#this one's a big one laddies

[meadow-roses]

I realized I'd never drawn Delia before! So I had to fix that.

Also, chapter update finally 😭😭

[chaosandmarigolds]

Simon! Who did ask your son for your hand in marriage because…uh…who else was he supposed to ask?

Simon! Who carefully planned the entire day to make sure Ollie was in a good mood (because he knew that Boy, if he was sleepy, grumpy, hungry or simply just ‘issy’, don’t tell you that he knew that word, he would say no and then snitch)

Simon! Who first made the kids favorite pancakes, which then fell on the ground as Ollie tried to walk to the table

Simon! Who took him to the museum only for the dinosaur (the only part Ollie liked) to be closed for the day

Simon! Who took Ollie to the park but the kid fell and chipped one of his baby tooth (superglue it back together? He knew he would be a deadman if you saw this)

Simon! Who had to cut the park short cause it started raining

Simon! Who went to Ollie favorite ice cream bar and to low and behold…Ollie’s favorite flavor is out

Simon, who on the drive home, looks back through the mirror to see the toddler looking out the window and figures it might as well be now- so nothing else could could wrong

“Olls?”

“Des sir.”

“Can I ask you a question, Lad?”

Ollie blinked a few times and then nods, unaware that Simon couldn’t actually see him the entire time because he was driving, “Okay.”

“Your mum and I- well I love her a lot, you know that, right?”

Ollie nods.

“And you know how you and your mum moved into my house right?”

“Is cause you have cooler backyard.”

“Yeah- I do have a big backyard,” Simon trailed off for a moment and then clears his throat, “Olls, would you be okay with me staying around for a super long time?”

A pause. “That’s a daddies job. Momma said you’re her boy-frend and that you’re not my daddy.”

“But- what if I wanted to be your dad?”

A longer pause.

“Ollie?”

…

“Oliver?”

“You wouldn’t leave us like him though- right?”

Well great, he didn’t need to almost start crying on the highway, so he nodded, “Never leave you, laddie.”

Part two! 🫢

[thegnomelord]

pls pls pls pls pls pls write something with hound getting a lil chubby during rehab pls i want to see him soft and comfy, being hand fed and cuddled. hound with a little tum from finally having not only enough to eat but enough rest to actually gain a little extra weight pls im in my knees characters getting a lil chub as a sign of healing my beloved

Okay here's a small brain fart for you:

You've gotten fat.

it's a rather egregious exaggeration, according to the two sergeants, but it's the first thing you think of when you look in the mirror. Your hard muscles still bulge beneath your skin when you flex, but now there's a layer of fat cushioning your frame — it smooths the planes of your abdomen, widens the circumference of your thighs and the breadth of your shoulders until you're popping the seams of your clothes, the layer of fat deepening the cleavage between your pecks whenever you cross your arms. Even your cheeks look chubbier than they had before.

You don't look like death warmed over, and you don't know how to feel about it. The psychologist says it's a good thing, your body finally figuring out it can slow down and focus on healing instead of constantly living on the edge of a knife.

But you just don't see it. It feels like you're regressing; Forgetting the harshness of the wild when you're collared and leashed by the fireplace, growing fat and lazy, complacent. A spoiled dog isn't loyal.

You let out a noise at the back of your throat when Johnny suddenly rushes into the small room you've been given, the door slamming open and closed. You don't have time to even say a single word before he's in front of you, "Hide me!" and then he's gripping your shit and pushing himself beneath it. Your frame is big enough to where you completely block him out, and his arms wrap as much as they can around your waist so he can cling to you.

You're rarely stunned to the point you don't know what to do, but this is one of those times.

A second later you hear a "MacTavish!" and loud footsteps rush down the hall, accompanied by loud swears and threats you can only assume are from Ghost.

Johnny waits still as a statue as the footsteps grow quiet, his breath washing over your skin from where his face is pressed against your chest. When they grow quiet he shuffles, a couple of seams popping in the already stretched out shirt until he pokes his head through the head hole of the shirt, resting his chin on the top of your sternum. "Thanks laddie, saved me skin there."

"Что блят?" Is the only thing your mind can force out, defaulting to Russian because you haven't been able to dig up your mother tongue from the grave the old you is buried in.

"Ah don't worry about it, the bloody dobber had it comin' with his bloody tea in chef Mike an' — Hmmm," His attention focuses on you, head disappearing beneath the shirt once again until only his stupid mohawk pokes out as his hands give an experimental squeeze at your sides, some of the fat getting trapped between his fingers. "Hey, have you gotten bigger? Ah could swear you weren't so fluffy before."

"That a nice way of calling me fat?" You feel the need to cross your arms, to hide the cushioning hiding your muscles. Ants gnaw on your skin where Soap touches you, his calloused palms sliding as far as they can and a strange sound rumbling in his chest when he registers that the space between both of his hands is indeed larger than it had been a couple of months ago.

"Nonsense!" He guffaws, "There's just more ta love." He hums, hands pinching the fat at your sides, evidently too content with your position as his human furnace to even think about detaching from you. "Oh yeah, you've filled out. Yae know hens love the dad bod, get some more hair on yer chest an' you'll be reeling the bucks in too."

"That-" You have to bite your lip when his hands suddenly shoot up to grope your pecks. He pushes them together and buries his face in the cleavage created. Your brain completely shuts off when he fucking motorboats you, shaking his head and making a sound right against your chest to the point you're sure you can feel the vibrations in your spine.

"MacT-avish!" The sound that escapes you is humorously high-pitched for someone of your size, your voice cracking as you feel your entire face grow hot.

He pokes his head back out like a whack-a-mole, a very pleased look on his face. "Yeeess?" He asks, sickly sweet. "Something the problem big man?"

"I-" You try, too many thoughts weighing down your tongue, "-You-" this time your voice cracks, "-why-" you hiccup, your lungs choosing this time to request air as you breathe in. You look in his eyes as best you can, but the way the sparkle makes it difficult for your body to stoke the flames of anger you've grown so used to feel. ". . . блят." You finally manage to say, your shoulders sagging.

He grins at you, his hands sliding down to pet the soft surface of your stomach, fingers pressing down to feel the hard muscle beneath the fat. "Aye, big bear of a fucker, you are." He grins and goes on his tippy toes, the shirt moving up with him before he lightly pecks your lips. "Yae look good like this."

"Yeah?" You grunt, trying not to show how the soft touch affects you but your ears feel like you'd dipped them into the pits of hell.

"Definitely." He's confident when his hands slides down to grope your ass, forcing another embarrassing sound from your chest. "Now how about we get some more food in yer belly? Make you the famous MacTavish pie."

[macfrog]

rack 'em

the girlies watched triple frontier last week and it was the single most inspiring thing i have ever seen so here’s a lil frankie fic to cleanse my mind. dedicated to my babies @gracieispunk (who put this concept in my head for the wee laddies), @hellishjoel & @strang3lov3 🤍

pairing: bbf!frankie morales x f!reader

summary: when your parents ask you to housesit for them, you take the opportunity to spend some quality time back in your hometown, hanging with your older brother and...getting reacquainted with his best friend

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) reader is santiago's younger sister, she and frankie do not get along, teasing & touching, dubcon (reader is a little drunk, frankie is not), oral sex (f receiving), alcohol consumption, quick mention of dr*gs, cursing, frankie's a bit of a dick but reader gives as good as she gets

word count: 6.1k (cause apparently i don’t know how to write short fics 🤪)

main masterlist

When you were four, a new family moved in across the street. Nobody knew them – your mom spent two straight days trying to scoop for information. Who they were, where they’d moved from, what was with the banged-up Ford pickup they drove. Nobody knew a thing.

You didn’t take much interest, being four years old – two months shy of your fifth birthday, by the way – and too invested in whatever politics a woman of your age finds herself wrapped up in, but you noticed one key thing about them.

The mom had tattoos.

Two full sleeves. Colorful ones, too. A bright red heart on her shoulder, a green snake wrapped around her forearm – among others. It was fucking cool, alright? No matter how much your mom whispered to Ms. Teller over the fence about them.

One night, when you were supposed to be in bed, you snuck out of your room and crossed the landing to your brother’s. Santiago and his friends were all staying at Tom’s, and you knew that in his desk he had permanent markers. You clicked the door open, as quiet as you could, and crept over his matted carpet to the drawer. You took one Sharpie, and spent the night adding snakes and hearts and whatever else came to mind to your Barbies’ arms, legs, faces, necks.

They looked fucking awesome. Just like that mom across the street.

But somehow or other – and I’m not blaming anyone – the next morning, a drawing appeared on the bathroom wall. In Sharpie. Your mom hit the roof.

As soon as Santi got home, she dragged him by the ear into the bathroom and pointed a trembling finger at the drawing. You forget what it was – it’s been years, and you were never much of an artist.

His plea of innocence helped him none; she knew he owned Sharpies, knew he sucked just as bad as you did at drawing, and he was grounded for three whole weeks. No soccer practice, no TV, no PlayStation. Which, at thirteen, is basically a stint in Rikers.

Your brother, though…he was always better than your mom at reading your mind. He saw the guilt on your face plain as the black marker behind the toilet tank. He cornered you in your bedroom as soon as she went back downstairs, and established three key rules going forward.

One: do not enter his room ever again.

Two: no touching his stuff.

And three: anytime he took the fall for you, you owed him. Big time.

You’ve followed the rules ever since. You barely knew what the inside of his room looked like, growing up. But it worked, ‘cause ever since the Sharpie incident of ’99, you two remained closer than most siblings with an eight-year age gap.

So, now, two days into a two-week stay back in your hometown to housesit while your parents head off on a cruise to celebrate their anniversary, you’re in the car with him. Listening to music, bitching about your mom, arguing over the best Cola flavor.

It’s like old times.

“She said, How’s my baby girl?” you yell over Stevie Nicks’s voice, reading from your phone.“And when I said I’m fine, she said, No, I meant the dog. Is she fucking serious?”

Santiago’s head tilts back with laughter, dark curls nudging against the headrest. He’s driving you to Lucky’s, a local sports bar he and his buddies frequent. He promised when he picked you up at the airport he’d take you out, get you drunk, and he was holding to it.

You pull your legs down off the dash as he turns into the parking lot, pulling in right under the white fluorescent sign, four-leaf clover flashing under it.

“She’s looking forward to seeing you when they get back,” he tells you, switching the engine off.

“Oh, yeah? That why she didn’t even hang around to see me before they left?”

He hands you a smug grin, shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t have it all, big shot. You move a thousand miles away, you forfeit your chance of being the favorite.”

You swing your door open and hop out, chasing him around the car to follow him inside. “You say that like I was ever in the fucking running.”

He snorts, pushing the door open, and a loud cheer roars through the bar. You blush as you follow your brother across the room to two tables full of familiar faces.

“Hey, baby.” Your best friend’s arms pull you in, her gold hoop earrings cold against your cheek. She smells like rose and cedarwood.

“Mal,” you hum, smiling as she pulls away.

“My mom said your parents only just made it on board,” she says, detaching strands of her long, black hair from the cuff of your jacket. “Said they had a flat tire and had to race to get to the boat.”

Your head jerks back. “She never told me any of that. Just asked how Ange was.”

Mal snorts.

“Hey, lil Santi!”

You glance over your shoulder to watch as Benny Miller stalks over, almost shoving some old guy off his feet, arms wide open, wide grin spread across his lips. His brother, Will, follows behind, and gives your shoulder a loving slap when Benny pulls you in for a hug.

“How’s Boston treatin’ ya?”

“Good,” you reply. “How’s…MMA treating you?”

“Good!” he echoes, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline.

It’s kinda part of the deal that your older brother’s friends become brothers in their own right to you, especially when you’re as young and easily-influenced as you were. They used to use you in their elaborate plans – send you in as a distraction while they filled their pockets with food at parties, or use your smaller stature to their advantage when attempting to break into places they shouldn’t.

By the time you were old enough to follow their orders, they were well into their teens. Which is basically grown-up, as far as six-year-old you was concerned. They were always allowed to do things you’re still not sure your mom would permit you to do at twenty-eight, like disappear all day without checking in, or come home black and blue after an organized street brawl with the boys from the other side of the neighborhood.

But there was no denying they cared about you. Will, Benny, and Tom, at least. They showed their affection by ruffling your hair as they passed, or sneaking you candy under the table even after your mom had told you you’d had enough. They’d christened you ‘lil Santi’, a name that – despite the embarrassment it always casts over you anytime you hear it – still sticks to this day.

Your brother’s friends were family to him, and, by extension, family to you.

Well. All but one.

Frankie Morales – nickname Catfish: long-time best buddy of your big brother, and long-time fucking asshole. There isn’t one thing on Earth that you two see eye to eye on, except for that very fact: he hates you almost as much as you hate him.

Always have, always will.

He’s in trouble almost regularly for drug-related stuff you don’t bother asking Santiago about. You don’t need to hear details to know he’s a pain in the ass. He’s been antagonizing you for as long as you’ve known him – where the others ruffled your hair, he’d shove into your shoulder as he passed, sending you – and whatever you were holding – flying. Any attempt you made at conversation with any one of them resulted in an argument between you and Frankie.

You hated him. Fucking hated him.

And tonight, you almost think yourself lucky. Almost go over to thank Santi for not inviting him, when you notice the silhouette of his baseball cap and that denim button up hunched over in a bar stool, and your eyes narrow.

You can’t help yourself. It’s been a years-long feud. And you’re old enough to take him on now. So, you stride over.

“You here to poison my drink?”

“What?” he asks, shaking his head. Already exasperated just by the sight of you.

“I bet you cheered the loudest when I walked in.”

He shrugs. “Cheered when your brother gave me fifty bucks to show face.”

Your upper lip curls. When the bartender notices you standing, elbows propped on the bar, he leans over.

“Beer, please.” Your smile twists into a grimace when you catch Frankie watching you. “What are you doing here? You have to be the person least excited to see me home.”

“I told you,” he says, lifting the bottle to his lips, “I’m bein’ paid.”

“Alright, so what do I gotta pay you to make you leave?”

Frankie scoffs, opens his mouth to answer what you’re sure is a comment laced with just as much venom, when Will’s strong arms slap down on each of your shoulders.

“We buyin’ our favorite veterinary nurse a drink, Francisco?”

You take your beer from Nick’s outstretched hand, sliding him the cash in return, and hold it up to Will in reply. “I’m good, thanks. Wouldn’t wanna eat into that fifty bucks, Catfish,” you mutter, turning to wander off.

You weave in and out of bodies, making your way to the opposite side of the bar where the pool tables sit. Doused in the warm strip light over the green felt, Santi chalks his cue ready to play against Mal, who’s already lining up her shot.

You hop up on a stool right next to the table, glancing back over to the bar where Frankie sits, now turned to face your direction. His elbow sits on the wooden surface, head turns from the football game showing behind the bar, over to you. And when he sees you looking, turns back to the TV screen, cool expression never changing.

“You done?” Mal asks Santiago, feeding the cue through her ring-decorated fingers.

He nods, tossing the chalk back over to you. “Better get your purse out, Bennett. Lotta sober people in here, all gonna want a free drink once you lose.”

“As if,” she breathes, and breaks the rack.

Somewhere throughout the game – a grueling and controversial one, by all accounts – Frankie makes his way over, following Will. You’re thankful when he plants himself on the other side of the table, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other around a bottle of beer. Though the light only comes up to his chest, right where the last button is done up, you notice him looking. Every fucking glance.

It pisses you off. Not the glancing. The way it makes you feel having him watch you. Wherever it comes from, you swallow it down with one big gulp of alcohol.

The game ends in a questionable loss. This side of the table swears the white skimmed off of Mal’s final solid when Santi hit it, right before it potted the black. The other side objected, claimed it was a clean shot ‘n you all know it. A winner wasn’t officially announced, but, being that Mallory Bennett is a force of nature where her competitive nature is concerned, Santiago was forced to buy the loser’s round.

She saunters up to you with her free whiskey in her hand, silver jewelry clinking off of the cold glass.

“Proud of yourself?” you ask, smirking.

She hands you your third beer of the night, sweeping her silky hair out of her face. “It hit it, alright? I saw it move.”

“Was that before or after you nudged the table?”

Mal holds a finger to her lips. You swat her hand away and the pair of you giggle, leaning into each other like schoolgirls whispering secrets in the playground.

“You know something,” Santiago materializes over Mal’s shoulder, shaking his head, “if you gotta cheat to beat me, I’ll give you the win.”

“Oh, get out,” you throw back. “Don’t blame her for your bad aim. Ms. Teller could’ve hit that shot and she’s got cataracts in both eyes.”

Your brother nods at you, tongue in his cheek. “Alright, smartass. Grab a cue.”

You scoff. Look around the room, shaking your head. The crowd has dispersed a little, folks have turned back to the TV screens, shifted focus back to the alcohol in their glasses. And then you look back to Santiago, holding his arms out.

“Alright. Fuck it.”

You hop down and snatch the second cue, wandering around the table while he racks the balls. He lifts the triangle, rolls the white over to you, and tells you to break.

The multicolored balls scatter in a fleet, two stripes tumble into pockets, and you stand back to survey your options. There’s a third stripe close to a pocket on the right, so you wander around to your left and turn.

“’scuse me,” you mutter, nudging Frankie’s stomach with the bottom of your cue.

He shoots you a dead-eyed stare, and takes one step back. And then his eyes drop, and you feel like you could slap him.

But you’re three – almost four – beers deep, and there are heads turning to watch how this plays out, and you can feel the bassline of the music rippling up from the soles of your feet all through your body, and you can feel the heat of his stare on the backs of your thighs, right where the hem of your dress sits.

Suddenly, slapping isn’t what you want to do to him.

Your head turns back to the pool table and you bend over, drawing the cue back between almost shaking fingers, and slam it into the white. It fires into the red striped ball, which hits the corner of the cushion, millimeters away from falling into the pocket.

You sigh, straightening up and waiting for your brother to begin his taunting, but it never comes. Instead, he fishes into his pocket for his phone, tapping the screen and holding it to his ear.

“Yep?” There’s a pause, Santiago’s face sours, and then he glances around the bar. “Right now? Really? No, it’s just…” He sighs. “Alright. I’ll be there. Just…I’m coming. I’m coming.”

He hangs up the phone and curses under his breath, then turns back to you, answering the question on your expression with: “One of our informants just got himself killed. I gotta go.”

“You haven’t even taken a shot yet,” you huff, taking his cue when he holds it out.

“I’ll make it up to you, hermana, promise. How are you gonna get home?”

You shrug. Mumble an, “I dunno.”

His eyes scan the room, passing over Will – already worse for wear, leaning shakily against a nearby table slurring to a group of strangers, then to Benny – stumbling out of the bar door with some girl on his arm, and finally land on the figure behind you, sliding a bowl of peanuts across the table to himself.

“Morales,” Santiago calls, and you throw the cues down on the felt.

“No, no way,” but your brother is already pushing past you to get to his friend. “Pope, no fucking w–”

Frankie turns, handful of nuts, cheek full and chewing.

“I gotta go, trouble at work. Can you do me a favor, man, ‘n make sure she gets home alright?”

“No,” you repeat. “He is not taking me home.”

“Baby,” Santi pleads, “just go with him, please?”

“I’ll walk. It’s, like, a twenty-minute walk.”

“No way. Mom would kill me.”

“Well, then, we just don’t tell her. Pope, please.”

He ignores you. “You are not walking home after dark. No.”

“Probably be safer than in the truck with him.”

Frankie’s head stops flitting between the two of you and his glare settles on yours. “Fuck you,” he spits, shaking his head.

“Right back at you,” you reply, insincere smile on your lips.

Santiago puts his palms together and holds them out to you. “Look, just – please. Just this once. I’ll owe you one.”

He doesn’t owe you one often. Makes a point of deliberately trying not to owe you one. This is an interesting offer. You sigh, and roll your eyes.

“Fine. You better fucking pay me back, though!”

“You got it,” he says, patting your shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he whispers to Frankie as he passes, slipping through the crowd toward the exit.

You and Frankie are left, two feet apart, filled with silence and resentment.

“You looking for someone else to hand your ass to you, lil Santi?” he asks, tossing another handful of peanuts into his mouth.

“You’re funny.” You hand him a smile, which drops the second he looks at it.

But when you turn back to the table and lift the cues, you hand one to him. Push it into his chest, shoot him a narrow-eyed glance.

“One game. And only ‘cause I need a sub.”

He dusts his hands together, shrugs. “Shouldn’t take me too long.”

You stalk back over to Mal, who’s giggling into her glass. “You two are unbelievable.”

“Don’t.” You hold your hand up, taking another swig of beer as Frankie lines up.

On his first shot, he pots that same red you were trying to hit before. His eyes lift only for a second, but you catch the cocky look he throws you and screw your face up.

“Fucking…ass,” you whisper.

Frankie’s shoulders jump, his teeth take his bottom lip. He’s laughing to himself when he takes his next shot, and pots another stripe. And then he stands up straight, holds his hands out.

“Just tell me when.”

“When what?”

“To start going easy on you.”

Fuck off. Fuck off, fuck you, fuck this. Fuck!

One more ball potted and finally, fucking finally, he misses a shot. It’s an impossible shot, anyway, there’s no way in hell he was gonna make it, but that’s not what matters. What matters is the way you twirl your cue in your fingers, then lift it and wander around the table, squeezing between Frankie and the wooden edge to get to your shot.

Your ass brushes past his jeans, and when you turn your head to whisper a sarcastic Sorry, he fucking growls. Low, almost inaudible. But just enough for you to notice, and enough for you to keep pissing him off.

The buzz you’re getting from antagonizing him this much must awaken some sort of billiards skillset you never knew you fucking had, because you pocket four balls in quick succession. Red, then green, then blue, and purple. There’s one ball between you when Frankie rounds the table, eyes scanning the felt for the next best shot he can take.

“Hurry the fuck up,” you mutter as he passes by you, on his third lap of the table.

He tsks. “Impatient,” he replies, shoulder brushing yours heavily. You feel the rough denim of his jeans graze your thighs, the weight of him against your backside for the second time. You push back, leaning into him as he moves past, then leans over, slinks his cue between his fingers, and takes his shot.

The yellow sails into the nearest pocket like there’s a magnet pulling it. The purple does the exact same – he barely has to tap it with the tip of the cue and it’s dropping in atop its predecessor.

Frankie turns, shimmying a little up the table, hip nudging yours out of the way. “Move,” he mumbles, shutting one eye to aim for the black. “Come on…” he breathes, and then shoots.

It bounces off of the opposite side of the table, thudding off of the cushion before it’s rolling toward the pocket and dropping in with a plunk.

He stands, fixing his baseball cap, and leans the cue against the table. “Good game, loser,” he says, ruffling your hair as he passes you.

“What age are you?” you sneer as he wanders back off to his beer, waiting for him on the table next to his bowl of peanuts.

Will wraps an unsteady arm around your shoulder as Frankie tips his bottle against his lips. He’s swaying, dragging you left and right with him as if you’re on a boat.

“He’s…he’s always been the best outta us all,” Will slurs, using his bottle to point at Frankie. “’s why he’s such a good pilot. Good aim.”

You sigh, pushing his heavy arm off yourself and slip back over to Mal, who hands you a sad smile and fixes your hair.

“It was a good attempt,” she says.

“Oh, shut up,” you reply, tossing your bottle up and draining the last of it onto your tongue. “I need another drink.”

You cross the room, suddenly less blurry and tilted, more boring and flat, and lean over the bar. “Nick,” you call, and he twists around, “grab me another–”

“It’s alright, Nick,” a voice yells over your shoulder, “I think she’s good.”

You spin around and it’s that stupid fucking baseball cap and the stupid denim button up again.

“What, I’m not allowed to drink now?”

Frankie’s head cocks. “You don’t think you’ve had enough?”

“I’ve had three. Three beers. The fuck is your problem?”

He tuts, glances left and right, and then back to you. “I think I should get you home.”

“I think you should mind your business.”

“Are you this fucking difficult with everyone when you’re drunk?”

“Nope,” you beam at him, “just you.”

He lets go of the grip he has on your arm and starts backing away. “I’m leaving, baby,” he tells you, nodding goodbye to Nick. “You’re either coming, or Pope’s gonna hear all about it.”

You ball your fists, watching the door swing closed behind him. Your feet stay rooted to the ground, eyes flitting from the parking lot over to Mal, who lifts her arms in a question. You shake your head in response, and her shoulders drop.

Sorry, you mouth, beginning to walk off in Frankie’s footsteps.

Mal blows you a kiss, winks once, and then salutes you goodbye. You shoulder out of the bar.

The ride back to your parents’ place is silent, except for the dull drone of whatever fucking music Frankie has choking out of his radio. You watch your hometown pass by, never taking your eyes off of the blurry streetlights or passing mailboxes, refusing to turn your head further than the middle of the windscreen at him.

He’s humming along to the song, jaw swinging as he chews on gum, arm hanging out of his open window. Everything he does is so fucking irritating, like a constant buzzing in your ear, an eyelash stuck in your eye, the feeling of stepping on a wet floor in socks.

So why, every time you do sneak a glance of him out of your peripheral, does the sight of those focused brown eyes, the strands of gray in his beard, the way his curls flick under the brim of his cap – why does it all stir something inside of you?

Frankie pulls up across the street from your house, white wood a milky blue in the moonlight. You unbuckle your seatbelt and let the strap whip off of your body, rattling against the interior of the truck. The most you’re willing to offer him is a nod of the head in thanks, which he returns, and your fingers hook around the door latch.

“Hey, mind if I come in ‘n use your bathroom?” he asks.

You pause. “Uh, yeah. I mind. No.”

“Come on, baby, I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

You scoff, ignoring him and slip down out of the truck. The door slams closed and you wander over to your parents’ drive, hearing a second slam as you cross the street.

“Uh, where do you think you’re going?”

“If your mom knew you weren’t letting me use her bathroom, she’d kill you, ‘n you know it.”

“My mom doesn’t know you like I know you, asshole,” you retort, but he’s still following you to the front door. “Just – alright. Do me a favor and disinfect it once you’re done. I don’t need them coming home to piss all over the floor.”

“You think my aim’s that bad? Just schooled you in a game of pool.”

You sigh, refusing to rise, and open the door. There’s the gentle scuffing of claws on the wooden flooring, trotting nearer and nearer in the dark hallway, and then the weight of your childhood dog shoves into your body.

“Hi, Angie. Hi, girl,” you whisper, scratching the dog’s white fur, her front paws against your tummy.

She jumps down when Frankie slips in behind you, wandering over with her tail swinging back and forth. He crouches down and holds his hand out, cooing, “Hi, baby,” as she nuzzles against his palm.

“She likes most folks who come by,” you utter, hanging your coat over the banister. “Don’t think you’re special.”

“She always loved me most,” he says, still fussing over the pup, “didn’t you, girl? Yeah, yeah you did.”

You roll your eyes and wander upstairs, leaving Frankie to find the bathroom, use it, and fuck off on his own.

It’s been almost eight years since you last lived here, but your room still looks oddly similar. Same bedframe, different sheets. Same wallpaper, only not covered in posters of your favorite bands. Same shelves, too, just that they hold stuff like vases and seashells and other random ornaments your mom’s picked up, rather than a collection of your favorite movies or framed photos of you and your friends.

You pull your dress over your shoulders and kick your boots off, grabbing a tee from your bag to sleep in. The Nirvana logo lies loose across your chest, the hem dancing along the line of your panties.

As you kneel on the mattress, tossing the million and one fucking pillows your mom has stacked down to the foot of the bed, you hear the door creak open.

“Damn,” Frankie mutters, glancing around the room, “haven’t been in here since I was, what, seventeen?”

“Weren’t welcome then, still not welcome now.”

“You still got that Black Eyed Peas poster rolled up somewhere?” He’s walking in, boots scuffing along the wooden floor.

“Are you lost?”

He looks over to you, stood by the bed, t-shirt barely reaching your thighs. “You know something, you ‘n your brother are so fucking different, it amazes me you’re related.”

“I imagine there’s a lot that amazes you, dumbass.”

He scoffs. There’s a hint of genuine humor in it. Like he’s impressed. And then his eyes scan down your body, lingering on the bare skin of your legs, shifting up to the pink cotton of your panties. They shoot back up when you speak again.

“Seriously, dude. What are you still doing here?”

Frankie turns to the dresser by the window, adorned with framed pictures of you and Santi as kids. “Making sure you get home alright, like Pope told me to.”

“Well,” you shrug, “I’m home, ‘n I’m alright. So…”

He picks up a silver frame; inside, faded by the sun and years that have passed, lives a photograph of you and your brother. He’s on his BMX bike, wide, toothless grin, and you’re behind him, standing on the pegs and gripping onto his t-shirt sleeves as you battle not to fall off.

Frankie laughs a little, turning the frame to show you. “You were always so fuckin’ annoying, you know that?” And then, with a shake of his head as he sets the frame back down, “Still are.”

You cock your head, throwing your hands up with an infuriated sigh. “If I’m so annoying, then why are you still here?”

The look he gives when he turns back around answers that question for you, in a way that his words never could. Never would, to be honest. He’d never admit the thoughts running through his head right now, same as you won’t admit that, likewise, they’re running through yours.

It’d be fucking weird. It’d be wrong, hooking up with his best friend’s little sister. Santi only asked him to get you home safe, not follow you inside, walk straight into your bedroom, look at you the way he’s looking at you right now, silhouetted by the streetlight shining through your still-open shades.

So then, why can’t he walk away?

You make to step forward, and Frankie’s already moving. He meets you halfway, stood on some fancy-looking rug your mom probably spent too much money on, his arms instantly finding your waist underneath your short tee.

“You fuckin’ piss me off, you know that?”

“I know,” you breathe, bottom lip brushing against his, “I know.”

He pushes you backward, sends you stumbling across the floor on your toes until the back of your calves hit the mattress and you fall, dragging him down on top of you. You knock the baseball cap from his head and run your hands through his brown curls, pulling him nearer as his hands begin to move north under the worn cotton of your shirt.

His rough hands cup your breasts, kneading and pinching your nipples as his lips fall to your neck, sucking a bruise into your soft skin.

“Frankie,” you breathe, “what the fuck are we–?”

“Shut up,” he whispers back, teeth grazing over your collarbone. He’s moving down, kissing over your tee as he goes, until he’s kneeling on the floor, your legs dangling off the bed either side of his body.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, watching him as he presses fleeting kisses to the insides of your thighs, making his way closer and closer to your center, covering ground painfully slow.

“Would you – just – fucking – get there?” you ask, head tilting back with a groan.

“Always so fucking impatient,” he mutters, pulling your legs further apart. “Makes sense, though,” he whispers, finger hooking around your underwear, “already so wet.”

“Dick,” you hiss, laying back flat on the bed.

Frankie holds the lace off of your core and then dips his jaw, lips lightly ghosting across your folds. You hum with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance, ready to buck your hips up to him if it’ll just make him move faster.

But you don’t have to wait a second longer. He licks one broad stripe up your center, pressing one chaste kiss to your clit before his tongue dips where you need him most. Your legs go to clamp shut, stopped by his shoulders.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you moan, hand coming down to knot your fingers in his hair.

He hums against your pussy, tongue lapping inside you, nose at the perfect angle for you to rut your clit against.

“Fuck…” you repeat, and he fucking laughs against you. “Quit it,” you hiss, and he lifts his head.

Your eyes shoot open, finding his. Alarmed meeting cool.

“Fine,” he says, smirking. “I’ll quit it.”

“Don’t you fucking– Frankie.”

“Your words, baby.” He shrugs, eyes flitting down to your cunt, soaked under his touch.

“I didn’t mean it,” you moan. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”

He looks back up. The corners of his mouth pull his smirk into a grin. Some devilish grin, thick with arrogance.

“I’m an asshole,” he echoes, elastic of your panties shifting up to his knuckles.

He watches your cunt as he does it. Runs two fingers between your folds, coating them in your arousal, dipping them deeper until they’re at your entrance.

Your head hits the bed heavily, your body writhing over the white sheets as he pushes closer and closer. His free hand comes up and pushes down on your tummy, holding you steady to the mattress, then –

“I’m the asshole.”

He inserts his fingers, curled, thick, stretching you out over his hand as he pushes in deep. A gasp passes through your lips, exchanging itself for a throaty moan when Frankie begins fucking you on his hand, lowering his lips to your clit again.

His wrist pumps in and out, tongue swirling over the swollen bud, palm pushing harder into your stomach to keep you from upsetting his rhythm with how badly you want to move around.

Your fingers lock a vice grip around his hair, your hips the only part of your body he’ll let you move. You establish a pace of your own, fucking up to meet his fingers, grinding yourself on his wet tongue.

“I’m close,” you pant, Nirvana logo distorted in ruffles at the base of your neck. “So fucking close, Frankie.”

And he can feel it. Feel you tightening around his hand, feel the rhythm of your hips start to miss beats, move clockwise instead of up and down. He can hear as your mouth stops rounding the words, fading into slurs and breaths and moans instead of coherent language.

“F-Frankie,” you cry out, and it’s like music to his ears. “’m there, I’m–”

“On my mouth, baby,” he mutters, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with his lips again, tongue pushing inside you as you fall apart all over him.

Your back lifts from the bed, fists ball around his hair, pushing his face even harder against your cunt as you ride out your high. You’re moaning his name over and over, echoing off the walls of your little room, escaping out the door and swirling around the hallway.

If you could hear yourself, or cared enough to try, you’d feel fucking embarrassed at what you’re doing – coming apart under Frankie’s touch. It’s Frankie.

The same Frankie you started an argument with one Fourth of July over which was better: ketchup or mustard; the two of you spitting insults over the striped tablecloth, obscene hand gestures being thrown up over plates of burgers.

The same Frankie who’d found out it was you who drew on the wall, and from that day on used it as leverage anytime you set a foot out of line. Used it to shut you up, anytime you so much as thought about talking back, or ratting on the boys.

You’re supposed to hate him. Ask anyone – Santi, Mal, your parents. They’ll all say the same. Like cat and dog.

And yet, here you are. Begging him not to stop, keep his hands and his mouth on you; gasping for breath when he eventually lifts away from you and you collapse back into the bed.

You glance down from under heavy lids, watching as he kisses your thighs again, slowly bringing you back to the room. His chin’s glistening, covered in your cum, beard soaked in you.

You slowly sit up, holding yourself steady with two palms pushed into the mattress. Frankie readjusts your underwear and sits back on his heels, running a hand down his chin and wiping himself clean.

“That was…” you pant, waiting for him to finish the sentence.

He just nods, breathing heavy himself. “Yeah.”

“I gotta…I gotta let…Ange out,” you say, words swaddled by your breath.

Frankie nods again. “I should go.”

You stand at the same time, straightening up face to face. His right side is lit warmly by your bedside lamp, the brown of his eye reflecting a tiny yellow orb back at you; the left side is darker, flecks of hair lit in the pale light from the street, face dark and unreadable. Like he’s two different people, split down the middle now, a before and after.

You’re staring at one another, mapping every inch of the other’s face. Learning it, like it’s new. Like you’ve never really seen each other until right now.

And then he’s turning, picking his hat up from the floor in one swooping motion, and walking out of your bedroom. A deep sigh passes your lips as he goes, relief mixed with satisfaction. And then you follow.

Angie circles him when his boots thud down from the bottom step. He bends to give her more attention, waiting for you to softly pad down alongside him. The dog trots off toward the kitchen, and he turns to you.

He’s back to his unphased self, jaw circling around the gum that he’s still fucking chewing. “Two drinks you owe me, now, lil Santi.”

You cock your head. “Hm?”

“One for showing your ass at pool, ‘n another for that.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Morales.”

He snorts, wandering off down the hall. You spin on your heel and follow the sound of Ange scraping the back door, throwing a glance over your shoulder.

Frankie meets your eye, and like a reflex, the pair of you toss the finger to one another. He laughs, stepping out onto the porch.

“Anytime you feel like losing again, you know where I am, baby.”

----------

taglist: @serenaxpedro @bitchwitch1981 @brittmb115 @stormseyer @scarletthefierce @pattwtf @pascalpvnk @jediknightjana @mrsquill @uncassettodiricordi @gracieispunk @hellishjoel

(lmk if i’ve missed you out & check my taglist info for how to be added!)

[fallingthruspace]

Lost Boys AU where Max is the only one that dies & Lucy just sort of...adopts everyone.

- David, Dwayne, Paul, Marko & Laddie are now Her Boys just as much as Michael & Sam.

- David calls her Lucy, Dwayne calls her Mrs. Emerson, Paul & Marko both call her Ma.

- Even Star is brought into the family & Lucy is beyond happy to have another girl around the house.

- The cave is still used for partying/hanging out/etc but for the most part they've all moved into the Emerson house. The attic windows were blacked out & the vamps sleep up there by hanging from wooden beams.

- Laddie had a bed up there too so he can "share a bedroom" with his brothers.

- Paul forgives Nanook for almost killing him and they are now Best Friends.

- Nanook essentially becomes their Hell Hound and positions himself outside the attic door during the day.

- Dwayne is Grandpa Emersons favorite because he isn't a pain in the ass & is good with cars.

- Sam wasn't really a fan of this new situation at first but eventually warmed up to it. Now he likes having five extra brothers (even if four of them are vampires)

- The vamps & the Frog brothers have a tentative sort of truce.

- Contrary to popular belief vampires can be photographed & Lucy gets a big family photo taken of everyone to hang up in the living room.

[sad-ghost-of-garbage]

Nicknames with the Lost Boys

Affectionate and Goofy nicknames for and from the boys

Author: SadGhostofGarbage Warnings: this is a crackfic! It’s only semi serious. There is some NSFW headcannons so MDNI!

David:

David’s nicknames for reader: Kitten, Kitty, Kit Cat, Doll face, Beloved, and My Queen (Yes even as a male reader, David believes himself the King so naturally his partner is his other half despite gender. He regards his partner as the chess Queen to his King; here is a lil blurb of how I see the conversation going, the first time it happens.

Male reader x David: “Um David, why did you call me your Queen? I am a whole grown ass man?” “Beloved, you are the most important piece on my chess board, since I'm clearly the King, you are my other half.” The bastard has the audacity to say condescendingly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You do realize that means I should be protecting you right?” That wipes the smirk right off his face, and he narrows his eyes at you. “Absolutely not happening”. He says with teeth grit in a firm line. “You are not putting yourself in any danger ever.” “Then by chess standards that makes you the Queen”. It was your turn for the shit eating grin, the expression on his face was priceless. It is definitely one of your favorite ways to tease him from that moment on. If however it causes you discomfort he will refrain from using it. But that doesn’t mean you can’t still tease him with it. You will be punished accordingly after every instance you jokingly call him “my Queen”, but teasing him is half the fun. Side note, Paul tries to help by suggesting you combine the two, “One of you can be, Quee-ing, and the other can be Ki-een. BOOM! Problem solved, you’re welcome!” Spoiler… It does not solve the problem.

Things that David secretly loves being called, its a “secret” because he “doesn’t do nicknames”: Handsome, Cowboy, My King, My one, My love, basically anything that has a possessive edge implying that David is readers everything (Daddy loves to be needed)

Things reader (and the boys) call him that he “hates”: Daviey (Paul’s go to mostly), Marko calls him Daddy as if he were confessing to a Catholic priest during confession; “Daddy I’ve been naughty” instead of “forgive me father for I have sinned”. Chaos ensues and you will catch David chasing Marko around the cave on multiple occasions for this very reason. David won’t admit out loud that he’s okay with his partner calling him Daddy but he does prefer Sir, but if it revs your engines then he will graciously allow you to call him Daddy. Moral of the story… David is a butthead.

Names David actually hates being called: Baby, And any nickname that is overly obnoxious like : Stud muffin, or Pookie.

Dwayne:

Dwayne’s nicknames for reader; Darling, Sweetheart, Baby/Babygirl/Babyboy (if it is Babyboy, just know Paul is jealous), Mama or Nobi for a non gendered version (of a parental name that both he and Laddie call a parental figure reader), Prince/Princess/Princex

Dwayne’s nicknames from the reader and the boys, they are all fair game for D-man: Papa, Big man, D, Snuggle bear, Big Cat, Baby Daddy

Nicknames that are affectionate when it comes from reader, and jokingly when coming from the boys: Gigantus, Tall Dark and Dracula, Skater boy, Dork

Paul:

Paul’s nicknames for Reader: Sugar, babe, bug, Beautiful/Handsome/Gorgeous, Hot Stuff, My cute lil capri sun! If you're still human. Bit will continue to call you that after you become a vamp as well, he just likes biting. (fun fact I looked up when capri-sun came out, the answer? 1969! its cannon!)

Paul’s nicknames from reader and the boys: Paulie, Puppy, Pretty boy, jellybelly~ Paul got high af and cried because his blood wasn’t jelly bean flavored after he ate 12 bags of them. “I wanna be a jellybean damn it” 😭 NSFW: I saw a post going around about sucking Paul’s dick and my brain went… ah a Paulie pop… and now it lives rent free in my head so have that too

Marko:

Marko’s nicknames for reader: Angel, Dove, Love, precious one, Sunshine, Tesoro / my treasure (if you headcannon him as an Italian, as many do 😉) the Juliet to his Romeo if you're a fem reader (until you point out that Juliet was like 13 and Romeo was 16. And comparing your love to that of children was not as romantic as he assumed it was. Those names quickly get abandoned)

Nicknames for Marko: Cassanova, Italian Stallion, Stud, Angel (the first time reader calls him angel you both argue over who gets to call the other angel, and it ends with an intervention from David. “You are both little devils, you brats!” you both continue to call each other angel, and David continues to call you both little devils.)

Nicknames that will get get you (or the boys) in trouble and not the good kind: Cherub, bird boy.

side note, I'd love to hear what nicknames you guys think the boys like being called and call their partners

Taglist: @ria-coolgirl, @britany1997, @henhouse-horrors. If you want added to my Lost Boys taglist lemme know!

[acutemushroom]

I think I figured out why Laddie intrigued me so much despite having so little characterization apart from "the kid of the group".

It's because he's actually such a good mix of the whole cast and middle ground between the two factions(the Lost Boys and the Emerson & co.) of the movie. I'll explain myself:

Like Star and Micheal, he too is a fledgling vampire. Yet, he, seemingly, doesn't seem to resent this condition. Like Star, he starts the movie as a Lost Boy but, contrarily to her, doesn't seem to fear/be uncomfortable around the boys. Heck, is only real dialogues, albeit background ones, is him excitedly telling Marko about a teddy bear he saw. Marko being the most violent of the guys. Laddie wouldn't do that if he was scared of him. Yet, when Micheal was drinking Max's blood, he fled to Star's side instead of cheering like the others. Was it bringing bad memories, was it just the general vibe he didn't like ? Who knows ! But still... that is the only moment where Laddie is visibly scared by the boys.

And I can perfectly see an ending where the Lost Boys win and Laddie willingly goes back with them. It's not like he purposefully betrayed them after all.

His relation with Dwayne and Paul is not too unlike to the one between Micheal and Sam. Different because of the ages, but both are relationship (a) big brother(s) and their little brother.

What I have a hard time saying with all this is that Laddie is a very interesting character as, despite being a blank state, he shows plenty of parallels with others. Plus, he is one of the only characters to not really have a side as he'll really just follow the flow.

I don't know, there is something very interesting about it all

[kobb4ni2]

[ GENDER NEUTRAL (?) FEM (?) READER ]

My Marine! Reader who is very popular, and for the sake of this idea I’m going to give her as a Vice Admiral. I CAN HEAR YALL BOOING OKAY I KNOW SO BASIC LEAVE ME ALONE😔😔

TW: Imagine Gojo fans….but make them Marine!Reader fans. !!! Also I haven’t watch Film Red but I guess there’s some sort of internet platform to share vids or an internet overall, soo take this sh!t talk with salt.

Marine! Reader is a calm and nurturing person, their charisma with their hard working self made them a deserved Vice Admiral. Ever since you sailed out to the sea you’ve attracted many eyes, may it be admiration because of your strength , or awed because of your undeniable beauty even in battle. And even if you’re not in a mission you would always use your heavy berries (YOU’RE A VICE ADMIRAL U HAVE TO GET THOSE BIG BERRIES) to re-visit the town that you just saved, being responsible to the damages and paying for all of it. People there had to rub their eyes to make sure that you were the correct person. When you were in your white layer clothes you would be calm and try your best to be nonchalant making sure that you were deep engrave on your job but when you visited and started making small talk people were shocked! Over time the civilians you’ve saved from the many villages or small islands you’ve saved have accepted you to their communities. They would make small banquets whenever you arrive, even though you told them several times to not do it, they will always go against your words and hope that you eat well.

Kids would play with you even with your intimidating height, they would swing on your arms and whenever you try to leave they would grab on your legs to slow you down, the kids parents might have been worried but when they saw you intriguing them with a smile in your face they immediately calmed their nerves. Grandmas and Grandpas would always pinch the vice admiral’s cheeks, and since they were normal civilians you had to bend down to make squish your cheeks. (IM GETTING CARRIED AWAY IM SORRY)

But back to plot. Your calming and nurture personality, your beauty that could shine in battle has captured many eyes of other marine, civilians or even pirates! And this where the one piece internet goes in.

Aight imagine someone made an edit of Marine! Reader, it could be you fighting, or even doing an official interview! Cool right! But if anyone ever opens the comment section it would be just filled with the most ATROCIOUS, MOUTH GAPING, EYES OUT THE SOCKET down bad comments💀💀 here's some examples.

-

Marine! Reader's Fav pet (real!): "The way that it started getting bricked up like its Bob the builder is crazy 😅‼️(I don't even have a wee wee)"

<3: "ten minutes in the room with them and one is walking out pregnant, and it's not gonna them (I'm a dude)"

hewwo:3 : "JUST THE TIP [NAME] PLEASE IM ON MY FUCKING KNEES, IM SO DESPRATE PLEASE😭😭‼️‼️"

Marine! Reader's bewbs mole: "TILL THE WALLS (not the room) IS COVERED WHITE!!!"

[FOR FEM MARINE!READER] ammniaa: "Want their strap inside of me so bad, that i might think that I'm pregnant brooo😞😞😞"

Astro laddie : "My flaps started clapping out of excitement <3"

Star 4 her: "All lubed up and ready to serve 💓💓"

Beeheaver: "Man I don't care if they're 14'9 tall, ITS GONNA WORK I PROMISE😈😈‼️‼️‼️‼️🔥🔥🔥"

In Marine!Reader I thrust!: "Yes [NAME]~ There~ I'm sensitive there!~ Nghh~~

Marine! Reader's bloody bandages: "CMON [NAME] I CAN'T DO ALL THE WORK MY SELF, MY FINGERS HURTS😾💢"

reimikoba: "My muscle memory will always remember their fingers and tongue (＾▽＾) "

pantsonfire: "Not a fishman but, damn whenever I see them in my screen, it's natural habit suddenly is water from their-"

scary monsterz: "bend over and ready, warm and cozy, toys and liquid on sight"

-

Aw man if yandere [character] ever fins out how popular their beloved Marine! Reader is, they would make sure to cut the wifi GLOBALLY

I'll just end it here, cuz I feel like this is just a stupid ass idea 💀 yall can give me some brain juice aka asks 4 thus doe :3

The edit video I was thinking about when I was making this. (I can't do velocity edits just transition and tweeing💀)

[what-we-do-in-santa-carla]

A Lost Boys Incorrect Quotes Post to Christen My New Blog

Adult! Alan: Sam and I are engaged. Lucy: I really wished you would have asked me first, Alan. Adult! Alan: I'm sorry Mrs. Emerson you aren't really my type. - Star, referring to David: I wouldn't say they're friends so much as ex-covenmates. Michael: No, its true. We're friends. Star: He eats people! Michael: Well, people are complicated. - Paul, staring at a corpse: Now, I'll tell you one thing. You are not looking for a vampire. Adult! Detective! Laddie: Why do you say that? Paul: All that blood? No self-respecting vampire would waste all that sauce. - Star: I wanna show you a picture from last night that really upset me. Marko: Okay, but in my defense, Dwayne bet me 50 cents that I couldn't drink all that shampoo. Star: That's not what I wanted to- you drank shampoo? Marko: What? No. - Michael: I will not be using a loophole, David. As always, I'll be using the main hole or no hole. I choose no hole. Marko: You just said "hole" way too much, Michael. David: And that's coming from Marko. Michael: Yes, that's concerning. - Star: I just want someone to take me out. Paul: Like on a date or with a sniper? Star: Surprise me. - David: Michael? I'm breaking up- Michael: I'm pregnant! David: ...I meant the phone. Michael: Sorry, I panicked. - Star: Are you taken? Yes bitch, taken for granted. @kryptojuice - David: Don't you carry a hair dryer in your purse? Star: Have you ever met a human woman? David: Dwayne? Do you carry a hair dryer in your purse? Dwayne: Of course, I'm not an animal. - Paul: Everything's gonna be fine. Star: You think that because you love me, and love has made you dumb. Paul: I disagree. If anything, love has made me smarter. Remember last week when I boiled that egg? Star: That was big. I was really proud of you. - David: What's the first thing you notice when a man approaches you. Star: The audacity. - Marko: So, I'm just gonna grab a healthy breakfast. David: Are those gummy bears wrapped in a fruit roll up? Marko: Breakfast burrito. Yeah. - Michael: I apologize, mother, for David's actions. Something I find myself doing quite frequently. - (When Michael loses Sam on the boardwalk) Michael: have you seen my brother? Michael: About 5'3", blonde hair, green eyes. Michael: Clearly, gay, but we haven't had the talk.

[bluebutlikenotalways]

Laddies we got an Au

Long post below the cut and some disturbing imagery, so be advised.

So it takes place after Pearl sunk Abalone and his fleeting. This time however her sisters actually stuck around to check on her after everything and actually managed to help her open up…some how.

Though her heart wasn’t stained black she will never be the same.

However she was able to build up the strength to talk to Lord Oyster again. She never fully forgave him for giving away her pearl, but he was there after the attacks to take care of the pirates who had somehow managed to avoid dying to take them to justice. This showed the mermaids that some cookies could be trusted. Because of this Pearl became a guardian for The House of Oyster and oh boy did that do wonders for their reputation!

With her making peace with all her pain she didn’t fully become Black Pearl and is kinda grey(-ish purple) I need to work on her design a bit more obviously, but she followed a lot closer to Crimson and takes her job as a protector seriously enough. Some may wonder if she enjoys a good fight more than defending her friends.

Also her sister and Frilled Jellyfish have her tokens to try and brighten her up some.

Through all this Lord Oyster swore he would redeem himself to his moon (she asked him not to call her that anymore lol) So he dedicated a good chunk of resources to trying to locate her pearl! This mission was passed down through the generations until finally…

Oyster Cookie had finally gotten a big lead and was able to send one of the best captains and his crew out to try and recover it.

Unfortunately they ran into a slight problem.

The sea the pearl was said to be found in was rough and could capsize a ship twice their size. Caviar wanted to go alone, but with a crew as stubborn as he they braved it together as one! (Candy Diver died in a different accident and Caviar still managed to find them and bring them aboard because he’s just that good at sniffing out crew mates.)

Alas it wasn’t just a storm.

It was a trap.

A band of pirates forged a letter hoping Oyster herself would show up so they could get a nice tidy ransom, but when a harder than nails crew showed up in their place they were far from pleased.

The Salty Shark crew hold their ground well, but being outnumbered four to one never seems to end in your favour.

Caviar was the last to go down and was thrown overboard to his watery grave like the rest of his crew. After The Silent’s crew was demolished completely the pirates set out to “commandeer” her, but immediately things started to go wrong for them. Things went so wrong that at least two were killed on their scramble to get off the boat while many more met their soggy fates as they threw themselves overboard in preference to whatever was on their with them.

Guess what movie franchise this is based on :D

As the legend says the captain pulled himself up out of the deep that night and sails his waters of the Duskgloom searching for his crew to bring them safely aboard and finally leave that damned place. However the captain’s kindness runs short with strangers who cross his path, especially those who fly the skull and crossbones.

The Silent is still under his full command and all orders are carried out will full efficiency.

Now Oyster wanted the return of her pearl to be a surprise with a big celebration after, but when the captain never returned and those she sent to look for him disappeared she had few other choices than to send her most capable guard.

[ria-coolgirl]

So I thought back on the lost boys and I noticed that the boys are not really the villains of the story, that honor goes to max, because if you look deep into it the boys are really goons in a way (henchman if you will)

And another thing I noticed was in the song cry little sister the line when said blind boys don’t lie and that got me thinking about the boys deaths.

For example David at first glance is this cool menacing bad boy who is the leader of the lost boys, but when he first sees the main protagonist Michael he is head over heels for him, like seriously he goes out of his way to impress Michael throughout the movie like you would do with a crush. And on top of that he can’t get a word out when he’s around him and always smiling at him and in the maggots and worm scene and bridge scene he uses tactic of scaring as a way of flirting which in the end leads to his death being blinded by love.

For Marko at first glance he is the time bomb of the gang, the first thing he does is get into a fight, cause someone looked at him and the guys wrong and in the motorcycle race when Michael punched David in the face he’s the first one to get up and gets ready to fight him. He is protective of his friends and is always ready to defend them, but he also playful with them and gets food for them because he is loyal, which makes his death all the more saddening that he was asleep during his death vulnerable, unable to do anything, unable to fight back blinded by vulnerability.

For Paul at first is the laidback one of the gang, the one who smiles at everything and is always joking around, in the bridge scene where they are hung over the train tracks he plays with Marko and when they are entering in the cave, he is holding laddie’s hand and jumps around the way down to the cave like it’s a game and when he vamps out he is laughing, because he is happy and kind to everyone around him, which makes Marko’s death hits him the most and that happy persona melts away into pure unadulterated rage and vengeance which leads to his death as well blinded by rage.

For Dwayne at first he is the silent one of the gang not really saying much in the movie, but his actions speak louder than words could ever do for example in the movie he never seen showing off to anyone and only talks when he needs to. He is admired by laddie and copy’s him as a big brother , because he doesn’t need to show off to anyone cause he knows he’s strength and in the end while facing off against Sam he becomes cocky and says the famous line “ you miss sucker” to him even though he didn’t need to say that because he was overly confident to action first leaning to him to die by being blinded by cockiness.

What do you all think about this? 🤔 



[lostbetweenvampiresandmusic]

Can you do a hc of the lost boys finding out that their mate is VERY rich?

Yes omg absolutely!!!

I am fully convinced that the boys just have no concept of the value of money whatsoever. They don't have an exact need for it, and the money they do have has been - let's sya its been locally sourced, right? So they don't earn money, they don't pay rent, and the only thing they ever really buy is things they want - not need per se.

Just to kind of establish what we're dealing with here

They do realise immediately that their mate is well off, you know, living in a big house and not ever having to worry about money

And they do notice that their mate has some designer brands that they've heard of

But it still doesn't quite click how rich their mate actually is until, one day, they get invited over to their place

It's bigger than the boys thought, and they are taken aback when they realise you have an actual butler? Like - that's something you never really mentioned to them.

It's only then that they really realise that their mate is not just well of, but that they're absolutely rich. Capital letters RICH.

The reason their mate invited them over was to show them what they were working on.

They lead the boys down into the basement, and there they find a large area, with sunproof rooms made especially for them if they ever need a place to stay that's not the cave.

They love it - but they're still not quite sure how to react to their mate being that rich

It does explain why their mate never wanted them to pay when out on a date.

Paul is the first to fully come around, jokingly calling their mate "majesty" and other fitting royal titles. He loves that their mate doesn't have to worry about any financial problems. Also, he might - not so subtly - hint towards several things he's been wanting. A new motorcycle, a new and improved soundsystem for the cave, you know - little things.😉

David's more curious about how they accumulated all that money. It's a lot, and to be that rich? So their mate tells him, showing him all the company's their family own or have shares in. His mate also shows him what they do with all the money - obviously, a lot is kept for the family themselves, but a lot goes towards climate causes or children's welfare. David still doesn't know what to think about it, but he appreciates being the one in the know.

Marko has an intense dislike for such elaborate riches, stating it's a waste of money and that if the money was shared with others, more would benefit from it. He's surprised when his mate agrees. It's a difficult conversation between the two of them, but they come to a compromise. Obviously, his mate can't just get rid of the money, still having a family to deal with that's in charge, but they can make suggestions to the family. So, they try to make sure that their family donates as much as they can because the amount of money they have is a tad bit ridiculous.

Their mate starts a fund in Marko's name, especially aimed at artistically gifted children from low income families, to give them a chance to thrive as artists.

Dwayne is the last to come around, not quite understanding why their mate wouldn't have mentioned their background before. He has to come around to the idea of his mate not only being rich, but being filthy rich. He doesn't mind that they are. He minds that they weren't upfront about it once they started dating. Once he does come around, he will ask his mate to help give Laddie what he needs and wants - which obviously isn't a big deal.

They don't mind that their mate is rich. They only ever see the benefit of it once they come around to the idea

And if their mate decides to turn, they probably take their riches along with them, which will once again only help their mate and them in the long run

So they don't mind, in the end, it will only make their undead live together easier.

[chaosandmarigolds]

(slowly sets random sting ray plushie I got for my birthday down) Brain-rot. so I present Dad!Simon and Ollie at the aquarium

Simon! Who was currently two weeks deep into babysitting oliver and it being the middle of summer almost everywhere and everything had been exhausted

"Library time with Miss Rue?"

Ollie frowns from his ice cream,- which you would murder simon for if you found out which is why they were both sworn to secrecy, "MIss Rue is jus reeed-ing Peter Bunny again. No want."

"No want." Simon echoed slowly, leaning against the kitchen counter as he tried to think.

"Big mall?" "No..."

"The zipline park?" (A normal park with a little kid zipline)

"No."

"The animals?"

"Nope. Momma said we stinky after animal."

Simon nods again, the local farmer's markets would normally have a little petting zoo- so that had also become a staple. "She did- rightoo laddie. Okay...okay, let Mister Riley think for a minute."

Ollie nods to his babysitters words and takes another hefty bite of the ice cream, "We could....we could see fish? We see fish."

"Fish?"

"We go fish, in-in big pool."

Simon who spent ten finding which aquarium within a fifty mile radius had the best reviews because if he is...might as well make it memorable

Simon who made sure Ollie wore is water proof shoes because...well he just knew the kid was going to jump into the little kiddie water pad the aquarium had

Simon who packed a towel and change of clothes for that exact reason too

Simon who so has baby shark stuck in his head

Simon who once the tickets are purchased is already trying to trick the tyke down, basically playing marco polo

Simon who held up Ollie without a second thought to see the Jelly fish, telling him how he was once stung while he was down in Japan, smiling to the childs laughter

Simon who spends the extra fifteen dollars so Ollie could feed the stingrays, keeping an arm looped around him to keep him stable

Simon who of course notices the looks he's getting from the group of moms, he ignores them though

Simon who tried to politely turn down the one who came up to him, nice woman, seemed kind- yet...she wasn't...you

Simon who had to get more firm and did lie when she wouldn't get the message-

"Listen lady- I could kill ya without even blinking 'n you are really testin my patience so ho' bout you leave me 'n my son alone before i get annoyed?" Just how he assumed it would've gone down the woman became flustered and excused herself, meanwhile, Ollie was still being held in the air to look at the catfish.

Ollie looks to Simon as he then lets out a sigh and adjusts his grip on the boy, "Ister Riley?"

"Yeah, lad?"

"Mommy said killing people isn't nice."

Simon clears this throat, "Mum is real smart like that."

Simon who gets Ollie a plushie and teehsirt

Simon who feels really proud of himself when Ollie is fast asleep for the entire car ride home

(annnnyway thats it<333 any feedback and all that jazz means the world to me!!)

[the3rddenialist]

JJ does Jacksepticeye Intro

Apologies for the quality.

This was meant to be animated but I got busy and then it got stuck in my drafts for weeks. Realised I probably wasn't going to finish it at this rate so I made it into a few frames.

TRANSLATION NOTES BELOW:

This is just the translation process for those curious. I did the research myself. If you have any thoughts yourself I would like to hear it.

"Top of the morning"

So slang doesn't really exist in BSL (British Sign Langauge) or conjoining words (of,the), which left me with "top morning", but that didn't make any sense.

So I went with the literal meaning of the phrase which was "Good Morning", but that made it lose what made it iconic in translation. So instead of doing BSL I used ISL instead, so it retained the Irish aspect.

"to ya laddies."

again, very similar issues to the above. I instead used ISL "Friend", though I am limited by my own art style, as a big way to convey plurals is through mouthing the words and the 's' sound. If I re-did this I would find a phrase to indicate multiple friends better.

"my name is"

Now finally using BSL. Very straightforward as there is a sign for "my name is" already existing.

"Jacksepticeye"

This one was fun. Since I originally was going to animate this, spelling out the name would be time consuming and take pretentious. Which is why many people use shorthand for names, aka, creating a sign for the name.

At the time of making this I watched JSE Kindergaten 2 Series in which he conveyed a similar problem when writing his signature, Jacksepticeye being too long. So instead he shorten it to writing a 'J' and a 'Eyeball' in BSL. Which is what I did here.

and

Very straightforward, as there is a pre-existing sign for 'and'.

welcome

also pre-existing. You don't actually need to repeat 5-times but I wanted to indicated you did needed to repeat the motion.

Thanks for reading.

[whump-in-the-closet]

What Goes Bump in the Night

just some good ol' Villain angst and aftermath

Hero hadn't expected the screaming when they walked through the glass doors.

They didn't know what they had expected from the Rehabilitation Center for the criminals with gifts.

Certainly not the stale walls, with the texture of vomit, or the long, empty halls, lit with clinically fluorescent lights.

Certainly not the receptionist with a dead gaze and nails that tapped, tapped at the keyboard. They sounded like insects scurrying over the tiles.

And certainly not the screaming. The muffled screaming burned through the walls and spilled into the entrance.

Some flowers would be nice. Or sunlight. Or a splash of pastel paint.

Hero clenched their jaw. They were fine with the screaming. Fine, fine, fine. It was just...unexpected.

"I'm here to see Villain," Hero told the receptionist. Their teeth ached from how tightly they had bitten down. Their skin was crawling, something alive and twitching along their muscles.

The receptionist stopped clicking. She looked up at them, blinked, then resumed typing.

Hero wore their suit, but no mask. They rested their hands on the clinical desk and leaned forward earnestly, "Villain? Where is he?"

They didn't have a fingernail on their right pointer finger, and several were crooked. Their smile was tired and uneven, giving them a lopsided, careless appearance.

Mostly, they looked anxious.

"Down the hall, to your left. One-eighteen, laddie," she laughed internally, at their cowardice. This was the big, bad hero of the city?

Hero smiled a thank you and vanished.

The door was gated with an electrical lock.

#118

It glowed blue, as serene as starlight in the painful brightness of the passage. Except here, neither starlight or sunlight ever reached the prisoners.

More screaming-- from further down the hallway-- cut through the silence and Hero's own sharp breathing. The hall smelled of ammonia or iron. Both bitter and bright, if smells had color.

Then the lock clicked green, opening partially of its own accord.

Hero shut the door behind them. By now, all thoughts of gloating had turned to uneasiness.

"Villain? Villain--"

Oh.

Oh god.

Villain swung from the ceiling, wrists twisted at odd angles, head drooping. His bare feet barely touched the concrete.

In the middle of the room was a drain.

Smeared bloodstains on the walls. How did blood get on the wall?

The smell of iron was much, much stronger in here.

And Hero could only stare.

Villain slowly, slowly glanced up. His face looked like it had been deconstructed and then rather badly put back together. One eye was sealed shut.

"Enjoying the view?" His voice was a rasp, rather than a taunt, and blood dribbled out with the words, staining his chest.

There.

Some of the old banter.

This, Hero recognized.

This, Hero knew.

"You mean what's left of it?" They circled Villain, then drew up sharply. They recognized some of their old work-- the fist-shaped scars on Villain's ribs and the one splitting his ear, but a lot was new.

These were raw and infected and brutal.

Then.

Hero's expression twisted like they were about to be sick. Their hands shook as they ghosted over an old brand on Villain's hip, half-covered by his pants.

Villain laughed at Hero. Laughed. It came out as a rattled cough instead. "You think you're the only one who liked to pummel me every night?" He took a shallow breath. "Idiot. Not everything's about you."

Hero threw up. They barely turned to the side in time to avoid throwing up all over Villain.

They wiped their mouth with the back of their hand. All humor was gone. They asked one question. One question and that was it. They forced it through clenched teeth. "Who?"

"Supervillain." He blew a piece of hair out of his face. The temperature always seemed to be set five degrees above what he could bear, making everything clingy and humid. Adding discomfort on discomfort until he fucking snapped. "Nemesis dear, you're going to have to get in line."

They hadn't cut his tongue out yet

[thebunnylord]

Duncan: *walks into the pub covered in grease and holding a battery* good news for you laddie! You don’t need to worry about that Diesel driver again!

Duck: *is immediately worried* how come?

Duncan: *drops the battery onto the bar* I made sure that !!!&$#!! Got the message to never lay a single !!&$#!! Finger on us steam engine drivers again!

Duck: pardon my bluntness but what exactly was that message?

Duncan: I dumped three big bags of sugar in the engine’s fuel tank, keyed the engine, and stole the battery. He was parked in a siding near Croven’s gate, I waited for him to go on his lunch break before striking.

Henry: *is at the same pub* wait a minute, I thought Diesel was assigned at Vicarstown? I saw him last night when I dropped off the Flying kipper.

Rosie: yeah, Henry’s right, Diesel has been at Vicarstown all week, I saw him.

Duck: excuse me Duncan, but what type of diesel engine did you key?

Duncan: it was a class 08.

Duck: are you positive that it was a class 08? Like, 100% positive it was a class 08? Not a Diesel rail car, or a 04? A BR class 08.

Duncan: I’m telling you all, the engine that I vandalized was a green, BR Class 08 diesel shunter, with yellow stripes running across the sides.

Duck:

Duncan: what?

Duck: I beg your pardon, but I think you might have accidentally maybe vandalized the wrong engine.

Duncan: but you said that it was a BR class 08 diesel, and I vandalized a BR class diesel, just how many of those are even on this island? One?

Duck: about five.

Duncan: ….

Duck: Duncan, you just vandalized Paxton’s engine, not Diesel’s

Duncan:

Duncan: FFFFFFFFFUUUU!!!!*&$#@#$!!!