#i have a whole conspiracy theory red string board for this one though

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

Theory: Eldred is not Cardan's father

Listen. I don’t know if anyone has said this before, but I’ve been mulling this over for a while now, so I’m going to throw it to the void before The Stolen Heir comes out, for posterity.

Buckle up, folks and Folk. I’m monologuing.

(PLEASE DO NOT INCLUDE TSH SPOILERS IN THE COMMENTS/REBLOGS/TAGS AS I HAVE NOT READ IT, AND WILL NOT BE ABLE TO READ IT UNTIL 8th JAN 2023!)

A big caveat of this theory is that I have basically no solid evidence for this apart from a few faint dots vaguely connected through a strange fog. But I am nothing if not someone who will scrounge around in the dirt for answers. So let’s get some filth under our fingernails.

(I promise it will maybe make sense. Eventually)

I. EPISTOLARY SEMANTICS

Much of this theory centres around the note Jude steals for Dain from Hollow Hall in The Cruel Prince. It reads:

“I know the provenance of the blusher mushroom that you ask after, but what you do with it must not be tied to me. After this, I consider my debt paid. Let my name be stricken from your lips.” (TCP, p.115)

There are so many layers to this note, but I’ll start on the surface level before digging deeper.

When Jude gives the note to Dain, he reads it, then says, “So he’s blackmailing Queen Orlagh” (TCP, p.123). During a first read, one would think Dain is implying that Balekin is blackmailing Orlagh, since Jude stole the note from Balekin’s study, and that Orlagh is the one who wrote the letter to the eldest Greenbriar child.

And no one questions it, because Jude even makes this supposition herself.

But my question is this: Why would Balekin be blackmailing Orlagh? We learn in The Wicked King that they are very much allies, and as far as I’m aware, blackmailing isn’t something you typically do to your allies.

My other question is: Why do we assume that Orlagh is the one that wrote the letter? Because Dain said so? We know him to be unreliable at best, manipulator at worst.

During a second read, one might realise that Dain is in fact being tricky here. He knows exactly who and what this note is referring to. But he’s deliberately trying to lead the Court of Shadows to the wrong conclusion, because the right one would reveal his guilt, as shown in the latter part of The Cruel Prince when Jude figures out Dain poisoned Liriope with blusher mushroom.

The way Dain is able to lead us off track without lying is through implication alone. This is why he’s not specific about who is blackmailing Orlagh. He just says someone is (a likely statement, considering Orlagh’s title) and that someone might be a man (plausible enough).

Thus, the sentence “He’s blackmailing Orlagh” can still be a perceived truth, and we are only ascribing it to the note because it is the closest context.

But we find out later that Dain’s statement has nothing to do with the note, since the note is about Liriope’s poisoning.

After having read TCP [redacted] times, one might begin to think: Is Orlagh even the sender of this correspondence? And if not, who is? And what does the note mean if we’re giving it a different context/sender?

For this, we have to peruse the parts of the sentences written in the note.

A. “Provenance”

For me, this phrase has always seemed a bit strange when referring to blusher mushrooms.

The word “provenance”, as most people recognise it, is used to describe the place from which a particular thing or subset of things comes from (i.e. the provenance of “Champagne” is Champagne, France, and the provenance of “Iranian rugs” is Iran, etc.).

So when we put it in the context of blusher mushrooms, as the note does, it seems to be saying there is a particular place where one can find blusher mushrooms, and the recipient is trying to acquire them for one reason or another.

But Jude, when first dabbling in mithridatism, describes picking blusher mushroom in the palace gardens (p.148-150, TCP). So if Balekin was planning on acquiring the poison, he needn’t look farther than the palace itself.

Which says, to me, that acquiring blusher mushroom for his own purposes wasn’t the subject of Balekin’s original inquiry, since it is common enough for a seventeen-year-old girl to find on her walk to school.

Additionally, the sender says “the provenance of the blusher mushroom”, when “the provenance of blusher mushroom” would be more grammatically correct if the sender was indeed informing Balekin about where he could get the poison.

Implying that they are referring to a single specific blusher mushroom. Perhaps, the very one which poisoned Liriope.

Which means, “provenance”, as it is used in the note, could be referring to the less common definition: “record of ownership”.

My guess is, Balekin asked the sender of the note if they knew who killed Liriope with blusher mushroom. The sender, wanting to remain cryptic in case the message was intercepted, phrased their confirmation so only the person who knew the full context of the message would be able to understand it.

Leading me to believe the sender may be saying, “I know who owned/used the blusher mushroom that you’re asking about”.

B. “It”

Here’s another tricky thing about English grammar: sometimes the subject that “it” refers to can be a group of things.

We might assume right off the bat that “What you do with it” means “What you do with the blusher mushroom”. But, given the previous specification, our sender might actually just mean “What you do with this information must not be tied back to me.”

Essentially, “Don’t tell anyone I told you this but I know who Liriope’s murderer is.”

C. “Let my name be stricken from your lips.”

To me, this last sentence of the note wreaks of faerie bargain.

The sender mentioned they had a debt to pay Balekin, and after divulging who poisoned Liriope, they would consider that debt paid.

But why not just leave the message at that? They already basically said, “Don’t tell anyone I told you this”, so this sentence seems redundant if not included for an ulterior purpose.

It could be a dramatic sign off. More likely, though, it’s a final clause of some bargain made previous to this message. Such as, “You owe me. Tell me who poisoned Liriope and I’ll never speak your name again.”

Either way, it sounds like the sender does not want to be tied to Balekin in any way (understandable tbh).

***This line is important for later, so remember this.***

~~~

So, after these specifications have been made, the note reads:

“I know who owned/used the blusher mushroom to poison Liriope, but what you do with this information must not be traced back to me. After this, I consider my debt paid. As per our bargain, you’re not to speak of me again.”

II. THE SENDER OF THE LETTER

There are many people who could’ve sent this letter. So let’s narrow it down.

Since the letter is in Balekin’s study, we could surmise that it is something Balekin has written and plans on sending. But Jude describes it as being written in “an elegant, feminine hand” (TCP, p.115).

Which doesn’t necessarily rule Balekin out as the sender, but I’m thinking it is much more likely he is the recipient, and that the sender is a woman.

The sender also knows who killed Liriope, so they probably know why Liriope was poisoned, as well. Meaning, they would have had to have ties to her—whether in proximity or in intimacy.

Oriana mentions in TCP that she and Liriope were close friends. She also tells Jude that she knew about Liriope and Dain’s affair.

However, in this same conversation, Jude asks Oriana if she knew Dain was the one who poisoned Liriope, and this is her response:

“Oriana shakes her head. ‘Not for a long time. It could have been another of Eldred’s lovers. Or Balekin—there were rumours he was the one responsible. I even wondered if it could have been Eldred, if he had poisoned her for dallying with his son. But then Madoc discovered Dain had obtained the blusher mushroom. He insisted I never let Oak be anywhere near the prince.’ ”(TCP, pp. 294-295)

Since faeries cannot lie, the truth must be that Oriana is not the one that knew who poisoned Liriope.

And since the letter is left unsigned, Dain attributes its origins to the Queen of the Undersea.

Here’s why I don’t think Orlagh sent this message:

Orlagh is seen in cahoots with Balekin plenty throughout the series. Yet, the sender of this message implies they want nothing to do with the eldest prince, and furthermore explicitly tells Balekin to never speak their name again. If Orlagh were the sender of this note, we would not have much of the scenes which take place in the Undersea during Jude’s kidnapping in The Wicked King.

Orlagh is the Queen of the Undersea. Why would she know or care about the details of a murder of one of the High King of Elfhame’s lovers?

Orlagh also has no ties to Liriope, or Dain for that matter, so why would Balekin go to Orlagh for information regarding Liriope’s murder?

But do you know who does have ties to Liriope, who might also have reason not to want Balekin to speak their name ever again?

Lady Asha.

So how exactly does Lady Asha have ties to Liriope?

It is common knowledge that they were both lovers of the High King. Asha could’ve known of Liriope’s affair with Dain because of their proximity at court. She was also known for being a lover of gossip and secrets. It’s not too surprising that she might know of Liriope’s secret.

But how does Lady Asha know that Dain specifically poisoned Liriope? And why might she want to sever her ties with Balekin?

Let me back track for a moment.

III. EMERALDS FOR HEIRS?

In the prologue of The Queen of Nothing, Lady Asha receives a heavy necklace of emeralds for her “contribution to the Greenbriar line”.

In The Cruel Prince, when Jude is dressing in Liriope’s clothes for the party at Locke’s estate, Locke offers her his mother’s jewels, specifically a heavy necklace made of emeralds (TCP, p. 168).

At first, when I noticed this connection, I thought emeralds must be Eldred’s standard gift given to any mother who births a Greenbriar heir.

But if you recall, Locke wasn’t born to Eldred, and Liriope would have had to receive the necklace while she was still alive, meaning Oak had not yet been born.

It is significant that both of these women have necklaces of emeralds, for the meaning of emeralds—amongst loyalty, love, and strength—is truth.

“A revealer of truths, emerald reputedly could cut through all illusions and spells, including the truth or falsity of a lover’s oath.” (International Gem Society)

Indeed, it’s curious that the only other person known to possess a string of emeralds similar to the one Lady Asha receives in QON, is Liriope.

Liriope, who, to common knowledge, never had a royal child with the High King. Liriope, who, through the events of TCP, we know to have been having an affair with Dain while still in the High King’s favour.

Liriope, who, like Lady Asha, met an unfortunate fate.

If emeralds represent the falsity of a lover’s oath, and Liriope possessed such a necklace before her passing, it could be that the emeralds Asha received were less a gift as much as they were a warning.

One that Asha was either too arrogant or too oblivious to figure out when she first received them, but that she might've pieces together after Liriope's death.

IV. PUNISHMENT BY PROXY

In the prologue of Queen of Nothing, the narrator informs us that Cardan’s punishment for “killing” a mortal man was that his mother was locked in the Tower of Forgetting.

It’s unsurprising that a mother should shoulder the blame for the crimes of her royal son, but this seems like a steep price to pay for the death of someone only tangentially related to the High King’s concerns.

It wasn’t even a lover of Eldred’s own who was killed. It was the lover of his lover/seneschal.

Incarcerating Asha because her son allegedly killed the lover of the High King’s lover feels like an overreaction. Why not simply cast Asha from the court? Or send her to the mortal lands?

Unless…

The High King suspected (or knew) that Lady Asha had committed some other serious offense against him, but had no sufficient evidence to lock her away. Or perhaps he did not want to risk the humiliation that would ensue if everyone at court found out that Lady Asha had been dallying with his son at the same time as she was his own lover.

And, to give her what he thought she deserved without inciting speculation from the court, used the excuse of Cardan killing the mortal to finally serve justice.

Furthermore, we know Cardan and his mother were not close. We know Asha did not raise Cardan as normal mothers do. Why is sending Cardan’s mother to prison a punishment to him?

Other than a small blot on his reputation (upon which, there are many, much larger blots), Asha’s punishment by proxy largely shouldn’t effect Cardan.

It seems as if Cardan’s true punishment was being virtually disowned by his father, and banished from living in the Palace of Elfhame.

Meaning, Asha’s punishment wasn’t really Cardan’s, but her own.

V. THE DEBT

In the letter Jude stole from Balekin’s desk, a “debt”, which has been paid through the information provided, is mentioned. If Asha sent this letter, what debt could she possibly owe Balekin?

Well, for starters, he did raise her son when no one else would.

Though, it’s unclear to me when in the timeline Asha wrote the letter and when she was imprisoned, if this is the aforementioned debt, Asha would’ve had to have written the letter after she’d been sent to the Tower of Forgetting. Because her being sent to the Tower was the catalyst for Balekin raising Cardan.

This debt also begs the question: Why would Balekin offer to raise Cardan?

Surely having Lady Asha, an incarcerated ex-lover of the High King, in his debt isn’t so valuable as the immense responsibility of raising a child he has no obligation to.

Which points to a motive that indicates perhaps Balekin does have an obligation to this child.

When Madoc kills Eva and Justin in the prologue of TCP, he takes Jude and Taryn in, claiming it as his “duty” after he rendered them parentless. We know the fae value their honour, and so even someone as opprobrius as Balekin might be subject to upholding duty in the face of a faerie child’s mother being sent to prison.

But as we know, he did not cause Lady Asha’s detainment (Dain did). So where is this sudden sense of duty coming from? None of the other Greenbriar siblings seemed to have the same moral inclination.

Balekin taking Cardan in could be purely out of selfish motives. Such as, being able to shape Cardan to his will, which he might then use in a potential coup.

But it could be that, through everything, Balekin has an inkling of an idea that Cardan might not be his brother, but his son.

There is another debt which is possible in relation to the letter if it was sent prior to Lady Asha’s imprisonment. But for this, we must consider why Lady Asha would want her name to be stricken from Balekin’s lips in the first place.

The most obvious answer to this which I could think of is that Lady Asha knows she has committed treason by sleeping with Balekin, the High King’s son, and claiming their child as one of the High King’s own, staking her place at court as higher than is deserved, while also playing the High King for a fool.

So the debt could simply be that Lady Asha, seeing what happened to Liriope and knowing what happens to lovers of the High King after being found adulterous, wanted Balekin to never be able to speak of their affair ever again.

Balekin, not being of the sort to do things for other people without a price, might have said that he’d agree to this if she offered him information that he wanted. After she gave it to him, their bargain would be complete, and Balekin would henceforth never be able to speak Lady Asha’s name.

Regardless of which debt is the truth, indeed, I do believe we do not hear Balekin utter Asha’s name once throughout the course of the series. Despite the fact that it is almost certain they knew each other before.

VI. PRIOR ENTANGLEMENT

How do we know that Asha and Balekin knew each other well enough to be sending letters like this back and forth to each other, if we are not yet certain that they had an affair?

In the prologue of TCP, Madoc states that he didn’t believe it when Balekin told him his wife and child were not dead, but living in the mortal world. This indicates that Balekin had knowledge of how Eva faked her death.

Now, we could owe this to the presence of spies at court. It’s likely that Balekin has his own hoard of spies, as do most of the prominent figures in Eflhame.

Or we could consider that perhaps Lady Asha, who is the other person confirmed to have known that Eva faked her death (TWK, p.129), was Balekin’s informant on this matter.

After receiving this information, he was then able to pass it on to Madoc in order to gain his trust (with the ulterior motive that Madoc might trust him enough to help him with his coup).

But then, we must also consider why Lady Asha would tell the eldest prince of her friend’s plan in the first place.

One thought I had was that perhaps Balekin, having a slew of mortal servants under his roof, was the person who offered Eva the unidentifiable mortals left in Madoc’s house as “proof” of their death.

He’d have to have motive to do this, however. Which indicates he either had some sort of attachment to Asha, who was trying to help her friend escape Faerie, or Balekin valued the knowledge of their plan enough to help them carry it out.

Another less complicated motive for Lady Asha telling Balekin of Eva’s escape would be that Asha and Balekin had a history of being in cahoots with one another, which would point to a connection deeper than a passing acquaintanceship due to proximity at court.

VII. AN UNCANNY LIKENESS

It is a truth in The Folk of the Air series that children look very much like their biological parents.

Oak, biological son of Dain, looks an awful lot like Dain:

Oak is described as having deer legs, little horns on his head, and brown hair with streaks of gold.

Dain, in turn, is described as having deer legs, little horns, and golden curls.

This striking resemblance is what initially got me thinking on Cardan’s parentage. And it is further backed by the many other child-parent resemblances in the series:

Vivi is described as having inherited her father’s golden cat eyes and fur-tipped ears.

Locke has obviously inherited his mother’s “sunrise hair”.

And it could be argued that Oak inherited Liriope’s “starlit eyes”, as his are an amber-gold colour that might resemble an old star.

Lady Asha even states that Jude resembles both Eva and Justin greatly (TCP, p.129).

And in kind, Jude thinks that Lady Asha and Cardan look very alike, though she does not admit to this out loud.

These likenesses do not necessarily indicate anything other than a pattern, which could be total coincidence. But it does mean that we could reasonably conclude that faeries, as with humans, often take on characteristics of their parents.

Balekin is described as having black hair, pale skin, and silver eyes.

Cardan’s description in the series is quite similar:

He is said to have black curls, pale skin, and metallic-rimmed black irises.

When we compare that to Eldred’s description—golden hair and bronze owl-like eyes—it doesn’t seem like Cardan inherited many traits from the High King at all.

Now, this could be because Lady Asha’s characteristics were more dominant in Cardan’s inherited genes.

She is described as being pale, with raven hair, and black eyes. She also clearly passed her tail on to her son.

But the similarities between Cardan and Balekin go beyond the obvious. When Jude is hiding under a chair in Balekin’s study, she notices the following:

“In two strides, Balekin is in front of his brother. They look so alike standing close. Same inky hair, matching sneers, devouring eyes.” (TCP, p.119)

Indeed, this resemblance is echoed across the series. In The Wicked King, when Jude goes to visit Balekin in the Tower of Forgetting, she states:

“As I ascend, I glance back at Balekin’s face, severe in the green torchlight. He resembles Cardan too much for my comfort.” (TWK, p. 26)

And again, in the Undersea, when Balekin comes to interrogate her, Jude thinks:

“They have the same black hair. The same cheekbones.” (TWK, p. 240)

There is also the matter of Cardan’s name, which bears resemblance to Balekin’s physicality.

Balekin is described as having thorns on his forearms. Cardan is a name which is derived from Cardon, which means thistle. Thistles are a prickly flower that grow from stems of thorns.

We know Holly Black is very intentional with her descriptions and words. My question is, why would she go out of her way to draw these physical comparisons, to echo the sentiment that the two are strikingly similar, if Cardan and Balekin were merely brothers?

She could have said that Cardan, being raised in Balekin's household for much of his formative years, was moulded to adopt his brother's mannerisms and propensity for cruelty. She could have said the way that they talk, walk, carry themselves, etc. were extremely reminiscent of one another, and we as readers would've gotten the point: that Jude thinks Cardan and Balekin are alike in many ways.

But this isn't what Holly Black does. Which leads me to believe there is something else to the constant parallels she chooses to include.

VIII. IN CONCLUSION

I’m aware this entire post reads like a conspiracy theory. So to those of you who stuck it out this far, congratulations and welcome to the circus.

I’ll be the first to admit that it is a big reach to say that this is fact rather than the speculation that it is. There are a lot of holes, which I can only hope might be filled in the coming duology.

That being said, this theory brings many questions to light.

How would Balekin know of Eva’s escape without having a more intimate relationship with her friend than previously thought?

Why would Lady Asha want her name stricken from Balekin’s lips so desperately as to make a bargain with him?

How could Lady Asha possibly be indebted to Balekin?

Why would Liriope and Asha be the only two characters with heavy necklaces of emeralds on their person if it didn’t mean they shared a similar history with the High King?

Why would Holly Black continuously compare Balekin and Cardan, indirectly pointing out that neither look much like their father or other siblings, but look undeniably like each other, if not to draw a deeper connection between the two?

And finally, and perhaps most importantly, if Lady Asha’s dalliance with Eldred was so brief—as is confirmed by Oriana in chapter 12 of QON— how did she come to be pregnant by him? We know faerie menstrual cycles don’t happen as often as mortals’.

Is this as simple as good luck, or does it speak to an affair no one knew was happening?

–Em 🖤🗡

more theories & analysis

[shizucheese]

Welcome to my Red String Board for the Magnus Protocol. Instead of making new posts I'm just going to reblog this and add new thoughts after every episode and update certain theories. Things might be a little bit messy because some of this is a bit stream of conscious but I'll try my best to at least keep the formatting consistent. So let's get this party started. 1/24/23: As of this writing the first two episodes have been released. Theory: As more episodes come out and we get more cases/ statements, is there going to be a pattern to the "Talker" statements and which voice gets used (or if it's a Talker at all?). References to specific subjects, Entities, other themes? What we have right now: “Talkers”

Norris (Voice: Martin?/ Alex)

Episode 1: “Reanimation (Partial) -/- Regret [Email]”. The Stranger? The End? The Dark? The Lonely? The Flesh? Arthur (Nolan?).

Chester (Voice: John?/ Jonny)

Episode 1: “Transformation (eyes) -/- Tresspass [chat log]”. Magnus Institute, The Eye. (Involves a forum; the Web?).

Agustus: N/A

Non-Talkers (?) Episode 2: "Transformation (full) -/- dysmorphic [video call]". The Spiral? The Flesh. The Stranger. Ink 5oul (avatar/ entity?) Are different characters aligned with certain Entities (working off of known Entities from TMA)

Alice  = Spiral? (Conspiracy Theories). Web? (Is the reason why Sam got his job. Her whole conspiracy theory thing could be way to mess with people/ manipulate them)

Gwen = The Buried (?) (Behind on her work. Ambition?)

Colin = The Slaughter? (Irritability) The Eye? (Something’s listening?)

Sam = The Eye (Hunger for knowledge/ need to know even when warned it could be detrimental).

I have a theory about the butterfly effect/ multiverse theory regarding the manifestation of the Entities and new ones emerging as a result of things being just different enough for it to happen. The full thing + my support for it is long enough to warrant it's own post though so I'm going to make it one and then probably link it here just for record keeping purposes. Edit: My Butterfly effect/ Multiverse Entity Theory

[blackcatruse]

𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔞𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔰

«prev. ❃ next» ❃ first chapter ❃ m.list ❃ ao3 pairing: r. haitani/fem!reader  ↳ she/her, fem descriptors, nickname ❃ chapter synopsis: i want answers. what the hell is going on? is the information worth the price? word count: 2.4k chapter cw(s): swearing, possible ooc, mention and slight depiction of suicide a/n: as of the day i'm queuing this up (6.25.24) we have officially caught up to where ashes is on ao3! \-^o^-/ ao3 will still be updated first, and tumblr will hopefully be shortly after.

When you woke, the only thing you remembered dreaming about was your old apartment. Again, it was the day you found your mother’s body, but you weren’t reliving the day. The bathroom was all wrong, too. It was way bigger than the one from your childhood. There was light blue tile on the walls and floor. A shallow layer of water covered the whole floor, with hints of rusty orange that seemed to curl around your foot with each step you took.

At the far end of the room the porcelain tub and your mother’s limp arm dangled over the edge, dripping blood into the water. On her forearm you saw it—that endless knot. Was that what was on her arm when you found her? You remember that there was something, but it was the first you knew of it. You don’t remember your mother having any tattoos. But she always wore long sleeves, even in the sweltering heat of summer.

It was possible that all the information you and Shika had compiled was influencing what you dreamed. The endless knot tattoo was superimposed on your mother’s arm because your brain wanted to make sense of it. Everything was a clusterfuck and you wanted to hibernate until the end of the world.

Unfortunately, you were graced to live another day. You ambled into your living room and saw Shika in the kitchen. You sniffed to make sure nothing was burning. Whatever she was making smelled good, but you had no idea what was in it because you didn’t know what food you had on hand. The rumble of the dryer reminded you that you’d forgotten to move Shika’s clothes from the wash.

“Rise and shine,” Shika said, focusing on whatever was in the skillet.

“What did you find to make?”

“Nothing. Your cabinets are empty.”

“Ah, just like my soul.”

Shika glared at you and you stuck out your tongue. She rolled her eyes before saying, “I ran down to the convenience store and got one of those heat and eat things.”

“A classic,” you said, nodding. You flopped down onto your sofa and noticed the blanket neatly folded on the opposite end. Your coffee table was still littered with your conspiracy theory. There was something legible on the scraps of paper.

“Did you rewrite all my bullshit?” you asked.

“Woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep,” Shika admitted. “We should get a cork board, push pins, and red string. Everything is so fucked about this.”

You snorted, “You’re telling me! Ugh.”

There was a comfortable silence before you remembered something you wanted to gossip about that you didn’t mention last night.

“Did you know Kirin had a wife?” you asked.

Shika dropped the wooden spoon with a clatter. “What?! There’s no fucking way. Wait, you said had.”

You nodded, even though Shika wouldn’t see it. “Yeah, Miko told me that Kirin has a grudge against her because she could save his wife or lover.”

“There’s no way that man was ever married. Maybe an arranged marriage, I guess. Something about gang politics?”

“That would make the most sense,” you agreed. “I’m so confused about everything and the Four Symbols know more than they’re letting on.”

“Without a doubt.” Shika nodded in affirmation.

“I’m going to talk to Suzaku,” you said.

That caught Shika’s attention. She looked at you with wide eyes before her brow crumpled with concern. “After everything that’s gone down,” she started hesitantly.

“I appreciate your concern, truly, but I can’t stay cooped up here and in the dark. If they know something, I want to know it.”

“What will you barter with?” Shika asked. There were unspoken words between you two: Knowledge always came at a price. “Everything you told me involves the secret spy missions you’re going on with the Haitanis.”

Shika had a point, and you hated that she did. “Okay, you got me there. I guess I can try to lie my way through it. If he beats me up, it’ll be nothing new.” You shrugged. “I also heard from Nezumi that my regulars are getting antsy.”

“They are. I did some of his—well, yours, I guess—jobs last week. They’re not happy dealing with new faces, and they want to call bullshit on you being sick.”

“Everything is going to hell,” you concluded after a long, ruminating pause. “They’re gonna have to figure out if I’m worth more than the money they’re gonna lose out on if the deals expire.”

“Suzaku announced at the last division meeting that he was looking for your replacement. They’d take your regular route and form some kind of bond with them.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, Suzaku said something about someone promising to pull more money than you ever did.”

“Big words,” you muttered.

“We all thought so too. Aside from me, Hato, and Nezumi, people were furious that someone who they’ve never met was just going to step into the top spot. They were all clamoring about how they had been doing their jobs longer and they deserved a ‘promotion’.” Shika’s sarcasm combined with the air quotes drew a small laugh out of you. “It’s like they think this is some boring nine-to-five office job.”

“I think it would be good to go visit Suzaku,” you said. “I want answers. And I want to meet my replacement.”

You heard Shika sigh loudly. “Fine,” she said. “But eat breakfast first.”

Every day was a new opportunity to piss Suzaku off. You could see in his head that he was delivering you to hell himself, but you just smiled and waved. “I started getting lonely, you know,” you said. “And stir crazy. I don’t want to stay cooped up anymore.”

Suzaku leaned back in his oversized, cracked leather chair and looked at the ceiling. His lips moved in a quiet countdown then he took a deep breath and sat back up. “They’re Kirin’s direct commands,” he said.

“Does Kirin know you’re on the verge of losing some of the regulars I brought in?”

Suzaku sucked in a sharp breath. “You heard about that?”

“People talk,” you said. “And I have friends now, they tell me everything. Looks like your hands are tied. Who’s my replacement? Am I just going to play prisoner with my debts frozen for an indeterminate amount of time? Seems like a waste.”

“We’re waiting on more information,” Suzaku started carefully. You knew immediately he was talking out of his ass. No more orders had been given and Suzaku was hoping some vague excuse was enough to keep you from asking.

“You’re lying,” you said simply. “There’s been no other orders or information. Did Kirin even tell you the real reason I’m locked up?”

“He didn’t have to tell me,” Suzaku growled through gritted teeth. “We already have an idea of who’s after you. Genbu’s men have been busy lately, gathering intel so we can get you back on the street.”

“Who’s after me?” you asked boldly.

“You wouldn’t gain anything from knowing.” Suzaku’s eyes narrowed. “They’re not someone you’ve heard of.”

“If they’re after me, I deserve to know.”

“You don’t deserve shit!” Suzaku lunged so fast you flinched. His fist slammed down on his sturdy desk and he glared at you. Real, genuine anger burned behind his eyes and it knocked you down a few pegs. You took a subtle step back, but you weren’t leaving without answers.

“Who are they?” you asked again. You decided to push your luck with a white lie. “They’ve all got the same tattoo, the endless knot or whatever? I saw it on one of the guys in the fake deal.”

You watched Suzaku’s resolve falter. You almost thought about revealing what Miko told you, but you weren’t about to endanger her. Suzaku flopped back in his chair. He put his arm over his eyes. You took advantage of his silence and pushed on, “What do they want from me? How do they know about me?”

“Lotus,” Suzaku sounded tired. You would’ve pitied him had he not contributed to the downfall of your youth. “What benefit does that information give you?”

I can pass information on to the Haitanis, you thought. Out loud you said, “If they’re going to be a persistent problem, then I deserve to know before I get back out there. It’s been a while and I’m still being held hostage in my own apartment. You haven’t found out shit. You know I’m good about snooping around. I could—”

“Nobody else will be familiar with them,” Suzaku cut you off. “As far as anyone knows, they’re ghosts that haunt Kirin. Stray members who off themselves after they’ve said their piece.”

“They were trying to break me with Hifumi’s and Kichiro’s deaths. There was no reason to kill them. They communicated through a third party and would know nothing about the true culprits,” you pointed out. “I’m good at what I do, but I’m not that well known.”

“The boys were an unfortunate loss,” Suzaku said, almost sounding like he was sorry. “They got tangled up into something bigger than them, and it caught up. Don’t take it personally.”

“I don’t want Shika, Nezumi, or definitely-Hato harmed because of their involvement with me,” you said. “They’re your other top runners, so you can’t risk them as well.”

The four of you were at the top for a reason. You weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. You did what was necessary to pull in money. Others in the division may covet your positions, but they didn’t have the wits, determination, or guts to be at the top. They wouldn’t be able to adapt as quickly as you four. Suzaku was already down to three of his top four, and his number one was in isolation. Wuxing was going to take a hit they couldn’t afford, literally and figuratively, if things kept up like this. You had to play this in your favor. How could you spin it so this information is going to help you? You could make a bargain. You were pretty good at that.

“Rumor has it you’ve found a replacement for me,” you said. Suzaku’s eyes narrowed, but you ignored him and went on, “I will personally train them and then stay cooped up as long as you need me to. Just tell me who’s after me and why, or at least, why you think they’re after me. They know about my family, and that’s not common knowledge.”

At least Suzaku had the decency to look torn about making a decision. “He has been running with Nezumi,” he started, keeping the name of your replacement to himself.

“But my regulars don’t like Nezumi. They made a deal with me, so they want to do business with me. If I personally endorse this newcomer, they’ll be more accepting. I pass the baton to the new guy and retire until further notice, and you tell me what the fuck you know.”

“Allow me to make a call,” Suzaku said, standing up and swiping his burner off his desk. He strode past you and out the heavy door, which slammed behind him.

The door cracked open and you saw Shika looking around the corner. You had asked her to stay outside because it made you feel better. She was also going to be back up if you and Suzaku got into one of your regular screaming matches. You were overdue for one.

“He looks like you’ve got him cornered,” Shika said. “Shit must be real bad if he’s actually considering your bargain.”

“Shika, please,” you whined. “I know how he ticks and what cards to play. I can gamble with confidence against the boss.”

“And how many black eyes did that give you?”

“Well, I’ve only got two eyes so—”

Your banter was cut off when you heard Suzaku greet Shika. She simply dipped her head respectfully and moved out of sight. Suzaku walked into his office and behind his desk. He pulled open a few drawers and tossed an envelope on the desk. He then took a cigarette and a lighter from another drawer. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, before exhaling a cloud of smoke that made you cough.

“Take a seat,” he said, not looking at you. His hand gestured vaguely to the two straight-backed chairs in front of his desk. “I got clearance from Kirin to tell you very limited details. On top of your bargain, he wants you to add ten percent more to your debt.”

“Only ten percent?” That was news to you. You figured it’d be a higher percentage. You weren’t sure what you owed them anyway and it didn’t matter that much if you took on more. It would maybe cause problems when Kakucho tried to batter your freedom, but you doubted Wuxing would let you go so easily. Still, you had to hope or you’d find yourself splattered on the pavement.

With all the shit going on, the negotiation for your freedom would be pointless. But, if you passed along your duties and restored your business relationships, they wouldn’t really have a need for you. You figured they’d either shoot you in the head or let you walk free. If you had no gang affiliation, you wouldn’t be able to make new deals. It wasn’t like you were having any luck with them now.

Ten percent of your current, unknown but likely insurmountable, debt was a paltry sum to pay for information. Maybe Rokuhara could help you find some things out. They could help you put pieces together, but not without a price. What did you have to offer them? Maybe you should instead offer to work for Rokuhara instead of going for absolute freedom. It wasn’t easy to escape this life. And you’d take Kakucho over Suzaku any day. At the very least, you’d be free of Wuxing’s clutches. Nezumi and definitely-Hato were going to be released from their contracts soon, and Shika could leave any time she wanted as long as she tied up any loose ends. If you got out, you wanted to make sure they got out unscathed too.

“Fine,” you agreed. “What’s another drop in the bucket, eh?” You took a seat in the uncomfortable chair to your right and lazily crossed your legs. “So what can you tell me?”

Please do not reupload, translate, or steal my work! If it isn't here or on my ao3, it's not me! Likes & reblogs appreciated! <3 Dividers courtesy of @/cafekitsune & @/firefly-graphics

[the-official-account]

A Dump of my last pre-s2 theories

(and probably my last unqueued post for the day goddamn.)

Originally written yesterday. Edits day of posting. This post builds of evidence not yet presented in cannon but that is public to build the theory. If you consider that spoilers, dni. But here’s the tea:

On june 6th 2022 I sent this doodle to the discord

[ID: a simple, scribbled ink four panel comic showing a person with a short afro working on a laptop and slowly leaning back in their chair, silently, for three panels as the shot slowly zooms on their face which lookis progressively more worried. The last panel shows a close up of their face as they say “I’m worried about Elio.]

in hindsight I don’t know why i had to draw it out but i did? Alongside this I sent the messages

“Part of me wants la catrina to be undeniably good so bad but the more I think about the "nobody tells you what possession feels like" bit from episode one the more nervous i get and then listening to the season two trailer MMMMMMMM me, knowing he's not gonna be okay: I hope he's okay”

to which samy reacted with a single server emoji of that dude smoking and sighing and i have thought about that fucking reaction EVERY DAY SINCE.

But the REAL kicker? this post

[ID: a red blurry zoom in of the words “elio in season 2″]

IT SAYS ELIO HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH DIFFERENT VERSIONS OF GODS BEINGS PRAYED TO IN SEASON TWO. WHICH. WHAT THE FUCK? AS FAR AS WE FUCKING KNOW, EVERY OTHER PERSON WHO ORIGINALLY PRAYED TO LA CATRINA IS DEAD.

[ID: a meme reaction of a guy pointing to a red stringed, paper covered cork board, explaining a conspiracy.]

Anyways. Here’s where i start copying a lot from the discord so it’s more me being weird and less eloquent essay format.

La Catrina's WHOLE DEAL is that she's a blend between Christian and Nahuatl religion. And GUESS WHAT? THE SHORT STORY CONFIRMS THAT THE SAME IS TRUE ABOUT TALIA And the way the baron and la Catrina dance together? And their deeply worrying plan im the final trailer????? I dont have answers but I do have fear .

What does it meeeeean.........I mean clearly if Leo can be an angel while being anti crusade hope isn't lost but......okay this is a stretch but I wonder if there are crusade-approved....is missionaries the word? Like folks with the crusade, who's whole role in the system is to pray to Christian assimilated versions of dangerous gods to overpower past believers and try to control them. It's a STRETCH. But ??????

Shinji's Shinigami man fucker be stable. Shinji if it comes down to it pleeease pull through.

The Good...ish? news is that though the clip about Talia wanting to be a stripper instead of having to kill god (the funniest thing to say but queen shit) she says she HAS to kill god. Not HAD. So. Uhm. Based on structure shit, and stuff Samy mentioned I can't cite rn (understand that I am very tired and most of these rants happen in this same situation) about the show probably being about 3 seasons I think there's a pretty high chance that end of season 2 brings us up to speed with the narration timeline, because that's just a great opportunity there.

Which means that what I mentioned before about Shinji feeling unsafe mentioning where his family is still has a chance to come to change, so yay good. Elio refers to himself as the bane of crusaders or something along those lines, which means that BEFORE he fights god he's still doing pretty well so, hey, he probably won't get zalien god sucked again. Good, cool, chill.

Downside being we can't be absolutely sure if they live through the whole series but HAHAHA HEYYYY ITS FINE

I'm so mad cause I know there are so many details I'm missing that would make me actually chew on wood furniture as much as I say that like for real.  I might speed read the transcripts tomorrow [im not gonna so that asjdlfsfasd im tired] which it probably the worst way to consume this show but I have no defense. But the purpose of the recordings though it so help the next generation basically.

They're for preservation, I don't know how they phrased it exactly (sorry but you haven't seen my cry about the internet archive and I'm not gonna get started about the internet archive because it brings me to tears everytime but that's to say wow preservation is a subject and theme that HITS) but it could, alternatively, be very likely that the show recorded before finally preparations to fight TBMINTS

Which, you know, from a writing perspective there really are those two choices. Let the audience know there is a major format-shifting change end of season 2 to build anticipation for the final season OR save that getting up to speed but until the last few episodes of season 3 because a long term formatting change might annoy some audience members. There's also the idea that you can get up to speed, have daily/more recent audio-diary-like things, and then do a format switch end of season 3

We've got to find out about them fighting god somehow, and I don't know if the current format fits that whole deal? Maybe it could, I’d love to see it if it did, but I think the chances for a switch are high and what that says about the pacing of the show has some effect on how sure I am that my faves are gonna live ngl.

Like if you wait til the last few episodes a reflective on the noble deaths of the big 3 would work pretty well and yes it would be a wonderful story if it went that way I have full faith, but I also don't WANT it yk?

But I do not see all the cogs I am a poor fic writer leaning up a cypress tree etc.

[Here, a brief discussion on themes of cultural preservation and how they’re often recorded in real life]

Which HITS with elio especially. And also talia having read that short story. They had parallels but now they have PARALLELS. I just am literally so scared for elio next season though. And Talia by parralell extension but also cause I think Samy mentioned giving more into her deal s2 in the q&a? But less like SCARED scared.

Okay wait hello this is very  but IS it a stretch to say there may be legions of believer’s tainting how the god’s menifest? Like it's a stretch if you're assuming these people are AWARE of their roles in the system. That it's an intentional force by each individual directed at helping the crusade

BUUUUUUT TBMINTS runs on media. He run on major movies. If I was the god of a massive, relatively culturally cohesive continent (north America in comparison to, like, Asia, has very few thriving cultures, the colonialism will do that to you) and I was created by, and therefore knew how to leverage, media to harness belief to get more power from humans, like the next step would very obviously be to manufacture more media to help reach my goals.

And if I was manufacturing media to help me goals with a very large, organized force that surely has some sort of research division because what is marketing if not research but evil, I would totally say to myself

Hey!

I can control other gods by controlling the perspectives of their believers!

Hey! I can make people believers and shape their beliefs with media!

Hey! Why not send out various targeted feeds in the news and in pop culture funded by my massive organized theocracy showing the most powerful of my enemies as fitting more cleanly into the idea of good and evil that benefits me, both so that the I convince the subjects of my dominion their is no other alternative than the way I rule and also to hinder the other gods by making them more wreckless and more violent in ways that do not help their ultimate goals and create a cycle of demonizing them in the eyes of the masses? Literally what is stopping me from doing that?

NOTHING.

[Edit: There’s some evidence to by found maybe in that Elio who grew up in the americas had no fucking clue about the governments of europe and japan until he was told. Smells like a propaganda machine to me.]

And if it wasn't TBMINTS plotting himself he's got, like, at least a million bootlickers one of them has gotta be a mastermind with how much holy steroids he pumps into them. 

And like. The show's been...well it hasn't defined belief yet, which is really what leaves room for this theory.

Marcus didnt believe in lady luck in the same way elio believed in La Catrina (shrouding themselves in dark robes and praying In basements "it was all very dramatic") he just saw her once and just kinda lived his life knowing that. It only came into play much later when he needed to confront it.

Witches are just assured of themselves and their power. That's a background belief they don't pray to themselves they don't actively maintain that.

And Samar's whole deal?

My point is with the breadth of diversity in what "belief" is in the show and how it powers gods there's definitely space for this crackpot theory still (watch that change as soon as this ep drops shfskhslss) [edit: VINDICATION! you cant call me wrong yet] but if I get even one thing right I'm gonna be elated.

But god also?? Like I feel like we're lead to believe fighting TBMINTS is going to be a physical thing. The trio's growing strengths are very physically centered. But how do you kill a god REALLY? With as many followers as he has even if you somehow slew him, what stops TBMINTS from immediately being reborn? His power  comes from the cultural eradication of nonbelievers, and as Leo's sympathetic example could be taken to hint at: you really just can't kill all those people. Many of them are just ...people. not crusaders.

SOOOOOOOOO IN THAT CASE. If you're fighting a god of the media in a world where where all power is based on popular belief and perception is not the best counterattack to create your own media? Physical aptitude keeps them alive, it wins the small battles, but it hearts and minds that win the war

WHAT IF THE REAL UNIMAGINABLY POWERFUL WEAPON WAS THE PODCAST WE'RE LISTENING TO ALL ALONG?!?!?!!?!

[orange-imagines]

How would the Turtle bros react to finding out their very chill, laidback friend, used to be a pretty famous thief with a well known mystery behind where all the money they stole is hidden; a mystery that hasn’t been solved in all the years since their friend stopped their thievery? Who would wanna find the loot? Who tries to pry into that friend’s past to know why they were a criminal and why they stopped being a criminal?

A/N - How do you guys keep coming up with these prompts I love them-

"Y/N,,,what the fuck,,,” 

Honestly, Raph’s the only one who’s concerned by this news. It just opened up a whole world of questions and revealed an entirely different side of you, and honestly he’s a little nervous for you because he knows the world of thieves can get a little Dangerous 

(He might be scared that someone still has it out for you and is trying to hunt you down as they speak)

His brothers, however, are absolutely ecstatic

They want to know your entire history. They want to know how all your missions went and every single piece of loot you stole. They’re gonna force you to sit down and tell them stories about your old thieving days for, like, hours. Seriously, they want to know everything

When they find out about your hidden treasure, Leo and Donnie are the ones constantly pressing you about its location. Donnie sets up a whole red string board in his lab, full conspiracy theory mode. He’s watching all the lore and trying desperately to put the pieces together. He doesn’t even care about the treasure that much, he just wants to solve the mystery!

(Leo just tags along and takes credit for whatever work Donnie lets him take credit for. But he really does want to find it, just to be able to say he did. And maybe impress his friend in the process)

Mikey, ever the sweet boy, tries not to pry into their past. He doesn’t want to make them uncomfortable or get too up in their business, so, even if he’s curious, he won’t outright ask. He might drop hints about how weird it is that you suddenly stopped thieving, or how cool you must have been in your old days, though

Raph is pretty similar to Mikey. He doesn’t want to pry, especially if you quit thieving for bad reasons or talking about it makes you uneasy, so he’s cool with knowing you’re on their side now and no one’s ever gonna find your treasure

Leo’s gonna pry though. Oh, Leo’s gonna pry. He wants to know, and claims it’s to help Donnie’s research, but honestly it’s just to satiate his own curiosity

They all think you’re super cool, though. As their friend, they always thought you were awesome, but now you’re even more awesome-

[marjansmarwani]

hey tl anon here! i agree w u on tk's one year soberity being much later after tim's death, i'd say like around late feb or even march, that is if we only talking abt the time from tim's death. but i tried to make it around early feb only bc then , if its in march, that would mean tk didnt get professional help or go to AA meetings until the pandemic happened n 1x1 did show that was not the case, n i dont think owen nor tk would've taken that long time to keep tk's soberity and tarlos would've already been dating n tk is shot so i excluded that idea even tho it does fit to one tl. in conclusion, i do believe that the show runners wanted to have a good tl that makes sense but w the pandemic n wanting to align the show w it, as well as making it fit w 911, it kinda messed it up n created a whole mess. in my opinion, it would've been better if they made tim's death around nov/dec of 2020 n tk's one yr soberity then in jan/feb 2021, at least it would've given the tl some sense.

anyways, loved to hear ur thoughts ❤

You’re valid, (former) Anon. I definitely see what you’re saying in terms of pandemic and I agree with you, but I also don’t think the season 1 timeline made much sense and they didn’t have a pandemic to blame then. I do think that them trying to get it to line up with OG 911 may have led to some confusion though, that is a very good point!

Overall I admire your determination to make sense of this mess of a timeline and wish you luck! Personally I’m going to stick with my “time isn’t real in their universe” theory, because I’m about one step away from breaking out the conspiracy bulletin board and red string if I try to think about it any harder 🙃

[gotatext]

by this point im p sure u all know the drill.... i’m nora, 23, she/her, gmt and tonight matthew im going to be greta o’driscoll, a terrible person but a hot one which frankly makes it almost ok. here is her pinterest..... this intro is literally just copied n pasted frm the last time i played her so soz if u’ve read it like 10+ times.... 

「 diana silvers. cis-female. 」have you seen greta o’driscoll around yet? i hear she decided to be in POTENTAS for their SOPHOMORE year as a CRIMINAL PSYCHOLOGY major. the 20 year old SHEPHERD is known to be tenacious, magnetic, capricious and evasive. ➨ the muse is written by nora, she/her, gmt.

was adopted as an infant. had two foster moms and two older sisters so always surrounded by women. lived in a boarding house, very much like the one in 20th century women, with lodgers coming in and out all the time, mostly artsy young women because her gay moms were both high school teachers trying to set up their own arts collective. one of her moms left when she was 4, n she doesn’t really remember her.

while living with entirely women made her super into catlin moran and the guilty feminist, as a teenager she often let boys walk all over her bc she just craved male attention jst bcos she’d never really experienced it. saw it as something aspirational, like sitting in the back of chad’s second-hand truck while he drove you to macdonalds and offered you and his five friends with identical haircuts weed was the height of being cool to greta, she wanted to be their dream girl, even if it meant compromising her beliefs

was always a really sporty bitch. it started with a junior athletics squad, which turned into athletics and cheer, which then became athletics, cheer and hockey until she basically was doing a different activity every night. she came to see her body as a tool that she could make work for her if she trained it up and this attitude’s always kind of stayed with her that as long as her body is strong she is capable of anything. runs every day. 

bubbly bitch but also massive snake. metaphorically and literally, always shedding her skin. loyal to few, ruled by none, out for herself, babey!! every place she goes, she becomes a new character, someone who’s a figment of her imagination, as if each city is repertory theatre and she’s a character actress, so as a result som ppl think she’s called rita, some ppl know her as margot, she just flicks through identities like nobodies business.

left school at 18 n went backpacking around the states making money in the casinos by being a shot girl (yeehaw) and trying to make it as a mysterious 1920s widow with a smoky voice, a dark secret n a heart of gold, looking for love in the big city. all she found was producers and acting agents who’d promise her stardom n actually just fuck her in a motel n then ignore her calls.

TW domestic violence, TW gun, her watershed moment came when she met luke in sioux falls while she was working at a strip club. he was a few years older and had a car, and they kind of went from seeing each other to being that super intense couple who are just necking all the time.

they got engaged like 3 months after they met n rented a flat together, much to her family’s annoyance but she was 19 so there wasn’t much they could do. their relationship was super super intense though, often really heightened and when they fought it could become quite violent, but she’d pass it off as just him being really passionate.

one of their fights got really heated and greta threatened him with the gun he kept in the glove box of his vauxhall corsa, but the safety was off and she accidentally shot him. she pleaded self defence in the trial n cos of the amount of times she’d been hospitalised for various concussions n things like ‘fallling down the stairs’ the police were like yea… pretty watertight evidence that he was a bastard who [chicago voice] had it coming….. 

she’s now under witness protection, rehoused in livingstone as a sports-scholarship student, due to the amount of police involvement in the area, it would mean should one of luke’s family members try to track her down, she’d be relatively safe

massive sports fanatic. plays tennis. on the cheer team. was a track superstar in her high school. honestly just that sporty bitch, you’ll see her doing lines at a party at half four and then on your way to your 9am lecture you see her running across the park like a fresh fucking daisy who is this bitch. maybe it’s maybelline, maybe its coke.

massive feminist. low key quite scared of powerful men bcos of her ex. wants to start a female only lesbian commune bc she misses her childhood in a south dakota boarding house and has endless support for women. honestly annoyed that she is attracted to men, would so be 100% gay if it was a choice. cuffs her jeans and can’t drive. is That bisexual. skateboards. wears backwards caps.  i hate her 

isn’t a foward-planner, however. greta prefers to leave her options open, play the field, live in a spontaneous manners so her study style is mostly cramming a few days before a test, or staying up all night writing an essay on a massive adrenline boost powered by red bull or probably adderall, scribbling (or typing) furiously into the night.

has an addictive personality. seems unable to do anything in a small dose, she has to let it utterly consume her. with sports, she’s fiercely competitive. with alcohol, it’s never a shot, it’s a whole bottle – wine or whiskey – she’ll be table dancing before the night’s up and making out with someone she’ll regret in the morning. 

not afraid to go after what she wants !! ambitious academically and romantically thirsty !! she loves the adrenaline of the chase. when someone’s easy to get, she becomes bored. very bisexual and very proud of it. feminist as fuck nd part of a queer representation in the arts group which holds fortnightly meetings to discuss lgbt representation in film, literature, art etc.

old soul in a young person’s body. all the shit that has gone on has kind of aged her. she’s quite cynical about everything now. always smoking smoking smoking. very edie sedgwick in that way.  little girls skirts bought for next-to-nothing at the market because she’s skinny enough to get away with it, barely long enough to cover your bum, and then the ugliest baggy sweater you’ve ever seen thrown over it.

likes old things. old books, old music, old houses, it reminds her of happier times like when she wasn’t alive. buys all her music on vinyl and has a gramphone because “The Sound quality is Better” kfdsjj.

super into pop art and andy warhol. puts female friendships above everything but at the same time, would fuck her best friends man

her clothing style is like…. vintage thrift store but make it preppy. berets and cute hats, neck scarves, large fluffy cardigans or like those leathery jackets with big suede fringes on them, mini skirts (very 70s), and knee high socks or boots. quite often she’ll be in sports kit, maybe a cute tennis skirt, n when she’s feeling casual she’ll wear like, a talking heads tshirt with a pair of mom jeans and converse, but otherwise, the library is her catwalk.

aesthetics:

a bubble of pink gum on chapped lips, mom jeans, a beaten up pair of adidas, denim jackets, strawberry laces, knee-highs, chapped lips, peeling sticky plasters, split knuckles, bruises you try to cover with concealer, stick and poke tattoos, hot coffee, sleep caught in your eyes on a lazy afternoon, kissing girls, cigarette smoke shrouding you like a veil, alien conspiracy theories and sci-fi paperbacks, doc martens with fraying laces, the red string of a thong peaking out purposely from jeans, leonine arch of your back and that stellar smile that says ‘you have no idea who you’re dealing with’, a rucksack permanently packed for the move, a streak of red across your lips, roller blades, cut knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, and piercing your own ears with a safety pin when your mom wouldn’t take you, kate moss posters lining the walls of a teenage bedroom, his name scrawled in rage across the pages of a diary, thumb holes poked through the cuffs of your sleeves, a tennis racket you punched through in a fit of temper, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes.

wanted plots

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sports rivalries ! sporting friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!! 

since greta literally can’t differentiate between romantic and platonic love, she’s got off with so many of her mates, so i want awkward friendships where they nearly dated, or exes that have now just turned into weird friendships

 girls from the cheer team who she’s like, weirdly intimate with like the shower together but its not a Thing cos the other girls straight !!! what do u mean !! aha just fun !

and I want like, fellow criminology students who are like?? how is this bitch still passing?? i swear she goes out every night?? 

she works part time at a fast food restaurant, i want a mate that just goes and sits in there talking to her until her manager gets angry. 

ppl she did a few modules with ie. art history, bio-med, film studies, before changing course and somehow sort of remaining in touch with

 ppl who she runs track with. 

someone she’s trying to make a zine with. 

here’s a list of plots on her old blog if u want any of them w her.

would love plots of any type, throw them all at me please, i cnt wait to interact w all of u. like this if u want me to message you about connections / plots! xo

full biography if u can be bothered

trigger warnings: drugs, domestic abuse, gun.

you never meant for it to happen. you’d heard the stories, of girls who let their man walk all over them, and thought to yourself “i’ll never be one of those girls…” the kind that eat low-fat yoghurt and drink slim fast to shred a few extra pounds because he said she was getting round in the tummy, or the ones who spent their evenings tied to a kitchen sink drinking wine while him and the boys played poker, wishing god, if only I could get out of here. not you, not you raised by strong women, four bright shining beacons. single mother with her hard-as-nails attitude and her stony glares, elder sisters (twins) one ginger, one blonde, one doctor, one lawyer, both determined to take a bullet to the brain and a hammer to the patriarchy before they let a man touch them without asking. you were always so inferior, so insecure and small, like a bird (like a sparrow) with blonde plaits down your back sucking tropicana whilst your busom buds sucked dick, their lips permanently ripe with stories of their sexual exploits, fake tan and glittered nails whilst you sat in the unbroken egg of virginity wondering what it was like to be loved. one day you found out.

lily milligan’s parents gone and a free house for the night, bottles of ouzo and tequila swiped from your mother’s liquor cabinet thinking she wouldn’t know (she always knew) your legs, hardened from pep squad, slut dropping on a kitchen table because the boys thought it would be fun to get the quiet girl drunk. you’d never had a sip before that night. band t-shirts, denim shorts and the split soles of rotten converse that you refuse to let go of, you still clutched with both hands to your youth, but in a tube top now (borrowed from alice carmichael who had a sister in college) and a short tennis skirt, your feet not in trainers but in thigh-high boots. uncomfy as hell but lily said you needed to look sexy. you didn’t know if you wanted to be sexy. you didn’t know what kind of girl you were, if you were even a girl at all. but robbie looked at you like he knew exactly who you were, like he knew you better than you knew yourself, and his lips had the pink cupid’s bow of a movie star, and his hair was dark locks, curling like a mane. his hands were soft, and suddenly on your waist, and after three more shots his lips were on yours and his name was the only sound in your head and on your lips as you lost it in lily’s college sister’s bedroom beneath the glare of a T-Pain poster. you bled for what seemed like hours, his hand still in yours, kissing on the sofa as truth tellers and dare devils continued to spin a bottle of unprecedented youth. you thought it was love. robbie was the one. he loved you, you knew it, how else could someone be so soft? but soon he grew bored, scrunched up your paper heart and set it alight. then came the tears, the hatred, the ‘fuck robbie, in fact, fuck all boys.’ and that you did.

you were known for being easy. any boy could be yours for a night, as long as he promised to love you for those few short breaths and pants before you cried yourself to sleep. you felt poisoned, but poisonous as well, as if by ensnaring these young boys you were gaining power over them, and not the other way around. soon it started to work. they’d want more, but you’d deny them it, sick of sucking off silly schoolboys, they’d call you a tease, a vixen. maybe you were, but you couldn’t help but want older men. you got the history teacher first time, him bending you over his desk to sneak a hand up your tennis skirt as the after-school clubs carried on next door, unawares. love didn’t exist, not for you. it was nothing but a game for pretty young girls to play, bubble gum in their canines and a hand tugging at the hem of their cheer skirt.

there was so much anger inside of your small body, ‘beware of boys and their hook-like words’. hockey helped. there was something formidable about the feeling of a stick like a weapon in your hands and the thwack it made against thighs in the heat of a scrum - “slipped, sorry!” - you’d utter with a snakeskin smile, millicent quinn knowing that you’d hit her on purpose because she shagged robbie at that party last week. she couldn’t prove it, cobbled acne on her forehead turning green with disgust. ben came into your life like a car crash. two years your senior, with a baseball jacket and shoulders like a god. he became your personal hero. on the pitch, he was lethal. together, you could bring anyone to their ruin. each day after last period he’d be waiting in his car. you’d leap into his arms like a girl-half starved, love me, love me, love me, your heated kisses the envy of every junior girl. he was yours for three blissful years, utterly yours, and you were his, his star-spangled girl, and he was your knight - you were both the same, playing games, always difficult to predict. it was a shock to all when he proposed, high-school sweethearts find love in south dakota.

the engagement was a bittersweet affair; three months – you barely out of your gingham print skirts and into a graduation gown, him, a surly quarterback towering above your sisters, cigarette at his lips and a scowl like a fart in a lift. they hated him. so did you. but you were eighteen and in love, and he fitted the cookie cutter mould. everyone wanted him, and you had him. you had him and you were happy, happy, happy, and he loved you. he said he’d give you the world, anything you wanted hand-picked and given to you. instead, he gave you a jack russell terrier and a flat you couldn’t swing a cat in, wallpaper peeling like the rotten bits inside of you, the bits that only he knew. and you got tireder and tireder of the sad excuse of a life he’d picked out for you, him out doing god knows what to pay the bills, and you dancing on tables to pave your way to stardom, and this was love, this was real, until the shine wore off and your fresh-faced, dimple-cheeked cheerleader facade faded and the ugliness started to reveal itself, the whining, the petulance, the sharp-tempered cruelty, the mind games, the need to always win, win, win. he was dull, he was boring, he was nothing like the boy the girls had said he was and no chiselled six pack could hide his lack of anything remotely interesting, your patience wearing thin until it snapped like rubber, a rucksack on your back, running shoes on your feet and the joint bank account emptied into your eighth grade birthday wallet.

you built your small fortunes working the casinos of sioux falls, a crimson dress and an attitude to match. bookish archie with his little dipper freckles was fun for a month, before he became just as dull and dreary as the rest. a three hour bus and you were in minneapolis, bright eyed and bushy tailed, fresh meat ready for the pickings. a hostel here, a friendly co-worker’s sofa there as you made what you could by taking off your clothes and shaking your ass like you were back in pep squad, doing what you did best. you met your fair share of creeps, and soon it was back on the road to escape a wide-eyed stalker and a restless itch for more. milwaukee, chicago, you made the roads your own. log cabins and lodgings, and the occasional motel, a beaten up pick up truck purchased at a scrap merchants – you got a few miles out of it before it bit the dust, and when you finally set it alight after nights spent lounging across the driver’s seat, a parka tucked over you as a duvet, you were sad to see it go. you’re nomadic by fault, never attaching to place, people or things, creating a new personality in every place you go like a character actress; each town is a different repertory theatre, and you’re the star. a compulsive liar, you even fib about your own name, to some you’re ellen, nineteen, bookish, a law student who likes smoking and cosmos. to someone else you’re rita, you’re twenty five and look young for your age, like smoking, comics and fucking in public places.

in the bright lights of michigan, you found charlie, sweet charlie, too good for you, though you let him spoil you while he thought you were the small town girl of his dreams. next came abigail, who was fun until the jealously kicked in, and then luke, gorgeous luke, dangerous, exciting, who despite his temper, despite the fights, despite bruises down your spine and your teeth marks on his arms, loved you with the strength of a wild fire. there was destruction in your wishbones, a savageness from the field, from the pitch and now somehow in his arms, you were godly. he was cruel, he was careless, and he refused to fall at your feet like so many other boys had, which only you made you want him all the more. you were rage incarnate. you hated him so fiercely you thought you might kill him, so he played the only card you wouldn’t predict; proposed.

the house you shared was a backstreet flat in detroit, you making your name as a downtown singer while he footed the bill with pills. they had a drug for anything these days, to dull the senses, to pick them up, to drive you to insanity or pull you out of the madness hole. the two of you lived like criminals on the run (you never told him that you were, living out your days as the enigma he wanted you to be), you with your voice like caramel and fishnet legs. you were his and his alone until his hand was at your throat and the gun was in your hands screaming at him to stop, stop, stop, until a bullet stoppered his brain, crimson staining linoleum as you cast yourself out like lucifer. self defence was decreed the moment they saw your violet neck, black tears and headlight eyes and mind screaming red, red, red like the pom-poms you shook so willingly in school and the insides of his skull. you were gone, and “you” was born, renamed “greta”, boxed, shipped-out, and next-day delivered to livingstone where under witness protection you were a student, blank slate, fresh-faced in a place where no one knew your name, doing what you always did and starting again.

[derickandveronica-blog]

V #1. Real Characters

I walk the two miles all the way down to No Frills because it’s one of those off brand grocery stores where things are cheaper but you have to bag your own stuff. I wish I could go to the nice bodega downtown that sells creamy, herb cheese set in little displays with plastic grapes, but right now that’s a luxury I can’t afford. My friend Jackie says, “Always set aside enough money for fancy cheese,” but I guess this month I forgot.  

It’s lucky, though, that the walk to No Frills is a nice one. It’s all downhill and I get to walk through this neighborhood filled with great, old Victorian houses. Some of the houses have gold historical preservation plaques tacked on their fronts, and the ones that don’t are painted bright, beautiful colors, like they’re competing for the plaques.

My favorite house, between Chestnut and Oak Street, is painted a smooth gradient of orange, starting pumpkin colored at the base of the house and gradually getting lighter, until at the paneling near the roof where it’s a soft creamsicle color. It just looks like light and happiness is beaming off the house, rising through the roof, like heat.

My own place used to be a stately, Victorian house, but it got chopped up and divided into apartments some years back, before I moved in. My landlord, Emily, doesn’t care about the place in the slightest. She’s let the paint fade and chip and she doesn’t seem to mind the awful stripe of black sludge down the front of the house. Its where the gutter empties. All winter, when the rain never stops and everyone is always muttering “the rain, the rain, the rain” like some kind of city-wide chant, the black, greasy rainwater pools at the roof before sliding down the front of the house into the yard below.

When I’m walking and not looking at the brightly painted houses I think about my usual stresses. I wish I could just focus on the houses and the pleasant heat in my leg muscles as I walk, but I can’t.

There’s a term paper I need to write about earthquakes and a doctor’s appointment I’ve been meaning to reschedule. And there’s my mom. She called me this morning. I had stood in my kitchen, gently stirring some oatmeal and saw that the phone was ringing, the screen lit up and vibrating. I had considered letting it ring all the way to voicemail. But I picked up. I wish I wasn’t so hopeful like that, but I am.

She told me about this new medication they’ve got her on, one that gives her these urgent, visceral, terrifying dreams. She told me she had a dream I died, something that also had to do with me being pregnant and wearing some god-awful denim dress. I didn’t know what she wanted me to say.

“I’m still alive,” I said finally.

She sighed into the phone.

 Really, she’s the one dying. Of emphysema. The unsurprising result of smoking for 40 years.

I don’t have a whole lot of feelings about my mom dying. It’s hard to explain this to people. When I tell them about her diagnosis they arrange their faces to be sympathetic or gently horrified. I arrange mine to look sad, or like I’m carrying an awful burden, but this is mostly just for the other people. It makes them more comfortable. I wish I didn’t do things to make others comfortable, but I do.

The summer before she went to the doctors and he sat there and told her about her condition and, then, five minutes later she called me and told me “I have emphysema. I’m dying. You better call me more often,” and then hung up the phone—the summer before all of that—I went home for the first time in years.

I was delusional, of course. Maybe a few years of living on the West Coast, where everyone breathes and sighs about community and love and healing got to me.

We’d fought the whole time. She was drunk and angry and always larger and taller than me. She steamed up the house with her cigarette smoke, kept the windows locked, so that I woke up in the morning feeling like the back of my throat was dry and dirty. It was like she wanted to die.

That summer I had a revelation.

 The first time I wore a bikini I was thirteen and it was bright red. I had noticed, only recently, the way men looked at me. How they poked each other in the ribs when I walked past. I spent hours looking at myself in the mirror, topless, running my hands along the smooth planes of my stomach. It was a miracle that we found the matching set for the bikini, since we got it at Goodwill. But it fit perfectly and looked great against my tan skin.

“Brown as a bunny, you are!” my mom said sometimes. Which was nice.

We went to the pool by our house, a neighborhood pool and something of an establishment during the hot Midwestern summer days. When we got there I stripped off my summer dress and took note of the muscled, gleaming lifeguards at the water’s edge. My mom, as was her habit, promptly passed out on a pool chair. Her mouth leaked open at the corners and her arms splayed out at her sides.

The bikini looked even better glistening under the chlorine blue water. But after diving off the diving board many times and frog crawling along the checkered bottom of the pool it had begun to hang loose on my body. The strings at my back, holding the top piece in place, threatened to come loose and reveal my breasts.

I woke my mother.

“Can you please tie this?” I asked. “It’s coming loose!” I was perhaps a bit hysterical.

She rose from the pool chair, her eyes puffy and groggy. She looked evil like a villainous character rising from their dark throne, and I realized, my stomach clenching, that I’d made a huge mistake.

And then, there in front of the moms and babies and muscled lifeguards, she ripped my bikini top from my body. One swift motion and it was gone.

The tender pink cones of my nipples were seeing the outside world for the first time. They felt fragile, sensitive to the dry summer air.

A woman nearby gasped.

“Get your shit and let’s go,” my mother growled. And so, we left.

 My revelation was simple. I had been dreaming, since I was a little girl, maybe even before the red bikini episode, no more relationship with my mother.

Not one where she knew how I felt, or where we fought about why I never came to visit, and not one where I was willfully and purposefully cutting her from my life. Just one that was no more, brimming with nothingness.

When she called me that day after the doctor’s appointment, blurting out the news and then hanging up, the revelation rung inside of me, like a gong.

 At No Frills I grab my usual items: bananas and oatmeal and eggs and potato chips. The linoleum is freshly waxed and gleaming. Everything is gleaming. The apples, the cucumbers, the mirrored surfaces of the meat counter. They’re playing a classic rock station over the radio and “Stairway to Heaven” comes on and I sing a little out loud, softly, when it gets to the part where Robert Plant screams and the drums get loud. It feels good sometimes to sing in public. Like I’m testing the boundaries of what’s okay to do. It makes me feel like the kind of girl brooding, artistic men would write poetry about, or else the kind of girl who’s quirky and thin and cutely-fragile who writes her own poetry. But I don’t think I’m either of those.

In line at the checkout I watch two West Coast weirdos, as my friend Jackie calls them, talk to each other. They’re real characters, like New Yorkers say in the movies. The man is wearing earmuffs, even though its blazing hot summer outside. The earmuffs are those puffy white childish ones, like they’re made from the fur of the abominable snowman, and they look ridiculous against the balding slab of his head. The woman with him, either his sister or maybe his wife--in the way that sometimes people who look alike become couples—is talking at him, nonstop, way too loudly, in some language that might actually be Latin.

“Oblitus dicere!” she says.

He doesn’t respond, just looks glassily off into the distance. Perhaps the earmuffs have made her voice fuzzy and distant. Perhaps this is their purpose.

What makes me laugh the most is that the couple has many, many cans of tuna fish in their cart and nothing else.

 Back out on the street, blinking in the sunlight, I wait for the bus. The two characters are here, like I knew they would be. I think about talking to them, but I don’t know what I’d say.

My mom would sometimes involve herself in other people’s private business. Stuff that was definitely closed to her, but she didn’t care. I try not to be like this, even when I’m curious.

Once, upon coming out of the library, with stacks of books piled in our arms—hers about political conspiracy theories and mine about girls who lived fashionable, glittering lives in New York City—she spotted a couple sitting on a bench at the library’s entrance. It was obvious, immediately, what was happening.

The girl was crying gently and the boy, with a falsely sympathetic face, was speaking quietly and quickly and patting her leg like the way distant relatives do.

My mom marched over. She shifted her stack of books to the crook of her left arm so she could point her right finger accusingly at the couple.

She took a deep breath.

“You don’t need him! You can do much better than an ugly boy like him!” She was shrieking, and the whites of her eyes were huge and lit up, like there was a light bulb illuminated inside her head.

The girl was stunned. But the boy, strangely enough, looked as if he’d been expecting this. He smiled haughtily at my mom, his lips curled up, and that was when I realized it. My mom was one of them. The weirdos on the street. The characters.

I felt myself shrink down, wanting desperately to be somewhere else.

“Stay out of it, lady!” he smirked.  

“Go fuck yourself,” she said.

 Sometimes, once in a blue moon, my mom wasn’t a character. Or, at least, she kept it under wraps. Once, when we were on a plane and the flight attendant angrily slapped a bag of cookies down on my tray table after I took too long deciding between my snack options, my mom smiled a small smile and peered at me out of the corner of her eyes. Her face said, “Somebody’s having a bad day!” I had smiled wide, not caring about the cookies anymore.

I craved these kinds of moments. When we were on the same team. I just knew that there was another world, jogging along right next to ours, that was full of these moments. Where we had inside jokes and camaraderie.

This other earth, though, was almost always frustratingly out of my grasp.

 This morning on the phone she’d told me that she was ready to die.

“I just want to be fucking dead already,” she said. It was so brash and ugly and hard to look at. I stayed quiet on the phone.

After a while she sighed. Sometimes, I had no idea what my mother knew, how wide her awareness extended.

“Maybe you want that too,” she said.

But I didn’t know what world we were in. The real one or the one just out of reach. We were, for once, on the same team. But it was all wrong.

 The houses get steadily uglier as the bug chugs towards my neighborhood. It drops me off a few blocks from my house, and the characters stay on the bus, heading, no doubt, into the even seedier parts of the city.

My shoulders and hands ache with the groceries and I have to stop every block to stretch my fingers and then curl them into fists, pumping blood and sensation back into them. At my house, I peer up at the black sludge down the front of the house, but it doesn’t look too bad today, maybe because of the sunshine. The sun has a way of smoothing out all the ugly things, blurring your vision a little. I wish I could have this effect on people, but I can’t.

I unlock the front door, give it a little kick with my foot so it doesn’t stick, and climb the stairs up to my apartment. I knock my hips against the stair’s railing, forming a soft fleshy bruise I’ll feel for the next few days but which will look oddly beautiful against my skin, because the bags are just too heavy.

[gotatext]

claws my way out of the dirt like the goblin i am ..... hello thots, its nora, once again bringing you a revamped version of a muse i played yonks ago n some of u may have even written against... here is her pinterest.....

this is margaret greta, she’s a whole can of trauma spaghetti plastered over with a toothy grin and a lot of dad jokes. the only reason she’s in gifford really is bcos shes been put there as part of a witness protection program cos lots of police r monitoring livingstone so its deemed relatively safe.... haha... anyway she changes major all the time. she started off doing fine art but since then she’s done modules in architecture, film, bio-chemistry and is now dabbling in medicine. 

CIS-FEMALE — ever hear people say GRETA O’DRISCOLL looks a lot like DIANA SILVERS? I think SHE is about 21, so it doesn’t really work. The MEDICINE major is a SOPHOMORE that is from DEADWOOD, SOUTH DAKOTA. They can be +CHARMING, but they can also be -EVASIVE. I think GEE might be SHEEP. They are living in YATES. ( nora. 23. gmt. she/her )

this bitch is the most restless creature u ever seen. before she came to livingstone, she’d lived in 8 different cities in 3 years. 

was adopted as an infant. had two foster moms and two older sisters so always surrounded by women. lived in a boarding house, very much like the one in 20th century women, with lodgers coming in and out all the time, mostly artsy young women because her gay moms were both high school teachers trying to set up their own arts collective. one of her moms left when she was 4, n she doesn’t really remember her.

while living with entirely women made her super into catlin moran and the guilty feminist, as a teenager she often let boys walk all over her bc she just craved male attention jst bcos she’d never really experienced it. saw it as something aspirational, like sitting in the back of chad’s second-hand truck while he drove you to macdonalds and offered you and his five friends with identical haircuts weed was the height of being cool to greta, she wanted to be their dream girl, even if it meant compromising her beliefs

bubbly bitch but also massive snake. metaphorically and literally, always shedding her skin. loyal to few, ruled by none, out for herself, babey!! every place she goes, she becomes a new character, someone who’s a figment of her imagination, as if each city is repertory theatre and she’s a character actress, so as a result som ppl think she’s called rita, some ppl know her as margot, she just flicks through identities like nobodies business.

goes through phases of being intensely feminist and tweeting “men are trash i don’t need them” before flipping into being lonely and needy n wanting male attention again. tends to gravitate towards men who are just pieces of shit tbh like her friends are always like hun.... pick a nice boy..... but no.... she’ll go for the boxer with several arrest records for gbh or the small-town drug dealer just trying to hook her onto pills for a little extra cash, or the reformed sinner who thinks he’s being protective by reading all her texts and always knowing where she is..... n she always finds a way to spin it so that they Just Care About Her and aren’t a p.o.s 

left school at 18 n didn’t go to uni, moved in w her boyfriend of the time instead, but soon got bored, n then went backpacking around the states making money in the casinos by being a shot girl (yeehaw) and trying to make it as a mysterious 1920s widow with a smoky voice, a dark secret n a heart of gold, looking for love in the big city. all she found was producers and acting agents who’d promise her stardom n actually just fuck her in a motel n then ignore her calls.

TW domestic violence, TW gun, her watershed moment came when she met luke in sioux falls while she was playing bass for a country n blues band. he was a few years older and had a car, and they kind of went from seeing each other to being that super intense couple who are just necking all the time. 

they got engaged like 3 months after they met n rented a flat together, much to her family’s annoyance but she was 19 so there wasn’t much they could do. their relationship was super super intense though, often really heightened and when they fought it could become quite violent, but she’d pass it off as just him being really passionate. 

one of their fights got really heated and greta threatened him with the gun he kept in the glove box of his vauxhall corsa, but the safety was off and she accidentally shot him. she pleaded self defence in the trial n cos of the amount of times she’d been hospitalised for various concussions n things like ‘fallling down the stairs’ the police were like yea... pretty watertight evidence that he was a bastard who [chicago voice] had it coming..... also this happened in 2017, he was mixed race and greta is white so naturally the police totally took her side. she’s now under witness protection, rehoused in livingstone as a sports-scholarship student, due to the amount of police involvement in the area, it would mean should one of luke’s family members try to track her down, she’d be relatively safe

 massive sports fanatic. plays tennis. on the cheer team. was a track superstar in her high school. honestly just that sporty bitch, you’ll see her doing lines at a party at half four and then on your way to your 9am lecture you see her running across the park like a fresh fucking daisy who is this bitch

pretty easy to get along with (provided you don’t anger, provoke or question her too much) because she WANTS your character to be enthralled by her and will do whatever it takes to win them over. she wants everyone to love her

is That Girl who always knows where the parties are, and is always there, on the sofa, talking about institutionalised racism and trying to coerce you into a game of beer pong that she’ll definitely win. doesn’t really have one solid group of friends, just kind of on good terms with everyone and social butterflies about

has changed her major so many times. decision? who is she. currently studying medicine, but doesn’t rlly enjoy it. she’s very unmotivated and lazy and probably wouldn’t ahve bothered going to uni if she hadn’t been placed in one by a witness protection program. will probably change on to history or gender studies soon n just make up the extra credits by volunteering

 massive feminist. low key quite scared of powerful men bcos of her ex. wants to start a female only lesbian commune bc she misses her childhood in a south dakota boarding house and has endless support for women. honestly annoyed that she is attracted to men, would so be 100% gay if it was a choice. cuffs her jeans and can’t drive. is That bisexual. skateboards. wears backwards caps.  i hate her

plays bass guitar, has a teal green fender and it is her BABY. it’s covered in stickers about saving the planet and ending fracking and going vegan. she’s in an all-female punk band w agnes (n mayb jade i think) n they play gigs every now n then in grotty club basements full of druggy sweaty college kids

PERSONALITY: easy-going, sociable, observant, blunt, amiable, nihilistic, self-serving, laid back, independent, unmotivated, charming, lazy, impulsive, alluring. ESTP and a leo

LIKES: art, music, john wayne movies, black mirror, philosophy,  cowboy chic culture, DC comics, arcade games, candyfloss, deep red lipstick, marijuana, dogs, karaoke, Kate Moss, late-night strolls, zip-lining, chemistry, suspenders, cigarettes, herbal tea, gallows humour, cold coffee, long showers, brown eyes, tchaikovsky, dr. seuss, boiler house DJ sets, magnolias, decorative lamps, worn-out furniture, twangy electric guitars.

DISLIKES: bananas, coffee, Woody Allen, mental mathematics, children, Trump, institutionalised misogyny, the imaginary future, french literature, Wes Anderson films, spoken word poetry, the general mentality of cheerleading squads (despite being on one)

aesthetics:

a bubble of pink gum on chapped lips, mom jeans, a beaten up pair of adidas, denim jackets, strawberry laces, knee-highs, chapped lips, peeling sticky plasters, split knuckles, bruises you try to cover with concealer, stick and poke tattoos, hot coffee, sleep caught in your eyes on a lazy afternoon, kissing girls, cigarette smoke shrouding you like a veil, alien conspiracy theories and sci-fi paperbacks, doc martens with fraying laces, the red string of a thong peaking out purposely from jeans, leonine arch of your back and that stellar smile that says ‘you have no idea who you’re dealing with’, a rucksack permanently packed for the move, a streak of red across your lips, roller blades, cut knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, and piercing your own ears with a safety pin when your mom wouldn’t take you, kate moss posters lining the walls of a teenage bedroom, his name scrawled in rage across the pages of a diary, thumb holes poked through the cuffs of your sleeves, a tennis racket you punched through in a fit of temper, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes. 

wanted plots: since greta literally can’t differentiate between romantic and platonic love, she’s got off with so many of her mates, so i want awkward friendships where they nearly dated, or exes that have now just turned into weird friendships, and girls from the cheer team who she’s like, weirdly intimate with like the shower together but its not a Thing cos the other girls straight, and I want like, fellow medicine students who are like?? how is this bitch still passing?? i swear she goes out every night?? she works part time at a fast food restaurant, i want a mate that just goes and sits in there talking to her until her manager gets angry. ppl she did a few modules with before changing course and somehow sort of remaining in touch with, like she did a few art modules, a bit of film, n some architecture before switching to medicine, though she’ll probs switch course again soon. ppl who she runs track with. someone she’s trying to make a zine with. here’s a list of plots on her old blog if u want any of them w her.

would love plots of any type, throw them all at me please, i cnt wait to interact w all of u. like this if u want me to message you about connections / plots! xo

full biography if u can be bothered

trigger warnings: drugs, domestic abuse, gun.

you never meant for it to happen. you’d heard the stories, of girls who let their man walk all over them, and thought to yourself “i’ll never be one of those girls…” the kind that eat low-fat yoghurt and drink slim fast to shred a few extra pounds because he said she was getting round in the tummy, or the ones who spent their evenings tied to a kitchen sink drinking wine while him and the boys played poker, wishing god, if only I could get out of here. not you, not you raised by strong women, four bright shining beacons. single mother with her hard-as-nails attitude and her stony glares, elder sisters (twins) one ginger, one blonde, one doctor, one lawyer, both determined to take a bullet to the brain and a hammer to the patriarchy before they let a man touch them without asking. you were always so inferior, so insecure and small, like a bird (like a sparrow) with blonde plaits down your back sucking tropicana whilst your busom buds sucked dick, their lips permanently ripe with stories of their sexual exploits, fake tan and glittered nails whilst you sat in the unbroken egg of virginity wondering what it was like to be loved. one day you found out.

lily milligan’s parents gone and a free house for the night, bottles of ouzo and tequila swiped from your mother’s liquor cabinet thinking she wouldn’t know (she always knew) your legs, hardened from pep squad, slut dropping on a kitchen table because the boys thought it would be fun to get the quiet girl drunk. you’d never had a sip before that night. band t-shirts, denim shorts and the split soles of rotten converse that you refuse to let go of, you still clutched with both hands to your youth, but in a tube top now (borrowed from alice carmichael who had a sister in college) and a short tennis skirt, your feet not in trainers but in thigh-high boots. uncomfy as hell but lily said you needed to look sexy. you didn’t know if you wanted to be sexy. you didn’t know what kind of girl you were, if you were even a girl at all. but robbie looked at you like he knew exactly who you were, like he knew you better than you knew yourself, and his lips had the pink cupid’s bow of a movie star, and his hair was dark locks, curling like a mane. his hands were soft, and suddenly on your waist, and after three more shots his lips were on yours and his name was the only sound in your head and on your lips as you lost it in lily’s college sister’s bedroom beneath the glare of a T-Pain poster. you bled for what seemed like hours, his hand still in yours, kissing on the sofa as truth tellers and dare devils continued to spin a bottle of unprecedented youth. you thought it was love. robbie was the one. he loved you, you knew it, how else could someone be so soft? but soon he grew bored, scrunched up your paper heart and set it alight. then came the tears, the hatred, the ‘fuck robbie, in fact, fuck all boys.’ and that you did.

you were known for being easy. any boy could be yours for a night, as long as he promised to love you for those few short breaths and pants before you cried yourself to sleep. you felt poisoned, but poisonous as well, as if by ensnaring these young boys you were gaining power over them, and not the other way around. soon it started to work. they’d want more, but you’d deny them it, sick of sucking off silly schoolboys, they’d call you a tease, a vixen. maybe you were, but you couldn’t help but want older men. you got the history teacher first time, him bending you over his desk to sneak a hand up your tennis skirt as the after-school clubs carried on next door, unawares. love didn’t exist, not for you. it was nothing but a game for pretty young girls to play, bubble gum in their canines and a hand tugging at the hem of their cheer skirt.

there was so much anger inside of your small body, ‘beware of boys and their hook-like words’. hockey helped. there was something formidable about the feeling of a stick like a weapon in your hands and the thwack it made against thighs in the heat of a scrum - “slipped, sorry!” - you’d utter with a snakeskin smile, millicent quinn knowing that you’d hit her on purpose because she shagged robbie at that party last week. she couldn’t prove it, cobbled acne on her forehead turning green with disgust. ben came into your life like a car crash. two years your senior, with a baseball jacket and shoulders like a god. he became your personal hero. on the pitch, he was lethal. together, you could bring anyone to their ruin. each day after last period he’d be waiting in his car. you’d leap into his arms like a girl-half starved, love me, love me, love me, your heated kisses the envy of every junior girl. he was yours for three blissful years, utterly yours, and you were his, his star-spangled girl, and he was your knight - you were both the same, playing games, always difficult to predict. it was a shock to all when he proposed, high-school sweethearts find love in south dakota.

the engagement was a bittersweet affair; three months – you barely out of your gingham print skirts and into a graduation gown, him, a surly quarterback towering above your sisters, cigarette at his lips and a scowl like a fart in a lift. they hated him. so did you. but you were eighteen and in love, and he fitted the cookie cutter mould. everyone wanted him, and you had him. you had him and you were happy, happy, happy, and he loved you. he said he’d give you the world, anything you wanted hand-picked and given to you. instead, he gave you a jack russell terrier and a flat you couldn’t swing a cat in, wallpaper peeling like the rotten bits inside of you, the bits that only he knew. and you got tireder and tireder of the sad excuse of a life he’d picked out for you, him out doing god knows what to pay the bills, and you dancing on tables to pave your way to stardom, and this was love, this was real, until the shine wore off and your fresh-faced, dimple-cheeked cheerleader facade faded and the ugliness started to reveal itself, the whining, the petulance, the sharp-tempered cruelty, the mind games, the need to always win, win, win. he was dull, he was boring, he was nothing like the boy the girls had said he was and no chiselled six pack could hide his lack of anything remotely interesting, your patience wearing thin until it snapped like rubber, a rucksack on your back, running shoes on your feet and the joint bank account emptied into your eighth grade birthday wallet.

you built your small fortunes working the casinos of sioux falls, a crimson dress and an attitude to match. bookish archie with his little dipper freckles was fun for a month, before he became just as dull and dreary as the rest. a three hour bus and you were in minneapolis, bright eyed and bushy tailed, fresh meat ready for the pickings. a hostel here, a friendly co-worker’s sofa there as you made what you could by taking off your clothes and shaking your ass like you were back in pep squad, doing what you did best. you met your fair share of creeps, and soon it was back on the road to escape a wide-eyed stalker and a restless itch for more. milwaukee, chicago, you made the roads your own. log cabins and lodgings, and the occasional motel, a beaten up pick up truck purchased at a scrap merchants – you got a few miles out of it before it bit the dust, and when you finally set it alight after nights spent lounging across the driver’s seat, a parka tucked over you as a duvet, you were sad to see it go. you’re nomadic by fault, never attaching to place, people or things, creating a new personality in every place you go like a character actress; each town is a different repertory theatre, and you’re the star. a compulsive liar, you even fib about your own name, to some you’re ellen, nineteen, bookish, a law student who likes smoking and cosmos. to someone else you’re rita, you’re twenty five and look young for your age, like smoking, comics and fucking in public places.

in the bright lights of michigan, you found charlie, sweet charlie, too good for you, though you let him spoil you while he thought you were the small town girl of his dreams. next came abigail, who was fun until the jealously kicked in, and then luke, gorgeous luke, dangerous, exciting, who despite his temper, despite the fights, despite bruises down your spine and your teeth marks on his arms, loved you with the strength of a wild fire. there was destruction in your wishbones, a savageness from the field, from the pitch and now somehow in his arms, you were godly. he was cruel, he was careless, and he refused to fall at your feet like so many other boys had, which only you made you want him all the more. you were rage incarnate. you hated him so fiercely you thought you might kill him, so he played the only card you wouldn’t predict; proposed.

the house you shared was a backstreet flat in detroit, you making your name as a downtown singer while he footed the bill with pills. they had a drug for anything these days, to dull the senses, to pick them up, to drive you to insanity or pull you out of the madness hole. the two of you lived like criminals on the run (you never told him that you were, living out your days as the enigma he wanted you to be), you with your voice like caramel and fishnet legs. you were his and his alone until his hand was at your throat and the gun was in your hands screaming at him to stop, stop, stop, until a bullet stoppered his brain, crimson staining linoleum as you cast yourself out like lucifer. self defence was decreed the moment they saw your violet neck, black tears and headlight eyes and mind screaming red, red, red like the pom-poms you shook so willingly in school and the insides of his skull. you were gone, and “you” was born, renamed “greta”, boxed, shipped-out, and next-day delivered to livingstone where under witness protection you were a student, blank slate, fresh-faced in a place where no one knew your name, doing what you always did and starting again.