deathbystero - Tumblr blog

deathbystero · 4 months

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 - 𝐏𝐚𝐮𝐥

𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝐏𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬

𝐀𝐠𝐞 (𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟗) - 𝟏𝟖

B𝐨𝐫𝐧 - 𝟏𝟗𝟒𝟏

Paul grew up in the late 50s just off the coast of California as the middle child of a large family. He had two older brothers, both of whom were absolutely adored and spoiled by their father, and a little sister, who, in his mother's eyes, could do no wrong. His parents weren't rich by any means, but they were comfortable enough with money to afford a beautiful beachfront home that sat on an exclusive section of private property, filled with lush lawns and trees that framed a view of an endless stretch of blue water.

Paul, unlike his siblings, wasn’t spoiled. In fact, the only attention he ever got at home was when his mother would scold him for being too loud or when his father would force him to try and sit still for longer than 10 minutes. It was rare that he ever received praise for something other than his grades, and even then his brothers were better. They were always better and Paul was always the disappointment.

In school, Paul struggled to focus on anything that didn’t involve music. It was the only thing that he truly understood and the only thing that made him happy. It was his escape from everything else and seemingly the only thing he was good at. Most of his lunch breaks he would spend up in the music room, chattering away to his teacher until the next bell rang or admiring the intricate details of the many guitars scattered around the small, cramped space.

He was fourteen when he first wandered into the local record store, losing himself among the colourful array of vinyls and guitars lining the walls. The owner, an elderly man who had been running the store for as long as anyone could remember, took an instant liking to the blonde boy, watching as he stared up in awe at a red gibson, eyes wide in wonder as he traced the curves of the instrument with his fingertips.

“You like that one?” The old man asked and Paul nodded softly, turning to face him.

“Yes, Sir.”

The old man smiled, “Can you play?”

Paul nodded again, a small smile gracing his features. “I taught myself. My music teacher said I have potential.”

“Ah,” The man couldn't help but smile wider at the childlike excitement in the young boy’s eyes. “Your parents must be very proud.”

Paul's smile faded slightly before he shrugged slightly, “Not really. Mom thinks it's a waste of time. Dad doesn't stick around to listen.” He turned back to stare at the red gibson again, tracing the strings as if trying to memorise every single detail that he could. The old man watched him carefully, smiling sympathetically. For someone who seemed so bright and cheerful, so full of life and energy, the boy certainly seemed deprived of any sense of self-worth and attention. Paul was still staring up at the instrument when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I could get it down for you if you want? I’d be more than happy to listen to you play.”

The blonde's eyes widened for a split second, before a shy smile crept across his lips. “Would you?” He whispered and the man laughed, nodding his head.

“Of course. It doesn’t get busy this time of day anyway.” He reached up and gently pulled the guitar out from its spot leaning against the wall, holding it out to Paul.

From then on, everyday after school, Paul would spend his hours in the little record store, strumming along to the radio until his fingers were raw and bleeding and the sun was beginning to set. He would arrive home just before dinner, exhausted and content, and in his parent's eyes, it was like he'd never left. Every time he walked through the door, he smiled brightly at them, attempting to tell them about his day, however futile that attempt may have been, with the same enthusiasm he used when he played the strings of the gibson. He knew they didn’t listen, nor did they care, but he kept talking. He talked because he needed to fill this silence that was slowly eating away at his mind. He needed to know that they were aware of his existence, that they cared, that he mattered, that they wanted him around. It was their job to love him and yet they hardly ever noticed him.

Paul stopped trying to be noticed by his family after a while. The old man at the shop had become more of a father than his own had ever been and it was impossible not to notice how different they were. His father was heavy handed with discipline and had spent most of his time berating Paul with words that no child should ever have to hear from their parent. But the man at the shop… he was kind, gentle. And he listened. He listened without judgement, without condemnation, and sometimes, he even smiled. And Paul loved him for it.

When he turned 16, the man offered him a job in the shop and, slowly but surely, Paul had earnt enough money to purchase the guitar that he had played every day since he was 14. He took it home, proud and beaming as he strode past his disinterested parents, past his nosy sister, and up into his room, closing the door and placing the instrument carefully on his bed. That night, he started at it for hours, the smile not disappearing from his face as he did so. It was almost like a dream, the feeling of owning something of such importance and beauty.

Every night, he'd play. He'd play until his hands bled and his fingers blistered, until he passed out from fatigue and lack of sleep, before awakening the next morning and taking it with him to the shop. He'd never leave it at home; he didn't trust his family enough for that. He knew they despised the guitar because to them it was noisy and unnatural. Music wouldn't help their son to become a successful lawyer or teacher; if anything it was a waste of time and education.

They had tried to convince Paul to do something with his life, sitting him down one evening, for the first time in months, to talk to him. They told him that he had to go to college like his brothers so he too could become just as successful. They refused to have a musician in the family, especially one that was interested in rock 'n' roll.

Paul, however, wasn’t interested in their plans for his future. No matter what anyone said to him, he refused. He knew how much music meant to him, and that he wouldn't give that up for anything in the world. He had something and he wasn't going to throw it away, not now, not after everything he'd done to get there. He refused to let them make his decisions for him, ignored their demands and went against their wishes.

His father had shouted, his hand connecting with Paul’s cheek, and his mother had screamed at him, her words cutting deep as she demanded him to pack his things and leave.

Paul took nothing but the guitar and fled.

He left a note for the old man at the record shop explaining that he was leaving and thanking him for his kindness through everything. It was nowhere near enough, but the blonde had nothing else to give and hoped that the man would understand.

Paul hitchhiked his way across California, stopping in a small beach town called Santa Carla where he worked odd jobs in record stores and played his guitar whenever he could spare the time. He didn't have a place to stay, renting here and there until, one day in the summer, he could no longer afford to pay and was kicked to the curb.

He found himself lying in the sand, guitar by his side, the red paint worn with age, listening to the gentle wash of the waves and the hum of a concert somewhere on the boardwalk. He wondered briefly if he could still make it as a guitarist - if he actually had talent, if he had the ability to perform at all - or if that would just be another one of life’s mistakes.

Perhaps his father had been right all along. He had been nothing more than a burden to his family, unable to fulfil any sort of goal or purpose other than staying away from their attempts to mould him into an obedient member of the family. He had failed. All he had ever done was fail. What was the point at all when he was simply wasting away in a small town like this?

Paul felt his chest tighten, panic rising in him. He was not unfamiliar to the sensation having experienced it numerous times before, the fear clawing at him as he struggled for breath. Panic attacks had become a frequent thing over the years and suddenly the crashing of the waves was too loud, the distant music pounding inside his ears and blinding him as tears welled in his eyes and he began to sob, curled up on the sand with the guitar resting awkwardly on his lap.

He cried until his head hurt and his throat ached and only then did he stop to catch his breath. He wiped his eyes roughly and sniffled once or twice, breathing deeply to try to calm himself.

A shadow fell over him, blocking out the soft glow of the moon, and Paul jumped as a hand rested upon his shoulder.

“You okay?” The voice was soft and low, the tone concerned and understanding. Paul opened his eyes, squinting up at the blurry face above him.

“Do I look okay?” He snapped, wiping hastily at his eyes once more.

The figure shrugged and sat down in the sand beside him. Instinctively, the blonde hugged his guitar a little closer.

“It’s always good to ask.” The man chuckled, and for the first time Paul could just about make out his features in the dim moonlight. He was tall, muscular and broad shouldered with dark hair that fell freely to his shoulders.

The blonde turned away. “Why do you even care?” He muttered sullenly, looking down at his hands, scarred and bruised from endless strumming of strings and nervous picking of his skin.

“Because I've been in your place before and it's no fun.”

Paul tilted his head. “You have?”

“Yeah.” The stranger nodded. “I've been thrown out on my ass more times than I can count.”

Paul stared blankly ahead of him before laughing softly. “So you're just... wandering?”

“No.” The stranger responded softly. “I've found a place now. And I’ve got people who care about me, people I’d consider family.”

“Must be nice.” Paul remarked silently.

“Yeah.” The man replied “But I can't just leave you out here on your own. You don't look like you'll last another night.”

“I'm fine.” He insisted. “Really, it's no problem.”

“Please.” The stranger implored, standing and offering a hand to Paul. “I'd really hate to find you dead on this beach tomorrow morning, knowing I could have helped you.”

Paul studied the man's hand in confusion before reluctantly accepting the gesture, being pulled to his feet, still clinging to the guitar. The stranger didn't question it, he only began walking further down the beach. Paul stumbled after him.

That night, the blonde became the fourth and final member of Max’s family.

A/N: Not sure how I feel about this, but it exists.

For the final time, this is my own take on things; none of what I have written is canon in any way, shape, or form and is simply a silly little thing I came up with over the x-mas break! Please don't come for me if you don't agree!

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys imagine #paul the lost boys #the lost boys headcanon #this is my own take so please don't come for me

53 notes · View notes

deathbystero · 4 months

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 - 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐨

𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐠𝐞 (𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝟏𝟗𝟑𝟔) - 𝟏𝟖 𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐧 - 𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟖

Marko grew up in the early 1900s with his mother and siblings in a little house in Italy. He knew very little about his father for the man had died in a work related incident a little after he was born and his mother never seemed very open to discuss the topic further.

The family lived in poverty, rarely able to scrape together enough money from their meagre wages to feed everyone, and more often than not, there was no food at all. Marko did what he could to help out, but it was always down to his older siblings to bring in the money. At times, he was left feeling rather helpless, as if he was just an afterthought, an unwanted burden on his mother's shoulders. He was another mouth to feed, another being to clothe and shelter.

When there was nobody home, his siblings were usually forced to take him along when they went into town to sell their wares. As far as Marko knew, none of them ever made much money. His mother would make her own way in the world by sewing dresses and selling whatever she could find but it wasn’t enough.

Eventually, when Marko had just turned thirteen, the dreaded letter came through the post, giving the family a month’s notice to pack up everything they owned before they were evicted and forced out onto the streets. It was a cold hard truth that had been long awaited, one that everyone in the family had known was coming but which none of them had truly believed.

His siblings hadn’t stuck around, running off to start new lives just days before the eviction, while Marko was forced to stay behind, clinging to his mother like a scared child. She couldn’t afford to pay rent on even the cheapest of places and they didn’t have any relatives willing to let them stay over until they could get back onto their own feet again. So, with little left to offer, they packed whatever items they had left and ended up on the streets, surviving on the bare minimum.

Marko's mother found a job washing dishes at a small inn, spending the money she made on alcohol and drinking herself into oblivion every night. He was forced to watch helplessly as she fell apart, unable to do anything other than be there for her as best he could, cleaning up after her and keeping her safe at night.

While she was at work, Marko roamed the streets, stealing whatever he could get his hands on and eating what scraps he could find. He found himself hating his siblings, hating the idea that they'd gotten away so easily while he was stuck here with no money and an alcoholic mother to take care of. They were lucky. He wasn’t.

One evening in August,when Marko was sixteen, his mother disappeared, never returning from work. He had tried searching for her, running up and down the streets like a lost puppy, wailing and calling out for her, but it was futile. The woman was gone and he was alone.

He returned back to their pitiful shelter and wept into the night, praying desperately that someone would come for him, would care for him. That night, he cried himself to sleep, exhausted and starving, whilst he dreamt up a carefully formulated plan; a plan to flee the country and start anew.

There was a boat, Marko discovered, set to leave early the next morning, taking both cargo and passengers to America. It was his only chance and so he grasped it eagerly, leaving their sorry shelter behind in search of freedom and adventure.

He snuck his way into the storage hold where the ship was docked and hid under a blanket until dawn broke, the ship pulling away from land and taking him away from the only place he’d ever known and to somewhere entirely foreign. He held onto the hope that maybe things would improve once he found his way there, but deep down he knew he was being foolish. He was a sixteen year old boy, underfed and poor, who hardly spoke a word of English and had no family to fall back onto if all things went downhill. What could he possibly expect to find? A life amongst strangers would not give him a better chance than he already had, who wouldn't spare him an ounce of pity even if he begged on his hands and knees? What was he thinking? He had to have been totally crazy. No sane person in his right mind would risk their life like this. And yet, here he was still trying. Still trying his hardest to make something of himself.

The ship docked in America about a week after it’s departure, and Marko was greeted with a strange mix of excitement and dread. He'd been expecting something akin to Europe, but what lay before him was anything but glamorous or fantastical. He felt completely at odds with the people that walked past him, some laughing and chattering loudly, others barely sparing him a passing glance. He was surrounded by strangers and so incredibly out of place. If anyone should've noticed him in the crowd, they gave no indication of it as they continued talking and laughing and chatting around him with equal gusto, unaware of his plight.

He wandered about the bustling streets for hours, eventually finding an alleyway to curl up in and wait out his hunger pangs. He’d found very little food on the boat, taking what he could from crates and boxes without much thought, not caring if he was eventually caught. His clothes were dirty and tattered, worn thin and threadbare, his shoes covered in dirt and grime, and he was positively sure he looked absolutely deplorable. Biting his lip against his inevitable tears, he buried his face into his knees, hugging himself tightly, shivering violently. Sleep seemed like a far off thing, impossible to come by as his thoughts kept circling around how utterly hopeless he felt, how utterly alone he was.

It wasn’t until several days later that his luck seemed to change, a not so dim light appearing at the end of the tunnel. He'd found a little abandoned warehouse full of art supplies; crates of leftover paint, paint brushes which had certainly seen better days, and canvases, most of which were torn and tattered, but usable nonetheless.

Marko has gathered up everything he could get his hands on, seeing an opportunity to make some cash, and spent almost the entire day painting whatever came to mind. He was surprised at himself - he didn't remember the last time he painted, but somehow this was different. Like he was drawing for the first time, like he was creating something entirely new. There was a sense of wonder that he couldn't explain, an awe he hadn't known since childhood. This wasn't about making money. This was about finding himself.

When he finally emerged from the building, covered head to toe in brightly coloured paint stains and tired from lack of sleep, he decided he might as well try his best at selling what he had created, knowing that nothing else would provide him with any kind of income. It didn't matter that he lacked experience with art, that he was untrained. The paintings were his ticket. The only way out of this misery he lived in.

And so he set about selling everything he had, working his hardest, desperate to make every penny count. And, boy, did people pay. It was almost comical at how careless the rich were with their money, throwing it at him with no regard as to what it might go towards, as long as they got whatever it was they wanted in return.

Marko was soon able to afford enough money for food and clothes, settling into the little warehouse and sleeping on an old uncomfortable mattress stuffed into one corner, surrounded by crates of paint and brushes.

He took pride in the fact that he had made something of himself, having managed to carve out his own niche with a little bit of paint and a couple of worn out brushes. He felt good about the fact that he had managed to become somebody, somebody who had a purpose, somebody that mattered in the world.

When he turned 18, Marko took to wandering a little further into the city, searching for inspiration and finding plenty. It became routine for him; he worked late nights painting whenever he was able, waking up with the sun so that he could spend the morning wandering before returning to paint once more. He sold his creations out on the streets, bought meals and slept rough. He was happy. He felt complete. He should've been happy, content with his living situations, besides it was more than he'd ever thought he'd have, and yet he still felt as if something was missing. That loneliness still lingered, that hollow feeling that wouldn't go away.

In November of his third year on the streets, Marko met two men whilst out wandering at night, shaking off the disturbance of a rather unpleasant nightmare.

The first of the two was blonde, his hair messy in a styled kind of way, with piercing blue eyes and sharp, handsome features. The second was tall with dark hair and a strong jawline, seemingly just as striking as his friend. Both were dressed entirely in black and approached Marko much in the same way a predator would its prey, a smile adorning each of their faces.

“Can I help you?” Marko asked quietly, his accent thick and heavy, despite his best efforts to hide it.

The blonde one grinned, “You’re a runaway, aren’t you, kid?”

Marko hesitated for a brief moment, weighing up his options before nodding slowly.

The man reached out a gloved hand, offering to shake, “I’m David.”

“Marko,” Marko replied quietly, shaking his hand.

David nodded, seemingly satisfied. His friend said nothing. “Where are your parents?”

“My mother's dead…” At least that’s what he thought.

“Your father?” David pressed.

“Dead too…”

“So… it’s just you then?” David questioned, tilting his head slightly. Marko nodded, looking down at the pavement. What did these guys want? Money, drugs, sex? Who knows, but Marko certainly wasn’t too keen on finding out.

“Hey,” This time, it was the other man, the brunette one, who reached forward, his hand landing upon Marko's shoulder. “We ain't here to hurt you, kid. We're here to help.”

Help? Marko furrowed his brow. “I don't need no help.” “Of course not,” David interjected before the boy could say any more, “But that doesn't mean we can’t offer it. You're young, lost and all alone in this world. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a friend or two?”

A friend... That’s what he’d been seeking, someone to rely on. Someone to show him that he wasn't completely alone in this. But was it really possible for him to turn to these strangers, especially after everything he'd been through so far? Could he trust them? They were probably just playing a trick on him. They'd probably planned to kill him and leave his body somewhere and never bother him again. So why should he believe them?

“Look,” David began, “I know we seem shady, but I promise we'll do nothing to harm you. Right, Dwayne?”

The brunette nodded. “We just want to help.”

This was a mistake. These two men could easily kill him, leaving him to die on his own somewhere. Or they could rob him. Or beat him senseless. Either option would be equally horrible.... but something about them told Marko that maybe they were being truthful. Maybe they did actually want to help him. Maybe they meant what they said, because they weren't bad people.

“... okay…” Marko muttered softly, raising his eyes to meet theirs.

The two men smiled, sharing glances between each other before turning back to Marko. “Great! Let's get going now shall we?”

Marko stared at them for a while longer, trying to gauge if they were telling the truth or lying, before nodding slowly and following after them.

Marko became the third member of Max's family that night, and for the first time in his life, he felt complete.

A/N: This is way longer than I'd expected it to be, and, although it started of a little bit shitty, I think it got better towards the end. As I've said before, this is my own take on things; none of what I have written is canon in any way, shape, or form and is simply a silly little thing I came up with over the x-mas break!

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys imagine #marko the lost boys #the lost boys headcanon #this is my own take so please don't come for me

59 notes · View notes

deathbystero · 4 months

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 - 𝐃𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞

𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝐃𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐀𝐠𝐞 (𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝟏𝟗𝟏𝟎) - 𝟐𝟎 𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐧 - 𝟏𝟖𝟗𝟎

Dwayne grew up in the early 1900s in a little rundown orphanage on the outskirts of the Midwest. He had never known his parents, his only knowledge of them being that they were dead and that he could hardly remember them. Occasionally, he’d get flashbacks of the way his mother used to sing softly while combing out his hair before he went to bed, or the way his father would smile when he walked into a room, but it was nothing more than a flash of dull colours and fuzzy edges.

The orphanage was run by an elderly man and his wife, both of whom had been there as long as the structure itself and seemed so utterly worn down that Dwayne thought they may have been ghosts at first glance – a faded memory someone might have once known but now wasn’t sure of. Their faces were weathered from years of hardwork and their voices lacked life, bringing such an air of quiet desperation into the world around them that it felt suffocating in the same sense as a vacuum.

They rarely spoke to the children within their care, unless it was to shout profanities at them, reprimanding them for any form of bad behaviour or disobedience.

Dwayne hated all of it .He hated the feeling of being locked in and isolated from the outside world, hated not having friends, hated how everyone seemed so different even in the small confines of his temporary ‘home’. People would come and go, taking children with them as they pleased only for their place to be refilled by someone new the next morning. All seemed to leave but Dwayne. He was always left behind, overlooked or ignored, sometimes forgotten entirely. He had learned after the fourth or fifth time not to take notice, to just accept the fact that he wouldn’t ever really belong.

Eventually days turned into months and months turned into years and on his 16th birthday, Dwayne fled the orphanage through the dormitory window. The night had been cool and crisp and the sky lit up with millions of twinkling stars that shone like fireflies, the moon casting its glow upon the ground below him. His feet moved across the grassy lawn as he ran along, trying to get away from the place where he had spent most of his life, living in utter misery and amongst those who would never truly understand him.

Squeezing through a gap in the fence, Dwayne escaped onto the streets that lay beyond and ran until his legs gave out beneath him and he dropped to his knees, the cold hard pavement digging sharply into his hands. The wind stung his face as if a thousand icy blades were cutting him open, sending a sharp wave of pain surging through every nerve ending. He gasped for breath, choking on the cold air, his lungs aching fiercely. With nowhere to go and no place to call home he was completely lost in the world, stranded, alone and completely at odds with himself.

From then on, he lived in various places throughout America, never settling and constantly on the move, working in whichever places would take him and finding refuge in whatever shelter he found. He spent most of his non-working days hiding out in local libraries, reading as many books as he could before being forced to move on to another town. It was a slow and tiring system, but one he had come to grow fond of, and one which provided a much needed distraction from his own thoughts. It had given him something tangible and grounded and allowed him to keep a clear head as he wandered. Sometimes, he would stuff the odd book under his jacket, taking it with him as he travelled, both as a reminder and as a means to escape reality.

This went on for around four more years until, one day in late August in a small city in South Carolina, Dwayne found himself hiding in a back alleyway, his body pressed against the worn brick wall in order to prevent anyone who came past spotting him. He had been caught shop-lifting, having been unable to make enough money to buy food for himself in between jobs. He felt guilty but couldn't find the energy within himself to feel any shame. He'd stolen everything he could find in an effort to try and live. If it didn't work, it didn't work, what did it matter?

Dwayne stayed hidden until the sun set and darkness overtook the city, the streetlamps flickering to life about him. The moonlight glowed faintly over the concrete walls and asphalt roads, casting everything in a gentle, ghostly haze. It cast shadows over Dwayne as well, creating the illusion of looming, faceless figures creeping towards him, ready to strike. He shuddered slightly and straightened up, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. There was no need for fear here. No danger. Not anymore, anyway. It was over. He had won.

He stood, slowly stepping out from his hiding place and scanning his surroundings for the best course of action. The streets were deserted and eerily silent, everybody having fled to the comfort of their homes the minute darkness fell.

He made his way across the street to the park, careful not to draw attention to himself by meandering too close to the lighted windows, sticking to the safety of the shadows. He crossed the street cautiously, eyes searching for any sign of danger before coming to a halt in front of the fountain in the middle of the large space. There was no sign of movement other than the slight flapping of wings and the soft sound of the rushing water as it swirled through the channels, creating gentle ripples. Dwayne glanced up, eyes scanning the area for any threats, but nothing was there - he was alone.

He took a deep breath and sat upon the ledge, eyes slipping shut as he revelled in the almost silence.

When he reopened his eyes, however, he was no longer sitting alone. Dwayne blinked, surprised. He hadn’t heard footsteps approaching him, but somehow they had for a figure stood silently beside him, gazing up at the fountain intently. They didn’t look at Dwayne as they spoke, voice smooth as silk and carrying a low, resonant quality.

“Nice night to be wandering, isn’t it?” The words were spoken in a hushed tone, a hint of amusement in them, but also something else Dwayne couldn’t place. The stranger turned, his face illuminated by the silver light that shone off the surface of the water, highlighting sharp cheekbones, steely eyes and lips that curled up slightly at the corners. His clothes were dark; black slacks, black jacket, as if he were nothing but a shadow. Yet, Dwayne sensed that there was a power radiating off him, that this man was anything but human.

“What do you want?” Dwayne asked simply, his mouth dry and his heart beating rapidly. The stranger raised his eyebrows, a strand of blonde hair falling limply across his forehead, his expression one of pure amusement.

“Bold of you to assume I'm after something." A faint laugh sounded from his mouth before fading away. “But I suppose, in a way, I am.” His eyes flickered downwards for a moment, his expression turning sombre. “I assume you're here alone.”

Dwayne nodded slowly, eyes darting about him. “I am. What does it matter?”

There was another faint laugh, this one lighter and warmer, like a summer breeze rustling leaves and breaking branches. “It doesn’t, really. But I must admit that I was hoping for company, that is, if you would be willing to share.”

“Company, huh…” Dwayne paused. The idea didn't repulse him; he had been alone since he had left the orphanage, speaking hardly a word to anyone, save the people who had taken pity on him and given him a job. “What makes you think that I’ll be good company?”

A small smirk played around the corner of the stranger's lips. “Oh, I know you will be.”

A pause followed that statement as both men regarded each other silently, neither quite able to tear their gaze away from the other. Then, the blonde stuck out his hand, offering it to Dwayne. “The names David.”

Dwayne looked at David’s outstretched hand for several long moments as he struggled for some semblance of an answer as to what the hell to do. Eventually, he reached out with his own hand, hesitantly taking the offered appendage in his own. “Dwayne.” He supplied and David smiled even wider.

“Well, Dwayne, I can tell that we’re going to make great friends.”

Dwayne laughed despite himself. “Yes, maybe so.”

That night, Dwayne agreed to join David for eternity, becoming the second member of Max's family.

A/N - Man, this sucked. I don't know what I was going for here but you know, it is what it is. Once again, this is my own take on things; none of this is canon in any way, shape, or form and is simply a silly little thing I came up with over the x-mas break.

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys imagine #dwayne the lost boys #the lost boys headcanon #this is my own take so please dont come for me

56 notes · View notes

deathbystero · 4 months

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 - 𝐃𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐝

𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝐃𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐝 𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐀𝐠𝐞 (𝐚𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝟏𝟖𝟗𝟒) - 𝟏𝟗 𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐧 - 𝟏𝟖𝟕𝟓

Born in the late 1800s, David grew up as an only child on a small impoverished farm alongside his mother after his father abandoned the family. He left no note, no warning of his departure, just the mere scraps of his belongings and a small amount of money. David was forced to take on the work of caretaker in his place and was robbed of his childhood in favour of work. His mother had been unwell for quite some time, spending most of her days lying in bed or sleeping. At times she would look so frail, so helpless, that her son’s heart would ache with sadness and pity. He spent each day trying his best to keep her fed, to keep her alive, but the faraway, dazed look in her eyes never wavered and David began to wonder if he was doing enough. He tried everything in his power to get her well once again, spending what little money they had remaining on medicine, but every effort seemed futile, as though all attempts to help his own mother were vain.

Even so, she continued to decline steadily and one day, when her breathing began to fail completely, David finally gave up hope.

He packed his meagre belongings and decided to leave home without saying goodbye, before any other family members caught wind of his plight. His heart was heavy with regret as he boarded the first train that would take him as far from home as possible. He didn’t know where he was going or what he would do with himself once there, only that it felt necessary that he escape and never turn back.

The journey passed by in a blur and when the train finally came to a stop, David was disoriented and lost amidst the crowd of unfamiliar faces. Guilt ate at him as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings, but even as he scanned the station platform, seeking out some sign of familiarity despite never before leaving the comfort of the farm, he was met with nothing more than the bustling crowd of strangers and confusion.

He wandered about the streets aimless until nightfall approached and exhaustion crept it’s way into every muscle. As the sky darkened, David found himself sitting in an alley far from the crowds, back against the rough brick of a rundown warehouse, his face buried in his knees as he tried desperately to stem the flow of tears that brimmed his eyes. His thoughts turned back towards home, where his mother lay ,and he wondered if anybody had found her yet. Had anybody even bothered to look? Would they ever?

The air turned cold and clouds covered the dim glow of the moon. David shivered, trying to conserve whatever warmth he could find against the biting evening air, shrinking into his threadbare coat, one that had belonged to his father before he left. The garment did little to protect him from the harsh winds and he wondered how many nights he’d survive if this continued.

After some hours, the stars began to peek through the smatterings of dark clouds overhead. It was just beginning to sprinkle, and the raindrops glistened against the pavement like diamond dust. The droplets fell gently onto David’s head as he stared upwards at the endless expanse of stars above, his mind filled with thoughts, both of life and of death. Was he dying right now? Was this it for him? He was just going to die here and there might be someone who cared. If he lived through today, he'd have nothing. He was alone on the road to nowhere. Nobody cared. No one was coming for him. Nobody would miss him. Nobody loved him.

Footsteps sounded on the wet pavement somewhere up the alleyway ahead and David froze, unsure whether he should stay seated or get up and flee. Did it matter? He had nothing for them to take but the sparse belongings in his bag and his coat. He would freeze to death out here anyway so he might as well get it over with.

He slowly unfolded from his crouched position and lifted his head toward the source of the sound, watching as a figure advanced toward him, their movements slow and measured. David tensed as the figure drew closer, prepared to run if need be, however the person slowed and then stopped a few paces from where he sat.

“Are you okay?” Asked a voice, smooth and rich like honey, but laced with an edge that made David shiver. He nodded stiffly.

“Fine.” His words came out more of a croak and he cleared his throat in an attempt to rid himself of the huskiness. “I’m fine, I don’t know…” He trailed off, his mind reeling with a thousand questions and concerns that he couldn't begin to process.

The stranger stepped forwards and crouched in front of him, studying him for a long moment. The pale moonlight reflected off of his glasses and cast dancing shadows around him as he surveyed the boy in front of him closely. David shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, a strong metallic smell permeating the air about him.

Eventually the stranger offered his hand, smiling slightly in greeting. “I’m Max.” David stared blankly for several moments before reaching out tentatively to shake his hand.

“David,” he managed to force out in reply, still confused, before pausing. “Do… Do you live in this neighbourhood?” The man laughed.

“No,” Max responded in amusement, “Not exactly.”

“Oh…” A silence hung between them, the sound of a gentle breeze whistling through the empty streets filling the gap. David could feel his skin prickle with nervousness, something about the man’s presence unnerved him. Max's smile was warm and inviting, yet David was unsure whether it was genuine or just an attempt to put him at ease before he robbed him of his possessions and murdered him. It was rather difficult to say.

“What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?” The question broke David's musings and prompted him to finally turn his attention to the man in front of him.

“Walking.” He replied shortly.

Max titled his head quizzically, “Nobody goes out walking at such a late hour unless they're on their way somewhere, but even then nobody would dare come out into the city at this time of night unless something was wrong. Especially not down this alleyway.”

David looked back at the ground and shrugged, trying to hide his embarrassment. “Well... It's just nice to walk,” he said quietly.

Max made a noise in his throat, something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “You've got no home, do you David?” He asked gently.

David shook his head, feeling a slight sting of betrayal in his chest. “No, I guess not…” He admitted, cheeks burning in shame. He was too tired to lie to this stranger. “I'm not really sure what I’m doing. My family's gone and I don’t have much to my name anymore.” He paused, staring intently at a crack in the road that he could have sworn hadn't been there earlier, fingers fiddling with the frayed ends of his shirt sleeve nervously. “I'm just wandering.” The statement hung awkwardly in the night air.

Max hummed thoughtfully, “Come with me.” He stated suddenly, rising from his kneeling position and turning to look directly at David. “I think I might have something that can help you. Get you out of this mess.” He paused and the blonde frowned.

“What?” He questioned.

Max smiled warmly, offering David a hand to help him to his feet. “Follow me.” He mused. “Follow and join me, David.”

That same night, David became a member of Max's little family.

A/N - I wasn't originally going to post this but it was just sitting in my drive and it felt wasteful to not do anything with it. Obviously, this post and the others to come are my own take on each one of the boy's lives before they were turned and are in no way canon, they are simply silly little stories I came up with over the christmas break.

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys imagine #david the lost boys #the lost boys headcanon #this is my own take so please don't come for me

97 notes · View notes

deathbystero · 5 months

Text

Frog Brothers Headcanons

Here’s some frog brothers content because they’re pretty underrated. Also, if you want to give me some writing requests/asks please do because eventually I will run out of ideas.

since jamison newlander (alan frog) is older than corey feldman (edgar frog) by a year in real life im going to make it so that alan is older than edgar by a year. from what i know we never find out their real ages, but if someone does know their canon ages then please let me know!

edgar is more talkative than alan. he usually talk to the customers at the comic book store, and will work as the cashier.

that doesn’t make him approachable though. edgar talks, but whatever comes out of his mouth is usually something smart or insulting. he’s really only nice to alan (and sometimes sam).

edgar will legit have a mental breakdown if he can’t find his bandana.

they’re his companions and he can’t be without one of them around his head.

sorta similar with alan and his dog tags

except alan won’t throw a fit if he loses one.

he’ll just shrug his shoulders and buy another.

unless its the one his dad gave him. if he loses that one then he’ll search for it and won’t stop searching until he finds it.

anything their parents gave them is sacred, and cannot be touched by anyone but them.

there are only a few items that their parents have given them since their parents are usually too blazed out of their skulls to pay attention to them.

i honestly feel like edgar and alan have used the truth, justice, and american way speech to basically everyone newby that comes into the comic book store, and they give them the free comic with their number on the back just to see if anyone would call.

they’ve never really had friends so that’s their one way of talking to other people.

on the note of friends, they really don’t care about having any.

they know that a lot of people think they’re crazy and they don’t really care at this point.

so they were probably pretty surprised to get a call back from sam.

speaking of sam, the frog brothers are pretty protective of him.

he is their only friend.

but they will literally beat someone up for him, or at least try.

after the whole ordeal, laddie sort of became their friend.

edgar and alan don’t really like hang out with younger kids so this was a first.

laddie would be better friends with alan though.

also if you didn’t notice in the movie towards the end, alan carries laddie up the stairs when the vamps were about to attack. he didn’t have to do that i mean laddie has two legs that aren’t broken. i think that he did that cause he felt like he had to take some responsibility, and protect the little guy. it could have been just cause michael told them to ‘take them upstairs!’ but still laddie could have ran himself up the stairs.

also in the scene right before sam runs out to save nanook, edgar is explaining how no bloodsucker goes out the same way, and laddie is right there listening. (poor kid he was probably like 👁👄👁). so that probably means that at some point before the attack laddie and the frog brothers had an introduction.

another thing i wanted to add was when sam runs out to save nanook, edgar looks genuinely afraid. like a mixture of fear and worry. he obviously doesn’t want sam to die and he’s afraid for himself. so i think that he tried to kill star and laddie (in the scene when they get upstairs) out of fear because his only friend almost got killed.

edgar and alan rarely get into fights or arguments. not even disagreements really. they mostly agree on everything since they have such similar personalities.

but when they go it gets 𝘂𝗴𝗹𝘆.

since they have such similar personalities it’s like fighting with yourself. two peas in a pod. it mostly consists of them yelling at each other until they’re broken up by somebody. it might even get physical.

usually a fight will end by the two of them acting like nothing ever happened. they don’t really like apologizing, so they’ll just put it behind them and go back to their regular ways.

if one of their fights get physical then they have to get broken up by someone. or else it won’t end. if they don’t get broken up then one of them will have to surrender, and they aren’t gonna do that.

edgar has more of a temper than alan so he usually starts a fight for a dumb reason.

alan is so used to edgars temper that he’ll just stand there and let him yell all he wants. unless he got frustrated as well. then they’re both yelling.

edgar will usually start the fight by get irritated easily and will just start going off on his brother. he tries to keep it to a minimum though cause there was one time where alan stopped speaking to him, and edgar can’t go an hour without getting some sort of communication from his brother.

alan is better at keeping his composure, but there are times where he gets irritated. he doesn’t want to tick edgar off since he knows that’ll start a war. sometimes he’ll just give him a little attitude and a fight starts. most of the time he’ll get irritated by something small and he’ll give everybody around him dirty looks.

if alan is mad at edgar he’ll just give him the silent treatment. he knows that edgar can’t stand being ignored, so he’ll just give him no attention until he gets some sort of an apology from his brother.

if edgar is mad at alan he’ll just start a fight. it could be for the dumbest reason ever and edgar is screaming his lungs out. once he gets everything out of his system he’ll usually forget why he was mad in the first place.

107 notes · View notes