misha timbleton ( district 3 )
Dec 28, 2017 20:28:01 GMT -5
Post by croissant on Dec 28, 2017 20:28:01 GMT -5
- ＭＩＳＨＡ -
.xoxo name. Misha Timbleton. age. 16 y/o. gender. cismale. district. 3. xoxo.
a tongue dripping in honey & sweet sugar cane, getting on everywhere, and everything.
String lights hang from the shelves of his head. Each blinking and blinking and blinking and blinking to tell him he's thinking of something once again. They're the same sparks, however. One would think that a head full of everything would find something new rather than air every once in a while. But, apparently, what little stage-man vibe he portrays is all but in vain. All his stories and quips and jokes and ideas boiling down to notions already thought of and shared by someone before him. he's tired of being so unoriginal. Misha has never been driven. He's never much been the kind to start a rebellion in the hope of change or to speak out for whatever he so desires. He's rather meek, and careful, and neurotic to say the least. His tongue is lathered in sugar in hopes to sweet-talk himself into or out of anything in particular. Granted, it will eventually wrap around himself and tangle him in a massive web of fibs and compliments as it compulsively weaves in and out of his lips; but, he has it, and it's otherwise his go to. Just keep talking and you'll eventually turn out fine.
Misha is a chatty little bugger with comedy drier than saltines placed into his back pocket just encase things slide away from his favor. Whatever to keep him going, really. Whether it be in every day society or fighting for what little life he has. I will say now that he's often hopeless. He loses hope and faith in the drop of a penny, probably needing help remembering there's such things as rainbows in the universe from time to time. It's easy for him to look up and see rain, you know?
He's naive like a child, going back and forth between logic and heart in an eternal battle of morality. A clock that keeps being set back an hour is a way to explain it. You can often call him fickle. Switching from hot to cold depending on anothers' rule of tongue. Switch him out with a puppet and I bet you, only a select few of his friends and family would notice anything different. He attends parties in hopes of losing himself, either because it's expected of him or because he's been asked to go. Poor dog, poor dog. And while he'd rather huddle in his room, alone, with either a book or utter silence, there's also a part of him that longs for fame, and fortune, and money, and attention; for folks to chant his name one way or another. However, he's never much been dedicated. So, those are mostly dreams in his airy head, floating around like loose balloons sticking to the lights that never blink at any one time.
Otherwise, in between of introverted fits of anxiety, he's childish and aloof. Either taking things too seriously, or not at all. He wouldn't notice he'd broken your heart until after a year or so at the rate of his ignorant train of thought. He's confused pretty easily, but, nonetheless, you shant hear a word of this. His pride is too great. He'd rather do something completely wrong than ask for instruction a third time. Mostly why he's been titled reckless rather than oblivious. He loves making deals, lucky for you he isn't the best at keeping them nor pricing. Even as he's laying in bed, late at night, is surprised nobody has skinned him and made a welcome mat from him yet.
Misha isn't necessarily a sour sight to see. Obtaining curly chestnut hair trimmed to a ratty something or another, often shorter on the sides than on top like the great majority of people, his hair is pretty much the only part of his being he takes vague pride in. His teeth aren't crooked nor exactly straight, having the possibility of spitting every time he talks. Standing at five-foot eight, he's no daunting sight. Even so with the lack of muscle he has even after doing, um, nothing for pretty much the good majority of his life. He's relatively thin mostly since he doesn't actually enjoy food too much. But still kinda possesses a layer of flabbiness he'll attempt to conceal via slightly larger-than-needed clothing.
Freckles his mother adores scar his face along his upper cheek bones and nose bridge. He often sees them as permanent acne, but, ah well. There's a strong chance you'll see him wearing loose shirts, jackets, whatever really will possibly cover his clumsy little hands. He's always loved the colors yellow and brown so both of which will be pretty common for him to wear. Misha was born with a more olive, lighter skin tone. Mostly caused by his excessive time indoors, he's much more pale in comparison to his father or even mother. A smudge along his lower back in no particular shape, just a smudge, is a shared birthmark with his mother. Just vaguely darker than his typical skin hue by maybe only a shade or two. But, it's still noticeable if he were to point it out to you.
A planned baby, his parents were rather stable financially. He was someone planned three years in the making when the two got married and had two miscarriages just before him. The Timbleton's were a rather nice family. The father pursued genetic modifications such as building babies, whilst the mother remained at home. Either taking care to Misha while he was young, or awaiting him to get home from school every evening to talk to the boy, play games with him, and so on. Thus began a childhood of stupidity. Coming to believe the world was full of rainbows and sunshine alongside his typical coddling, his parents often kept him isolated outside of school. They were worried he would turn out rough around the edges. That he'd turn sour and all of the above.
In his spare time after homework or whatever, he'd help his dad with whatever he needed. Be it running to the store or just keeping him busy with conversation and story.
While others would debate that Misha grew up swell, and loved. He hated it with a good majority of his heart. He still hates it, actually. He didn't know what being alone was until someone within his school, a friend of his, had told him about it. The silence that filled his room very often turned bittersweet as he approached teen status. He felt he needed people. But not his mother; no. Not his father, not the books they'd given him to read at night. Not the tablet they'd gotten him that only had video games and a voice recorder. His act of sweet talking his parents to leave him alone so he could sneak out the back door started when he was maybe fourteen; still going strong today. Never much knowing where to go, nor when. However, he's too sick of his bedroom to care.
( kinda done? needa read over it and maybe tweak some stuff still. )
Misha is a chatty little bugger with comedy drier than saltines placed into his back pocket just encase things slide away from his favor. Whatever to keep him going, really. Whether it be in every day society or fighting for what little life he has. I will say now that he's often hopeless. He loses hope and faith in the drop of a penny, probably needing help remembering there's such things as rainbows in the universe from time to time. It's easy for him to look up and see rain, you know?
He's naive like a child, going back and forth between logic and heart in an eternal battle of morality. A clock that keeps being set back an hour is a way to explain it. You can often call him fickle. Switching from hot to cold depending on anothers' rule of tongue. Switch him out with a puppet and I bet you, only a select few of his friends and family would notice anything different. He attends parties in hopes of losing himself, either because it's expected of him or because he's been asked to go. Poor dog, poor dog. And while he'd rather huddle in his room, alone, with either a book or utter silence, there's also a part of him that longs for fame, and fortune, and money, and attention; for folks to chant his name one way or another. However, he's never much been dedicated. So, those are mostly dreams in his airy head, floating around like loose balloons sticking to the lights that never blink at any one time.
Otherwise, in between of introverted fits of anxiety, he's childish and aloof. Either taking things too seriously, or not at all. He wouldn't notice he'd broken your heart until after a year or so at the rate of his ignorant train of thought. He's confused pretty easily, but, nonetheless, you shant hear a word of this. His pride is too great. He'd rather do something completely wrong than ask for instruction a third time. Mostly why he's been titled reckless rather than oblivious. He loves making deals, lucky for you he isn't the best at keeping them nor pricing. Even as he's laying in bed, late at night, is surprised nobody has skinned him and made a welcome mat from him yet.
Misha isn't necessarily a sour sight to see. Obtaining curly chestnut hair trimmed to a ratty something or another, often shorter on the sides than on top like the great majority of people, his hair is pretty much the only part of his being he takes vague pride in. His teeth aren't crooked nor exactly straight, having the possibility of spitting every time he talks. Standing at five-foot eight, he's no daunting sight. Even so with the lack of muscle he has even after doing, um, nothing for pretty much the good majority of his life. He's relatively thin mostly since he doesn't actually enjoy food too much. But still kinda possesses a layer of flabbiness he'll attempt to conceal via slightly larger-than-needed clothing.
Freckles his mother adores scar his face along his upper cheek bones and nose bridge. He often sees them as permanent acne, but, ah well. There's a strong chance you'll see him wearing loose shirts, jackets, whatever really will possibly cover his clumsy little hands. He's always loved the colors yellow and brown so both of which will be pretty common for him to wear. Misha was born with a more olive, lighter skin tone. Mostly caused by his excessive time indoors, he's much more pale in comparison to his father or even mother. A smudge along his lower back in no particular shape, just a smudge, is a shared birthmark with his mother. Just vaguely darker than his typical skin hue by maybe only a shade or two. But, it's still noticeable if he were to point it out to you.
A planned baby, his parents were rather stable financially. He was someone planned three years in the making when the two got married and had two miscarriages just before him. The Timbleton's were a rather nice family. The father pursued genetic modifications such as building babies, whilst the mother remained at home. Either taking care to Misha while he was young, or awaiting him to get home from school every evening to talk to the boy, play games with him, and so on. Thus began a childhood of stupidity. Coming to believe the world was full of rainbows and sunshine alongside his typical coddling, his parents often kept him isolated outside of school. They were worried he would turn out rough around the edges. That he'd turn sour and all of the above.
In his spare time after homework or whatever, he'd help his dad with whatever he needed. Be it running to the store or just keeping him busy with conversation and story.
While others would debate that Misha grew up swell, and loved. He hated it with a good majority of his heart. He still hates it, actually. He didn't know what being alone was until someone within his school, a friend of his, had told him about it. The silence that filled his room very often turned bittersweet as he approached teen status. He felt he needed people. But not his mother; no. Not his father, not the books they'd given him to read at night. Not the tablet they'd gotten him that only had video games and a voice recorder. His act of sweet talking his parents to leave him alone so he could sneak out the back door started when he was maybe fourteen; still going strong today. Never much knowing where to go, nor when. However, he's too sick of his bedroom to care.
( kinda done? needa read over it and maybe tweak some stuff still. )
