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Full Name: Fletcher Donoghue Nickname/Alias: Fletch Age/Date Of Birth: 21, November 27th Race: Human Occupation: Professional layabout; steals what he needs, sleeps on friend's couches, and refuses to become a functioning member of society. Species Group: Civilian Play-By: Robert Sheehan
Special items that are bought from the store will go here.
Dislikes: ✗ People who take things too seriously. ✗ Self righteousness, unless it’s his own. ✗ Religion- even though it frequently stares him right in the face. His mother tried to raise him Catholic, but he rebelled against from the offset. ✗ Video games with story lines. Though he seems like the type, and he enjoys shoot em ups as much as anyone, he thinks that the stories go on forever; they never end. His fear of commitment plays a part, and his attention span isn't up to the task.
Fears: ☬ Being buried alive doesn’t sound like a barrel of laughs. ☬ Babies and children- who needs that responsibility.
Goals: ★ He's a total waster, he has no goals. As long as he has cigarettes, he’s happy.
Personality: Tall, lanky, and skinny as a rake, Fletch easily hits 6’5- and that’s without heels. Olive skinned but pale, with an unruly mop of curly brunette hair and sharp green eyes tinged with brown, he’s got characteristically thick and expressive eyebrows. Often seen wearing a faded black bomber jacket with a worn tartan lining, a variation of tattered off-colour t-shirts, black jeans, dark grey converse that have seen betters days, and two chains around his neck; one silver, his, and the other gold with a heart locket pendant- his sister's. If ever anyone asks about the feminine nature of the latter, he tells a different story every time. He doesn’t want to be seen as sentimental about real things.
Though a thoroughly irritating individual, Fletch turns on the charm whenever a particularly attractive female is around him long enogh. He’s a hopeless flirt, and truthfully not all that fussy about his women, but his personality certainly doesn’t help him score chicks. Especially when his opening line is usually something rather vulgar. He lacks tact, that's for sure. A rare few can stand his personality long enough to become friends with him, because he really is quite a nuisance. He loves picking on people, and though it always seems in earnest he's really just having a laugh. He'll forget names just to be annoying, or even award someone an mildly offensive nickname as a substitute. If by some miracle someone can keep up with his ridiculous banter, then he'll love them forever. The nickname will stick, though.
Sarcastic, arrogant, and overwhelmingly self-destructive, Fletcher rarely takes anything seriously, not even his own survival. He’ll crack a wildly inappropriate joke at every opportunity, and he doesn’t hesitate to push someone’s buttons, especially if he knows it’ll get him in trouble. He’s a law unto himself; a natural born clown with a flippant attitude towards life. Fletch is never embarrassed, even by the most personal of things. Little anyone can say affects him, and he doesn't understand that not everyone is the same way- which leads to him coming off as rather insensitive. Even if he doesn’t exactly show it in conventional ways, he becomes quite attached to people who show him kindness, simply because he craves company so much. Any chance to show off.
Positives: ✧ Easy going ✧ Comical ✧ Convivial, in his own way
Parents: Siobhán (pronounced shi-vahn) Donoghue and Brian O’Connor Siblings: Half-sister Aoife (ee-fa) Donoghue and half-brother Cillian O’Connor Other Family: Step mother Valerie, who he hates almost as much as his dad Important Others: History: Growing up, Fletcher was a real troublemaker, talking back to his mum, disrespecting his elders, and the dedicated class clown. Very little has changed, he’s just grown exponentially taller.
Born into to a broken home in Port Laoise, Ireland, Fletch’s parents split up when he was a toddler. He resents his father for walking out on them to start a new family, and has stubbornly refused to call him dad ever since. Instead, he'll refer to him as 'Brian', or, if he's feeling particularly irked, 'wanker'. When his sister Aoife was born, when Fletcher was 10, he doted on her- yet continued to be a law unto himself in every other facet of his life. Though she's the product of one of his mum's many failed relationships, Aoife is Fletcher's favourite person in the world, and he's hers. She's 13 now, and he misses her more than he ever thought her could. Siobhán hasn't let her see her much since she kicked him out, as she doesn't want his bad habits to be passed to her daughter. He still visits her after school, though, and takes her to McDonalds for tea when he has the cash. Sometimes he makes her pay, but it's the thought that counts. She gets pocket money, anyway.
Rebelling since he before he knew what it meant, Fletch’s self-destructive behaviour began in high school. Instantly, he felt pressured to fit in with the cool crowd, and achieved this by taking up two new hobbies: smoking, and playing truant. Deep down, all Fletcher ever really wanted was approval; but his mother didn’t have time for him as she balanced two jobs to keep them afloat, and his father was too busy with his perfect new family in Dublin. Though he had a wide circle of acquaintances, and the indulgent laughs of his classmates, his penchant for lighthearted bullying never worked in his favour, and he now has very few people in his life who are constant.
When he became a legal adult at 18, Caoimhe had the locks changed while he was at community service. She left a duffel bag of his things outside the garage, and enough money to sort him out for a couple of weeks. He spent it on cigarettes and drugs, of course, but it was a nice gesture considering she’d just made him homeless and all.
Since then, Fletcher has matured very little and his self-destructive attitude has only worsened. He's never had the motivation to get a job, and as a result has spent the last three years relying on friends and acquaintances for a roof over his head. For a brief stint following his original dismissal from home, he even lived in the community centre he attended to complete his six months of community service. That was a low point, but at least he had access to free booze. Well, alright, so it wasn't free- but nobody ever questioned him on it.
Alias: Bee How did you find us?: Google Experience: 10 years, no Proboards experience Other Characters: Blaire, Bridgette, Luciana, Carmen RP Sample: ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me’ cried Fletcher, throwing his empty pack of cigarettes to the ground and stomping on it like a child throwing a tantrum. He’d just downed his drink in the bar and gone outside for a smoke break because the ladies weren’t biting, but he’d clean forgotten to buy a new pack of smokes. Alright, steal a new pack of smokes. Don’t call the police.
‘Rough day?’ asked the guy next to him, lit cigarette in hand. He was short but well-dressed, with massive muscular arms and comparatively weedy legs. Clearly, the man had skipped leg day.
Fletcher eyed the cigarette enviously and shrugged, ‘No, I just really fucking love inhaling smoke into the deepest crevices of my tar blackened lungs,’ he beamed, 'It really makes me feel alive, even though it's slowly killing me. Isn't that fantastic? Anyway, can I bum a cig, mate?’
The man arched an eyebrow, unsure of what to make of this lanky curly-haired Irishman, but he pulled a shiny new pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket none the less. Once Fletcher had taken one, he slipped the pack into the back pocket of his pristine blue jeans.
‘Ah, you’re a champ, mate, I’d kiss you if you didn’t look like such a staunchly heterosexual individual,’ he grinned with a cheeky wiggle of his eyebrows, ‘Oh, go on, give me a light- like I’m Marilyn Monroe in that movie, go on,’ he said, propping the cigarette between his lips and leaning closer to the other guy expectantly.
His suitor, however, did not oblige. Visibly disappointed, Fletcher huffed and make a show of digging his own lighter from the interior pocket of his bomber jacket. He lit the cigarette, took a drag, eyed his supplier up and down, and then gave him the old reach around. Before the poor guy could react, Fletcher had slapped his arse, stolen his cigarettes, and pelted off down the street.
‘Love you,’ he yelled as he hurtled down the sidewalk, pocketing his prize. He took hold of the lit cig so he could run without the fear of losing his hard-earned fix.
I Fletcher Donoghue have read the site rules and understand them. The code word for the rules is: Batman
Application Created By Hell Hound
Last Edit: Sept 30, 2017 4:49:29 GMT -5 by Deleted