and halfheartedly wiping his tears away.

Your hand went to the back of his head instead, rubbing your fingers through his hair and against his scalp in an attempt to comfort him.

“Rafe… I can’t help if I don’t know.” You murmured, running out of things to say. What were you supposed to do when he was like this?

“Exactly. You can’t help if you don’t know. You can’t help.” He was gritting his teeth now. “And you can’t know, ‘cause if you do, then you’ll get in trouble too, alright? And you shouldn’t—you can’t—and then you won’t fuckin’ let me come around here—and I’ll have to—argh.” Half of his words were a low snarl through his teeth, and he started breathing heavily as he got himself riled up all over again, trailing off and dropping his head back into his hands with a breathy, frustrated groan.

Things clicked into place, and you froze as they did, your mouth forming a surprised O that he luckily couldn’t see with his face in his hands. But still, you kept your hand on him, rubbing it soothingly along his shoulders and the back of your neck—you could tell it was taking everything in him not to freak out and hit something again.

“Okay… alright, okay.” You said more to yourself than to him, nodding slowly. “If I—uh—if I promise not to… ban you from my house, will you tell me?”

Rafe raised his head to look at you, his eyebrows furrowed together. “You shouldn’t fuckin’ promise that.”

“As long as you swear you’ll stop trying to break my back door off, I am promising that.”

The partial-joke fell on deaf ears, and he shook his head. The silence that stretched between you two was deafening. He brought his hands to the back of his hair and started pulling on it, digging his fingers into his scalp like he always did when he was frustrated, and another choked, angry groan left his mouth.

You took a deep breath.

“Rafe. What did you do?” Your voice was gentle, but firm.

“I shouldn’t tell you.” He said through gritted teeth, shaking his head. Tears were still falling down his cheeks, his face was twisted, but you could tell his resolve was weakening.

“You shouldn’t. But you want to.”

He sniffled. “I feel like ‘m going fuckin’ crazy.”

You rubbed his shoulder softly, the muscle under your hand taut with all the tension he’d built up. You dug your fingers in slightly in an attempt to alleviate it, but it didn’t help much.

“Peterkin…” He muttered, voice filled with something awful, like the name was a razor blade that sliced against his tongue as he said it.

Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion. It was tragic, obviously, what John B did before he practically vanished—but you didn’t think Rafe was particularly torn up about the whole thing. The two of them hadn’t been close… but maybe you’d been missing things about him, stuff you hadn’t picked up on.

Regardless, you nodded slowly. “John B killed her, right… what about it?”

Rafe shook his head, his shoulders trembling violently, shaking with barely contained sobs. You took his face between your hands, pulling it up to get him to look at you. He does, his lips twitching into a grimace and his eyes wild as he looks at you. It’s scary, the look on his face, but you keep your composure intact.

There’s a long pause before he spits out, his voice barely a whisper. “I killed Peterkin.”

“No, you—” You shook your head. “It was John B, remember? And then he—and then he ran off. He ran away cause he was guilty… cause that’s what guilty people do.”

The whole time you spoke, Rafe shook his head, gnashing his teeth horribly. “No.” Was all he said.

“No?” You repeated.

“No.” He insisted. “I fuckin’ shot her. It was me. I killed her.”

“But… John B—”

“Can y’shut the fuck up about John B, please, jesus christ.”

“Okay, okay, my bad.”

“‘m sorry, no, ‘m sorry.” He stood up quickly, and you took a step back in surprise as he towered over you suddenly. “I didn’t mean it, alright? Okay?” He takes your face in his hands, squeezing your cheeks a little tighter than he should.

You nod. “I know. You’re just… stressed.” Stressed seemed like a laughably light word, but you were still too shocked to come up with a better one, and your words were garbled slightly from the way his hands squished your face.

“I just—” He let go of your face and brought his hand to his own, rubbing his temples and squeezing his eyes shut again. He didn’t finish his sentence.

“Did, um…” You faltered slightly as you searched for the right wording, not wanting to set him off. “Did anyone… see you? Like were there, uh… witnesses?”

Rafe’s face got all screwed up, like you’d smacked him across the face instead of asked him a question.

“Sarah. John B. My dad.”

You nodded slowly.

“But Sarah and John B are gone… and your dad’s not gonna say anything… right?” You spoke even slower, like you were trying not to spook him.

He shook his head, sniffling harshly again. “No… dad’s the one who made ‘em think John B did it, or whatever.”

“He’s not here, though. So… it’s not like anyone’s in prison for it, right? You didn’t get anyone sent to jail.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened as he held your gaze, and his eyes were nearly enough to melt you into a puddle on the floor. He looked desperate, pleading with his eyes.

“You’re not gonna tell anyone?” He asked. He sounded meek.

You took a deep breath, teeth digging into your lip before you finally said:

“Go to bed.”

“What, I—”

“Go to bed.”

Rafe stood there, looking down at you, for another few moments. Slowly, the crease between his eyebrows smoothed out, and he released a teensy-tiny bit of tension from his jaw for the first time since he’d got there. Wordlessly, he nodded once before he brushed past you and out of the bathroom. You heard the floorboards of your bedroom groan, and movement on the bed, before it went quiet.

You turned to look at yourself in the mirror, and your face was like stone. You gripped both sides of the sink as you stared at your reflection, and you made your peace with what was happening. You wanted him here. You weren’t going to kick him out. It was his dad’s fault he was this way. He could get better. He needed you. You weren’t going to send him to jail. You couldn’t.

You were going to be complicit in a murder cover up for him.

With one slow breath in through your nose, out through your mouth—and then another, and then another, and then one more—you nodded slightly and left the bathroom, abandoning the blood dripping down the side of the bathtub and the floor as an issue for tomorrow morning.

Tonight, you went back to your room. Rafe laid on his back, staring at the ceiling, already shirtless and with one arm tucked behind his head and his bandaged hand resting on his abs. You lingered in the doorway for a moment too long, admiring the way he always managed to look like a statue, like he had been perfectly carved from marble. He raised his head to look at you, and watched you intensely as you climbed into bed next to him.

He tensed a little bit when you got under the covers, but didn’t move—still unsure. To put him at ease, you pressed up against him, shivering slightly as his fiery hot skin met yours. He let out a sigh, and relaxed a little bit more into you.

The two of you laid in silence for a while, and though your brain was fuzzy from losing hours of sleep as it only got later, you weren’t falling asleep. Neither was he.

You brought a hand up to card through his hair, and he leaned into your touch as it ran through his straw-blonde locks.

You tentatively lowered your mouth to his ear as you mumbled: “Come back. Stay here a while, hm?”

Rafe shivered a little bit at your breath against his ear, but he nodded.

You were going to be complicit in a murder cover up for him.

And you didn’t care. Rafe drifted off into some troubled semblance of sleep as he relaxed under your hand, which still played with his hair. You stayed up a while longer, alternating between staring at the wall, the ceiling, and Rafe’s face, the planes of which were smooth and peaceful for the first time all night. You thought of the cops, and Ward, and John B, and what would happen to Rafe if anyone found out.

They wouldn’t find out.

Rafe would keep on acting like you were better than him, like you were the hearth he curled up at when it was cold, and the antiseptic on his cuts—but you weren’t any better than him. You were just as bad. You knew it. You wondered if he knew it, too.

You were going to be complicit in a murder cover up for him.

You drifted off to sleep with your nose pressed in his hair, breathing in the smell of him.

And you didn’t care.

[kserocopy]

TW - !death mention *this situation may be emotionally intense*!

original post

@suitablysarcasstic998 HOW...h-how dare you!... (but god i love it)

The reblog itself

[destielmemenews]

"A source briefed on the investigation said each word was meticulously written, not etched, onto the casings in Sharpie. Officials are examining the casings to determine whether the words could be related to a possible motive involving insurance companies and their responses to claims. Investigators believe they could reference "the three D's of insurance" coined by the industry's critics, which are "delay," "deny" and "defend." The alliteration is a comment on the tactics that opponents say insurance companies use to delay or deny policyholders' claims."

source 1

source 2

source 3

[chirrups]

I feel like I have nothing to ask, I simply would love to hear more about them fucked up mermaid and murderer

And I would absolutely love to tell you about them, Tin.

This AU takes place somewhere vaguely in the Pacific Northwest (circa. 1970s-80s) in an isolated fishing town along a storm-wracked coast.

Fisheries in and around the bay have collapsed due to extreme winter weather patterns + overfishing + an oil spill from a tanker run aground down the coast, leaving most of the bay's inhabitants to live pretty much hand-to-mouth off contaminated fish in recent years.

get ready for LORE (and more drawings but mostly the LORE)

general warning: this is pretty long

The "story" as it were, kicks off when Gem finally gets fed up with another fisherman in the area, Grian, over continued conflict about ownership of fishing grounds in the mouth of the bay.

She orchestrates his death (with the eager assistance of Scott and Impulse) out at sea and passes off his death as a tragic accident in the winter swells with her being the unfortunate finder of his remains.

And it works.

See the thing is: Gem has a history of causing disappearances. It started with some accidents with out-of-town poachers. She would chase these people off and one or two would just slip overboard and happen to drown. It wasn’t her fault and besides they deserve it. But things start to escalate from there. Poachers become outsiders become fellow townspeople. Grian is someone Gem’s known for years, whose friends are tangentially her friends or acquaintances. His death is a cold-blooded murder driven by hatred and frustration. This time something is different about what she's done and Gem knows it.

But Gem is a reputable and well-known person. Her prices are fair, she drives poachers out of the bay and maintains order around the pragmatic fishing ground policy that undoubtedly helps everyone to survive.

She is the type of person to look to for guidance when things get hard because she can make those hard choices. So how on earth could it be her fault?

No one is wiser until Grian's funeral brings an old friend into town who is more than a little suspicious about the circumstances of his death.

Scar was one of Grian's crewmates when they did trawling much further south. They split when Scar took up (illegal) whaling and Grian moved into the bay.

As an outsider, Scar isn't so swayed by the goodwill the town has around Gem's name. He's no detective but for the sake of an old friend, he might as well try.

In this AU, mermaids are social mammals part of the Hominidae family that went back into the ocean similar to Cetaceans. They live in matrilineal family groups or in any other female-led organization of pods and have a very "survival-oriented" global culture (with regional variation).

Pearl is a lone mermaid whose pod lived in the bay until they were starved out by the collapsing fisheries. PNW mermaids are more territorial than other ecotypes and value strength over anything else. Pearl's inability (read: unwillingness) to oust other pods for better fishing grounds and the loss of one of her pod members summarily lead the other two to abandon her.

Without a pod to help her, hunting enough in her dwindling territory has been difficult and lonely, leading her to slowly starve just as the humans in the bay have begun to.

She took to trailing fishing boats to steal from their catch, which is how she met Gem who was mid-throwing some unfortunate soul overboard.

They have an interesting relationship.

Gem is enamored with Pearl at the halfway point between a person and a large apex predator. She loves the way Pearl needs her to live and the way Pearl, as a social creature with no pod, craves her attention. It's thrilling to have a predator at her beck and call like this and, in turn, to be so desperately needed. She also loves the way Pearl doesn't look at her like she's dangerous (the way Scott and Impulse have begun to when they think she doesn't see them). Her interest in Pearl seems to be leaching into something more than just wildlife admiration. She's begun to learn the mermaid language just to talk to her. For what? Who really knows. Meanwhile, Pearl is hungry enough to eat just about anything Gem throws her (including human bodies) and desperate enough that she lets Gem get much closer than many humans in this area have ever been to a mermaid. (They even touch, scandalous for mermaids.)

It's skewed for sure. From Gem's perspective, they've got something special going on. From Pearl's... not so much.

This being Secret-Life based, you can imagine how this story ends...

Bonus piece: Pearl and her old pod.

IN GENERAL, Biological females are generally larger with a set of rotated tusks protruding from their lower jaw for dominance displays. Biological males are commonly smaller and more agile, with more dexterous hands due to decreased adipose tissue distribution over their bodies. (They actually have 3 biological sexes and tons of social gender variation but that's a talk for another time). Pre-cultural awakening, these pods would form around a biological female and their harem for reproductive purposes. That female would then protect the harem from other females looking to "steal them" or their territories (like horses but reverse-style). In modern times, these pods are often composed of groups of friends/related family members as sort of "platonic life partners" and stealing other pod members is seen as a very archaic sort of thing. Territory stealing, however, is still up for grabs.

[incorrectbatfam]

Alfred: Step one: Make pies and cover them in poison.

Kate: That’s step one? What’s step two?

Alfred: Tell their widows they were thieves.

[teranobriss]

I've seen people talk about how Ruth's death felt short and done dirty. And while I somewhat agree, we need to remember that Max had limited time to kill Ruth if he wanted to remain unseen by others since it was just in that theater break time.

He unfortunately had all the time in the world to fuck up Richie since he knew everyone would be glued to the football game, and in addition, he used Richie as far more of a statement piece. It was his first act upon resurrection and he used that murder as a way to showcase his anger and rage. With Ruth, he had less time and was just having fun; it was less of a statement.

[onlytiktoks]