Jester
Trains not people
Name: Jackson Black Lockwood (Blackwood)
Age: 17- 35 depending on rp
Sexuality: Bi, but leans towards girls
Personality: Jackson is stuck between being an anxious, self-esteem deprived son of a bitch, and having a lot of confidence. Here's how it works: When he is doing things he knows how to do well, like cook or graffiti, or dealing with the mob, he's fine. As long as he only depends on himself for things and there is minimal social interaction involved. BUT. If there are other people around, say, if he is talking to someone, then he will panic. For example, if there was a girl he wanted to hang out with and chill rather than sleep with, then he'd forget how to speak. But if it was just sex and he didn't want to have to deal with her anymore after that, it would simply be a transaction of sorts. "you make me feel good and I'll make you feel good, and no one owes anything to anyone afterwards". His anxiety mainly comes into play with things he has no experience doing. Like being friends with girls. Mind you, the anxiety will be a big part of him if you have to deal with him during his teenage years. However, if you meet him as an adult, you'll see he's much more self-confident and can carry out a normal conversation.
Backstory: His mother had him as a teenager, and didn't want him. So she dumped him in foster care, and up and left. After a while, Jax ended up in an orphanage. He aged out and spent a good time of his life dealing drugs for the mob. It was when the leader of the mob Nico, finally told him to get his shit straight and refused to let him sell drugs for him anymore that Jax opened up his tattoo parlor. He's been working there since, picking up a few unfortunate souls along the way to help him out, and bombing (graffiti) by night. By now, he's tagged most of New Calydon, and has to go further and further away from his shop to find good places, while avoiding cops. He has a pall up in the NCPD, however, who tends to swing things his way if he ever gets in trouble for tagging.
Quirks: He has a sketchbook full of crappy drawings. Somewhere in the middle is a rough sketch of what his tattoo parlor will look like, assuming he gets better at drawing and actually opens one. At the very back is a sketch of his brother in his final moments. With blood painting the pavement below Jester's pain filled frame, and a million shades of blue and purple in his terror filled eyes. If anyone ever dares to touch the sketchbook, he will claw their eyes out and beat the crap out of them. He's had it for years and it shows. A simple, beaten up black cover and yellowed pages which have floofed up over the years, with little strips of paper shoved in, paint and pencil clashing on the same page, half-forgotten song lyrics scribbled in blue pen on corners and unfinished tattoo designs. If anyone gave that sketchbook a hearty shake, dreams and memories would fall out like rain, piling up on the floor at their feet.
On top of that, Jax's home is in a beaten down car by the side of the road, in a forgotten alleyway.
He doesn't have a place to call home, since his parents dropped him off in foster care at a very young age. He hates it there. Absolutely despises even thinking of that place. [SPOILER "Thoughts"] He himself didn't really have a home, dropping in and out of the foster care place whenever he felt like it. Most days, he slept on the streets, because he couldn't take the stifling heat. The noise. The million voices shouting overtop another and small, cramped spaces in which too many people lived and breathed.
Age: 17- 35 depending on rp
Sexuality: Bi, but leans towards girls
Personality: Jackson is stuck between being an anxious, self-esteem deprived son of a bitch, and having a lot of confidence. Here's how it works: When he is doing things he knows how to do well, like cook or graffiti, or dealing with the mob, he's fine. As long as he only depends on himself for things and there is minimal social interaction involved. BUT. If there are other people around, say, if he is talking to someone, then he will panic. For example, if there was a girl he wanted to hang out with and chill rather than sleep with, then he'd forget how to speak. But if it was just sex and he didn't want to have to deal with her anymore after that, it would simply be a transaction of sorts. "you make me feel good and I'll make you feel good, and no one owes anything to anyone afterwards". His anxiety mainly comes into play with things he has no experience doing. Like being friends with girls. Mind you, the anxiety will be a big part of him if you have to deal with him during his teenage years. However, if you meet him as an adult, you'll see he's much more self-confident and can carry out a normal conversation.
Backstory: His mother had him as a teenager, and didn't want him. So she dumped him in foster care, and up and left. After a while, Jax ended up in an orphanage. He aged out and spent a good time of his life dealing drugs for the mob. It was when the leader of the mob Nico, finally told him to get his shit straight and refused to let him sell drugs for him anymore that Jax opened up his tattoo parlor. He's been working there since, picking up a few unfortunate souls along the way to help him out, and bombing (graffiti) by night. By now, he's tagged most of New Calydon, and has to go further and further away from his shop to find good places, while avoiding cops. He has a pall up in the NCPD, however, who tends to swing things his way if he ever gets in trouble for tagging.
Quirks: He has a sketchbook full of crappy drawings. Somewhere in the middle is a rough sketch of what his tattoo parlor will look like, assuming he gets better at drawing and actually opens one. At the very back is a sketch of his brother in his final moments. With blood painting the pavement below Jester's pain filled frame, and a million shades of blue and purple in his terror filled eyes. If anyone ever dares to touch the sketchbook, he will claw their eyes out and beat the crap out of them. He's had it for years and it shows. A simple, beaten up black cover and yellowed pages which have floofed up over the years, with little strips of paper shoved in, paint and pencil clashing on the same page, half-forgotten song lyrics scribbled in blue pen on corners and unfinished tattoo designs. If anyone gave that sketchbook a hearty shake, dreams and memories would fall out like rain, piling up on the floor at their feet.
In the couple seconds Amaya's attention had been focused on his sketchbook, Jackson panicked. Hard. He wrapped his arms around himself uncomfortably, biting his lip and looking away, feeling his heart rate shoot up. His palms were sweating and his knees had gone weak at the thought of someone looking through the blackbook. Seeing all his crappy drawings and judging him. He could already see her critiquing him. Because he was horrible at drawing, or so he thought. In reality, he was decent. Not horrible, but certainly not as good as her. The books pages were filled with half-finished sketches of tattoos, graffiti he wanted to do, and random ass thoughts.
On the very first page was a sketch of the tattoo shop he would open up some day, assuming he actually got good at drawing. And on the last page was a hyper realistic drawing of his brother, bleeding out on the dirty cement with a knife in his stomach. Every shade of red and black could be found on that page. Jax had perfectly captured the way Jester had curled up around himself, painfully small lying in a pool of his own blood terror and pain written on every crease of his face, and in his blue and purple eyes. It looked so real it might as well have been a picture.
On the very first page was a sketch of the tattoo shop he would open up some day, assuming he actually got good at drawing. And on the last page was a hyper realistic drawing of his brother, bleeding out on the dirty cement with a knife in his stomach. Every shade of red and black could be found on that page. Jax had perfectly captured the way Jester had curled up around himself, painfully small lying in a pool of his own blood terror and pain written on every crease of his face, and in his blue and purple eyes. It looked so real it might as well have been a picture.
On top of that, Jax's home is in a beaten down car by the side of the road, in a forgotten alleyway.
He was sheltered inside a broken down car which had been in his alley for ages. Rust covering the thing almost entirely and ancient windows glazed over by years of dirt, Tang was the only place Jax felt truly safe. The graffiti artist had pulled out the front seats and after a few days work with the spraypaint, turned the inside silver skeleton of the car into a lively mural. He had a small, battery powered mini-fridge which he'd stuffed under where the steering wheal was supposed to be. The rest of the car held small knickknacks, two changes of clothes and a string of fairy lights, which he'd taped to the roof. The owner of the car had, for whatever reason, given it to Jax before he passed and left it in his will that nobody was to move the said car from where it had been parked. The guy owned the bit of land it was sitting on, which made Jax's home practically untouchable. Only problem? It got kind of cold during the winter, and none of the car's systems still worked. He made it through with a good blanket, though. All in all, he loved Tang. Loved the faint smell of paint which still hung in the air, the way it got really hot in the summer and that he could hear the rain pit-pattering on the roof overhead. Nobody could bother him while Tang held him. Not even Will knew where he was.
He doesn't have a place to call home, since his parents dropped him off in foster care at a very young age. He hates it there. Absolutely despises even thinking of that place. [SPOILER "Thoughts"] He himself didn't really have a home, dropping in and out of the foster care place whenever he felt like it. Most days, he slept on the streets, because he couldn't take the stifling heat. The noise. The million voices shouting overtop another and small, cramped spaces in which too many people lived and breathed.