guiltswept - Tumblr blog

[guiltswept]

( ella purnell. demi woman. she/they. ) - let me introduce you to a staff member of the eversley family, maribel sawyer, who is here at the eversley estate working as a housekeeper in the east wing. they are twenty-seven and are known as the demure around the estate because they are altruistic, overwrought, and furtive. when you get to know them, you think about a fox escaping the hounds in dark-branched woods, jaw bloodied and stained with what is not its own; the wandering, stand-still eyes in a hallway lined with portraits—all staring, all watching, all knowing—but you can only wonder why they’d choose to work for the eversley family. this character is penned by: ( james, 25, est, they/them. )

content warning for... disordered eating, anxiety, dysfunctional family dynamics throughout.

profile.

full name — maribel ottoline sawyer.

nickname(s) — mari; little mouse, mouse ( rare ).

place of birth — duluth, minnesota, us.

date of birth & age — june 4th, 1997. twenty7.

gender / pronouns — demi woman, she/they.

sexuality — bisexual.

occupation — housekeeper. investigative journalist.

astrology — gemini sun / gemini moon / gemini rising.

labels — the demure ( others considered: the fragile butterfly / the sheep / the chameleon / the bibliophile / the quiescent / the ingenue / the obsequious ).

residence — eversley estate; staff quarters ( previous residence: south london ).

traits — altruistic, benignant, solicitous, overwrought, mousy, acquiescent, malleable, amenable, vulnerable, guileful, furtive, underhanded, conspiratorial, shrewd, observant.

interests — mary janes and patterned tights; oversized sweaters and earth - toned patterns. handwritten letters, the smell of fresh ink; typewriters. vinyl records and players; the smell of an antique shop. perfecting the handwriting of others. non - fiction, and classic novels. staying organized. sweeping her hair into a ponytail at all times. riddles, mysteries; solving problems, but never her own. computer science; hacking into databases. keeping a near - nonexistent internet presence. doing what she thinks is right - hoping that what she's doing is right. pressing flowers. encryptions.

aversions — reminders of her family. feeling like someone is constantly on her heels. creaky floorboards. tripping over herself ( happens far too often ). eye contact. drinking too much. saying no. being caught in her own web of lies. cold tea. egomaniacs ( unfortunately surrounded by them ). others thinking she's incapable, a pushover, etc. knowing for a fact that she is, in deed, a pushover. modern homes. anything that'll cost her too much money; spending money. the sight of blood. swearing ( at least in front of others ). failure.

most played — duvet by bôa.

notable features — a prominent jaw and bush baby eyes beneath an olive complexion; blunt bangs that are undoubtedly done without help, expression hopelessly doll - like.

general disposition — a restlessness that threads through the veins; always looking over a shoulder, never able to sit still.

character study — willow rosenberg ( buffy the vampire slayer ) & lexie grey ( grey's anatomy ) & nancy drew ( nancy drew ) & marta cabrera ( knives out ).

background & events.

the sawyers were never anything extraordinary: a militant air force patriarch and a stay at home matriarch with a history of at - home workout videos, straight to vcr. maribel was born between a broadway star and a football prodigy; with little room to shine for herself. it was a strict upbringing; early curfew, chores before all else, no outings on weekends and sunday family dinners, perfect grades. maribel still thinks of her mother's keto - friendly green bean casserole with terror akin to meeting a bear in a fistfight.

despite being one of three, it was a quiet, lonely childhood for maribel. they moved often, from military base to military base, from country to country; maribel's friends never kept in touch, and at some point she had stopped trying. her siblings always stood out, always had somewhere to turn to whether it were theater or sports. but she kept her nose in a book; took a knack to solving puzzles, to putting together pieces. crosswords to riddles, to magic tricks and whodunnits. she couldn't turn to her parents - as far as they were concerned, it was maribel who didn't try hard enough.

disordered eating mention / anxiety; the criticism was endless; her father thought her soft and impractical, too stuck in her head, and her mother instilled in them the same food insecurities that had haunted her in her childhood like a family heirloom. there was always something she could be doing better; something she wasn't doing right. maribel walked around her home on constant eggshells. as she grew older, her anxiety grew with her.

after years of forging permission slip signatures and teaching herself coding ( they were always fascinated with encryptions, how to create them and how to break them ) - word got out around one of her private schools of her "talents" and she quickly became a tool under the guise of friendship. too meek to say no, maribel always complied with her friends' wishes - from changed grades in the school system, to forged doctor's notes and hacked social medias. when it was all discovered; it was her who took the blame, who wound up expelled.

their parents iced them out after that; if they were cold before, they were freezing then. radio silence in her own home. maribel was homeschooled after the incident, picking up jobs in - between lessons and moving out once they turned eighteen. it was a mutual decision, more or less; it was a rule in their household, and maribel couldn't wait to leave them - as awful as she felt about it. when her father was stationed back to the states, maribel chose to stay in the uk, where she attended university.

maribel pursued journalism, then computer science, then journalism again. picked up three jobs at any given time and worked and worked and worked until she'd overdone it and had to take a prolonged mental health break. this cycle repeated itself three more times before maribel finally graduated, years later, with a degree in journalism and enough computer science classes that she might've well gotten the degree for that too. she was picked up by a semi - big newspaper and begun writing articles under a pseudonym, where they quickly gained interest. despite being on the verge of a constant mental breakdown; maribel's research was always thorough, unbiased yet passionate - like she had ways of getting behind the scenes.

the eversleys caught her attention four years ago. three years ago, she was fired from the newspaper due to her obsession with the family and their supposedly legal business. two years ago, maribel got hired at the estate after months of scrubbing any presence of herself from the internet.

introspection & details.

before her journalist job ( and her current job ); maribel could not keep a job to save her life. she's been a waitress, a receptionist, a bartender, a tutor, a very much unlicensed private eye working "under the table", a phone sex operator, retail. had a half - day stint in construction before they realized she couldn't operate a forklift without almost running someone over. maribel is very good at what she's good at, and very bad at what she's not. there is little to no in between.

knows a handful, maybe two, of languages due to her family moving often. she's stronger in some languages than others.

there's not much use for forgery these days, but maribel isn't beyond it. has a strong moral system, and that's strictly what she thinks is right. will do "bad things" in order to accomplish "good things". if chaotic lawful was a thing, they would be it. scarily proficient with a computer.

terrible, terrible liar when it comes to little white lies, the things that don't hurt. is better at lying when it's long term; they often embellish details of their childhood, to make them seem not as lonely.

maribel has a problem with telling people no; has been called a pushover before, a doormat. is, unfortunately, the type of person to drop everything to help someone if they ask, even if it's unimportant to them. endlessly kind, and has an issue of seeing the good in everyone. makes excuses for others often.

desperately wants kinship, to the point where she will shift parts of her personality and interests to better suit whoever she's talking to. sometimes, maribel isn't sure of who she is outside of what she performs for others. a people pleaser.

comes off as innocent because she rarely swears, smokes, drinks ( though, when she does drink they become a massive flirt; a massive 180 degree shift in their personality ). hates being infantilized because of these facts, but will often give into doing any of them when challenged.

she's a naturally anxious person, just evident in her... existence. constantly fidgeting, shifting; rambles when nervous, which is just about all the time. has been called variants of mousy, for a multitude of reasons. has a bad case of constantly trembling, or shaking. it takes her time to warm up to people, to become used to them.

being hyperaware of her surroundings at all times, and her general insecure nature has allowed her to become decently perceptive. she notices when people are off, when things in general aren't what they seem. her concern is always genuine, but more often than not she's seeking answers.

can be contradicting at times; when it comes to her career, what she came to the estate for - maribel knows what she wants, what her goals are, how she wants to accomplish them and how to go about them. but externally, she just comes off as someone too afraid to speak up for herself, who can't bring herself to say anything negative about anyone.

maribel is so. goddamn clumsy it's a miracle she hasn't been fired from the estate yet. tries her hardest not to break anything, but she's extremely jumpy. is constantly bumping into people, furniture, walls and doors, etc.

lover of vintage, of secondhand, of antiques. mostly likes things she can afford, which isn't a lot. they're good at not spending money on themselves, even though she really wants to. her wardrobe is full of thrifted finds, and she wears a ponytail almost exclusively.

[guiltswept]

Everything was spinning, tilted on an axis; her eyes couldn't focus on just one thing - darting between blurred, double - vision figures and squinting when the lights grew too bright. The dance floor itself was dim; hazily lit and growing sparse as the soiree attendees slowly made their way back inside to indulge in sweets and cigars. Imogen didn't follow suit, clinging to anyone she could - someone who'd stay there, with her, let her indulge in a different sort of hunger; someone who'd let her forget.

Theodore Barclay wasn't the sort to forget anything. That much was evident as her eyes snapped up, focusing in on the man before her; a mixture of surprise and ( sparse, yet palpable ) regret washing over her features. If she were sober, even just by an inch; Imogen would challenge him. What is a home to you, besides four walls and a bed to sleep in? Is it anything like this - here? Why haven't you aspired for more? Instead -

"Theo -" her voice faltered; something soft, all blurred edges and watery graves; she still slurred as she spoke, but her brows furrowed closer together - like she tried to get all the right words out, in just the right order. "- You're not a dog, even if your name's - doggish." That wasn't right, and as Theo pulled himself out of her grasp - her hands fell to her sides, fingers grasping at the heavy fabric of her dress. Part of her wanted to stomp her feet, resort to her childish ways; part of her wanted to yell, to cause a fuss - part of her wanted to cry. "I'm sorry - I didn't - your name isn't doggish, I -" It was rare for Imogen to stumble over her own words, to hesitate; for her eyes to leave his and tumble to the ground instead. "- Please, Theo - can we be teenagers again? Just this once? You don't - you don't have to even... look at me, or speak, or - or anything else."

The crickets were singing as the stars illuminated several pathways away from the soiree. It had been a night of avoidance. A night of missed conversations. Of unfinished drinks. Untouched food with names unpronounceable to the above man. Theo had finally had enough. He wasn't staying any longer. He'd showed his face. Charles had seen him. Even smirked at him. Who knows what that was about. But he'd done his duty. Done what was expected of him. He showed. Now he'd had enough. Theo exited the soiree location and began making his way across the estate towards the staff housing. The was no expectation of running into any other person. Most were still dancing, drinking or mingling. The party had spilled out to the immediate rounds around the soiree but nothing further than that. Therefore the shriek of a feminine voice had him startled and his pace coming to a slow stop.

Imogen Eversley. Ugh. Why couldn't he escape this woman? It was clear by how she approached him that she was under the influence of something. She may not even realised who exactly she was calling out to. Her hands on his body sent a sudden electric thrill from their skin to skin contact throughout the rest of his body. "Imogen." His voice full of warning, a frown creasing his brow as he took her in. "I'm not going to dance with you Imogen. I'm going home." His words were firm while the rest of him struggle to have the same resolve. He once loved this woman. Would have given his life for hers. But there was too much pain and too much hurt in the way of all that now. Theo knew he had to keep his distance from her as much as possible. "Once upon a time, I never would have been able to deny you." His voice dropping as the realisation passed between the two. Theo expected that the blonde would not even remember this conversation. "But that was a long time ago. I don't roll over so easily." With that he pulled his arm from her grasp and slipped his hands into the pockets of his dress pants so she couldn't take them back.

[guiltswept]

Still hazy - eyed, still pleading to dance; Imogen's attention doesn't snap into focus until it's Hector standing in front of her, and not the investor he'd been speaking to. She's a wavering willow branch, a slight sway to her shoulders even as she tries her hardest to stand still, stand tall. It's always - this - with him. From bitter rivals to estranged acquaintances; Imogen can't remember a single time she's felt close to her brother. Her chin juts forward - gaze turning into something sharp ( wavering, but sharp all the same; like the trembling hand of a knife's welder ), "Embarrassing? You're the one to talk about embarrassing," a finger points directly to his chest, nail digging into his shirt, "Acting like - like hot shit, like dad's going to choose you -" Imogen laughs, a low giggle that lacks any humor, hands gesturing in the air, "- this is all Lottie's, down to the plots of land we'll be buried in when we're old and - decrepit - and ugly."

Imogen takes a step back, eyes darting around the edges of his frame; always planning an escape before they draw back up to meet his again. "I'm still young, Hector - there's no shame in living for myself. I'm sorry you're - repressed, and miserable, but I'm not -" she's trying not to be, "- it's a soiree, for god's sake! One evening, Topper. Let me enjoy one evening before everything goes to complete and utter shit."

Even at a party, Hector cannot relax. There is not a moment in time which he doesn't make work for him. Everything, everyone, at any place can be useful if he looks at it the right way. Unfortunately, most of his siblings fails to recognise this opportunity.

And so, when his conversation with a fellow investor is interrupted, albeit it was a conversation about yachts, his smile is wiped off his face. A hardened gaze falls to Imogen's hand on the guest's arm, and his jaw sets as she continues to speak. Short-lived patience keeps him silent for a few seconds, reminding himself of what she's been through, but he couldn't bring himself to excuse her in this moment.

After apologising to the guest, he grabs her arm and takes her away from the crowd. "This is embarrassing," he hisses lowly, then lets go of her arm. "You're thirty two." Standing in front of her, she's covered from the rest of the party. His eyes, full of disappointment and anger, don't leave her. "Pull yourself together."

[guiltswept]

"Can't let that happen, then, can we? Who knows where we'd all go instead." Her nerves were already easing, the edge knocked out of her voice and replaced with something far more pleasant. There wasn't a single one of her siblings that Imogen could approach with ease, without wanting something from them; except perhaps Adrian - but with their father's watchful eye, Imogen stayed a measured pace away. God knows she'd only encourage his bad habits to come forth once more; ruin the hard work he'd put into himself because of her own lack of self - restraint.

"Not enough," Imogen replied with a lighthearted grin and just an inkling of truth. She'd been drinking since the soiree had begun; paced out over the course of the evening but building steadily. "Ugh, you are an angel, I swear!" She abandoned the wine bottle atop the garden wall to eagerly grab at the presented joint and lighter, lifting the former to her lips. "I've always said you were my favorite, you know." Nothing of the sort had ever been said; but nonetheless - Imogen lit the joint, inhaling deeply before handing the lighter back.

The feminine voice that met his announcement had the male smirking ever so slightly. Imogen. One of the more tolerable Eversley's. He wasn't a close with her, their age difference had something to do with that growing up and she could not relate to him - that's even if she knew of what his parents did to him. But she was fun. He'd give her that. "The day you lecture or scold, I'll know that hell has frozen over." His words a mere chuckle over his shoulder. He bought the lit joint to his lips again, sucking in the contaminated smoke the joint emitted. Noah turned his head towards her as smoke seeped out of his nose. He eyed his eldest female cousin with curiosity. "How much have you already had?" He questioned, gesturing to the wine bottle she held in a vice-like grip. It was obvious she wasn't completely sober but the slight sheen of red wine on her lips confirmed that. Noah slipped a hand into the front inside pocket of his suit jacket. Pulling put a freshly rolled joint and a bright red lighter. "Here, cousin. Go nuts."

[guiltswept]

it wasn't the first time imogen had been told you make it hard to deny you. she'd always been known for being particularly magnetic; a force that beckons with eager hands and an all - knowing grin. a contract made with an angel. it'd been charming, once. henry had certainly been charmed, but then he changed - their honeymoon phase crashing down around them. she wasn't considered charming, magnetic, or beautiful anymore. she was childish - a tease; couldn't be trusted out of his sight. if he could see her right now, he'd have a right fit, he'd march her right home, he'd - henry wasn't there. the soiree was the first event - the first time - in years that imogen could breathe easy at; feel the most miniscule amount of peace. even when surrounded by her family.

"i know!" her tone was awfully cheerful, awfully pleased, and imogen's hands slid down dany's arm to grasp at her hand instead, "anyone who says they don't dance is a right liar." she urged the older woman forward, pulling her into the swarm of dancing bodies. "i know you're not as rigid as you look -" classic projection; assigning others traits that she assumed them to be, without ever getting to know them - but she smiled so bright, so casual, "- do you know how to dip your partner?"

the night was not going the way dany had expected it to go. when she was told she had to attend the soiree, she expected to make an appearance, stay for as long as she politely has to, and then head back to her quarters as. but then the wine was flowing and eversleys were being eversleys and if she didn't watch it, she might end up in charles' office in the morning and taken out in a body bag. she tried to not think about that, instead she just took another glass of wine and tried to pretend like she hadn't just got sucked into a lottie storm.

of course, once she escapes on eversley, another one pops up like weeds. she hears imogen calling but she hoped, or maybe prayed, it was to someone else. that is, until a hand finds her arm and pulls her to face her. "oh no, i don't dance," she said with a laugh but all the alcohol she's been drinking made her rejection come out like a joke. but then imogen smiles and and begs some more and dany can't help but give in. how could she say no to someone who looks like that? "okay fine, you make it hard to deny you."

[guiltswept]

Under normal circumstances, Imogen wouldn't have approached Campbell. It was easier to turn a blind eye to her father's business that way; finance was such a fickle, dirty thing. She preferred to wipe her hands of it, innocence in ignorance; but she wasn't so innocent, was she? It'd been nearly three weeks since she'd seen Henry; and if there were a sober thought in her body, she would've wondered how long it'd been since Campbell had, either. Would've wondered just how involved they really were; how ready they were to lay down their life for her father.

But Imogen wasn't thinking. Her head felt filled with clouds, impossibly light; dewlike skin shivering with the occasional night breeze. She was hot and cold, all at once; an anticipated chill running down her spine as Campbell's arm slinked around her waist. "I have to be," Her tone was nonchalant and a tinge slurred, smile still wide and entirely too toothy, "There's no other way to live, love." She slung an arm over their shoulder, drawing nearer; the diamond - encrusted florals adorning her neckline digging into their chest, "I'm not hurting you, am I?" The concern was drunken, artificial; but Imogen leaned in all the same, like she could mean it, her hand laid across Campbell's chest, thumb brushing against their jacket's lapel.

Campbell was nursing their drink, the taste of whiskey warm and familiar on their tongue, when they heard Imogen's voice cut through the noise of the soiree. The combination of her laughter and insistence brought a crooked smile to their lips.

They turned to face her, finding her unsteady yet magnetic, her golden hair clinging to her neck as if she’d just come up for air. She looked wild, untamed, and there was something about the mix of desperation and playfulness in her voice that made it impossible for Campbell to refuse.

“Imogen, you’re a force to be reckoned with,” Campbell said, their voice laced with both amusement and a touch of concern as they caught her arm to steady her. “But I’m not one to deny a lady her request.”

With a smooth motion, Campbell slid their arm around her waist, pulling her close enough that she wouldn't fall. They could smell the mix of wine and something else—something heavier, darker—lingering on her breath, but they didn’t flinch. Instead, they started to move their body with her own to the beat of the music, enjoying the moment.

[guiltswept]

Whatever nerves had pulled and tugged on Imogen's consciousness had ceased with her smoke session with Noah. She was as placid as a housewife, making light conversation with the people besides her, barely audible beneath the smooth jazz. It was what her parents had always wanted her to be, the ideal Eversley; and she used to be good at it. Lesser so, those days. Now she felt like she was a blotting ink stain, further dirtying their family's history with her own intricacies, her own flaws, her own mistakes. Jacob's voice pulled Imogen out of her mind's downward spiral, unending despite her high, an instantaneous, lip - splitting grin tugging at the corners of her mouth as he rambled into the microphone.

"Don't be silly, cousin," Technically, he was her uncle; but Imogen would never call him that; it felt too odd, being only a few years younger. Her lips carved out a smile, almost reassuring if not for her next words, "If they were going to kill you, they'd do it off grounds." Her mind drifted, suddenly; a burning - film sequenced memory of her husband, and her stomach lurched. Imogen hoped it was hot, wherever he was. "A smoke?" Imogen repeated, drawn out from her thoughts, her faltering smile bright - again as she waved her clutch in front of Jacob. "Of course I do, but between you and I -" she leaned in, a whisper, "I've got more than just a smoke, if you're looking for a rush. Brat summer, isn't it?"

Living at the estate was the last resort, but he couldn't help but recount the old times at the Eversley's home. He hated coming over though; he couldn't stand how old it was, Jacob swore it had to have ghosts in there. The constant walkthroughs of the vineyard with his father and Charles, listening to them nonstop yap about stupid grapes and taste and value.

The live band's final note broke him out of his thoughts. He did a slight jog with his wine in hand, snatching the mic from the stand with his other. Pulling his face into his award-winning smile, "How beautiful was that, huh?" he spoke smoothly into the microphone acknowledging the band. " I want to thank everybody for coming today. Give a hand to Charles and my lovely sister Ignes." The crowd harmoniously clapped for the couple.

" You know I'm not a huge talker," a lie," but I would like to give a toast to them for letting us stay at their home." Jacob coughed a nervous chuckle, rubbing his eyebrows with his knuckle, " You know, I thought they were bonkers for having all these people in their home. This could quickly become a board game of Who Dun It, you know?" He cleared his throat to continue, "So yeah, to Charles and Ignes! Salute!" Jacob exclaimed raising his glass in the air. He quickly ran off from the attention to the nearest person he could find.

"I'm pretty sure everyone is going kill me in my sleep now." He said rapidly, gritting though his teeth nervously running a hand through his hair, "Do you have a smoke?"

[guiltswept]

between 8 and 10pm / grand lawn / aka. imogen stop please you have to stop busting it down please imogen please your father is ill please stop dropping it low. open.

The world's a dizzying array of lights, people, and chatter; sparks are flying off of the rim of every glass, every toothy smile blinding. Gardenia and oak - barrel wine is fresh off her skin; everyone's skin - floral yet sultry, subtle yet pungent. Imogen is - drunk, far drunker than she should've been and yet, still not drunk enough. The taste of the joint stolen off Noah still lingers in her mouth, even with mouthfuls of notes of plum, and graphite, and deep, unsettling fear. Even with the future told for her - Imogen doesn't know where it'll lead; even with people guiding her by the hand, she doesn't know what to do. So she can only do what she does best; pretend that there's nothing wrong. That nothing's happened - that she's just a woman in her own bubble, unknowing of suffering. Incapable of it.

"You! Come here, here!" It's a mixture of gasps and giggles as Imogen staggers forward; chest sporadically rising and falling, strands of gold plastered against her neck - like she'd just gone swimming. Her hands grasp onto their arm, a light yet firm touch; eyes hazy yet wild, "Dance with me, please - I insist! The night's still so young, there's so much to make of it!" For a moment, it's the pleas of a younger woman, one desperate for kinship - next, Imogen's mouth is curling into a sly, sharp - toothed smile as she tosses her head back, "You're not going to deny me, are you?"

[guiltswept]

Eight hours. Eight hours spent at the expense of her sanity; each individual hair plucked from beneath her brow, rows of blonde tresses tucked tight into rolls, skin exfoliated until nearly red and raw. Eight hours of staring at herself in the mirror; just the right amount of glitter gathered at the inner corner of her eye, just enough gloss to sheen her lips. Imogen was doused in gold like it were gasoline; a single match and she'd light up in flames, no need for a fireworks show when she's exploding like a star. She felt like it too; not a star, but gasoline - combustible, each flitter of eyelash and every gentle, caressing laugh a disguise for how her shoulders couldn't stand straight and tall, a hesitance before her every move. It felt like everyone knew; like every guest could look at Imogen and know everything she'd ever done, and everything others had done for her. She played it off well; but every sideways glance sent her spiraling. God - she needed a drink ( Imogen always needed a drink ); and fresh air. Fresher than the air she was surrounded in; filled with idle gossip and chatter and just - noise.

"Oh, please," Imogen raised a dismissive hand, sly smile as she lifted a wine glass to her lips, "I'm not hiding," She'd always had a terrible habit of lying, "I'm taking a moment to be appreciative. Each one of these vines carries so much value, so much history - it's our empire." Her arms extended out, deliberate and dramatic, as she turned. "Well, that and I need to walk off this buzz if I'm to dance all night long. Don't need a repeat of Ibiza, 2018, do I?" Her limbs dropped as she took an uninvited seat besides Angelica and took another, longer sip of her glass. The rim was dotted with imprints of her lips, fading into one another. "Do you have a cigarette on you? I left my purse with Adrian - god, I hope I don't regret it."

Angelica wallows back amongst the crowd, eyes scanning the crowd of people in their colorful and floral suits and dresses. It reminds her of easter carnations in spring. She doesn't know many people at the soiree, mainly the Eversleys and a couple of people she acquainted herself with these past weeks..She blames herself since she does not seek any interactions with the other guests. Sometimes, she will stop and greet new faces if passing by and beeline to her room. Her attention was broken when she felt her phone buzzing in her small designer purse. These days her phone won't stop buzzing. Her father and mother want her to send a detailed list of her day. Glaring at two text bubbles on the screen, one reads show me a picture and the other vaguely reminds her to don't forget. She sucks her teeth before pressing her thumb on the side button, making the phone come to a dark screen.

She nods her head politely as she moves through the crowd. Grabbing a glass of wine before she takes off. She walks around windlessly around the vineyard. Stopping and taking pictures of the grapes on the vines and the outskirts of the historical lands. The estate is truthfully beautiful to her, way different from the modern homes she previously lived in. When she gains distance from the party, she plops down on a stone bench to rest her feet for a while. A bit far from the soiree, but enough to hear the chatter going on. She takes out her phone once again to send something to satisfy both of her parents. She hears a pair of feet clicking nearby, having her tear her eyes away from her phone. A familiar face came into view. They didn't see her, but she saw them. It gave her time to debate if she wanted to interact or not. But she knows that acquainting herself with people here will get her somewhere. " Lovely party, isn't it?" Angelica asked calmly to announce her presence. "Are you lost, or are you hiding like me?"

[guiltswept]

Imogen felt emotionally sick; a whirlpool in her stomach that sucked down every glass of wine she steadily sipped - all bright eyes and dazzling smiles on the surface. Every time her father spoke, anxiety broiled her skin - a flush against flesh, the sheen mistakable for glitter. For someone who traveled the world at a near - constant; she didn't handle change well. She ran from it, avoided it; lived in the present, sometimes hyper - fixated on the past to an unpleasant degree - but Imogen never looked forward to the future, nor what it could bring.

Seeing Noah excuse himself and disappear into the gardens was just an excuse for her to follow suit; having gone before the others seated themselves for dinner - a bottle of wine nicked from a server who was likely scrambling for another. They were of little concern to Imogen, fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle as she descended upon the garden, spare hand gathering her heavy skirt into a bundle.

"Please, when have I ever been the kind to lecture or scold?" She scoffed, voice breaking through the silence of the night; they were far enough that the chatter of the other guests was nothing more but a hum, easily ignorable. "Can't I spend some quality time with my dearest cousin? I even brought a gift!" Her lips were already stained red by the wine, her grin bloodied by it. Imogen leaned against the wall - no use in trying to hoist herself atop it, not with a dress like hers; though as the sun disappeared, it ceased to gleam and glow. Ceased to look like anything special. She took another sip of liquor before holding the bottle out to her cousin. "Care to trade off?"

open event starter location: estate gardens time: 7:13pm

After escaping the event at the conclusion of Charles' speech, Noah sat on top one of the several retaining walls situated around the estate gardens. His shoulders slumped with the heaviness he felt pressing down on him. It had been an emotional few days. His weekly therapy session had caused an unusual level of anxiety. Noah knew he had made the wrong moves in several interactions with people over past week. He was not in the mood for a party like the event that he had expected to attend as an Eversley. There was no way he could sit around with a table of other people making small talk over a pretentious dinner. So right now, he needed to take his mind of the arguments happening in his head. It was like the an angel and demon battling for superiority within himself. He need to escape the expectations, even for just a minute.

Noah's eyes were locked on the dark star filled sky. The sun having completely disappeared behind the trees off in the distance now. If it wasn't for his exceptional hearing, he would not have even realised someone had approached from behind. "If you're here to give me a lecture or scold me or tell me to go back inside, don't bother." He called, turning his head ever so slightly to call the words over his shoulder. The oatmeal coloured suit he wore bunching slightly as he turned. Noah bought the joint he had been holding between his index finger and thumb to his lips; before sucking down the cannabis filled smoke.

[guiltswept]

EVENT — SUNSET SOIREE.

... featuring tasks one & two [ playlist & moodboard ]

click anywhere on this line to listen to imogen's playlist.

[guiltswept]

She contemplated it - letting him walk right into her, knock her back onto her heels. Imagined him bending down and lending his hand for her to hold, to lift her back onto her feet; having him apologize for such carelessness - the only way Imogen could imagine him speaking to her again. She had tried before, capturing his attention without drawing it away from his job - all to no avail. Imogen Eversley was efficiently a ghost, nothing but a wisp to Theo. It was her fault - no, it was her father's; no - it was her fault. The thoughts ping - ponged around her mind; bouncing the walls of her skull, a sharp stab of pain behind her left eye. A long time ago - she had craved his affection, needed it; felt near - dependent on it. Her single shred of pitiful normalcy; she could still feel the shadow of it creeping over her heart, weighing over it like a blanket. It should've been comforting; but it only left Imogen nervous. Suddenly so - so much so that she just stood there, watching him - watching the features on his face twitch in annoyance, each step closer to her; too close.

"Tsk tsk, Mr. Barclay," her voice was a cracked windchime; melodic with a sudden drop, like her practiced nonchalance couldn't keep up with her. As if her actions weren't her own - her body taking directive and ignoring the fire - hot warning signals from her brain - Imogen reached forward and plucked the phone from Theo's grasp, eyebrows raising as she glanced down at the screen. "Are you sure your people are entirely competent? Or do they also walk without a single thought to their surroundings?" It wasn't what she'd meant to say; but it slid out all too easy. Her spare hand lingered on his arm - only extended to prevent him from running her over in his haste. She kept it there - gaze flickering to meet his, a quiet challenge; a quiet plea.

Having been called to a potential security risk on the other side of the estate, Theodore had chosen today to walk. He wasn't particular concerned about the so called threat as he had been at this job a long time and could tell the difference between something serious and a waste of his time. There was no doubt in Theo's head that this was a waste of his time, but this was his job and he did his job to the best of his ability. Theodore decided he would cut across the castle courtyard today, a little shortcut he'd learn over the many years of living and working on the estate. Theo was busy texting away on his phone, leaving instructions to his second and third in command for what they were to do while he was away from the guardhouse. Theo was muttering to himself, "No.. no.. no.. that's not- no.."

Therefore, he was completely engrossed in the device in his hands that he hadn't heard nor seen the other individual, so there was no way he wouldn't be able to avoid them if they decided to talk straight into him.

[guiltswept]

It's like watching ants march to and from their colony, treasures stacked upon their shoulders ( or encased in their hands, in this case ) as they deliver them to their queen. She's crazy like a fool; wild about Daddy Cool travels with the wind, just as it carries the scent of fresh seafood. And Kaz stands amongst it all, commanding as ever.

A grin blooms across Imogen's features as she watches them - the antlike kitchen staff, and their leader - as much affection as she's willing to give ( lovingly, all the same; but her image is already always on the rocks - she can't be too fond ) as the blonde strides across the lawn to greet him. "Kaz, love, it's been entirely too long - I've missed hearing you shout obscenities in the early morning!" Technically; she never hears it - her twenty step night routine requires not only an eye mask and her ( cursed, secret ) retainer, but a pair of earplugs for a perfect night's sleep. All the same, she lets out a small, sharp laugh at the older man. "Please, if I wanted a job like yours I'd be scrubbing dishes in south London and going by Betsy March - besides, I haven't stretched an inch yet this morning. I can't have sore muscles going into the soiree, I'd be such poor company!"

setting: near the front entrance, where workers are wheeling in polystyrene cooler boxes at kaz's command.

It's chaotic. It's busy. It'd almost be militant if it wasn't for the ancient boom box blasting Boney M. in the background.

Hands are being waves in various directions as Kaz yells out instructions to the kitchen staff. It's a normal early morning for guests of the estate who've spent a summer at Whispering Lane, and an especially exciting for those who are a fan of seafood.

"And when did you get back?!" Enthusiasm is eccenturated with his strong Scottish accent. Whether a new or old face, whether Kaz saw them last night or ten years ago, he greets everyone all the same. "Give us a hand, why don't ya?"

[guiltswept]

for a self - proclaimed wine enthusiast, imogen hadn't visited the vineyard once since she had returned home just a few weeks ago. the first few days were spent pitifully; beneath sheets, scattered bottles of liquor still dripping their contents across her bedroom floor, seeping into the decades old rug. wandering the halls late at night, when she'd suddenly awake in a fit, all thrashing limbs and gasping air; the ghost of eversley estate, in her very best nightdress. a week passed before she'd begun to show up at breakfast, hair perfectly curled, dress ironed pin - straight except for where it creased when she sat. a picture - perfect eversley, like how she always should've been. the second week, and she'd begun to wander off the grounds of their castle - peeking her head around corners, peering into the stables and checking in on the winery like a curious child. everything felt the same. so terribly the same; why did she feel so terribly different?

it didn't matter, whatever the reason - however way imogen chose to psychoanalyze herself ( her therapist had dismissed her three weeks back; imogen was sure he blocked her. bloody oaf. ) that day. in the grand scheme of things - she wasn't going to be the one who inherited the estate; she couldn't be. hector's head would quite literally explode; rain down brain matter and coagulated blood, black like his heart. like all of their hearts. lottie would... imogen didn't want to think about what lottie would do. something terrible, no doubt. but her role was already decided, already made; a pretty face, just enough to project that perfect image of theirs. a good hostess. a great conversationalist; just philanthropic enough to make them look even better.

god. imogen needed a drink. she needed attention; she needed to feel alive, to know that she was still an eversley, above all. that her position in the family still held some sort of power.

"hmm," she hummed, eyes flittering over dany with an easy curiosity; cat eyeing prey. blonde tresses brushed off her shoulder as her head tilted to the side in a less - than - genuine consideration. "the merlot has a beautiful flavor profile, doesn't it?" it wasn't a question meant to be answered, as she continued to speak, "but i'm not sure i'm in the mood for something dry, as mad as that sounds. are there any sweet reds available? a dessert wine, perhaps? i prefer to start my evenings on the sweeter side." imogen smiled; like newly shed blood across snow but twice as warm, "how about you - torres, is it? are you dry, or are you sweet?"

open starter where: whispering vines vineyard when: mid afternoon

when dany had taken this job, she thought she was signing up for a typical bartending job. they asked if she had knowledge of wines, of course she lied and said yes, even if her only experiences with wine usually came from cheap boxes bought from grocery stores. though, now she's been here two years and no one would even assume she had lied to get the job. it was supposed to be a means to an end, to get out of the old life she left behind. good money with a place to live where no one could find her. only now, she sort of enjoyed it.

dressed in her usual uniform of a tailored white shirt, black vest and black dress pants, she felt confident around these people even if they come from completely different worlds. she can sling around words like 'notes of oak' and explain which wines should be paired with which foods as if she had been doing this her whole life.

the vineyard seemed busier than usual today; guests coming to sample wine for future events they may like to hold here, new faces she has noticed coming and going from the castle across the property who were here for the eversley family. she wasn't sure which were which yet so she treated them all the same, with polite respect. "are we feeling red or white today?" she asked the guest, trying her best to tone down her accent. though, in a place like this, any american doesn't fit in, let alone someone who spent most of her childhood speaking spanish. "we have a lovely merlot that has been rave reviews."

[guiltswept]

It was one of those rare days where the sky was clear - sunny, even ( or at least by british standards ) - and the air felt less... gloomy. Dreadful. Of course, it wasn't Cabo by any means; but it'd do. Oh, it'd do just well. Imogen had a late breakfast - or she was going to have a late breakfast, a server trailing behind her as she ascended the steps up towards the pool, a distinct flop to her flip - flops with every step. The brim of her hat lifted gently with the passing breeze, and she held it in place with just two fingers as she peered down at Blue.

"Oh, it's your sun?" She replied, all red - laced smiles and a relaxed, practiced roll of her shoulders. The server that had been trailing behind Imogen handed off her mimosa, as if by cue, and set her breakfast tray besides the lounge chair nearest to them before dismissing themselves. Imogen took a sip; if a sip was downing half the glass. "Then this must be my book," with her free hand, she picked up the novel - nudging the other woman's legs over with her knee before settling onto the same chaise lounge. "Tell me, how bad is it? You know, there's a shelf back in the library that I've been slowly infiltrating with the worst of the worst. I'm talking - beyond all these faeries and werewolves - Thomas is practically rolling in his grave."

When? 14:03pm.

Where? Eversley Estate Pool.

Who? Open!

The only work Blue had planned on doing during her stay at the Eversley's was working on her tan. Really it was the sunrays that did all the heavy lifting, as they pressed kisses against her skin. All she had to do was lay there. Then every thirty minutes or so, she'd flip over, letting the sun hit the other spot. Then repeat. And repeat. Then break. She'd dip in the pool to cool down some, then Blue would start the process all over again.

This is how she spent most of her days while at the estate. Lounging by the poolside, with a cosmo in one hand and a poorly written smut book in the other. Each day was full of such relaxation, they were beginning to blur together. That was no bother to Blue. Isn't that what holiday is for? To let time slow down some? To have a tasty cocktail or two? To come home with such a tan that everyone couldn't help but wonder where you've been?

As Blue read the steamy words on the pages of her book, someone's stature kept the sun rays from hitting her skin. She cleared her throat and put down the novel. "Excuse me," she said to them, pulling down her sunglasses to get a good look at the perpetrator. "You're blocking my sun."

[guiltswept]

( willa fitzgerald. cis woman. she/her. ) - let me introduce you to a member of the eversley family, imogen eversley is the eldest daughter. they are thirty-two and are known as the magnet to the family because they are effervescent, capricious, and prodigal. when you get to know them, you think about a swan drowned in its own pond and its sprawled, feathered halo floating in the dirtied water; leaning precariously against a balcony banister as a lover takes delight, numb to the ongoings of the party below. but they’re still an eversley, nonetheless. this character is penned by: (james. 25. est. they/them).

content warning for... teenage pregnancy, adoption mentions, and implied domestic abuse ( nondescript ).

profile.

full name — imogen thomasin radcliffe eversley.

nickname(s) — gen, ginny ( family only ).

place of birth — hampshire, england, united kingdom.

date of birth & age — february 24th, 1992. thirty2.

gender / pronouns — cis woman, she/her.

sexuality — bisexual.

occupation — fashion designer; failed. violinist; failed. painter; failed. art connoisseur. socialite. world traveler. philanthropist. winery board member.

astrology — pisces sun / scorpio moon / cancer rising.

labels — the magnet ( others considered: the robin / the thespian / the philanthropist / the fervor / the hedonist / the illustrious ).

residence — eversley estate ( previous residence: radcliffe manor, yorkshire ).

traits — worldly, vindictive, sanctimonious, resplendent, prodigal, wanton, blasé, sumptuous, capricious, grandiose, indulgent, inconsiderate, self - serving, condescending, effervescent

interests — non - profits; and smiling for the cameras. silks, furs, pearls. cashmere. parties; dancing - switching from partner to partner. partaking in a fifteen - step selfcare routine every morning and a twenty - step selfcare routine every evening. red lipstick. cigarettes, cigars; the occasional vape and the occasional joint. the occasional bump. sweet red wines. the summertime the french countryside. idle gossip; innocent flirtation. sharing a bed. hoarding her wealth. club music. the occasional argument. breaking things; particularly glass.

aversions — cheap fabric and fast fashion. american beer. others being privy to her outbursts. losing; admitting defeat. others disagreeing with her. things outside of her control. losing her voice. being an embarrassment; being caught off - guard. sparkling juices ( go big or go home? ). the texture of velvet. the concept of golf. being perceived in a way she wouldn't like to be. grocery shopping. bicycles. when produce is older than a few days ( it's not fresh if it wasn't picked that morning ). poor weather.

most played — a mistake by fiona apple.

notable features — meticulously curled blonde hair, purposefully disheveled with each manicured finger that runs through it; bright green eyes that spark arguments whenever they're referenced as hazel, like - get a grip.

general disposition — a practiced litheness to every movement; a head held high, and sanguinity that nearly feels forced.

character study — daisy buchanan ( the great gatsby ) & marie antoinette ( marie antoinette ) & holly golightly ( breakfast at tiffany's ) & emma woodhouse ( emma ).

background & events.

being the second born means being the second best; and imogen eversley would spend the entirety of her childhood overcompensating for it. if the eldest were anything like their father, then imogen was like their mother. or - she tried to emulate the matriarch, to the very best of her ability. elegance, grace; a certain poise that she couldn't imitate, no matter how hard she tried.

it had always been clear to imogen that she'd never be their parents' favorite; god knows the competition was stiff. she tried anyways; picked up hobby after hobby, only to be met with a natural mediocrity that even the finest tutors couldn't teach out of her. she met each failure with anger, with frustration; with tears and screams, echoed throughout her childhood bedroom, void of comfort. never publicly - never in front of her family. her own private tantrums; all for herself.

however splintered, shattered her own ego may be - imogen always graced the corridors of their home with a practiced smile; practiced grace, practiced elegance, a practiced caricature of ignes. never her own person - just mimicking those she wanted to be.

the only time she felt - herself, truly and wholly, was in her teenaged years - with the son of one of their estates' staff. their secret meetings became the only thing imogen truly looked forward to; the only place where she could be stripped of her façade, where she wasn't an eversley, but just imogen. and then she fell pregnant.

teen pregnancy; the first person she told was her aunt cressida; more alike than imogen would've cared to admit - partial shame in the fact, partial fear that it only affirmed that she'd never be like their mother. aunt cressida brought comfort; brought everything she knew not to expect once her parents found out about her pregnancy.

adoption mention; she was right, of course. as soon as the news was broken to them ( rumors floating the corridors, whispers among the staff, the averted gaze from who she supposed would be her child's paternal grandparent ) - imogen was whisked away. gone for a year, without a single trace. a special abroad program, her parents would tell their friends, their family; her own siblings. the year stretched like a decade; lasted like a second - both forever, and instant. a blur. naturally, she didn't keep the child; its adoption had been set up the moment she left the estate.

imogen returned to eversley estate a year later, and nothing has ever been the same since. a tighter leash, and a gaze in her parents' eyes that only affirmed her worst fears. she was a disappointment; and once that opinion was held - it would never change. she leapt at the chance to go to university far away; an actual abroad program that would take her out from the estate, that would lessen the grip around her throat.

the degree is useless; something art or philosophy related, pretentious, and incredibly imogen. she spends her time in different european cities, writing essays on philosophers she doesn't care about - on art she doesn't understand; drinking into the early hours of the morning, arguing beliefs she doesn't hold while being peppered in drunken kisses from people she's met the same day. when she graduates university - not much changes.

years pass - and imogen's rarely been back to the estate. sometimes for the holidays, but sometimes it's a postcard from whichever island she's decided to spend christmas at. she's been around the globe at least three times; sometimes she stays in a country for months at a time, sometimes days. everything is up to her own whim - and she still chases the euphoric high her first love gave her. technically, henry radcliffe is her twenty eighth love, but numbers are arbitrary.

they marry almost as soon as they meet, their relationship only months in, but his family's of wealth almost equal to her own, and of course it must be fate that they, two wealthy brits, meet in bora bora of all places ( fork found in kitchen ). it's an extravagant wedding, held on the radcliffe property ( maybe it's the hurt in imogen's heart, but she refuses to have it at the vineyard ) and an attraction for both family and friends to gawk at.

implied domestic abuse; the first year is dreamy; or maybe imogen's head is just in the clouds - but it plummets quick. it becomes increasingly apparent that henry is not the man imogen thought he was. that his honeyed words were just that - honeyed. sweet enough to soften... everything. she knows she has to get out - that whatever their marriage became wasn't love, not anymore. she knows - she has to contact charles. she has to contact her father.

and charles eversley handles it. what he does, or rather, who does it for him - imogen doesn't know. all she knows is that henry's on an indefinite work trip, and that she's packing her bags and moving back into her childhood bedroom for the time being. part of her is - surprised at the swiftness. that she'd been helped at all. part of her is waiting for the catch. there's always a catch, isn't there?

introspection & details.

in childhood, imogen was an overbearing, wannabe overachiever who just managed to achieve. she's always felt like a part of hector's shadow, lurking only a few paces behind him. her ego's always been incredibly fragile; and it doesn't take much for her to break.

is prone to fits, or outbursts - or breakdowns; whichever takes fancy. it's when she becomes - so overwhelmed by the stress and weight of - everything, that she just completely shuts down. often resorts to violence - has broken many of her own possessions in her childhood. she's always hidden her outbursts - and has gotten better at managing them. for the most part.

in fact, she hides all of the... unsavory parts of her well. her demeanor is always languid, lithe - relaxed and unconcerned with the estates' happenings. on the inside, she's biting her nails until blood draws.

she loves to host parties; loves to mingle with others, loves the attention - loves to chat, especially when it's meaningless. especially when she can talk about herself. has hosted many charity galas, mostly for that purpose. and for the orphans! always for the orphans!

she's extremely socially unaware; most worldly topics escape her, despite her numerous travels. she can get away with it for the most part. it also doesn't help that she's - patronizing at best, thinking she's above most because of the money she's raised and donated for charity ( even if some of them are just fronts ).

imogen doesn't know how much bananas cost at the grocery store. or most produce for that matter. maybe the most likely out of her siblings to just throw a wad of money at something and assume it's exactly paid for.

unironically downloads and pays for those video skit apps that always have ads on tiktok like "i'm the fated luna to my professor, the alpha king!". unironically enjoys them. is also prone to terrible, terrible romance books. the littler the plot, and the greater the smut - the better. hasn't read nonfiction since university.

many were surprised when imogen first married ( though, naturally she's now - separated? divorced? widowed? ) because of her... habit of acquiring multiple lovers at a time. she's never been a long - term person, not since her first love. even now, back at the estate - imogen may or may not be involved with a few family friends... or staff. they always say old habits die hard.

extremely charismatic when she wants to be; has a deep, inner need to be loved and admired. hates being alone for too long - has a tendency to drink by herself, which either causes havoc or causes her to spiral.

selfish and narcissistic; will always think about herself first ( besides her family... sometimes ) and is a strong believer of selfcare days ( where she does nothing but lounge by the pool ). she's terrified of getting older - of looking old; is terrified of the day where she becomes undesirable, and therefore truly worth nothing.

[guiltswept]

IMOGEN EVERSLEY — intro. study. visuals. wanted. MARIBEL SAWYER — intro. study. visuals. wanted.

dependent mumu for eversley estate. penned by james.