notpartofyoursociety

[notpartofyoursociety]

Pete really didn’t care about Hell one way or the other. He wasn’t religious at all and considered himself a non believer. Not an atheist, because atheists were just as bad as fundamentalist Christians. They both had a firm set of ideals, they both had the need to press their views and opinions upon others. They both also had absolutely no proof of their own theories. Invisible men in the sky, sky Gods, whether they existed or not made absolutely no difference to Pete. He didn’t believe there would possibly be one, but if there was and he was going to Hell, it didn’t scare him.

In fact, Pete welcomed Hell if that was what was coming to him. His parents had impressed upon him from a young age that Hell would be the worst thing to happen to him, but Pete was convinced that life was already the worst thing that could happen to him, or anyone for that matter. If he was destined for an eternity of torture for his sins of sucking on dick, let it come.

Speaking of.

“I’m good at shutting up when I’ve got something in my mouth.” Pete honestly didn’t mean that to sound as suggestive as it did, but he shrugged it off and took the cigarette from Michael’s outstretched hand. He stole the lighter as well and lit it up, sucking in a long drag and let it filter through his lungs. The smoke felt so good he nearly collapsed, and let his eyes close as he breathed out. This was an interesting turn of events and it was really throwing Pete off. He looked quizzically at Michael, letting the cigarette simmer between his index and middle finger.

“I’ll go eat. Whatever. I just wanted a smoke.” Why was the other man showing him kindness? Pete’s heart gave an uncomfortable lurch, and he dulled it down with another drag off the cancer stick. He swallowed, thick and dehydrated. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. This is what Pete was worst at, positive human emotion. He clutched his arm.

“I’ve got nothing to bandage it with. Does this happen a lot? Are they gonna check my fucking arms every day for cuts? This place confuses me.” Pete flipped his bangs. “Aren’t you guys just supposed to try to make me not homo, fail, and then release me into the wild?” He paused, looked at the cigarette, and then shrugged. “Thanks, by the way...”

Blasphemous Rumors.

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[notpartofyoursociety]

Pete was more irritated about not getting a cup of coffee in his hands immediately than anything else, really. His body was coming down from the high for real, of both klonopin and self harm, and it left a depression in it's wake. His body needed caffeine and tobacco. This would be a fucking trying time indeed. Mostly, he would have to think of ways to sneak cigarettes. There had to be some older boys at this camp that got cigarettes from somewhere and traded them for head... Pete wasn't very protective of his body. He could lose his dignity for a smoke.

"You know about Peter Murphy?" Pete's ears perked up as he listened to Michael speak. He ignored the actual words, who fucking cared about Peter Murphy's betrayal-- Eh, heterosexuality. He'd suspected Michael was at least part of some darker subculture. The hair had given it away, and his utter nonchalance about lighting up a cigarette inside the dorms that most definitely had no smoking laws. He wondered if the other considered himself goth, but if he was working here he was a complete fucking conformist. Still, Peter Murphy.

Pete got to his feet and crossed his arms. He noted that he was an entire head shorter than Michael, if that was even it, and that Michael was incredibly slim. Pete wanted to cup his hand around the man's hip bone. He breathed in, then caught Michael's eyes. "Peter Murphy is my favorite musician. Bauhaus is fucking perfect. You can't tell me that Peter Murphy is pornography, he's a genius." Pete crossed his arms. 

"I already told you that I'm not hungry. I'm not fucking acting and my summer is already going to be hell, so you quit the act and leave me alone. Plus, you'll never find my wrist cutters kit." He lied. Then shifted and pulled up his sleeve, studying the cut. "Why the fuck do you work here, anyway? What do you get out of telling all these little boy fags that we're going to hell? It's not gonna change anything." 

Blasphemous Rumors.

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[notpartofyoursociety]

Pete looked quizzically up to Michael as the man continued to smoke. He wanted to snatch the cigarette from between the man’s slender fingers and put it between his lips. If there was one thing that Pete was already missing, it was his smokes. Fuck, nicotine addiction hit hard and fast. The boy swung his legs until they began to burn, then he stopped and dropped to his knees on the floor. 

His photographs were pornographic? Fuck that. He wouldn’t get into the ‘sir, I would rather BE Peter Murphy than fuck him’ conversation with his conformist, hot counselor though. Pete’s eye twitched as he gathered the remainders of the cut outs and the ashes. He crumpled them between his fingers and rose up on his knees, tipping his head back to stare up to Michael from his place on the floor.

Yeah, Pete thought, not a bad spot to be.

“I’ll fuckin’ get rid of them. You already ruined them with your fucking cigarette ash. Peter Murphy doesn’t deserve that shit.” Pete murmured the last part under his breath, leaning over to throw the pieces of paper into the trash basket next to his desk. He was still on his knees, and the klonopin was still kicked into his system. 

It felt like the most comfortable place to be. 

“Leave me alone now, conformist.”

Blasphemous Rumors.

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[notpartofyoursociety]

Pete would have been absolutely furious with someone speaking to him the way Michael was speaking to him, but for some reason it was just getting increasingly more comical. He understood why Michael was speaking down to him-- He was a essentially a prison guard and Pete an inmate. His freedom was not his own, not anymore. Michael was in a position of power over a number of people and he was exercising his rights. Pete got that. Pete was depressive and dark, not stupid. But the way he was so bitter, so judgmental. That was something that made the corner of Pete’s mouth turn up. Michael would be expecting a weeping, apologetic boy begging on his knees. But he wasn’t going to get it.

Instead, Pete began to laugh inwardly and just to himself. He watched with muted interest as Michael lit a cigarette and stuck it between his lips. Pete’s body immediately broke into a craving for tobacco so strong that he almost stopped smiling. He licked his dry lips. 

“Emo fucks do it for attention, to hurt themselves because they hate themselves. I do it because I don’t have any other way to get high right now.” Pete shrugged, angling his body toward Michael and watched at the other man invaded his personal belongings. His heart sped up a bit as he approached the bed, worried that his razor and iPod would be discovered, but relaxed when he realized the only thing being vandalized were his cut outs of Peter Murphy and Robert. He could get more of those.  When Michael tossed his cigarette out on the most homoerotic cut out, Pete actually did begin to laugh. 

He laughed harder when Michael mentioned his roommate raping him, and how Pete would enjoy it. The whole thing was just ridiculous. He told Michael so. 

“Man, you’re fucked up too huh? Saying shit like that.” Pete asked, going to sit on his bed and stared up at Michael. He breathed in deep the remaining scent of the cigarette that bled ashes all over his photos. Maybe he’d just eat the ashes later. “Do you threaten every newcomer with the prospect of rape and destroy their things? Or am I something special?” He swung his legs as they didn’t quite reach the floor, his purple creepers just barely scraping the hard wood. 

“Give me a cigarette?”

Blasphemous Rumors.

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[notpartofyoursociety]

Pete had contracted chicken pox as a small child when he was forced to play with Kenny for a day when he’d been diagnosed with the same illness. The pox cleared up on Kenny. Not so much on Pete. They had enflamed his flesh, made him itch and cry more than he’d ever thought possible and ultimately left their mark in the way of scarring over his left eye. That was half the reason he’d grown his bang in the first place. Then when he’d hit his teen years the acne began to come and even though he rarely had new flare ups at the age he was currently at, their mark had been made in the way of scarring as well. Pete cursed again. He scarred so easily.

Pete was a goth, hard and bitter. Pete believed that life was pain, life was only pain. Dark depressing loneliness that eats at your soul. But he was a still a teenage boy at the tail end of his sexual awakening. He suppressed a small, pleasured sound when the wound on his arm was prodded at but his eyes went cold again when he heard what Michael demanded of him.

“Yeah whatever.” Pete replied, and worked on rolling up his sleeves. The grey shirt was stained with drying blood, the cut having just begun to close. Pete studied the parted flesh and closed his eyes.

 For whatever reason, Pete suddenly felt the need to justify and defend his self harm. “I’m not like some fucking emo kid, alright. I’m not like that.” As if to prove a point, Pete reached up with his other hand and stabbed his thumbnail directly into the cut. He choked down another sound and waved the appendage up and down. 

“And ... Uh, and I think I might need to request a room change b-because if a fucking kid that thinks he’s a vampire is on the opposite end of this fucking room, I ... I will go on a killing spree.” Pete crossed his still exposed, pale arms over his chest. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to give himself any tattoos yet and the small stick’n’poke that he’d done for himself of a pentagram was on his thigh and rapidly fading. He was talking to much to cover the fact that he was incredibly aroused and incredibly nervous. 

It came out as a menagerie of stutters and cracked teenage boy voice.

Blasphemous Rumors.

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[notpartofyoursociety]

Pete had been languishing in his self harm, sprawled out on his bed on top of the sheets and comforter. He had put on a Bauhaus album on his iPod, the first one they’d ever recorded, and listened to Peter Murphy’s growling through the speakers. It gave him nostalgia for some reason, even though he had absolutely no connection to the beginning of the band other than his reverie of them. After he’d been laying there for about a half hour, Pete dozed off. He completely lost track of time. He was thinking back on his miserable experience on planet earth up to this point. 

He’d been born in the middle of the forest in Maine. His mother had been high on real quality weed when she’d given birth. His father hadn’t even been there. His father hadn’t been in his life until he hit six years old. The man waltzed back into the home like he owned the place (and maybe technically he had) after leaving his mother from the time she’d gotten pregnant until that moment. Pete learned how to look after himself when he turned four. His mother worked at a local diner in town, and she worked early mornings or late nights. His father was always off hunting or working at a local mill. 

Pete learned to cook himself eggs and toast at a tender age. Pete learned to entertain himself by pulling the eyeballs out of the fish that his father kept in the freezer and playing with them until they turned to jelly in his fingers. Then he’d play with the fish skins or deer antlers. 

Pete knew that he was destined to a cocksucker when he was ten years old. Trapped without a friend in a town that had five hundred people as the population total, Pete naturally formed a relationship with himself. His emotions, his mental state and his imagination were all under his complete control. And he knew himself better than anyone could know themselves. Pete never even tried to force himself to find girls cute or interesting. He’d made friends with one local girl, Henrietta, when he was ten. That’s how he knew. She was just like him. She was actually everything to him. And he still didn’t feel any inkling of a crush. They were like two sides of the same coin. The same person. She was the Siouxsie to his Peter Murphy. No, Henrietta was not his first love. In fact, that was this idiot stoner at their school that caught his eye when he was twelve. 

The boy’s name was Kenny McCormick. He was tall and thin, blonde haired. Constantly in trouble. Their fathers were friends, as those in poverty tended to be, and Kenny was attractive to Pete. Maybe not physically, and maybe they were similar in no way, but Kenny was a boy. And Kenny was willing to put his hands down Pete’s jeans and stroke him through his boxers. Eventually, Kenny made friends with the jock boy that Pete would later go on to suck down to the hilt (Stan, but Pete called him Raven and made him wear eyeliner when they fooled around), some Jewish kid with strange hair and an obese nazi. Pete was long over any attraction to Kenny by that point.

It was those thoughts that lingered on his mind as Pete was startled out of his light slumber by a knocking on the door. No, not a knocking. More of a slamming. Pete scrambled up and pulled his sleeve down. The cut was still bleeding, and his shirt sleeve clung to his arm. There was a wet patch forming on the grey material. Fuck, he’d forgotten to change into his uniform and get to dinner. Pete cursed under his breath and turned his iPod off, shoving it under his pillow. He placed the razor next to it. The boy scrubbed a hand over his face and through his hair, putting on his most miserable expression, and padded over to the door. He swung it open.

“Don’t have a fucking panic attack. I’m right here. Hi.” 

Oh. 

The man that opened the door wasn’t what Pete was expecting at all. Instead of bright smiles and clean cut, conformists there stood someone that resembled everything that he'd fantasized about since he'd begun fantasizing at all. Instantly, the fifteen year old felt blood rush to his face. He felt it literally rushing in his ears. He may have felt his cock twitch too. Fuck. The man’s nametag read “Michael, Counselor.” He was tall and slender, taller than anyone he’d ever met actually. His hair was a perfect combination of Robert Smith and something different, something entirely unique. Curly and pompadoured in a way that he could only ever dream of achieving with his own straight, fine locks. Half of which were bleach-burned and dyed red perpetually. Pete swallowed the thick saliva that coated his tongue and leaned against the doorframe, willing himself not to speak again. He’d completely forgotten his vow of silence. 

“H-Hi. What? I’m Pete." Pete managed to gasp out, and tried desperately to cover his pock marks with his hair.  Fuck.

Blasphemous Rumors.

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[notpartofyoursociety]

Blasphemous Rumors.

At least he could hold his breath for too long and get a rush from feeling his body shut down. Or try to drown himself in the bathtub.

Camp New Grace was a retreat for boys aged 14 through 17 to go if they were “confused” about their sexuality and should be set “straight” by God. At the tail end of fifteen and just figuring out his sexuality, Pete was skeptical and angry. It was a place of absolute rot and terror, more like. Pete’s parents had found out that he was gay by walking in on him halfway through him giving the best blowjob of his life to a conformist jock football player at his school. He’d managed to hold the cock deep in his throat for an entire minute before gagging, and they decided they could fuck that up for him. The jock punched him in the face and left. Then his father finished what had been started. His mother was the one that suggested “a place for Pete to go.” Whatever, at least he’d have a room in a real house and not a fucking trailer. 

“It’s next to a city,” were the only words that could convince Pete to go willingly. Well, as willingly as possible. He’d still fought tooth and nail the entire time. He’d even threatened to kill himself, but his parents were diligently watching him. They didn’t feel like cleaning up blood. So he’d cut himself in every room of the house and bled on all the important things just for fun. He'd screamed, anguished and despaired on his own time. Locked in his room. Crying for nights on end. He had no friends to say goodbye to, but he was still leaving his life behind.

Next to a city was good, though. He could escape, assimilate into Boston and be free of hicks and rednecks forever. That was the plan. 

Pete was forcefully pulled into the building. It was big, white and had crosses fucking everywhere. It was a Catholic institution, which had his Baptist parents concerned but it was “the best place for him.” The teenager patients wore bright, powder blue shirts with “Camp New Grace” written in yellow letters on the front. A cheerful sun in the background of each. Pete gagged vocally and was given a small tug on the back of his shirt as a reminder to be polite. His parents were introduced to the owner of the camp. Pleasantries were exchanged but Pete didn’t utter a single word. He’d decided to take a vow of silence as soon as setting foot in the place. 

“Be a good boy, Pete. Listen to your councilors. Get better.” Those were the last words his parents said to him. They glared at him as they left and Pete hoped, really fucking prayed to Jesus Christ that they would get hit by an eighteen wheeler on the way back home. Maybe they would, and he would get lucky. 

“Would you like to put your things away and come to dinner?” The owner of the camp asked him, and Pete shrugged a shoulder. He could care less. 

“Come here.” The man said, and led Pete to a wing of the house that was to the right, then down a hall to the left and opened a set of double doors. There was a large room with two beds inside. One side of the room was already fairly lived in, it seemed. A lot of novels were scattered over the bed and a bookshelf revealed more novels and religious DVDs. He noted that most of the books were by Anne Rice during her Jesus phase. Pete wanted to gag again, but he remembered his vow of silence and stopped himself. The owner explained to him that he could set up his room now and be down to dinner by five pm. His counselor would be knocking on his door shortly to give him a tour and take him to the dining hall. He explained that his roommate was named Mike Makowski, a seventeen year old boy, and that he would be his “accountabilibuddy.” There were two more rooms on this wing, each with two other boys. A third room housed his wing’s counselor, Michael. Pete raised an eyebrow as he took in the information, waiting until he was alone to let out the long breath that he had been holding. 

His face was bright red, he noted, as he looked into the mirror. It was rapidly returning to it’s ghostly pale state however. He also noted that his eyes were sunken in, dark circles wrapped around each of them so intensely that any makeup that he’d wanted to wear would be obsolete. His pockmarks were tucked under his long bang with only a few extending down to his chin and jaw. His cheeks were marble smooth, as was his neck. There was a small cigarette burn mark on the very center of his throat, where he’d been bored one day and craved pain. He smiled, touched it, reminiscing.

His fucking conformist roommate must be at dinner. Pete unpacked his things, placing them in a disorderly conduct around his bed. His sheets were black and red. He wasn’t allowed to hang posters, so he scattered cut outs of Peter Murphy and Robert Smith around the bookshelf on his side of the bedroom. All of his novels were deemed “inappropriate for continued use” and he hadn’t been allowed to bring them, so there were no personal belongings to fill the space. It looked sad, dreary and devoid of personality. Just the way he liked it. 

The last thing Pete removed from his suitcase was from the secret compartment that he’d created. It was his iPod, headphones and a small razor that he’d stashed away. If they took his cigarettes from him, his smoking addiction, that was okay. Stealing his methods of self harm on the other hand, was not okay. He was to be in complete control of his own body. 

As if to prove his point, Pete made a small incision on his left arm, just above his elbow so that he could hide it when he rolled his sleeve down, and watched the blood spring out of the parted skin. It beaded and began to drip. Pete sighed, sitting on his bed and closed his eyes. His arm was splayed out in front of him, on his lap. Nothing to do but bleed and wait for the conformist that would take him to dinner.

 Maybe Pete should go on hunger strike as well. 

[notpartofyoursociety]

Look it's mun as Pete.

Goth boyfriends and their annoying conformist vampire.

Pete is Deadboydancing Michael is Unseen-Mechanized-Eye Mike Makowski is Richterbelmonts

[notpartofyoursociety]

ooc; permissions and headcanons

[OOC]

Main blog: Deadboydancing.tumblr.com 

Backtagging: Sure, yes! I don't mind :] Threadhopping: If it's not my thread, you should probably ask. However, I do not mind! Fourthwalling: I prefer to keep it OOC! Offensive subjects (elaborate): I'm pretty much open to absolutely everything and require no trigger warnings for explicit or taboo content, however if you do require trigger warnings please let me know so that I can tag accordingly. 

[IC]

Hugging this character: Pete may or may not put his cigarette out on your character. Kissing this character: See above. Flirting with this character: Absolutely. It would be hilarious and strange. Fighting with this character: Yes, sure. Injuring this character (include limits and severity): Please don't severely injure Pete without previously consulting me! However, it is something that I am open to. Minor injuries are fine. Killing this character: See above. Using telepathy/mind reading abilities on this character: Yeah, he's pretty much completely susceptible to that. Warnings: There isn't too much to warn about other than what is apparent in canon. He swears a lot, smokes a lot and wallows in pain. I play him differently per RP, but if there is anything to significantly warn about I will tag accordingly.

IC CHARACTERISTICS

•PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: Pete is pale, short, pockmarked and has a pissed off expression permanently plastered on his face. Those pockmarks that consume the space underneath his long fringe? Yeah, those are the cause for much insecurity and mirror avoiding. Thus the hair. In fact, my interpretation of his character says that he had a pox disease as a child and never healed from the scars. His outfit of choice usually involves that god awful red jewel bolo tie with the purple creepers that he is always seen with. Along with some sort of bauhaus, the cramps or joy division shirt and black jeans. His hair has a significant red chunk over the top which always seems to be fading. 

•DEMEANOR: Nihilistic. Gothic. Romantic (you know, the 18th century type.) He cares very little for his personal self and most of the lives of his peers, as evident by his clove smoking addiction and blowing said smoke into the faces of other kids and adults in his general area. Other than his small group of friends, he prefers to have absolutely no contact with the outside world. Pete feels that he is never truly happy, though being at the graveyard while reciting poems comes close to the myth of jubilation. He shows a wide range of emotions, though none of them are controlled. Anger, anxiety and reluctance being the main three components to his overall self.

•ABILITIES: Nothing out of the human ordinary.

•MEDICAL INFORMATION: Low immune system due to pox disease as a small child, anxiety in a clinical sense.

•OFFENSIVE SUBJECTS: His pockmarks, his trailer home, conformists.

PERMISSIONS

•MENTAL: Sure. •MIMICRY: Yes yes. •VIOLENCE: Consult me please, but yes! •MAGIC: Fun! •DEBATE: Perfect.