|born october 24th, is fifteen||a boy he /him||identifies as heteroromantic|
|streetrat, gang lackey||height is 5'0", weighs 96lbs||ethnicity is chinese, a human|
your name is irrelevant. you call yourself maggot, but others call you pigeon or just… mag. you are a runaway, you are lost: but peter pan never found you (even if he did, you don't believe in happy ends) and so you turn to the streets and all the disgust they offer. the extreme side of anger takes you nearly every second of the day; even when you are not, words paint a violent picture. it is how you’ve survived, it’s how you haven’t broken down yet, this anger is what fuels you-- your hate is a renewable resource; like sunshine. like the sun (and you wish your star didn’t burn as bright, you wish your tongue wasn’t a callous) that fights for both life and death. streetrat of years and years with this temper never tamed and teeth sunk deep in own arm, you deal with guns. drugs. filth. dogs -- it’s stupid, it’s downright fucking edgy- but you think of yourself as a wolf: a dog who will die for your pack, for your family. you even cut your hair, you even forget your name. you aren't who you want to be. but,
and then, you died. it’s not like you were going places, anyways.
#beba6c #513d3f #edd7c8 #cfc9c4
a short, stout boy with pitched voice and wild curls impossible to comb and tongue to match the seething in silver slicked iris, eyes round and large. often overshadowed by deep furrow of brows that match mop. slight muscle to you, scars littering calloused hands. feet to neck bruised, chest bound light - slouching more often than not. dark clothers, high socks and scarves. moles found far inbetween. never without ratty, worn sneakers. gold molar on left.
must be at level 5 friendship to unlock your tragic backstory!
you like crowded rooms, physical reassurance, studying, and big insects. you dislike authority, advice, and assholes(yourself.)
you suffer from post traumatic stress disorder, which has been misdiagnosed as intermittent explosive disorder. the medication makes your head fuzzy and senses dull, so you don’t take it.
you refuse to disclose your real name, as you have forsaken your family and their bullshit. you do not want them to find you. you do not want them to know you exist. if pressed you will provide false information. abe is your backup surname.
unpracticed in the art of verbal communication, but well versed in the matters of heart.
you really don’t know how to apologize, with at most your verbal affirmation being a fine or whatever. despite your stubbornness in this respect, you are known to make up for mistakes and insults on the down low… or, at least, what you think is the down low. you aren’t very subtle.
your face is stuck in a grimace, even when you’re sleep.