nxelles

[nxelles]

[nxelles]

an ever-artistic eye appraises the garment in question as she offers a soft, speculative hum in response. " mhmm... i think i'm seeing the vision. " a beat, before inspiration strikes. the idea dawns across her visage like the sun cresting across the horizon, face alight in a way that can only read as trouble to anyone with firsthand knowledge of noelle and her impulses. " okay, OKAY — hear me out! how open would you be to a cheeky lil' DIY moment, on a scale of one to ten? "

𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗻 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿 / 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻: 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝗼𝘃𝗲𝘀 𝗻’ 𝗴𝗮𝗿𝗺𝘇!

"oooh how about this one?!" sage picks up the t-shirt, studying it for a moment, "i could make it into a t-shirt dress, i've got some sparkly tights that'd work PERFECTLY. thoughts?". her wardrobe was already full to the brim with clothes, but she wanted something new for the party she was attending at the weekend.

[nxelles]

sleep evaded noelle like smoke curling through her outstretched fingers, seemingly within reach but ever-elusive despite her efforts. THIS was a reality she'd come to accept as an inevitability: trying and failing to quell a mind too consumed in a flurry of curiosities and maladaptive reveries to even consider rest as she gazed listlessly at her darkened ceiling. what she's NOT come to terms with are visions of blue eyes and devil-may-care smirks that have consumed her with an alarming degree of commonality, an inconvenient truth that she's buried deep in the recesses of her mind only to take its vengeance by robbing her of well-needed rest. this feeling — the butterflies, the wooziness, the heart threatening to burst from her chest at the mere thought of him — is an old friend and harbinger of certain doom in a single, bewildering package. hands reached instinctively towards her phone before common sense could kick in, tapping out a hasty 'you up?' message on impulse. it'd be several messages (and several minutes spent anxiously pacing about her room) later until a response lit up her notifications — an assurance that he'd sooner be with her than where he actually was. a fuzzy sort of warmth filled her chest at the admission, only to immediately dissipate as alarm bells sounded in the back of her mind. It didn't take a genius to read between the typo-ridden lines — ricky was sloshed. the thought of him leaving the club and navigating home on his own devices, or worse, intending to go to hers only for the WORST to happen ... ... absolutely not. it's with that conviction that she finds herself standing outside of loudmouth, patiently waiting on her best mate to make his grand exit. admittedly, she'd intended on heading inside to find him... if she hadn't missed grabbing her bag — id and all — on the way out, that is. the bouncer who'd been so firm about not allowing her access without has since turned into her very own captive audience, a sounding board to occupy herself with in the interim. her company is long-forgotten, however, as soon as a familiar mop of messy, blonde hair comes into view. her expression immediately brightens as she approaches as casually as if her presence was little more than coincidence, even if they'd both been through this routine enough times to know better. " and who said i felt like i HAD to, hmm? " she hums pointedly, brows raised in speculation as she offers him a gentle, playful nudge with her shoulder. admittedly, she worried more than she let on as she took in his disheveled appearance, the glazed quality in eyes so familiar they might as well be home, but she just barely manages to keep her brow from furrowing and lips from pursing in concern. he didn't need someone to guilt him — he needed someone to CARE. being that someone for him was a task she'd forever take on with pride. " i told you i couldn't sleep. figured getting some fresh air might help, and loudmouth being a couple blocks away was just a happy coincidence. " he likely knows she's lying and she definitely knows it, but noelle is unapologetic all the same. with a petulant huff and a poorly concealed grin, she crosses her arms over her chest whilst chiding him with a playful whine. " oh, c'mon, ricky. i came all this way — least you could do is look happy to see me. "

𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳 : 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃. » 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝟐:𝟑𝟒𝐚𝐦, 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟕𝐭𝐡 𝐣𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲.

if  you  asked  sober  ricky  if  he  would  find  any  enjoyment  in  his  shiftmates  from  the  pub  managing  to  convince  him  to  go  to  loudhouse  —  of  all  places  —  after  they  all  clocked  off,  it'd  be  a  definite  no.  he  enjoyed  the  distraction  of  a  night  out,  don't  get  him  wrong,  but  the  setting  of  a  club  made  him  cringe  these  days.  full  of  students  and  other  baby-faced  hedonists  with  no  responsibility,  all  freshly  eighteen,  nineteen,  twenty  ...  reminding  him  that  he  wasn't  getting  any  younger  and  that  throwing  your  arms  around  'your  boys'  to  scream  along  to  mr  brightside  on  a  packed,  sticky  dancefloor  just  felt  slightly  tragic  for  a  twenty-seven  year  old  to  engage  in. so  why  had  he  been  doing  just  that,  a  mere  twenty  minutes  ago  ?? he's  now  sat  down  in  a  booth  with  darren,  his  slightly  younger  work  ' colleague '  (  if  you  can  call  him  that  )  as  he  chats  his  ear  off,  drug  and  alcohol  induced  rambling  about  nonsense  while  ricky  just  nods  and  agrees,  similarly  high  and  drunk —  he  had  to  be.  he  had  needed  a  buzz  to  put  up  with  this  pounding,  awful  dance  music  and  very  weird  atmosphere. " rick, "  a  third  voice  interjects,  returning  from  a  cig  break  in  the  smoking  area  and  sliding  into  the  booth—  millie,  their  other  companion  for  the  night.  " your  friend's  waiting  outside  for  you,  just  saw  her.  the  pretty  one.  sorry,  i  can't  remember  her  name... " ...  shit. it  takes  him  what  feels  like  an  eternity  to  push  through  the  dancefloor  crowd  and  finally  down  the  stairs  to  the  exit,  where  he  spots  noelle,  innocently  making  conversation  with  a  bouncer. he's  starting  to  remember  the  few  minutes  he  spent  on  his  phone  in  a  toilet  stall,  around  an  hour  ago,  inebriated  replying  to  a  text  from  her  about  how  she  was  struggling  to  sleep.  telling  her  in  response  that  he'd  ditch  in  a  heartbeat  to  hang  out  with  his  best  mate. he  should've  known  that  she'd  panic  about  his  safety  in  light  of  how  intoxicated  he  was.  that  it  wasn't  unusual  for  her  to  show  up  in  situations  like  these,  unexpected  but  needed,  to  help  him  navigate  the  best  outcome  out  of  his  bad  decisions. " ELLE,  you  didn't  have  to  come  meet  me, "  he  slurs,  trying  to  focus  his  gaze.  " i  would've...  booked  an  uber.  would've  been  fine,  mate ... i'm a grown man. can take care of meself, " he continues, a feeling akin to guilt swirling in the pit of his stomach. @nxelles

[nxelles]

❛ ✰ · » yandeh sallah,  cis female,  she/her «  i  wonder  where  noelle woodbury is  today  …  i  haven't  seen  them  around  but  i  bet  they're  idly doodling her day away  over  at  redwood park.  ah,  our  beloved  fervour  …  for  a  twenty-seven  year  old  they've  never  grown  out  of  being  so  impetuous.  don't  get  me  wrong,  though,  they're  also  so  captivating,  which  makes  up  for  it.  keep  an  eye  out,  anyway,  i'm  sure  they're  on  their  way.  you'll  know  it's  elle  coming  from  a  mile  away,  because  they're  the  walking  embodiment  of  candy  hearts  melting  on  the  tongue, doodling hearts in the margins of a well-loved notebook, galaxies twinkling behind wide, brown eyes, & blood-red kisses pressed onto the back of unsent envelopes.

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𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 —

a gust of wind floating through gossamer curtains  // lost in the throes of delusion // conversation hearts in their saccharine sweetness, melting on the tongue // the flirtatious flutter of long lashes // lipstick marks pressed to the backs of unsent envelopes // juliet, crying to the moon from the safety of her balcony // la vie en rose // tendrils of mist, ever-elusive as it slips right through your reach // mascara-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes // a raging hurricane, creeping towards shore // leaps of blind faith // endlessly in pursuit of a retreating back // losing yourself in sweet reveries // braids coyly twirled around a manicured finger // enduring faith in love at first sight // the back of a hand pressed to the forehead followed by heavy, dramatic sighs // who could ever leave me, darling, but who could stay?

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬 —

full name  —  noelle evelyn woodbury nickname(s)  —  elle age  —  twenty-seven date of birth  —  3 March, 1998 star sign  —  pisces gender  —  cis female pronouns  —  she/her/hers orientation  —  pansexual & panromantic occupation  —  aspiring artist hairdresser religious affiliation  —  unlabelled, but effectively agnostic family  —  terrence woodbury (father — estranged); esther bartley ( mother ); a couple of younger half-siblings and stepmother from her father’s second marriage face claim  —  yandeh sallah

𝐛𝐢𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐲 —

there's a sweet sort of sadness in your earliest acts of self-sacrifice, a poignancy in the agonizing task of lighting yourself aflame time and time again in the name of keeping others warm. thus is the burden of the unwanted child — the save the marriage baby — desperate to fill in cracks and holes in the sinking ship that was your parents' marriage. yours is a constant dance on a precarious tightline, side-stepping landmines and tiptoeing on eggshells while you dazzle and distract; desperate to fulfill the herculean task of thawing the ice that'd long since settled on the eaves of your childhood home only to inevitably fall short of the mark every single time, there's a deep sense of inadequacy that sinks deep into your bones as the cold war continues to rage behind closed doors. it's never enough. why is it that you never manage to be enough? it's sometime around your eighth birthday that the bow breaks — an image you'll never be able to erase from your mind. your father storming out into the inky night, his back illuminated in the flickering porch light until the slam of the door behind him shakes the house to its foundation; there’s a finality about it that’s only further proven when the news of the divorce comes in a matter of days. with little time to devote to single fatherhood, the decision is made that he'd concede primary custody to your mother. you’re inconsolable — a wailing, pitiful mess for months to follow. and yet, you comply... a reluctant concession. life won't all roses in the seaside town she relocates to — her hometown — with your mother makes pennies on the dollar working as a seamstress, struggling and miserable while your father remarries and has two more kids that now occupy your childhood bedroom. He seems… content, nowadays, while the sharp tang of resentment fills the air around your mother like a storm cloud looming overhead. you try to ignore the sting of betrayal, the weight of being utterly replaceable, only break your own heart in the process. it's easier to exist in the far recesses in your mind, wrapping yourself in sweet reveries and dissociative bliss, than it is to accept the gaping wound that is your heart still furiously beating in your chest. Wishful thinking becomes reality as you straddle between the real world and the world of your own creation — a world where love conquers all and where there's someone out there that'll be willing to fill in your empty spaces, where good things come to good people and there's someone out there for everyone. there's a dreaminess about you, an intangibility in the distance in your eyes — the manic pixie dream girl with stars in her eyes and a heart given away too freely, an unpredictable rollercoaster of intoxicating highs and equally devastating lows, the romantic hero of your very own novel just waiting to be swept away in fate's grand design. romanticizing your life isn't just the whimsy most may see, but an act of survival. you're a magnetic force with a heart so occupied by everything that it's ready to burst at any second, feeling so deeply that all of it — the joy, the fury, the yearning — threatens to swallow you whole. it's no wonder why you find friends so easily, you enigmatic thing. it's no wonder that you never seem to stay single for long, wanting to be wanted so badly that you'll fall into whatever arms wait for you in the hopes that they'll be the one to finally complete you. it's no wonder how you turn to art as a means of expressing feelings too intense to put into words, choosing to expose them in broad splashes of color and ethereal imagery as if to afford others access into that dreamscape of your mind. your fire casts those around you in brilliant light, wrapping them in familiar warmth so long as they don't reach too close to touch. but fire devours, devastates, and you wonder how many flights of fancy and re-breaking of that raging heart it'll take until those flame leave you little more than ash and smoke, drifting in the wind.

𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 —

meet noelle! all emotion and passion, intensely romantic and desperately clinging to every bit of idealism she can hold onto, she admittedly has a reputation of being a little... well, much, from time to time.

As mentioned above, she wound up feeling very unwanted by her parents, which fueled a drive to carving a place out for herself among friends and peers. She has the tendency of being a clingy, needy friend and a serial dater, and will often go to great lengths in the name of keeping people in her life.

Quick to upset, quick to anger… quick to anything, really — she’s a hurricane, personified. The one thing she isn’t quick to is changing her mind — she’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide, and clings to her convictions like there’s no tomorrow. 

Most of her ‘good ideas’ end up being ridiculous and poorly thought out fever dreams — 10/10 do not recommend following along with her schemes unless you’re eager to clean up her messes or are looking for trouble.

She has a passion and talent for art and went so far make a career out of it out of school, but that lasted all of a couple of months until she realized she didn’t have the constitution for the ‘starving artist’ lifestyle. Hairdressing ended up being a compromise, but it’s not quite fulfilling enough for her. 

I've got tons of potential plot hooks listed at the bottom of her dossier (linked at the top of the post!) — feel free to take any and all if you're looking to get sucked up into her messiness!

[nxelles]

i want and i want i desire with chasm soul i want and i want              and i cannot have so i tell myself it is enough i tell myself i can bear the cold and that the hollowness does not ache

[nxelles]

[nxelles]

“She was always daydreaming. She never wanted to live in the real world; she always seemed to be separated from other children her age. They couldn’t understand her or her imagination. She was always thinking outside of the box, breaking rules, and only following what her heart told her was right.”

— Shannon A. Thompson, November Snow

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[nxelles]

Janet Fitch, from White Oleander

[nxelles]