#consumes ur writings like its a drug

[viaetor]

how it feels waking up and getting hit by the emotional writing powerhouses aka @maquiscursed , @ascendedstar and @abyssin :

[honeytonedhottie]

how to isolate and grow⋆.ೃ࿔*:･💶

quick disclaimer : when i say "isolate" i dont mean the negative connotation of self isolation where you push everyone away, i mean the laying back and rly focusing and tapping into urself BY yourself.

accessibility : limit people's accessibility to you, or narrow down how many people you allow to access you. ur energy is SACRED ur time is a privilege. its important that ur no longer looking for outlets in people.

during this time of stepping back and being super picky with how and who u spend ur time with its the perfect opportunity to separate urself from the toxicity that some people in ur life might bring. in that same breath, its easier said for friends then it is for family members because when u think isolation ur probably thinking of being a home-body which is a part of it. but if ur home is whats making u sick then try and spend time AWAY of the home to do whatever u need to do.

self awareness and responsibility : take a moment and be truly objective with urself. practice having the difficult conversations with urself. u know ur goals, but are u the person that can have those goals? and if not, how can u get to become that person.

this is also the time to address things that you've been sweeping under the rug. address anything thats starting to become a problem and address bigger problems in ur life. we wanna be able to take responsibility for ourselves and PROBLEM SOLVE. be super clear on what u wanna focus on during ur self isolation period and WHY you are choosing to do this.

find a mentor : find someone who resonates with you, whether it be online or in person, who is living the life that YOU wanna live or living a life similar to one that u wanna live. u dont have to have just one mentor, it can be multiple mentors for different aspects of ur life that u wanna improve. ur mentors dont even need to know you honestly, just someone u look up to

detox ur brain : mental diet. mindset is EVERYTHING as you know if you've been consuming my content lately. everything and i mean EVERYTHING begins in the brain. the thoughts that u think today will be what u experience tomorrow. speak to urself nicely, throw away old thoughts that dont align with ur dreams and replace them with positive ones thru repetition, fixed attention and practice

do brain dumps before u go to bed, its good to get out all of the thoughts in ur head before u go to sleep, out of ur brain and onto a piece of paper or something else in general. it doesn't have to be in a negative connotation either, write down ideas that pass thru ur head, goals, inspirations etc.

clean out : anything that u tend to cling to, whether its devices, drugs, drinking etc. practice fasting from it. it doesn't have to be extreme, just taking a break from it REGULARLY will improve it so much. an analogy i like to use for gradual change like this is with a rubber band. if u stretch the rubber band as far as it can go too quickly then it'll break, however if u gradually stretch the rubber band little by little, you can stretch it super far and it won't break.

experimentation : while ur self isolating this is the perfect opportunity to experiment with ur physical. dye ur hair a color that you've always been wanting it to. grow ur hair a couple inches, take extra good care of ur skin, experiment with different clothing styles. become ur own MUSE.

with that being said i wish everyone luck and blessings as you isolate and grow 🫶🏽

[choccy-milky]

1. your fic is absolutely amazing. Have been bingeing it and I’m literally obsessed. The way you write just itches my brain in such a good way, literally cannot contain my love and appreciation for your work👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻 cheers to you!!! Can’t wait to keep reading

2. As I was reading I found out you also deadass drawing the art to go w/ the fic?? Literally you’re living my dream 😭 plus your art is so so so well done!!!!! It’s added so much joy to my reading experience

Cannot wait to see what else you have in store!!’ Hope you have an amazing, AMAZING day, week, year, etc.!!!! 💞🙌🏻🫶🏻

OMG IM GONNA CRY 😭😭 BAHAHA U SENT THIS AT SUCH A CRAZY MOMENT cuz i just checked my ao3 comments and was down about a rude comment i got, and then i come to tumblr and like, a few mins later/literally AS i was venting about it, u send this BAHAHA your choccy senses were tingling. IM SO GLAD U LIKE IT THO AND THAT YOURE ENJOYING IT (and my drawings, even if youve defs seen spoilers by now BAHHA) hope u have a good day too, u defs brightened mine!! THANK UUUU💖💖💖

@kaviary-blog this looks so funny bc i censored u just to keep it (mostly) spoiler free BUT AW THANK U DAMN IM HONOURED THAT MY FANFIC WAS THE ONE TO MAKE YOU CRY?? IM SO HAPPY HOW INVESTED YOU ARE 😭😭💖💖 im also super happy with that chap and its so satisfying like you said to finally be able to tie of all those threads so IM GLAD IT WAS WORTH IT💖

@lovesicklovermia ONE DAY???? OMG. FIRST TWO DAYS NOW ONE?? ITS JUST GETTING SHORTER AND SHORTER. next thing i know someones gonna be like yeah so i took some highly experimental drug that lets me read at 1000% the pace of a normal person, and i finished ur fic in 2 hours 😍omg loved it!!!😍😍 BAHAHAHA but omg i totally see what u mean, they do HAHA. AND THANK U💖💖 IM GLAD UR LIKING IT💖

YEAH so in my fic fifth years are 16, and by the time things get....explicit....clora and seb are 17. im not against consuming media with teenagers depicted in sexual situations like euphoria or riverdale or w.e else bc i get that its fiction and these are just real things that happen so its fine to write about them, but their canonical ages of 15 was still too young for me and i wanted them to be 17 before it got the E rating (which is why clora and sebs birthdays end up being so close, bc i was RUSHING for them to turn 17 BAHAHHAA)

BAHAHA clora and seb secretly being together is like the most poorly kept secret in my fic, like im sure her parents technically KNOW, but due to old fashioned traditions and whatnot (and it being 1891) seb wants to be able to propose properly and with a proper ring, bc clive is intimidating and he doesnt wanna just be like "yeah so im dating your daughter and weve already fucked and i plan to marry her" LOOL he wants to do things properly and be with her with her dads permission(even tho its a bit late for that HAHA) BUT WE CAN JUST PRETEND. tldr its basically just out of some sense of chivalry on sebs side, a fear of her dad, and wanting to do things right LOL

ALSO WAIT OMG STOPPPPP I WAS LITERALLY JUST ABOUT TO POST THIS BUTI HAVE TO INCLUDE THIS NOW

YOU SAW MY POST AND IMMEDIATELY DREW THIS AS A RESPONSE WHILE IN CLASS?? BAHAHAHA IM ACTUALLY SO TOUCHED RN IM TEARING UP WTF THATS SO SWEET OF YOU WTFFFFFFFFF THANK YOU SO MUCH😭😭😭💖💖 (NOW PAY ATTENTION IN CLASS!!🤬🤬)

[ratsnu]

Hey I’m the anon that requested the baseball art and it was actually so funny how you mentioned @winterzz7 ‘s baseball AU because I stumbled upon their art at first and was immediately OBSESSED with the baseball idea. I was like “Omg I NEED more of this”, but unfortunately I couldn’t draw a stick figure to save my life HOWEVER I am a writer so I straight up started writing this whole baseball AU enemies to lovers Jamilton fic which led me to asking artists on here if they’d be willing to draw baseball AU’s (it has me feeling like a pathetic sheep. Hello? Literally begging?? How low I’ve fallen.) because baseball rivals Jamilton have taken over my entire life and I’m hooked on it like a drug.

Honestly I’m so intertwined with them as baseball stars who end up falling in love now that I’ll take any scrap offered. If you enjoyed drawing it, I’d KILL to see more. But if not, I’m still very much in LOVE with your art. I think you might be my favorite artist on tumblr actually.

Anyway, thank you for the beautiful masterpiece. AND you made Jefferson so cunty like?? Take my soul.

:)

this is so unbelievably sweet thank you 🥹🫶

PLEEEEEEASEEEEEEEE drop the link to ur fic in my inbox when u publish it i would absolutely die to read a baseball rivals au

also this is a lil funny because i WISH i could write and create that way because its probs my fav way to consume content and its cool to know that the road goes both ways (except those lucky bastards who have been blessed by the universe to be good at writing and art lol)

here’s jefferson stealing a base from ham for you <333

[respawned-dove]

hi!! could I rq medic with an extremely masochistic reader? =^.^=

getting surgery with no anesthesia and having someone just touch and rearrange and just play with ur organs seems like the most intimate thing ever to me teehee

Medic time, oorah! Please enjoy, I love the chance to write gore.

Medic x gn! Reader, Erotic Surgery

CW/TW: medical horror, blood, organs, unsanitary, surgery, cannibalism, slight dehumanization, general medical talk CW, death mention, graphic descriptions of gore

The operating theatre is dimly lit by just the setting sun outside, and the room smells so soaked through with blood that a leech would turn up its nose. The sterile green and white tile around you is stark in contrast. Your breathing fills your own ears, slightly ragged. The IV in your arm pumps you full of drugs that keep you well awake and aware and the pain is all-consuming, even with the small amount of opiates in your bloodstream. Not that you mind that. Speaking of your IV, Medic pauses to check on it, pulling back from the single deep cut along your chest and stomach to ensure the line is seated deep inside the back of your hand.

He catches your gaze and tuts at you, his lips curling into a smile. "Ouwww, is the pain too much already? Your eyes are so wide." His gloved hand comes towards your eye and holds the lids open for him to gaze in to. "Your pupil too, for that matter." He checks the other one, his top lip protruding outward as he focuses. Your other pupil matches, so he sees no cause for concern, humming with interest. "Tell me, how do you feel?"

"G-good. Bad?" You pull in a breath and stare down at the glistening blood leaking from the wound in you, entranced. "I don't know."

"So much for being a masochist then!" he teases, tugging at your cheek, leaving blood stains in his wake. "Don't be such a baby. We have just started after all."

The blade touches your skin again, along the same lines, deeper now. A moan leaves your lips, pleasure blooming from every blood-soaked line he cuts through you. You can't help squirming underneath him, and his gloves pat your thigh.

"You must be still, mein Tier. I need to have a steady blade!" You squeak as he drags the blade along the underside of your flesh, a noise that quickly turns into a heated groan and blood wells up that he doesn't even bother to wipe away. Medic chuckles as his hand pulls away your layers of skin to expose your guts beneath. If the Medigun was not trained on you, you probably would be in much more pain, and even with the blinding white hot feeling filling your mind, you're tempted to beg him to move it away.

"More..." you beg, voice quiet.

"What was that?" he says, comically holding up a bloody hand to his ear as though trying to amplify your gasping voice. "I can't hear you, you are bleeding too loudly!" You're too lost in sensation to reply to his teasing, so he turns back to your open stomach cavity. "Mmm... so viele Goodies in here!" His hand plunges into the wet, warm innards of your body, his face flushing over top a wide grin of excitement. A loud, choked moan leaves you, your eyes snapping wide open as your body jolts, trying to reject the intrusion. But it can't, and he knows that, and it serves to make him more excited.

Medic's breath is heavy as he grasps your lower intestines, and all but rips through the membrane holding it together, pulling them out like a string of yarn. Bloody, gory yarn. "Holy shit," you cry, the feeling of your body cavity being emptied making you grit your teeth. You look down to him to find him staring down at your guts in his hands, eyes wide as his smile. More of a snarl actually. "Medic-?"

Before you can inquire properly, Medic's teeth sink into the disgusting organ in front of him, uncaring of cleanliness. You cry out, still able to feel it, the blinding sparks that it sends through your body. Fists gripping into your own hands so hard it leaves imprints of your nails, you shudder and slump onto the metal table.

"Sehr lecker..." Medic says, voice small and breathless, eyes wild. He pushes his glasses up and laughs. "Aheh. My apologies! I got carried away." He glances over your flushed face and aroused body, and smirks. "Not that you seem to care. Filthy thing."

That sentence overtakes your brain. Filthy. You are filthy, getting off on this. But the fact that Medic not only doesn't care, but is also into it, only makes the degradation hotter. You are both filthy, disgusting, and you are together.

Medic's hands wander to your liver and kidneys, groping the organs in a way that sends flashes of red across your whole being. Your kidney squishes in his hand, seeping gore around his fingers. The Medigun doesn't stop your body from feeling like it's dying, and as blood and viscera pours out of your crushed organs, you feel closer to death than even a respawn. In the haze of pain and chemicals overwhelming your brain you look down at his face, and only one thought crosses your half present mind. "You look so beautiful like that, doc."

Medic laughs, almost cooing like a dove in the sound of it. "Well thank you! You look very, very nice like this too, Tier." He reaches over and checks your IV again. "Hoo, you are running out of that fast! Your blood just eats up any drug I give you. Well, it may have to do with how much you are losing. Eh, no matter!" He adjusts his glasses again, blood smearing on his nose. "I need to get you new kidneys, aheh, I may have crushed yours too much."

That's the last sentence you properly process, as the drugs in you begin to wear off as they finally fully seep out with your blood, sending you slowly into unconsciousness.

You wake up to Medic tapping your cheeks, drawing you out of the blackness. Your body feels better, though it aches and feels wrong inside of you. Lord only knows what manner of organs are inside of you now, knowing how much Medic likes to experiment. He's saying something that you can't yet hear through the ringing in your ears. "What..?" you say dizzily.

"I said wie geht's, how are you feeling!"

You try to have the brain power to consider it, but you lost a lot of blood. "Tired," is all you can offer. Looking down, your stomach wound is closed up completely, with the help of both stitches and the Medigun. Looking slightly further down, you find one of Medic's birds picking at your stitches. Medic follows your gaze and shoos it away, a nettled scoff leaving him at its audacity.

"Birds," he laughs to you. "Here, komm hier." He holds out a hand to you, a strong arm helping you sit up. You groan in pain as your stomach bends. But it certainly isn't unattractive.

You grin at him with slightly gritted teeth, feeling warmth pooling inside you again as you think about what you just did. You wrap your arms around his shoulders flirtatiously, sighing. "Medic, you have got to hurt me like that more often."

He smiles at you, hands already grabbing at you again. "It would be not only my pleasue to, mein Schatz, but yours too."

[rediscoveringcreativity]

First actual blog. Listing most of my goals with this I guess

I've never had or used a blog before. I don't know what to do with these random existential internal monologues I have. I've never really used tumblr, let alone any other website similar to it. I don't like reddit, 4chan, twitter/X partly because they're a bit too annoying and difficult to use and partly because of the people on there. I'll give this a shot since most of the time I just see people agreeing with reblogs, likes, etc. on this site rather than the cringey condescending responses you'll see on other platforms.

Growing up I recall constantly having words and thoughts buzzing around in my head. Significantly more creative thoughts than what I have going on now. I still think to myself and I'm guessing the word here is 'monologue' to myself about other things but I just remember it being very different when I was younger (middle/high school age). I feel like I didn't 'grow out of it' or something along those lines. It feels more like I killed it. As a matter of fact, only a few years ago I was always consuming political commentary, keeping up with current events, listening to informational/news podcasts and it kept my brain stimulated. But even then, not the same as when I was a kid.

My personal history or whatever you want to call it was very rough growing up. A lot of trauma and being exposed to a lot of evil in the world. I personally don't believe in therapy, medications, recreational drugs, etc. and have tried some of these with no success. I think the only reason I don't off myself is because I am afraid of what's after death. (At this point, venting something like this will get the redditor fedora tippers exclaiming "NOTHING HAPPENS AFTER DEATH" or some other nonsense. - The fact of the matter is, their belief is just as hard to prove as religion. So I don't want to hear your opinion - I am merely stating why I am even alive right now).

Any way, I'm thinking of using this blog to write down my thoughts and monologues because I often forget what I say to myself. My memory is very poor. I've come to learn dementia runs in my family, so, if I ever grow old and if tumblr is still around, I think old dementia-stricken me might remember how to operate a computer and I can look back on all of this stuff.

I use to draw a lot. I was passionate about music. I had an imagination. But I feel nothing now. I am quite empty. I am a very stoic person in my daily life. When I get dragged out to outing by coworkers, they learn to stop inviting me because I am a downer. They nudge me to smile and let loose. I am always uncomfortable in my own skin. I am always empty. I don't necessarily feel sad. I think the fact that I am empty is what causes my sadness.

I don't know who I am and I feel too old to not have an identity, and especially personality. I'm not seeking words of advice, encouragement - those are unwanted. I just want to be able to share my thoughts with strangers and just see if there are others out there who think "same" and tap a like or reblog.

I think if I saw something like "OP ur wrong its ok to not know who you are even if you're 30, 40 or 50" it would annoy me. I'm not looking to hear "it's ok" or looking for any solution. I just want to scream into the void that is the internet. Maybe it'll scream back. And I know I can't expect people not to be critical or try to uplift me, or whatever. But it's just internal thoughts I'm writing out because I can. Thinking ahead or something.

I'm still working on myself and today I felt more moved to make moves towards those. I've accomplished some things but these accomplishments essentially mean nothing because I am still essentially in the same place. I don't know. This post was supposed to outline some goals but it's turned into a vent fest.

Hoping to maybe string together some poems or something too. I've always found poetry interesting but never got into it. I feel like it requires a level of creativity and understanding, or the ability to not understand at that, that I don't and never had.

Well, we'll see. Hi tumblr.

[sonny-d]

as im writing stonerlot im realizing that this is just me explaining why marijuana is not bad and in fact can be very good same as most drugs like that thatve been around for a while bc as long as u take it in the right amount when needed it fucking helps its like mfdooms americas most blunted like i swear that white guy was not lying when he was talking abt grass increasing creativity its fucking good

and another thing is that weed stays in ur system way longer than other drugs bc ur body doesnt fight to get it out like for example ur body will fight to get coke out bc it isnt good it isnt supposed to be there its bad but it lets weed stay bc it isnt bad that it wants to get it out its just like oh thats chill bruv thats cool

its the same as anything else as long as u dont consume too much itll be fine it works the same with fucking water the only reason ppl think all weed is that bad is bc of smoking inhaling too much smoke will be bad no matter what it is but its the smoke thats bad not the marijuana

[l1terally-justawizard]

unskippable cutscene unlocked!!

Ok so the first one I sat down and listened to was Bombarded. Its about 3 bards (who are multiclassed one is a rouge, one is a barbarian, and one is a druid) who just got accepted into a magic music college and their adventures around the world! Every episode they write a song to use music magic to help them get out of stuff! There is a super cute lesbian slow burn side story with the half orc bardbarian and one of the NPC's it's the cutest ting in the world (the dm and the bardbarian yashi are married irl so it's even cuter that they're rping falling in love again) IRL they are all in a band together! So good and the final episode had me almost to tears in my local library!

The second one I started was Not Another DND Podcast (NADDPOD) Its about 3 people with totally differen backgrounds who get into wacky hijinks and save the world multiple times! (terrible summary but its amazing) they have a ton of fun guests on episodes and it's such a fun vibe! Also one of the people on there is a new player so they're teaching him how to play while they do it and it's fun to listen to! After they finished the first campaign they made other ones with the same people but different stories (personally I like the first one the best)

Then I was reccomended Worlds Beyond Number and hoooooolly shit its so beautiful and gorgeous!! I bet critical role is cool but this stuff is fantastic!!! They only have 18 episodes out right now and are updating every other Tuesday! Once again three people who were childhood friends split apart by their duties (hehe doodie) come together once again to fight as hidden evil that threatens the world as they know it!! Featuring my favorite Dm of all time Brennan Lee Mulligan He's so talented at storytelling and its so gorgeous! The worldbuilding alone is so facinating and each of the characters are such interesting complex people!!

Lastly but 100% not least Dungeons and Daddies (not a BDSM podcast)! Its about 4 dads flung into the forgotten realms to save their lost sons! Each of them are a different type of dad! Theres Darryl Wilson the stay at home barbecue sports coach dad, Henry Oak the crunchy hippie Birkenstock rocking nature dad, Glen Close the rock and roll bard dad who consumes copious amounts of drugs, and Ron Stampler the emotionally detached step dad who's really just trying his best! They all have to navigate the new world they're in while trying to better their relationship with their sons (also Daryll's son Grant is gay for a kid with his feet fused to a skateboard)

so those are the podcasts I have listened to/finished in my time listening to podcasts all of these are on Spotify and basically all listening platforms as far as I know! Also all of these podcasts have fanbases here on Tumblr! Enjoy and please do tell me how you like these if you listen to them!

I also have some cool ur channels I like that taught me a lot of things about dnd soo tell me if you ever wanna hear about those! double also I use this blog to do wizardposing which is basically dnd but online! If you ever wanna get into it just make up a character get a sideblog and you’re good!

The desire to get into dnd but also the conflicting short attention span and being horrible at strategy and math and just rules in general(struggles with long instructions)

[sunder-soul]

PROMPT 1: Hellooooooo! First off ur writing goes off, second off listen to this idea that i truly think u can bring to life... reader n tom r in a relationship and someone tried to slip tom to love potion but ofc he doesn't fall for it and his gf is like ??? and then they rub their relationship in her face LOL. anyways no worried just thought this would slap! Admire u n ur work!!

PROMPT 2: hey i love your the last of your rules series and everything else you’ve written. i’m not very creative so idk what exactly i’m looking for plot wise i just trust you since everything you’ve written is good but i was wondering if maybe you could write a tom x ravenclaw reader please. the ravenclaw reader tends to be more emotionally reserved and isn’t big on physical affection and maybe tom finds that interesting in a way? idk this idea might suck but felt like asking anyways...

Decided to combine these two because I could see them working really well together… :D

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Retribution

Summary: After somebody tries to slip Tom a love potion to break up him and Ravenclaw Reader’s relationship, they get a little bit theatrical in response...

Wordcount: 1.8k

Content warning: none.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

“Good morning,” says Tom evenly, lifting a wide-brimmed cup to his lips and taking an even sip as he looks at you.

“Is it?” you say dryly, sitting down opposite him at the Slytherin table and pulling out the new Magical Theory textbook. “Have you looked over this yet?”

“I have,” Tom replies with a very small smile. “Not to your liking?”

“Sophus writes like it’s still the seventeenth century,” you say with a shake of your head, “which isn’t surprising considering I don’t think he included a single reference from the last two hundred years… I mean honestly –” you wave at the title on the front of the book, “– ‘Corpus Magikus?’ Even the title makes it sound ancient.”

“Did you have any criticisms about the actual content per chance?” Tom asks as he lifts his tea again – though it doesn’t quite hide the amused smile on his lips. “Or did you not manage to get past the articulation?”

You give him a look. “The articulation is just as important as the content.”

“I completely disagree,” he replies easily, his cup clinking as he rests it back on its saucer, “regardless of how it is written, his points are extremely sophisticated.”

“I’m not talking about the quality of his points, I’m talking about how well he makes them accessible,” you say at once, picking up a piece of toast and buttering it lightly, “he can have the best criticisms of Magical Theory in the world and no one will care if they can’t understand what he’s saying.”

Tom arches a brow and leans forward on the table, resting on his forearms. “You’re placing the responsibility of understanding an argument on the person presenting it, and not the person receiving it,” he says fluidly, “personally when I find something difficult to understand, I take it as an indicator that I need to return to the topic after better preparing myself.”

“That works fine as an individualistic perspective,” you reply at once, leaning forward to match him, “but a book isn’t written for an individual, is it? It’s written for an audience. A book like this is measured by how wide an audience it can reach, meaning the responsibility is half on him to write accessibly, and half on the audience to go away and fill the holes in our own understanding. That’s when information is dispersed most effectively.”

“Your priority is the dispersion of information as a whole and not the expansion of your personal field of knowledge, and that is the crux of our differing opinion,” Tom says, sitting up straighter and tilting his head calmly.

“I am very aware,” you say dryly, “but you shouldn’t dismiss the importance of charisma when it comes to spreading information. After all, academics aren’t exactly known to be the most charismatic people most of the time, so you end up with intelligent, useful tomes that are utterly incomprehensible to most people –” you nod at the text again, “whilst compelling idiotic drivel is widely consumed.”

The Daily Prophet lands with a thump on your breakfast plate as the delivery owl swoops away with a mournful hoot, and you share a pointed, very wry look with Tom.

Tom breathes a little laugh and laces his fingers around his cup. “So you’re not looking forward to Magical Theory, then.”

“I am,” you amend, frowning, “I just hope the class follows more like Waffling’s work than this.”

“Of course you like Waffling,” Tom smirks, lifting his cup, “he effectively writes in verse –”

Tom suddenly freezes, his brow furrowing lightly. You raise a brow at his sudden reaction. “What?”

He looks down at his tea, still frowning.

“Tom?” you prompt, bemused.

“Someone has attempted to drug me,” he says in complete seriousness, looking up at you.

You stare back, bewildered. “Is… is this more Tom humour?” you ask after a moment, “you seriously need more practice at making jokes, Tom, you really are terrible at it –”

“I’m not joking,” Tom interrupts crisply.

Your scrutiny drops to the cup in his hand. “How can you tell?”

“My tea smells like you.”

Your brows raise. “Excuse me?”

“My tea,” he repeats evenly, his dark eyes coming alight with a flicker of amusement as he leans closer, his cup still in one hand, “rather suddenly smells like you. I can only assume someone has managed to slip Amortentia into my cup sometime during this conversation.”

You blink at him. “Oh,” you say simply.

Tom’s lips curve into a more defined smirk at your expression.

“Well who’s trying to drug you then?” you ask quickly, looking away.

“An excellent question,” he says silkily, eyes still on you. “Their motive is hardly a mystery, so that should narrow it down.”

You roll your eyes and level him with a flat look. “Nothing could narrow it down less, Tom,” you drawl, “half the school is in love with you, and the other half is in denial about being in love with you.”

Tom arches a brow and looks very pleased with himself. “Should I drink it and we can find out?” he asks in amusement, lifting the cup.

You huff a laugh and take a bite of your toast. “Go on then, but don’t expect any sympathy from me when you’re pouring your heart out to some random stranger in front of the whole school a minute from now.”

His hand freezes with the rim of his cup an inch from his mouth, amusement faltering.

“That’s what I thought,” you smirk. “If you want to play it that way you’re going to have to be smarter than that.”

“Oh?” he asks, dark eyes narrowing. “And what would you suggest?”

“If someone drugged you during this conversation then they’re probably watching for your reaction,” you say casually around bites of your toast, “so just look out for someone who’s waiting for you to dramatically break up with me.”

“According to you, that would be the entire school,” Tom mutters, looking significantly more disgruntled than before.

A grin slowly builds on your face. “That was nearly a real joke, Tom,” you say ironically, “Merlin you’ve come so far…”

He shoots you a flat glare and you snicker. “Alright, sorry, I’ll stop – look, if I storm out of here looking upset and you act all conflicted and brooding for the rest of the day, whoever it was will probably try to come talk to you.”

“How theatrical,” Tom deadpans.

You shrug. “Do you want to know who drugged you or not?”

His eyes remain on yours for a moment, and then he lifts the tea to his lips. You watch him pretend to drink, your eyes lingering on the tea glistening on his lips as he lowers the cup.

“Don’t lick your lips,” you say quietly, not quite able to look away.

Tom’s other hand shifts slightly where it’s resting on the table between you, and the tea vanishes both from his lips and the cup. You give him another dry look. “Show off,” you accuse, smiling, “wandless and non-verbal, huh?”

“If you ask nicely, I’ll teach you how to do it,” he smirks.

You huff a laugh and slide Corpus Magikus back into your bag. “I should make my dramatic exit soon,” you say casually, finishing your toast and looking around the hall absently. “Perhaps we should have a fight first.”

“That would make it more convincing, yes,” he says delicately, still looking amused.

“What shall we fight about?"

Tom’s expression immediately cools and he leans in so close that you can see the patterns in his dark irises. “The content doesn’t matter,” he says smoothly, a glimmer in his eyes despite his utterly blank expression, “rather, the articulation.”

You hold his gaze for a second, fighting the urge to smile. You force yourself to stand suddenly, as if he’s said something of great offence. “I’ve never seen you so quickly converted to my opinion, Tom,” you say icily, leaning down to him over the table and hoping it looks like you’re angry.

“You made your argument very convincingly,” Tom says immediately, lifting his chin coolly.

“Actively demonstrating my point, I suppose,” you snap, standing straight. “I’m going to storm out now.”

“I’ll see you in class,” he says dismissively, pouring himself more tea.

You turn on your heel and leave, ignoring the curious eyes following you on your way out and not letting the smile break on your face until you’re well outside the Hall. Now all you have to do is wait.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

“Amelia Staghart,” Tom says in your ear before swiftly sitting down next to you in Potions that afternoon.

You raise a brow at him, watching as he arranges his Potions kit on the desk – Staghart is sitting a few desks behind you at that very moment and can most definitely see the both of you. “Are we no longer having a fight?”

“I grew tired of that pretence rather quickly,” Tom says curtly.

You smirk. “Did she talk to you?”

“Yes.” He looks decidedly irritated.

“A lot, huh.”

He shoots you a glare and you bite back another smile. “Are you going to report her then?” you ask, writing the date out on your parchment.

“No,” Tom says softly. You glance up curiously at his tone and find his dark eyes watching you write, before they flick up to yours. “I can think of a more pertinent retribution for her to endure,” he finishes quietly, not looking away.

“Retribution?” you echo, arching a brow with a slight smile. “And you accuse me of being theatrical.”

But Tom only leans closer and – to general astonishment – places a very gentle kiss on your cheek. His lips linger soft and warm on your skin for a moment as you’re frozen in place, staring at him as he slowly draws away an inch. His eyes roam your face as you blink in surprise, his lips curving into another humorous smile at your expression when there’s a sudden SMASH from behind you.

The entire class turns from where they’ve been staring wide-eyed at Tom’s display of affection to see Staghart’s inkwell knocked asunder on her desk, spreading black ink across the wood and dripping down to the floor, her eyes wide and her expression thunderstruck as she stares at you.

“Clean that up at once, Staghart!” Slughorn says disapprovingly as he strides into the room. “I certainly hope your clumsiness does not extend through today’s lesson – we’re brewing poisons today, class!”

Staghart goes red as the rest of the students titter and chatter, furiously glaring at the pool of ink dripping into her lap. 

You glance at Tom and share a silent look of amusement before the two of you simultaneously turn back to your notes, still smirking.

[todoscript]

𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬

@grow-a-smile-for-a-while​ requested: i request 7 fluff + 10 angst please? With either Bakugou or Shinsou. (With 10 angst being them worried about the readers mental health) Thank you so much love ur writing!!1! 💗💗

anonymous requested: 7 fluff soulmate au for shinsou please!! Love your work 💛

prompt for milestone event: “I think you might be my soulmate.” + “I’m worried about you.” genre: soulmate au. angst with a bit of fluff. pairing: shinsou hitoshi x fem!reader word count: 3.1k+ warnings: implications of mental health issues.

author’s note: I combined the two requests since they both share the same prompt! This is actually my first time writing a soulmate au so I hope it’s alright. Special thank you to my lovely beta readers @tamasoft​ & @etegomanere​!

Throughout his entire life, Shinsou has only ever known the colors white, black, and gray.

They’re colors that prevent him from fully embracing the world as he walks through life each day peering through muddy lenses. Some say beyond the glass that obscures them all lies a realm painted in beautiful hues, teeming with an euphoria of colors outside the monochrome of perpetual black and white.

If such a paradise exists, Shinsou has yet to see or meet anyone that has ever set foot in that world. In fact, he honestly doubts such a thing is real, and has long adapted into his endless days stuck between the grays filtering through his vision.

However, today, he experiences something entirely new.

Today, he sees the color red.

It starts early in the morning, from the very moment he lifts himself up from his bed at the white sunlight trickling into his dorm room. There, with unlidded eyes, he glimpses into a vibrant, spontaneous pigment that lines itself on the outside.

Shinsou blinks twice, squinting, unsure if the grisly stain invading his vision is really there. But after consecutively rubbing his eyes in an attempt to brush it away, he groans when the angry color has yet to leave. The crimson that surrounds him is very much real.

With an average person, they’d be ecstatic, absolutely joyful at the change happening before—no, within their very eyes. What they’re seeing now is only a step forward toward that rumored world of infinite hues—a whole artist’s palette of colors waiting for them. Sadly, that isn’t the case for Shinsou as he realizes he’ll have to go about his day lugging such… severity surrounding him.

The extremity of the hue that covers the corner of his sight reminds him of fires setting ablaze in the thick of a forest. It hurts to look at, hurts to stride through his day with such an intense color following his every move like it’s tormenting him. If this is what the other colors are like, he’d rather keep to his monochromatic existence, please. Just even looking up and darting his head around is enough to give him a headache.

“Whoa, my man Shinsou, you okay?” Shinsou’s classmate, Kaminari, asks him while the upbeat boy takes his seat to his right, noticing the grim expression on his classmate’s face that likely isn’t due to any lack of sleep this time, considering its austerity.

“Yeah… I’m fine,” Shinsou assures, managing to suppress the extra strain leaking out when he turns his head. With the red intensifying at his movements, he wills himself just to look straight ahead for now. That’s all he needs to get through the school day anyway—directing his eyes to the front of the classroom where their homeroom teacher, Aizawa, enters to give them the news for the day. And yet, he can’t help but allow himself drift to your empty desk lying to his left, located one seat down the column from his.

He grumbles. That makes it three days now—three days since you last attended class.

Shinsou knows you haven’t been going to class because you “weren’t feeling well”—the answer you gave him when he approached you last night as you were walking down the hallway to your room.

He knew something was wrong. Your demeanor in that moment felt off, it was strange and unlike you.

You were rubbing your hands up and down your skin, acting like just being in his presence was nerve-wracking, and you never once met his eyes during the conversation. No matter how often he craned his head to see you, you made a point to turn away each time. And much to Shinsou’s concern, he also caught onto the heavy bags afflicted beneath your eyes. You looked like you haven’t had much of an ounce of sleep, despite taking time off from classes to recover. It only seemed that you were only getting worse at that point, and he grew worried every second in front of you.

But before Shinsou could pry further, you hastily ended the exchange with a sputtered good night and retreated back to your dorm room, slamming the door shut as if to reinforce a barrier that would keep him away. The next thing he knew, he headed to sleep, and woke up seeing the color red.

Staring at the vacant desk instills something in him that makes the red glow brighter, consuming more of his grayscale almost angrily. He winces as the throb courses through his head with growing intensity.

“Shinsou, you alright?”

Aizawa directs his concern toward him in the middle of his lecture when he notices Shinsou shrink in his seat at the pain. From the very moment he turns to answer his teacher, the pulses bleeding into his head subside, and the fiery hues return to a tamer tinge.

He answers Aizawa with a small nod, though it isn’t enough to dispel the teacher’s doubt right away. Aizawa, in turn, raises a brow, discreetly gauging his student’s condition. Luckily for Shinsou, it isn’t long until he brushes it off and resumes the lecture, gathering the students’ attention again, aside from the boy on Shinsou’s right.

Kaminari flattens his hand next to his mouth, words coming out in a whisper only audible enough for his friend to hear, “Dude, I don’t think you’re okay… You looked like you were going through some severe migraine when I got into the classroom.”

“I told you, it’s nothing, okay?” Shinsou replies, not diverting his eyes from the front of the room and putting Kaminari’s concern to rest for now as he shrugs in return.

However, his words aren’t enough to impede his headaches from coming back during the day. They grow more potent than ever as the crimson ignites across his vision.

What the hell is going on? Shinsou questions at this point when Midnight, their instructor for today’s hero course, advises him to head to the nurse’s office after he stumbles across the training field one too many times to be healthy for him. Begrudgingly following her order, he lugs himself to Recovery Girl’s office, who advises him to have a seat before she assesses his condition.

“So, you’ve been having headaches, have you?” the old woman asks, voice coming out like sandpaper while she scans across a page on her clipboard. “Tell me, when did they start?”

Shinsou rubs the back of his neck. “Just this morning, when I woke up,” he answers, “and they’ve only been getting worse.” He leans forward on his elbows settled atop his thighs, grumbling under his breath over the mess of his day so far. The red surrounding him swells relentlessly in waves. He narrows his brows tightly at the vermillion adjoining his hands, delving into the crevices of his palms as they pulse like a heartbeat.

Recovery Girl hums between those thin, balmy lips of hers, gloved finger beneath her chin before she decides to hop off her seat and head toward the cabinets.

“Well, this isn’t a wound or physical injury of some sort, so I can’t use my quirk to heal you. However, I can prescribe you a drug used to relieve migraines if that’s fine.”

He nods and Recovery Girl rummages through the shelves and pulls out a transparent container. With her small steps slowly approaching toward him, Shinsou gets up to meet her in the middle, hand held out to retrieve the medicine.

“I also suggest you head back to your dorm for now and rest up. You’re in no condition to train at the moment.”

“Right, thanks,” Shinsou says, burying the container in the pocket of his pants. He gets up from his seat, steps proceeding to the exit of her office. When he makes it to the doorway, a thought finds its way at the forefront of his mind, and he pauses for a minuscule moment.

“Recovery Girl,” he decides to call out, head tilted in the small woman’s direction.

“Yes?”

“Has Y/n been seeing you recently? About her… unwellness?” He words carefully, unsure of how to put your condition to light when he was still kept in the dark from you.

Recovery Girl shows her confusion between the small, wrinkled features on her face. She shakes her head. “No, I haven’t heard or seen much of her recently. Why? Is something wrong?”

Shinsou’s lips purse together, an uneasy feeling creeping on him that the stain on his vision reacts to instantly. He feigns a stoic expression over the backlash not to worry the lady, his right hand clutching over the shape formed on his pocket from the container underneath.

“It’s fine. I’ll check on her when I get back to the dorms,” he tells her, and the old lady simply blinks, her aged, dull senses unaware.

“Very well. Make sure to get your rest and take your painkillers, alright?”

“Yeah, I know.”

With that, Shinsou makes his leave. Unusual to him, however, his steps begin to pick up for some reason at every stride down the hallways of the building. He’s not sure where this urgency is coming from, but he can’t find it within himself to stop moving, and in fact, quickens his pace until he’s making his way back to the Heights Alliance dormitories.

The gray in his eyes is now gone. Red is what consumes his sight, vividly turning every shade around him into crimson. Whatever crosses his path bleeds and quivers in jagged red edges, from wooden floorboards to the sunlight filtering through the windows. He’s not sure what this could mean, but the one thing Shinsou is certain about is that something is wrong. And he needs to go to you.

True to his word, the first thing he does is jab the button on the elevator to the building’s highest floor, walking out after his ascent with eyes aimed at your dorm room. What comes next is three firm knocks against the wood of your door, making a point to let his presence be known on the off chance you can’t hear him.

“Y/n?” he voices, your name echoing in the empty expanse of the hallway on his side, “It’s me, Shinsou. Please open up. I just want to check on you.”

There’s approximately three seconds of pause before Shinsou leans into the door, ear pressing against it to catch any sign of movements on the other side. He hears a rustle or two until it’s replaced by the padding of feet on the floor. Standing back, he prepares for the door to open as the golden doorknob rattles into a turn.

“Shinsou,” you greet quietly with the entrance’s slow swing, where he sees you peer at him from a crack between the door. Your tired eyes find him, and he immediately notes the bagginess still persisting underneath. They give his own dark eye bags a run for their money.

Though his edginess remains, the red dissipates back into grays, blacks, and whites. His head is now absent of those headaches that plagued him as he gazes through those muddy, monochromatic lenses again.

“What are you doing here? Isn’t class going on right now?”

“It is, but I was sent back,” Shinsou tells you, eyes never leaving yours as he observes you attentively. “wasn’t feeling well.”

You cross your arms on your chest, looking down while you squeeze a bit of your skin to busy your hands. There’s a significant silence between you two that Shinsou wishes didn’t drag on for so long. Before he can come up with anything to resolve the tension, you’re already a step ahead, beating him in breaking the silence.

“Well… if that’s all then I’m going to head back to my room,” you say. Your hand clutches the doorknob to pull it back in, but Shinsou’s quick to act.

“No, wait—!”

He braces his foot between the gap just in time to stop the door’s movement, the hinges creaking due to the sudden halt. Staring at him, you’re dazed by his actions as he pries the crack open further.

“Y/n, I know there’s something wrong,” he states, hoping his usual keen intuition is enough for you not question this. He doubts you’d believe him if he ever told you the very color red led him to this moment.

You deny his claims, fingers firm on the knob. “I told you yesterday that it was nothing.”

“No. You’re not alright, Y/n.” His calloused hands cup your face, tilting up to guide you to his eyes—eyes that appear just as gray to you as they are to him. You stare into them, unable to reply at how unyielding he is toward your condition.

Despite the homologous grayscale of colors, Shinsou can see it all. He sees the stress carried in your eyes, down to the tension in your face that tires from feigning smiles every day. He knows you’re hurting just keeping up the withering cracks of your fortitude. Yet you can’t stop yourself from picking up your porcelain again, trying to mend them with the cruddy glue that is your mentality. If you continue this, you’d surely fall apart into too many pieces to put back together.

“Please, talk to me. I’m worried about you.”

You have no idea how much those words have an effect on you. Not until you’re suddenly weeping in front of him, tears spilling down your eyes as your throat begins to sunder into sobs. All he can do is offer you the solace of his warm embrace as he tugs your arm so your form is drawn into his body. He feels the tears prickle into his shirt, wetness seeping into his skin, but he doesn’t care. Shinsou holds you in his arms and pats against your hair gently, treating you like you are delicate earthenware bound to break as you tremble.

“I-I’m just s-so tired, and stressed, and I-I don’t know w-what to do s-s-sometimes,” you sob between words, voice muffled into his chest. Shinsou hushes you softly, unwavering in warmth.

“It’s okay. I know. You can let it all out, I’m here for you,” he assures firmly. The two of you stay there in that position for some time, your cries isolated in the empty expanse of the hallway with the dormitory vacant except for yourselves. When they begin to die down, Shinsou perceives his vision changing again.

This time, what greets him is a muted blue. The shade is not far off from the steely grays he’s accustomed to, but distinguishable enough for him to notice the change. It’s a sad color that reminds him of tears and lonely clouds.

Shinsou glimpses down at you, your body finally still against him, yet he can tell your aches are far from healed.

You sniffle, backing away when you realize you’re still nuzzled into his chest, now stained with damp patches on his white button-up. He gives you your space, smoothing the strands of your hair one last time before he parts. Though he makes an effort to hold your hand as your other rubs the hot wetness away from your puffy eyes.

“You… alright?” he asks, lightly squeezing your fingertips. You don’t give him much, just a slow, descending nod that is enough for him to continue gingerly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Your initial hesitance almost makes him retract his question, afraid that he may have poked further than was comfortable, but you mitigate that thought with another nod, allowing him inside your dorm room.

When your door clicks to a close, you lean against it and watch as the taller boy stands aimlessly in the middle of the room.

“Shinsou?” you call, and he perks up.

“Yeah?”

“How did you know... what was going on?” you ask, voice drawing out across your room quietly.

For once, Shinsou doesn’t have an answer. He stands there, silent, unable to approach your question with a clear response. But there’s a lingering voice in his head telling him that he knows what led him to you deep down.

The colors.

He realizes the red enveloping his vision this entire time was connected to you. From waking up, glimpsing at your desk, to mentioning any thought of you, the color only ever intensified. And it calmed down at the very moment you opened your door, turning blue from your sadness washing in waves before him.

Shinsou draws in a breath of air. He’s not sure how to relay this notion in any other way than the words that cross his mind.

I think you might be my soulmate.

His heart suddenly flutters at the mere inkling of the words spoken in his head. It sounds almost far-fetched, reminding him of romantic fairy tales narrated in storybooks. Still, he can’t conjure any other resolution than this—can’t find any explanation for these connections of colors that bind your consciousness to him.

A small, inner part in him desires to blurt this out to you, let it be known of the fate stringing your pinkies together through the pigments painted on his canvas. But staring back into your swollen, tired eyes, he knows he can’t do that right now. What you need is for him to be by your side and help you recollect your thoughts. Learning about the possibility that you’re his soulmate is likely the last thing you want to hear in your condition.

He shakes his head, brows knitting together. “I’m not entirely sure about it myself,” he starts warily, coming closer to reach out for your hand again, “but all I know is that whatever happened led me here to you. Told me when you were at your weakest.” Shinsou twines your fingers together, lightly pulling you away from the door and toward the middle of the room. “And that was enough for me to come.”

When the comforting words depart his mouth, he swears that in an infinitesimal moment, those grays of his canvas spatter with droplets of color as he gazes down at you with only compassion in his eyes. That his black and white world transforms into that rumored paradise of beautiful hues for just a second until in the next blink, they’re gone.

He doesn’t know what to make of it, but it’s sufficient for him that whenever he glimmers into your eyes, colors are lying in wake underneath the monochrome. So he clutches your hand in his, allowing you to spill your thoughts out to relieve them off your shoulders as he hopes that one day, you and him can walk in tandem together into the color.

[prettyboykatsuki]

the draken fic is making me want to pick up again the manga

WHAT DRUG DO YOU PUT IN THE FICS I AM SO HOOKED ON THEM, SO WELL WRITTEN I CONSUMED THAT 11k LIKE IT WAS MY LAST FULL COURSE MEAL

i am not gonna lie i think this manga is genuinely SO fucking good but if you read past 150 and STILL don't like it then it's probably not ur thing but for me it hit top 10 like RIGHT away. izana alone was enough for that LMAO

THIS IS SO SWEET.. FDKJKL no drugs just pure and utter brainrot and the need to make characters like. thick with characterization. there r so many people i want to write for in Tr its ridiculous get me out of here

[thelastyetfabolousmidwestmadman]

Dark Side Of The Rising Sun Part 1

Yo what’s up!

After the success of my previous post, I’ve decided to bring a follow up where I talk about the many dysfunctions and issues facing Japan that I’ve learned in my research. Detective Conan often shows the criminal justice system of Japan in a positive light while in reality it has many issues due to the culture.

Now let me make this clear: Japan has many great things about itself that should never be ignored. However, these are real flaws that have or need to be addressed with many Japanese also recognizing them as problems.

Now I had to split this into parts as this is rather ungainly to put it all at once. If you have any questions please ask and I’ll do my best to answer them.

 Suicide

Japan has one of the highest suicide rates in the world with about 15.2 deaths per 100,000 people.

This is due to many factors such as Suicide not being considered a sin as well as historical connotations of it being a honorable way to go.

It is also considered a act of revenge, apology, and protest.

It is mostly caused today by factors such as unemployment, alienation and intense social pressure.

Japanese society is overall tolerant of Suicide but this is changing in recent times.

Another factor is the need for acceptance over individuality.

People with mental illness are often discriminated against, stopping potential help.

Internet Suicide Clubs where anonymous people make/plan suicide pacts and commit group suicide are a major issue.

If you kill yourself via Shinkansen, your family will be fined heavily. It is also the cause of half of the train delays and referred to as a human incident.

Tall buildings have mandatory suicide fences to prevent people from jumping off. When they succeed, they take off their shoes before hand.

It is common for suicidal people to take insurance policies and wait a year or two to go through with it so their families would be okay.

Ikka Shinju or family suicides are when the entire family kills themselves together due to Asian views of the family. When the parents kill their children before themselves, this is called Muri-Shinju or murder suicides.

Oyaku Shinju or parent-child suicide are where a single parent kill their children along with themselves.

Drownings, overdoses, hangings, and jumping off places are the most common form of suicide.

Judiciary

Traditionally, the judge is hated more then the lawyer is in the west as the Judge is often viewed as a symbol of the Japanese nobility judging the common man.

If you are sent to trial, you are certain to be convicted regardless of innocence due to the countries 99% conviction rate. (Really makes Eri’s work more awesome and badass doesn’t it?)

The Japanese supreme court is one of the most conservative in the world, rarely ruling against issues that are blatantly unconstitutional and anti human rights. As a result, one of the more positive proposals for amendments of the Constitution is the creation of a separate Constitutional Court.

If you are sent to death row, you will never be told in advance when you are going to die.

Culturally, once arrested the person is automatically considered guilty.

Police are often reluctant to overturn convictions as they insist that only guilty are arrested and convicted.

The law when a child is considered criminally responsible is 14.

Judges are often pressured into making convictions as their careers are negatively affected by a not guilty verdict.

Prosecutors are given the choice not to pursue a case regardless of sufficient evidence.

Prisoners in Japan, while somewhat treated better then much of the world due to it’s focus on rehabilitation instead of punishment, have to follow strict military style regulations from minor things such as being forced to fold the bed, or to wash your face to more draconian measures such being beaten if you don’t march or sit the wrong way.

In turn, many have inadequate access to medical care as they don’t have many options for their healthcare.

It can take months or years before you are tried, meaning that a right to a speedy trial is completely nonexistent.

“Periods of reflection” where inmates are forced to be handcuffed, gagged and placed in solitary, are often not recorded by the warden.

Foreigners are forced to speak and write in Japanese.

Drug Use

It is considered vastly socially unacceptable to do narcotics in Japan.

Most drug addicts are even considered to be not human.

If a celebrity is caught doing drugs, his career is automatically fucked and he is blacklisted from the industry, as well as erased from current projects.

The most commonly sold drug is methamphetamine. This started after World War II due to Meth being legal for soldiers to consume in order to stay up late on petrol as well as from occupying Americans. After the was, it became a huge epidemic for 12 years.

Marijuana use has risen among youth. Despite it having little danger as well as medicinal uses, it is widely considered evil, with the law having no tolerance.

Overall, Japan has little drug use compared to the rest of the world due to the cultural taboo and strict laws. However, there are signs that it is being vastly under counted,

Most illicit drugs are imported from Taiwan and South Korea due to it being near impossible to grow it natively but it is becoming increasingly hard to do so.

Drugs overdoses are criminally under diagnosed.

Epidemics often occur due to low periods of economic growth and recessions. (Examples include the postwar period, the 70′s, and the Lost Decade after the Bubble Economy burst in 1989)

It is common for your family or doctor to call the police once you admit there is a problem. Then you are forced to take a urine sample and if it tests positive you are immediately arrested.

A lot of doctors open pharmacies to add to their income. As a result, many oversubscribe prescription drugs.

Hypocritically, Alcoholism is completely tolerated and not treated as a addiction due to alcohol being considering purifying in Shinto, a cure, and Japan having a intense drinking culture.

Child Abuse

For the most part, physical child abuse is considered a private issue and often ignored. While things are slowly getting better, Japan still has a long way to go. (Imagine if Kogoro did what he did to Conan in the west. Child services would be on him like a fly swatter.)

Child services often return the children to their parents even if they say their abusing them as the counseling centers need the parents to admit to their abuse.

It is a complete myth that Japan’s age of consent is 13. That is only the lowest one could set it. Most prefectures are set at 16 or higher. In turn, child molestation of those under 12 is heavily punished. However while vaginal rape of children is illegal, basically just about everything else as long as it’s statutory is basically alright.

Enjo Kosai or compensated dating is the practice of Teenage Girls to go on dates with older men in exchange for money and gifts. While not necessarily always leading to prostitution is treated as such and the girls are often blamed if they are hurt in the process.

Child sex trafficking of migrants is a serious issue and they are often treated as criminals and sent home without counseling.

Adoption of children is rare and frowned upon so many of them have to gro up in centers.

Children of unmarried couples are discriminated against due to the violation of the traditional Ie system and do not have the same protections or privileges of married couples because of its Koseki system.

Men are not obligated to pay child support and it’s near impossible to get them to legally as they can simply hide their finances by not telling them. Plus only one person can be named on the custody sheet.

Child Pornography was effectively decriminalized until 2014. No seriously.

Sexual Harassment/Assault

Domestic violence victims are disabused from coming forward due to the idea of bringing shame to their family.

Stalking cases are rarely taken seriously by the police

OH THERE”S WAY MORE BUT THIS LIST IS DARK ENOUGH SO LET”S SAVE THIS FOR A LATER DATE.

Working Conditions

Idols are heavily exploited and forced to follow strict rules such as having no social life, banned from having a boyfriend, etc. This is because they are supposed to sell a image of innocence and be there exclusively for their fans.

Anime creators are often forced to work long hours with little pay. This has resulted in a slump in the industry with very few new hires so they are forced to rely on the older animators whose health may fail sooner rather then later.

Funds are rarely given to films with artistic intent or that are political in nature, resulting the film industry suffering compared to the more internationally regarded South Korea.

Police Corruption

Until recently, Japanese police would work with organized crime to lower crime. The only reason they stopped was not out of concern for the everyday citizen but because they were embarrassed by the Yakuza when they began to show up more publically.

The media is often laughably compliant to the police, with they rarely offering a critical lens.

Police have undue influence on the Pachiko industry, with many retired officers being hired as muscle and for advice.

It is quite common for officers to embezzle from their slush funds.

In a effort to cover up crime, police often refuse to investigate mysterious or suspicious deaths, preferring to label them as accidents or suicide.

Police are often anti migrant and sexist to a fault.

It is neigh impossible to get a wiretap going due to rigid privacy laws.

Even the police can’t fire weapons as you need approval to even loose your gun so many officers have never fired a bullet.

Government Incompetence/Corruption

Voter Apathy is super high, with many elections having hilariously low turnout.

Many politicians have Yakuza connections, with the gang members serving as bodyguards and canvassing for votes.

Votes in the countryside are worth two compared to urban ones.

A lot of politicians are completely out of touch and constantly have to resign for gaffes (racism, sexism, historical revisionism, etc.)

Political acts are based on group consensus so it can take a long time to get meaningful reform done.

Criticism and debate is ironically frowned upon, with open criticism within a party being effectively banned.

Cronyism is common. While for the most part Japanese politics is based on expertise, many politicians are awarded ministries based on their support for the leader.

The NHK (Japanese version of the BBC) is largely neutral and free but the current Japanese government can dictate what it is to focus on temporarily.

Press Clubs are often given exclusive access to interviews and information from the government, so they get biased preferential treatment.

Okay I guess the point of this list is to bring attention to these issues and expand the opportunities of where to go when it comes to dark DC fanfiction. Don’t worry, here’s a cute Conan to make you smile!

[citialiin]

FIVE SONGS

list five songs associated with your muse and its meaning to them as a character, or to you as the writer. this can be applied in-character or out-of-character. it can go as deep as looking at the song’s real-world origins or meaning along with the themes it carries to the muses’ story, values, or experiences, or as simple as if your muse would listen to this kind of music, or even if you just listen to these pieces for inspiration.

TAGGED BY: @dansiere​​, who did such a good detailed job they even included an “honorable mentions list” ? i am embarrassed to type mine out now TAGGING: @blossomingbeelzebug​​ @zhrets​​ @dirtyfilthysunshine​​ @prcphesise​​ @hyakiru​ @foxcharmed​

01. kaun komsott - ros sereysothea

this song actually lyrically has absolutely nothing to do with ziggy !!!!  kaun komsott /  កូនកំសត់ actually just means “poor/pitiful child” it’s just a khmer dub of a song from a taiwanese movie lol but i feel like this is the kind of music he would listen to that made him fall in love with, like ... humanity, as dumb as that sounds. it’s time period appropriate (late 60s/early to mid 70s), the song is really good and it’s SO emotional.  i could see him sitting in the apartment of his bandmates after being “found” and they teach him how to use the record player and he sits there going through each and every record they have and listening to this and its like the fucking scene in ratatootie where the goddamn rat can visualize tastes as colors but he would be so enamored with the song he would see it in colors or something i dunno.  something has definitely fucking happened to my brain because ever since nat and alex and i rewatched ratatootie we keep referencing it for our characters. anyways i ended up using an instrumental of kaun komsott in the final film i made as the song that plays during the end.  so this song just also means a lot to me because it’s part of how i made this character and the film/story i animated to go along with him, i am sure you are all absolutely sick of hearing me talk about it <3  

02. who can i be now - daveed booweyywywy now you found me, now can I be real?  can I be real? if it’s all a vast creation / putting on a face that’s new someone has to see / a role for him and me someone might as well be you

one of z’s most obvious character motifs is figuring out self identity through adopting different guises.  he markets himself as being so overly confident and almost arrogantly certain of himself -- rock god space idol whatever -- as his own way of learning who he thinks he might be underneath it all.  i think at first it started off a little innocuous, a ‘ fake it till u make it ’ thing at the least and maybe more obviously a ‘ im not a human so i have to pretend to be someone else ’ deal, but over time it became almost all consuming and just obliterated all his previously held sense of self in favor of some weirdly demented version of who he wanted to be.  683 starts off with the same core personality traits as ziggy: maybe he’s a little vain, a little selfish, but he’s very interested in creativity/self-expression and he wants to be thought of as a unique individual and appreciated for his differences.  but the difference is that 683 isnt an arrogant asshole who has no regard for other people in the slightest.  so yeah ... who can u be now ... is it worth it to adopt a different guise or should he go through the effort of figuring out what parts of his personality were corroded by human influence and what parts are genuinely him?  my big endgame thoughts for his story would be that he eventually just decides to retire from the public eye and fucks off entirely.  this would be over the course of a long long long time -- maybe he has a good 20 yr run in the industry -- but there are some things about him he has to deal with (mental health issues, drug addiction, also the fact that you’re a freaky alien creature who doesnt age like a human so you’re physically like 46 and you still look like you’re 25?) so he inevitably decides he doesnt need the horrible pressure of fame and he ought to just live his life for himself.  i think this would be a nice final song for him to sing/perform -- then he goes into the dressing room and cuts his hair and just vanishes. bye.

03. sunny afternoon - the kinks Help me, help me, help me sail away Well give me two good reasons why I oughta stay 'Cause I love to live so pleasantly Live this life of luxury Lazing on a sunny afternoon

1. i think this would sound A LITTLE like the kind of music he would write/play albeit i feel like his would be more exciting and have more samplings of like laser noises or pewpewpew or weird spaceship sounds BUT.  its also pretty time period appropriate.  even in “modern” verses ziggy is inexplicably obsessed with the 1970s, he likes bell bottoms and thinks groovy patterns are neat and he owns too many lava lamps.  anywayz. 2. just the general idea of feeling unfulfilled with luxury -- even if ziggy enjoys his fame and wealth and the absolutely insane amount of pussy/dick he gets at some level he is still cognizantly aware of how weirdly empty he feels.  he ditched atomina and came here because he felt unfulfilled and bored and unwanted.  now he feels wanted (clearly, everyone loves him) and he feels entertained (earth is So Good at fun distractions) but his fulfillment still isnt quite there.  he’s getting there -- but in exchange of being able to live this life of fame, he’s had to kind of change everything about himself and live this almost caricature version of himself, and he knows he cant keep it up forever.  the luxury will run out one day and he’ll be a washup and no one cares about celebrities once they stop being hip.  it is literally only a matter of time before ziggy has to find out who he is because no one can be a “rockstar” forever.

04. i hate jimmy page - mindless self indulgence SUCKAS CAN REACH OUT TOUCH ME EAT ME BITE DA FUTURE & FUCK DA PAST  I'm lower than most animals and fear what might be weird and all those voices in my head have every right to be there i ain't a girl just cause i rock the boat i ain't a boy just cause i rock your world

i mean he does hate jimmy page but that’s beside the point. its just a good song about being a crazy rockstar and has the same Craziness that i feel like accompanies his character ... just go listen to it you will understand. there is nothing to explain here.  even the lyric “ill show u how official midgets jack me off” like just accept it. it’s whatever  but yeah i aint a girl i aint a boy ... i guess his gender (or lack thereof) never really comes up in rp but its still an important part of his character.  if any of u guys ever call him a man in prose again ill kick ur ass.  gender is like an accessory to him and he just takes whatever aspects of masculinity/femininity he prefers and discards everything else.  to him he’s just as much a “man” or a “woman” as he is a “human” which is to say he isnt, at all, and he just pretends to be because he feels obligated to.  also ziggy’s brain kind of sounds like this...just Noises.  his brain sounds like a microwave that’s been going off for 26 years.  i think his brain is a single uncooked pinto bean rolled in glitter that’s been left in a box with a cobweb

05. ghostride - crumb daydreaming I stay in the backseat / the slow beat rocks me back to sleep keeps me on automatic  press my face up close against the glass i see the people when they pass they move so automatic you wake up when I go down / the radio reminds me I'm alive we've been hearing it all night

i care more about 683 on atomina than i do about ziggy on earth sometimes (BUT I CARE THEM BOTH. DO U?) so ... 683 feeling aimless and drifting but trying to find purpose through passion, a person, some sort of concrete meaning -- going through the motions of life makes him feel empty he spends almost every day going through the same toil while feeling guilty or like a burden and also feeling like he’s ultimately nothing more than a replaceable cog in a machine. his species had a near extinction = bottleneck which made them so genetically similar they’re almost clones of each other.  no one ever seems to do anything wrong except him, he finds no joy or fulfillment in anything at all.  all he ever wanted (which isnt a selfish desire at all) was to feel purpose, or feel wanted, or appreciated. inevitably he leaves because of his own imagination -- he yearns for something More, and he doesn’t know What, so he figured he ought to at least Try instead of waste his life away. also atomina is supposed to sound like “automatic.”  do NOT make fun of my bad scifi.  i am trying to mimic the way 1970s scifi is endearingly cheesy.  come here.  i just want to touch you with this knife.  gently tho it wont go inside of you. bro you are bleeding. bro we are bleeding and i keep putting the knife in your soft parts.

[gotatext]

 hello, its nora (she/her, gmt) n this is the ethereal but spoiled alma olive putnam (she goes by all 3 names cos she’s pretentious as fuck). raised in a farmhouse in vermont, big horse girl energy. very hungry for everything life has to offer. wakes up and smells the success in her blood. luvs the smell of libraries and listening to french music from a tinny record player in knee socks. here is pinterest. bio is below the cut, like this post to be bombarded with plotting messages but i might forget tho so pls message me x

application template.

『ELLE FANNING ❙ CIS-FEMALE』 ⟿ looks like ALMA OLIVE PUTNAM is here for HER JUNIOR year as a CLASSICS student. SHE is 21 years old & known to be RESILIENT, MAGNETIC, CALLOUS & PROUD. They’re living in PERKINS, so if you’re there, watch out for them. ⬳ NORA. 24. GMT. SHE/HER.

aesthetics.

a red beret nestled on top of bright platimum locks, neck scarves tied around your throat the way they do it in french new wave films, running barefoot through the woods in feckless hedonism, china dolls with porcelain faces lined against the walls of your room, the mona lisa smile, knee-socks tugged over the hockey grazes on your knees, a forged botticelli drying on your easel, ophelia floating in the middle of a lake. 

proceed w caution, tw for death, drugs, alcohol, violence

the short form.

— studying classics cos she thinks it makes her sound smart, but actually hates fuckin latin and just loves learning about feckless hedonism and the festivals of bacchus and writing about how all women in myth are literally forgotten. was expelled from princeton in her first year so her parents basically paid her way into radcliffe but she made an impression.... like... super fast and in her sophomore year she was upgraded to perkins accomodation n a paid scholarship bcos i think the governors kind of expect to see her in the supreme court one day or.

—  born in vermont in a big old farmhouse. her great-great-grandfather moved to america as an immigrant and worked on a plantation, made his way up cos he could speak a lot of languages and therefore win more people over. for the last two generations, putnam men have owned the farm and do little of the dirty work. big in the meat industry.

— both her parents had large personalities, so alma’s never really been shy around adults, even as a kid she’d speak to them in a forthright, confident manner, and because she was always surrounded by adults, she’s always seemed a bit wise beyond her years.

— very much a consolidation of every character in the secret history. has a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs. obsessed with w.h. auden and the beat poets. — ”aestheticism is the only thing worth pursuing and even that is pointless” — is majoring in classical civilisation. can read ancient greek and latin. also speaks french.

— studies hard and plays hard. she gets top marks but it’s because academia is literally her life, she loves the smell of libraries, the ancient smoke of learning, of feeling like old wine in a new bottle reincarnated from the bones of some old, dead witchy woman who invented a cure for cowpox or somethin.

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

— pretentious motherfucker. loves poetry, especially the romantics, loves morbid ones too, edgar allen poe, sylvia plath, allen ginsberg, she just loves them all. can’t get enough. her favourite films are like…. wanky artfilm independent european cinema. especially french new wave. “what do you think of goddard’s work??” while snorting a line off someone’s sink at 5am on a school night, but you can bet she’ll make it to that 9am class. — very intelligent and beautiful and knows both of those facts. plays devil’s advocate. humanitarian, vegan. — judgemental but takes great care not to appear so. petty and vindictive

— obsessively devours mystery and thriller novels. she herself is a gillian flynn book waiting to happen. — tries to be an enigma. wants to be mysterious and unreadable because that’s what books have taught her makes women desirable and interesting and cool. very amy dunne in the way she expertly reinvents herself to suit her audience, when she wants to impress

— act like the flower but be the serpent under it. is a user. manipulative. leads people on. will throw another student under the bus to demonstrate her own intelligence and integrity — heavily involved in the theatre society. loves attention. — 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, runs track, played lacrosse at school, now is a cheerleader probably. 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.

— 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. — relates to ophelia from hamlet and sibyl vane in dorian gray. weirdly obsessed with women who commit suicide. loves jackson pollock paintings and abstract art. – 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 gramophone because “the sound quality is better” kfdsjj.

plots.

here are some generic wanted plots but by all means message me so we can flesh them out more if any strike ur interest:

study buddies !! someone who is equally unprepared and so spends all night in the library with alma before a big deadline, maybe they even met in the library

if they’re from new england or vermont, then cousins . second cousins / extended family / family friends –  probably spat volavons on your character once as children, omg childhood friends !

people who live in perkins n feel like they r constantly competing with one another to keep their place as one of the #elite only know each other from brief interactions in the lift or the canteen

honestly someone who is fully in love with her or crushing on her that she can just break would be sweet :/ or on the other hand someone she unexpectedly gets feelings for and actually wants to guage her own  eyeballs out bc of it

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sporting or academic rivalries !

hockey / cheer friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!!

fellow academics who like meeting up to discuss latin and greek ! gimme a secret society bonding by their love of ancient learning

i reckon she’s in a lot of societies, definitely the film club, maybe works as a projectionist at the uni cinema if they have one so give me ppl affiliated with that, give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties

people who think she is throwing her academic potential away by caving to hedonistic impulse

A SECRET SOCIETY !!! honestly i would die for a slug club esque thing in which the children of notable families are invited to dinners OR alma’s also an art forger, so maybe like a club of students set up to basically forge paintings and documents from the university special collections

people she has drunkenly made out with, hooked up with, or regularly sleeps with casually, maybe even a friend w benefits she is repressing feelings for, i love angst,

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life, she is a roman catholic after all

full biography.

alma olive putnam.

intro.

         the girl is a knife. razor-sharp, double-edged, the bright shine of a two-faced, lovely thing. silver like the secrets you magpie thief from other heads. you’re a scavenger of knowledge, of tidbits, of gossip to lock away for later use and late-night re-inspection. a mind is like a clock if you get to learn the pieces. bit by bit, you dismantle the inner workings of the brains that tick around you – how easy it is to change it’s path, how words and their meanings can make a person laugh or cry in an instant. to have the power to control that is to be a god. it’s the power trip you crave wielding pom-poms in your hands; a possessive need for control that a younger you, small and weak, never had as a child. small lips, smaller smile, a doll clutched in your too-hungry fingers, hard enough to shatter the bones of a real infant. you cut your hair with your mother’s kitchen scissors before the autumn falls, rendering you out of season, unfit for the cold weather that beats against the nape of your neck, where a stick-and-poke marks the star you were born under ; the bull. “mama, when will i be a queen?” as soon as they find a crown small enough not to slip from your head.

biography.

         if you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart. hands red, stained by pomegranate seeds, the empty pulp of its shell splattered on your thighs you find yourself wondering – what would it be like to want? in the beginning, you never knew hunger. twins, born under the same star, you first, him second – a nuclear family. never a sister to compete with, you were always the cherry pie of your parents’ hearts. white-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful baby of mine. the townhouse in vermont and the summer house in lyon, you wanted for nought, showered with attention, saddled with gifts - hardly a wonder you came to rely on such affection as a confirmation of your own worth.

         at eight years old you first met death, blood on a gingham-print dress, a smear of it over your cheekbone and the pulp of a mangled animal at your feet murdered by the hands of a stable boy. “alma, my precious baby, you get away from that filth,” your mama would cry from the upstairs balcony – cigar in one hand and a bloody mary in the other – though whether the filth she referred to was the dead pig or the boy with a kernel of corn in his mouth, you never did find out.

         your family earned their keeps in farming, great-grandfather wolfgang hildegarde a german immigrant, great-grandmother maura lisbon a prairie girl. they fell hopelessly in love between troughs and pig-shit, working for three dollars a day at a farm their descendants would later own, trade deals with the indians, vacations to calcutta, your father todd putnam in the kind of sheepskin coat his father’s father could only dream of owning. he worked hard so that you’d never have to. your mama once asked – you heard it through the window, rounding cartwheels across the picket-fenced lawn – could he not find a respectable career rather than selling shrink-wrapped pork for a dime a dozen? that blood money had no business raising a child. you look far back enough, edie, your father had said in his low, strong voice that could bring a civil war to silence, and i think you’ll find that all money is blood money.

         language was never fickle on your tongue, french dinner time talk by the time you were out of your hush puppy shoes, your mama fixing the au pair a smile as she fixed herself another martini. you learned the clarinet at four and how to dance with the grace of a swansong at six, ethereal under a spotlight, an audience captive in the palm of your hand. by eight you knew that you’d always been destined to be loved. loved so hard they would want to taste you, bite into the soft plump of your cheek and eat you alive. that was how magnetic you wanted to feel. but mother hamsters eat their own young when penned in together too long, and soon you became too wild, too restless, another package on your father’s delivery invoice, box-shipped out to english boarding school.

         fitting in had never been something you had to concern yourself with. you were always the shiny new toy the other girls wanted to play with, bright like a dropped coin from a magpie’s beak. wherever you went, you seemed to leave a trail of awe, pig-tailed harriet’s adoring you, imitating you, teachers forgiving your class-time chatter for the sake of your wild heart and the restless spirit you possessed. tell us what it’s like in the states, alma. they’d coo, enamoured by your hollywood drawl. does your father own a gun? you hardly knew. barely even knew the colour of his hair, for the scarce amount of times he’d stoop to kiss your cheek, though you’d tell silver-tongued tales if it’d guaranteed you an audience. when you learned how to smile at the right times, and that flattery would get you everywhere, it soon became apparent that charm would pave the yellow brick road to success even when your lack of drive couldn’t.

         the road you followed – gum-snapping, roller-blading, friendship bands all up your arm – eventually led you to radcliffe. bright-eyed and gingham skirted, you’d always known you were more. there was a hunger in you to be something extraordinary, a want so adamant to be imagined and desired that it was almost savage. in leather-bound volumes and a circle of stones, you were helen of troy, the girl for whom they’d launch a thousand ships. but there’s so much rage within you, collecting like sawdust in cavernous parts. hockey helped. there was something grounding about the feeling of a stick clasped in your hands. sweat. stiff knuckles. feet pounding the earth. the smash of wood against flesh in the scram of a game, passed off as mere enthusiasm. “slipped, sorry.” hockey is the one thing you had that was yours alone – a feral instinct that motivates you to play; something primitive within you that sparks an energy like no other. on the pitch, you feel alive. you feel like a god.

[maggotmouth]

         hello, its nora again ( she/her, gmt ) n this is the ethereal but spoiled alma olive putnam (she goes by all 3 names cos she’s pretentious as fuck).  ive never used anya taylor joy as her fc before but anya has a smile that looks like she knows something u dont and thats completely alma’s vibe so we’re gonna try it out. she was raised in a farmhouse in vermont, big horse girl energy. very hungry for everything life has to offer. wakes up and smells the success in her blood. luvs the smell of libraries and listening to french music from a tinny record player in knee socks. here is pinterest. bio is below the cut, like this post to be bombarded with plotting messages but i might forget or get shy tho so pls message me x

application template.

ANYA TAYLOR - JOY   ,   CIS-FEMALE   ,   SHE/HER         →         according   to   the   school   records   ,   ALMA OLIVE PUTNAM   has   been   attending   sacred   heart   for   the   past   three   years   .   i   last   saw   them   hanging   around  the  sacred   heart   cathedral   ;   i   think   they   were   studying   the   stations   of   the   cross   with   a   smile   like   a   well - kept   secret.   at   twenty   -   one   years   old   ,   alma   has   been   studying   classics   and   get   this   ,   i   heard   that   she   has   made   a   fortune   on   the   black   market   by   forging   renaissance   art   to   sell   to   collectors   —   figure   it’s   true   ?   everyone   around   here   always   associates   them   with    neck   scarves   tied   around   your   throat   the   way   they   do   in   french   new   wave   films , running   barefoot   through   the   woods   drunk   on  red  wine   and  untapped   power , a  smile  like  a   locked   door   that   speaks   only  in   riddles  .   in   the   time   since   these   strange   happenings   ,   they   have   have   encountered   any   unexplained   occurrences   .         (   written   by   nora   ,   24   ,   she/her   ,   gmt   )

aesthetics.

a red beret nestled on top of bright platimum locks, neck scarves tied around your throat the way they do it in french new wave films, running barefoot through the woods in feckless hedonism, china dolls with porcelain faces lined against the walls of your room, the mona lisa smile, knee-socks tugged over the hockey grazes on your knees, a forged botticelli drying on your easel, ophelia floating in the middle of a lake.

proceed w caution, tw for death, drugs, alcohol, violence

the short form. (still long af tbh)

— studying classics cos she thinks it makes her sound smart, but actually hates fuckin latin and just loves learning about feckless hedonism and the festivals of bacchus and writing about how all women in myth are literally forgotten. was expelled from princeton in her first year so her parents basically paid her way into sacred heart and the board really liked her in her interview. i think the governors kind of expect to see her in the supreme court one day or st

—  born in vermont in a big old farmhouse. her great-great-grandfather moved to america as an immigrant and worked on a plantation, made his way up cos he could speak a lot of languages and therefore win more people over. for the last two generations, putnam men have owned the farm and do little of the dirty work. big in the meat industry.

— both her parents had large personalities, so alma’s never really been shy around adults, even as a kid she’d speak to them in a forthright, confident manner, and because she was always surrounded by adults, she’s always seemed a bit wise beyond her years.

— very much a consolidation of every character in the secret history. has a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs. obsessed with w.h. auden and the beat poets. — ”aestheticism is the only thing worth pursuing and even that is pointless” — is majoring in classical civilisation. can read ancient greek and latin. also speaks french.

— studies hard and plays hard. she gets top marks but it’s because academia is literally her life, she loves the smell of libraries, the ancient smoke of learning, of feeling like old wine in a new bottle reincarnated from the bones of some old, dead witchy woman who invented a cure for cowpox or somethin.

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

— pretentious motherfucker. loves poetry, especially the romantics, loves morbid ones too, edgar allen poe, sylvia plath, allen ginsberg, she just loves them all. can’t get enough. her favourite films are like…. wanky artfilm independent european cinema. especially french new wave. “what do you think of goddard’s work??” while snorting a line off someone’s sink at 5am on a school night, but you can bet she’ll make it to that 9am class. — very intelligent and beautiful and knows both of those facts. plays devil’s advocate. humanitarian, vegan. — judgemental but takes great care not to appear so. petty and vindictive

— obsessively devours mystery and thriller novels. she herself is a gillian flynn book waiting to happen. — tries to be an enigma. wants to be mysterious and unreadable because that’s what books have taught her makes women desirable and interesting and cool. very amy dunne in the way she expertly reinvents herself to suit her audience, when she wants to impress

—  an incredibly talented dancer. she was accepted to juliard to study ballet, but after an injury to her foot she had to refuse her place, something that she’s incredibly bitter about. she went to princeton instead to study classics for a semester, before being expelled. 

— alma comes from a family of high-end art dealers. while her parents paid her way into the school, that was mostly due to previous expulsions, not low intelligence. she’s incredibly intelligent but will only put in effort when she deems the cause worthy. she’s frustrating to teach, because she requires evidence, truth, in order to accept something as worthwhile. she plays devil’s advocate, but academically she’s brilliant. 

—  she can recognise any renaissance artist just by their brush strokes. her aunt and uncle deal antiques and art, and from an internship with them after her expulsion from princeton, she learned how to market and sell art, how to recognise originals in contrast to fakes. from this, alma began to produce counterfeit art and sell it off as the original work to the contacts she had made in her internship. it’s disloyal, but it’s powerful.

— act like the flower but be the serpent under it. is a user. manipulative. leads people on. will throw another student under the bus to demonstrate her own intelligence and integrity — heavily involved in the theatre society. loves attention. — 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, runs track, played lacrosse at school, now is a cheerleader probably. 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.

— 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. — relates to ophelia from hamlet and sibyl vane in dorian gray. weirdly obsessed with women who commit suicide. loves jackson pollock paintings and abstract art. – 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 gramophone because “the sound quality is better” kfdsjj.

plots.

here are some generic wanted plots but by all means message me so we can flesh them out more if any strike ur interest:

study buddies !! someone who is equally unprepared and so spends all night in the library with alma before a big deadline, maybe they even met in the library

if they’re from new england or vermont, then cousins . second cousins / extended family / family friends –  probably spat volavons on your character once as children, omg childhood friends !

honestly someone who is fully in love with her or crushing on her that she can just break would be sweet :/ or on the other hand someone she unexpectedly gets feelings for and actually wants to guage her own  eyeballs out bc of it

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! former best friends separated by sporting or academic rivalries !

hockey / cheer friends who are on other teams but who she absolutely loves playin against!!!

fellow academics who like meeting up to discuss latin and greek ! gimme a secret society bonding by their love of ancient learning

i reckon she’s in a lot of societies, definitely the film club, maybe works as a projectionist at the uni cinema if they have one so give me ppl affiliated with that, give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties

people who think she is throwing her academic potential away by caving to hedonistic impulse

a secret society !!! honestly i would die for a slug club esque thing in which the children of notable families are invited to dinners or alma’s also an art forger, so maybe like a club of students set up to basically forge paintings and documents from the university special collections

people she has drunkenly made out with, hooked up with, or regularly sleeps with casually, maybe even a friend w benefits she is repressing feelings for, i love angst,

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life, she is a roman catholic after all

full biography.

alma olive putnam.

intro.

        the girl is a knife. razor-sharp, double-edged, the bright shine of a two-faced, lovely thing. silver like the secrets you magpie thief from other heads. you’re a scavenger of knowledge, of tidbits, of gossip to lock away for later use and late-night re-inspection. a mind is like a clock if you get to learn the pieces. bit by bit, you dismantle the inner workings of the brains that tick around you – how easy it is to change it’s path, how words and their meanings can make a person laugh or cry in an instant. to have the power to control that is to be a god. it’s the power trip you crave wielding pom-poms in your hands; a possessive need for control that a younger you, small and weak, never had as a child. small lips, smaller smile, a doll clutched in your too-hungry fingers, hard enough to shatter the bones of a real infant. you cut your hair with your mother’s kitchen scissors before the autumn falls, rendering you out of season, unfit for the cold weather that beats against the nape of your neck, where a stick-and-poke marks the star you were born under ; the bull. “mama, when will i be a queen?” as soon as they find a crown small enough not to slip from your head.

biography.

        if you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart. hands red, stained by pomegranate seeds, the empty pulp of its shell splattered on your thighs you find yourself wondering – what would it be like to want? in the beginning, you never knew hunger. twins, born under the same star, you first, him second – a nuclear family. never a sister to compete with, you were always the cherry pie of your parents’ hearts. white-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful baby of mine. the townhouse in vermont and the summer house in lyon, you wanted for nought, showered with attention, saddled with gifts - hardly a wonder you came to rely on such affection as a confirmation of your own worth.

        at eight years old you first met death, blood on a gingham-print dress, a smear of it over your cheekbone and the pulp of a mangled animal at your feet murdered by the hands of a stable boy. “alma, my precious baby, you get away from that filth,” your mama would cry from the upstairs balcony – cigar in one hand and a bloody mary in the other – though whether the filth she referred to was the dead pig or the boy with a kernel of corn in his mouth, you never did find out.

        your family earned their keeps in farming, great-grandfather wolfgang hildegarde a german immigrant, great-grandmother maura lisbon a prairie girl. they fell hopelessly in love between troughs and pig-shit, working for three dollars a day at a farm their descendants would later own, trade deals with the indians, vacations to calcutta, your father todd putnam in the kind of sheepskin coat his father’s father could only dream of owning. he worked hard so that you’d never have to. your mama once asked – you heard it through the window, rounding cartwheels across the picket-fenced lawn – could he not find a respectable career rather than selling shrink-wrapped pork for a dime a dozen? that blood money had no business raising a child. you look far back enough, edie, your father had said in his low, strong voice that could bring a civil war to silence, and i think you’ll find that all money is blood money.

        language was never fickle on your tongue, french dinner time talk by the time you were out of your hush puppy shoes, your mama fixing the au pair a smile as she fixed herself another martini. you learned the clarinet at four and how to dance with the grace of a swansong at six, ethereal under a spotlight, an audience captive in the palm of your hand. by eight you knew that you’d always been destined to be loved. loved so hard they would want to taste you, bite into the soft plump of your cheek and eat you alive. that was how magnetic you wanted to feel. but mother hamsters eat their own young when penned in together too long, and soon you became too wild, too restless, another package on your father’s delivery invoice, box-shipped out to english boarding school.

        fitting in had never been something you had to concern yourself with. you were always the shiny new toy the other girls wanted to play with, bright like a dropped coin from a magpie’s beak. wherever you went, you seemed to leave a trail of awe, pig-tailed harriet’s adoring you, imitating you, teachers forgiving your class-time chatter for the sake of your wild heart and the restless spirit you possessed. tell us what it’s like in the states, alma. they’d coo, enamoured by your hollywood drawl. does your father own a gun? you hardly knew. barely even knew the colour of his hair, for the scarce amount of times he’d stoop to kiss your cheek, though you’d tell silver-tongued tales if it’d guaranteed you an audience. when you learned how to smile at the right times, and that flattery would get you everywhere, it soon became apparent that charm would pave the yellow brick road to success even when your lack of drive couldn’t.

        the road you followed – gum-snapping, roller-blading, friendship bands all up your arm – eventually led you to sacred heart. bright-eyed and gingham skirted, you’d always known you were more. there was a hunger in you to be something extraordinary, a want so adamant to be imagined and desired that it was almost savage. in leather-bound volumes and a circle of stones, you were helen of troy, the girl for whom they’d launch a thousand ships. but there’s so much rage within you, collecting like sawdust in cavernous parts. hockey helped. there was something grounding about the feeling of a stick clasped in your hands. sweat. stiff knuckles. feet pounding the earth. the smash of wood against flesh in the scram of a game, passed off as mere enthusiasm. “slipped, sorry.” hockey is the one thing you had that was yours alone – a feral instinct that motivates you to play; something primitive within you that sparks an energy like no other. on the pitch, you feel alive. you feel like a god.

[diisruptives]

hi friends !! exam season is almost over which means i get to make an appearance again !! i’d love to get some things going so under the cut i’ve left a lil info about me and some things i’m rly craving right now. anyways u all know the drill ... just give this a like or shoot me a message if u wanna do smth ♡.

info

okay hi i’m lily, 20, est

i do prefer to write over discord but also don’t mind writing on tumblr if that is ur preference

like fair warning i get … v invested in my plots and muses like i love to create pinterest boards and aesthetics and sometimes i love even just talking about headcanons and stuff even more than actually writing so !!! pls keep tht in mind cause i also love to write with ppl that get equally invested

i do all pairings but usually prefer m/m, f/f or any pair with nb folks :)

no banned fcs, no one under 18, no one deceased, or no one generally problematic

i love smutty things and darker plots ok !!! but if thats not for u that is also ok!!

pls be 18+ ty

things!!

okay most of these ideas are just generAL ideas and we can brainstorm together okok

!!!!!!!! two Bros who sleep in the same bed and hookup and its all just for fun, No Homo no feelings.... until there is and it gets messy and angsty pls could also work for f/f 

reddie au pls

literally anything inspired by euphoria okay it has consumed me gimme all the dark plots

^ going off of this rly fucked up toxic relationships!!!

^^ literally just lemme play against jacob elordi in any pairing and i will give u anything u want okay

i rly love angst and exploring darker themes so like!! stuff involving crime idk gang plots, strippers, sugar babies, drug dealers!!! all of it

f/f good girl x bad girl

post apocalyptic things !!!! omg !!

rival sports stars!!! rival team captains !!!

i also love mumus gimme all the mumus and i am willing to turn any of these ^ into mumus but for more ideas:

band!!! on tour!! imagine all the fans ships and stuff and guess what h ahaha ya they definitely are hooking up

small town group of best friends??? lots of different types of connections and drama and v messy?