Post by byron fiennes. on Jul 30, 2009 16:59:37 GMT -5
byron lysander fiennes ,
twenty-three , citizen , chris pine.
first of all , i'm curious as to when you were born and where. how old does that make you today ?fuck, this is a long story. i was born in devon, right? with my father—ranulph fiennes, mate, the high class explorer—and my mother—virginia fiennes, may she rest in peace—and we were happy. oh, wait, yeah, and my sister harriet—can’t forget her, miss scheming, loveable bitch. she’s seven years older than me and married to some hotshot millionaire, but enough of that. my father was over the moon when i was born, something about continuing the legacy and so on and so forth, so family life was, you know. good. then i was sent to the prestigious eton college in jolly old london and… yep, things went downhill from there. i’m twenty-three, born in april eighty-seven. april eighteenth, to be precise, if you wanna get me a present or something.
whats your status here , exactly. can you tell us what you do for a living ?i’m a citizen of milan, funnily enough. i moved here when i was eighteen, because fuck my life in england. i mean, really. i’m not sitting around with louise sinking her harpy talons into my father and bollocks like that. fuck that. i got into a spot of bother, too—i punched louise in the face, broke her motherfucking nose, the cunt—so a move was best for me. nothing too extravagant or exciting, really… just family affairs and boredom.
and your parents , who are they and what do they like ?my mum’s dead, my dad’s ranulph fiennes. i got along well with my mum, don’t talk to my dad now. that’s about it.
so what about siblings , are there any other important family members ?i have a full biological sister, harriet, and a half-sister. not much else to say. harriet’s older than me and we get on alright. half-sister doesn’t exist in my mind.
i see , now could you tell me your favorite and least favorite things ?i read shakespeare and victorian poetry and my life is beautiful and complete. sometimes i do read shakespeare but… most of the time i hit the bars and jam and drink and sex people up and have fun that way. yep. i hope louise rolls in her gravewhen i put her in it. my mother would be proud of me. as for things i don’t like… fuck, i could list over nine thousand. i hate anime, pokemon, my stepmother, historical fiction, folk songs and… my stepmother. twice. yeah.
so what about relationships , how do you find those ?i like relationships. i’m not a commitment phobic, so… serious is good for me, i guess. as long as you’re not a gold digger. where’s kanye west when you need him?
we've asked about family , significant others , but what about a pet ?i have a three year old labrador called macaulay. he’s been with me since he was eight weeks old and he’s my best friend, i guess. even if he is clingy and whiny and wakes me up at fucking ridiculous times of the morning.
last but not least - your best kept secret , what is it exactly ?i punched my stepmother in the face and my mother’s dead? i don’t know. fuck.
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[/font]. my name is ellis.[/size][/font] i have just found you through michelle.[/size][/font] and have also been role playing for about seven years.[/size][/font] as you can see, i'm currently using chris pine[/size][/font] for this hot character. and i'm sure you'd love to see what i can do, so check the sample below baby - and oh yeah, this application was made by emily - stealing is for losers ![/font][/size][/blockquote][/blockquote][/color]hey TIME TO CHANGE
“Remember, if you ever want a job at the Ministry—”
“—I can come to you, or Percy, or Harry, or Ron—”
“Yes, that’s right. Any of us, and I suppose you could go to your mother…” Arthur Weasley trailed off, wrinkling his nose slightly at the thought of his son approaching Molly about a job at the Ministry of Magic. No, George had better not do that, and by the look on his son’s face, the other male was thinking the same thing.
“Mhm,” George responded, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers and scuffing the floor slightly with the tip of his shoe. His father was old enough to retire but still insisted on working in the Department of Muggles, or whatever it was called (he had never really paid attention to his father’s job) for a few more years. So far, ‘a few more years’ had turned into three, and he was wondering when his father was actually going to retire, or if he ever would.
“Actually, I can’t imagine you going to Percy, either,” Arthur mused, his face a picture of soft humour. “Considering you used to wind him up and terrify the living daylights out of him, I don’t suppose he’d want you to go to him, either,” he added, a sombre note to his voice at the implication of what Fred and George used to get up to. He reached out to touch the remaining twin, who shifted away subtly in order to examine something on his father’s desk.
“Neither can I,” George remarked nonchalantly, picking up an elderly-looking watch and tossing it up and down in his palm for a second whilst his father watched him with a steady gaze. He felt like he was five again, back in Arthur’s office when his mother simply couldn’t cope with looking after the twins and sent one of them to work with their father. There was a beat between the two, before the redhead eventually turned around to face Arthur again, the shadow of a smile appearing on his lips.
“How’s Fred?” Arthur asked suddenly, his expression alert and filled with mild excitement. Clasping his hands together, he moved to the area behind his desk and brushed his fingers over the photograph of George, Angelina and Fred, one that had been taken in the Burrow’s garden just after Fred’s first birthday. All three individuals were beaming, Angelina’s hair was being blown softly by the wind and, in the background, Harry and Ginny were cuddling up against each other.
George blinked for a second, surprised by the question. “Hm? Oh, Fred—he’s fine. He’s really good, actually… he’s seen Angelina on her broom and wants to learn how to fly.” There was a pause as he made a noise of vague amusement, shaking his head slightly, “I was going to take him to work with me, but—”
“—it would be good for him,” Arthur interrupted, his expression somewhat noble and vigilant. “He’d learn the tricks of the trade and then he could carry on the business.” He smiled fondly at his son, and then the two of them cleared their throats at the same time, gazes meeting briefly for a second or two.
“Yeah,” George murmured thoughtfully, frowning lightly. He had no idea what the time was, but he ought to be getting back—he’d stayed too long already. “Dad, could you—”
“—tell your mother to stop trying to move in?” the older Weasley queried with a friendly grin, nodding. Upon seeing the relief in George’s face, he chuckled heartily, moving around the desk and clasping his hand on the redhead’s shoulder, grip firm. “Ron’s sick of her, too, don’t worry. She’s lonely at the Burrow, that’s why—I’ll have a word with her though.”
“Cheers.” A fleeting beat between them, and then – “I have to go.”
Arthur said nothing for a moment, nodding in an understanding manner and releasing George from his grip. “Family calls,” he said pensively, winking at the twenty five year old. “If your mother does turn up on your doorstep demanding to know where I am, tell her I’m at the office.”
Nearing the door, George turned at the comment and laughed, rolling his eyes faintly. “No, I’ll just tell her to check the clock.” The two men shared the brief joke and then George left the building, strolling down the corridor and out of the Ministry within ten minutes. He visited his father every Monday afternoon because Arthur needed company sometimes, and he didn’t really mind the chats they had – it was nice to talk to his father about things – but now he was running late and that made him anxious.
Half-an-hour later, the redhead wandered into Hyde Park, having decided that Angelina could wait a little while longer for his return. He was always late on Mondays, anyway, because finding a secluded area to Apparate back to his house took forever, and the trains were never on time, so it was rare for him to arrive home when he said he would. Exhaling softly and ambling up one of the footpaths, he mulled over the chat that he and his father had shared, contemplating several things.
For most of his life, he had been expected to go into the Ministry like most of his family had (Charlie being the exception, which George was grateful for, and Bill had a job that was important enough to be considered the equivalent of working in the Ministry, so that was an obvious exception, too). When he and Fred had opened up their own business instead, their parents had been disappointed, and although they’d never shown their disappointment, George had always sensed that it was there.
Settling down onto one of the park’s benches, he tilted his head up towards the sky and sighed. He was happy with running a shop in Hogsmeade; it paid well and it was popular and far better than a stuffy job at the Ministry or a job as an Auror, one in which your safety could never be guaranteed. No, George was perfectly happy resting in the knowledge that he could return to his family at night instead of being blown up by a criminal, or bored to death by paperwork.
Drumming his fingers against the bench, he exhaled again and stifled a yawn, rubbing his hands together as the January cold struck him in the form of a soft wind. The park was reasonably empty with only the odd jogger or dog walker passing through, and even then, George could never tell if they were witches or wizards, so he couldn’t exactly engage in conversation with them, could he?
Thus, he sat there in silence for a while, simply admiring the view. God, it was boring. Maybe he should’ve gone home after all.
“—I can come to you, or Percy, or Harry, or Ron—”
“Yes, that’s right. Any of us, and I suppose you could go to your mother…” Arthur Weasley trailed off, wrinkling his nose slightly at the thought of his son approaching Molly about a job at the Ministry of Magic. No, George had better not do that, and by the look on his son’s face, the other male was thinking the same thing.
“Mhm,” George responded, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers and scuffing the floor slightly with the tip of his shoe. His father was old enough to retire but still insisted on working in the Department of Muggles, or whatever it was called (he had never really paid attention to his father’s job) for a few more years. So far, ‘a few more years’ had turned into three, and he was wondering when his father was actually going to retire, or if he ever would.
“Actually, I can’t imagine you going to Percy, either,” Arthur mused, his face a picture of soft humour. “Considering you used to wind him up and terrify the living daylights out of him, I don’t suppose he’d want you to go to him, either,” he added, a sombre note to his voice at the implication of what Fred and George used to get up to. He reached out to touch the remaining twin, who shifted away subtly in order to examine something on his father’s desk.
“Neither can I,” George remarked nonchalantly, picking up an elderly-looking watch and tossing it up and down in his palm for a second whilst his father watched him with a steady gaze. He felt like he was five again, back in Arthur’s office when his mother simply couldn’t cope with looking after the twins and sent one of them to work with their father. There was a beat between the two, before the redhead eventually turned around to face Arthur again, the shadow of a smile appearing on his lips.
“How’s Fred?” Arthur asked suddenly, his expression alert and filled with mild excitement. Clasping his hands together, he moved to the area behind his desk and brushed his fingers over the photograph of George, Angelina and Fred, one that had been taken in the Burrow’s garden just after Fred’s first birthday. All three individuals were beaming, Angelina’s hair was being blown softly by the wind and, in the background, Harry and Ginny were cuddling up against each other.
George blinked for a second, surprised by the question. “Hm? Oh, Fred—he’s fine. He’s really good, actually… he’s seen Angelina on her broom and wants to learn how to fly.” There was a pause as he made a noise of vague amusement, shaking his head slightly, “I was going to take him to work with me, but—”
“—it would be good for him,” Arthur interrupted, his expression somewhat noble and vigilant. “He’d learn the tricks of the trade and then he could carry on the business.” He smiled fondly at his son, and then the two of them cleared their throats at the same time, gazes meeting briefly for a second or two.
“Yeah,” George murmured thoughtfully, frowning lightly. He had no idea what the time was, but he ought to be getting back—he’d stayed too long already. “Dad, could you—”
“—tell your mother to stop trying to move in?” the older Weasley queried with a friendly grin, nodding. Upon seeing the relief in George’s face, he chuckled heartily, moving around the desk and clasping his hand on the redhead’s shoulder, grip firm. “Ron’s sick of her, too, don’t worry. She’s lonely at the Burrow, that’s why—I’ll have a word with her though.”
“Cheers.” A fleeting beat between them, and then – “I have to go.”
Arthur said nothing for a moment, nodding in an understanding manner and releasing George from his grip. “Family calls,” he said pensively, winking at the twenty five year old. “If your mother does turn up on your doorstep demanding to know where I am, tell her I’m at the office.”
Nearing the door, George turned at the comment and laughed, rolling his eyes faintly. “No, I’ll just tell her to check the clock.” The two men shared the brief joke and then George left the building, strolling down the corridor and out of the Ministry within ten minutes. He visited his father every Monday afternoon because Arthur needed company sometimes, and he didn’t really mind the chats they had – it was nice to talk to his father about things – but now he was running late and that made him anxious.
Half-an-hour later, the redhead wandered into Hyde Park, having decided that Angelina could wait a little while longer for his return. He was always late on Mondays, anyway, because finding a secluded area to Apparate back to his house took forever, and the trains were never on time, so it was rare for him to arrive home when he said he would. Exhaling softly and ambling up one of the footpaths, he mulled over the chat that he and his father had shared, contemplating several things.
For most of his life, he had been expected to go into the Ministry like most of his family had (Charlie being the exception, which George was grateful for, and Bill had a job that was important enough to be considered the equivalent of working in the Ministry, so that was an obvious exception, too). When he and Fred had opened up their own business instead, their parents had been disappointed, and although they’d never shown their disappointment, George had always sensed that it was there.
Settling down onto one of the park’s benches, he tilted his head up towards the sky and sighed. He was happy with running a shop in Hogsmeade; it paid well and it was popular and far better than a stuffy job at the Ministry or a job as an Auror, one in which your safety could never be guaranteed. No, George was perfectly happy resting in the knowledge that he could return to his family at night instead of being blown up by a criminal, or bored to death by paperwork.
Drumming his fingers against the bench, he exhaled again and stifled a yawn, rubbing his hands together as the January cold struck him in the form of a soft wind. The park was reasonably empty with only the odd jogger or dog walker passing through, and even then, George could never tell if they were witches or wizards, so he couldn’t exactly engage in conversation with them, could he?
Thus, he sat there in silence for a while, simply admiring the view. God, it was boring. Maybe he should’ve gone home after all.
