#He's such a wee cheeky chap!

[hauntedbubbles]

Here, have some of my fave Soap stills from MWZombies act 3! 🧼

[jangofctts]

I just think kami would want to show you everything and everywhere he loves and I also think that at the end of him showing you his favourite spots he’d sneak you into his ship and it’s cramped and you’re pressed too close but he is living! Because it gives him the excuse to touch you and your just trying to say I it’s bc it’s so small in here but then he starts kissing your neck and he runs his hands up your thighs and when you turn to look at him he kisses you and it gets too hot and your clothing can’t come off fast enough so he just shoved your panties aside and your shirt up so he can grab what he wants.... god he’s so hard bc it’s like his dream to fuck you in his shop and when he finally slips his cock into you he moans so fucking loud because he has to hold himself back so hard I-

EHEH I WROTE A LITTLE DRABBLE FOR YOU 

ct-8966 kamikaze (kami) // fem!reader

warnings: a wee bit smutty. also im comPleTEly ignoring the blueprints of a MA/AT shIP so please dont yell at me ewkkejwh

“Kami, we’re not supposed to be down here,” you whisper. Your heart squeezes like a fist when the he looks over your shoulder and flashes you a cheeky grin. He reaches for your hand that you readily give and tugs you closer to his crouched from behind the pile of cargo crates. You despise the way your cheeks heat from the mere brush of his shoulder against yours, warm and free from his armor.   

“Wouldn’t be fun if we were,” Kami shoots back. “C’mon, I just repainted her.”

Your grumbling protests are quickly silenced as he leaps up, dragging you by the hand across the hangar in a wild sprint. 

The ship does look nice. The fresh coat of paint takes away from the various blaster marks and the seemingly permanent dirt stains ingrained into the platting.   

“Do you like it?” Kami asks, tugging you closer until you’re both standing on the deck. He’s painted the interior too, a wash of teal, geometric lines and the basic shape of a rising sun over the hatch that sections off the front of the ship. 

“It’s alright, I guess,” you tease. “I’m surprised you didn't paint me as one of those pin up girls.”

A burst of laughter rings through the space. “Blanche would kill me. ‘Sides--we all know Bruiser would wanna take that job.”

You roll your eyes and continue the spur of the moment tour, eager to see whatever Kami deems worthy enough to show you. Another insight into he is as a person and not just that chaotic front of a cocky pilot--

But of course nothing ever goes as planned with him.     

“Damn,” he grumbles as the heavy footfalls of the night shift patrol echo near the ship. “Up we go.”

“Wait!” You hiss as Kami shoves you towards the ladder. “We cant both fit.” 

“You callin’ me thick?” He asks, attempting to mask his smile. It doesn't work.  

“Enormously thickheaded, you buffoon.”

Just as you say it, the white wash of flashlights run over the neighboring ships and fuck--you’re so fired. “We don’t have a choice. Move that voluptuous behind and we’ll have a fighting chance.” 

You bite your tongue, saving your retort for later and storm up the ladder, Kami close behind. Your suspicions are confirmed--the tiny platform right before the cockpit is far too small. Big enough that if Kami spooned you, you might be able to squeeze in two bodies and well--the pilot does just that. What the fuck. 

Kami tucks his foot in and above the ledge just as the reach of the flashlight crawls over the insides of his ship. You don’t care that Kami clutches you to his chest, arms locked around your shoulders as both of your hearts hammer wildly inside of your chests like a million feathered wings. The light lazily bounces around then disappears. You don’t realize you've been holding your breath until the footsteps fade away--your lungs deflate with a long sigh. 

The low reverberation of Kami’s chuckle beside your ear sends a shiver down your spine. Kriff--he’s tucked in close. Near enough that each time he breathes the warmth of his soft exhales disturb the fine hairs on your temple, tickling lightly over your skin. You clench your jaw. 

You squirm, cursing internally when the hem of your shirt rides up your side--it’s too fucking cramped in here. And dark. Kami’s hand is nothing but polite resting on the swell of your shoulder and stars, maybe it’s an accident when he moves it to your hip--calloused thumb resting right over your waistband. You bite your tongue and force yourself not to shiver when he sweeps the digit up...and then down...skimming that strip of much too sensitive skin on your side. 

“This is my favorite place,” Kami murmurs, his lightly chapped lips catching on the ridge of your ear. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and bite your lip, convincing yourself that the light circles he’s rubbing into your skin isn't pushing you towards madness. “What--spooning me?”

You feel Kami’s laugh vibrate through his broad chest, the tip of his nose nuzzling into the dip where your jaw meets your throat. “Pfft--you wish. I’d cuddle a clanker before you.” 

“Liar...” 

Kami’s shoulders lift with a shrug. “Maybe.” His hand inches higher, sliding your shirt to your ribs, the touch still light--tentative and allowing you that space to tell him to fuck off, leave it how it is and stay friends. Just friends. As if this past year was not spent orbiting around each other in a dance of witty banter, playful jabs and those lingering looks that are found in the lull of conversation. You always thought he had such nice eyes--crystalized honey abandoned in a glass jar as the first rays of dawn feather over it and turn it golden.   

When the plush shape of his lips tenderly touch your neck you shudder--a singular match that roars to life and alights your chest with heat. “Kamikaze.”     

He sucks in a shaky breath, removes his hand from your side and cups your chin. He shifts as much as he can in the limited space, almost draping himself above you so that the angle isn't as sharp when you look at him. 

There’s just enough light to see the muted tints of his red hair and the teal of his tattoos. He smiles and, Kriff, he's gorgeous. “Kiss me.”  

You don’t need to be told twice. You tangle your fingers into his short hair and yank him into a desperate kiss, both of you groaning in satisfaction. Maker, this feels so right--tangled in his arms as he’s gripping onto you so tightly, as if he’s terrified that you’d slip through his fingers. That this could be a dream and hell--it very well may be one, but you know a dream could never feel like this. 

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue past the seem of your lips and licking deep into your mouth--greedily seizing anything you’re willing to give. You blame the amount of space for how heated it gets, pressed so close with the risk of his body molding to yours as your lips lock with frenzied hunger. Making up for lost time you think--  

When you both apart for air, chests heaving with exertion, Kami mumbles your name and plants a chaste kiss right between your brows.  

Goosebumps follow in his wake as Kami’s fingers dance over you tummy. He Then takes your hand in his and guides it between his legs, a growing hardness glaringly obvious contained within his blacks.“’M thick in other places too, y’know...”

You grin. “Prove it.”

[crimehead]

Scotland’s youngest killer: The Murder of Three Year Old Jamie Campbell.

Jamie Campbell, a three year old toddler was lured away from his grandmothers garden on the 24th of August, 1990 in Drumchapel, Glasgow by then 11 year old Richard Kieth. The toddler was then beaten with sticks and stones before being drowned in a burn in the Bluebell Woods, the site of another infamous Scottish murder. Jamie’s body was found lying face down over a large stone by a two woman, he has 14 wounds to his head and neck. Keith was cleared of murder in the trial of 1990 in Glasgow’s High Court however, after the four day trial in 1991 in Edinburgh on the reduced charge of culpable murder. His case was described as ‘sheer wickedness’ by Lord Sutherland and was ordered to be detained without limited time. Kieth was made to serve 8 years in a young persons institution for culpable homicide and was released in 1999 after a 6 month campaign by Campbell’s family to keep Keith in detention stating that “It has devastated our family, we are just not the same anymore. Yet here Keith is, not even 9 years down the road, just putting it all behind him and getting on with his life.” and “Keith is evil to the core and you can’t cure evil. I can’t bear the thought of him running the streets”. He now roams free to this day living with the same name and girlfriend, bragging about his crime. Before the trial, they had found out that Keith had attacked another 3 year old in Drumchapel with a penknife and beaten him weeks before Campbell’s murder.

The murder has been compared to the murder of James Bulger, where a 2 year old boy was abducted the boy from a Merseyside shopping centre, tortured and killed by two 10 year olds, Robert Thompson and Jon Venables 3 years after the Jamie Campbell case in 1993.

This wasn���t the families first heartbreak, Jamie’s mother had died in a fire when he was only 11 months old. The family of Jamie Campbell try to keep the memory of the toddler alive to this day so that he is not forgotten and have appeared on an episode of the Jeremy Kyle show. Jamie was been labelled as ‘funny’ and a ‘cheeky wee chap’ by family members.

[seanwilkie-blog1]








I see, a bad moon rising

I see, trouble on the way. 





BAD MOON RISINGI see, a bad moon a-rising. see, trouble on the way.

Music on the car stereo, echoing through the hills and valleys, gliding over the water.

We’re camping.

Ben picks me up around ten in the morning, which is early for us. I throw a sleeping bag and a Diadora bag of clothes in the boot and we head to Antonio’s as I call shotgun and get in the front. We were out drinking last night, and this morning Ben is feeling rough.

“Where did ye go last night?” Ben said.

“Aw, I had too much to drink, man. I just wandered home pissed.” I did that sometimes, just left without saying goodbye, when I realised I’d had too much to drink and needed to lie down.

“Good night?” I said.

“Aw mate, I wound up in the toilet, just standin in the bath wi Helen and Kate an the two of them get aff wi each other, right in front of me.”

“No way.” I said.

“Aye, and then they let me join in.”

“Fuck off!”

He was actually telling the truth.

“Seriously.”

“Aye, right.”

Ben did not like it when people did not believe his stories. “I did. And! And! I got aff wi Amy as well later on. Three burds in one night.”

He was not telling the truth about that. Not according to Amy anyway.

“Wait, I thought Xander was firing into Helen?”

“Well he fuckin…wisnae in the bath wis he?” Ben starts laughing. “Aw man, I’m dyin for a shite.”

We pull up at Antonio’s and he blasts the horn.

“Ask Antonio if you can use his toilet.”

“I cannae do that man.”

“How not?”

“His Maw’s in. She’ll kill me if I destroy her toilet.”

“So, what are you gonna do?”

Five minutes later, I’m standing around the back of the garages across from Antonio’s house, while Ben has snuck into a delapidated garage that has the door kicked in and is full of broken bottles and empty crisp packets. Somewhere in the back of the garage he is squatting down and pushing out the hangover shite from hell. I’m meant to be keeping the edgy but instead I’m peeing up against a bush with one hand and cracking my first beer of the day open on a nearby wall with the other hand. Well, it’s my holidays!

“David!” he cries out in alarm.

“What?”

“David!!” He isn’t listening.

“What is it mate?”

With genuine fear, he asks “How am I gonnae wipe ma arse?”

After I’ve finished spitting my beer all over the bushes in a fit of laughter, I said. “Want me to get you some leaves or something?”

“There’s no leaf big enough for this man.”

“Some newspaper?”

“Fuck off! Newspaper’s jaggy, it’ll cut me tae ribbons.”

“Are you seriously, squatting, in a reekin of piss, shitty old garage and have the cheek, the audacity, to start getting all precious about the quality of your arse wiping material?”

…

“Can ye go and ask Antonio for some bog roll?”

“So you won’t ask to use his toilet, but you’ll have me chapping his door to ask for some toilet paper, so that he, and his mum, and the whole street, know you’ve defecated in a garage across the road?”

“Aye.”

The neck of some people.

“An make sure it’s the good Andrex stuff, none ae yer ASDA’s own pish. I’m awfy delicate back there.”

So I had to chap Antonio’s door and ask his mum for a roll of her finest Andrex luxury quilted toilet roll, so that I could launch it into a dirty stinking garage across the road and Ben could scramble about in the dark to find it with his trousers around his ankles and finally wipe his arse and come out smiling.

Half an hour later we were on the road, having picked up Xander and stopped off at Lidl to fill the boot with crates of five quid French lager. You know the wee stubby bottles? We had about eight cases of those, and eight bottles of Buckfast. Antonio had with him a bottle of Absinthe, we’d never tried it before and apparently it could cause you to have hallucinations. At 90% proof, you’re damn right we were gonna have a few cheeky shots on the way there. Not Ben though, he drove while the rest of us were wiring into cans of Tennents and bottles of Merrydown for the road.

“You’re a clatty bastard!” said Xander, when we told him about Ben.

“Aye, wait till you find out what he did in he bath with your Helen.” I laugh.

Ben draws me a look for dropping him in it and the back and forth piss-taking continues as we make our way up into the campsie hills.

We make a pit stop at the car park in the sky, in the campsie glen, near the waterfalls. The four of us stood on a wall, staring out over the towns below, the hills, the sky, the world at our feet, as we take a pish off the edge.

My dad used to bring us here when we were little, to see the view and roam the hills and waterfalls and chase sheep. I don’t remember the stink of pish but I do remember thinking if we climbed any higher, we would be able to touch the clouds. One time my little brother Jamie tried to jump a burn and fell in. My dad had to climb into the ditch and lift him out and once again he had to sit shivering, cold and wet in the car all the way home — you think we would have learned to bring towels and a change of clothes.

Then of course, we came back here many times as teenagers, when we wanted somewhere to drive. Ben or Xander would pile us all into their cars and we would come up here drunk and wander around in the pitch dark, looking out over the hills at the thousands of tiny lights in the distance. Just up from the car park, there is a bunker that justs out of the hill, you can walk around the back of it where the hill is steeper and climb on to the roof, or at the front it’s just a gaping hole and inside is full of rocks and litter and empty bottles. In the dark, on a hillside in the middle of nowhere, when you’re full of the drink, a bunker like that can look pretty spooky and many a time, Ben or Xander or Kirsten or someone would dare me to run up the hill and go inside the bunker. I would always do it. Never said no to a dare, that’s me. I could only spend a few seconds inside the bunker, in the dark with whatever lurked in the hills, before I freaked myself out and came running back down the hill. Or rolling back down the hill depending how drunk I was.

One time, we told Kirsten about the legend of the Campsie Clobber, a hideous beast, part-bear, part-man, part-monster, who roamed the hills of the Campsie Glen looking for drunken teenage lovers, making out in their cars in the carpark in the sky, so he could eat them whole. We told her how, many times, the Park Rangers (was there even Park Rangers in the Campsie Glen?) would find abandoned cars in the morning, with claw marks embedded in the door of the car, seat covers torn to shreds and blood on the windshield. But no bodies were ever found. People said though, that if you dug deep enough through the rocks in that bunker on the hill, you would find the bones of those teenagers, for that is where the Campsie Clobber sleeps after he feeds. Kirsten used to beg us to stop terrifying her with that story, I think we made it up when we took her up there one time and found a random pair of shoes, abandoned, just sitting there on the wall, in the car park in the sky, no one to claim them. Maybe we weren’t far from the truth.

We set off on the rest of our journey, travelling acros the Campsie Glen, it seemed there were no other cars for miles and the fog was rolling across the hills making everything look sort of eerie. I mentioned the time we wound Kirsten up about the Campsie Clobber.

“Haha, aye that wis good.” Antonio said.

“It’s no the Campsie Clobber ye need tae worry aboot where we’re gaun though.” said Xander, from the back of the car.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the Hag of Loch Achray ye want tae worry yersel aboot.”

“What’s Loch Achray?”

“That’s where we’re going.” said Ben.

“It was back mibbe a hunner or so year ago. Apparently, there usetae be an auld wummin, called Auld Greta, that lived in a wee cabin oan the side ae the loch, just across from where we’re campin actually..”

“What would you know about a hunner year ago, ya dick?” Ben said.

“Ah’ve been campin there loads of times wi ma Da an he told me.”

“I’ve never heard of a family of Turks going camping.” I said.

“Fuck off, Dumbo.”

I forgot to mention my ears stick out a little.

“Yer Da dis look a hunner year old, though mate.” Antonio said.

Xander ignored us and carried on. “Auld Greta, or the Hag of Loch Achray as she wis known, was an auld wummin, who lived alone in the woods, an all the villagers suspected she wis a witch. They said, she had eyes that glowed bright green in the dark, that’s how she could make her way through the woods at night.”

We stopped making fun of the story and listened for a bit, Xander was good at telling stories like this.

“At the time, a lotta wee kids were goin missin fae the village an the people though Greta wis kidnappin them an sacrificin them tae her pagan Gods. One night, they all got the gether an stormed her cabin, but when they got there, the loch wis covered in smoke an they could see fire, burnin brightly, in the windaes of her cabin an worse still, they heard the screams ae all the weans. Greta had heard the people were comin and she tried to dispose ae the children by feeding them intae her huge oven. One by one.”

We made our way through the moors, fog thick on all sides, the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end and the rest of us were completely silent as Xander continued.

“Greta tried tae escape, but in the thick smoke surroundin the cabin, she wandered oot intae the water. The people chased her, an she swam oot tae try an escape. The loch’s filled wi reeds though, the entire waterbed is piled wi knotted reeds that pull ye down. She got caught in one, oot there in the middle of the loch, an she couldnae get free. But nobody went to help her. Her screams could be heard across the entire loch, as she called oot through the smoke, an as she tired, she started tae swallow more an more water, until her screams became gargles an bit by bit her lungs filled wi water an she sank lower an lower intae the reeds. She drowned tae death, an sank tae the bottom ae the loch.”

“Dae witches no float?” Antonio said.

“Shut up, you.” Ben said, from the driver’s seat.

“So, we should be able to see her cabin from where we’re camping then?” I was skeptical.

“That’s just it, the cabin burnt doon. But people say that sometimes weans still go missin an if ye go oot tae the loch at night, oan the anniversary ae her death, a thick fog rolls over the loch, like a blanket of smoke,”

He said that because there’s fog outside, he’s trying to scare us.

“An through the fog, ye can see her cabin oan the other side ae the loch, still there, fires burnin in the windaes, the screams ae the children inside.”

“Fuckin dark mate.” Antonio said.

“An if ye make the mistake ae goin intae the loch, an swim oot too far, ye hear a garglin sound an she swims up tae meet ye. An the last thing ye see, is a pair ae glowin green eyes, afore she pulls ye doon, intae the depths, tae stay wi her — forever.”

Silence, and then.

“BOOOO!” Xander shakes and rattles my seat and starts laughing.

He’s so full of shit. I remember now, when we were about ten years old, he told me a similar story. Auld Greta was a witch who lived in a shed out by the old ironworks, across the railway. If you went during the day, the shed was run down and falling apart, but if you crossed the railway line at night, you’d see a gaslit-lamp burning in the window of the shed and Auld Greta would come running out and chase you, and if she caught you she’d take you down into the old mines with all the other missing children, and keep you there forever. Many a time Xander tried to wake me up at night to go down the railway line and find Auld Greta, I always said I’d go but never did. He was good at telling the story though.

We continued our journey, tunes blaring and cans of lager getting tanned as Ben drove us over hills and glens and down the other side. We took gulps of Absinthe from the bottle as the car winded down country roads, until we reached the town of Callander, where we stopped to stretch our legs, check out the area, get our barings and see if there were any campsites nearby. This is what I love about Glasgow, drive twenty minutes out of the city and you’re surrounded by some of the most beautiful scenery imaginable. An hour from the city and you find yourself in quaint little towns like Callander, where they probably hate scum like us turning up, swigging Tennents lager from the car and peeing on their good rose bushes.

Having stretched our legs, emptied our bladders, and scoped out a chip shop for tonight’s dinner, we climbed back in the car and made the short drive from Callander to Loch Achray, where we settled ourselves for the night. There was a sign saying ‘No Camping’ and we were right by the side of the road, but we didn’t care. There was a small pebble beach, there was a soft flat area for the tent, and a little creek that ran into the loch, where we could submerge out bottles of Buckfast in the water and leave them to get nice and cold, without them disappearing into the loch itself. We opened a few bottles of beer and emptied the car.

“Right!” Antonio said, as he cracked the lid off his bottle. “Where’s the gash?”

Someone must have told him there was going to be plenty of talent hanging about Loch Achray, he was going to be mighty disappointed.

It was decided that as Xander had been camping before, he and Antonio would set up the tent and Ben and I would drive back in to town and pick up the chippy dinner. We took the orders from everyone and headed back in to town. Two fish suppers, one hamburger supper, one sausage supper and a couple of pickles later we got back to find the tent half-built and those two idiots nowhere to be seen.

Now, I don’t know if it was the ten cans each on the way here, or the fresh country air, or maybe Antonio’s Absinthe was taking effect, but nature had taken a funny effect on Xander and Antonio when we finally found them.

Xander was naked except for a pair of skimpy speedos, lying on his back, on a flat piece of rock near the water, eyes closed, making ‘ohm’ like meditation sounds.

“Whit are you doin mate?’ Ben said.

“Ahm blendin in tae ma surroundins, camo-style.”

“Mate, you’ve got dayglo body paint smeared all over ye, you’ve got lumi-yellow speedos on and you’re shoutin ‘ohm’ over an over at the top of yer lungs. Who exactly are you hidin fae?” Ben said.

He took off his sunglasses and looked at us, in all seriousness, and said “Antonio.”

“How, what’s he going to do?” I said.

Xander pointed to the waters edge, where Antonio was wearing only a pair of shorts with socks and sandals and he was indeed sharpening branches and forming what looked like a bow and arrow, whilst muttering to himself, and I can’t say for sure, but he did have a look about him that said he was about to cook him up some city boys.

Once they had their chippy dinner in them, they seemed to calm down and together we built the tent. It was a four-man tent that Ben’s uncle had gave us. For future reference, four-man means; two men comfortably, four men; very uncomfortably. We wiped our greasy salt & vinegar fingers on our clothes, tanned our tiny beers and like loutish city folk we launched the empty bottles into the loch, trying to see who could throw them the furthest.

It was Xander.

It was now my turn to be bursting for a shite and so I went off into the trees to find a quiet spot. I took the quilted Andrex with me. When I came back they all thought it was hilarous to keep saying, “Does a bear shit in the woods? I dunno, but David does.” Laugh all they want but I was feeling better for having done my hangover shite and just to be safe I had buried it incase there was somehow bears back in Scotland or worse yet, wolves, or Campsie Clobbers.

As the sun went down and the night got colder, we gathered twigs and branches and started a fire. Xander almost burnt his eyebrows off as he was lying on his front trying to blow on the flames to help the fire get started, when Antonio launched a can of Lynx Africa into the fire and it exploded and sent the flames leaping up into the air and shards of aluminium shooting past Xander’s head.

The bottles of Buckfast in the wee creek had chilled nicely, so I put my second bottle in to chill whilst I took my first one to drink. There was a tiny little pier, made of thin logs that jutted about six feet out into the water, so I kicked my shoes off on the pebble beach, rolled up my trousers and waded out to sit on the end of the pier, whilst I drank my wine and looked up at the stars. Travel an hour out of the suburbs and the city and you see just how full of stars the sky really is. Makes you feel pretty small in the grand scheme of things.

Xander and Ben were sitting comparing notes on Helen by the fire. A group of local teenagers had made camp a bit further along, they had pulled up an hour ago in a red van and Antonio was over chatting to them and sharing their weed as they played dance tunes from the car radio and lit fireworks that exploded above our heads.

I sat on the makeshift pier, contemplating life and the grand scheme of things and for a moment felt at one with nature and content in my place amongst all of God’s creatures — and then my shoes floated past me.

The tide must have come in and had caught up with my trainers which had been discarded on the sand and now my Segrio Tacchini’s were floating past me into the middle of the loch. Without thinking I stood up and waded in after them, which was fine for the first couple of feet but after two or three footsteps, the floor of the loch takes a steep drop into nothingness and I disappeared under the water.

When I resurfaced, gasping for air, I had drifted out into the loch and Xander, Ben and Antonio were standing on the shore shouting after me. My trainers were in the distance, floating toward the middle of the loch, I had always been a relatively strong swimmer so I wasn’t worried, but swimming when heavily drunk, probably wasn’t advisable. Splashing around like a drunken seal, I swam further out into the loch. With each reach and splash, I pushed my trainers further and further away. Eventually, I managed to grab hold of one and then the other, and with a trainer in each hand I started to make my way back to shore.

It was then that I noticed that the smoke from the fireworks had drifted across the loch and it was now hard to see the shore in the distance, but I could hear the lads, screaming and shouting at me from the beach. They looked pretty animated but I was too far away and all I could make out was “SWIM!” and “HURRY!” and “BEHIND YOU!”

So, I’m treading water, God knows how many feet there is between me and the floor of the loch below, I slowly turn and out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of it, a dark shape, two bright green glowing eyes, bobbing in the darkness, only maybe ten to twenty feet behind me.

I turned for shore and start swimming like never before, a shoe in each hand, arm over arm, legs kicking life my life depended on it.

“Come on! Faster!” they shout from the shore.

Water filled my lungs with every stroke as I’m too drunk to breathe properly whilst swimming.

“It’s catchin you! Hurry!”

So much water splashing in my face, I can’t tell if I’m swimming toward the shore or toward whatever thing is chasing me.

“It’s right behind you!”

I dared not look, a crocodile, a shark, the loch ness monster, the campsie clobber — the Hag of Loch Achray. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to know until I was safe on the shore.

I felt something touch my leg as I kicked out and that was enough to give me the last burst of energy I needed to swim fast enough to shore. I burst out of the water and stumbled on to the pebble beach, falling to the ground, clutching my shoes and gasping for air.

I made it.

I survived.

And my friends…are…laughing.

I sit up and notice that my friends can’t even stand they’re laughing that hard. Antonio is doubled over on the ground, howling with so much laughter that he’s in pain. ‘Quick!’ they laugh. ‘Hurry!’ they laugh. ‘It’s…haaahahahha…behind you!’

It’s a bottle.

A single, solitary, green stubby bottle. A bottle that used to hold French bier from Lidl. The light from the fireworks must have glinted off of the green glass and looked like glowing eyes, and the bobbing up and down in the water looked like a head.

I had just outswam, a beer bottle.

I stripped off my soaking wet clothes in the tent and changed into a pair of jogging bottoms and a t-shirt, then pulled a hoody over me to keep warm and had to wear a pair of Ben’s football socks instead of shoes. I left my wet clothes and shoes to dry on the rocks and opened my second bottle of wine.

Bastards.

Eventually, Ben and Antonio fell asleep in the tent. Every so often, loud farts erupted from within. t was Xander and me left sitting on the beach, looking out across the water and up at the stars, drinking the last of the beers and talking about life.

It was always me and Xander.

The last ones standing.

The music on the radio,

fades into the night,

gliding across the water.

I see, a bad moon a-rising.

I see, trouble on the way.

[phil-and-a-corgi]

highschool bandfic in a nutshell - chapter 2

chapter 1

rating: t/m (swearing and also irene’s writing.)

word count: um i dont know a lot ( 2083 )

summary: uhh we have that on the first page

here if you want to read it here then here you go materinos(doesn’t include behind the scenes bants though

here read it on google docs yeah i know so professional(this one has behind the scenes banter)

SECOND CHAPTER (2)

(written by renee @dan-and-a-shibe - pete’s pov)

after finally putting on my eyeliner (i had no time to do it this morning and i looked like a garbage can filled with shit on fire) i hopped off the sink counter. sighing and putting my MAC charcoal liner back into my bag.i dabbed just a wee bit of eyeshadow because WHY THE FUCK NOT. the bell rang, signalling that i was late for first period. why do i let a bell, a mere beep for 5 seconds control where i go and when i go. it just shows how even though everyone tries to be themselves that everyone ends up being dragged by the trends of society. so i decided to sit in the background and look through tumblr. on my phone. ten minutes of scrolling through poetry and kittens. i should get going now. so i did. i walked into mr armstrong’s class.

“mr wentz may i ask why you’re late.” he asked, jokingly in a teacher’s voice. “sorry it’s required to ask that” he whispered, winking at the class.

“i know why, because he was busy being a GAYLORD”(dh quote) that try hard kid justin bieber teased.

“ok justin please explain how your bleached hair isn’t gayer than his amazing eyeliner.” mr amstrong retorted back as the whole class “oohed” at justin.

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(written by Irene - @feckboy69-aol - frank’s pov)

Fuck Ms. O-Conner. Fuck her class. It's the only class that I don't have with my beloved Gee and the rest of the guys I hung out with and the only class where the teacher actually expects me to do shit. Like okay, maybe there’s some nice chicks in this class and I sit in the back next to a window where I can stare out of and think of my beloved, beautiful Gee, but so what? Lorde’s (yeah, that's what her preferred name was, what a joke) a fucking bore. Honestly, so would this school be, if not for my beloved, precious, beautiful Gee and the shit going on with Ryan and Beebs’ tea drama. Oh, that and the whole of Beaver’s crowd; it was fun watching them get owned by literally everyone here.

Anyway, English class. Lorde Bitchface was screaming about the importance of “putting emotion into your poems” and using “meaningful symbolism” to give your writing “depth” like the edgy bitch she was, so I just tuned her ugly mug out as usual, grabbing my notebook and turning to a fresh page. I gripped the #2 mechanical pencil in my hands and let my mind wander and think about my beloved, adorable, precious, and beautiful Gee, which wasn't very hard. I thought about the last time we had made out (in the bathroom near Bitchface’s class in the stall that no one used) and let my hand draw what I thought. I never was a good artist, but my beloved, handsome, adorable, precious, and beautiful Gee had taught me a couple things (some about art, some about other things), so I had become pretty good. I concentrated for a good 5-7 minutes on the drawing, making every line count, and then smirked to myself at the finished masterpiece. It was stunning; well Gee was.

“Ah… Mr. Iero, why don't you tell us?” said Lorde Bitchface, looking at me with that stupid fucking teacher look that Mr. Armstrong had copied perfectly from her and would use to joke around. But I, being me, tried to pass it off with a smartass answer, something I always did that got on the bitch’s nerves.

“See now I would, but I don't do things like that for free,” I said, giving her a mischievous look. Several girls in front of me (except Hayley, that sassy lassy, who just rolled her eyes and went back the crap that Bitchface was teaching) turned around and giggled, playing with their hair in a vain attempt to try and get my attention. They knew about Gee and me; the whole school did (that's a story for another time), but they still thought they could get me. But I played along anyway, winking at them and giving them the Frank Iero Famous smoulder. The girls seemed impressed, but Bitchface clearly wasn't, her ugly face (okay, I knew she wasn't ugly, she probably got a lot of action actually with that figure, but I despised her so fuck off) morphing into one of disgusting bitch anger, her nose and eyebrows scrunched up and her lips pursed into a tight, white line. I knew she was about to blow, when a kid sitting all the way up in the front who I didn't even know existed until he spoke his next words (that would definitely be his last if I ever found him alone in a dark hallway, by the way) said, “He's being inappropriate and drawing repulsing images in his notebook, Ms. Lorde. I saw him when I went to sharpen my pencil, Ms. Lorde,”

He then turned around and smirked at me, his wavy ginger hair following him as he did, an aura of smugness about him that I did not appreciate.

I saw the anger drain from Lorde Bitchface’s face and have it replaced with a look of calmness that was actually more efficient in scaring people than her anger.

Fucking asshole, I thought, momentarily losing my cool before reminding myself that I was Frank Iero and bitches wished they could kiss the ground I walked on with their crusty-ass, chapped as fuck lips.

So when that fucking whore of a teacher gave me detention, I simply smiled and said a cheeky, “Can't get enough of me as it is, Lorde? Not that I can't see why you wouldn't want more of this,” running my hands through my hair, knowing that this was definitely gonna make the ugly hag throw a fit, which would be far more amusing than if I had just accepted the offer of yet another detention.

It worked; I got sent to the principal's office, but like hell I was actually gonna go there. I smiled to myself as I walked outside the door, giving Bitchface a cheeky salute as I went out, not staying long enough for her to scream more shit at me.

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(written by renee @dan-and-a-shibe - ray’s pov)

geez well this is frank's seventh detention this week and it's only wednesday. how is that even possible. well, lorde's most recent detention got him a saturday detention for the whole day and i knew he was supposed to go hang out with gee. gerard would be heartbroken if he couldn't make it to their next date. they have date night in saturday. i had to convince lorde to get him out of detention. she hadn't hated me yet, so i had a chance. while we were supposed to be writing deep poetry, i went up to her desk.

                 “hey um, ms lorde, uh sorry about frank. his family isn't really okay at the moment, and well, he's been acting up. more than usual. his parents have been really hard on him, especially with the detentions. i hope you can withdraw the multiple detentions from the past three days. don't mention this to him, or anyone else. please.” truth was that franks family wasn't doing to well but they weren't being hard on him, they didn't care anymore.

          lorde paused for a moment. “ok then, ill withdraw the detentions. only for this week. why don't you go down to the office and tell him this detentions are withdrawn.” i knew i could do it. most ladies have more vulnerable emotions, they’re more sensitive. and that's why women are so great. and now he only had three after school detentions..

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(written by Irene - @feckboy69-aol - tyler’s pov)

It was lunch for the Sophomores, so as usual, I was trying to find my best fren Josh Dun. It was strange, he wasn't anywhere to be seen, when usually I could spot his vibrant colored hair in any crowd (it was a bright yellow today). So when I entered the large circular shaped cafeteria, and didn't see him, I started to panic a bit.

He was there in the morning, we walked here together, he was there in first period, I saw him when I went to go to the bathroom, he was there during third period because I was there with him, oh no, he got kidnaped… he got bullied he's in a locker somewhere stuck I have to go, he's hurt I have to sav-

“Tyler!” I heard someone scream from behind me, interrupting my very important thoughts about Jishwa. I turned around in pure panic, ready for the news that was going to be solemnly sorrowful; news about Jishwa’s untimely death.

Alas, it was only Jenna Joseph Black, a pleasant surprise at that. I smiled in spite of my internal mental struggle, watching Jenna smiling and running up to me. The cafeteria was now starting to fill up, with cliques of people banding together in their own respectable tables, as usual.

Jenna grinned at me, giving me a friendly greeting. I didn't want her to get worried for my stupid overthinking habit. She wrapped her arm around my shoulder, leading me to our lunch table which consisted of me, Jish, her, Hayley (Kiyoko) Adam, Jack, and Ryan. The others weren't there yet, me and Jen usually arrived early, Josh not too far behind us, with the rest walking together, usually bringing some mundane news about whatever they considered important in their lives. Usual conversations involved Jack and his frens coming in with their loud but awkward selves, Hayley not too far behind them, her hands crossed in silent disapprovement at almost everyone and everything. They all would then come in to our table, interrupting the meaningful conversations that Jen, Jish and I would be having, usually conversations about the possibility (or plausibility) of whether coconut sharks could or not exist, (if they did exist, where would they be swimming?) with talk about the latest song from so-and-so’s band or whether Ryan and Brendon would ever get back together, or at least make up.

But that's not what exactly happened today because Jen, ever the one to notice and care, gave me a caring concerned look that depicted exactly how much she cared and was concerned about me and Jish, her eyes gleaming in the bright-lighted cafeteria, her mouth morphing into a depressing frown.

“Where's Jish?” She inquired, the proportions of her face perfectly in line, to the point where she made everyday curiosity look like it was the epitome of perfection, suddenly standing up, probably (or plausibly) realizing that if Jish were here, he would be right now.

I slouched further into my seat, gulping, my throat feeling dry, “I don't Jen… I don't know…”