Mole

What Are You Listening To?

Things are better if I stay, so long and good night.

What Are You Listening To?

Friday night, fun night.

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

But, despite his getting older, the women he kept company with stayed the same age. He could hear her giggling behind him, the strawberry blonde in thick eyeliner.

Lord Wraith

This was such a good line. I love how you write Jag’s dialogue, as well. It’s so sharp to his personality, @Lord Wraith.

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

^{eleanor hill • the author.....| .....#daa520 .008
studio apartment • 591 franklin avenue, nyc > marquee sky deck}

It wasn’t her first time going to something fancy. Thanks to rich Palestinian churchgoers and her parents’ Ivy League faculty–invitation soirées, these gala-type events were just another dime in the bag.

Except this one was different.

“I’m wearing a little black dress,” Elly was saying to Spencer. He was all up in arms that she dressed her best—spend more money than necessary on a new outfit.

“Like the one your mom gifted you five years ago for Christmas? The one you distinctly said was from Marshall’s, and also the one you wore on our first date?”

How did he remember this stuff? It was as if he was a character written for a manic woman’s novel exposé. Some part of her—the one deep down, knew she would be making a revengeful twist on him in a future novel, if she ever got there.

But the thought dissipated as she considered what she was going to say next.

“Coco Chanel believed adamantly in the little black dress. And theologically, philosophically, sociologically, neither of us can argue with her. She came up with the idea after being taught by nuns.”

She paused for emphasis. Sometimes, Elly could be a charlatan too.

“And what do nuns typically wear? A black dress or garb, if you want to be specific. It’s the pinnacle of attire. Almost all major fashion designers wear entirely black when making debuts. Why do you think it’s called a black-tie event?”

She was rambling drunkenly in protest, and Spencer finally relented.

“Pearls, too?” She could hear Spencer’s eyes rolling.

“Ye—yes!” She was getting somewhere with him. All she needed was some nice accessories, like that Tiffany’s necklace Fr. Ewan — or Ewan had given her randomly after one of her informal, pining social media posts about Humanity Majors affording luxury jewelry.

It felt like cheating to wear it, but then again, if there was any time, this event would be the event to make its first appearance. And then, of course, she completed the look with a pair of matching earrings as a gift to herself.

Elly had not bothered to wear the jewelry. They stayed put like some menagerie of what she wanted her future to be, even though she was constantly following penniless writers for what seemed like reasons to drink herself to death.

Whatever direction—she was willingly gambling for the former.

“Purse. You need a fun purse. Don’t go Betsey Johnson. Too economical.”

Spoken as if he was Bret Easton Ellis.

It was conversations that flowed like this that made Elly feel like they were made for each other. No one else connected with her like this—these micro-shifts in references.

“My mom gave me a Kate Spade purse that’s shaped like a boo—”

“Does your mom buy you all your clothes?”

He asked for the umpteenth time.

Talking about her clothes made Spencer feel less like a boyfriend and more like a girlfriend.

Why was he like this?

“Yes, like a good suburban mother.” Her eyes rolled alongside his. She felt like a Celeste Ng protagonist—except she wasn’t part Asian. “No, it was actually on Mercari for one-fifth the price.”

“Not Poshmark? Or Ross? You can buy her bags at Marshall’s, too.”

She couldn’t remember who was speaking. The line blurred with the last sip of wine. Maybe she had not been talking to Spencer at all.

What was clear was that she would probably look underdressed, just like the failure of a Dostoevskian wannabe she was attempting to be.

Beauty and the Beast was sewn across the black date purse.

It wasn’t Vendula, nor was it Vera Wang.

But, it was catchy. It was Eleanor Hill.

And, the dress was classically simple.

It was more Breakfast at Tiffany’s—if she dared to put herself in the shoes of Audrey Hepburn. And for the night, she could actually walk in the black heels. They made her thin, tall Scandinavian physique even more ethereal and model-like.

Although Spencer wanted a more Crazy Rich Asians-vibe, there was no way she would be able to climb that mountain.

Especially on her lack of a dime.

Which was why she ended up spending absolutely nothing in her attire.

Thankfully, she was not some character whose whole persona relied on the readers being impressed with her outfit. Instead, she was who she was: a famously budding author, being celebrated.

If it wasn’t a celebration, would she have been invited?

I’m at the party. Going in. Pray for me.

Nothing romantic. She cringed at not saying something mushy-gushy, but this felt safe—especially for the professional setting.

You look sexy. No cheating on me, toots. 😉

Playful. Always when she least expected it.

Elly’s lips pressed together. The moist lip-gloss and lipstick combination rubbed her tongue. She felt her cheeks brighten.

The iPhone slipped into her purse, and she carefully put her gloves on.

Gloves were classy and different, right?

Maybe she was following the letter of the law too deliberately. It wasn’t the first time.

Wrists were sexy, according to Memoirs of a Geisha. Should she be modest or sexy?

She pulled the gloves more snugly. Spencer’s text dictated her. Mysterious was sexy, anyways, right?

Just like how her name even got put on the list at the door.

The event was a huge spectacle, larger than she had anticipated. Upon entering, she couldn’t remember if she had said her name to the doorman or guard or bouncer or whatever that guy was — maybe a combination of all three — or if he already recognized her.

Was the person even a man? Maybe the door had been opened by a woman.

The lights and music bounced like a rave, but the room danced like an event Elon Musk was going to slam on X solely not being invited.

A champagne glass was practically handed to her by one of the servers. It sat on a nice serving tray and came with one of those fancy paper napkins that could have been specially designed for the party.

By the time the speech was made, Elly was finishing her second glass. She knew she had to slow down. Besides, she’d had a glass or two before heading over.

Her nerves wouldn’t settle, like her hair, pulled elegantly into a tight bun, held together, secretly by gel, hairspray, and hairpins. She could function professionally, but she needed help.

Right now, everything was blurring together, just like her books. Yet there was a visible, crystal-clear path right in front of her.

It matched the diamonds on the other attendees’ ears.

All she had to do was listen more than she talked.

Very traditional. Very attainable. Very Eleanor Hill.

Why Hello Folks!

Welcome!

There are quite a few users here whose primary language is not English.

(Although, if you were looking for an excuse to slack, some of them are the better writers. 🫠)

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

█ Eleanor Hill

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

█ ███ ██ █ S U M M A R Y █ ██ ███ █ Eleanor Rose Hill AGE 31 GENDER Female ETHNICITY/RACE Scandinavian-American MARTIAL STATUS Single-But-Not-Single SEXUALITY Straight ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

▅BIOGRAPHY▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ Elly grew up an academic brat. Both of her parents were literature professors at Princeton, which meant, in middle school, the mention of Dr. Bradin Cormack sent her into an intellectual schoolgirl daydream. However, by the time she finally sat in his classroom, her disposition had taken a curious turn. Her parents spoke of religion the way neighbors spoke of their favorite television show. They were proud of the churches they had helped build and keep alive. When they were not buried in books and lectures and research, they were rushing into spiritual volunteer work. Elly followed-suit, pen and paper in hand. In high school, a priest at the new mission church took a special interest in Elly. He told her she was humble; and her quietness was a virtue. She had never thought to give her disposition any concrete recognition. However, he began to remember small things about her, and they would reappear in his homilies. A year later, he was defrocked. There was no explanation. ▅CAREER▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ From Princeton to Pratt on family lineage, strong reports, and generational creativity, Elly found a way to explain herself. Shortly after graduation, she landed a New York Times Best Seller titled The Eternal Orphan. The novel was inspired by Russian writer Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Eternal Husband. She took a darkly humorous and repentant turn on the Eastern story of the soul’s mystical struggle — a woman who discovers that her greatest suffering is not abandonment, but in the fact that she uses abandonment as a moral shelter. The book was written during graduate school and published after her graduation. Immediately, Eleanor became an intellectual anomaly, praised by feminists and traditional women alike. Yet the praise brought pressure and public scrutiny, especially after a small but loud group of religious zealots, known as the OrthoBros and Rad-Trads, made her book infamous. “This is modern therapy language in Orthodox clothing,” they claimed and insisted it would turn faithful women into critics of their husbands and confessions into psychiatric complaints and marriages into business negotiations. On the other end of the spectrum, the more progressive readers found her work too accepting of suffering and too willing to see pain as meaningful as opposed to criminal. They ruled her book’s themes did not dismantle the traditions of spiritual patriarchal hierarchies but protected strides them. Even when she exposed their harm, she refused to burn them. And, as a prelude to her first fall after tasting fame and fortune, Eleanor backed into journalism. She wanted to study her subject and her audience more closely before beginning her second and more intimately personal literary venture, The Confessor, a novel set in the same universe as her first, exploring how a woman’s devotion and obedience make her vulnerable to clerical abuse disguised as spiritual care. She is currently working on her third novel. She remains adamant about continuing to build her literary universe in a contemplation and hopes to change the moral weather of society. However, she now writes under heavy scrutiny, and her work is often more argued with than it is celebrated. Her insistence on exposing moral complexities that without resolution has only grown brighter. Alongside this clarity, an erosion has trickled into long nights of one too many glasses. What was once a small reliance for celebration has turned into a crutch for coping. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔

▅_{SUPPORTING CAST}▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	Dr. Mary Hill Somewhere along the way, Elly lost the support of her father. It was a hard break. When she was about twelve years old, she made a concrete decision: she would never be embarrassed by him, no matter what. And yet, despite having a strained emotional relationship with her mother during childhood, her mother is someone she can at least rely on now. Mary is proud of her daughter and constantly assures Elly that her father is proud of her too, even if it might not be true. Honest or not, Elly will always feel in debt to her.	▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	Rebecca Sampson Rebecca is Elly’s therapist. A quiet, noble brunette who just lost her only child — a dog named Cotton. She is one of the few figures in Elly’s life who can keep her grounded. Lately, though, she has felt her own standing slipping toward similar scrutiny if anyone discovers Elly is her patient. For now, she has protection under the practice of Dr. John Gallo, the traditional Catholic and courtroom legend, famous for turning the tides when everything seems lost.
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	Spencer Graham They were dating. Or maybe they weren’t. But does it really matter when he’s her editor? Some would say yes. Others would shrug. Elly thought they were dating, but Spencer’s communication kept slipping as he swung between the pendulums of Soy Boy and Pick-Up Artist. It didn’t help that the only reason he’d picked her up (editorially speaking) was because he was a recent convert to the Orthodox Church. Now all he wanted was the paycheck and the recognition, while he quietly tortures his favorite Church-Mouse-Wannabe: Elly Hill.	▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔	Ewan Wycliffe Her former parish priest is someone she can’t quite dismantle. There is something about keeping in contact with him that won’t leave her alone. He buys and reads her books, and he consistently encourages her. He is (ultimately) the reason she started down this path, and now he is one of her biggest supporters as a not-so-secret admirer. Plus, his social media is finally picking up some traction, again.

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

‼️

So much has happened in my absence. I am going to sprint to catch up.

Book Quotes

My goal is to go home and take a nap.

— Laurie Halse Anderson, SPEAK

Post a random fact about yourself.

One time, I took Communion when I should have gone to Confession before receiving, and it burned my mouth. I can still feel the sensation on my tongue.

Never again.

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

@Stormyx, Elly doesn’t know who Hayden is and would reciprocate the same politeness. She may try to watch one of his matches but get bored and suffer through the entirety for ann intellectual endeavor. She would be more interested in his personality and how he connects to the world. (Watching a match would then be useful.) 😚