Topher Hennessy
Jul 3, 2011 16:26:20 GMT -5
Post by Topher Hennessy on Jul 3, 2011 16:26:20 GMT -5
YOURSELF
NAME
[[Devin]]
AGE
[[Seventeen, but going into college, so we can pretend I'm eighteen.]]
GENDER
[[Masculine]]
CHARACTER
NAME
[[Christopher James Hennessy. You can call him Topher. Call him Chris and you're not his friend.]]
AGE AND GRADE
Fifteen / Freshman
GENDER
[[Male. Most of the time. Is flamboyant a gender? If it's not, can it be?]]
SEXUAL ORIENTATION
[[If you have fat on your chest and an innie, you don't get to come in his bed. Sorry.]]
TALENT
[[He plays piano.]]
LOOK-A-LIKE
[[People say he looks like Ryan Ross. He guesses he kind of sees it.
]]
PERSONALITY
[[It's funny- when people see him onstage, in front of the piano or the keyboard, or see him walking, they automatically assume he's this giant ball of confidence and delight and overwhelming joy.
He guesses he is, when he's onstage. It's hard for him not to be- he loves performing, he always has. When it's just him and the keys, especially if it's with his band so he can dance, it feels like there are sparks coming off his fingers and feet and he's run through with lighting. But when he's offstage? He's, well. He's the biggest nerd you'll ever meet. He has this theory that he uses up all the confidence onstage, and then there's none left when he's finished. The second he's out from under the spotlight, he never knows what to say, or what to do with his hands or legs or face. He spends a lot of time hiding out with books or his iPod, and when he does hang out with people, it's never more than a few at a time. It's not so much that he doesn't like big groups or whatever, it's more just that he needs some time after, to decompress, and he usually doesn't have that time.
For all that, though, he loves people. He's not an angry person, just a shy one. He loves the theory of humans. He loves how they interact, how they move around each other like butterflies or bears. He likes that he lives in a world that also created Mahatma Gahndi, and Jimmy Carter, and Shakespeare. He loves that history is happening at every second of every day. He just prefer to sit back and watch it from a distance, that's all.]]
APPEARANCE
[[He thinks part of the reason people expect him to be so outgoing is from how he look. It's not his fault that he's abnormally pale and tall and long and moves kind of like a grasshopper.
The makeup is my fault, though. He can't wear it at home, obviously, so he keeps a cosmetic bag in his backpack and does it at school. It got him beaten up once, so he started getting to school before anyone else so he could put his face on in private.
The arm garters are also his fault. So are the tighter-than-his-skin jeans, and the vests and the roses and the chains and the glitter. And the buttons and the arm warmers and the rings and... well, you get the idea. He's a fashion-conscious nerd, what can he say? He gets mistaken for a male prostitute a lot, when he hangs around the wrong side of the tracks. It'd probably be funnier if he ever knew what to say to the customers.
He doesn't have any tattoos or piercings, but would totally be a pincushion and an inkblot if he weren't so damn scared of needles. And, you know, if hr was old enough.
He spent a lot of time hating what he saw in the mirror. Too-big nose and hands, weird mouth that crooked to the side, everything so long and skinny and awkward. He's almost learned to appreciate it, though- it's functional, which is the most anyone can really ask of their body, right?]]
HISTORY
[[Topher was concieved while pasta boiled over on the stove. It's an old family story, one that never fails to make Grampa Stone laugh or make Topher want to become one with whatever chair he's sitting on.
Or, was that not the sort of history you're interested in? Sorry.
He was born in March. March seventeenth, and yes, I know that's St. Patrick's Day, but he'd Polish. He can promise you, every single joke has already been made. Anyway, March, and by July he had already been back to the hospital twice. Nothing was ever seriously wrong, and he never had to stay for more than a day or two for observation. He just kept getting sick, and nobody knew why. He didn't have any birth defects, no rare disease wreaking havoc on his bitty infant body- the final diagnosis was that he has pretty much less of an immune system than the average scone. Blame genetics, blame the Utah air, blame God, it doesn't really matter anymore. He's used to it.
Speaking of God, though.
Topher was raised Mormon- or, at least, his parents tried to raise him Mormon. It never really took- he was not a religious child. The only thing he cared about at Mass was the organ, the choir, getting to stand and sing hymns... even at my sickest, Topher loved that part. He loved the music- hearing it and creating it, watching other people create it. His parents were thrilled, pushed him into piano lessons and vocal lessons and cello lessons. For years, it was a win-win situation- Topher was getting to play music for hours a day, and his parents thought he was giving glory to God... or at least, until the day they heard him singing Queen in the shower. He was thirteen.
They pulled him out of the music lessons that day, sold his cello and keyboard, and signed him up for extra youth group meetings at church. Said he was misguided, said he was being led astray, said he was an abomination, said he was on the road to becoming no son of theirs. Said he was disgusting. Said he needed to fix myself.
He doesn't like talking about that week.
They could do whatever they wanted to his free time, but they couldn't control a damn thing while he was in school- he found his band within the next month. Made himself swallow his shyness and ask the boy who always played guitar at lunch if he had a band, or if he wanted to be in one. He didn't, and he did, and he had friends who felt the same. They talked to the music teacher about using the band room during lunch, and when they explained the situation, how Topher couldn't practice outside of school and couldn't take his class anymore, he decided to give the kids a week's probation. When they made it the week without breaking anything, or being late to class, or disturbing the other classrooms, they got permanent access. And so that's how it's been for the past two years- he gets up in the morning, eats breakfast with his family, goes to school, puts his makeup on in the bathroom, plays and sings his little heart out during lunch, takes his makeup off in the bathroom, goes home, goes to church, goes to more church, eats dinner with his family, prays with his family, and goes to bed. He swears he'd be dead without his band. But he figured that's how it would be until college, and then he would tell his parents he wasn't going on Mission, and that would probably be the last time he talked to them.
Last week, though- last week, a man from Gordon Parks' came to his school, to hear auditions. And there were six other people singing, and one playing cello, and nobody playing piano, so he just... he had to do it. He had to try. He had to see if he was any good at this. So he auditioned, and yesterday he got the letter in the mail offering me a full ride.
His parents don't know yet. They don't know he still plays music, or that he's going to leave them for it- he doesn't pretend to think he'll ever get them back. This is everything to him, though, getting to really learn how to play, and maybe he'll get to advertise the band and they'll be able to play some real shows. He doesn't know. All he'm sure of at this point is that he's willing to leave his family behind for his music, and that's got to say something, right?]]
ROLE PLAYING SAMPLE
[[BUT TOPHER IS NEW AND I DO NOT HAVE ANY RP SAMPLES OF HIM YET D: D: D: well then I am just going to use one of my old characters, sorry.
The only problem with going to the student lounge to be alone was that there was already someone in there.
"Bitch off, whore," Lyri grumbled, swinging her feet up to the table and crossing her ankles. "Back your shit up. I need to be fucking away from people. If you don't want to get your ass shanked with my pen, you'll go. Now."
She leaned her head back, letting it hang over the edge of the chair, and shut her eyes. It was nice, for a second, to pretend that nobody else was in the room, nobody to ask fucking questions or say nice things and- god damnit, she could still hear the chick breathing in the corner. Her eyes shot open and she swung her legs back down again, letting her boots connect solidly with the floor. The carpet muffled the stomp she was going for, but whatever. She could do intimidation without stomping. Totally possible.
She stood slowly, her body unfolding like a court summons letter, imposing and implacable and definitely about to fuck shit up.
"I thought I told you to leave, mother tits." Mother tits was her new favourite curse. She liked how it rolled around in her mouth before spilling out into the room and hanging in the air like a corpse in a noose. "I don't fucking care this is the lounge. I'm the fuck in here right now, which means it's the fuck mine." She considered pinning the bint against the wall, kneeing her in the stomach. Probably more trouble than it was worth, but if she didn't leave soon, it would become more of a possibility.]]
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[/size]NAME
[[Devin]]
AGE
[[Seventeen, but going into college, so we can pretend I'm eighteen.]]
GENDER
[[Masculine]]
CHARACTER
NAME
[[Christopher James Hennessy. You can call him Topher. Call him Chris and you're not his friend.]]
AGE AND GRADE
Fifteen / Freshman
GENDER
[[Male. Most of the time. Is flamboyant a gender? If it's not, can it be?]]
SEXUAL ORIENTATION
[[If you have fat on your chest and an innie, you don't get to come in his bed. Sorry.]]
TALENT
[[He plays piano.]]
LOOK-A-LIKE
[[People say he looks like Ryan Ross. He guesses he kind of sees it.
]]
PERSONALITY
[[It's funny- when people see him onstage, in front of the piano or the keyboard, or see him walking, they automatically assume he's this giant ball of confidence and delight and overwhelming joy.
He guesses he is, when he's onstage. It's hard for him not to be- he loves performing, he always has. When it's just him and the keys, especially if it's with his band so he can dance, it feels like there are sparks coming off his fingers and feet and he's run through with lighting. But when he's offstage? He's, well. He's the biggest nerd you'll ever meet. He has this theory that he uses up all the confidence onstage, and then there's none left when he's finished. The second he's out from under the spotlight, he never knows what to say, or what to do with his hands or legs or face. He spends a lot of time hiding out with books or his iPod, and when he does hang out with people, it's never more than a few at a time. It's not so much that he doesn't like big groups or whatever, it's more just that he needs some time after, to decompress, and he usually doesn't have that time.
For all that, though, he loves people. He's not an angry person, just a shy one. He loves the theory of humans. He loves how they interact, how they move around each other like butterflies or bears. He likes that he lives in a world that also created Mahatma Gahndi, and Jimmy Carter, and Shakespeare. He loves that history is happening at every second of every day. He just prefer to sit back and watch it from a distance, that's all.]]
APPEARANCE
[[He thinks part of the reason people expect him to be so outgoing is from how he look. It's not his fault that he's abnormally pale and tall and long and moves kind of like a grasshopper.
The makeup is my fault, though. He can't wear it at home, obviously, so he keeps a cosmetic bag in his backpack and does it at school. It got him beaten up once, so he started getting to school before anyone else so he could put his face on in private.
The arm garters are also his fault. So are the tighter-than-his-skin jeans, and the vests and the roses and the chains and the glitter. And the buttons and the arm warmers and the rings and... well, you get the idea. He's a fashion-conscious nerd, what can he say? He gets mistaken for a male prostitute a lot, when he hangs around the wrong side of the tracks. It'd probably be funnier if he ever knew what to say to the customers.
He doesn't have any tattoos or piercings, but would totally be a pincushion and an inkblot if he weren't so damn scared of needles. And, you know, if hr was old enough.
He spent a lot of time hating what he saw in the mirror. Too-big nose and hands, weird mouth that crooked to the side, everything so long and skinny and awkward. He's almost learned to appreciate it, though- it's functional, which is the most anyone can really ask of their body, right?]]
HISTORY
[[Topher was concieved while pasta boiled over on the stove. It's an old family story, one that never fails to make Grampa Stone laugh or make Topher want to become one with whatever chair he's sitting on.
Or, was that not the sort of history you're interested in? Sorry.
He was born in March. March seventeenth, and yes, I know that's St. Patrick's Day, but he'd Polish. He can promise you, every single joke has already been made. Anyway, March, and by July he had already been back to the hospital twice. Nothing was ever seriously wrong, and he never had to stay for more than a day or two for observation. He just kept getting sick, and nobody knew why. He didn't have any birth defects, no rare disease wreaking havoc on his bitty infant body- the final diagnosis was that he has pretty much less of an immune system than the average scone. Blame genetics, blame the Utah air, blame God, it doesn't really matter anymore. He's used to it.
Speaking of God, though.
Topher was raised Mormon- or, at least, his parents tried to raise him Mormon. It never really took- he was not a religious child. The only thing he cared about at Mass was the organ, the choir, getting to stand and sing hymns... even at my sickest, Topher loved that part. He loved the music- hearing it and creating it, watching other people create it. His parents were thrilled, pushed him into piano lessons and vocal lessons and cello lessons. For years, it was a win-win situation- Topher was getting to play music for hours a day, and his parents thought he was giving glory to God... or at least, until the day they heard him singing Queen in the shower. He was thirteen.
They pulled him out of the music lessons that day, sold his cello and keyboard, and signed him up for extra youth group meetings at church. Said he was misguided, said he was being led astray, said he was an abomination, said he was on the road to becoming no son of theirs. Said he was disgusting. Said he needed to fix myself.
He doesn't like talking about that week.
They could do whatever they wanted to his free time, but they couldn't control a damn thing while he was in school- he found his band within the next month. Made himself swallow his shyness and ask the boy who always played guitar at lunch if he had a band, or if he wanted to be in one. He didn't, and he did, and he had friends who felt the same. They talked to the music teacher about using the band room during lunch, and when they explained the situation, how Topher couldn't practice outside of school and couldn't take his class anymore, he decided to give the kids a week's probation. When they made it the week without breaking anything, or being late to class, or disturbing the other classrooms, they got permanent access. And so that's how it's been for the past two years- he gets up in the morning, eats breakfast with his family, goes to school, puts his makeup on in the bathroom, plays and sings his little heart out during lunch, takes his makeup off in the bathroom, goes home, goes to church, goes to more church, eats dinner with his family, prays with his family, and goes to bed. He swears he'd be dead without his band. But he figured that's how it would be until college, and then he would tell his parents he wasn't going on Mission, and that would probably be the last time he talked to them.
Last week, though- last week, a man from Gordon Parks' came to his school, to hear auditions. And there were six other people singing, and one playing cello, and nobody playing piano, so he just... he had to do it. He had to try. He had to see if he was any good at this. So he auditioned, and yesterday he got the letter in the mail offering me a full ride.
His parents don't know yet. They don't know he still plays music, or that he's going to leave them for it- he doesn't pretend to think he'll ever get them back. This is everything to him, though, getting to really learn how to play, and maybe he'll get to advertise the band and they'll be able to play some real shows. He doesn't know. All he'm sure of at this point is that he's willing to leave his family behind for his music, and that's got to say something, right?]]
ROLE PLAYING SAMPLE
[[BUT TOPHER IS NEW AND I DO NOT HAVE ANY RP SAMPLES OF HIM YET D: D: D: well then I am just going to use one of my old characters, sorry.
The only problem with going to the student lounge to be alone was that there was already someone in there.
"Bitch off, whore," Lyri grumbled, swinging her feet up to the table and crossing her ankles. "Back your shit up. I need to be fucking away from people. If you don't want to get your ass shanked with my pen, you'll go. Now."
She leaned her head back, letting it hang over the edge of the chair, and shut her eyes. It was nice, for a second, to pretend that nobody else was in the room, nobody to ask fucking questions or say nice things and- god damnit, she could still hear the chick breathing in the corner. Her eyes shot open and she swung her legs back down again, letting her boots connect solidly with the floor. The carpet muffled the stomp she was going for, but whatever. She could do intimidation without stomping. Totally possible.
She stood slowly, her body unfolding like a court summons letter, imposing and implacable and definitely about to fuck shit up.
"I thought I told you to leave, mother tits." Mother tits was her new favourite curse. She liked how it rolled around in her mouth before spilling out into the room and hanging in the air like a corpse in a noose. "I don't fucking care this is the lounge. I'm the fuck in here right now, which means it's the fuck mine." She considered pinning the bint against the wall, kneeing her in the stomach. Probably more trouble than it was worth, but if she didn't leave soon, it would become more of a possibility.]]
READ THE RULES?
admin edit