"It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters."
― Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl
I'll post here my most habitual characters, the ones I return to in some capacity or another and edit as I go along. If you feel a particular interest, PM me.
[Under construction]
"She is the human equivalent of a 'Bridge Out' sign. You see it. You know you should stop. But God, don't you just want to floor the gas and see how far the fall takes you?"
― Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl
I'll post here my most habitual characters, the ones I return to in some capacity or another and edit as I go along. If you feel a particular interest, PM me.
[Under construction]
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Andrea 'Andie' Daniels DCI / Law enforcer / American-British 34 y.o. Lesbian I/ENTP | Katheryn 'Kay' Gibson Detective Inspector / Either American and/or British descent. 37 y.o. Lesbian |
"Some people get homesick. I get restless." "Hope's a lovely thing. Shame I never pack it with me." |
"She is the human equivalent of a 'Bridge Out' sign. You see it. You know you should stop. But God, don't you just want to floor the gas and see how far the fall takes you?"
Physicality:
Gibson is a study in controlled contradiction. She stands at 5'8" but carries herself like someone taller—shoulders perpetually squared, spine straight as a law textbook, a posture drilled into her by years of maternal correction. Her hair is a dark, untamed wave of chestnut, never tamed. Her profile all sharp cheekbones and lips that default to a sardonic smirk even in sleep. Her gaze is grey-ish blue, the kind that warns I see you before you've finished thinking. She smells like cheap shampoo and something earthy, a scent that clings to the dog-eared paperbacks she hoards.
Demeanor:
Katheryn is a paradox wrapped in constricting shirts and jeans she deems good enough to still wear. She radiates a stillness that feels deliberate, her voice is low, textured with a smoker's rasp. She speaks sparingly, each word measured, as though language is a currency she's reluctant to spend - but when latching out, she can be quite witty, if not vicious with words. She listens like a predator. Head slightly tilted, eyes unblinking, absorbing every micro-expression, every hitch in breath. It's unnerving. Thrilling. Her humor is bone-dry, delivered with the deadpan precision of a stand-up comedian who's given up on applause.
Style:
Kays wardrobe is a quiet rebellion against expectation. She favors boxy clothes that hide her feminine silhouette. Button-ups rolled to the forearm, boots scuffed enough to suggest she's walked through every metaphor she's ever dismissed. She dresses like someone who's decided politeness is a scam, but hasn't quite mustered the energy to burn it all down.
Contradictions:
Her desk is meticulously organized (color-coded, Post-its, aligned pens) but her hair looks like she's been electrocuted by a thesis statement.
She claims to hate small talk but will dissect the symbolism of a parking ticket for 45 minutes if provoked.
Undercurrents:
Beneath the grunge-academic veneer, Kathryn is all coiled tension and quiet fury. She's the product of parents who treats vulnerability like a sin. Politics disgust her, but she's addicted to its machinery—the way power bends, breaks, and occasionally bleeds.
The Unsaid:
Gibs is a storm disguised as a still pond. To know her is to stand at the edge of a cliff, toeing the line between falling and flying. She'll memorize the cadence of your voice but forget your birthday. She's the first to call bullshit and the last to leave a bar fight. And when she looks at you—really looks—it feels like being X-rayed by someone who's already written the diagnosis but is too fascinated by the disease to look away.
She'll hate it if you call her Kathryn, though.
Gibson is a study in controlled contradiction. She stands at 5'8" but carries herself like someone taller—shoulders perpetually squared, spine straight as a law textbook, a posture drilled into her by years of maternal correction. Her hair is a dark, untamed wave of chestnut, never tamed. Her profile all sharp cheekbones and lips that default to a sardonic smirk even in sleep. Her gaze is grey-ish blue, the kind that warns I see you before you've finished thinking. She smells like cheap shampoo and something earthy, a scent that clings to the dog-eared paperbacks she hoards.
Demeanor:
Katheryn is a paradox wrapped in constricting shirts and jeans she deems good enough to still wear. She radiates a stillness that feels deliberate, her voice is low, textured with a smoker's rasp. She speaks sparingly, each word measured, as though language is a currency she's reluctant to spend - but when latching out, she can be quite witty, if not vicious with words. She listens like a predator. Head slightly tilted, eyes unblinking, absorbing every micro-expression, every hitch in breath. It's unnerving. Thrilling. Her humor is bone-dry, delivered with the deadpan precision of a stand-up comedian who's given up on applause.
Style:
Kays wardrobe is a quiet rebellion against expectation. She favors boxy clothes that hide her feminine silhouette. Button-ups rolled to the forearm, boots scuffed enough to suggest she's walked through every metaphor she's ever dismissed. She dresses like someone who's decided politeness is a scam, but hasn't quite mustered the energy to burn it all down.
Contradictions:
Her desk is meticulously organized (color-coded, Post-its, aligned pens) but her hair looks like she's been electrocuted by a thesis statement.
She claims to hate small talk but will dissect the symbolism of a parking ticket for 45 minutes if provoked.
Undercurrents:
Beneath the grunge-academic veneer, Kathryn is all coiled tension and quiet fury. She's the product of parents who treats vulnerability like a sin. Politics disgust her, but she's addicted to its machinery—the way power bends, breaks, and occasionally bleeds.
The Unsaid:
Gibs is a storm disguised as a still pond. To know her is to stand at the edge of a cliff, toeing the line between falling and flying. She'll memorize the cadence of your voice but forget your birthday. She's the first to call bullshit and the last to leave a bar fight. And when she looks at you—really looks—it feels like being X-rayed by someone who's already written the diagnosis but is too fascinated by the disease to look away.
She'll hate it if you call her Kathryn, though.
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