#⋆ girty : starters .

[wolfvsh]

𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐄 ! capping at 4/4. 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: flurry festival — let's party !

It probably came as a surprise to absolutely no one when a certain Stafford twin stumbled into the celebration, enough booze coursing through her rotting system to knock out a stocky horse, and an outfit so absurdly out of place it single-handedly shattered the Misty whispering-and-snickering record — a fuckin’ feat, considering the vipers that hid in the grass. Overcast eyes studied the scene, so saccharine it bordered on comedic — dangling lights, ice skating, live music, tight hugs and warmth. Girty scoffed, unscrewing her trusty flask and indulging in the bitterness. People were dead and buried, yet the rejoicing continued. She couldn’t help but wonder if they’d still be celebrating if it were their son, daughter, or friend lying in that hospital bed, waiting for death to make its claim — icy, spindly fingers tearing another beating heart from the chest of an innocent (but how innocent really?). “Well, well, well… Lookin’ at all these smiley fuckin’ people, you’d never guess there’s a zombie boy waitin' to see the light.” She turned to the poor soul nearest her — a helpless victim now caught in her nonsense — extending fur-clad arms in their direction with exaggerated flair. Dropping her head like a broken doll’s, tongue lolling out, she groaned, “Braaaains,” the performance might’ve been more entertaining if there weren’t so many curious ears pricked in the background — or if she possessed even a shred of subtlety, “Feeeeeed meeeee.”

[wolfvsh]

If you asked her how she’d ended up at Liliana’s castle, she’d flash you a stupid grin and reply with nothing but silence. One thing was for certain, though: Girty was having the time of her life. Free drinks flowed like a waterfall, a familiar white powder tickled the insides of her nose, valuable treasures sat inside her pockets (triumphantly obtained by sneaking into rooms that were supposedly off-limits), and a few phone numbers — hastily scribbled onto her freckly skin — decorated her like hieroglyphics. None were readable, most had already been forgotten, and by tomorrow, they’d trickle down the drain of her shower along with the sweat sticking to her body. Another night, another mess to wash away. She spotted their gracious host, collapsing onto the same couch as her like a sack of potatoes. Her naked feet slapped against the coffee table in front of them. Where the fuck had her shoes run off to, anyway? The mention of Baylor’s name made her jaw drop, the news floating into her ears for the very first time — a bucket of freezing water.  “That’s what’s got everybody bumpin’ uglies?” Her words tumbled out, barely understandable, letters awkwardly bumping against each other like they were drunk themselves. “Fuck, man… Now folks’ll think I’m one of his fuckin’ groupies, man. That’s so—” Girty’s hands came crashing down against her face, no regard or knowledge for the sting the movement caused, pulling pinkish skin down. She burst into cackles, loud ones, her whole being shaking with their force. “Of-fuckin’-course he’d be the one to break the ice curse. The asshole lives!” She paused abruptly, thinking, thinking, thinking before turning her head ever so slightly and giving Lili the most serious expression she could muster. “D’ya reckon he’s still got all his fingers on him? Or… is one — No, two! — gettin’ munched on somewhere in the woods by some wild lil’ critter?”

LOCATION : the serrano residence. DATE : december 22nd. OPEN STARTER : uncapped.

The grand Serrano estate is draped in a lavish display of twinkling Christmas lights, velvet ribbons, and wreaths so pristine they might as well have been plucked straight from a magazine. But tonight, the air reeks of cigarette smoke, spilled vodka, and YSL Opium. The Serrano family’s pristine living room — usually reserved for charity events and formal luncheons — had been overrun by Misty Mountain’s finest under-25s to celebrate Baylor waking up... or something like that. Duran Duran's Hungry Like The Wolf pulses through the speakers, crackling just slightly under the weight of too much bass. A crystal punch bowl, now repurposed for something far stronger than punch, sits on the marble counter.

Liliana sits on the arm of the couch, a glass tumbler in hand, filled with something clear and certainly not water. She’s in red; of course, she is, it's almost christmas — a slinky little velvet number that hugs her waist and leaves her shoulders bare. She tilts her head, turning to the person next to her with a lazy smirk. "You know," she drawls, "If I ever get found half-dead in the snow, I fully expect someone to throw me a party like this. Everyone needs to be drinking like the world’s ending and someone needs to be crying in the bathroom."

She takes a slow slip from her cup, eyes glancing over the crowded room where someone’s trying, and failing, to do the moonwalk on a Persian rug. "God, I love this song. Don’t you? Almost makes me forget it’s a literal miracle Baylor’s not a popsicle right now."

[wolfvsh]

The winter chill nipped her skin, freckled cheeks glowing red as clouds of smoke puffed from her chapped lips. She wandered beneath the colorful lights and white sky, always eager to find a distraction from the overwhelming experience that life tended to be — her trailer got really cold and quiet on nights like this. A heavenly choir seemed to echo inside her mind when an all-too-familiar neon sign winked at her from across the street. The Salty Bear — a loyal friend to many, Girty included.  Cowboy boots carried her to her safe haven, the bell above the door jingling to announce her chaotic arrival — arms shooting up as she waved manically at the folks behind the bar. They knew her far too well… the dirtiest, sorriest version of her etched into their memories, with physical evidence of her visits (or hauntings) sprinkled throughout — banged-up tables, broken bathroom mirrors, knife-carvings on sticky wood. Girty had a knack for leaving a mark, intentional or not.  Buck’s voice carried across the bar as she planted a sloppy kiss upon the cheek of some slobbering patron. She froze mid-motion, dopey grin faltering. He was a good kid — sweet as honey — but seeing his friendly face only dug up happier times spent with her sister. She weighed her options: 1) Get the fuck out while she still could or, 2) Try to be as polite and charming as ever while shoving any deep talk under the rug — a fucking mountain at this point. Only one of those choices promised to put a drink in her hand, so... “Buckaroo, lookin’ good, man!” Her voice was loud, anything but tentative, as she skipped toward him, plopping down on the barstool next to his. At the mention of Mabel, her lips briefly curled in distaste, a wild animal growling. She knew just as little as everyone else… and it stung, the painful realization that she was just like any other stranger walking down the street. Still, she wanted to respect her wishes — it would be slightly hypocritical to blame her for wanting to be left alone when she, too, bit the hand of anyone who wanted to pat her head. “Holdin’ up just fine — all in one piece, ain’t I?” Haven't seen much of your sister, haven't seen much of your sister, haven't seen much of your sister... but instead of snapping and telling him to join the line: “Y’know my baby sister… She’s the private type.” Messily adorned fingernails anxiously drummed against the tabletop, hoping her burning stare could somehow bewitch the bartender into hurrying over. “So… you gonna buy this lonesome girl a drink, or are you some kinda sadist whose mama never taught him any fuckin’ manners?” Her twin’s secret would remain locked for now — at least until a few more sips of alcohol loosened her tongue.

Buck leaned back on the worn barstool, his hand wrapped around a whiskey glass that felt colder than it should. The Salty Bear was always a bit of a mixed bag—either alive with laughter and music or quiet enough to hear your own thoughts. Tonight it was the latter, with the fire crackling low in the hearth and the town hanging still outside in the cold mist. He spotted her as soon as she came through the door, sharp as ever, her hair falling over her shoulders in dark waves. Girty Stafford. She looked the same, all fire and defiance, wrapped in one of her familiarly ridiculous coats, and boots that had seen their share of trouble. Buck knew her—knew her because her twin sister had been living in the back of his mind since the day that both of their parents died; knew her because the tragedy of the Stafford twins had always haunted him. . Knew her as a steady reminder that trouble always had a way of finding its way into a person if you let it. He hadn’t seen Mabel much lately. Well, he’d seen her, but she hadn’t spoken much—hadn’t really talked much at all, and that worried him more than he cared to admit. So now here was Girty, and he figured if anyone could give him some kind of window into how Mabel was actually doing, it would be her. Buck raised his hand in a casual wave as she came into view, his voice low but clear as she got closer. "Girty," he said, the name rolling out like an old song. "How’ve you been? I mean… how are you holding up?"

He let the question hang for a beat, unsure of whether he expected an honest answer or just a polite brush-off. His stomach felt heavy, though, tied to years of worrying about Mabel and her choices, the silence that had grown between the two of them over time. Girty would know better, wouldn’t she? She’d always had a way of cutting through the layers of what people didn’t want to say. Buck leaned forward a little, gripping the glass tighter. "I’ve been meaning to check in with you. Haven’t seen much of your sister lately." His voice was steady, but there was an edge of something unspoken. Worry. Fear, maybe. His own kind of hope.

@wolfvsh