6 Jul 2020, 21:41
This May or May Not Be Illegal
It was an unbearably hot day at Hogwarts, and Jax had just about had enough of it all.
He'd managed to sneak out of the boys' dormitory without anyone being the wiser, patched up messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Our favorite graffiti artist had a loosely tied black scarf around the lower half of his face and was currently making his way down the weathered stone steps, looking around nervously. It could be noted as soon as the heat wave had hit, Jackson had been forced to drop the entire emo aesthetic. Replaced his heavy black hoodies with tank tops and shorts. It clashed with the dark hair and eyeliner, but what the hell could he do? By that point, the heat made it hard to think, let alone care about one's aesthetic.
"Raise a glass to freedom," he sang softly under his breath as he ducked behind a few pine trees, wand in the back pocket of his jeans. He wasn't mad. Just tired and fed up with the lack of letters from home. He missed London. Missed it so much it hurt. By now, he was supposed to be home with his crew, keeping watch as they painted walls and left their mark on the city.
But he wasn't home. Because his dad was missing, and his siblings had decided he was too much of a bother. It freakin hurt he wasn't going to lie. "Something they can never take away," he muttered, opening his bag and pulling out a silvery can of spraypaint. He's stopped in front of an old brick wall, icy blue eyes scanning the pine trees around him for any onlookers. All clear, as far as he could tell. "No matter what they tell you..."
Okay. Deep breath in. Out.
Jamming an old cap on the can, Jackson gave one last look around, straining his ears for any little noise, and then started up. It was his first time bombing, as they called it in the graffiti community. He'd been sketching in the blackbook for quite some time, improving his skills over they years, but this moment, right now? He'd never allowed himself to hold a can of spraypaint before, and actually use it. "Let's have another round tonight..."
Pressing down on the cap with the pad of his thumb, Jax reached up and started the outline. Silver stained old beige walls, glinting in the last rays of sun which managed to sneak between the branches of pines. A few broad strokes, a few closeups, and he had the general outline down. He'd been part of the 'Immortals' graffiti gang before Anthony had talked him into coming here. So he'd shortened his tag to 'Imo'. There was no reasonable explanation as to why he loved the moniker so much. But he was sticking with it.
Hell, he was almost done filling in the outline. Then one of the students walked in on him
He'd managed to sneak out of the boys' dormitory without anyone being the wiser, patched up messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Our favorite graffiti artist had a loosely tied black scarf around the lower half of his face and was currently making his way down the weathered stone steps, looking around nervously. It could be noted as soon as the heat wave had hit, Jackson had been forced to drop the entire emo aesthetic. Replaced his heavy black hoodies with tank tops and shorts. It clashed with the dark hair and eyeliner, but what the hell could he do? By that point, the heat made it hard to think, let alone care about one's aesthetic.
"Raise a glass to freedom," he sang softly under his breath as he ducked behind a few pine trees, wand in the back pocket of his jeans. He wasn't mad. Just tired and fed up with the lack of letters from home. He missed London. Missed it so much it hurt. By now, he was supposed to be home with his crew, keeping watch as they painted walls and left their mark on the city.
But he wasn't home. Because his dad was missing, and his siblings had decided he was too much of a bother. It freakin hurt he wasn't going to lie. "Something they can never take away," he muttered, opening his bag and pulling out a silvery can of spraypaint. He's stopped in front of an old brick wall, icy blue eyes scanning the pine trees around him for any onlookers. All clear, as far as he could tell. "No matter what they tell you..."
Okay. Deep breath in. Out.
Jamming an old cap on the can, Jackson gave one last look around, straining his ears for any little noise, and then started up. It was his first time bombing, as they called it in the graffiti community. He'd been sketching in the blackbook for quite some time, improving his skills over they years, but this moment, right now? He'd never allowed himself to hold a can of spraypaint before, and actually use it. "Let's have another round tonight..."
Pressing down on the cap with the pad of his thumb, Jax reached up and started the outline. Silver stained old beige walls, glinting in the last rays of sun which managed to sneak between the branches of pines. A few broad strokes, a few closeups, and he had the general outline down. He'd been part of the 'Immortals' graffiti gang before Anthony had talked him into coming here. So he'd shortened his tag to 'Imo'. There was no reasonable explanation as to why he loved the moniker so much. But he was sticking with it.
Hell, he was almost done filling in the outline. Then one of the students walked in on him
Last edited by Jackson Lockwood on 27 Aug 2020, 22:26, edited 2 times in total.
24 Jul 2020, 03:16
This May or May Not Be Illegal
Sweatshirt | Sweatpants | Shoes
It had been a pretty hot day. You could tell summer was just turning the corner. That never stopped Wyatt from wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt to sleep. Just a few days of school had passed and Wyatt was ready to go home, wherever that would be next summer. Since his mom had died he was apathetic as ever. He’d barely gone to any of his classes, he slept during the day and cried during the night. Quietly, of course, so his dormmates wouldn’t hear. Wyatt was sick of laying in his bed staring at the ceiling, so this night, he decided to leave his dorm after curfew.
As he was walking, he began to hear something. Or someone. They were singing a song from a musical Wyatt couldn’t name. He was never really into musical theatre. “Raise a glass to freedom.” Wyatt turned his head towards where the sound was coming from. “Something they can never take away.” Against his better judgement he walked towards the sound. “No matter what they tell you.” Wyatt shoved his hands in his pockets. “Let’s have another round tonight.” Another sound. Spray paint? Wyatt could smell it too, such a strong smell. Disgusting.
Wyatt spoke up after watching for a few seconds in the shadows. “So are you goth, emo, or both,” he asked lowly, with a sarcastic tone. “Or are those the same things?” Wyatt’s face was unreadable as always. The Slytherin leaned back onto a pillar. The boy in front of him didn’t look familiar. So he wasn’t a Slytherin, or he was a first year and he seemed pretty young. Wyatt guessed it was both, since a Slytherin wouldn’t be so dumb as to ruin the ancient walls of Hogwarts with silly childish art. This kid was probably a Gryffindor based on how dumb he was being.
@Jackson Lockwood
It had been a pretty hot day. You could tell summer was just turning the corner. That never stopped Wyatt from wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt to sleep. Just a few days of school had passed and Wyatt was ready to go home, wherever that would be next summer. Since his mom had died he was apathetic as ever. He’d barely gone to any of his classes, he slept during the day and cried during the night. Quietly, of course, so his dormmates wouldn’t hear. Wyatt was sick of laying in his bed staring at the ceiling, so this night, he decided to leave his dorm after curfew.
As he was walking, he began to hear something. Or someone. They were singing a song from a musical Wyatt couldn’t name. He was never really into musical theatre. “Raise a glass to freedom.” Wyatt turned his head towards where the sound was coming from. “Something they can never take away.” Against his better judgement he walked towards the sound. “No matter what they tell you.” Wyatt shoved his hands in his pockets. “Let’s have another round tonight.” Another sound. Spray paint? Wyatt could smell it too, such a strong smell. Disgusting.
Wyatt spoke up after watching for a few seconds in the shadows. “So are you goth, emo, or both,” he asked lowly, with a sarcastic tone. “Or are those the same things?” Wyatt’s face was unreadable as always. The Slytherin leaned back onto a pillar. The boy in front of him didn’t look familiar. So he wasn’t a Slytherin, or he was a first year and he seemed pretty young. Wyatt guessed it was both, since a Slytherin wouldn’t be so dumb as to ruin the ancient walls of Hogwarts with silly childish art. This kid was probably a Gryffindor based on how dumb he was being.
@Jackson Lockwood
| “If you ever need anything please don't hesitate to ask someone else first.” - Kurt Cobain. |
Sta: 15 | Eva: 20 | Str: 6 | Wis: 9 | Arc: 9 | Acc: 11 Parselmouth | Prodigal DADA | Fearless | Muggle Condition |
24 Jul 2020, 21:26
This May or May Not Be Illegal
Jax flinched so hard he dropped the can of spraypaint. It slipped from between his fingers and came to a silent stop at the stranger's feet. This was followed by a colorful stream of curses which should not have been part of any eleven year old's vocabulary, but who was still keeping track? He'd picked it up from the dozen foster homes he'd been shoved in year after year, only to be dropped like a hot potato when the foster parents found out about his chronic anxiety, a.k.a GAD. It didn't make him a very pleasant to be around, especially since he covered it all up with lots of anger.
Like now. When he was scared out of his mind, hands trembling and heart pounding in his ears, feeling his pulse in his throat, the back of his eyes and wrists. "What the fuck do you want?" he hissed, bending down to pick up the silvery can and cap which had snapped off. It was broken. The bleedin cap was broken. Great. He only had four more. "First off," he begun, pulling out his wand and whispering 'Reparo' to the cap. It mended, much to his relief. Thank Satan, otherwise he would have been twice as pissed off. Twisting it back on the can, he turned back towards the intruder. "I just like eyeliner, fuck off." Defensive much? Yeah. He could count on one hand the number of times someone had noted the way he looked and not made a snarky comment, be that about his sexuality or mental health. And maybe it was the heat or the deep, black pit which had opened up in his chest at the disappearance of his adoptive father, or the fact he hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in over a month. But he wasn't as desperate to make friends as usual.
That having been said, icy blue eyes took in the boy before him, narrowing. Well he looked like shit. "Are you dysphoric, depressed, or both?"
@Wyatt Starkey
Like now. When he was scared out of his mind, hands trembling and heart pounding in his ears, feeling his pulse in his throat, the back of his eyes and wrists. "What the fuck do you want?" he hissed, bending down to pick up the silvery can and cap which had snapped off. It was broken. The bleedin cap was broken. Great. He only had four more. "First off," he begun, pulling out his wand and whispering 'Reparo' to the cap. It mended, much to his relief. Thank Satan, otherwise he would have been twice as pissed off. Twisting it back on the can, he turned back towards the intruder. "I just like eyeliner, fuck off." Defensive much? Yeah. He could count on one hand the number of times someone had noted the way he looked and not made a snarky comment, be that about his sexuality or mental health. And maybe it was the heat or the deep, black pit which had opened up in his chest at the disappearance of his adoptive father, or the fact he hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in over a month. But he wasn't as desperate to make friends as usual.
That having been said, icy blue eyes took in the boy before him, narrowing. Well he looked like shit. "Are you dysphoric, depressed, or both?"
@Wyatt Starkey
25 Jul 2020, 01:03
This May or May Not Be Illegal
"Are you dysphoric, depressed, or both?"
“Fair.” Now that the words were laid out for him, he had to admit there was a sliver of a chance that probably, maybe, he might be depressed. Well, if Wyatt was to be honest with himself, he was definitely depressed. The anxiety he always had didn’t help at all either. Wyatt had so many regrets. This emo, foul-mouthed eleven-year-old who acted like a full-grown adult was… quite right. Little Brendon Urie circa 2006 had guts, and not only could Wyatt respect that, but he could also relate to it. The dark-haired Slytherin stood up straight and clasped his hands behind his back slowly, wearing an unreadable expression and practically dead eyes.
Still, even if he was to accept his own feelings, it wasn’t gonna be because of Pete Wentz from sixteen years ago. “Is there a point to me asking why you decided to do,” Wyatt tiredly gestured towards this kid’s whole… situation going on, “this?” The Slytherin was more curious than anything else. You either had to be incredibly sad and have a lot of feelings or be really attention-starved to keep up an aesthetic like that. Not that Wyatt cared at all about this kid specifically, but he was interested in finding an answer to the question, why?
Even though Wyatt didn’t like the boy very much, he saw some of his first-year self in the 11-year-old. Messy hair, moody, inexplicably rude, and (based on the two seconds Wyatt had been speaking to the boy) had a rough childhood. Wyatt knew the similarities were why he didn’t like the first-year very much. Based on the way he talked to Wyatt, he probably didn’t have many friends either. Wyatt could relate a little too much. “Have you got any friends,” said the Slytherin, more judgementally than me meant to say it in the first place. Then, he mumbled, looking down at the ground, “based on this conversation, probably not.”
@Jackson Lockwood
“Fair.” Now that the words were laid out for him, he had to admit there was a sliver of a chance that probably, maybe, he might be depressed. Well, if Wyatt was to be honest with himself, he was definitely depressed. The anxiety he always had didn’t help at all either. Wyatt had so many regrets. This emo, foul-mouthed eleven-year-old who acted like a full-grown adult was… quite right. Little Brendon Urie circa 2006 had guts, and not only could Wyatt respect that, but he could also relate to it. The dark-haired Slytherin stood up straight and clasped his hands behind his back slowly, wearing an unreadable expression and practically dead eyes.
Still, even if he was to accept his own feelings, it wasn’t gonna be because of Pete Wentz from sixteen years ago. “Is there a point to me asking why you decided to do,” Wyatt tiredly gestured towards this kid’s whole… situation going on, “this?” The Slytherin was more curious than anything else. You either had to be incredibly sad and have a lot of feelings or be really attention-starved to keep up an aesthetic like that. Not that Wyatt cared at all about this kid specifically, but he was interested in finding an answer to the question, why?
Even though Wyatt didn’t like the boy very much, he saw some of his first-year self in the 11-year-old. Messy hair, moody, inexplicably rude, and (based on the two seconds Wyatt had been speaking to the boy) had a rough childhood. Wyatt knew the similarities were why he didn’t like the first-year very much. Based on the way he talked to Wyatt, he probably didn’t have many friends either. Wyatt could relate a little too much. “Have you got any friends,” said the Slytherin, more judgementally than me meant to say it in the first place. Then, he mumbled, looking down at the ground, “based on this conversation, probably not.”
@Jackson Lockwood
| “If you ever need anything please don't hesitate to ask someone else first.” - Kurt Cobain. |
Sta: 15 | Eva: 20 | Str: 6 | Wis: 9 | Arc: 9 | Acc: 11 Parselmouth | Prodigal DADA | Fearless | Muggle Condition |
25 Jul 2020, 15:42
This May or May Not Be Illegal
‘Kinda hard to have friends when you out yourself to the entire year,’ Jax thought, wrapping his hand around the can of spraypaint the way Jest had showed him, entire finger on the cap rather than just the tip. ‘I forgot being gay isn’t as fun in real life as it is on Tumblr.’ It was true what they said. Being emo and not being straight walked hand in hand…. But he didn’t say that out loud. The guy would probably leave; despite the myriad of insults Jax was hurling in his direction, the smaller boy was more glad for his company than he’d like to admit. Plus, he did have friends. Back home. The Immortals crew, twenty people strong. The posers from his muggle school didn’t coun- Jax let out a small, disgusted noise at himself. He’d just referred to normal school as ‘muggle’. Great. He was slowly becoming like the rest of the stuck up weirdos which walked these halls as if they owned the mf world. “I do,” he said instead. “and none of them look like they have a stick up their ass…not sure you can relate.”
Shaking the can of spraypaint and watching the boy from the corner of his eye to make sure he didn’t leave, Jax finished off the outline to his piece. Two seconds worth of spraypaint were all he needed. Then he turned back to his newfound companion, dropping the can in his bag. “I have a lot of free time,” Jax said, gesturing towards the whole crappy aesthetic he’d picked up from his ado siblings and Linkin Park videos. Now that the unfinished piece was no longer hanging over his head, screaming at him, Jax was able to pick up his bag and focus entirely on the boy. It was strange. He’ been sneaking out of the boy’s dormitory for months, yet nobody had bothered to pay any attention to him. The pounding of his heart had died down in the past few minutes, making it easier to breathe. To focus. “Why the fuck aren’t you sleeping anyway? Last I checked, normal people are in bed.”
First thing which stood out was the stranger’s unruly hair and dark eyes. Mr. Depression had a way of looking like he was about to unravel, and despite the poker face, the way he held himself, it… “Who hurt you?” the tiny boy asked, pale fingers gripping the strap of his bag. It was cutting into his porcelain skin, the weight of it sending small flares of pain down his shoulder and arm. He’d seen a lot of kids at the foster homes who had the same haunted look. Covering up pain with sarcasm and insults, the ghost of agony clinging to their skin and clothes, refusing to leave even while they were smiling. That was the difference between him and the stranger. Jax had the aesthetic. Mr. Depression had the actual problem.
Shaking the can of spraypaint and watching the boy from the corner of his eye to make sure he didn’t leave, Jax finished off the outline to his piece. Two seconds worth of spraypaint were all he needed. Then he turned back to his newfound companion, dropping the can in his bag. “I have a lot of free time,” Jax said, gesturing towards the whole crappy aesthetic he’d picked up from his ado siblings and Linkin Park videos. Now that the unfinished piece was no longer hanging over his head, screaming at him, Jax was able to pick up his bag and focus entirely on the boy. It was strange. He’ been sneaking out of the boy’s dormitory for months, yet nobody had bothered to pay any attention to him. The pounding of his heart had died down in the past few minutes, making it easier to breathe. To focus. “Why the fuck aren’t you sleeping anyway? Last I checked, normal people are in bed.”
First thing which stood out was the stranger’s unruly hair and dark eyes. Mr. Depression had a way of looking like he was about to unravel, and despite the poker face, the way he held himself, it… “Who hurt you?” the tiny boy asked, pale fingers gripping the strap of his bag. It was cutting into his porcelain skin, the weight of it sending small flares of pain down his shoulder and arm. He’d seen a lot of kids at the foster homes who had the same haunted look. Covering up pain with sarcasm and insults, the ghost of agony clinging to their skin and clothes, refusing to leave even while they were smiling. That was the difference between him and the stranger. Jax had the aesthetic. Mr. Depression had the actual problem.
25 Jul 2020, 19:14
This May or May Not Be Illegal
“Why the fuck aren’t you sleeping anyway? Last I checked, normal people are in bed.”
“So why would I be in bed,” Wyatt replied quickly, half mumbling. His tired tone melting the words together. But he replied quite quickly as if he’d been waiting for that question all his life. Or at least like he’d always known the answer. “You’re normal, why aren’t you in bed?” Wyatt scoffed. “The hair, the eyeshadow, the vocabulary. You just want to be different- to stand out. That’s why you’re like everyone else. You’re normal.”
Almost as a reply, the little emo blurted, “Who hurt you?” Which took Wyatt by surprise. Sure, he’d guessed the kid had guts from his first few words, but not this much. And Wyatt couldn’t even decipher whether he was poking fun or being sincere. Someone singing musicals could be either, or both at once. Theatre kids were weird, but that was a topic for another time. Wyatt was feeling put on the spot, even though there were only two of them.
“Who hurt me?” I wish he asked it as if it were a question, but he really growled the words. “Even if someone had hurt me, it wouldn’t be your business at all.” His conscience was telling him to stop being so defensive. He’d been “called out” before, sure, but never so blatantly. Something told him to lay off this little kid because he sounded like he had a few problems himself. Wyatt wondered how this kid survived at all at Hogwarts.
@Jackson Lockwood
“So why would I be in bed,” Wyatt replied quickly, half mumbling. His tired tone melting the words together. But he replied quite quickly as if he’d been waiting for that question all his life. Or at least like he’d always known the answer. “You’re normal, why aren’t you in bed?” Wyatt scoffed. “The hair, the eyeshadow, the vocabulary. You just want to be different- to stand out. That’s why you’re like everyone else. You’re normal.”
Almost as a reply, the little emo blurted, “Who hurt you?” Which took Wyatt by surprise. Sure, he’d guessed the kid had guts from his first few words, but not this much. And Wyatt couldn’t even decipher whether he was poking fun or being sincere. Someone singing musicals could be either, or both at once. Theatre kids were weird, but that was a topic for another time. Wyatt was feeling put on the spot, even though there were only two of them.
“Who hurt me?” I wish he asked it as if it were a question, but he really growled the words. “Even if someone had hurt me, it wouldn’t be your business at all.” His conscience was telling him to stop being so defensive. He’d been “called out” before, sure, but never so blatantly. Something told him to lay off this little kid because he sounded like he had a few problems himself. Wyatt wondered how this kid survived at all at Hogwarts.
@Jackson Lockwood
| “If you ever need anything please don't hesitate to ask someone else first.” - Kurt Cobain. |
Sta: 15 | Eva: 20 | Str: 6 | Wis: 9 | Arc: 9 | Acc: 11 Parselmouth | Prodigal DADA | Fearless | Muggle Condition |
25 Jul 2020, 21:51
This May or May Not Be Illegal
The words hit hard. Jax looked away with a scowl, hand flying to the topaz necklace hanging from his neck, biting his lip. There was no clever response sitting on his tongue. Nothing he could say. Mr. Dark and Moody had him trapped. Yeah, he was a painful sort of ordinary wasn't he... And he'd effing wilted at the remark. Pathetic. Straightening his back, Jax let his hand drop, deliberately keeping his stance open and making eye contact. 'Don't let them see they hurt you'. Jest had said that before giving him a push towards the 93/4 platform.
"It wouldn't be my business, you're right," the smaller kid said, looking up at Mr. Morbid, thumbs hooking in the belt loops of his jean shorts. His pale legs and arms were covered in half healed bruises and if one looked carefully, they could see a dark hand print around his forearm, from where Alyx had grabbed him.
"Why I look like 'this' ain't any of your business either," this was followed by a quick, effortlessly graceful gesture indicating the clothes and makeup, "yet I'm still here makin conversation with your square ass." Dudebro was rude, and defensive and would benefit from a hairbrush. Jax gave a small grin, which didn't quite do anything to dispel the way loneliness had imprinted itself in his every feature over past year. The jackass reminded him of home if nothing else. Home. God he missed London more than he'd ever missed anything else in his life.
@Wyatt Starkey
"It wouldn't be my business, you're right," the smaller kid said, looking up at Mr. Morbid, thumbs hooking in the belt loops of his jean shorts. His pale legs and arms were covered in half healed bruises and if one looked carefully, they could see a dark hand print around his forearm, from where Alyx had grabbed him.
"Why I look like 'this' ain't any of your business either," this was followed by a quick, effortlessly graceful gesture indicating the clothes and makeup, "yet I'm still here makin conversation with your square ass." Dudebro was rude, and defensive and would benefit from a hairbrush. Jax gave a small grin, which didn't quite do anything to dispel the way loneliness had imprinted itself in his every feature over past year. The jackass reminded him of home if nothing else. Home. God he missed London more than he'd ever missed anything else in his life.
@Wyatt Starkey
30 Jul 2020, 19:30
This May or May Not Be Illegal
Wyatt was pleased to notice his words had an impact on the small, fragile emo. Even though he was still making eye contact, Wyatt knew he was uncomfortable. Though even Wyatt could admit he may have been a little too honest, he didn’t regret what he said. Wyatt was bad at feeling remorse and saying sorry. And playing quidditch. He was shit at quidditch. But he didn’t care about quidditch. He never liked sports.
"Why I look like 'this' ain't any of your business either," the kid made a slight, graceful gesture towards himself- his outfit, makeup, etc. "Yet I'm still here makin conversation with your square ass." Without missing a beat, Wyatt replied. “Is the fact you talk like a bully in an eighties movie supposed to intimidate me, or does it just go with the aesthetic,” drawled the Slytherin. This kid was sort of the worst.
Wyatt could see through the tough guy, bad boy, emo exterior. “How sad you must be to rely on some manufactured aesthetic to fill the void of personality.” This boy seemed incredibly sad. He was probably picked on too judging by the healing bruises. The emo kid would’ve seen Wyatt’s own cuts and bruises if Wyatt had been wearing shorts and a shirt. But he didn’t own those. Wyatt didn’t like to be vulnerable, so he covered up.
Unfortunately, Wyatt couldn’t cover the scars on his face. The Slytherin would even lie to people he trusted about the scars. He would say he would trip a lot in the forest behind his home, but only one of the scars was from that. The others were from muggle bullies or Wyatt’s truly evil father. The one person Wyatt had confessed this to left Hogwarts in the middle of the year, never to be seen again.
If there was anything Wyatt’s dad beat into him, it was “don’t let them see they hurt you.” Letting others see the pain they inflicted always fueled them. It fueled Wyatt’s dad. It fueled the muggle bullies. Hell, sometimes Wyatt couldn’t hide it at Hogwarts, and the Gryffindor bullies were fueled by it. It fueled Wyatt, too, but Wyatt would never hurt anyone with his fists. He never wanted to be anything like his father.
@Jackson Lockwood
"Why I look like 'this' ain't any of your business either," the kid made a slight, graceful gesture towards himself- his outfit, makeup, etc. "Yet I'm still here makin conversation with your square ass." Without missing a beat, Wyatt replied. “Is the fact you talk like a bully in an eighties movie supposed to intimidate me, or does it just go with the aesthetic,” drawled the Slytherin. This kid was sort of the worst.
Wyatt could see through the tough guy, bad boy, emo exterior. “How sad you must be to rely on some manufactured aesthetic to fill the void of personality.” This boy seemed incredibly sad. He was probably picked on too judging by the healing bruises. The emo kid would’ve seen Wyatt’s own cuts and bruises if Wyatt had been wearing shorts and a shirt. But he didn’t own those. Wyatt didn’t like to be vulnerable, so he covered up.
Unfortunately, Wyatt couldn’t cover the scars on his face. The Slytherin would even lie to people he trusted about the scars. He would say he would trip a lot in the forest behind his home, but only one of the scars was from that. The others were from muggle bullies or Wyatt’s truly evil father. The one person Wyatt had confessed this to left Hogwarts in the middle of the year, never to be seen again.
If there was anything Wyatt’s dad beat into him, it was “don’t let them see they hurt you.” Letting others see the pain they inflicted always fueled them. It fueled Wyatt’s dad. It fueled the muggle bullies. Hell, sometimes Wyatt couldn’t hide it at Hogwarts, and the Gryffindor bullies were fueled by it. It fueled Wyatt, too, but Wyatt would never hurt anyone with his fists. He never wanted to be anything like his father.
@Jackson Lockwood
| “If you ever need anything please don't hesitate to ask someone else first.” - Kurt Cobain. |
Sta: 15 | Eva: 20 | Str: 6 | Wis: 9 | Arc: 9 | Acc: 11 Parselmouth | Prodigal DADA | Fearless | Muggle Condition |
30 Jul 2020, 21:50
This May or May Not Be Illegal
"Is the fact you talk like a bully in an eighties movie supposed to intimidate me, or does it just go with the aesthetic?" Dark And Gloomy had asked. And maybe it was the fact Jax was beyond exhausted, or that he no longer had the energy to be angry, but he laughed. An exhausted, silent laugh which bounced off the freshly painted wall and the trees larger than life which surrounded them.
"Comes with the aesthetic, I suppose," he grinned, running a hand through his hair, paint stained fingers leaving traces of silver and neon blue through the dark strands. "And all the bad 80s movies my brother watches." Yes. This was good. Felt...natural. If he just...let the kid's words roll off of him? They could have an actual conversation. Plus, Mr. Scarcasm had obviously gone through some shit. There was a huge spiked wall around him, wounding everyone who got even remotely close. Perhaps it wasn't Jax's job to try and get through it. So he wouldn't.
Instead, he smiled. For an eleven year old, he had a charming smile, which extended to his eyes and put people at ease. Scarcasm kept going at it, trying to hurt him, hurling words in his direction, using him as a virtual punching bag. "Oooof," he laughed. "Someone bring me some ice, Depresso Esspresso just burned me to a fuckin crisp."
Jax had seen the scars. But just like Depresso hadn't mentioned the fuckin bruises Alyx had left on him, our emo in the making wasn't about to ask. They weren't what defined the boy in front of him. The fact Scarcasm was a fuckin asshole kind of did that already. "Is it lonely up there?" he asked, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "That's a nice high horse you're on, kinda hard to have a conversation, would you mind getting down for a sec? You can go back up after we're done, no problem."
"Comes with the aesthetic, I suppose," he grinned, running a hand through his hair, paint stained fingers leaving traces of silver and neon blue through the dark strands. "And all the bad 80s movies my brother watches." Yes. This was good. Felt...natural. If he just...let the kid's words roll off of him? They could have an actual conversation. Plus, Mr. Scarcasm had obviously gone through some shit. There was a huge spiked wall around him, wounding everyone who got even remotely close. Perhaps it wasn't Jax's job to try and get through it. So he wouldn't.
Instead, he smiled. For an eleven year old, he had a charming smile, which extended to his eyes and put people at ease. Scarcasm kept going at it, trying to hurt him, hurling words in his direction, using him as a virtual punching bag. "Oooof," he laughed. "Someone bring me some ice, Depresso Esspresso just burned me to a fuckin crisp."
Jax had seen the scars. But just like Depresso hadn't mentioned the fuckin bruises Alyx had left on him, our emo in the making wasn't about to ask. They weren't what defined the boy in front of him. The fact Scarcasm was a fuckin asshole kind of did that already. "Is it lonely up there?" he asked, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "That's a nice high horse you're on, kinda hard to have a conversation, would you mind getting down for a sec? You can go back up after we're done, no problem."
31 Jul 2020, 00:10
This May or May Not Be Illegal
So this kid had a sense of humor, huh? Wyatt’s hands fell loosely to his sides and he clenched his fists. What high horse? If only this little loser knew. The high horse was like one of those old-timey fake storefronts. Just another façade. Because if people think you think you’re better than everyone else, they’ll never assume you think you’re worthless. And feeling worthless is a weakness. And if everyone knows you’re weak, you’re an easy target. An easier target than you already are.
Really, all Wyatt wanted was a hug. To fall and to have someone catch him, so he wouldn’t have to carry around his own weight for once. He wanted to fall apart in front of someone. To cry and not be judged, or made fun of, or insulted. But that was far too much to ask, and especially because of his reputation, no one would dare look him in the eye let alone give him a hug. He was lonely. It was like everyone else was on Earth, but Wyatt was in another world very far away.
The worst part was, Depresso Espresso built the walls that kept him from making anything close to a friend. It’s not easy to kick habits or break down walls. It’s my fault I feel this way, Wyatt thought. I don’t deserve to be loved when I’m the one who kept myself from feeling love all my life. And the more he thought about it, Wyatt wouldn’t even be able to identify love. Maybe this first-year had a point. Wyatt sighed, but remained unreadable through the sigh except for his slightly glassy eyes.
If Banksy wanted conversation, he'd get one. Sarcastically, Wyatt said in a fancy accent, “well, isn’t the weather just scorching hot?” Rolling his eyes, he crossed his arms. In reality, Wyatt had no idea what a normal conversation was, he just watched a lot of television and movies. But he knew normal people didn’t act like the people in sitcoms. Sort of.
@Jackson Lockwood
Really, all Wyatt wanted was a hug. To fall and to have someone catch him, so he wouldn’t have to carry around his own weight for once. He wanted to fall apart in front of someone. To cry and not be judged, or made fun of, or insulted. But that was far too much to ask, and especially because of his reputation, no one would dare look him in the eye let alone give him a hug. He was lonely. It was like everyone else was on Earth, but Wyatt was in another world very far away.
The worst part was, Depresso Espresso built the walls that kept him from making anything close to a friend. It’s not easy to kick habits or break down walls. It’s my fault I feel this way, Wyatt thought. I don’t deserve to be loved when I’m the one who kept myself from feeling love all my life. And the more he thought about it, Wyatt wouldn’t even be able to identify love. Maybe this first-year had a point. Wyatt sighed, but remained unreadable through the sigh except for his slightly glassy eyes.
If Banksy wanted conversation, he'd get one. Sarcastically, Wyatt said in a fancy accent, “well, isn’t the weather just scorching hot?” Rolling his eyes, he crossed his arms. In reality, Wyatt had no idea what a normal conversation was, he just watched a lot of television and movies. But he knew normal people didn’t act like the people in sitcoms. Sort of.
@Jackson Lockwood
| “If you ever need anything please don't hesitate to ask someone else first.” - Kurt Cobain. |
Sta: 15 | Eva: 20 | Str: 6 | Wis: 9 | Arc: 9 | Acc: 11 Parselmouth | Prodigal DADA | Fearless | Muggle Condition |