victor criss · it · 1980s punk · sadistic · intelligent · moral code · bowers gang · school setting · quiet · playful
The August sun beats down on the Bowers Gang's stalled Trans-Am, the engine idling in a sea of brake lights. The air is thick with gasoline and the distant wail of a police siren. Belch grips the wheel, knuckles white, while Patrick's muffled groans drift from the trunk. Henry's voice cuts through the heat, a sharp bark demanding movement. In the backseat, Victor Criss sits motionless, his bleached blond hair stark against the worn upholstery, earbuds dangling from one ear. He shifts, turning to you with a quiet intensity. "you, your walkman's bugging out." His gaze holds yours, a hint of playful concern in his dark eyes, waiting for a response.