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Linus Finnley

I'll be here to hold your hand, 'cause you're my queen and I'm your lionheart.

0 · 352 views · located in California

a character in “Notting's”, originally authored by Yonbibuns, as played by RolePlayGateway



ImageName: Linus Finnley

Nickname(s): If you're bold enough to start calling her little feminine pet names, then you'll probably get a righteous, undeserved punch in the face. Unless you're a pretty little thing with long eyelashes and blushed cheeks – honestly, she doesn't know what to do with herself sometimes when ladies crop up her name like she's some flighty dame. She doesn't mind being called Finnley, or Finn. Stick to sexless nicknames that sound pretty damn rad and you're in the gold. Or, at least, she probably won't get mouthy and make you feel like you're three feet tall. Only her Notting is allowed to call her anything unfitting or embarrassingly girly.

Race: Specific

Age: Twenty-three

Gender: Genderqueer

Ethnicity: If you were nosey enough to ask, Linus would say she's a Finn, through and through. That's not actually true, though. She's a foreign mutt that's usually always a little out of place when swimming in a sea of Caucasian-American-pups: a little bit of Scandinavian with a fine peppering of Swedish, with Sami descendants straggled down the bloodline.

Orientation: Now, you probably thought just from the looks of her – just from getting a quick nappy glimpse of her hairdo or experiencing her particularly mean attitude – that she was a raging lesbian. You'd only be half wrong. People assume that sexuality is a strict principle you've got to follow or a set of regulations that doesn't allow any leeway. Linus doesn't believe in that at all. It's a big ball of wibbly-wobbly sexy-wexy stuff. It's unidentifiable. It can be an art form. Simple: Pansexuality is the attraction to any and all gender types. Basically: free-loving, gender-blind, open minded. In a way, if you forget that sometimes she can be an ultra-bitch, it means that she doesn't make any distinction between gender, sex, or physical appearance. If you've got a shit personality, then she'll probably never dig you. She's fluid. She's like the ocean. But, this doesn't change her attitude unless you're the cutest patootie she's ever laid eyes on.

Romantic Interest: Untethered, unrestrained, unromantic. She's only interested in the dirty little freaks and flamboyant prancing ponies – otherwise, she doesn't have her eye on anyone and if she did you'd definitely know about it. She's loud and proud about her crushes. [Will be updated when her heart grows two sizes too large]

Residence: What – y'wanna know about her dingy downtown flat? There's three bedrooms, one bathroom, a mini-kitchen and a grungy-looking balcony that looks like it might collapse if you step onto it. But, it's sturdy enough. She's seen drunk idiots pretty much dangling themselves from the rusty railings trying to get onto another balcony and they didn't fall to their deaths, so she chances smoking there for as long as she can stand it. It's a busy location overlooking the streets and shops. You probably wouldn't believe her if she told you but she's got one of those ancient pull out beds that folds off a wooden wall-wardrobe. Like the balcony, it's sturdy enough. Hasn't fallen apart on her yet. The only presentable piece of her lovely, masculine living space is the kitchen. The kitchen, open plan to the living and dining area has a fully equipped kitchen. The kitchen includes cookware, kitchen utensils, crockery, cutlery, a washing machine and drying rack, an oven, a cooker, an electric kettle, a toaster, a fridge, a freezer, a coffee maker and a microwave. She's a pretty damn good cook, too. Everything else is secondary. Her decorations reflect her personality, her outlooks, her outward presentation.

Appearance: [Workin' at the carwash!]

Personality: Has anyone described a girl as being a firecracker? Linus is more than that. She's a lofty grenade thrown through the gap of your car window, as you desperately try to wind it closed, landing squarely in your lap. She's a thundering concussive blast. She's collapsing buildings and debris falling from the sky like comets. She's a paroxysm. She's outbursts. She's the frothing bubbles shaking a pot's lid clear off, straight across the kitchen floor. She's fingernails digging straight through the ridges of your spine: shaking shaking shaking. She's hip bones stretched against thin skin canvas. She's unsymmetrical tiles driving your obsessive compulsive tendencies insane. She's a muddy, stick-infested nest huddled between the lining of your house and the gutter that drives you absolutely nutters because they won't shut the hell up but there's something preventing you from knocking it down. In a way, it's beautiful. She's rusty nails being beaten, crookedly, into the knots of a wooden plank. She doesn't fit correctly. She's not a proper puzzle piece. She's a challenge to everything – to herself. She's pop rocks in your mouth, disconcertingly awkward. You probably won't be able to understand her unless you take your rosy shades proper off.

She often hide her feelings behind offensive or rude jokes, and she rarely lets her true feelings shine through. If an emotion does shine through, it is likely to be masked as aggression or through a joke. She tends to be direct and honest. Brutally honest – a thundering honesty that leaves you feeling exhausted and burning with humiliation. She isn't one to resort to white lies and half truths just to tiptoe around someone's feelings because she believes the truth is necessary for growth. Or just to man the hell up and move on from whatever they're blubbering about. If she does lie, it's probably because she wants to get a cheap laugh or she's testing someone to see if someone catches her. She's a pretty damn good liar when she puts the effort in. She's easily annoyed by big crowds of people and obnoxiously loud noises. They excite her hyper-aggressive tendencies and she ends up finding herself – as per usual – longing to give someone a good punch in the face. Complex social situations tire you out very quickly. If she doesn't understand what's going and if she doesn't particularly give a shit, then she's just as likely to disappear from the situation. Having to be nice and social and friendly for hours on end to complete strangers who she doesn't even care much about is absolutely exhausting to her. Insults and confrontations come naturally. She'll never be the one to tuck her tail between her legs and submit to someone she believes is wrong or stupid or interrupting her. Even if she's the first one to react – like caustic chemicals meeting molten lava – she'll also be the first to protect her friends when they need it. Her close friends know that she has her soft spots, however, and with them she can be truly yourself. No gimmicks. Less glaring and friendly arm punches. When one of her friends is in a tight spot, or being threatened by anyone, they know that they can rely on her to come charging into battle to help them, recklessly, thoughtlessly, destructively. She's all bruised knuckles and ripped jeans: but, she'll save your ass if you want her to. Give her a subtle wink and she'll set 'em off running.

She doesn't like following the rules, she doesn't like flowing with the crowd, and she doesn't like to stand on the sidelines. She has an abrasive personality – like skinning your knees on pavement. She has always known that she was fairly unpleasant. A lifetime of being called petty, dishonest, arrogant and callous have been met with acceptance. She doesn't really care. She's got a lot to offer people if you peel back her onion-layers: one at a time. She's devastatingly protective and shares the boundless loyalty of man's best friend: if you bother to get to know her. If you've got the patience, 'cause you'll need it. Her bones practically have mean drilled into them – but sometimes, it's not intentional. It's her honesty. It's her brash attitude. It's her need to push people forward. She's fiercely competitive. She's an adrenaline junkie with, seemingly, no purpose. If she’s set a personal record, you can be sure breaking it is on her to do list. She's inappropriate but she's got this knack for bringing people out of their shells. It's a gift, really. Stubborn as a mule. Impatient as a woman who's got places to go. Short tempered as a bull that's been screwed around by some hokey redneck clown. She's a wild child with a free spirit. It’s the swagger – the strut. It can be as understated as her steady gaze, but if you look for it, it’s there. It’s the written language of her body that reads, β€œthis is who I am, this is the way that I am comfortable, and if that makes you uncomfortable, then you can righteously fuck yourself.” She's the rugged smell of leather jackets and the very Shangri-la of steel-toed boots, laces optional.

Family: Hallstein Finniel – Father
Genevieve Melanson – Mother
Gull Finniel – Younger Brother
Jokum Finniel – Younger Brother
Otto Finniel – Older Brother

Tattoos: Have you even glanced in Linus' direction? If you did, you'd notice her bodies like an abstract canvas illustrating everything you've ever dreamed about: all the bizarre things you never thought would be inked into someones skin. She's got Eiffel towers looming down her forearms. She's got long bar-code stripes – or at least that's what you think they are – striped across the sides of her thick, stubborn skull. It's pulled back to the base of her skull but it's still not all that noticeable when she grows out her hair and slicks it to one side. You can still see it peeking under her hair, though. If you didn't know better, you might've thought there was a futuristic theme going on with her lovely designs. She's got more tattoos than you've ever dreamed. She's probably got more than you'll ever see, anyway, unless you happen to see her traipsing around naked – but, that'd be way too much for you. She's got red bulls-eyes and yellow emblems etched in large cryptic areas around her stomach and bellybutton. She's got large black ravens zooming down her shoulders, towards her upper biceps, with white crosses for it's beady eyes. There's something resembling mechanical spines across the tops of her forearms, spreading towards her wrists. She's got black circles emblazoned with red circles decorating each knuckle: representing something, you're sure.

Other: She doesn't pretend to understand her many preferences for women on the feminine side of the gender spectrum anymore than she understands why she is attracted to women in the first place. It just is. It's the same for prancing men who adore cooing over snazzy shirts and slim-fitted purple pants – it's her thing. It's as much a part of her as her two front teeth. Lipstick lesbians strutting across the promenade with painted nails and wearing lacy, white, delicate things – she wants to protect them. She wants to become their gentledyke or something. Generally, the same goes for feminine lads. Long hair. Tapered pianists fingers. A general knack for fashion and an eye for beauty. So, if you're a man, I'd take care not to unintentionally hold any doors for her because you'll probably get knuckled straight across your chin. Let her hold the doors, please. Your manly ego is hard enough to stomach letting a woman hold the door for you but hers is, unfortunately, not. She's constantly skimming across thin ice to feel more like herself. To be more how she visualizes. It's tougher than you think when you never had a supportive family.

You'd only know this if you ran your fingers across her knuckles and in between her fingers, where the knobby bones meet the rest of her hand, but she's got calloused palms and extra cartilage boxing her knuckles in. It's from breaking them several times and healing incorrectly. She's a little antsy when it comes to going to the hospital. She'd rather wrap it up in gauze and medical tape, so that's generally what Linus ends up doing when her hands a'throbbing. Because she punched a wall. Because she slammed her hand across someone's thick skull. Because she landed on it. Because she pushed you out of the way and broke it under falling crates. Because she's only made out of flesh and bone and sometimes she breaks – and sometimes, she doesn't heal properly. She's bent out of shape. She's probably broken more bones than you've got toes on your feet.

Reason: Linus almost felt like creating her Notting was as natural as breathing. It wasn't difficult. It was exhausting. The process felt like a mulch-fire tearing up her perennials. It felt like she was being hunted down by a Russian tiger who was running her down and waiting until she tired herself out to finally say, β€œWhat the hell are you doing? Running from me. Coraline Marli. You're an idiot, aren't you?” It might be because she's a little lonely. A little misunderstood. And a little pissed off. Linus has enough problems expressing herself without completely destroying her relationships by driving everyone away – she's a little too overbearing and a little too catastrophic. Honestly, there's not many people who can actually settle a leash around her neck and calm her down. It doesn't help that Coraline – otherwise affectionately known as Mai-Mai – is just as destructive as she is. She's her driving force. But, she keeps her grounded and afloat and far from drowning. Maybe, Linus doesn't need a reason.

So begins...

Linus Finnley's Story


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dante Knox Pike Character Portrait: Linus Finnley Character Portrait: Coraline Marlie Character Portrait: Character Portrait: Character Portrait:
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She gnashed her teeth. Her fingers clicked, subconsciously clawed and dangerous. White molars mulled tirelessly against adjacent molars, dragging clear as if they were grinding ivory dust to trade off to toothless-beggars loitering black market streets. It sent a dull ache through the connecting intersections of her jaw – an ache that made her want to throw the blaring fucking alarm clock clear through the spattered window. Whose bright idea was it to buy a machine that sounded like an incoming ship, blaring it's fucking sirens? Oh yeah. Linus bought it. Initially, she'd thought it was endearing: poetic, even. Throw her a life jacket. Sweep the lighthouse' light across her before she was completely overcome – somewhere she'd be safe. More than that, it reminded her of soft touches, fingertips dipping across bird-bones and a jingling laughter she was hard pressed to forget. She was foolish. She was tired. Her sleeplessness shuttered her eyes closed, tightly. When did it become so hard to drag her lazy ass out of bed?

Wooden bracelets flashed on her thin wrists – probably the only bird-like thing about her. Everything else screamed something else, something inexorable and bawdy: firecracker. She swam in a sea of beautiful women with bigger tits, plumper lips, blonder hair, but still she crackled with an energy they lacked. It didn't matter. She didn't belong in the gender-spectrum. Those women never interested her, anyway. A half-snuffle half-snort puffed from her nose as she dragged her knuckles against the laminated flooring: click-lock boards, installed herself. She was handy like that. Her eyes, like two pieces of rusty pennies, glinted in the darkness of her three-bedroom apartment, in search of her half-empty packet of Cordon Bleu smokes strewn across her nightstand. Cardboard righteously massacred from her many attempts to calmly extract one of the damned things and carelessly tossed on the floor in front of the rubbish bin. She'd clean up later.

Behind the tightly closed curtains, she could feel the time passing and her thoughts drifted back to the blaring siren invading her ears. A tightly-wound snarl rumbled from her throat as she immediately shifted forward on her belly, much like a beached seal, and slammed her hand across the alarm's snooze button: off off off. β€œY'know I'm gonna' throw your dumb ass out, right?” She threatened groggily, rubbing casually at the corners of her eyes to instill some kind of wakefulness. She wouldn't. She knew she wouldn't. Clearly, it was her fault. Her eyes rolled, then met squarely with her curtains. Small tubes of light filtered through a myriad of burnt holes littering it's front like a smattering of unwanted freckles, ugly ashen brown at the edges. If anyone asked, she'd blame it on the imaginary moths. Admitting that she often investigated the burning properties of matches and cigarettes would only raise eyebrows, and even if she didn't particularly give a shit about what people thought of her... it wasn't something she'd want to get into. Oh yeah, lady, burning holes in your curtains? Perfectly normal.

The tattooed woman clucked loudly, rolling her tongue ring against the inner ribs of her teeth. It sounded like rosary beads running down the corner of a table, comforting, rhythmic, a xylophone of repeated noises. Instead of resuming her hourly routine of staying-the-hell-in-bed-and-not-moving, Linus heaved herself up like an awkward sack of potatoes and swept the curtains open to reveal the full effect of the blazing sun, straight in her face. She probably would've hissed if she were some pansy vampire from Twilight. Wasn't she supposed to schedule an appointment today? Or was she supposed to attend something important? Return a call? Whatever. It'd come back to her if it was important enough. She moved away from her bed like a zombie: all limp limbs and a vacant, droning expression. She wasn't a morning person – didn't even want to experience β€œwaking up.” It was a waste of time. Where the hell was Coraline, anyway? It hit her. Suddenly, like a freight train. Oh yeah, Linus was supposed to contact her therapist. That was Dr. Pike, otherwise known as Knox. They were on a first name basis because they got along pretty well, but she didn't like calling him Dante. Too stuffy. Too biblical. Linus knew Knox was some kind of therapist badass or whatever. He understood that she wasn't some damage, kicked puppy who was feeling sorry for herself. If it were her choice, then she wouldn't even attend the mandatory sessions. But, like all things, it wasn't in her power. It wasn't her choice. They both played their parts, perfectly. Nobody deserved to know. But she gets lonely. A lot. She wasn't taking nothing at all out of the sessions. At least, Linus was learning more about herself – maybe, more than she'd care to know.

She doesn't like people much. She supposes it's rather obvious. She would get tired of hearing someone's voice. She hated people who talked too much. It's like people who overstayed their welcome – but, it's not really like that with Knox. They had a mutual understanding and mutual dislikes. With him, it felt like there was a balloon in Linus' chest cavity, swelling and filling with air. It's not so bad a feeling. With him, it's confidential. With him, she doesn't need to put up any fronts. It's unnecessary. Her lazy limbs automatically carried her through the motions of her morning routine: quick shower, brush teeth, scarf down a bagel with herb and garlic cream cheese and get her silly ass dressed in whatever was conveniently in arms reach. Blue All-Star chucks? Check. Oversized grey band T? Check. Pair of ripped jeans? Check. Old leather jacket? Check. Linus didn't bother checking how she looked in the mirror: didn't really care, not one bit. She snapped her phone open and stomped down the stairs, flicking through names and numbers and addresses until Knox' name came up. Then, she promptly dialed and announced that she'd be meeting up with him later. Split coffee or something.

She never bothered to ask if his schedule was clear.