Post by Roxi Griffin on Sept 26, 2010 20:13:40 GMT -5
Full name: Roxanne Elizabeth Griffin
Age: 16
Birthday: January 1
Original or Canon?: Canon
Face Claim: Michelle Trachtenberg
Why You are here: After her parents passing, Roxi’s been placed in Willow Brooke considering her MDMA overdose and involvement in illegal parties and drug use. It was also a matter of convenience, as the courts needed to leave her in the care of a relative—namely, her brother Jason.
Riding Experience: Beginner
Riding Interest: Roxi has little interest in riding, but she has a vague curiousity toward show jumping.
Favorite Breed: Though not terribly familiar with horses, she likes the structure of Clydesdales.
Appearance: Standing at about 5’7” in boots, Roxi isn’t overly tall, but by no means shot. Her hair, a dark brown, falls in loose waves—never quite straight—three quarters of the way down her back. Parted to the left or the middle, she leaves it down. Her face is oval-shaped, framing two blue eyes and full lips. She often wears long t-shirts as dresses, pairing the feminine ensemble with heavy boots and a leather jacket. As far as jewelry goes, she usual wears layered bracelets and/or necklaces, though nothing gaudy or loud. Her nails, always short, are usually painted black. Her day makeup is almost always simple—eyeliner and mascara—though at night she is fond of a dark, smokey look. Overall her appearance gives an effortless feel.
Likes:
- Getting trashed
- Sex, alcohol, pills, smoking
- Coffee, cherries, Pepsi
- Figuring people out
- Being subtly in control
- Space, being alone
Dislikes:
- Feeling vulnerable or dependent
- Simple people
- Asinine conversation
- Being emotionally naked
- Mornings, exercise, sports
Personality Traits: Cool, detached, impassive,, placid, silent, perceptive, intuitive, intelligent, enigmatic, elusive, distant, independent, controlled, deliberate, weary, dour, depressive, lonely, cutting, pessimistic sardonic.
Untouchable. Vulnerable.
See history.
Family Tree:
- Father: Ryan Griffin, 72, deceased
- Mother: Levi Griffin, 71, deceased
- Siblings:
Regina Skelton, Sister, 26, Married
Josh Griffin, brother, 27, Married
Jason Griffin, brother, 29, Willow Brooke staff
Hometown: L.A., California
History:
Born when her parents were in their late 50’s, Roxi was nothing short of a surprise. The Griffins—a 5 member American household—had already completed their picture perfect family by the time she arrived, but the new baby wasn’t shunned either. Named Roxanne after a silent movie heroine, she was raised primarily by her three much older siblings as her mother and father attempted to both stick to their retirement schedule and provide for the new addition to the family. With her youngest sibling already ten when she made her appearance, Roxi was fairly disconnected from the rest of the Griffin children, who were too old to be mystified by baby gurgles. Busy dealing with the trials of puberty—from pimples to first crushes—the three siblings saw no incentive to care for their kid sister. After all, she wasn’t very interesting. Silent and perceptive, Roxi watched and listened, but rarely spoke. By the time her brothers and sister began leaving Toronto to attend college, or enter the workforce, or whatever it was they did, she was 5, and over the next few years the last of already tenuous relationships slipped away.
At 12 Roxi’s test scores found her to be bordering “gifted” status, and a school counselor informed her parents of a private school she might excel in. Though the Griffins could not afford tuition, Levi and Ryan adamantly searched for a scholarship program, determined to allow their daughter to meet her potential. They eventually succeeded, and at 14 she began attending. Roxi, however, who’d been so fucking neutral about the whole thing, submitted none of her assignments and, despite attending every lecture, skipped each test. Her scholarship was withdrawn. The Griffins, of course, were furious. Levi said she was certain that her daughter was “afraid of trying.” Roxi snorted softly in response. “Right.” When Ryan demanded to know why she’d done it, she shrugged maddeningly, taking a drag from her cigarette and leaned her head against the wall, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said quietly.
In some ways, Roxi was a model teenager, and in others entirely unmanageable. In terms of academics, she was a model student and seemed to obey her parents rules without resistance. As she approached 15 however, her behaviour became increasingly reckless. Though she’d spent most of her life subtly undermining her parents, a regular night now consisted of easily sneaking off to raves and parties, even overdosing once. Feelings of misanthropy increased, and the girl who had only been bored with life became the girl who couldn’t bother with life. It didn’t help that she was distant from everyone around her.
Aside from a few special occasions, Roxi was and is the definition of aplomb. Enigmatic and elusive, she was attractive to all around her - independent and unattainable. Honestly however, it was more of an evasion tactic than even she realized—easier, really, to act as if nothing matters, than to expose the broken bits of what's real. There have been few people allowed past her barriers. The pieces of information on Roxanne Griffin known by anyone but Roxanne Griffin are approximately equivalent to what can be uncovered through a Facebook profile.
Her parents passing was the last nail in the coffin. For a month, she stopped speaking. Considering her recent behaviour and the convenience of proximity to a close relative, the courts decided to place Roxi in the care of her brother at the Willow Brooke Correctional Facility.
Nickname: Chloe
Age: 19
Years of RP Experience: 7
Other Characters: N/A
RP Sample:
Though he fancied himself rather infallible, there were many things Mikhail did not understand: the draw of African music, the conversion ratio of Egyptian to Portuguese money, and the success rates of Nikolas’ womanizing skills. His ignorance toward the proper order of priority concerning Desmond, however, apparently takes the cake.
Impatience turned his limbs jittery, little currents of neediness travelling out from his core. The thought that Dez might not show up danced before him rather cruelly. He refused to acknowledge it, leaning back and feigning nonchalance, if only out of stubbornness and the impossibility of the idea that Dez would stand him up. When said man finally stepped into view, he felt a great, stupid smile spread across his face. Oh, he probably looked completely ridiculous, but he wasn’t the sort to care, and had he been, he would have at least been comforted by the fact that his lover looked equally ridiculous, if not more. The brunette was covered in mud, soaked head to toe from the rain. The darkness obscured his view a bit, but Mikhail admired the shadows playing across tanned skin.
Finally.
Pushing away from the wall, he wasted no time in striding forward to plant his mouth firmly on Desmond’s, burying his hands in the head of dark hair. It was a wet kiss (to be expected when one participant had been caught in a storm that would likely bring down the entire palace), and he could taste the rain between their lips, feel the dewy moisture when he eventually pulled back.
“You’re a right mess,” he murmured lovingly, almost as an afterthought, running his fingers down the side of other man’s face, cheekbone to neck, warmth radiating beneath wet skin. He didn’t quite pull back the appropriate distance, still inches away from Desmond’s mouth, glancing down at it every few seconds as if he might like to swoop in for another kiss. And he would. But it was a panicky kind of euphoria that laced the atmosphere there. It’s the kind of excitement that burns in your chest and turns your stomach, that pulls you in every direction all at once, mixes you up until you’re standing outside yourself, watching everything unfold with a racing heart and desperate mind.
It runs you through.
His breath expelled in short, frequent bursts, and Mikhail could almost see it fog in the cool air. Thunder rumbled outside – a not-so-gentle reminder of where they were, what they were. “I was worried,” he started, bearings out of reach, but not quite caring, “that you might not make it.” His words tumbled over one another, perfectly hopeless. It was always like this: intense and… rushed, really. Like every moment must contain years worth of devotion. Sometimes later, alone in his rooms, he cursed himself for being in such a hurry that they couldn’t just enjoy this.
Like with most people in his life, now and then Mikhail wasn’t quite sure how he and Desmond ended up like this. Which, well, maybe it was better, because there were a few moments in the beginning where perhaps he hadn’t been quite as suave he might have liked to imagine. There were times when he’d been unsure, and even worse when he was sure, only he didn’t quite know how to go about it, how to navigate this thing between them. In some ways, he hoped Dez had forgotten those parts, so that their record remained unmarred, and it seemed things had always been this easy, this fundamental.
It was pure luck, he supposed, that they’d managed to reach this place. Everyone went through their lives searching for all the people they were supposed to be with – friends, lovers, rivals – setting themselves out like little beacons, passing across those equally adrift, while he seemed to simply stumble across the correct fit.
Something unnamed curled in his chest, warmed his extremities. He ran the pad of his index finger over the soft hair at the base of Desmond’s neck, feeling the skin before letting his hands drop to the brunette’s wrists. His gaze drifted down, over muddied garments as he entwined their fingers. It was the first time he’d really looked properly, without the frantic need to kiss distracting him, and all he managed to grasp was the bloodied cloth wrapped around his lover’s palm, knotted tightly to cover what he could only imagine was a giant, gapping wound. Several emotions filtered across his face; even he wasn’t sure what he was feeling.
Stepping back, Mikhail peered at it more clearly, the threat of a crisis setting him into problem-solving mode as he tried to gauge whether a doctor would be necessary. Though, to be honest, he mightn’t be able tell either way. Bandaging people – wasn’t that kind of a female thing? No one had ever taught him how to take care of someone like that… but he wanted to, if that counted for anything. Part of him felt that he ought to make some sort of grand gesture, like yelling, “Who did this to you? I’ll have them beheaded!” or something along those lines, but he’d never actually had someone beheaded, and he didn’t really want to start now. In the end the answer was so simple it took him several moments to start from the beginning and ask, “What happened?”
Impatience turned his limbs jittery, little currents of neediness travelling out from his core. The thought that Dez might not show up danced before him rather cruelly. He refused to acknowledge it, leaning back and feigning nonchalance, if only out of stubbornness and the impossibility of the idea that Dez would stand him up. When said man finally stepped into view, he felt a great, stupid smile spread across his face. Oh, he probably looked completely ridiculous, but he wasn’t the sort to care, and had he been, he would have at least been comforted by the fact that his lover looked equally ridiculous, if not more. The brunette was covered in mud, soaked head to toe from the rain. The darkness obscured his view a bit, but Mikhail admired the shadows playing across tanned skin.
Finally.
Pushing away from the wall, he wasted no time in striding forward to plant his mouth firmly on Desmond’s, burying his hands in the head of dark hair. It was a wet kiss (to be expected when one participant had been caught in a storm that would likely bring down the entire palace), and he could taste the rain between their lips, feel the dewy moisture when he eventually pulled back.
“You’re a right mess,” he murmured lovingly, almost as an afterthought, running his fingers down the side of other man’s face, cheekbone to neck, warmth radiating beneath wet skin. He didn’t quite pull back the appropriate distance, still inches away from Desmond’s mouth, glancing down at it every few seconds as if he might like to swoop in for another kiss. And he would. But it was a panicky kind of euphoria that laced the atmosphere there. It’s the kind of excitement that burns in your chest and turns your stomach, that pulls you in every direction all at once, mixes you up until you’re standing outside yourself, watching everything unfold with a racing heart and desperate mind.
It runs you through.
His breath expelled in short, frequent bursts, and Mikhail could almost see it fog in the cool air. Thunder rumbled outside – a not-so-gentle reminder of where they were, what they were. “I was worried,” he started, bearings out of reach, but not quite caring, “that you might not make it.” His words tumbled over one another, perfectly hopeless. It was always like this: intense and… rushed, really. Like every moment must contain years worth of devotion. Sometimes later, alone in his rooms, he cursed himself for being in such a hurry that they couldn’t just enjoy this.
Like with most people in his life, now and then Mikhail wasn’t quite sure how he and Desmond ended up like this. Which, well, maybe it was better, because there were a few moments in the beginning where perhaps he hadn’t been quite as suave he might have liked to imagine. There were times when he’d been unsure, and even worse when he was sure, only he didn’t quite know how to go about it, how to navigate this thing between them. In some ways, he hoped Dez had forgotten those parts, so that their record remained unmarred, and it seemed things had always been this easy, this fundamental.
It was pure luck, he supposed, that they’d managed to reach this place. Everyone went through their lives searching for all the people they were supposed to be with – friends, lovers, rivals – setting themselves out like little beacons, passing across those equally adrift, while he seemed to simply stumble across the correct fit.
Something unnamed curled in his chest, warmed his extremities. He ran the pad of his index finger over the soft hair at the base of Desmond’s neck, feeling the skin before letting his hands drop to the brunette’s wrists. His gaze drifted down, over muddied garments as he entwined their fingers. It was the first time he’d really looked properly, without the frantic need to kiss distracting him, and all he managed to grasp was the bloodied cloth wrapped around his lover’s palm, knotted tightly to cover what he could only imagine was a giant, gapping wound. Several emotions filtered across his face; even he wasn’t sure what he was feeling.
Stepping back, Mikhail peered at it more clearly, the threat of a crisis setting him into problem-solving mode as he tried to gauge whether a doctor would be necessary. Though, to be honest, he mightn’t be able tell either way. Bandaging people – wasn’t that kind of a female thing? No one had ever taught him how to take care of someone like that… but he wanted to, if that counted for anything. Part of him felt that he ought to make some sort of grand gesture, like yelling, “Who did this to you? I’ll have them beheaded!” or something along those lines, but he’d never actually had someone beheaded, and he didn’t really want to start now. In the end the answer was so simple it took him several moments to start from the beginning and ask, “What happened?”
