pls feel free to reach out to me here or on discord if you'd like to plot. i'm still working on her connections page and such.
lovie simone. twenty-six. cis woman. she/her. ｡:゜★｡ hey, is that radcliff's very own VIRTUOSO ? yup, i'd recognize NAOMI ELLISONs face anywhere. if you twisted my arm and asked me to describe them, i’d say they’re incredibly INDOMINDABLE, INSECURE, PERCEPTIVE, SELF CRITICAL, and they always seem to be carrying around a PAIR OF WIRELESS EARBUDS for some reason. kind of weird, right ? when they hit play on their walkman, you just know it’s FAST CAR by TRACY CHAPMAN tickling their eardrums ——— a creature of habit, maybe ? they have the same peculiar energy as THE GOLDEN HAZE OF A LATE SUMMER EVENING, THE WARMTH OF BORROWED FLANNEL, THE GLOW OF THE GAS STATION SIGN AT 2AM, THE LAST BOOTH AT THE DINER, HANDWRITTEN LINER NOTES and work at scratch that with all the other losers. shit ! that’s them … i guess they’re about to clock in for their dreadfully long shift. well, good luck to ‘em.
lovie simone. twenty-six. cis woman. she/her. ｡:゜★｡ hey, is that radcliff's very own VIRTUOSO ? yup, i'd recognize NAOMI ELLISONs face anywhere. if you twisted my arm and asked me to describe them, i’d say they’re incredibly INDOMINDABLE, INSECURE, PERCEPTIVE, SELF CRITICAL, and they always seem to be carrying around a PAIR OF WIRELESS EARBUDS for some reason. kind of weird, right ? when they hit play on their walkman, you just know it’s FAST CAR by TRACY CHAPMAN tickling their eardrums ——— a creature of habit, maybe ? they have the same peculiar energy as THE GOLDEN HAZE OF A LATE SUMMER EVENING, THE WARMTH OF BORROWED FLANNEL, THE GLOW OF THE GAS STATION SIGN AT 2AM, THE LAST BOOTH AT THE DINER, HANDWRITTEN LINER NOTES and work at scratch that with all the other losers. shit ! that’s them … i guess they’re about to clock in for their dreadfully long shift. well, good luck to ‘em.
what’s the one thing your coworkers would be shocked to learn about you? "they’d be surprised to know that underneath this confident front, i’m terrified of not living up to expectations. i guess i’ve spent so long pretending to have it all together that it’s easy to forget i’m still figuring it out, just like everyone else. sometimes, when i’m alone, that fear is too loud to ignore, and it makes me question everything i’m doing. but it’s not something i let people see."
what’s your biggest weakness? "i have a hard time asking for help, even when i need it. i keep everything to myself, thinking it’s easier that way, like i don’t want to burden anyone with my stuff. the problem is, it can get pretty lonely. i know it’s something i need to work on, but i’m just not there yet."
if you could steal one item from the record store and keep it forever without anyone knowing, which item would you pick? "i’d take the old, scratched-up copy of “what’s going on” by marvin gaye. it’s worn and almost unplayable, but there’s something about it—something about the way it feels like it’s lived through the same things i have. i’d never admit it, but there’s a quiet strength in that record that reminds me of my mom, of the way she never gave up, even when things were hard. i think it would be my secret companion, something to hold on to when the world feels too heavy."
Here’s a lil bio i wrote, pls listen to fast car while reading for a full auditory experience:
naomi ellison was born early during a thunderstorm in radcliff, indiana, in a trailer that rattled like a tin can under a sky split with lightning. her mother, valerie, had just turned nineteen—tired, terrified, and completely alone in a sterile hospital room with linoleum floors and flickering lights. but when naomi was placed in her arms, small and blinking, barely finished, valerie smiled through it all. her hospital bracelet still clung to her wrist like a tether to the moment her life changed.
they didn’t have much—not money, not space, not time—but their home pulsed with music and grit. old records spun through the trailer day and night: dianna, otis, nina, dolly—voices so full of soul they bled through the walls like a prayer. music was church, therapy, and lullaby all in one. and from the time naomi could sit up, valerie would whisper into her curls, "you're gonna do something big, baby." like it was prophecy. like she knew.
her first violin was a chipped, warping relic, bought secondhand with tip money and valerie’s old high school ring. naomi didn’t care. she had perfect pitch—a natural instinct for tone and key—and taught herself to play by ear. no lessons, no sheet music. just her fingers, her ears, and the sound of the world around her. she could hear a song once and play it back without blinking, scribble down melodies on diner napkins, write harmonies in her head while restocking cereal at the grocery store.
she matched pitch to birdsong, to passing trains, to her mother’s tired humming in the next room. and when the world felt too loud or too quiet, she took her violin out to the field behind the trailer, where corn stalks swayed like an audience, and played until the sky turned soft.
by twenty-six, naomi had traded childhood stage fright for cautious self-control. she works at scratch that, the only record store in radcliff, nestled right between the happy fork diner and nine lives arcade—the unofficial hub for all the weirdos, freaks, and nerds. the place smells like cardboard, old vinyl, and burnt coffee from the diner next door. she knows what people need before they say it: a breakup album, a road trip mixtape, a reason to feel something again. her coworkers call her cool, unshakeable, like she’s got it all figured out—but most of that is smoke. naomi wears confidence like eyeliner: visible, intentional, and easy to smudge if you look too close.
when she’s not at the shop, she volunteers at the senior center where valerie still works part-time. naomi plays there on sunday mornings, easing aching bodies and distant memories with soft melodies. her favorite listener is mr. clemons, a jazz pianist who once played on chicago radio. he tells her she’s got something real—something honest. she pretends not to care, but she plays even better after.
naomi wants out of radcliff. not because it’s broken, but because she’s outgrown it in that aching, terrifying way that makes your bones hum. she dreams of cities with open mic nights and rooftop jams, of subways and soul food at 3am. but every time she thinks about leaving, something clenches. valerie’s tired hands. that damn trailer. that quiet promise she hasn’t broken but hasn’t fulfilled either.
so she fakes it. says she’s “figuring things out.” tells herself she’s waiting. but she’s scared—of being forgotten, of being seen too clearly, of flying too far and not knowing how to land.naomi ellison was born in a storm. and even now, it’s still inside her—rising, restless, waiting to break.
naomi wasn’t supposed to be out this late, or at least that’s what she told herself every time the sky went dark and the streetlights flickered on like tiny, watchful eyes. but there was something about the glow of the nine lives arcade sign tonight — flickering in and out like a heartbeat — that made her pause.she pulled her phone from the pocket of her old denim jacket, the one with a frayed cuff she kept meaning to fix, and angled it toward the sign. but it wasn’t just the sign. it was the way the light hit the puddle by the curb, the reflection turning it into some kind of neon watercolor.
"okay, that's... stupidly pretty," she mumbled to herself, snapping a photo and then another. she was already mentally captioning it, something like small town magic, or at least the illusion of it. naomi tugged her bandana down from where it kept threatening to slide off her hair and took a step back, eyes flicking over the quiet, near-empty street. she didn’t notice the figure approaching until—
₊˚⊹ ㅤa collection of character analysis/headcanon questions to learn more about your character and your partners'! writing/headcanon prompts requested by anonymous. feel free to edit these as you see fit.
[ 🖐️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat do their hands feel like: soft, calloused, trembling ?
[ ☂️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they crave touch or fear it ?
[ 🎐 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a sound, like a song or voice, that they associate with peace ?
[ 🕊️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen did they feel the safest ?
[ 💤 ]ㅤ.ㅤhow do they sleep ? curled up, sprawled, holding onto something ?
[ 🦇 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a fear they never talk about ?
[ 🔒 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a secret they’ve sworn never to tell ?
[ 🪢 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen was the last time they broke a promise ?
[ 🫳 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho do they feel they owe, but never paid back ?
[ 💼 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat do they always carry with them ?
[ 🧨 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the quickest way to set them off, even if they hide it well ?
[ ⛓️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does guilt feel like to them ?
[ 💢 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho have they never forgiven and never will ?
[ 🩸 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there something or someone that, if lost, would break them ?
[ 🌧️ ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a pain they refuse to heal from ?
[ 🪞 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen have they looked at their reflection and hated what they saw ?
[ 📿 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat superstition or ritual do they cling to ?
[ 🌊 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen was the last time they cried ?
[ 🐾 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo animals like them instinctively ?
[ 🪶 ]ㅤ.ㅤhow do they laugh ?
[ 🫀 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho taught them what love is ? did it hurt ?
[ 💭 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they believe they’re worthy of being loved ?
[ 🎀 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is their main love language ?
[ 🔦 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho do they search for ?
[ 📜 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a story they love sharing with others ?
[ 🌒 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a dream or goal they have given up on ?
[ 🕯️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat memory do they replay when they’re alone ?
[ 🌪️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the one choice they regret (not) making ?
[ 🧩 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s a truth about themselves they refuse to admit ?
[ 🍻 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of drunk are they ?
[ ✉️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of letter would they write but never send ?
[ 🗡️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a scar that they have but never talk about ?
[ 🕸️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a favourite lie they like to hear ?
[ 🪦 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat would they want on their gravestone but never admit aloud ?
[ 🎱 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of future do they crave, and who’s in it ?
[ 🌀 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a recurring dream or nightmare ?
[ 🍃 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they feel like they belong ?
[ ⚓ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does “home” mean to them ?
[ 🧭 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhere would they go if they could disappear tomorrow ?
she's sitting in a corner booth, all by herself. a notebook is in front of her, with drawing idly sketched on them. she's not the best artist, but she likes it, likes the way she gets caught up in it. she's never really explored her creative side, but she likes to dabble in it occasionally. nellie looks up when she hears the bell ring, indicating that someone has entered the diner. she's about to look back down, but her eyes catch hold of the person. a smile graces her face and she's raising a hand, letting out a call of their name. they should be able to hear her through all the chatter and the music coming from the jukebox. "want some company?" she asks when the person makes their way over to her.
the second she heard her name, naomi’s head snapped up, and there was nellie — tucked into that corner booth like she was waiting on her, like this was their spot and the whole world didn’t even matter outside those scuffed vinyl seats. she slid into the booth, a little clumsy, her eyes landed on the sketchbook first, and she grinned. it wasn’t good. it was… honestly kind of terrible in the most endearing way possible. her grin softened as her foot brushed against nellie’s under the table, a little tap she pretended was an accident but left there just a second too long. wow," naomi started, leaning in like she was inspecting priceless art. "look at you. frickin' renaissance woman. tell me, i wanna guess—it's a dragon. a very abstract, existentially confused dragon.""and, uh," she cleared her throat, tucking some hair behind her ear, "just so you know, if you ever do decide to draw me, i’d like to formally request to be depicted dramatically holding a violin on a mountaintop at sunset.. "
listening to music with headphones is so awesome especially when it shoots straight into your brain and you can pick out all its little layers like sandwich ingredients
marley: hey babe, what's our festival plan? i'm trying to do some planning and also go shopping for costumes.
marley: I can't figure out what we wanna be. What do you think? @taylincolnhq
marley: hey thank you for your sweet note in my locker about invitationals.
marley: I worked really hard on that solo.
marley: how've you been? @jessetm
