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sloanemiller-blog · 5 years

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❊Sloane Miller Application

Just posting my application for more insight into them and their feelings and feel free to go off this to plot with me!

in character: overview

Full name: Sloane Marie Miller

Used name(s): Sloane, Lo to her sister

Date of birth: February 26th, 1970. Born in the month of love and filled to the brim of it it seemed like an omen of good fortune.

Zodiac sign: Pisces. Pisces are very friendly, so they often find themselves in a company of very different people. Pisces are selfless, they are always willing to help others, without hoping to get anything back.

Pisces is a Water sign and as such this zodiac sign is characterized by empathy and expressed emotional capacity.

Gender identity and pronouns: They/them, sometimes she/her. They alternate between the two in different social circles and company, depending on the level of acceptance or mood of the day.

Sexual orientation: Pansexual, panromantic

Occupation: Author

in character: details

(1) Discuss your character. This can be formal or informal, and can be as long as you want. You can talk about any aspect of their characterization, any plans you have for them, and so on.

She lives to live, lives to breathe in the glow of sunlight and the coolness of a breeze on her skin; she lives for the laughter of her friends, the trickle of juice down her chin, and the steady stream of leaves skittering down the sidewalk. Life is hers for the taking and so she lives. She fills every inch of it, gives the air the breath it needs, brings light where there is none. Wide-eyed wonder, smile wide enough to break the tension that filters any room as they approach. Their sister standing guard behind them, gaze spearing anyone who dares approach with harm.

While somewhat initially shy, Sloane blooms like a soft rose stretching, grasping towards the sun. It is not that they are self-conscious or even hesitant to speak, it is just that they choose their words carefully around those that they do not interact with often. She’s far too earnest to mean much harm but she knows the harm that words can cause, the scars they leave behind, and tries to shape their words around the person who needs them most. It’s the soft words spoken underneath a staircase hidden in darkness or a comforting hand curling around a forearm that they offer more freely than the poetry in their head.

Growing up in a world where money is thrown about so freely and never much needed had a strange effect on Sloane. College was never an issue, clothes gifted freely, coffees already paid for before they stepped inside the shop. It is because of this that she tries to seek something deeper and something higher than just the frivolity of their possible lifestyle. Their mother called them an ‘old soul’ that preferred the company of books and endless questions about life that never got very far. Daisy was always the more wild of the two and so Sloane became more responsible by default in an attempt to stake a claim to their own identity. Being known simply as “Daisy’s younger sibling” carried enough weight and expectations that threatened to collapse their own identity and so they acted out entirely differently, despite the few opportunities to let loose. She was more controlled, more introverted, but more thoughtful in all the ways she thought mattered. Anything she wanted she worked her ass off for, regardless of any connections her parents tried to bring up. Her kindness grew from wanting, no, needing a connection of her own to people and being known for something other than those around her.

In preparation for their next novel, Sloane wants to dig deeper into the mystery of Joel’s death. For a night shrouded in so much red tape and confusion everyone seemed to accept the idea of it being an accident or suicide. She’d been high as a kite, floating loose and aimlessly through the crowds with too many joints passed her way to set them free. It had been a night of release, for everyone to celebrate, and Sloane had been swept up in the desire to do something different. But the shock of the night and loss of a friend in their social circle had shattered everyone’s high and trickled down into something akin to mourning.

(2) Headcanons

Whenever Sloane gets prepared to write, she absolutely covers her room in sticky-notes with different colored gel pens scattered about her room. It’s almost a hazard, the way papers burst into the air whenever she flops onto her bed only to scramble to piece them back together again. Most are barely legible, just prompts and words meant to be cobbled together for a broader story that only succeeds in turning her room into a nightmare. Notes are her preferred method of jotting down ideas due to the iBook being more of a hefty paperweight than the convenience she wants it to be.

Despite the popularity of her first novel, exposing the secrets of her friends and broader net of acquaintances, she’s been hitting a dead end of writer’s block. All of her work isn’t up to her standard besides the two other novels she forced out after the success of her first one to middling results. The reunion of Joel’s death brought her back to New York from her sabbatical to gain muse once more. Her newest novel idea was a delicate and empathetic exploration of loneliness. Of what it means to feel the edges of the space someone inhabits shrink inward and inward, until the world as they’ve known it is reduced to what’s inside of them; until it’s distorted into jagged lines that don’t fit together anymore. It was a reconnaissance on love or the lack of it, and the thousands of ways it can break you. It was an intimate look at slowly losing your mind. Or, at least vaguely, into the mind of Joel Buchanon and his last few months. All wrapped into a mind bending murder mystery of a man running from everything.

In the case of Joel Buchanon, Sloane was never as close to him as they imagined. No, Daisy was much more loud and out there than she ever was and claimed attention for herself. Still, she managed to find him coming down from a high here and there, guided him to the nearest flat surface and brought him water as he babbled. It was never more than a string of words guided by the pretty white powder in his pocket and a “Hey, you’re Daisy’s sibling right?” but it was enough. They were on the in’s and out’s of their social circle at times, younger than the rest of them, but Joel still recognized her on the off chance he wasn’t fucking around with something he shouldn’t have. His loss hit them surprisingly hard because Sloane had always tried to be there for him, tried to take him under her protective wing as much as she did anyone as he had been dealing with enough. It didn’t make a difference in the end.

Sloane’s gender identity was a struggle when they were younger, always confused on what was proper since they never felt entirely comfortable in tweed skirts and high heels. Daisy was always a trailblazer first and their clothing line led to obvious attempts at dressing Sloane in various outfits for help. Defining themself through clothing became an easy way of expression to defy expectations in the small ways they were comfortable with; coats became blazers, button-ups became sloughy t-shirts, pressed slacks replaced some of the more confining body suits. As they became more comfortable with the idea of being gender fluid and non-binary, they slowly eased into something more understandable and incorporated genderless pronouns into their life. Despite liking the anonymity it grants them, Sloane still enjoys a slight feminine side on certain days and isn’t above wearing a skirt now and then or presenting as more obviously feminine. Makeup and its ties to femininity became something of a statement; mascara here and there or a neutral lip gloss remained about as far as she would go most days. It’s more of an acceptance of themselves and all that comes from it and enhancing everything to the point of disguise never sat well with them.

Their writer’s name is Addison Swyft, an easy bypass to any questions that arise when the topic of their next novel is broached in the papers. Most have simply assumed its a man spinning tales of debauchery and living a high life supported by bottomless bank accounts. Sloane prefers it that way and deliberately left their identity up for interpretation as some of the things they intend to write about would leave them a social pariah.

Out of everything, their worst fear is not being enough. It covers a broad spectrum of everything from not being good enough at school or writing or even not being enough for her friends and loved ones, of being the rock that they desperately count on. Failure is crippling and the brief second guessing leads to tears hidden under staircases covered up by a bright smile and slightly shaking hands. She’s gotten so good at pretending she’s alright, that everyone’s fine, that everyone merely assumes she’s got it all together despite the desperate and aching loneliness she feels buried in her chest. They know that they’re good, that they’re honest and genuine and everything that they so desperately strive for. But it only makes it that much harder when it’s not. Joel’s passing has led to a flicker of doubt that nobody is safe from losing it all and she’s the only one picking up everyone else when they’re down that sometimes she needs someone to look at her a little more closely.

extras

So I created a little Pinterest board for some inspiration:

https://www.pinterest.com/chloefairy1/sloane-fortunate-age/

And a sample of my writing from another rp account:

His eyes have been on her since she’d stepped into the room.

She’d dallied as long as she had been able to, flirting with senators and cooing with their wives over their small babes that clung to their hips. Looking from under the haze of her lashes shows he remains glued to her form, hanging onto her every word and tracing the curves hidden beneath her gown. She deliberately traces the border of her dress’s plunging neckline, fingernail catching on the jewels lining the edge, and hears him audibly gulp.

When she moves to leave he follows. He grabs her elbow, palm callused and warm and rough against her arm, and stops her from walking any further. His chest grazes the back of her shoulder. She has never been so close to him before. And she doesn’t—and she can’t- he’s absolutely radiating heat and the wine she’d consumed swims suddenly into focus. “You meant to leave without saying goodbye?” His breath is moist against her neck, lips brushing freckles until shivers rattle down her spine. A fingertip brushes down the knobs, chasing those bumps until they snag on fabric and continue to settle on her lower back.

“You knew where to find me,” she whispers, eyes fluttering shut. He hums in agreement and her pulse speeds up when his grip tightens on her arm. The air around them feels swollen with possibilities, with all the potential for chaos, and her brain is drowning in wine, dizzy and looping with possibilities—she can’t process what she hopes is about to happen, can’t wrap her mind around dallying with a man who has dogged her steps for months now—Alexander the Great, a god in his own right—he isn’t easy and he isn’t patient and he will ruin her, she can already tell, and she will regret him, she will regret this, and she will buckle under the weight of his desire and she will survive, yes, she will always survive because that’s what she was born to do, but that doesn’t mean that it won’t hurt if he leaves. But she has not once touched his heart or his desire, not pressed inside to see where his longing truly lied, and yet here he is to claim her as he has claimed every other city that falls beneath his touch.

She stays.

She kisses him and it's like the lavender blush of a sunrise has melted into the red-orange haze of a sunset, like the briny swirl of high tide has infiltrated the sand-speckled slosh of low tide, like the glow of the moon and the rasp of the clouds and soft silk sliding through her fingers as she wishes and wants and prays— She kisses him, and he shivers. He kisses her, and she burns.

#bio #ish

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