𝑴𝑨𝑫𝑬𝑳𝒀𝑵 𝑪𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑬 . Outer Banks ( 2020 – 2025 ) .

Havana Rose Liu in Somewhere (feat. Gus Dapperton) - Surf Mesa

Brigitte Bardot in Contempt ‘Le Mépris’ 1963, dir. Jean-Luc Godard

♡ HAVANA ROSE LIU elle's hollywood rising

there  is  something  feral  going  through  rowena's  head  as  they're  being  questioned  about  a  death  that  her  claws  were  nowhere  near  ━━  and  she  finds  herself  thinking  that  perhaps  they  should  talk  to  the  huntsman  about  it,  his  hands  already  covered  in  dried  blood.  red  ribbon  holds  the  long  and  messy  braid  together,  hair  swinging  all  the  way  down  to  the  end  of  red's  back  as  she  walks.  eyebrows  furrowed,  part  of  the  little  red  thinks  they  somehow  messed  up  ━━  thinking  things  through  is  not  their  forte.  each  step  down  the  stairs  feels  like  the  walk  through  the  hall  of  a  prison  wing  and  rowena  doesn't  know  if  she's  walking  away  or  right  into  a  cell  of  someone  else's  making.

red  tilts  their  head,  both  arms  now  crossed  over  her  chest.  "and  what  makes  you  think  i  would  confess  anything  to  you?"  there  is  only  one  soul  that  she  might  bare  her  own  to  and  he's  unrecognizable  these  days.  "are  you  just  waiting  here  for  people  to  talk  to  you  about  what  they  told  the  magic  mirror?  boredom  really  does  take  a  toll  on  some  people."

open to. anyone — come one, come all ! setting & notes. remembrance day event part two, looming about around the main enclave. feel free to assume connections if not plotted yet, or this can be their first interaction if you'd like.

      a slimy thing, waffling about and bouncing from one corridor to another, eyes on the action as always. if there was one thing fionn couldn't miss, it was a show — comedies or tragedies, both equally as entertaining to a lone sprite, itching to get a firsthand view at the next sensation that sweeps their quaint little town. it's about time, he'd assert, after days of droning boredom, the cabin fever was bound to settle in eventually - fionn just didn't expect it to be so soon. " what a shame, " a tone decorated with dramatization, cutting through the undercurrent of empathy that was, albeit, genuine, but it was hard to tell with him.

      " now, what say you when the magic mirror reveals your deepest secret to the entire town, hm ? " he was merely playing, but surely this was neither the time nor place, with tensions inevitably rising and, eventually, anxieties too. " the time to confess your wrongdoings is nigh. i pinky promise i won't tell another soul, unlike that dreaded mirror. "

⸻ king roberon cole welcomes rowena "red" woods to fabletown—or, as they were once known, little red riding hood from little red riding hood / grimm's tales. before the magic mirror, they come glamoured in the mirage of a lucky red ribbon tangled in her fingers, her eyes tracing the city skyline as she hums a quiet hum of something forgotten and lingering in the dark / a laughter that echoes like a warning ⸻ sweet, melodic, yet laced with something dangerous, sound that invites but doesn’t promise safety / cigarette burns down between fingers, smoke curling like a spell in the air. blue eyes stare at the world but the mind is somewhere else, lost in thoughts too heavy for daylight / hair is a storm, unruly and wild ⸻ waves of deep brown that tumble and twist as if they were spun from the earth itself and yet wraps around like an embrace. the tale from which they hail exalted their resilience and wit, but decried their stubborness and calousness in equal measure. no matter; this time, they shall write their own. in accordance with the fabletown compact, they are granted amnesty for any and all transgressions, even that which is little known: unbeknownst to red, her grandmother's warning to always wear red was a shield against a curse cast on her by a magical being in the forest. as long as she wears the red, her heart remains whole, and her soul anchored, and without it, she would slowly fade away.

DOSSIER & WANTED DYNAMICS

time: early afternoon.   location: a sidewalk, along the main enclave. status: for @detr1tus, @thievesandwitches, @daydreambeliiever + 4 open spots.

blonde  sits  on  the  sidewalk,  beer  can  in  hand  and  forearms  resting  on  each  knee.  exasperated  sigh  after  exasperated  sigh,  faye's  hazel  eyes  take  in  her  uneventful  surroundings  and  their  grip  tightens  on  the  half-empty  can  burrowed  from  trip  trap's  stash.  boredom  is  dangerous  ammo  for  someone  as  restless  as  faye  ━━  every  stone  on  the  sidewalk,  every  brick  on  every  building,  every  drink  left  unpoured  serve  as  a  reminder  that  there  is  nothing  to  do  around  a  place  like  fabletown  (  not  unless  she  wants  to  spend  more  nights  in  jail  and,  although  the  sheriff's  company  isn't  as  bad,  the  sleeping  arrangements  leave  much  to  be  desired  )  and  nothing  truly  every  happens  either.

if  you  ignore  the  murder  and  the  constant  thread  of  exposure,  faye  supposes.

another  sigh,  another  sip  of  an  already  warm  beer,  nursed  through  what  feels  like  an  hour  of  merely  existing.  even  the  prospect  of  newfound  company  feels  like  a  curse  to  faye,  muscles  aching  for  something  more  than  walking  around  and  mind  begging  for  something  to  entertain  an  already  numb  brain.  the  would-be-fairy  doesn't  even  look  up  from  the  empty  spot  their  unfocused  eyes  seem  glued  to  as  the  footsteps  gather  close  and  closer  to  her.  "i'm  not  a  sharer  so  if  it's  beer  you're  looking  for,  you  can  keep  on  walkin'."

Madelyn Cline as Sarah Cameron OUTER BANKS — 1.05 'Midsummers'

⸻ king roberon cole welcomes faye darlowe to fabletown—or, as they were once known, tinkerbell from peter pan. before the magic mirror, they come glamoured in the mirage of sitting at the edge of a rooftop, legs swinging, cigarette smoke curling like a spell ⸻ watching the windows of strangers who dream of neverland / walking home through the fog with bare shoulders and blood on her wrists ⸻unbothered & humming lullabies / keeping old ribbons and rusted thimbles in a cracked music box, each one a souvenir from a night she doesn’t remember starting, but always ends alone / pouring sugar into tea she doesn’t drink, stirring it with the same silver pin she once drove through a boy’s heart; they said he’d never grow up ⸻ she made sure of it. the tale from which they hail exalted their independence and boldness, but decried their possessiveness and vengefulness in equal measure. no matter; this time, they shall write their own. in accordance with the fabletown compact, they are granted amnesty for any and all transgressions, even that which is little known: she gave wendy a ribbon, said it was enchanted. every time wendy wore it, she forgot a little more of who she was. wendy thought they were friends. tink thought they were entwined.

DOSSIER & WANTED DYNAMICS

time: almost four o'clock.   location: the trip trap, the crooked mile. status: for @thievesandwitches, @faeritells + 1 open spot(s).

huffing  and  puffing,  tink  cleans  the  bartop  over  and  over  and  over  again.  there  are  a  couple  of  patrons  scattered  on  the  floor  of  trip  trap  and  the  blonde  swings  a  cloth  over  her  shoulder  before  she  calls  out  to  them.  "last  call!"  faye  could  count  with  their  fingers  the  amount  of  minutes  she  wants  to  stay  at  the  goddamn  gala,  later  on.  it  is  a  waste  of  time,  a  signing  of  something  that  does  not  guarantee  mundanes  won't  find  them  ━━  and  when  they  do,  faye  is  going  to  be  the  first  to  call  it  a  day  and  disappear  into  someplace  no  one  will  think  to  look.  they  are  a  lot  of  things  but  they're  not  the  sacrificial  lamb.

the  would  be  fairy  turns  her  back  to  the  door  and  starts  organising  everything  behind  the  counter  top  and  it's  then  that  they  hear  the  door  open  and  close.  "for  fuck's  sake,"  faye  swears  under  her  breath,  eyes  rolling  as  they  turn  to  face  the  reason  for  her  mood  shift.  "it's  almost  closing  time."  hands  on  her  hips,  faye  shifts  her  weight  onto  her  left  leg.  "you  better  not  be  here  to  slowly  nurse  a  glass  of  shitty  whiskey."

fabletown  is  a  small  pond  and  faye  thinks  herself  a  fish  too  big  for  it  ━━  so  it's  no  surprise  that  every  time  the  fibres  of  their  being  are  laced  with  a  kind  of  boredom  too  overwhelming  to  ignore,  people  around  feel  the  shock  wave  of  it  (  and  more  often  than  not,  the  aftermath  is  less  than  good  for  a  couple  of  unfortunate  souls  ━━  it's  a  wrong  place,  wrong  time  sort  of  situation  and  with  something  enticing  enough  for  faye  to  do  something  about  it  ).  peter,  even  with  all  the  history  that  they  share,  might  become  a  victim  just  like  anyone  else.  to  be  fair,  he  approaches  her.  "and  you  are  far  too  dramatic,  peverell."  a  name  foreign  on  her  tongue,  even  with  all  the  decades  of  use  ━━  he  is  peter  pan,  the  boy  who  refused  to  grow  up  and  she  his  trusted  companion.  that  is  how  the  story  goes,  isn't  it?  "please.  we  see  each  other  every  damn  day."  a  chuckle,  a  head  shake  and  a  sip  of  a  beer  that  warms  with  each  second.

every  word  exchanged  still  feels  heavier  than  it  used  to  be.  an  abandon  of  their  home  and  company  left  behind...  faye  knows  better  than  to  believe  all  is  well.  as  much  as  she  hates  it,  actions  have  consequences.  "i  have  my  hobbies  and  i  can  guarantee  none  of  them  will  ever  be  knitting.  have  you  tried  it?"  eyebrows  raise  and  mischief  paints  itself  on  faye's  lips  as  their  blue  eyes  meet  peter's.  then,  the  offer  of  a  sip  of  her  beer.  "genius  is  right."  a  jest,  even  if  there  is  no  lie  to  be  found.  "the  day  has  just  begun.  don't  cheer  just  yet,  peter.  i  might  just  take  your  wallet  next,  see  what  secrets  you've  been  keeping  from  me  and  the  magic  mirror."

peter  slows  when  he  sees  her,  doesn’t  stop  right  away  —  just  enough  for  his  stride  to  falter,  for  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  to  hush.  no  surprise  finding  her  like  this:  sun  going  down,  attitude  rising,  one  foot  on  the  edge  of  a  bad  idea  and  the  other  barely  planted  in  whatever  counted  as  rehabilitation.  he  squints  down  at  her,  cigarette  tucked  behind  his  ear,  a  notebook  wedged  under  one  arm.  the  picture  of  reluctant  responsibility.  “you  wound  me,  darlowe.”  he  drawls,  tone  dry  as  the  sidewalk  she’s  baking  on.  “not  even  a  hello  before  you  threaten  to  hoard  your  shitty  beer ?”  peter  crouches,  not  to  sit,  never  quite  that  relaxed,  but  enough  to  put  himself  just  in  her  line  of  sight,  forearms  balanced  on  his  knees,  mirrored  like  mockery.  his  eyes  skim  the  can  in  her  grip  before  they  flick  up  to  hers.

“you  know,”  he  says,  glancing  around  like  the  scenery  might  surprise  him, “most  people  at  least  pretend  to  find  hobbies  that  don't  involve  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  road.  you  ever  try  knitting ?”  followed  by  a  little  shrug,  not  judgmental,  just  peter:  half  amused,  half  weary,  all  blunt. “but  hey,  if  scowling  at  pavement’s  what’s  keeping  you  from  torching  another  mailbox  or  charming  a  guy  out  of  his  wallet,  who  am  i  to  stop  genius  at  work ?”