hand frozen mid air, hanging there where his bag of marshmallows once was, casio had to take a careful breath in, before he entertained the idea of turning around. it was the last item on his list, a reward for doing his and zavian’s grocery shopping for the week. it was his.
sliding down the mask called charm, casio turned around with an easy smile on his face. “and why might that be?” casio didn’t play about his s’mores ingredients, “if it’s close to expiring I don’t mind none, I’ll be gobblin’ them up faster than a turkey cluck its last cluck on thanksgiving.” he held out his hand expectantly.
a long, theatrical sigh, dragged from his chest as if burdened by regret, though the glint in his eye makes a mockery of it. he glances at casio's outstretched hand, lets the silence spool out just long enough to feel exasperating. "you see, the problem is... i really want it. so--" a careless shrug. "it's mine." he brings the bag forward, lazily tossing it between his hands, the bag crackling softly in his hands as he speaks. "employees take priority this week because we're such hard workers." an old awareness lies between the two, the kind forged in empty hallways and cafeteria fights, which sharpens scott's grin like a blade. "besides, new store policy says we can't sell to cobain knock-offs. i'm sorry, dude."
cecil sighs softly when he sees her, but it's too late to avoid the interaction now. "i know where you're from. we talked about this last time, remember? i don't need saving." direct, not unkind. before his brother's death, he would have described himself as spiritual. now, he believes in next to nothing, himself included. he steps a foot back, preparing to close the door, but something stops him. maybe some unacknowledged need for connection, or just how unassuming she looks standing there, like she's never hurt anyone in the world. "who puts you up to this? your parents?"
though she'd braced herself for the dismissal, the cool edge in his voice lands somewhere tender, and her shoulders sink with disappointment. "i don't... like that insinuation, cecil." the words are quiet, but she firmly stands by them. how could she get anyone to believe in her, if they thought she didn't believe in herself? slowly, her hands fold over one another. "no one makes me do anything." cecil isn't the only person in red creek to have lost loved ones, but grief is complex, and some live inside it for years before realising the house has no door. to bridget, there is no cruelty more final than the soul that no longer aches for its own reunion. so, he is wrong, she is right! he does need saving! "don't you think light always belongs where it's dimmest?"
she grabs him by the sleeve of his shirt, other hand pawing for the box of fettuccini he'd stolen. "it is for sale, you little shit. who raised you to snatch groceries right out of a lady's hand?" january is no lady, but he doesn't need to know that... unless he already does, which wouldn't exactly surprise her. one of the few things bigger than this boy's audacity might be the jordan family's reputation in red creek. "listen, i spent all day making a bolognese sauce just to figure out i'm out of the most important thing i need to actually eat it, and right now i'm running on cigarettes and bad coffee, so unless you plan on me following you home and ruining your night, hand it over."
he jerks back with all the exaggerated grace of a sitcom husband dodging a flying pan, arm rolling backwards. "slow your roll, lady, i'm spoken for." though he couldn't say for certain whether his fiancée would be waiting for him at home, or if she even came home last night. "oh my, not the jordan family's homemade bolognese sauce! well, why didn't you just say so, jan?!" the words roll off his lips, voice lifting into something both affected and theatrical. then, his arm stretches outward, the motion full of offhanded bravado that begs for an audience, dangling the box of fettuccini in front of her. "here... it's yours." one side of his mouth twists into a roguish smirk, betraying the thought already forming: if she reached for it, he'd pull the box back just to watch her miss.
thank god for blackout curtains, one of the few good investments that akihiko has made in their life. not that there are many others, but it's because of the curtains that they can sleep through the sunrise and a good couple of hours ( or more ) after. when the knock on the door comes, they aren't quite as deeply asleep, and get up with a groan, haphazardly put on a tattered navy dressing gown, and make their way towards the entrance to their apartment. it takes a few seconds for them to register what the piece of paper is, aided by the other's words. "... does that ever work?" they pan, a hand going up to card through messy strands of hair, pushing it away from their face. "or do you do it because it makes you feel better?"
"yes, aki, it does work. thank you!" bridget huffs, shoulders bunching beneath the puff of her coat, a pink flush rising to her cheeks. "ugh, you can be so mean sometimes." there was something uniquely unbearable in being scrutinized -- not cruelly, but plainly -- by someone unbothered by the fictions she told herself. the notion that goodness could be hollowed by intention, that selflessness might still carry the scent of self, lodged somewhere sharp in her thinking. she’d been taught that virtue was in the doing, not the feeling. and yet… she did feel good. better. seen. "i really don't want to believe you've just woken up," she says, tugging her winter coat closer and letting out a deliberate sniff, hoping it'll encourage an invitation into their home. "it's well past noon."
She’d been sitting at the piano, plunking out the notes to one of the few songs she could still pull from memory, when she heard the knock at the door. It made her heart stop mid-beat, her veins suddenly ice cold, lungs empty. And then she thought- if someone wanted to kill her, they wouldn’t let the flimsy deadbolt on her apartment door stop them. Peeking through the eyehole, she almost audibly groaned, wishing she hadn’t been making so much noise before, so that she might pretend no one was home. Begrudgingly, she placed the sweetest, warmest smile on her face, slid the lock, and stepped to the side. “Bridget! How nice to see you. I don’t have a ton of time to chat, but why don’t you come in, have some coffee?” She didn’t want to talk about the lord and the saving of her soul, but it felt unneighborly to turn her back into the cold- especially when there was so much uncertainty in the air.
she knows it's just pleasantries, how nice to see you, but she can’t help the way it warms her from the inside out, a gentle sort of giddiness blooming behind her ribs, quiet and unexpected. it widens her smile, pleased to have done something good today. "oh, can i?" she says, already halfway inside, the warmth of the doorway brushing her cheek as the floor shifts faintly beneath her shoes. "you won't believe how... freaking rude some people have been this morning. martin yelled at me... martin! i couldn't believe it. i'll tell you what, i won't be buying any of his cupcakes at the next bake sale." she doesn’t realise how much she needed to get it off her chest until the words have already left her mouth, hanging there like steam. then, in a desperate attempt to not make juliet regret her decision, her gaze moves through the room, catching on the piano — old, lovely, quiet in its corner. "... you have a lovely home!"
open starter with: charlotte
setting: lakeside grill, 6:30pm, 2 days after halloween
Her finger trailed along the edge of the wine glass as she stared off into the distance, too exhausted to do anything more than stare, breathe, and occasionally lift the glass. It was quiet at the grill, which was no great surprise, given the events of the previous days. With good reason, it seemed a significant part of the town had sequestered themselves in their homes, but Charlotte, who had pushed off a grocery trip until the day after Halloween, found herself with mostly bare cabinets, and no energy to cook. Instead of home-cooked, tonight it would be to-go orders eaten out of plastic containers on their living room couch. She’d just raised her glass to her lips when she heard the barstool beside her creak, and though every neuron fired at once, telling her to run, she found herself calmly looking over at her new neighbor at the bar, a welcoming smile on her lips. “It’s nice to see someone else in here. I was starting to feel like an asshole, making all these people work when there’s some criminal on the loose. At least if they get us in here, it’ll be a somewhat classy affair.” Oops- too casual, she thought, kicking herself. Few people wanted casual small talk during tragedy, and even fewer wanted jokes at tragedy’s expense. “I just mean we’re probably safe in here,” she said again, her easy-breezy facade somewhat cracked, but still inappropriately cheery. “Can't stay cooped up forever, anyway."
the whistle that leaves his lips belongs to a town prepping for the holidays, not one in mourning. it's the kind you'd expect from someone cleaning up a messy cottage with help from forest animals. scott, balancing two plates against his forearms, something fried slipping across the edge, makes no mess when he drops everything down next to her. "pffft." glass pressed to his lips, he breathes the sound into it, low and amused, as the snort fogs the rim. he isn't sure which concept is more comical: charlotte being an asshole or a criminal on the loose in red creek. still, it was nice to be around someone who wasn't such a bummer. "why would you coop up, anyway? we've got nothing to be scared of." two chips pinched between fingers, each one dunked in ketchup, dotting red marks around the plate like small, departing footprints, before they're launched into his mouth. "only a real dipshit would try something funny with these--" cue two strong pats to curled biceps, mouth full, "--beasts around. aren't i right, lotts?"
the hand barely touches the item before scott zooms past in a blur, careless and grinning, as he snatches it out from their grasp. "nuh uh, no can do." spoken in an easy drawl, too casual to argue with. he doesn't even break stride -- just tosses the item up, once, then catches it behind his back. "this isn't for sale," he lies. the item, which was the last one remaining, is tucked under his arm as he lifts his shoulders into a lazy shrug. "you'll just have to come back tomorrow."
// ( spencer house . cis man . he/him ) . ⸻ scott kelly, a twenty eight year old, has survived another day in red creek where they have lived for all his life. the dogtooth is known for being energetic and immature and is often associated with inlaid signet cufflinks abandoned in a cracked bathroom sink, spilled champagne fizzing across a persian rug, love letters ripped in half and taped back together. in a small town where they work as stocker at red creek grocery, word travels fast. it’s hard to keep a secret, and it looks like the boogeyman knows that 😉
🏈 SUMMARY:
the kellys are modern-day land barons, real estate kings with billboards across the state, shaking hands with politicians who owed them favours. his mother campaigned, his father negotiated. the entire household revolves around maintaining a spotless public image.
scott and his brother were raised to be proof that the kellys produced winners. the problem was, school never made sense to him. every bad grade tightened the atmosphere at home. football became his fix. the field became his world. his ego ballooned. he became the loud, reckless, star athlete -- jerk jock, hometown ego, the kid who believed the world bent for him.
then, his heart betrayed him. the condition ended his football future before it truly began. college fell apart. drugs filled the space football left behind. his early return home was framed as 'temporary' but everyone in town saw the truth.
back under his parents’ roof, he slid easily into old habits and older immaturities. he never learned how to be an adult. he only learned how to be adored at seventeen. the family business tried to absorb him, but he couldn’t focus, couldn’t commit, couldn’t care. his older brother cleaned up the messes, each one heavier than the last.
most of his twenties were spent running from responsibilities -- holidays in europe, whirlwind marriages with women that speak different language, and divorces a couple of months later. he’s just returned from italy with a new fiancée he barely knows, insisting this time is different. it never is.
the kellys, tired of damage control, finally snapped. they threatened to cut him off entirely if he divorces again, and forced him to take a job, any job, for at least a year. so now scott stocks shelves at red creek grocery, which he does not take seriously.
careless, spoiled, entitled, and insecure, he’s a man stuck in the amber of his own past. his peak was a friday night under stadium lights, and now lives as a cautionary tale. loud when he’s nervous, reckless when he’s bored, he drinks too much, acts before he thinks, and never fully understands how much trouble he’s in until it’s too late.
🕺 WCS:
people he wasn't too kind to in high school, who he is trying to befriend now since it's a small town and he's bored to death!!!
employees of the grocery store who either: cannot stand his guts, patiently teach him how to do normal things, get involved in his chaos.
a high school friend, who was equally as horrible as him, who also peaked too early and they overcompensate together by continuing to be menaces. or they moved on, and he obviously hasn't.
perhaps an ex from high school, who was different to his usual friend group. stayed together to college until he dropped out due to no longer being able to play football.
setting: outside your character's front door, a few days after halloween
bridget stands on the step with a smile stretched across her face -- bright, though a touch uncertain. it isn't doubt, she believes every word she carries. but she wonders if this is the right time to share it, when heather's passing split through the town. the townfolk rarely took well to this kind of thing on a good day. still, her parents insisted that made now as good a time as any to spread the good word. as the door opens, she braces herself, holding out a folded pamphlet with both hands. "hi! i'm with the redemption chapel, and i was wondering if you had a minute to talk about jesus christ, our lord and saviour?"
tldr : caleb & your muse find themselves at the redemption chapel , two souls meeting in dire times tragedy .
dawn befalls town , sickly glow to the clouds scattered across the horizon - there's an undeniable hesitancy in it , as well . as if the divine powers themselves unsure how to proceed from given circumstances . heather had been found , cold as the fear she held in her eyes . it had caleb wondering . . . but perhaps that wasn't the ultimate approach for someone of his profession , perhaps he was meant to believe - believe in a higher power , in a right fixing what had been wronged , to guide the herd through misery . albeit there was agony ever lingering , alike a thick coat of dust fighting to not bury everything all and beneath it . " awake so soon , child ? " , timber softly echoes through the rows of the near empty chapel . though almost too big . . . too raw for them both , it held a certain kind of comfort meant towards consolidation .
a small gasp breaks from her. "father caleb..." bridget startles upright, a hand flying to her throat, pearls of breath gathering there. his silhouette sits askew against the chapel light. she watches him like one watches a painting hung crooked: with reverence and unease, carefully tucked behind polite shadows, where even god might miss it. "i couldn't stop thinking about heather." the pew's wood is cold through her shawl. she sits smaller than usual, spine bowed, gloved fingers worrying the edge of her veil before lifting it off. "i thought maybe if i came early, i’d find answers. or quiet. or…" the candlelight flickers as she swallows once. "i don’t... i don't know what i thought." and, much to her dismay, she still doesn't know what to think. for the first time, she fails to find peace in the chapel, as the hush presses too tightly around her. could this be her first test of faith? despite herself, she looks to him for guidance. "do you think she knew..? when it happened. do you think she had time to be afraid, or did the lord just… take her?"
// ( madeleine madden . cis woman . she/her ) . ⸻ bridget-mae lyles, a twenty five year old, has survived another day in red creek where they have lived for all her life. the devout is known for being passionate and punctilious and is often associated with a radio sermon murmuring between the tick of the oven timer, the hush of curtains drawn after smiling at the neighbours, bare shoulders under a borrowed cardigan. in a small town where they work as church secretary at redemption chapel, word travels fast. it’s hard to keep a secret, and it looks like the boogeyman knows that 🙊.
⛪ SUMMARY:
nothing every happens in redcreek, but the lyles made a whole life out of pretending it did. sunday potlucks were treated like state dinners. a bake sale scuffle became a prayer chain emergency. this community meant a great deal to them.
her parents, proud lifelong members of redemption chapel, treat religion as both a moral compass and social strategy. god was watching, but so were the neighbours. overall, they were loving. perhaps their worst sin, at least when it comes to bridget, was their overbearingness.
she was raised in a house built on righteousness, where she confused morality with obedience. love was earned through goodness. in turn, kindness became weaponised against herself, and her worth was measured through service and agreeableness.
bridget's faith is heartfelt but brittle. it structures her days: sunday service, choir, bake sales, yet leaves little room for self-forgiveness. she confuses discipline for devotion, believing spiritual health can be earned through doing everything right.
she interprets all emotions through a religious framework: sin, temptation, grace. but where she preaches forgiveness, charity and empathy, she sometimes fails to put it into practice, and often privately holds grudges or looks down on people who don't agree with her (passed on from her parents) idea of what it means to be a good citizen, or a good woman. she insists she’s selfless and longsuffering, but secretly enjoys the moral high ground it gives her.
a complete and utter control freak. let go and let god, she says, then rewrites the chapel bulletin three times. also a huge gossip...
represses any longing for a bigger, more expansive life, feeling guilty for craving more than her small town routine, believing her desires means she's failing in humility or gratitude.
but she couldn't help but be enticed by exploring this in online chatrooms... as 'heavenlymask777' she could be anyone, and the number of people she could reach was extraordinary.
besides this, her life is filled with little acts of devotion -- mostly because she’s terrified of what might happen if she stops. she thinks being "good" is the only thing keeping her safe, keeping her worthy, keeping her wanted.
🖥️ WCS:
would love for her to butt heads with someone who's the complete opposite ( chaotic, rule-breaking, not uptight at all ) and who isn’t afraid to call her out on her hypocrisy. preferably fem or fem-presenting. bridget can’t stand their behavior, but can’t stop watching either.
someone she befriended in an online chatroom, where they shared a lot of deep conversations, and their identities remain anonymous. maybe they agreed to meet up, somewhere out of town, but bridget bailed after seeing who they were, or vice versa!
her long term boyfriend. they've been together since middle school and everyone thinks they're perfect for each other. they walk hand in hand as they knock on people's doors on a saturday morning. he's supportive and far too good to her, though equally as emotionally repressed, which makes her feel guilty for wishing their relationship felt like something more. time to put a ring on it!
the roommate who drives her absolutely insane but she hasn't kicked them out yet because 1) bridget is hard to live with and it took forever to get the space filled 2) she's trying super hard to be understanding about it all.
someone in high school who called her frigid bridget xoxo
snowghoul
kaledo-art
theartofmadeline
prguitarman
janainaart
gummygunk
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
titsay
