I'm Still Just a Kid

My name's J. Just J. I haven't got any other name, so don't bother asking. I live everywhere and nowhere all at once. I'm like a ghost; you probably won't notice I was here at all. I'm just trying to get by, so if you need a favour, with the right monetary persuasion, I'm the guy to ask. I'll do just about anything if you've got the cash. Independent Original Character. I'll roleplay with anyone. Please read the About sections before interacting.

[teu-romeo-deactivated20140221]

[rebellious-ingenuity]

Reblog if I can jump into a RP with you via Ask

[suckyvoltage]

[j-ismyonlyname]

youhavereachedsamsblog said:

// my other oc is tonpetitmouse. I was about going to write a starter for them, if you don’t mind.

{ i don't mind at all! please do. }

[abandonedbuildingsaresexy]

[j-ismyonlyname]

J is very well read. Stories are some of the few things that stick in his head. In his satchel, there's always room for a book or two. When he can get away with it, he steals books from bookstores of libraries, reads them, then returns them. One book he never returned and keeps with him at all times is Ishmael by Daniel Quinn. It's his favourite novel.

[j-ismyonlyname]

J always keeps a small notebook on him where he writes important things down. There's not much in there, but there's a few names, addresses and the like. J doesn't consider a lot of things important, but if it's in the book, it's very important.

[flirtytwink]

someone kiss the sad out of me

[j-ismyonlyname]

{ can anyone suggest rp blogs who are OC friendly for me to follow? i'm only following a small handful of blogs right now an i need more people to rp with. }

[j-ismyonlyname]

What J remembers changes every now and again. It's like shuffling a deck of cards. Sometimes he remembers the sound of his younger brother, he can remember the smell of cheese toasties his mother used to make, he can remember the feel of the sun against his back and he can remember the exact age he was when he lost his first tooth. Then, his memories would change, like returning his cards to the deck and being shuffled out a new hand. He would forget and remember new things. The feel of the fur the dog or cat he used to own, the aunt that would visit often and that it used to snow a lot during the winter where he had lived. Even recent events, like what he did the other day or who he had helped, he often forgot a day or two later. Not always, it was like a lottery and the winning number is the memory lost.

[j-ismyonlyname]

J's been on the streets for as long as he can remember. His memory isn't that great, so how long that would be exactly, he wouldn't be able to tell you. He remembers a father and the bottle he usually had in his hand, he remembers a mother and the caring hand she used to pat his head with, and he remembers a younger brother who only used to cry. He gets flashes of things, remembers some base details, but no names, no locations, no ages. Just faces. Did he suffer an injury? Was he abandoned? Did he run away? He doesn't know the answers and he isn't exactly breaking his back to find them out, either. Despite all the dangers and things that accompany it, J likes being homeless. Or it's just become so normal and he doesn't feel comfortable with the idea of living in a house, going to school, having meals cooked for you. All of that.

Sometimes, he will get a deep feeling of longing. What he's pining for remains unclear, but it's essentially just the general feeling of loss and hurt. He doesn't like it, so when it crops up, he gets irritable and desperately tries to distract himself.

J takes up any job or task people come to him with. Well, people usually stumble across him and J offers to do anything they want in exchange for food or money. Of course, J's done a lot he's not proud of, but if you asked him, the only thing he would say is "at least I haven't killed a man." He's unsure if he ever would, even for the right amount of money. That's a whole different story. He's stolen, cleaned, spied, stalked, prostituded, guinea pigged, sold drugs, escourted, fought, anything you can imagine, J's probably done. When you live on the street, you couldn't be picky about what you helped people with. Murder is different though. No one's asked him to kill, and J thanks whatever deity for that. Given the right amount of money, J isn't sure what he wouldn't do, in all honesty.

All J has is his skateboard and the satchel on his back, and the blanket, chisel, hammer, and roll of string inside, along with the clothes on his back and the jacket he wears, is all he lays claim to in the material world. Occasionally he recieves some money from a job, but he doesn't hang onto it for long. He's learned. Other people could be vicious, homeless or not, and if they know you have some cash, they'd take it from you one way or another.

J doesn't want to get off the streets. Or maybe he does. He's just grown comfortable there and he places his own personal comfort above all. He gets anxious and panicy easily, especially once you take him out of his comfort zone. He's not great with talking to people and he's either very quiet or he runs his mouth. He doesn't have friends. He's learned to live like this, and if it was taken away, then he may very well be truely lost.

[j-ismyonlyname]

[j-ismyonlyname]

One of J's most prized posessions in his skateboard. It's transportation, it's a quick getaway, it easy to carry. He can't remember when he got his or where, it's it worn and in pretty bad shape.

[streetstyleplatform]

[j-ismyonlyname]

((BECAUSE I MISSED YOU AND I LOVE YOU AND I THOUGHT YOU WERE LE GONE AND I WAAS SO SAD BUT I FOUND YOU IT IS THE LUCAS MUN<33333))

// OH HELLO YES I AM HERE I AM NOT LE GONE we must rp yes this is a necessity.

[governmentofficial]

Mycroft wanted tea. It was his lunch break and he had found out that they had run out of tea in the office, so he had headed to a nearby café in order to get some. That was all fine - he had had to do it before - what was annoying Mycroft was the fact that there was some homeless fellow in front of him taking too long to order.

Tapping his feet impatiently, Mycroft glancing over the other man’s shoulder to see how much money he was holding in his hand. There wasn’t enough. Great, that meant he would probably be here for a while long. Deciding he didn’t want that, Mycroft withdrew a £10 note from his pocket and handed it over to the cashier. “Here, get him his bagel and some sort of hot drink, and get me a cup of tea. Work fast and you can keep the change.” He irritably said, before glancing over to the other man. “Don’t complain about this. You can’t afford the bagel, let alone the drink, otherwise.”

[j-ismyonlyname]

J could practically feel the impatience of the man behind him and that was doing nothing to help with his growing panic. Recounting his change one last time, J swallowed, feeling disappointed. He was so sure he had enough- had they increased the price of bagels? He paused, not wanting to walk away empty-handed but slowly accepting that he would most likely have to.

He jumped when the man behind him's arm brushed him just slightly when he extended his hand to pass a note to the cashier and J turned to look at him. Before he could open his mouth, the man spoke and J hesitated. He wasn't about to complain, why would he complain? He had lost all desire to resist charity very early in his time on the streets. So instead he said, "Thank y-you. S-s-sorry." His voice was quiet, not wanting to bother the man more after hearing the irritation dripping from every word. 

[ascleverasitgets-deactivated201]

The homeless were, perhaps, London’s most undervalued resource. They weren’t an amoral group of people - not by any means. But they were usually driven to desperation by a demented system, and so, didn’t have much faith in it. They were willing to spy, vandalize, or protest for a small sum of money. Enough to get their next meal, either way. If Sherlock was a pitying man, he would have done so. Especially when they were children. His eyes fell on the child next to him and he watched him stutter and stumble when he came up short. Sherlock’s hand fell in his pocket and he placed a few dollars on the table. “Here. That should cover the bagel - and a small coffee, besides.” He wasn’t speaking to the boy, then, but the cashier.

[j-ismyonlyname]

J's anxiety and panic was already eating him alive, that and the disappointment of being so close to some warm food only to not have enough. He looked longingly at the bagel before he resigned himself to give it up, bit before he could turn away, the mn behind him in line drew out a few coins and paid for the bagel and a coffee. J looked up at the man and stumbled out a thanks. "Th-thank y-you, sir." He mostly stared at his feet, but he did glance up at the man once or twice. "Th-th-thank you very m-much." He took the bagel and the coffee when they were handed to him and with another glance at the man, he scuttled away, finding himself a small table to sit at and eat.