Posts by JERSEYBOY

// rushed this so excuse the crappiness

Losing his teeth to a troll? Well, someone was being passive aggressive tonight. Giving a slightly pointed look to the Gryffindor girl, he snorted, "Oh yeah, wanna bet on it?" She'd see. They'd all see. He was going to defeat a troll, and then who'd be laughing? Not them.

Everyone started to buddy up, as if this were some sort of school field-trip to Hogsmeade. This was an exploration, not some sort of kiddie club! He didn't need a "buddy". Tommy rolled his eyes as everyone began to wish each other good luck, and he mumbled, "Yeah, yeah. Whateva'. When all of yous decide to stop hangin' around, I'll be lookin' for trolls." The Gryffindor then set off on his own towards the forest, his wand loosely grasped in his hand.

( retro to injuries )

As someone who wasn't used to especially hot weather, even the smallest shift in the climate was noticeable to the tom. Summer was almost here, that was obvious enough. Jerseyboy had noticed the melting snow and the sunlight beaming onto the islands as well, and the fact that they were higher up in the atmosphere didn't help their case. Hopefully it wouldn't get melting hot, or else Jersey would probably take off for the summer. Anything past 90 degrees was utter hell.

Then, a shout rang out across camp. A pool party? This place had a pool? Curious, the tuxedo tom trotted towards the center of camp, and he realized that this was just a blow-up pool. Oh well, it was better than nothing. He tugged off his bow tie, discarding it onto the floor before racing towards the pool. "Heads up!" The New Jerseyan exclaimed before springing off the ground and crashing into the water. And people say that cats hated water... This one certainly didn't. He had grown up near the Passaic, where his friends would go and swim in as youths.

He resurfaced, his fur dripping wet, and he paddled around like a dog. Now this reminded him of how much he missed summer.

More people kept on showing up. From Sundance, who just sat down on a towel, to Clove and Valaerya, who were just sitting on the sidelines. What was the point of coming over if they weren't going to come in? Then again, he supposed that it was just more pool to himself.

To Clove, who he was probably the most comfortable with out of everyone (surprisingly), he teased, "Why the long face, huh? Too scared to get ya' wings wet?" Little did he know, she was avoiding him for another reason entirely. He kicked his leg against the surface of the water, aiming to splash some of the droplets out of the pool. Whether they hit her or not didn't matter.

He paddled around even more, ducking his head underwater and the like. The cool current weaved through his fur like wind, washing the heat from the surface of his pelt. He poked his head out once more, hanging over the side and shaking some water off of his whiskers. "You guys just gonna sit there 'n watch me?" Jerseyboy questioned. That was... a little weird, if you asked him.

Stuck in the medical quarters again. He hadn't been under a medic's care since last year, back when all of the crazy shit had went down in his life. He hoped that he would never have to be stuck in such a dreadful place again, but here he was.

The former deputy, currently stuck in his ebony wolf body, laid outside of the medic's den. His scratches were dressed, still healing of course, but nonetheless looking better. Tufts of fur were missing from the scarred areas, and it sure looked like he had gotten into a scrap. There were bandages wrapped around his armpits and shoulder-blades, making it difficult for him to move anywhere. In fact, Jerseyboy had practically been in the same spot all morning, dozing off and watching the crowds and whatnot. He wished that he could shift into his birth body, but he still couldn't muster the strength to do so. Besides, he still wasn't in full control of his shifting abilities, and wasn't able to change bodies on demand.

A harmonica rested in between the canine's teeth, his paws placed on each side of it so that he could slide it from side-to-side and produce different notes. He blew puffs of air into the instrument, creating a bluesy type of melody. It appeared to sound like "Roadhouse Blues", in fact. Jerseyboy really had nothing else to do, so he had been at this for a while now, trying to learn some songs to play on it.

// y eah not the most exciting thread

this is more or less just checking in on jb's current condition after his fight

Jerseyboy gave another flick of his tail, his eyes trailing over to the door. He perked his ears as Clove attempted to shove it open but to no avail, and he couldn't help but sit and stare for a few moments. This was rather amusing to him; first she can't fight, and now she couldn't open a door? Looks like she was all talk and no show. "Down here? Ain't it a lil' too cold?" He questioned with a slight tilt of his cranium. It was cold and barren and rotting away, and yet she wanted to live here? Regular camp wasn't that bad, was it?

He wondered if he should've jumped down to help her, and that was when she requested his assistance. Huh. Jerseyboy huffed and descended from the rooftop, landing on the powdery floor and trekking over to her location. He attempted to channel his energy into shapeshifting for a moment, but nothing happened. He still wasn't in control of his abilities, which was a shame. The tuxedo tom reared onto his hind legs and placed his forepaws onto the door. "If you haven't noticed, I don't weigh too much." The east-coaster informed, a sarcastic undertone surfacing in his speech. However, he did his best to slam his weight against the wood to try and get it to open. He, too, was curious as to what could be found inside.

HUMAN AU

NAME tommy devito

— born thomas gaetano devito

— tom, tommooch

AGE mid thirties

OCCUPATION (may depend on the au) aspiring musician, works at his family's pizza shop, self-titled mechanic

TRANSPORATION owns a red 1964 chevrolet impala convertible

APPEARANCE an average italian-american man. he stands at 5 feet and 11 inches and weighs in at 160 pounds. he has dark brown hair that is either slicked back, combed over, or at a wavy medium-length. he has light olive colored skin and brown-colored eyes. he has a thick north jersey accent (or a "new yorker" accent, as some would call it).

— faceclaim is vincent piazza

WARDROBE he tends to dress casually, usually blazers or button-ups or collared shirts. he wears suits at special occasions, of course. at home, he'll be content in a nice pair of sweatpants (or basketball shorts) and a tee. he also owns new york giants and yankees memorabilia.

LIFESTYLE social and likes to go to parties and events whenever he can. he appears rather lazy on the scale of things, but he can get the job done if it means getting rewarded in the end.

— raised in a roman catholic family

— he's been in jail around 8 times or so, the sentence times varying. his police record includes multiple acts of breaking and entering, posession of stolen property, posession of a forged document, and illegal gaming

HOUSE a one-story house wedged into a run-down, suburban neighborhood. there really isn't a yard, there's just an expanded driveway area (because he's too lazy to maintain his lawn). if you walk into the front door, his dimly-lit living room has an old sofa and a coffee table with a flatscreen across the room. adjacent to it is the dining room, with a small table and your normal stove, fridge, countertop, etc. he also has a guest bedroom which he's made into a makeshift music studio, with several guitars and microphones and a desktop computer to do his work on. his bedroom is pretty basic, there's nothing much decorating the walls except for a few photos of him and his friends. his bedroom is piled with laundry (dirty and clean), though he usually just shoves it into the closet so he doesn't have to deal with it. overall, his house is filthy as hell. a typical bachelor pad.

Tommy sat in silence, simply enjoying the cigarette and the silence, with the exception of a few tweeting birds outside. He was surprised that the girl hadn't left by now; some usually did. However, this one was clearly shameless in having slept with him the night before, which meant that she was comfortable enough to stay through the morning. That was usually a good sign; he would be seeing her again, he reckoned.

He took the cigarette in between his middle and index figures, exhaling a plume of smoke through his nostrils as he cracked a smirk towards his newly-awakened guest. Damn, at least he had gone home with a smokin'-hot brunette instead of some ugly broad. That would've been a big mistake.

His chocolate brown eyes trailed after Clove as she rose to her feet, and he silently watched her every move as he inhaled another toxic breath. She had put on his shirt, and he found amusement in the fact that it was too big for her frame. At her inquiry about breakfast, he wasn't exactly prepared to answer. "Uhh... I got whisky. 'n some pizza in the fridge." Week-old pizza, that is. He hadn't cleaned out the fridge in a while, so there were probably less-than-desirable items on the shelves. As a matter of fact, he didn't eat breakfast too often, seeing as he slept in and woke up around eleven or even noon. His diet mostly consisted of pasta and Chinese food, seeing as those were his favorite foods, and breakfast just wasn't on the list. He'd eat cereal and eggs, sure, but at random times of the day. It just depended on when he grew famished.

Tommy lifted his head, slightly furrowing his brows as he tried to remember where he kept the socks. He gestured over to the dresser, directing her, "The uh, right drawer on the bottom—no, the left." The right drawer was filled with... questionable items that he'd rather not expose to her at that moment. He folded his arms across his bare chest, stating with a quirked brow, "You're lucky; I got only one pair left. I gotta do laundry." In fact, all of his dirty laundry was haphazardly tossed into a pile near his closet, just waiting to be thrown into the wash. He hadn't done so for weeks, going through all of his clean clothing until he had to start reusing his socks for days on end. Tommy figured that if there wasn't sweat seeping from them, then why not wear them again? They were still perfectly fine. Then again, this was the logic of someone who was still in the teenaged mindset of wanting to neglect laundry until they absolutely had to do it. It was the same with cleaning the house and the dishes. Obviously, he wasn't the cleanest fellow around, and he'd probably give a neat-freak a heart attack.

Tommy hadn't planned to be a witness that night; but then again, when did he ever? The sounds of a bludgeoning beckoned him to the scene, and while he was certain that none of them could see him, he couldn't help but sit and stare. He was silent, his jaw agape due to the pure shock of the situation. The only facial features of the assailant's that stood out were their eyes, glowing in the darkness of the street. It was the only thing that he could focus on, given that the rest of their facial features were masked away from view.

He was tempted to rush him, to call him out, do something. But the bloodied crowbar set off alarm-bells in his head, and his fight-or-flight response caved into the latter. He had quickly fled the scene, leaving no evidence that he had ever been a witness to the crime.

In an attempt to clear his mind, Tommy had decided to take a bus into town. He could hit up the bar, chat with some of the girls, maybe even take one around the shops. Something, anything to wipe the traumatic images from his brain. Clad in a dark brown blazer and a crimson undershirt, he strolled over to the bus stop. There was only one young adult waiting for a ride; one that he had never seen before.

He took a seat at the stop, drumming his fingers onto his lap idly as he gazed around. It was another minute or so before he turned to the stranger and asked, "Ey, can I bum a smoke off ya'?" The smell had tempted him, and while he hadn't been planning to smoke that morning, he decided against it.

Frustrated, the tuxedo tom sneered and lashed his white-tipped tail. His fur slightly bristled at his daughter's stubbornness. Well, it was clear where she got that from. "No, we're gonna look for a way out now. I don't know 'bout you, but I'd like to get outta' here." He told his daughter firmly before moving forward, clearly not intent on answering her questions at the time.

She had caught him at the last second though, and he stopped in his tracks, frowning and staring at the ground in front of him. He heaved a sigh, looking over his shoulder at Adalicia, "Look, I just needed some time to myself. It had nothin' t' do wit' you." Jerseyboy just hadn't chosen to inform her, seeing as they hadn't exactly been on speaking terms prior to his absence. "I don't... not like you. Alright? I'm just... still gettin' used to this whole thing." The whole fatherhood gig, that is. He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he had a daughter, and so far, he wasn't succeeding in being a good parent. It wasn't like he was trying to be, anyways. He never wanted to be a parent, so what was the point in trying?

On the contrary, Jerseyboy was entirely used to comments on his singing. He tended to sing aloud for the world to hear, because what was the point of playing music if nobody else could hear it? Besides, he thrived on attention, and praise was precisely what he sought from passerbys.

"Proper lessons"... hah. Who even took singing lessons, anyways? Singing was a gift; you either got it or you didn't. At least in his opinion. He hadn't taken any lessons, and he had just picked everything up on his own. He had been a natural from the start. "Ey, me neitha', but I'd say that I turned out pretty good." The New Jerseyan gave a shrug before plopping onto his haunches. "Know any otha' songs?" He inquired curiously.