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imagininghim · 2 months

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BITE ME

A/N: Do I have another hyper fixation that I must write about ASAP?

Of course, I do.

This was supposed to be short and sweet but I mean look at those faces, of course it's not gonna be short and sweet. I meant to write this is one whole part but it looks like it might have to be multiple parts if there is enough interest.

*THIS HAS NOT BEEN PROOF READ!*

Who: David Powers x Reader

Blurb: The year is 1988 and we are in the murder capital of the world, good old Santa Clara. The reader has just recently started working at the boardwalk with her mom at the video store when she catches the eye of a certain blue-eyed vamp.

Triggers/warnings: swearing, mentions of abuse, blood, some inappropriate touching (from ex not the boys).

Please like, follow, & reblog!

David's POV:

It was a typical Saturday night and the sun had just set, the boys and I made our way to the boardwalk. The feel of the warm summer breeze blew past us as we sped down to the beach.

Pulling off to the side to park my bike, Marko along with the others followed closely behind.

"Max said he wants to see us at the shop." I spoke killing the engine on my bike. The boys nodded in response before climbing off our bikes and making our way to the shop.

Walking in, I took note of the customers browsing the shelves as we made our way to the register where Max had been standing talking to a familiar woman. Clearing my throat, Max turned with a smile which quickly faded into a frown.

I smirked back as I spoke up, "You called?"

Looking back towards the woman, he informed her that he would be back in a few moments before placing a hand on my back and motioning for me to follow. Once we were out of ear shot, Max turned to face the four of us.

"Listen, I have a date tonight with Lucy and I need you guys to do a favor for me." Raising my brow, I questioned.

"Which is?" Max reached over past my shoulder before going towards a young (Y/H/C) girl who was busy stocking a shelf.

"You see that girl over there, her name is (Y/N) and she's Lucy's daughter. Recently, she broke up with her abusive ex-boyfriend and he's been bothering her. I've caught him a few times cornering her in the shop or waiting outside after it closes. I usually give her a ride home but since I have a date tonig-" I held up my hand stopping him from continuing.

"Listen, we aren't here to be bodyguards to some girl." Max sighed, with a hand running down his face.

"Just for once, can you do me this favor without arguing?" I rolled my eyes looking back at the boys for their opinions, Marko gave a simple shrug, I looked towards Paul who gave a smirk and then Dwayne who glanced back at the girl before giving a small nod.

"Sure, but what’s in it for us?” If Max could, I’m sure he would end the lives of all four of us right then and there but with another quick glance back to Lucy, he sighed.

“What do you want?”

“Hm, maybe just a little favor of our own that you’ll repay in time. How’s that sound?” With a small snarl curling in the corner of his mouth, he flashed us his bright yellow eyes before they quickly changed back to normal.

“Fine. Fine, you got yourself a deal. Just hang around the outside of the shop and if you see him,” Turning, he grabbed a picture of what looked like grainy footage from a security camera of a dark haired male from behind him off the counter. “You come in and deal with him. Also, follow her home so that you know she gets home safely. I don’t want poor little Lucy to worry about her daughter all night.” He finished with a grin.

“So, you want us to stalk her?” As quick as the grin appeared it was gone, shifting back into the same frown he gave us when we walked in.

“Just do as your told and don’t show her your true selves under any circumstances. Understand?”

“You got it pops, go enjoy your little date and we'll keep an eye on her." I said with a straight face and sarcasm lacing my tone before motioning for the boys to follow behind as we headed out, I glanced back to see her familiar (Y/E/C) eyes staring back at me. Flashing her a smirk, we walked out into the night.

(Y/N) POV:

I watched as Max spoke to the four bikers that are usually seen to be hanging around the boardwalk. I had heard about them before, my brother Micheal was spending some time with them for a little while but eventually he began to avoid them, claiming they were dangerous and that I should stay away from them. I don’t see what is so dangerous about a bunch of guys dressed in leather, God knows I’ve seen and experienced worse.

My ex-boyfriend Daniel had been a pretty shitty boyfriend when we were together, don’t get me wrong things started out great but then he began to become jealous of my friends, then it was the way I was dressed, until one day when he first laid his hands on me and I knew he wasn’t my prince charming – he was a nightmare come true.

At first, he would apologize profusely and shower me in gifts and promise that he would never raise a hand to me again, until he did. It got to the point where I would wear makeup to cover up the bruises, long sleeves even on the hottest days and sunglasses indoors. My family was suspicious, especially my brother Micheal but they never questioned me.

One night, he took it too far. We had been down at the boardwalk enjoying one of the regular Saturday night beach parties when he left to go grab us some drinks. As I stood, waiting for him to come back, an old guy friend of mine approached and began asking how I had been doing and where I had been. I didn’t notice Daniel looking from afar watching me, so I tried to be polite but still trying to rush him before Daniel had gotten back, it wasn’t until my friend reached down to give me a hug that he made his appearance known. Ripping me apart from my friend by the shoulder, he pulled me away from the concert and further down the boardwalk to a more secluded area. He began shouting that I was a cheating whore, and I was rubbing it in his face, as I tried to apologize, he reached up and smashed his fist into the side of my cheek. The impact caused me to lose my balance and fall to the ground, I reached up and cupped my cheek in fear and pain.

It wasn’t until I heard a struggle that I looked up to see Micheal slamming his fist repeatedly into Daniel’s face. I stayed sitting on the ground, watching the altercation in shock before I gathered the courage to pull my brother off him.

“Micheal, enough! He’s had enough!” I screamed tugging on Micheal's arm a little harder before he finally let go.

“If you ever lay another finger on her, I’ll fucking kill you! You hear me!” Micheal screamed down at a now bloody and bruised Daniel. I pulled on his arm again to leave before the cops showed up. Taking ahold of my hand, Micheal and I fled down the boardwalk, towards his bike. Climbing on, we took off into the night.

I was torn from my thoughts as by my mother's voice.

“(Y/N), Max and I are going to head out now. Are you sure you’re okay here by yourself? I don’t have to do if you’re uncomfortable.” I smiled at her before shaking my head in disagreement.

“Mom, I’ll be fine. Go enjoy yourself and have fun!” With a smile, she reached out and gave me a hug.

“Okay, sweetheart. Well, I left the number of the restaurant we are going to under the desk at the register. Also, your grandfather has a date with the widow Johnson, but I also left her number there just in case you can’t reach me, you can try him.” I glanced over my mom's shoulder to catch one last glance at the group, particularly the platinum-haired one. I locked eyes with him as he shot me a smirk over his shoulder before making his way out the door with the other three following close behind.

~ Time Skip ~

It had been a particularly slow night, there had been another big concert down at the beach, so most people weren’t on the boardwalk shopping. I continued to stock the few things I had left before starting my closing duties when I heard the bell on the door ding.

“Hi, welcome to vid-” I stopped stocking the shelf to greet the customer who walked in when I stopped mid-sentence when I saw who was standing in the doorway.

Daniel.

“(Y/N).” I felt my heart start racing as the sound of blood rushing in my veins filled my ears.

“Daniel, what are you doing here?” I laid down the remaining VHS tapes I had left to stock.

“You know, you’ve been very hard to reach lately.” He began, slowly making his way around the counter, I immediately began to back away from him as he began to get closer. “I mean, after the way we left things, I was hoping we could talk and work things out.” I kept backing away in attempt to flee from him but this just made him madder, taking longer strides he reached for me and wrapped a hand around my throat.

“You need to leave, we broke up.” I said, trying to keep my voice as calm as possible. The doorbell dinged again causing Daniel to break his eye contact with me and us both to turn to see who had just walked in. Looking towards the door, I locked eyes with the same platinum-haired bad boy from earlier, along with his three friends. Glancing between Daniel and I, he gave us the same smirk from earlier.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

#love #imagine #david powers #the lost boys #lost boys #lost boy #david #marko #dwayne the lost boys #paul #80's #vampire #smut

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terrence-silver · 3 months

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We know that TIG can sing, and so can some of his characters. If pressed to sing, which songs would TIG characters choose?

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― Twig, growing up as a rich boy with, if we read between the lines, draconic parentage with possibly high standards and rather perfectionistic attitudes in education, the only things a young Terry would sing is some kind of classic tune instructed by an onslaught of private tutors hired by his parents for the explicit purpose of training their son's voice or the Zemirot sang around the table during Shabbat, Jewish kid that he was. That's it for you. The first vestige of actual freedom and individual expression, came, perhaps, ironically, in the military, in the early 1960's, surrounded by soldiers from all classes and walks of life, everyone with their own flavor of music, songs and tunes of the decade and my god, if the high of that didn't hit a young Terry quick and hard to the degree it re-wired his brain chemistry, I don't know what else to tell you. Self-control and liberty gained, Twig, would, given the chance, sing or hum anything just because and he was pretty damn good at it too. Suppose when it was just him, John Kreese and Ponytail in the bunk all by themselves, a young Twig might merrily sing something while they conducted their chores together; moments of calm before the storm.

― Terry Silver in the 80's gives a mocking and taunting edge to everything he does because he's tough, he's powerful and he's at the top of his game and he's fairly shameless and despicable when he wants to be which means, around this era in his life man could do anything from busting into an operetta with expert proficiency, because if he does something it will be done perfectly or sing into a mic like he was born to sing into a mic, but will do neither seriously because there's veiled cynicism and an ulterior motive behind it. He's always laughing behind the eyes and yes, you're the joke. Imagine him singing We are The World during the height of a famine in Africa (Ethiopia 1983-85) he might've contributed to by having a major factor in the continent's pollution through Dynatox and trying very hard to seem very heartfelt and genuinely empathetic as he does it for a non-profit organization meant to help the poor (Look! He's helping!) or in equal measure, being at a black tie event fundraiser and singing some tune for (reads smear on hand) ah, yes, children in need. Either ways, the audience esthetically clapped and Mr. Silver gleefully ate up the praise being the center of attention like the big, smug snake he is.

― Old man Terry, if prompted to sing, simply wouldn't. He's past the point of singing, regardless of the fact he's a fierce, deep voice that's more than educated for it. Sure, there must've been a garden party or two where some rumbunctious guest must've prompted Mr. Silver charm all those gathered with a song or a tune on the piano but Terry might've responded with an equally charmed smile and had the obnoxious guest singing for him instead (as a very concealed punishment and veiled hazing ritual hidden beneath layers and layers of relaxed politeness) --- yes, who's to tell Emile, for example, didn't end up entertaining the whole party because Terry turned the tables around on him? Or god knows what sort of various humiliations he put Stingray through purely because he could and because it's awfully easy to imagine him saying 'Sing, Raymond.' as he pours himself a glass of Cognac, eases himself into the nearest armchair and has the buffoon shakily sing, for quite literally, his life. Nothing's for free, right? But, see, that's the point: Terry's convinced he's the earned the right sit back and be the overlord. Not that he ever doubted it. He's Grandmaster. He's Sensei. He's Sir. He's Mr. Silver. He's the Dragon. The dragon doesn't sing. The dragon rules. If he sings and plays it's because he wants to, mostly for himself.

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― Terry McCain undoubtedly sings something Irish, to nobody's colossal surprise because everyone who even vaguely knows the man knows for a fact that this is his go-to choice of music each and every time; some folk tune from the old country passed down through many generations, until the person it originated from is long since forgotten in his family and all that remains is a memory of a memory and Terry's rendition of it, that is, for all intents and purposes, spectacularly good and catchy, especially when he follows up his own song with a tune he plays on a piano --- a thing culturally near and dear to him, and it's surprising with what gusto, passion and emotional charge he does it with, the same way, Catholic boy, born and raised that he is, it is not entirely shocking to find him being very apt and capable of delivering a church melody that could bring a parish choir member to absolute shame and in times like these it is abundantly clear that The Detective is awesomely multi-talented, and that if it wasn't for his career in law enforcement, one in music would've suited him just as well, if not better.

― Cash cannot be persuaded to sing because he doesn't care about the pursuit, finds it a waste of his time and quite frankly, he'd be most likely to glare if it's ever suggested to him --- the most he's willing to do is absent mindedly and very quietly hum some real or imaginary tune while he's waiting in ambush, tapping his gloved finger on the steering wheel, car parked a couple of blocks down as he carefully scopes out a target and patiently lays in wait for his cue, sipping on a cup of black instant coffee --- and even that only if his wait proves to be very, very long. His life is one of excess tension and it's quite literally no song (pun intended) nor is there any time for it and when there is, there's little place for yearning left. In fact, the man undoubtedly doesn't remember when was the last time he genuinely had time or the desire to switch on the radio and deliberately sit down and just listen to music for its own sake. But, if this man ever stalked someone? He's never likely to forget the music he's heard them listening to when they thought they're all alone. Undoubtedly, they're the very tunes he later absentmindedly hums.

― Gus Travis likes his sea shanties because his dream was quite simply put to buy a boat one day and sail out there, live off of the great, wide blue, but it's an ambition that never really came into fruition in the fullest sense, bogged down by the career criminal in's and out's of his dalliances on the wrong side of the law. It is what it is. Nevertheless, he enjoys the notion of a life at sea and everything involved in it, including the associated tunes, songs and music, not that he sings with any positive notion behind it, a full heart and joy either, more like, if Gus ever sang, he'd sing it almost mockingly, yo ho ho, while dangling a live victim upside down over a shark tank, mocking both the poor, unfortunate soul he's about to feed to the fishes down below and mocking himself, in a way, perhaps without even realizing it or wanting to admit that that's precisely what he's doing, because this is what his life has come to and everything he's ever wanted has been slipping further and further away from his fingers with each passing year or has, for the lack of a better word, gone to shit.

― Jan Valek is a medieval Bohemian clergyman, so, utilizing some form of logic, if he ever sang, it could be some old lullaby in Czech that lingers on the very edge of memory, sang to him by who knows who and who knows when, perhaps a mother, a kindly family member, someone from where he used to live when he was human and very young at that, long before he took his vows, or he'd sing some religious hymn in Latin in a voice that could freeze over the full moon with it's haunting beauty; a remnant of a bygone time when he was mortal and dedicated to the service of God, all association with music intricately tied to a more vulnerable time when he wasn't accursed and condemned, now, his song resembling a howl in the dead of night, a phantom's call slashing through the darkness, something chilling and gorgeous that is hard to explain, but certainly not entirely human. The type of thing you hear and you no longer belong entirely to yourself, falling under a vampire's spell, rather, you go out there, looking for the source of whatever it is you heard, mesmerized.

― Jack Blaylock, or rather, Timothy Calloway is All-American; irregardless of the fact that he lives in Japan, made his life in Japan, is embedded in the culture (and its Underworld) of Japan, operates out of Japan undercover with the facade of an Expat like any other, and hey, for all we know, he was born there too, which might make his attachment to all things American profoundly fascinating, no less the fact that if he sang, he'd not only sing something American, but something profoundly anachronistic and belonging to a bygone and nearly idealistic era he never even experienced himself, the same way he either never experienced his actual homeland or experienced it so little and so long ago, one can consider him remotely estranged from it (never say this to his face). So, knowing all of this, it is easy to envision Jack softly singing something by The Harptones, Bobby Darin or The Platters as he cleans his sword, produces his blades, checks his firearms with an immaculate attention to details, puts on a crisp, clean button up shirt, preparing for his next hitjob.

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