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 Theodore Lovelace, 29 | Local | Juniper
Theodore Lovelace
 Posted: Aug 9 2018, 10:03 PM

birth date
Librarian | City Library
Kinsey Scale 4.5


Teddy is a classic. Blue eyes and wavy honey-gold hair that tends towards curls when he forgets to tame it. Strong jawline and sharp bones; he could be bold, if he tried. He could be striking, if he made the effort. Instead, he seems soft, hidden away in button-ups and sweaters and solitude. Nature versus nurture is an age-old debate, and maybe in another life Teddy could have been someone different, someone more, but he has grown into his surroundings. Like husbands who look like their wives; like dogs who look like their masters. The young man looks like he was tailor-made for cozy nooks and quiet places, for stacks of books and mugs of tea. He was built to be a background player, an extra in someone else's fabulous story, and frankly, he is content that way.

His build is average; healthy, fit enough. He makes something of an effort, but athletics were never his forte, and he would rather spend time with a new book than at the gym. He does look clean, however; neat, tidy, often fastidiously so, and that gives him an edge, most days. Sometimes, it dulls, when he stays up too late pouring over some new series, or involved in a project; when he forgets to sleep, and prefers the comfort of a cozy blanket to a fresh change of clothes. It is rare for anyone else to see that side of him, though. He was taught to look presentable when he goes out in public, and especially when he is at work, no matter how casual his job may seem. He doesn't mind, really. It gives him a sense of responsibility, and a routine that's good for him.

Just because he isn't the CEO of some major company doesn't mean he doesn't take pride in his career. He's really very happy there, and perhaps that's what shows most of all; in the brightness in his eyes, the passion in his expression, the gentle, quiet smiles that tug at the corners of shy, timid lips.



Sunlight, filtering through to the forest floor, a golden dapple on mossy earth, stately, and serene.

Teddy is the human version of this. Unpretentious golden light, warm and soft and silent. The kind of word you never use; the kind of thing you never think about it, until you're standing in it, looking at it, and you feel at ease, and at peace, and in quiet, contented awe. You won't give it more than a passing thought after you've walked out of it, though: back into the full sunshine, the blue skies and songbirds. And it will stay behind without complaint, contained within the forest, trapped by the very balcony of trees that has created it, unperturbed by the stillness you have left behind, not bothered by waiting until you come back to notice it again.

He is soft-spoken, and calm, and gives off the impression of being shy even though he really isn't. It's simply that his confidence is a quiet sort: not the kind that fills up a room and says look at me! but the kind that doesn't forget its own worth even when nobody is looking at all. The man is patient almost to a fault; kind-hearted as often as he can be; generous perhaps slightly more often than he can sometimes afford to be. He is quick-witted but not sharp-togued, prefers to listen more than he talks, and is probably forgotten in the background in any given social situation. It's not that he is afraid of inserting himself: he's simply unintersted, most of the time. He'll make more of an effort with a particular person or in a particular conversation if he is intrigued, but is actually rather selfish with his time. He would rather spend it wisely than friviously, and social niceties that other people find pleasant, Teddy often deems trivial.

The librarian is sometimes lonely, but never bored. How could he be, in a world so full of wonder? Although his nature is not to make his emotions so clearly shown, he is always curious, and often fascinated, and never tires of learning new things, examining new ideas, delving into new thoughts. He is an optimist; an academic; a reader, and under his demure sense of decorum (and impeccable posture) there is still the wonder of a child in his heart.

In fact, despite his penchant for keeping himself separate, he truly is warmhearted. If he's going to get involved at all, he would rather be a positive factor than a negative one. He truly enjoys his work, and part of that comes from helping others around him find things that make them happy.


He was a small boy, in a small household, in a small home.

There is nothing particularly noteworthy to his story, to anyone does not have some additional reason to be invested in it. His mother certainly thought he was special; his childhood friends no doubt found him interesting. By and large, however, it is an average story, and Teddy does not feel the need to embellish it.

At primary school, he was teased for being small, and quiet; for having more interest in reading than in recess; for liking things a little too neat and clean. He was not tormented any worse than many children are, and he does not carry any great turmoil or emotional scars now that he has left those not-so-hallowed halls behind.

Throughout high school, he maintained exceedingly high marks. He was well-liked by his teachers, and though he didn't have many peers that he was close to, he was not particularly broken-hearted or miserable to be eating lunch alone. He genuinely enjoys learning, and liked participating in his courses more often than not. He graduated at the top of his class, and perhaps could have gone on to bigger and brighter things, but Teddy always preferred the cozy glow of the late afternoon daylight to the blazing glory of the high noon sun. He'd been born and raised here, and didn't have any particular desire to leave. He'd found his passion at a young age, and didn't have and inadequacy at not being a doctor, or a lawyer, or a businessman, or whatever it was that people were supposed to be. Anyway, it would have put a strain on his family to help send him off to some Ivy League tower, and what was the point of sacrificing if it wasn't for a dream?

So he stayed local, and went to university for library science and education. He earned his degrees without a mountain of debt to go along with them; already had the perfect job picked out for when he'd finished. Librarian. It wasn't in some esteemed, magnificent, ancient old library, but it was home. Anyway, those places, though breathtaking, were more about withholding, protecting; too much was off-limits, to be looked at only. Here, he could share, he could teach, he could spread information and help and happiness. The place could do with a little more coziness, but it was a compromise he was willing to make.

So, at 29, he is living the life he's really always wanted, a life of peace and tranquility, a job he is happy to arrive at every morning; work he is more than pleased to take home with him in the evenings. He knows the town, and its ins-and-outs, and its quirks. He is a fixture here, even if he is one that most people couldn't name, or don't particularly know. He is happy, however, in the background. A cog in the machine. An Oxford Comma in the run-on sentence of life. Although he wouldn't turn away from travel or adventure or some wild new experience if it came his way, he isn't actively seeking out anything that would disrupt his routine or cause him to leave.

This place is home, and it is his, and although it might seem like a boring life to others, he is happy to stay.



His dog, Fenton. Magnolias. Books; libraries; reading rooms, manuscripts. The scent of books. The feel of turning a page. The minute crack in a stiff spine. The sound of ruffling pages from end to end, like a flip-book. Cozy nooks. Window seats. Warm, filtered sunlight. Oversized mugs - of coffee, cider, tea, anything. Scarves and sweaters and jumpers and knits. Twilight hours. Crisp Autumn days, and the leaves changing colours, and the smell of oncoming cold in the air. Math, and numbers, and puzzles, and riddles, and word games. History, fine art. Animals in general - any and all of them, really. Nature; especially forests; especially when they are quiet, and no one else is around. Kindness to strangers, and passion, and joy. Having his own space - tidied, organised, a simplistic luxury. Throw pillows, and afghans, and things that are homemade. Vanilla beans, and burnt caramel, and cinnamon sticks.


Freezing rain. Overly-sweet drinks, and sugary-fake desserts. Loud noises, and smog, and traffic, and crowds. Nosiness. Crude humour, and jokes at other people's expense. Showtunes, most of the time. It drives him mad that a whole genre of music somehow sounds the same. Strong perfume/cologne. Mistreatment of books. Do not return something to him full of fingerprints and crumbs, please and thank you. Golden raisins. Being wet unless it's a deliberate choice. Arrogance, insecurity, willful ignorance. Clutter. Making noise just to fill a silence. Litter. Ugg boots. Graphite smudges when writing with a pencil. Almost everything banana-flavoured.


He has an Irish Setter called Fenton, and she is better than you.

It is his personal goal to make the public library feel as cozy and grand and wonderful as possible - all rich colours and rich woods and lovely soft somber silence - instead of the cold, stark, somewhat barren feel that most public libraries tend to have. It is a very grand, very unrealistic dream, but nonetheless he will continu to work at it, little by little. It's not as though he has any plans to leave here, anyway, so it won't hurt if things take a while.


© darren criss


This wasn't supposed to happen.  Not here, not like this, not with him.  A stranger. That's what he was, after all these years - a stranger.  Why she felt closer to him right now in this moment than she could remember feeling to anyone was just whiskey and misery and nonsense.  It wasn't supposed to happen like this.  Freddie was no prince, and her fingers on his skin were sticky with cooling blood, and everything about this, everything about <i>them</i>, was jagged and ill-fitting and wrong.

His hands lingered, slid down, over skin and scars to a new, bare canvas.  Lips brushed her neck.  A promise, or a question.

Would he leave, again? Would he vanish, like he'd done before? Once taken, once fled, but again today he'd tried to deny her memory, tried to turn and be rid of her and Exit Stage Left before she could reach him.  But she <i>had</i>. And here they were.  They couldn't stay like this.  This was too brittle, too fragile, too raw.  It hurt too much, to lay the wounds open and keep them that way. That was the answer, she was sure - she already knew it. And although it was wrong, to know it and to stand here anyway, her feet were rooted to the floor.

He talked about a cage, and she wanted to know more.  All the things he'd refused to talk about before.  All the things she'd tried to comfort away, although she had no idea what they even were.  It hadn't worked, either.  Hadn't been enough. He'd still left.  Leaving hadn't helped him any, either, by the looks of him. <b>"Yes, you did,"</b> she repeated, and her voice was low and rough in the back of her throat.  She'd gotten out too, out of her cage of blood and bone and fear and moonlight, but her cage was always with her now, and it would always come back.

<i>Show me</i>, he repeated, pointless.  No explanation. What did he <i>want</i>?  But there was the growl again, a strangely menacing sound, though soft: there was more power in it than Fiona Applebaum ever could have mustered on her own.  She clenched her fingers again, involuntary, at the sudden sharp pain as tooth broke skin.

<i>Ivory in the moonlight, but dark and wet with blood, tearing her apart, and she was dying, she knew with clarity.  Those teeth were killing her.</i>

It wasn't her own palms but his hips that her nails dug into this time, and her eyes met his in fierce challenge. <i>Do you know what you're doing?</i>  Did she?  This was madness.  No good could come of this. And what if - what if she lost control?  What it it was <i>her</i> teeth grazing <i>his</i> skin, a little too sharply, a little too greedy?  She swallowed, hard.  Even something as thoughtless as this could never be thoughtless again.

Her hands roamed; around his back, up his spine, gripping, pressing, closing the gap. <i>The Wolf paced, gnashing, restless.</i> This desire was not her own, was not something she had ever felt - was a byproduct of The Wolf and its primal needs.  <i>Show me.</i>  He was rough, but he was steady. A lifeboat.  A frail one himself, and surely at the first sign of a storm on the horizon she would be left to drown, but for now at least, he held her head above water.

Fingers traced his jawline, trailed upwards to hollow cheekbones, drew his face up until lips were crushed against lips, fierce and heady.  Her other hand gripped the jutting bone of his hip. Sharp. Possessive. Predatory.

She didn't want this.

She did <i>need</i> it though, in a way that infuriated her, in a way that she couldn't understand.  Let it happen.  Let it all catch fire.  What of it? How much more splintered could their pile of fragile bones get?

At least, for the night, they could find a balm in each other.  
Find comfort in seeing the scars in someone else's eyes, instead of only in their own.
Lochland Grove Admins
 Posted: Aug 9 2018, 10:33 PM
The Admins


    Welcome to Lochland Grove. It looks like you've made a fantastic app. We look forward to seeing your character in play here on the site. Before you get started roleplaying, make sure to fill out your claims, and put up a plot page. We hope you have fun on Lochland Grove, and remember, keep your eyes open.

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