trashboystakehawkins

[trashboystakehawkins]

This is getting....uh...dark

[trashboystakehawkins]

Love that this is rapidly just becoming a billy hargrove-centric stranger things blog

[trashboystakehawkins]

every time the duffle bros make me sit through billy flirting with mrs wheeler, this is all i see

[trashboystakehawkins]

[trashboystakehawkins]

velvet

[trashboystakehawkins]

Tension

[trashboystakehawkins]

Me an intellectual: *needs to gag on a cock*

[trashboystakehawkins]

[trashboystakehawkins]

[trashboystakehawkins]

Its 1985. Hannibal (age 17) and Murdoc (age 13) are driving one late night to their new house, a shitty little hovel in a shitty little town in America. Conversations and arguing seem a staple in times like these

(Sneakpeak of my new fic ✌🖤)

Keep reading

[trashboystakehawkins]

i wish more conspiracy theorists would really swing for the fences. ‘we never went to the moon’ = boring, pedestrian. ‘we are actually living on the moon right now, but have been programmed to think we’re on earth’ = endlessly fascinating, shimmering with possibilities

[trashboystakehawkins]

Its 1985. Hannibal (age 17) and Murdoc (age 13) are driving one late night to their new house, a shitty little hovel in a shitty little town in America. Conversations and arguing seem a staple in times like these

(Sneakpeak of my new fic ✌🖤)

The drive felt longer that it should have. Maybe because the day had worn Murdoc out. Maybe it was the ache in his stomach, from both lack of food and an approaching dread. Dread of coming home, of trying to figure out what he couldn't get out of telling Hannibal and just how to tell it to him.

Hannibal was quiet, which Murdoc was grateful for, because he was tired of stupid things being said to him and asked of him, tired of responding to painful and inane questions no one really cared about the answers to.

Hannibal snorted suddenly, making Murdoc jump a bit. "What?" He asked sharply.

Hannibal seemed to ignore his tone, staring far across the dark road before them. "Just never thought this was where I'd end up is all, not in a million years."

Murdoc said nothing. It was true though. The whole scenario, the whole of the mess they were in, felt incredibly surreal.

Murdoc watched the headlights before them bounce off rows and rows of shadowed trees. Fuck there were so many trees here. The forest seemed foreboding and endless. He missed buildings.

"Well," Hannibal said abruptly as he leaned over and reached into his jacket pocket. "Is what it is I suppose."

He pulled out a bag of crisps. That caught Murdoc's attention. His gaze fixed on it. His stomach growled softly.

Hannibal ripped it open with his teeth. He propped it up next to his leg, stuck his grubby fingers in and started stuffing them into his mouth. He made a noise as he took the first bite, surprise mingled with pleasure.

"Not bad, not bad 'tall..." He muttered, popping 3 more into his mouth.

Murdoc couldn't tear his eyes away from the bag. He wanted to ask for some, but he knew the answer would be to bugger off. But he couldn't help it. His mouth was watering. The scent of salt and grease filled his nostrils. He dug one of his hands into his gut.

Hannibal glanced over, scoffing. "The bloody hell are you lookin' at, Faceache? These are mine." He pulled the bag closer, his teeth bared. "You got a meal today, I didn't."

Murdoc's eyes finally fell from the crisps, and wandered to the floor. He bit his lip.

Hannibal turned his attention back to the road, satisfied Murdoc wouldn't try to nick his food. He was about to pop another few crisps into his mouth, when Murdoc spoke up.

"I didn't." He muttered.

Hannibal stopped. "What's that?"

"I didn't get anything today."

Hannibal scoffed. "Bloody liar."

Murdoc scowled. "I didn't, alright! I didn't get any dinner today!" He studied the ground, trying not to think about the crisps anymore, or watching other kids eat their dinner around him.

Hannibal snorted. "And how's that my bloody fault, you not being able to defend your own food? Grown a spine and learn how to swing your fists, airy fairy little sod-"

"It ain't like that alright?!" Murdoc snapped. "They wouldn't give me any atall!"

Hannibal stopped. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means they wouldn't give me any atall," Murdoc hissed. "Are you deaf or just stupid?"

That'd probably earn him a cuff if Hannibal's hand wasn't otherwise preoccupied.

He said after a time. "Well why the hell not? Did you piss them off or somethin'?"

"No! Knobhead!" Murdoc slumped into his seat, probably looking as defeated as he felt.

"Well what then?"

"They don't do that here."

"What?"

"They don't bloody do that here, alright? They don't give any dinners out at school."

Hannibal stopped cold, like he was trying to process this information. He turned back to the road, crisps still in hand.

Finally he said. "Maybe it's a mistake. Maybe you need to...to sign up or...or file something…"

"Oh come off it. It's not a mistake, it's just how it is here." Murdoc hugged himself, equal parts frustrated and sorry for himself. And scared. He didn't know what he was going to do and he was sure Hannibal didn't either.

Hannibal stared into the road, first still and then fuming and muttering to himself. "Fucking bloody buggering tossers with their backwards buggered systems and their...these goddamned fucking bloody soddin' mingebags...fucking hate bloody America…"

He exhaled, something of a suppressed scream breaking free from him. He ran the crisp-less hand through his hair.

Finally, he stuffed the crisps back into the bag and held it out to Murdoc. "Here."

Murdoc snapped it up without hesitation. He shoved some into his mouth and fuck they tasted good. Oh they tasted so bloody good.

He paused in between his crunching. "...what…" he stared back at his shoes. "What're we going to do, Hans…"

Hannibal scoffed. "You're going to shut your gob and eat my supper, and then I'm going to figure it out, as bloody always."

[trashboystakehawkins]

[trashboystakehawkins]

[trashboystakehawkins]

Searching for light by Jorge Verdasca Instagram | Youtube | Website

[trashboystakehawkins]

The party could have been worse he supposed. At least there was free alcohol and drunk people he could collect cigarettes from. And there was music, he supposed too. It wasn't to his taste, but it wasn't godawful.

Still it felt like some bizarre fever dream, the way everything else had so far.

Hannibal half-remember all the dizzy thoughts in his head as he did his eyeliner. Go without it you ninny. Some part of his muttered. He'd mentally taken a crowbar to that part of him and cracked open his most expensive eyeshadow, the one with the shine to it. It wasn't that much different than his usual, but at the moment it'd felt so garish. Hrm. Good.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Glittering eyeshadow, of course. No one could guess he was a fag now.

Maybe i don't care.

He didn't want to care. Most of him didn't. But that wasn't the same as actually absolutely not caring, was it?

"Acch pipe down, bloody tosser," he muttered to his own brain. He'd ran some grease through his hair, trying to shut his head up. When he was drinking, then he'd be thinking less. Maybe he'd get a shag too. Or drugs. Was this town too upstanding for drugs, he wondered.

He'd put on his nicest jumper and the jacket with the least patches. He'd promised himself before he wouldn't change anything. Just wear the toned down stuff for a bit, until he could get a good read on his new surroundings.

He fiddled with the pink triangle pin on his jacket lapel. Clutched it like it might be wrenched out of his hand.

Straights are stupid. Hannibal told himself. Bloody idiots the lot of em. They won't get it.

But they might. And he was gonna be out drinking.

And alone.

And they might.

He had gently slid the pin off his coat, trying to ignore the heavy ache settling in his chest.

Now he had a drink in his hand and his chest was lighter, and so was his head. Both fluttered with dizzy thrill and intoxicants. He clutched his half-empty cup of beer, some American swill that was getting him drunk quick enough.

[trashboystakehawkins]