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Realistic or Modern π™²πšŠπšžπšπš’πš˜πš—: π™»πš˜πšŒπš”πšŽπš›πšœ π™°πš‘πšŽπšŠπš || character sheets

motherofsin

motherofsin

read all about it!
Roleplay Availability
Roleplay Type(s)
you will post your cs here!

and because i'm a simpleton and am still figuring out how to code and whatnot, this is as pretty as it gets, haha.

cs requirements are pretty loose, i'd hope you'd know what to include, but if not, here are some guidelines:

name, birthdate/age, gender, sexuality
virtues and vices (3+ for each), personality
relationships (if none, disregard)

and any other information you'd like to include, those are just the basics.

thank you for being patient, my anxiety wants me to apologize for being new at this.​
 

open book please read open book please read open book





Alexis S.



I only love my bed and my mama, I'm sorry.







appearance







5'11

height






173lbs

weight






dark brown

hair color






haitian and white

race






dark brown

eyes






Luka Sabbat

faceclaim







Being nearly 6'0 is something Alexis despises, as women and men usually prefer the highest stature in a lover, and that's really all he cares about -- what's attractive. His toffee-colored skin complete with chocolate eyes leaves his victims swooning over him far past their relationship. Lexis' smile is as bright as he is, his lips thicker than wet sugar. You'll often find him tending to his dark brown, 12in. locs, his pride and joy, which is probably due for a retwist.


notes






psyche



Easy-going




Humorous




Selfless-ish




Mischevious




Obsessive




Party Animal




Loving






Alexis is quite the character, some may say. His laid-back energy and kind smile are what truly lead his way of life. He has been deemed a "certified lover boy" for his acts of romancing several individuals, sometimes at once. "Player" is selling him short, as he'd call himself more of a casanova. He is known to capture his loving victims with his humor and slight tongue. Once he has his lover, the romancing doesn't stop there. He commits selfless acts of love -- flowers, chocolate, all of that mushy shit -- yet, he finds himself in a web of lies and deception. He obsesses over his individual(s) to the point of toxicity and that ultimately leads to his reckless, party-animal tendencies. Lexis' mischief comes into play as a sort of "gotcha" moment; social pranks and doxxing his long-gone romances often end him in continuous trouble in school.




ESFP
alignment/mbti


likes
relationships, cartoons, writing

dislikes
EDM, soup, obnoxiousness

fears
spiders, his father

reputation
well-liked... sort of





background



home life



Alexis' home life is anything but stable. Ever since witnessing the death of his beloved mother at the hands of his stepfather, his relationship with his father has been difficult. As his father struggles with alcoholism and anger issues, Lexis struggles with the results of that behavior in his own world: toxic love and party-binging. Because of his shaky childhood, he actively seeks comfort and reassurance from his relationships. He often prefers to be somewhere away from his father, away from the arguing and tears of anger.


school life



Alexis' school reputation is, somehow, not very tainted by his romantic endeavors. All throughout his school life, he has been a kind child and a bright student, often doing well in class and being an overachiever. It never took much for Lexis to be a star student because of his charm, it continues in his high school years. With good grades and a great smile, you'd think he was the nicest person to come across in school.




ADDITIONAL INFO







β€” can be found eating bananas in the school parking lot

β€” or playing his music a little too loudly

β€” or flirting with a teacher

β€” or even dancing in the hallways



coded by xayah.ღ
 
Last edited:




"you can't wreck something that's already wrecked!

RUDY BENNETT







  • warning!

    Thanks... I guess?












    • basic info

      Name:
      Rudy Collins Bennett
      Age:
      16
      dob:
      july 24th
      pronouns:
      he/him
      gender:
      cisgender male
      zodiac sign:
      leo
      sexuality:
      "heterosexual"
      ailments:
      n/a
      ethnicity:
      mexican-american
      languages:
      english
      role:
      ambiguously gay jock




      Don't follow your dreams, follow my Instagram.


      personality

      In a world brimming with a kaleidoscope of characters, Rudy Bennett stands out as a captivating enigma, effortlessly blending an array of intriguing qualities. His playful nature and charming demeanor serve as the bedrock of his magnetic presence, drawing people into his orbit like moths to a flame. With every step he takes, Rudy exudes a self-assured confidence that borders on audacious, leaving no doubt that he sees himself as the crème de la crème. This air of elitist confidence is often punctuated by a sarcastic and humourous flair.

      Rudy's sharp tongue, though not always at the forefront, adds a dash of spice to his interactions. Every now and then, a well-placed quip or a clever remark escapes his lips. While his sharp tongue may not define him, it serves as a reminder of his quick wit and adds an element of amusement to his conversations. However, where Rudy truly shines, or rather stumbles, is in his occasional denseness when it comes to reading the room (and basically everything that doesn't relate to looking good). Despite his skillful flirtations, he often finds himself blissfully unaware of the subtler undercurrents in social dynamics.

      But there is another side to Rudy, one that often rears its head without warningβ€”a side that can be best described as downright assholish. Oblivious to the emotions of those around him, Rudy can and will be callous and rude, trampling over sensitivities with little regard for the aftermath. His self-centered nature blinds him to the impact of his words and actions. While his jabs (purposefully offensive or not) may elicit laughter, they can also leave scars, exposing the darker underbelly of his persona.

      Ironically, Rudy's obliviousness extends to his own emotions and sexuality as well. While he may project an image of unshakeable confidence, beneath the surface lies a whirlwind of conflicting emotions that he struggles to acknowledge. His own insecurities and vulnerabilities are often overshadowed by a desire for attention and validation. This emotional disconnect only serves to deepen his inner turmoil, creating a barrier between his genuine self and the persona he presents to the world.

      Adding to the intricate tapestry of Rudy's character is his strained relationship with both of his parents, whom he openly refers to as "rich assholes." The marks of a stressful childhood, marred by emotional neglect and materialistic pursuits, have left a lasting imprint on his psyche. shaping his self-centered tendencies and fueling his thirst for validation.

      Amidst the layers of his persona, Rudy's genuine moments of sincerity and sweetness remain a closely guarded secret. Behind closed doors, away from the prying eyes of the world, he sheds the armor of trenchant and bravado, revealing a vulnerable side that few have the privilege of witnessing. It is in these private moments that his authentic self emerges, offering glimpses of the compassionate, sensitive soul that lies within.

      (yikes.. i did not reread nor put my all. i'm sorry. i just wanna sleep!! 😭 )



    a





Β© weldherwings.

[/div]


haha, sorry if it looks pretty bad. i've got some sleep to catch up on and i just wanted to get done with this. :)
( remember to scroll !!! )
 













Kenzo

loverboy





































full name


Kenzo yeong









nickname(s)


zo, sunshine, darling, angel









age


17









gender


male









Kr. Name


겐쑰









Sexuality


bisexual









ethnicity


korean &. Australian
















































  • hair

    his hair is silky and straight, often he dyes it and is currently at shoulder length









    eyes

    warm almond shaped and brown









    height

    5 β€˜3









    body mods.

    strong, slim










    faceclaim

    Lee Felix

















β™‘coded by uxieβ™‘

 
  • COGITO, ERGO SUM.
    NAME...
    Julia Jeong
    AGE...
    48
    DATE OF BIRTH...
    February 6
    GENDER...
    Cisgender Female
    PRONOUNS...
    She/Her
    SEXUALITY...
    Demisexual
    FACECLAIM...
    Sandra Oh
    Appearance
    Beauty has no obvious use; nor is there any clear cultural necessity for it. Yet civilization could not do without it. - Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents
    height:
    5’5” (169cm)
    hair color:
    dark brown
    eye color:
    dark brown

    Julia is striking in the way a googly-eyed malfunctioning stapler choking up broken metal shards at an unprecedent rate is striking. She is a passerby, an overcrowded head on an overcrowded coast whose only chance at featuring in a romantic comedy would be if she went comatose for a decade and tried out cryogenics, witchcraft, and buccal fat removal. Regardless, an adequate amount of abstinence from ingestible vices in her younger years has elicited the fairly graceful maturation of all her features, even if she doesn’t do much to keep those features from looking like they’re worn to the bone. She wears a smile as a rule of thumb rather than a genuine expression of happiness, and the probability of that smile reaching her dark, beady eyes is close to zilch. What’s the superlative for zilch? Most zilch. Zilch-er. What-ever. No time. Throw on a thrifted jacket over a thrifted shirt to be tucked into thrifted trousers and run to the bus stop. Rinse and repeat. Emphasis on repeat.

    Julia often gives the impression of someone who’s a week late to a job interview while being at least fifteen minutes early to all of her appointments. Her wardrobe is far more casual than business, with a friendly, barely-ironed nattiness to it, with relaxed colouring and a lack of bold patterns dominating her working clothes. She isn’t particularly choosy about the cohesion of her outfits, but she won’t wear anything ripped or stained. Seriously, she spent her entire youth trying to disguise her proletarian avant garde as a choice instead of a necessity, why would she want to repeat that now that she can scrounge up her own money? She finds that first impressions have a very strong gravitational field as to whether or not she gets a second chance with most people, whether it’s a troubled student or an equally troubled blind date she doesn’t even want a second date with, actually, and treats them like so. If it’s not presentable, practical, and priced at a reasonable rate when accounting for inflation, the use of sweatshops in fast fashion, and the advertisements on social media apps she should not have downloaded, it’s not going in the closet.

    Standing at 5’5, she’s more timid than intimidating, meek and mousy to others’ bold charisma. Her build retains a fair amount of lean muscle from her weekends at the basketball court, although any and all signs of her being able to transition foul a blowout in seconds are hidden underneath modest sleeves and crumpled jackets. Her hair would better befit a theoretical physicist than someone as (allegedly) organized as her, its thick, dark curls splaying from thick, dark strands with reckless abandon. Her dark, overly plucked brows, in contrast, are drawn into a semi-permanent, furrowed inquisitveness, as though beckoning any onlookers to rethink their decisions and focus on the bad ones she made back in middle school when she read beauty magazines from the dumpster outside the fast food restaurant where her father worked. She’s not hung up on anything. Why would you ask that?
    ⬩ β¬₯ ❖ β¬₯ ⬩
    Personality
    A person is a fluid process, not a fixed and static entity; a flowing river of change, not a block of solid material. - Carl R. Rogers, On Becoming A Person
    Julia Jeong lies down on her couch all the time. Well, not all the time, because to be extremely frank (which Julia is not, but we’ll get to that sometime in the extremely far future) she does not have all the time now that class is back in session, or even an imperceptible, dark matter quantum of time, which is a fact she is becoming exceedingly aware of with every passing day, which is something she despises, really, because merely passing is something Julia has never accepted. So that is hyperbole. But more importantly, it is dishonest. So Julia will start over again, just as she has with her career, her coping mechanisms, and her relationship status on every social media profile she owns, because she cares about being honest. She cares about everything. Her kids. The state of schooling for young women in the Central African Republic. Her salary. The elephants being tortured in Myanmar. Evidently, that does not mean she can express everything or be everything. Especially not the elephants in Myanmar. But back to the couch.

    You have to understand that this couch is not pleasant to lie down on, just as Julia Jeong’s mind is not a pleasant place to be in. It is a tattered wingback with stuffing spewing from its patchwork sides, similar to the manner in which all of Julia’s common and rare sense alike ejects from her cranium the second she hears a sob story from one of her students. It is covered in floral projections that look nothing like flowers, abstract brown mosaics and stains of millennia prior in a way that reminds Julia of how she views the world: without focus, with open-mindedness. Face value has no value, and the couch’s monetary value? Oh, you’re a comedian. It is old, a relic of colonial furniture marinated in a severe disinterest in ensuring one’s guests were to exit the house with their vision intact. No further explanation will be pronounced.

    Julia lies down on the couch nonetheless. It reminds her of better times, of which, as previously discussed, she currently does not possess in any tangible matter, aside from her time at school. It’s pathetic, she thinks privately, as she does with most of her thoughts these ever-passing days, that it’s still her time at school she values most. Then again, Fitzgerald is the only place where she can turn her misery into productivity. When she was a student, it was her parents’ and professors’ perpetual fault-finding that propelled her towards better performance in every subject and extracurricular that would let her in. Now, it’s her own self-destructive constructive criticism that pushes her to goodness. Not greatness. She’s hardly in this business for the glamour, believe her.

    Forever and always, the couch is her comfort zone. The couch is a space of limbo between adolescence and adulthood, a perfect portion of reality wherein she is neither Julia β€˜Ching Chong’, undersociable overachiever whose daddy works at a fast food chain but still cooks the worst smelling food for her, nor Technical Doctor Julia Jeong, whose new purpose in life is listening to teenagers lie to her about their emotional wellbeing. There she is free to wander far from reality and reimagine things as she would like them to be, which is forever and always differently from how they really are. The sky is not grey with smog, the sunset is not crimson with pollution, the sea is not murky with microplastics and brown with something indescribable. Julia sees life as a kaleidoscope: a constantly changing spectacle of hues and tones, a pattern clear throughout the chaos. Except the pattern isn’t clear to her yet, but she knows it’s there. It has to be.

    Imagination is very important to Julia. Without the rainbow-colored lens of idealism and dispositional optimism, she believes that she wouldn’t have made it past high school, much less past all the life-shattering events that led her back to said high school as a person whose entire job was making sure students make it past high school with more than nothing of their soul. Imagination is basically what psychoanalytic theory was based on, from her merrily distorted perspective. Voluntary thought is the tip of the iceberg, as she recalls. Imagination, even such seemingly inane, hormonal daydreams as the ones she observes in her students, is the boundary between the thoughts allowed to be thought and the bummock of the iceberg. No, you are not allowed to laugh at that, that is the correct term for the unseen part of an iceberg. Julia is allowed a dainty, ladylike snort, though.

    Expectations are even more important to Julia. Psychoanalysis has been discredited as a science since the twentieth century, and thus far she finds little to no reference points as to whether it is an effective method of treating whatever the floccinaucinihilipilification is going on with her students, but it is an iconic piece of imagery and probably more effective than her slamming down a mountain of folders relating to college applications and the D.A.R.E. program. She is not here to create. That time has passed her by, thank you very much. She is here to use her creativity to help Fitzgerald mold a generation of young, er, alleged people into the least messed up human beings they can be. Does she find any financial fulfillment in it? If she stopped purchasing stress balls in bulk, maybe. Does she want to wake up on her deathbed and realize that the fruits of her effort are being disintegrated in the corporate bowels that encroach on Earth’s natural territory like parasitic plants/her ex-husband, who she is still one hundred per cent hung up on? Absolutely not. Does she figure that it’s worth a try, anyways? That it’s all part of a plan orchestrated by a greater power none of them will comprehend until the heat death of the universe? Sure.

    The idea of a greater power is comforting to Julia, so while she relaxes on the couch, she imagines a silhouette clad in tweed and intellectual prowess. She sees the smoke from the kettle boiling the tea she doesn’t even like turn into the silhouette’s glinting glasses. She sees someone to talk to. She sees a good purpose, a greater power, and so she continues to live.

    Julia understands that not all greater powers are good. Hexachloroethane, maybe her fictitious psychoanalyst is representative of her blind compliance to societal norms and willful ignorance towards contemporary outputs of oppression. But she believes that she can follow greater powers, whether they are the gods her mother and father divorced over in everything but name, or the school district that dictates her every move, or the textbooks that have passages she’s to memorize verbatim to sound assmart as possible, to foster good in Fitzgerald, which is… almost good enough? Oh, she can’t judge. And she won’t, by virtue of her immaculate patience and less virtuous hankering for a decade-long tenure in Hawaii. She can understand when something is wrong, conceptually, yet hesitates to try and fix it with explicit action and intent, not least because of her deep-rooted belief in the value of suffering. Not drastic, call-CPS suffering; just little incidents to learn from, to break that self-perceived forcefield that so many teenagers think they have. That she thought she had, once upon a time. Story for another time. Back to the couch.

    Suffering builds character. That’s why Julia lies down on the couch regardless of the springs poking at her twisted spine, why she pores over dozens of online forums trying to understand what shiitake mushrooms her students must have gone through to turn out the way they are. Or the way the present themselves, which can be just as bad, as Julia knows from personal experience. Suffering builds character, and Julia needs character. And a new spine, in both literal and figurative respects. Respect is something she gives to herself every Christmas as a treat, except her family couldn’t and can’t afford to buy a plastic crocodile xylophone for Christmas, much less respect for a scrawny ball of nerves. Respect is something she understands she should firmly suggest her students treat her with. But she hasn’t suffered a sufficient amount to deserve that, she affirms, and the psychoanalyst with the boiling glasses shakes their head. In approval or disapproval, she’ll never know. The tea is steaming, screeching.

    Julia figures that she’s stupid. She’d never say it out loud, never let a student hear negative self-talk in a five-mile radius of her office. She’s pretty sure of it, though, because she lies down on the couch regardless of how much it hurts, and she doesn’t need the doctorate she spent six years getting to figure how that can be applied to her relationships with everyone and everything. Hoping for the better. Staying for the worst. She listens to other people’s problems because listening to her own would be unpleasant. The tea’s incessant wails will turn into her mother calling her, utterly distraught, asking why her marriage deteriorated so fast. The whooshing blue flames will turn into her husband’s teeth stained with brighter blue lipstick as he recounts his infidelity like he’s planning to put it in his memoir.

    Julia gets off the couch. The psychoanalyst follows her into the kitchen, or whatever the tiny space of pots and pans and retraux tiling can be called. A mess. No, that’s too rude. A metaphor for her existence. Also rude, but more accurate. Julia is distracted and busy, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. A dozen problems leap at her any time she enters a room. And not just the AP math problems on the board that everyone should be able to solve by seventh grade, when she’s in Fitzgerald. The kettle’s chipped chipper design. Cats? Dogs? More visual metaphors that she can use as an analogy to an assembly nobody will attend? The smell of tea she doesn’t want to drink. The mugs she hasn’t washed. The only mug she has washed, with the handle that has a coin flip of a chance to give her a massive cut on her index finger. Julia likes solving problems, because they give her a concrete purpose, the psychoanalyst says, teeth like the light pollution coming into her apartment window by someone who does not know how Morse code works. It’s comparable to object permanence, in certain practices. The laundry list of problems, not the failures at declaring love via Morse code, although that is a problem she’d report to her landlord if she wasn’t so interested in seeing how that turned out for the couple. Schrodinger’s counsellor. If she’s not helping someone, does she even exist? Is she even alive?

    Julia burns off her fingerprints for the twentieth time this week, reaching for the kettle. Chronic insomnia correlating to perimenopause and a surplus of stress, the psychoanalyst suggests, making no move to help Julia organize her copiously cheerful band-aids. She doesn’t know when she stopped sleeping seven hours a night. Or one hour a night, for that matter. She doesn’t let that prevent her from reviewing her notes on students who spent their sessions with her sticking gum under any surface within reach of their gangly limbs, from formulating the perfect series of questions to inspire borderline traumatic revelations in their developing minds. Despite her eternal subscription to Martyr Complex Magazine, she feels a sense of protectiveness over her students and their futures. She finds herself wondering, as she patches up a wound that appears so routinely in her life it’s more of a constant than her mental stability, if she could be a better parent than the progenitors that, presumably without the influence of blackmail and/or a hundred Korean aunties hounding them, admitted heir children to Fitzgerald. Not that it’s a real possibility. She’s scared of her students, on some level, and even more scared of being in a committed relationship only to discover that the other person was committed to another person. Not that there’s personal experience there. Obviously.

    A high school teacher of hers once told Julia that she had a good head on her shoulders, and Julia’s convinced that’s the last genuine compliment she ever received. She’s also convinced it was the insincere, and more importantly, incorrect assessment of a geriatric lecturer who looked as though he’d lived through all the historical events he pop quizzed them on as well as the extinction of the dinosaurs, the creation of the dinosaurs, and the creation of those straight-to-DVD movies about the extinction of the dinosaurs. She makes an effort to be better, but she’s never certain when she’ll be good enough. Time management and reading, invaluable skills as they are to her profession, are also two aspects of work that she struggles with. She was diagnosed with dyslexia sometime in her early 30s, which reassures her on an objective level that her feuds with English print could be managed and terrifies her on all other accounts. She makes even more effort to help students she views as similar to her high school self, whoever that was–nervous, lonely, dealing with familial pressures, financially screwed, to be assessed for learning disabilities. Which also describes her now, and Julia’s convinced that’s the worst insult she’s ever inflicted on herself.

    The band aid falls off. If you won’t rip me off, I’ll do it myself, it taunts, becoming grimy with chunks of expired peanut butter and burrows of dust bunnies between the cracks of her floor. That has to be a metaphor for something, the way the adhesive applies itself to everything but her skin. Insecurities about the appearance, perhaps? Her memory, quick as can be exclusively with useless trivia and old grudges.

    It doesn’t matter. She’s the band-aid now, and she’ll be one for as long as Fitzgerald needs her.

    (Read: until she can find a better job. Preferably without the screaming, crying, whining brats. And their kids.)
code by Nano
 
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