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@bratstruck-blog
* IN ONE ASPECT, YES, I BELIEVE IN GHOSTS, BUT WE CREATE THEM. WE HAUNT OURSELVES.
💋 aw w*rm
BITTERSWEET, that gesture / just as the boy who issued it. it was almost CLICHE how he whispered her name & she turned to see only features highlighted by the cinema screen in front of them and the animated reflection in the gloss of his eyes. illumination so defining that, for a second, she could have mistaken him for somebody else. all before he kissed her, of course. THAT MUSK, SO STRONG was more than recognisable. admirable confidence and even the movement of his lips that she’d studied so favourably prior to the embrace. SHE LIKED IT !
stale cigarettes and peppermint gum : he tasted so resentful, but so yummy ! she wanted more ! but wasn’t it DISGUSTING how screaming & painful whining played over the surround sound speakers - screen a series of rancid and sickening scenes that seemed to disgust those around them, and all she could think about was wanting his TONGUE in her FUCKING MOUTH ?
SHE PULLS AWAY. spine straight and limbs tense. partly thankful the lack of light hid the blood that’d flushed her cheeks & heated her ears. partly disappointed that she couldn’t probably see his own reaction ( something that resembled a shit - eating grin is what she figured ). a vision that only made the butterflies CREEPING AND CRAWLING amongst her insides dance with what she could only presume was excitement. down her throat / in her chest / lower stomach. at the same time, she couldn’t help but feel paranoid. ( what if i’m a bad kisser ? what if he tells everybody ? ) thoughts that’ll manifest throughout the rest of the screenplay whilst she rolls her tongue between her lips & rolls them as if they held newly applicated balm.
KISS MEME ! ( selectively accepting ) › @struckfair
my name is ian forget-me-not bratstruck struckfair and i never leave the house apparently because now ginger’s imprisoned my entire family in my basement with invisible rp power
💋 worm ????
kiss peter. @playsvulgar.
THE THING IS– the thing is, peter was not raised a boy to be trifled with. his mama armoured his crib in damn ballistics, she did; his first fido was a fucking ATTACK DOG for all the schoolyard bullies ‘n’ callow adversity he’d face, – sparsely – but not confront. THE THING IS, if she’s a thing of blood, he is of milk, all sour. curdled, SPOILED ROTTEN, fed full - fat - fanciful. that’d been damn fine in manhattan where all he’d needed was the fork of his tongue, the furrow of his brow, and a fist flashin’ cash out the cracks between his softsoft / lily - white fingers, but in derry FUCK, IN DERRY, things’re different. peter’s sportin’ a early summer’s bloom of lavender smattered over his cheek, a palette of pain, stingin’ like a fuck - damn bitch when he puts his fingers to it. peter’s sporting a bitch - face and hands like putty and legs no good for anything but derry high’s hundred - metre sprint.
like that, it’s an inevitability that he ends up going to the chick. take a knee for the cause, peter. for your own damn self. ( ’ you’ll teach me, sweetheart, won’t you? i’ll pay you, i swear it. ’ ) AS IT TURNS OUT, he’s a boy bred for running and snark, through and through / AS IT TURNS OUT, there’s more to throwing a punch than being able to cut your wit on your knuckles, a damn endless - seeming WEALTH,in fact, of expertise with which he has to familiarise himself at a BARBARIC snail’s pace. that’s how he gets roped into sliding into place behind her at derry’s kiddie playground every friday, armed with first - aid kits and mettle, a wallet plump with a glut a’ green. peter learns fast, but mccready’s– mccready’s a fucking terror despite her ( don’t think it, you damn judas, you damn peter - the - apostle ) soft - edged, picture - pretty features, and the sun’s never beat down as heavy as it does on the days he’s put to the fucking yoke doin’ pushups with her heavy - soled, grimy boot hard on his back.
( kiss it, peter. kiss it wet and maybe she won’t kick your damn teeth in. ) ( he spends protracted periods of leisure thinking about doing it. ) ( don’t pussy out, peter )the chick’s in a FUNNY FUCKING MOOD today, a real killer, vicious on peter, on his rent / aching body; there’re muscles that’d erstwhile been happily voiceless SHRIEKING underneath his skin, a torrent of sweat sapping all the colour out his shirt and sweatpants as he works his fists along the monkey bars, TUGGING – DRAGGING – YANKING himself up with a ragged ’ TWENTY - SSSEVEN, ’ out his gaped thirsty mouth. ( ’ pull - ups, ’ she’d chirped, her thumbs in his cash, his damn heart. ’ for your stick - arms. ’ )
damn pull - ups, push - ups, sit - ups. peter’d rather die than pussy out now, but
but.
this is the oath she’s afforded him: if he makes it to thirty, he gets a milestone, a break - day, a trophy of approval and accolade. if he makes it to thirty, he gets a lie - down and a cream soda with a cookie in it, and a couple weeks free to indulge in whimsy before she slips his hand into his and drags him down to hell all over again. it means he wins, that he fucking wins, that she loses.
peter loves to win.
’ TWENTY - EIGHT – ’ HECOULDDIEHECOULDDIEHEWANTSTOFUCKINGDIE!! he was not reared out his gilded cradle of mother - of - pearl inlay for THIS; he did not spit out his goddamn silver spoon for a mouthful of fury ‘n’ anguish, ache and PAINPAINPAIN to take its place! ( put like that, he is a bastard little rich boy, which is– fair. in the end, all’s fair, and it’s good, and mindy’s probably fucking stretching him out on the rack for an even half - plausible reason. ) his head’s about to pop but there’s something about her gaze that sluices through the haze of hurt: she’s looking at him real funny, daze - drifting between the pulse and roll of the meagre muscle in his arms to his heavin’ chest – his mouth, drawn a taut line from cheek to cheek.
’ twenty - NNNNINE, dear ’ peter cracks a wide hopeful grin reciprocated– oddly. his quizzical look gets much the same: a blink slow as the slide of dew off the fresh - mowed grass. ankle - deep in it, her boots are almost as much of a mess as he is – he smells like peril and sweat and shit, but she doesn’t seem to mind ( he’s got a– dazed inkling she doesn’t notice ) as she draws a little closer. ( why’s she so close? ) this near to her, peter can see her teeth pricked into her bottom lip, partin’ it soft. this close, he’s got a view of her cheeks in technicolor high - def, of the little raked - in marks swiped across them, like
mindy kisses him.
( oh - good - lord - that’s - why. )
mindy kisses like a precious thing, less experienced than peter’d expect. for a scintillating instant he’s placated, the soft - tender - graceless ( ?? ) workin’s of her jaw against his a sort of salve on the shrill SCREAMING going full - throttle in his arms. she’s got her head at an awkward –endearing– angle that he manages to amend without dislodging himself and the girl– the girl opens like a flower. mindy’s kiss bears a slick of somethin’ sweet– grape ( it’s all about purple, isn’t it ) balm, he figures, pleasantly cloyin’. he wants to touch her cheeks, –figures it’s what’s appropriate– press his thumbs into the knots a’ scarrin’ and bad-ended stories there, and in that smitten moment, he goes weak. peter counts to one, to two, to three–
to three before he drops like a damn stone, crumplin’ into himself a piteous heap across the sodden grass. ALL OF HIM GOES SLACK and placid from there but he gives her a cross look rubbin’ feeling back into his forearms nonetheless, lip jutted out, PETULANT. ’ aw, that didn’t count. ’ ( he had been close. he had been – this – this – !! close. )
’ it didn’t, c'mon. that was a dirty trick, it was ’
& DEAR HEART:
‘ FIGURED ! ’he says, like he’s ever shown any opposition - like he’s ever done anything to stop it ! blood boils, clenched jaw ( maybe not just for him / this whole world ). “ i’ve been saying it FOREVER - ” she argues, stomach twisting into knots. “ he KNOWS it’s not true. ”
' THEY ' BECOMES ' HE ' BECOMES -- well. peter knows. he scrunches himself up, dragging his shoulders in - in - in. ( as with dogs and lions, it's best not to make eye contact. ) ' i meant, if you ' BIT BACK! bit harder! ' i don't know, got someone to ' PROTECT YOU! ' y'know? then they'd fuck off, it'd be no fun.......... '
glass is filling up my dash with like sad shit
* private and selective dark and triggering themes present. + credit !
WHO’S MADMAX? I COULD BE YOUR ZOOMER.
FILL OUT THE STATS repost!! do not reblog!!
BASICS
FULL NAME: peter nathaniel gordon. NICKNAME: pete, petey, that prick. AGE: 16. BIRTHDAY: april 7. NATIONALITY: north american. PLACE OF BIRTH: manhattan, new york. CURRENT LOCATION: derry, maine. PRONOUNS: he/him. S-ORIENTATION: bi. R-ORIENTATION: bi. OCCUPATION: student. LANGUAGES: english only.
PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES
EYE COLOUR: hazel. HAIR COLOR: dark brown - black. HEIGHT: 5′ 6′’ ( and a half!!!! he insists. ) BODY BUILD: slim, with fairly strong legs and a decent pitching arm. next to none of henry's muscle. NOTABLE FEATURES: n/a. he's fairly generic.
PHOBIAS & DISEASES
FEARS: pain, the unknown, house invaders, DOLLS. DISEASES: n/a. DISORDERS / ILLNESSES: n/a. ADDICTIONS: n/a. only a habitual smoker + drinker. ALLERGIES: cat hair, dust mites, strawberries.
PERSONALITY
GENERAL IMPRESSION: ominously chipper. MORAL ALIGNMENT: lawful - neutral evil. POSITIVE TRAITS: generous, affable to a point, adaptable. NEGATIVE TRAITS: infuriatingly capricious, arrogant, bratty, cowardly. HUMOR TYPE: witticisms, irony.
MISC
LIKES: mo.......ney, having a good time, getting away with things, injecting his unwanted opinion into fucking everything. DISLIKES: violence, unfairness, being talked down to, things that ' aren't what they seem ', dogs, feeling vulnerable.
TAGGED BY : @chariotsofthegodsman. TAGGING: just do it and say i tagged you lol.
💋 dayum
kiss peter. @frankenbleach.
LEAN INTO THE FUCKING YOUTH, FUCKFACE! it’s summer and peter’s a boy dressed to kill, top a sweat - wet rag twisted around his waist as he looks out wasted over crooked aviators. it’s summer and derry’s fucking alive with the COLLECTIVE HEARTBEAT of all its hellions and bastard - boys doin’ a jackhammer into the asphalt: thudthudthud, bass all heavy, thrummin’ in his fingertips. boyhood is godhood is summer is summer is summer and peter could pull the sun outta the swelterin’ sky AND FUCKING EAT IT.
’ nice party, gordon! ’ jeers make for ample prayers as he winds ‘round the staircase, takin’ steps two at a time, skipping a bit. the foyer’s alive with an odd hundred threshing bodies, mostly seniors, some little kids. ’ fucking good one, gordon! ’ good ol’ slow sadler winds past sippin’ a COKE & JACK outta silly straws in his fists. copper and carpet - burn hang sick - sweet stenches in air filled with too many bodies ‘n’ voices and there’re lipstick marks burnin’ into his jaw and hands slipping over him, swattin’ at his arms, galvanising him as he heads up, and up, and up
on the second floor, the gordon household stretches out labyrinthine, a trial verging on MONOLITHIC. peter wails. ’ vic! ’ ( OFF THE RAILS, this kid. ) ( all’s good: a fall’ll be broken by the grindin’ mass of HALF OF ALL OF FUCKING DERRY downstairs. ) ’ vic, pal - o! ’ HE FINDS CRISS IN HIS ( his?? ) ROOM, perched on the end of his bed, nursin’ a tumbler of somethin’ tawny, the brightest thing in the curtained dim. peter swaggers over to him half-stumbling over his saunter, makes a grab for it that vic makes nary a murmured protest to as he flops down beside him. ( WHISKEY. good stuff, wholesome. clean. it’s summer and all of peter gordon’s cards’re lining themselves up. ) he shakes out a boneless hand and it finds the side of vic’s leg, prodding at his knee.
’ why’re you up here, pal? what’s - it, what’s up? ’ big eyes stoned - sleepy over the faded gradient of his shades, over his peelin’, sun - wrecked features make for a startlingly DOLEFUL look. implorin’, plaintive, mys ~ tified. ’ get downstairs, you dickbag. VIC THE DICK, huh? dicktor ’ he laughs shuddering peals, head thrown back, throat bared. no response.
ALL’S GOOD. it’s summer, and vic’s always been a little hard to crack. no fun at all, almost. peter leans on his shoulder, takin’ dainty butterfly sips of his ( ……….. peter’s dad’s ) whiskey, rabbity smile sharp and biting as a nettle. marcia comes in, sidles up to him, all soft hand at his waist and softer mouth hiccuping gin - smell into his cheek. DOWNSTAIRS, he hears gard trip, shatterin’ somethin’ porcelain - sounding. vic looks at him, quiet, unsettling, contemplative. peter lets marcia knuckle and kiss at his cheeks. bowie and mueller stagger past, retchin’ onto peter’s mom’s carpet. vic pulls at his ratty jeans with bitten nails, grimacing when peter slaps at the backs of his hands. marcia turns him by the cheek and plants a sticky one on the corner of his mouth. DOWNSTAIRS, hank starts screaming bloody murder; downstairs, someone turns the music up - up - up and vic winces, ( winces??? ) shrinkin’ like a violet off pete’s side of the bed. marcia leaves. peter drinks, keeps on drinking, and tastes cherry balm. someone moans in the next room. he scrubs coke off his top lip, suckin’ hard on the inside of his cheek. vic’s jaw goes hard, still ( WEIRDLY!! ) ruminative.
’ we’ve got some de kuyper, pal, but fuck if it actually tastes like cherry ’
vic kisses him.
vic kisses him and peter’s immaculate world tips on its axis as he folds like – a motherfucker, pliable as gum, just as pink with sunburn, just as sweet. sticky, here, with sweat, swelter. the tumbler falls outta his loose-fingered grip, ruinin’ the fuckin’ carpet as he replaces it with a fistful of vic’s shitty, sweaty top, nails scrabblin’ over his belt. vic kisses him and peter lets him, half - hammered, likin’ it too much for a damn boy. when vic seeks to sidle up to him, his mouth pulls a judas, drawin’ back a hair’s breadth from vic’s. ’ homo, ’ it crows through his hitchin’ breath and all of a sudden there are flat palms on his chest, shovin’ him away. peter hits the ground hard, all the breath knocked outta his lungs as vic– stands over him and mulls somethin’ over, pale hands frettin’ uselessly over the air.
’ aw, vic, ’ vic’s head snaps around so fast peter’s half - sure he expects to see his neck BREAK. poutin’ petulance pulls at his features, swallowin’ up the confusion and – and heat swimmin’ laps about his head. ’ vic, buddy, help me up. come on. ’ he hiccups. ’ je – zzum, vic, don’t be a jerk. jezzum ’
that sort of gets the reaction he’s aimin’ for. he’s pulled up in an instant that makes his belly LURCH and the heat coilin’ between his eyes FLARE. there’re hands clapped onto backs, ( his, onto vic’s ) a smile all teeth and flirt hazy against vic’s cheek, bare feet kickin’ at his shins, urgin’ him onward.
’ you need a drink, ’ he declares. ’ damn flamer, buddy. dicktor. let’s get you a drink, howsat? ’
—-IN YOUR HEAD THEY ARE DYIN’.
indie spy!will byers of stranger things / written by haunter.
/"BABY LOCK THEM DOORS N' TURN THE LIGHTS DOWN LOW."/
thanks i hate it
💋 (SUP!)
kiss peter. @winterbarger.
DERRY'S WORSE PAST CURFEW, though he'd hardly thought it possible before he'd ended up on a joyride past ten in the camaro, worry humming acutely under his fingertips and the dark a loomin' infallible presence whisperin' filth and terror into his right ear. it'd been a good night for cruising and forcing the engine to the end of its tether, whistlin' jaunty at girls stranded out in the rousin' storm, and that's how he'd found her out by the old neibolt house, a pale slip in the oily dark. ( CLEVER PETER, SWEET PETER. ) ( picking up girls outta the-- the good of his heart as the rain comes down hard and the gutters retch out all derry's secrets onto the flat open road. )
THEY DON'T TALK. ( not really. ) that's fine -- he doesn't know this chick ( SWEET LAURIE WINTERBARGER who wants you like a raccoon stuck in a trap wants to chew its own damn leg off for an out ) or anything about her, save for the fact that she's one of the older chicks in DERRY HIGH, a senior wrought haggard and miserable by scares subtler, more insidious, than his typical HORROR - FLICK FARE / that she startles like a damn rabbity thing when he puts his hand on the back of her seat to get a good look out the back window, like she's waiting on him to -- HIT HER, or slip a curious hand down her collar, or, or something fucked-up. he ends up asking ' you alright? ', painfully aware she's not of the MANHATTAN POSSE he was raised around. boyhood spent flittin' between DERRY OF THE SQUALID AND SORDID and TOOTH - FILLED, TOOTHSOME, WEST BROADWAY taught him to keep his fingers outta the nooks and crannies of things lest he find something he may not like. ' you okay? ' he asks. she looks at him funny.
it fucks with him.
laurie winterbarger looks like she's been taught somethin' different-- like she's been taught somethin' damn frightful. so they don't talk, save for pleasantries, ( ' what're you doing out this late? ' ' i -- ' ' your date stand you up, huh? your man? TOP GUY, i'll bet. ' ' fuck off, gordon, really. ' ) peter bitching about marcia going on a bender, his summer, his sister, --dear thing-- the occasional give of gravel to pavement under his wheels the only sign they're GOING SOMEWHERE and not just scratchin' wide loopin' tire marks 'round derry. somewhere along the line he gets his leg leaned against hers, sodden, an easy - lax thing passing for a smile playing at her taciturn mouth, his fingers and her foot drummin' along to yes' crooning about lonely hearts. they're at the halfway point of the guitar solo, crawlin' down a street that might be hers at a damn snail's pace when she kisses him.
laurie winterbarger does not kiss like she wants anything out of it. CHASTE seems to be the way to go, here; peter does his best to kiss-- careful, hand skimmin' her jaw, careful not to bruise. A REAL PEACH, this winterbarger girl, a wary thing of cold dim dread rolling under his fingertips each time the thunder CRACKS outside. the song's closing when he smiles against her, grinning a boy, MERRY despite the oppressive dark.
' real bad date, i'll guess. '
& DEAR HEART:
“ IT’S NOT TRUE, you know, what they say about me. ”
( pity that! it sticks to his teeth, like molasses. ) ( there's one for your conscience, clever peter! ) ' figured. ' ( she's but a kid. ) ' you didn't hear it from me, but....... bet if you made a big deal out of it, a real song 'n' dance, they'd stop harping on. i bet. '
the truth is peter has a gay crisis when hes twelve and gets stuck between belch and vic at detention for an hour and he ends up making the :o :0 :’O faces all afternoon and marcia has to hold him for the rest of the day
& DOPEHEAD:
*OPEN
❛ WHEN ——- WHERE AM I?? ❜
' is that a joke? all's good, pal - o, it all looks the same around here. TOTAL SHIT. wanna give me back my ball? 'less you want to pitch. ' he sticks out a merry hand, grins a merry grin. ( fucking weirdos. )
