Aoife gulped, eyes blown up to the size of earth shattering meteors in her ridiculous bifocals. "Um... Not really. They kinda make me wanna hum. Or dangle from the ceiling like a spider; y'know, 'cause of all the corners. That's, like, prime web real estate, up there. Are..." she trailed off then blinked twice, genuinely a bit concerned. She was trapped in an elevator with this person, after all, warning lights blinking. "Are you, like, okay, over there, little... monsieur? Um... kind sir?"

closed — @reversecreek

"You don't think elevators drive people to drink?"

Aoife let out another heartfelt exhale, only to be greeted by Bo inching closer, sniffing ferociously all around her lips and nostrils. Clearly he wasn't happy with the sigh that'd escaped them, wanted to track down the source and chomp on it with the fervour he'd approach a particularly rigid carrot. A little giggle emerged under her breath despite herself, then her eyebrows crinkled as she focused once more. Another careful comb of his ears. "Everything's scary to someone. Like staplers. They scare me. Their whole job is, like, to bite things, with needle teeth." Almost immediately, she felt a pang of remorse; staplers couldn't help it if that was their purpose, born to their role just like a flea or dung beetle. "I mean, I'm sure some are nice, though." She had a habit of that, too; talking about things like they were people, motes of dust made sentient by an overactive imagination. "I tried. I talked to him about the trees. Like, the way they sway. And I got super into it, 'cause it was like they were dancing, then I looked back and he'd gone. I don't know... Maybe he doesn't like dancing." Bo regarded Rosa as cautiously as he did anyone who wasn't Aoife, but allowed the pets nonetheless; he'd grown used to her, less agitated by her presence than most. "Well," Aoife began, fingers lacing together atop Bo's back, comforted by the gently emanating heat, the faint pitter-patter of his pulse. "It depends. I think they decide. Or their brain... decides. Sometimes they -- they wanna hold my hand but something in them... can't. Like, they aren't ready to be touched yet." Aoife understood this concept all too well. A swallow. Images over the backs of her eyelids: her father's hand leading her outside, scabs like cracked beetle husks on the insides of his elbows, the slimy pallor of his smile in the sunlight. You can't take her, John. Please, we've talked about this. "Do you... have any candy?" Aoife blinked, zoned in. Another blink had her appraising Rosa's face, her own newly hopeful, yearning for something; to feel like a kid again, for a second, whatever that meant. Then, after a prolonged pause, eyes unabashedly roving, a classic case of Aoife's verbal diarrhoea. "Y'know, sometimes your freckles make me wanna chomp on a strawberry shortcake."

Despite warning Aoife that all Rosa would be doing that evening was work on a week-plan for the upcoming week of school, Rosa had still been moved when she insisted on coming over. With Bo, of course. Rosa liked the rabbit that she, personally, considered oversized - practically a lap dog and then some, but he caused no problems, and Aoife loved him. They hadn’t talked for a while, comfortable silence settling over them like a weighted blanket, cozy in the warmth of Rosa’s room before Aoife began to discuss tales of her newest friend. Sometimes, Rosa couldn’t tell if it was a ghost or a living person - but usually, it was a spirit. It was obvious with the way Aoife treated them, spoke of them. Loving, their guardian angel. Rosa had always viewed her as such, tearing her eyes away from her school plan with interest now as she discussed the little boy she’d recently met. “Aoife, you’re the least scary person I ever met. By a long shot - and your clogs are… cute.” They were, but they did cause a scene, occasionally. A stompy scene, as Aoife put it. But they were so her that Rosa had grown fond of the shoewear, even if they were slightly out of fashion. Aoife managed to make them look nice. “Have you tried, I don’t know… talking to him? Instead of calling to him like he’s a cat?” Rosa teased, moving from her desk so that she could seat herself beside where Aoife was on her bed, legs still up in the air. Giving Bo gentle pets, as she thought about the little boy who was apparently terrified to talk to lovely, kind Aoife. Rosa couldn’t imagine being so scared, but she also had never died, especially so young. “He’s not scared of you, he’s just scared. Probably newly -...” Dead. It was hard to say, when discussing someone little. Rosa couldn’t stop thinking about her students, how young Sylvie had been. “How do you usually get them to talk to you, the ghosts you meet? Are any of them - corporeal? Tangible? Maybe he’d like some candy. The way to any kids heart.”

where: wherever ur heart desires... run wild n free... aoife wld lay like this anywhere for: @eclvpses

Aoife let out a heartfelt sigh, gently running her fingers along Bo's pink and white ears, oversized as Dumbo. The plump albino rabbit rested on her sternum, nose twitching, as she lay on the floor, rambunctious curls splayed around her like Ophelia drowning in a pond. She'd hoisted her odd socked feet up to rest against the wall, a position that she found rather meditative for reasons not wholly understood; maybe something about the blood rushing to her head, feeling all of that red swell in her cheeks because of gravity and not another cripplingly embarrassing mishap. "I keep thinking about this little boy I met in the trees." The trees went unspecified, no clarification on the fact she suspected he was a ghost, could tell by his faintly static fringed being; sometimes Aoife had the bad habit of being extraordinarily, unhelpfully vague. "He has these big brown eyes like boba but he always hides from me. Like, behind trunks. Yesterday I tried crouching down and, like, psst-psst-ing at him like a cat, but I think I just scared him more." Peering down from the ceiling, Aoife regarded Bo fondly, continuing to comb his ears as she directed her question towards Rosa. "Do you think I have a scary aura? Maybe it's my clogs. They're kinda stompy. I don't know."

"Oh!" If it were possible, the wildflowers Aoife had hand-painted on her wooden clogs might've visibly wilted a little, buds all pathetically adroop. "Saury, pardner!" Sprouting a gap-toothed grin, she physically winced at her Irish tinged attempt at a Southern accent. Might as well have crudely stapled a four leaf clover to an American eagle's wing. The image had her frowning as she clip-clopped inside. Her steps were rather loud, horse-like even. "I didn't mean to. Um, these shoes are pretty -- like, usually I hoof up a storm and no-one can miss me. I like them, though. Sometimes loud things can be pretty in a quiet way, too. Like videos of fireworks on mute. Kinda, like, introspective, and stuff." She clacked her heels, smiling down at them, before realising after a pause that she sounded a smidge like a freak rattling off riddles to themselves in the corner of a deserted pub. Not ideal. "Uh, anyway!" Her lace kimono briefly got stuck on a table corner as she shambled closer. Blush addled her cheeks once she'd wrestled herself free. "Ah! Almost got me. Help, I'm a fish in a net! Anyway, um -- I was just wondering, like, what're your rates? I'm considering something small. Like, itty-bitty, petite on the street style, y'know? If --," she paused, suddenly cautious as if this wasn't, in fact, a tattoo shop open for business, "I mean, if that's okay, obviously."

Status: open Location: Deadly Inks

"I know I said be early but damn," Daniela laughed, quickly shrugging off the connection between her power and the bits and pieces she'd been moving around in the backroom. The centrifuge clicked off, needles stowed away within their drawer and the stacked shelves of coloured inks now sat in perfect order of the colour wheel. A trick of the mind, and purely out of habit, telekenisis had complied with the nephilim's every thought the second she was alone, until she wasn't. How much had they seen? "You're gonna scare a girl half to death sneaking up like that."

— 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠… 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐭! 🐇🍎

a o i f e c r a i n .

welcome to marina, AOIFE CRAIN ( woman, she/her ) ! they are a TWENTY SIX year old MEDIUM who resides in PROSPECT HILL. They work as an APPLE JAM MAKER / GRIEF COMMUNE BETWEEN THE DEAD AND THEIR GRIEVING LIVING and are said to look a lot like HAVANA ROSE LIU. People around the island find them to be +GOOFY and +COMPASSIONATE, but also -FLUSTERED and -GUARDED. what do you think?

hiieieieiieeeeeeee it'sa me nai'uigi! (THEE gay mario brother ik a bottom when i see one). so anyway. i figured i'd start off w literally jsut aoife n take it as i go bc i was too ambitious last time n i think i work better w a narrower focus. so ya. without further ado! 🤸 pinty pin pin here!

aoife's mama, siblings n nainai (not me cloned bt the chinese word for grandma which i jst found out n am obsessed w) impulsively migrated to a little rural farmland village in ireland after some unfortunate business w their sperm source (branding him this bc he doesn't deserve to b called a father frankly) n aoife's mama eventually fell madly in love w Some Guy n out popped aoife

(addiction mention/ drugs implied) it ws Naught a happy union n they sadly both struggled w addiction since getting together rly. he kind of was a bad influence on aoife's mum from the start n got her into tht scene. bt like when aoife was tottering around her mum wanted to clear up her act for her sake bc she ws the centre of her whole world bt her dad didn't rly follow suit n as a result things were Not Good n quite the rollercoaster when aoife was little

they were kind of struggling in ireland as it was anyway bc their village was a rather traditional one n income was sparse bc of local prejudices n when things reached a boiling point w aoife's father her grandma stepped in to her mum n was like girl we're outta here.

aoife's two aunties migrated w them to this absolutely ramshackle old creaky farmhouse in prospect hill bc the girlies stick together that they bought fr a pittance bc it was kind of falling apart n all of the big apple trees surrounding it were semi rotten bt they all agreed it ws their fresh start. she has no contact w her father whatsoever to this day bt it's cool <3 they started making apple jam out of the rotten apples bc the bruised fruit makes the sweetest jam n this is kind of symbolic of aoife's positive mindset in life.

aoife's mama remarried a vry sweet introspective repairer of watches who ws strangely also irish n he surprisingly fit right in w the sisterhood they'd created

ANYWAY that's for family bg. as far as abilities go aoife's grandma has always had contact w the other side. it's strange too bc when they were fleeing ireland their grandma jst randomly had this pull towards marina as The Place To Go n it's almost like she cld sense the spn forces there within her. aoife's always had a very visceral attachment to her surroundings growing up bc like she'll. befriend different ghosts in different places n settings r like richly embroidered tapestries she can't help etching her fingers along to appreciate their craftsmanship. aoife believes people n their stories make the world go round <3

being a medium she hs a little oracle business of sorts in a side room of their big farmhouse n has a few sweet regulars who she regularly helps communicate w their passed loved ones. she's a bit too sweet tho n sometimes jst won't charge them bc she feels too mean charging to help them w their grief n some of them r hard for money so she doesn't feel it's right even tho it's like girl u need the income.... bt it's fine.

her grandma is vry powerful bt very controlled whereas aoife gets a bit too attached n is probably more at risk for possessions n such bc she's kind of easily manipulated if she feels for the tall tales a ghost is spinning. speaking of which there's a ghost tht kind of has a crush on her tht lingers in the farmhouse frm time to time n "accidentally" knocks a book off the shelf whenever it sniffs someone hving a crush on her in the air. aoife's like sheldon ur so silly not again!!!!

she's vry goofy. does big ungraceful giddy toothy witch cackles like bunny kicking her feet n everything then gets shy n bashful right after. loves fantasy, intricately engraved swords n the idea of having a pet baby dragon who's always sneezing n accidentally singeing the ends of her hair (bt she'd nvr get mad at them bc it's just so cute). she's constantly embroidering items or crafting a strange little something out of scrap material she finds n regularly has clumsily pinpricked fingers as a result. sometimes she collects twigs to help build birds nests bc she's like they're so little they must be so tired doing it all by themselves!!!!!

hs a HUGE albino rabbit named bo tht seems strangely immortal bt noone ever questions it. carries him around in her arms like a beloved handbag, close confidant n surrogate father all in one. he acts all sweet n soft w aoife then when her backs turned is the antichrist to anyone tht gets near her. it's true love <3

she's vry friendly n open bt romantically she's quite a closed book bc she's never rly witnessed a good demonstration of it.

hs long rambunctious flowing curly ginge hair like ophelia drowning in a pond n wears 4958724975942 rings n vry floaty kimonos n crochet skirts n long lacy skirts n dresses. oh n whenever she sneakily bites into one of their best apples she leaves a little indent frm her gap tooth.

oh also plays the harp n piano so that's kind of fresh n fun

ummmmmmm i think that's it basically so. bye.

Lots more here, and here

Ineffable you, so lovely and so aloof,

Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Buck in the Snow; from ‘To A Musician’

THEATER CAMP (2023) dir. Molly Gordon, Nick Lieberman

oh hello delightful forest boar. why are you charging at me so fast

HAVANA ROSE LIU as ISABEL BOTTOMS (2023) dir. Emma Seligman

The Marsh King's Daughter (2023) dir. Neil Burger

Lana gravitated towards touch like a newborn kitten, almost as if she wouldn't be able to regulate her own body temperature without it; lately, though, every touch she'd sought hadn't felt like the one she really wanted, Freya's hands playfully kneading at her cheeks like a clump of pink Play-Doh, so great at getting Lana to form a smile, a real one, not just the director's cue to appease the leering audience. The thing about Lana and Freya is that nobody else had ever truly known her like that, right down to the marrow; when everyone else had found Freya's jokes to be callous, murders considered, Lana knew that it was just the way she coped, what she felt necessary in order to keep going. Nothing mattered when you laughed it away. Not really. They were the same, like that. Fingers crawling over Lana like spiders through a pile of autumn leaves. It didn't matter, when she laughed about it. It hurt less if she pretended it was okay. Lana tuned in again, blinked away the static of a crackly radio signal, began to study all of the secret nooks and crannies in Viktor's face where she knew that all their goodness hid. "Maybe just a little," she whispered, too afraid something would audibly tremble if she climbed another octave, always so scared to let anyone see her so small, so inconvenient; she never wanted to be that little girl begging someone to listen to her again, that stupid ghost that rambled the hallways of her parents house, wondering how she'd gotten so bad at haunting, why it felt like nobody could see her at all. Lana shifted to face them, imagined that they were little, hiding beneath a bed after playtime so they didn't have to go home. "You're not stupid." A rough swallow saw her reaching out slowly, hesitantly, never sure if she was allowed or not when she went to touch them gently, like it might've repulsed them, shrivelled them up like a salted slug; as they spoke, she delicately traced the remains of a memory on their throat, a spot where Freya once pressed a kiss. Then, the slightest tremor of a smile. "Yeah, I remember," she exhaled, swallowed a small bubble of laughter; it didn't feel right, laughing without Freya. "No-one else was worthy. That was, um... That was... her." She understood it, now that Freya was gone, all those years that Caleb struggled to bring himself to say Tommy's name out loud, the way his knuckles whitened and his face crumpled whenever she slipped up. It hurt too much. "Her idea, the -- the golden abs. She's so... She's always been so... smart." Couldn't bring herself to shift tenses. Not yet. "Way smarter than me," she continued, no self-deprecation, no vying for objection; Lana really believed it, factual as the sky is blue. "You know..." trailed off, swallowing again, always swallowing, too stubborn to ever just give in and sob. She tried to focus on the thrum of their pulse beneath her fingers, shakily mapping out all the places her and Freya had nipped and licked. "I've always wanted to be like her. More... Sometimes I feel so... soft. Like there's... like there's all these... dents in... me. These... dents from peoples fingers." Lana wet her lips. Did her best to blink back her the glisten in her eyes. Waited a moment, just them, silence as her fingers wandered their way, a thumb brushed along their jaw. "And Freya's so -- I used to think she was... everyone thinks she's... dentless. But then I--," quavered, voice broken entirely in two, another futile swallow in an effort to keep the bad at bay. The next part only emerged a whisper. "It sounded like it... hurt. Like it left... dents, and-- and I don't -- want--," fell away, a sharp intake of breath to try and keep steady, head quickly shaking; here it comes, the fucking waterworks, wah, wah, wah, crying like a baby. Lana didn't realise she'd shut her eyes to find self-control in Danny's face until she opened them again. Focused on Viktor's mouth. Tried to remember to breathe. It took a long time for her to speak. "I never knew I could... hate like this. I don't -- I don't know what to, um... do with it. What do you do?"

Walking into Freya's trailer felt like crossing the red velvet rope on a historical home's tour - wandering where they shouldn't, where they wouldn't, if it hadn't been for Lana. It felt - off - disturbing the dust that had settled over her belongings, her memories - walking over the most worn parts of her floor and feeling Freya's presence like she'd been right there besides them, still. It looked like she'd only been gone a day - like she'd be back later, laughing despite the ache against her skull and the bruising that framed her eye. The image lingered in Viktor's mind at a near - constant, ever since they had Hazal go down to the morgue. Let me see - their own voice echoed back at them in their mind - I have to see her. They had to know it was real - that it hadn't been a sick joke; but Freya wouldn't have done that. Not to Lana. Now, a nauseating haze overtook them as they forced their legs forward and towards where they'd spotted her in the corner; the flickering light of a fairy no longer believed in - a fairy on the verge of losing her livelihood. They wanted to hold her in their warms - to whisper I do believe in fairies, I do, I do - like they were Peter Pan, and she'd flicker back to life like Tinkerbell - and everything would be okay. Viktor knew better. Knew there was nothing they could do, nothing they could say - that their words couldn't be the salve over her wounds; that the only person capable of bringing back Lana's light had been the person who she grieved terribly now. "Yeah." Viktor replied - equally soft, settling into the space beside her. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Lana was supposed to come home - happy and full of life - and Viktor wouldn't have been stuck in county jail - and Freya would've been unbruised, and alive - and they would've come together at Lana's coming back party, the three of them - and they'd stay that way until morning like they'd done so many times before. They took Lana's hand in theirs, afraid that she'd drift away if they hadn't, and leaned their head against her shoulder - breathing in Freya, breathing in Lana. "Flicked milk at me too - wasn't even... my milk. Was kind of fucked up - I deserved it, though." Viktor didn't know why they fucked Miles - they knew it would hurt Freya, and in consequence it would hurt Lana; but maybe that was why they'd done it .They couldn't just have a good thing - they had to ruin it, one way or another. Her fake pleasantries still played fresh in their mind - her refusal to address it until the situation had come and gone like a bad bruise; like it hadn't even happened by the time the yellow had faded against their skin. Viktor wanted to say sorry, despite the years that had passed since then, but the person most deserving of their apology wasn't there - couldn't hear them, and all their regret; a solid lump in their throat that they couldn't swallow around - that lingered there as they spoke again, "You were - right... back then, about me - caring. Being scared, and stupid - all of it." Their words came out watery - like blotted ink across a page, near incomprehensible, and Viktor turned from temple to forehead against her shoulder - nose squishing against arm. "Remember - the dick sisters launch party? The dress code? Neither of you would let - anyone else in with fucking... gold painted abs."

Living without Freya was like losing all of your teeth and trying to eat an apple. Lana had lost her grip on it, everything, a car forever skidding on black ice without meeting collision; time was both frozen and moving too fast, with Lana suspended in the middle. "Swifties, 'cause they're -- so, um, so swift," she supposed, not entirely there, host to a flickering red motel sign of a smile that she'd smudged carelessly at the edges. "Yeah, 'cause we're, um -- we're such good friends." Friends. Lana and Teddy. Friends. Them. That was where they were again, wasn't it? All over again, all the way down the snake on the board; back to square one, over and over and over. They probably both had carpal tunnel with how often they'd hastened wrists to roll another dice. Whatever smile had persisted; momentarily enchanted by the sight of him, a Teddy that existed more in memory than the present, a Teddy that'd only ever shared pots of honeyed Greek yogurt and hidden inside of tents made from duvet covers; it stuttered when he attempted to disentangle her from her latest distraction, tug on the string of her balloon to pull her back down to earth, a world without Freya. "Home," Lana repeated like he'd told her a joke, laughter parting her lips as she stumbled over her toes. "You're, um -- you're gonna bring me home?" Merely shaking her head at the implication she was cold, climbing goosebumps be damned, another hot puff of laughter emitted into the frigid air between them. "Tedd-ddyyyyy." Sing-songed, almost. Lana steadied herself by reaching up, slowly sifting fingers either side of his face, gently clasping his cheeks, positioning him there; blurry, his features, watercolours ebbing into each other, unable to dry. Teddy. Her Teddy. He'd always been her Teddy, hadn't he? Maybe he'd only ever been her Teddy to her. "'Cause you, um.... you loved -- you love me, right? Is that -- is that it?" Lana swallowed. Slackened her hands, slightly, drifted a thumb along his jaw. She'd always liked it there, able to easily lift and touch his cheek where it dimpled, imagine all of the smiles that'd bloomed beneath her touch, beneath everyone else's; still, it felt more nostalgic to her than her childhood bed, his face, his face that she'd always loved so deeply, recklessly, stupidly. "But you... you love... everyone." Her eyes had started to glisten in the firelight. Eyebrows subtly thread together, amusement twitchy and discordant upon her features. "So, like.. what's... What's the point? What's--." A smile criss-crossed her lips, hasty stitches doing their best to seal the wound. Her hands started to slip entirely, arms dropping, and she swayed slightly on her feet to find her bearings, had to dig a heel against the frozen mud, attempt to find the balance to stand up on her own. "I don't know if I'm -- if I can play, any more... any... more, I'm--," she attempted, voice breaking slightly, barely noticeable, just once, "I'm tired, Teddy."

It felt like Teddy’s world had been flipped upside down and had started spinning on its head. It’d felt that way when he heard Lana had come home, and shortly after - Freya. It still hadn’t even really computed in his scrambled brain that she was gone, but he knew it. Felt it, like it was his own death, heart being squeezed and ripped into like someone had tore open his chest themselves. He’d known Freya forever, relied on her like he would family - for advice, fun, to make fun of him when he begged for a shoulder to cry onto. But whatever she’d been to Teddy, she was Lana’s other half. Lana, who obviously wasn’t okay, stumbling over her own feet while standing still. She’d been partying amongst the trailers of Locke Row - Freya’s smack dab in the center of where she’d chosen. Teddy couldn’t tell if Lana had done that on purpose or had just automatically drifted over there herself, compass pointed North to all things Freya. “Hey!” he called back - the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in what felt like forever going completely over his head. His heart still stutter-stopped when he saw Lana, that had never changed, and especially not after all this time - but a proper reunion wasn’t in mind when she was so obviously flirting. “Gross - I can get us a better friendship bracelet than that. I’ll hire, like, 50 Swifties to get on it. We’ll be abundant in no time.” Nose wrinkling, Teddy watched as a stranger continued to paw at Lana’s hip like they weren’t talking at all. Took it upon himself to brush them off, wrap his own arm around Lana’s waist and guide her away from the bonfire raging just a few feet from them. “We should - go home, or to mine or something. It’s fucking freezing out. You’re freezing.” Lana was hardly dressed for February, arms exposed and red with cold.

where: freya's trailer, locke rowe. for: @stigmvtas

Lana had paid to buy the plot for Freya's trailer in cash outright. She didn't even care that she'd been renting, that each blade of grass hidden in the shade of the big metal structure hadn't always belonged to Freya as every beautiful blonde hair had on her head, a head Lana was so used to kissing on a weekly basis that now her lips felt sick and empty without it. She wanted to preserve everything, all of Freya, exactly as it had been; as it should be, still. Couldn't stand the thought of it covered in anything other than the faint, smudgy remains of Freya's fingerprints; fingers that'd been warm, once, that'd interlinked with Lana's like they should've since they'd first been born, just two tiny terrors forever trembling with bouts of inappropriate laughter. She'd managed to push up into a sitting position, since texting Viktor, right in the corner of Freya's bedroom, duvet pulled around her to form the equivalent of a leather baseball glove, so desperate to be held by Freya's smells that it was all she could think to do, a pathetic little ball incapable of pitching anything, being any use to anyone. Her cowboy boots were muddy on the floor. She'd pulled on a thick pair of Freya's worn socks. Wanted to close her eyes, imagine her bounding footsteps, impish laughter parting her lips, think about all the places she'd been and all the people she'd made smile, Lana most of all; a tattered hoody, too, auburn hair enveloped, shadowy eyes made worse for the light it obstructed. She didn't even notice there'd been a sound, the front door pushed open; Lana didn't even realise Viktor was in the room, too consumed by the memories there, the candy wrappers Lana had carefully plastered across the left window in mimic of her own stained glass. It's our own, like, special portal; it means we can always reach each other. "Do you, um..." she spoke eventually, unaware of when she'd clocked them, unsure if they were actually there at all; it'd been a while since she'd managed to sleep. She could've sworn she'd seen Freya on the walk over. "Do you remember that time when -- when you fucked Miles, and -- and I was so... mad at you? 'Cause she--," Lana gently knead at her kneecaps, held them close, pinched the skin in the place of the name. Pinched until it stung, dug in sharp crescents. "And I threw... I threw so much... cereal at your head?"

Nyla had slept for a majority of the time since returning to Marina. They liked it better there, floating like a carrot in a hearty dream stew, where shapes drifted without borders, and Mido's eyes fluttered awake instead of resting in a shut that was beginning to feel eternal. He spoke to them, there. They braided bracelets out of daisies cross-legged on warm, grassy knolls. Gently pried pieces of cloud between their fingers, let it dissolve on their tongues like spun sugar, tasted all of the rains that the sky had yet to cry. George and Mido laughed about their little bird, so often broken-winged, the way their smiles always seemed to have them chirping; Nyla was happy there, in their slumber, forever curled into Mido's sleeping side like a house cat purring upon the lap of their favourite person.

Perhaps that was why, upon first stirring, Nyla's eyebrows gently threaded together; their eyes didn't open right away, not before they'd had a chance to frown, to nuzzle a cheek closer in protest, to silently beg that he didn't leave them yet, please, just a little while longer. No use, though. Baby hairs arrayed their face in silly little tufts, somewhat akin to a baby orangutan that'd just woken up from the happiest dream of ripe bananas, and they blinked around a little, disorientated, before realising that Rory was actually in the room, not just another figment of their acid mottled imagination. Their fist quickly went lax, releasing from it a scrunch of Mido's blanket, right above his heart, held protectively to keep it safe as they slept; another sheepish blink and a wonky smile took helm, then their hand extended, teeth peeking into a rather impish grin. Shaking hands amused them. It made them feel like a time traveller. "Howdy," they twanged, so irrevocably Georgia it made them laugh, a breathy thing without the wings to truly fly. "Friend," repeating it tasted funny, silly, unsuitable, but they smiled nonetheless. "Yeah... Friend. I'm... friend. I'm an elf he met in Galactica. A little bird from... a nice old tree." Nyla pushed up, gently, sure not to cross any of Mido's wires, tug anything loose. There was a little impression on their cheek from leaning so surely against his hospital gown's neckline. "I like that name. Rory... Like a funny little... lion, y'know?" They paused, then, unaware of common formalities, still too lost in their own world to remember societal manners; it took a few beats passing for them to angle their head, blink again, inspect Rory's face like a child attempting to understand the brevities of the eight o'clock news. "Oh. Nyla. Yeah, my... My name's Nyla Palmer." They paused, then something in their face shifted, a flicker of excitement; George used to read them books from their bedside, too. "You here t'read him stories?"

Closed Starter: @reversecreek

Rolling her chair through a hospital had been a favorable pastime for Aurora 2.0 for a good majority of her life. It's all she ever did after she woke from her coma. The only thing that she could do since her legs didn't work for shit at the time. She didn't let it bother her though. Having lived on a farm her entire life she'd run countless times - sometimes to the point of exhaustion - so if she needed to be bound to a chair for a portion of her life then now she could roll through the fields of flowers in her yard and not be exhausted. Those were the thoughts that initially kept her from staying in bed and feed into the tragedy that controlled her life for the rest of her life. The thoughts that to this day helped her continue to roll through the halls with a feeling of ease and contentment. But who was she really kidding? The contentment came from the feeling of Mourad being nearby. Of the string that links them becoming tighter the closer that she got to his room. Rory hadn't been able to come and see him before now, trying to do her best to give his family time. Yet the longer she waited the more she yearned to be with him. If only to read him a story and hold his hand. Despite her firm belief that he was merely sleeping away the trauma, going so long without talking to him hasn't felt right to her.

"Up you go." Aurora mumbled to herself nonsensely as she parked her chair outside his room before walking in the door. At first nothing registered properly enough for her to notice the person laying in bed besides him all snug and cozy. Her eyes scanned for Mido and him only - stopping only when she traced the features of his face. Her head tilted to the side and she couldn't help but smile. Then her heart beat quickened but not for the usual thrill that being near him brought. Her eyes moved quickly to the figure besides him and she froze. Suddenly all that she could feel was something daunting. "You must be a friend." she stated with a hollow feeling in her gut that made her feel trapped. Rory offered her a smile and stretched out an arm, shifting the book she held, and introduced herself. "I'm Rory."

Willa was feeling especially considerate that day. She'd offered Abel her supple, beautiful breast to rest his cheek upon so that he could recharge his spirits, open shirt; not both, though, because she didn't want to send him into cardiac arrest by overwhelming him at such a trying time. She even attempted to use a can opener so that she could heat up a tin of Chef Boyardee's Ravioli Florentine and claim ownership of the recipe from scratch, but it'd proven rather difficult; it turned out she'd never had to use a can opener before, and she didn't want to ruin her latest set of acrylics. Still, it was the thought that counted, and it wasn't like she didn't unload a box of muffins from Jillian Dawson's bakery into a wicker basket and drop those off, instead; of course, she claimed she'd made those, too. It was a great day for Willa, as do-gooding went. She was practically Mother Theresa. In theme, that night she'd opted for Catholic undertones to her look: a meticulously laced corset that snatched her at the waist, patterned like an elaborate pastiche of fragments from a broken stained glass window, a pearl threaded choker that dripped into a crucifix between her cleavage, even a sparse veil to really up the ante and add that element of mystery. Ugh. Sometimes Willa wondered if it was possible for her to ever fall short. Some could even claim it was a curse, delivering like she did on a daily basis; where was up, when you were already throned at the top? In fact, she'd just been contemplating this, deep in thought like a 1920s starlet from a black and white film, nursing a French martini to her cleavage strategically so the condensation had it glimmering, when Mimi came clomping over in a totally unsavoury fashion. It was honestly quite vulgar upon her beautiful eyeballs. "My face is actually partially obscured but I suppose we're dealing with an eyeless dimwit," Willa sighed, pursing glossed lips. "I have to assume they were clawed out by a vicious flock of seagulls as a mere babe. It'd explain the outfit choice. Bedraggled, poor thing." At her catchphrase, she allowed a signature smile to envelop her, the kind politicians often equipped to pose on billboards. Sometimes, in these moments, she liked to imagine herself selling her story onstage in the Capitol, due to meet a heartbreaking but undeniably glamorous fate in the most talked about Hunger Games of the millennia. It was fun, almost, this back and forth; that is, until Mimi plunged a dagger below the belt, actively coming for her hair, and Willa let out a cordial titter that might as well be a fang bared snarl. "What, this luscious, bountiful mane? These gorgeous, mythical tresses? You're unwell, Mimi. My god, she's got the influenza!" Moved to demonstrate, Willa promptly folded her veil up, turned her head, and swished a full face of rambunctious, deep red curls Mimi's way; part of her hoped she'd choke on a mouthful, the other part knew her hair was far too expensive to risk such exposure to vicious chompers. Just as quickly, the veil was back down. She nonchalantly pat her hair into place. "Like I said, it's giving drag delusion. I'd leave my veil up but I don't think I'd appreciate the spray from between those front teeth when I, like, literally just had my eyebrows threaded? No thank-you, halitosis. Call The Weather Girls because it's raining fucking men!" A dramatic sigh saw her benching her martini. "In fact, I'm honestly scared contamination has already taken place, so, congratulations; you've put me off my martini. And for what, exactly? Having sensational tits and a tight pussy to boot? What a sad little life, Jane."

location: the pearl. closed: @reversecreek

“jesus. what the fuck is she doing here?” resentment lodges like a hard boiled sweet in the place where her affection for willa used to sit. she feels like a stuffed toy from the-build-a-bear workshop that somebody forgot to put the heart in, and now there’s just an ache in her stuffing. when was the last time she saw her? was it the press night she’d thrown a drink on her, when willa had turned up on the arm of the lead in the fucking film, stare cold as she had looked right through her, or the moment where the two of them had wound up in the same aisle speculating over which of them was the hottest girl in the grocery store, which avocados looked the most ripe? all of it seems to blur into one love-island-best-bits style shitty montage that they play at the end of your journey, forcing you to watch yourself back like a stranger whose face you know only from photographs, analyse the micro-transactions of power, the shift of alliances, the pluck of desire that felt so fertile but now only feels wilted. she should ignore her. she should move on with her night, the crux of which is honouring freya’s memory by getting so fucked up she forgets she possesses a body. but even in her sober states, mimi often finds herself unable to avoid the tidal pull of drama. add a few cosmos, and she’ll gnaw the hand that feeds her down to it’s spindly bone, crack the knuckles like a wishbone, swallow them down until she chokes, if she has to, just to be certain she’d had the last word. “mimi, she's not worth it, don’t━” before her friend layla can even finish her warning, mimi’s on her feet, cosmo in hand as she stalks over to willa. “you’ve got nerve, showing your face here.” when surely she knows that kai’s a planet who revolves around the periphery of mimi’s orbit, so by default that makes the pearl more hers than willa’s. “or deneurve.” her eyes are rolling like a tragically upturned tortoise. “isn’t that like, your catchphrase or whatever?” who the fuck does she think she is? dwayne ‘the rock’ johnson? if there’s one thing that’s cringe, it’s having a fucking catchphrase, especially on a reality tv show. the screen doesn’t do willa justice ━ she’s still devastatingly beautiful and beautifully devastating. her energy would be magnetic, if the two of them weren’t two south poles, bound to slip out of the force of each other’s cosmic pull. like poles repel. it’s opposite poles that attract. for a second, mimi almost slips up, admits that she missed her. “you cut your hair…” she continues, a slightly vulnerable quality to her voice. “it looked better longer.”