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merakiui · 6 months

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⭐

Go off Queen ❤️

>:D why, thank you, my liege. Go off, I shall!!!

(ask game)

I think I'll take this opportunity to discuss Death Row Undertow's chapter seven: Kismet Kiss! Specifically the latter half involving Cater. I've put my thoughts under the cut!

I loved writing this scene (the tonal shift from Riddle's anxious meticulousness to Cater's friendly and feigned positivity is very yummy to me)! The karaoke bar that the pop music club frequents actually has a name: Siren's Heartache. Reader and Cater visit it often! That aside, this chapter shows a much more meaner side to Cater. >_< not only that, but it also illustrates his inner thoughts and feelings. For example, this section here:

Cater makes it a mission to familiarize himself with his favorite karaoke bar’s menu, but despite every food and drink combination he’s come across (some photographed and strung up on his social media and others admired from afar) he cannot stomach the sweetness. So for tonight—like most nights—he chooses something that is, as his sisters would often say, “so not cute.” Beer is his go-to, even if his carefully curated Magicam feed is adorned with photos of pastries and sugary drinks galore. Peel back the pretty wallpaper and you'll find the dollhouse is not what it seems. But festering in rot is so not cute, and so for this reason he plasters the bitter with beauty.

Cater likes to curate a certain image for himself, especially when that image is being posted to his Magicam. He does something similar in Cicada City when he takes Riddle out for boba and orders a very sugary drink (which he only photographs and doesn't drink once). In canon, it's noted that Cater is more partial to spicy flavors than sweet flavors and that his aversion to the latter is due to always having to force himself to eat the sweets his sisters would make to avoid disheartening them. Also, his sisters have a tendency to judge things based on how cute they are. I imagine this habit is engrained quite deeply in Cater, hence why in this chapter (and other chapters) you will see him referring to things as "cute" or "not cute."

Though he seems rather cruel and detached from the main issue (Reader's disappearance), there are little things to suggest otherwise. The most glaring one would be his song and its lyrics. When I wrote it, I wanted every line to hold an underlying meaning for plenty of analytical dissection. Lilia's able to read between the lines, which leads to this exchange:

Cater curls his fingers into a tight, self-assuring fist, nails pricking his palms. “Sure did. Penned by yours truly and everything! It’s still not finished, though. I’m always going back to edit, but so far that’s the most coherent draft I have. So whatcha think? It’s totally cute, yeah?” “It’s very telling,” Lilia praises with a cryptic grin. Cater doesn’t like the wisdom discreetly woven into his next words. “You can learn a lot from the speaker in the song. Some truths are best expressed in writing, after all. When we put pen to paper, left alone with but our wrist and brain, we’re usually very honest with the page.” As always, you’re a mystery, Cater thinks with a thin smile. Maybe I shouldn’t have shared it so confidently.

These lyrics are very vulnerable and personal to Cater, but he shares them anyway because he's seeking validation for the song itself (not the story told within), which Kalim gives him without touching upon the message. But Lilia's the one who sees beyond the song's cute façade, which is exactly what Cater didn't want. Of course he separates Cater and the speaker in the song when he refers to them, but both he and Cater know they are one and the same.

Cater mentions in Cicada City that, "I’m thinking it could be an energetic love song with dark undertones. Lots of people like creepy romances, and who said Halloween couldn’t start early?" but in this chapter he says it "sounds kinda pop idol." The contrast in these descriptions are unique to Cater because it suggests that previously he was content to recognize the darker aspects of the song and its story, but now he simply wants it to be "pop idol" instead. This erasure of the dark tones in the song is a parallel to how he feels currently: a stressful situation has arisen and he doesn't want to confront it head-on because it's much smoother when things are cute and sweet (or pop idol).

In other words, Cater's role in this chapter is frustrating because he's meant to be Reader's friend and yet here he is: not being a friend. But the truth is that Cater is so used to her pattern of coming and going that he doesn't see any need to worry, so he becomes a little tense when Kalim and Lilia are voicing his concerns (which he's tamped down) back to him rather than agreeing easily.

He's also quite defensive and protective of Reader, even more so when Lilia and Kalim press him on certain issues related to their relationship, often answering with, "I just know" or "I know her." Cater doesn't want to lose one of the few close friends he's ever had, so the idea that she isn't just taking leave for a few days and that it could be something far more serious is deeply unsettling to Cater. And if that's the case, it will confirm two things for him: (1) Cater doesn't know Reader as well as he thinks he does and (2) this isn't another case of crying wolf; it's something more.

It may seem like he's dismissive when he tries to get Kalim and Lilia to drop the subject entirely so they can focus on band discussions instead (and he is), but the reality is that Reader has been on Cater's mind the entire time. At the end of the chapter, he thinks, This is so not sweet. I completely forgot to take pictures for Magicam. Cater never forgets to take pictures. He actively searches for ways to snap photos at every opportunity; it's one of the things that's almost always at the forefront of his mind. He was so distracted with his own buried worries related to Reader that taking pictures genuinely slipped his mind.

So he is genuinely worried. He just doesn't want to show that side of himself because it's, in his own words, "so not cute."

#twisted chit chat #death row undertow #forgive me for rambling a lot orz #i love cater so much and his role in dru is very interesting and fun to discuss!!!

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teresawymore · 5 months

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I'm new to fan fiction. Only Good Omens has ever inspired me to jump in, and I've been so obsessed I'm falling behind on my actual paid writing lol.

Pinning and updating my fanfic and fanart here. Please check my descriptions so you don't get yourself into something you'd rather not. I write transgressive fiction more than romance.

"Anger invariably stimulated his master’s licentious disposition.

The twitching jaw and preoccupation of his usually fearless master made Crowley uneasy. Aziraphale wasn’t a worrier. He was prideful and abrasive but not timid. He enjoyed a good fight and had the wits to make any man appear a fool.

In fact, Aziraphale hadn’t changed much from his first corporeal existence. Crowley still adored the soft angelic features that contrasted with discerning eyes. Over the millennia, his gaze had grown more piercing and his appreciation for the world’s delicacies had made him a bit plump. He kept his white curls, bright teeth, and charming smile, though Crowley had seen his geniality vanish like a flash of lightning before a storm of rage."

explicit, violent, dubious consent, historical, Rome, AU, demon!Aziraphale

"Under the sultry lighting of art deco chandeliers, the angel’s gaze roamed the exotic room. Velvet wallpaper covered three walls, and luxurious benches filled the space in front of a long wood and brass bar. The far side had no wall but a brass railing that partitioned the club from the expanse of an open three-story warehouse.

The demon’s attention was captivated by the dancers, a mix of couples that spun and stomped to the rhythm. Young women in fringed dresses drank and danced alongside men in sharp suits. All the races of the great Midwestern city mingled in this black-and-tan club with crossdressers and other members of the twilight aristocracy.

It was an era of defiant music and defiant mores.

Humans are so very creative."

angsty, romantic, historical, Prohibition

#fanfic #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #michael sheen #david tennant #artists on tumblr #digital illustration #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #ineffable husbands #ao3 writer #ao3 link #fanfiction

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cryptidcasanova · 2 years

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For your Hellfire Haunts challenge could I get a ghost!Eddie with "Til death do us part"? I'm a sucker for ghost x human romances

I love this idea so much. Absolutely, @gr00vyr0se! Thanks for sending this in!

Haunted Hearts

Ghost!Eddie Munson x GN Reader

Words: 5.4k

Be warned: this is dangerously soft and tender.

You weren't sure what possessed you to stop at the estate sale.

You were driving through an old flyover town called...Hanking? Hawks? You were on the road for so long that you couldn't remember.

With a slow blink, you realized you wouldn't be getting much farther without needing a break. A stop would be a nice break on your eyes, and you parked your car with a stretch. Your shoulders ached, and you slouched before checking your phone.

Your map gave you an estimated arrival time of four more hours on the road, four more hours before making it home and crashing into your own bed.

Yeah, you resigned. A break would have been very nice.

The old trailer park home was almost forgotten among the greenery of the midwest. Vines of ivy twisted up and over the windows. The house was a memory of a dying age, and wildlife had taken over the parking lots. Humidity clung low, and you stood with a soft breath. In the distance, you could hear cardinals chirping and squirrels chittering in the trees.

Oh, Indiana.

Only one other car was parked in the lot, and there was a large poster listing the estate sale on the front porch.

Munson Estate Sale.

Saturday and Sunday, 10:00-6:00

You stopped at the door as you carried yourself up the creaking steps. The place looked abandoned.

"Hello?" You called into the trailer, tapping on the side of the doorframe.

You heard a rustle inside and decided to test your luck. You walked into the old, faded trailer with a frown. It looked, well, it looked sad. Neglected. Forgotten.

You wandered the living room aimlessly, looking at the faded wallpaper and dust filtering through the lights.

There wasn't a lot in the living room. Some part of you thought that there were only old baseball caps and German beer mugs left over, but a sinking feeling in your stomach told you otherwise. There must not have been a lot to begin with.

"Can I help you?"

The next thing you knew, you were spinning around with a jump, clutching your hand to your chest.

An old woman was carrying a box from one of the back rooms. She was crouched over, her spine curved, and her hair starting to grey from behind thick glasses. She was struggling with the box.

"Here, let me help," You offered quickly, holding your hands out to grab the other side of the cardboard. It was heavy, and you helped her set it up on the kitchen counter before getting a good look inside.

It was a box of old vinyl records and cassette tapes. No wonder why it was so heavy.

"Thanks," the woman offered, looking around the kitchenette. "Now, if I only knew where I put my tape – oh!" She exclaimed once she found it.

Her clubbed, wrinkled fingers urged the packing tape up in a stripe, and you closed the box's flaps to silently help her. When you shut the lid, you noticed words scribbled on one of the flaps in an old, dried-out sharpie. You moved your fingers to get a better look.

Eddie

"Well, I suppose you're here to look around," The woman said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. You looked down at her face with a nod. "Most of the belongings are going to be donated after today. Let me know if you have any questions."

You didn't need to be told twice, backing away from the main room and heading toward the back of the trailer.

The trailer was smaller on the inside. Aside from the living room and kitchenette, there was a small bathroom, a linen closet, and one bedroom at the end of the hallway.

The bedroom was your only point of interest.

The room almost looked untouched, as if the dust and cobwebs were older than time let on.

The air was stale and lingering with the smell of old cigarettes. You couldn't help but scrunch up your nose.

You walked around carefully, noticing old band posters pinned to the walls. Clothes and boxes were stuffed under the bed frame, and the bed itself was unmade. No sheets, no duvet. Trinkets and more loose cassette tapes were scattered across the mattress.

It looked much less like an old estate sale and more like a teenage boy's bedroom.

You walked around the mess, looking at an old, beat-up dresser. Half of the drawer knobs were missing, and your hand lingered over one of the drawers before pulling it toward you.

You were half expecting to see a home of spiders but were surprised. The drawer was relatively organized under a mess of socks. Old band t-shirts were hidden underneath. You pulled at an old Metallica shirt and grinned.

Oh, what the hell.

You folded it under your arm and pushed the hardwood closed. As you looked up in the dresser mirror, your eye caught something from across the room. You spun around on your heel, turning to the corner of the room.

It was a corner of old mismatched band gear, stacks of loose-leaf paper, and a guitar. A nice guitar.

"What in the world are you doing here?" You asked aloud, your eyebrows knitting together in a moment of confusion.

You plucked the guitar from its place in the corner - not even on a stand - and gave it a thoughtful strum. It could use some new strings and a little love, but it was in great shape. And you were in no condition to talk. Maybe it was finally time you learned how to play.

But what was it doing in a place like this? It was definitely custom.

You looked down at it thoughtfully.

"It looks like you're coming home with me."

You didn't see the hint of movement, a shadow, in the mirror's reflection as you walked out of the room.

Your house smelled like soft linens. It was warm, comforting, and clean.

The simple home sat stationary, waiting for your eager return. When you finally pulled the door open after your trip, it enveloped you in an embrace of laundry detergent and cashmere.

You were home at last.

You toed off your shoes before you even locked the door. You let your bag fall to the floor with an unceremonious thud before addressing the outsider.

If your home was anything, it was soft. It was gentle, humble, and welcoming. The rugged Warlock guitar was a compelling centerpiece. It was sharp and loud and aggressive against the softness of the room.

Your house didn't smell like cheap cologne and cigarettes.

You weren't waiting for your things to become dusty heirlooms.

And you thought that there was some life left in the old guitar. You let out a relaxed groan as you sat down on the couch. You lounged back, your eyes narrowing at the clock on the stovetop. It was getting late.

You pulled the guitar into your lap and looked it over, your eye catching on an engraving that left an uneven groove under your fingertips.

Corroded Coffin.

Your eyebrows hitched curiously before you traced the letters. There was fondness in your heart. You found the needle in the haystack and in the middle of a shit-stain of a town, nonetheless.

You hesitantly placed one hand on the neck and let it rest in your lap while strumming the strings. They were tight and brittle with old age. Everything was out of tune. Maybe you should get new strings before giving it a real test drive.

You made a mental list – milk, bread, guitar strings. You smirked, shaking your head. Maybe you could buy a book for beginners or look up tutorials on your phone. It would be a labor of love.

When a yawn bubbled up in your chest, you knew it was time for bed. You washed your face and brushed your teeth before falling between the sheets. You didn't pay any attention to the shadows hugging the corners of your bedroom.

What you didn't expect was to have a dream frightening enough to wake you up.

It was still dark outside when you were startled up, and when you checked your phone, it was only about three in the morning. Your eyes burned as you looked at the light.

You were dreaming of skies of lightning and hordes of disfigured bats. They were swarming over you. You couldn't run away or move at all.

You were trapped.

When you finally got a grip, the lingering feeling of fear and loneliness crept into the corners of your heart. You were scared and alone. You turned on the lights before sitting up, flailing slightly to get out from the blankets, trapping you to the mattress.

You felt like crying.

A rush of emotion left you winded, and all you wanted to do was not to be so alone.

So, you got up, turned on the lights and the tv in the living room, and let the soft sounds of old reruns soothe the tension in your shoulders.

You started a batch of laundry from the trip, and the whirl of water added to the cacophony of noise you relied on to fill the space. Searching high and low, you found an old bag of chocolate chips in your panty. You tried your hand at the chocolate chip cookie recipe on the back of it.

You definitely didn't have all the ingredients it required. But after scrolling on your phone for twenty minutes, you found helpful alternatives and were back on track.

Old cartoons were playing on the TV, and you turned to the old tune of the Thundercats intro. You raised an eyebrow with mild confusion. It had been years since you watched it. You swore your dad kept an old VHS movie tape of Thundercats at his house. But you followed the glow of the TV to your couch and plopped down.

It was almost calming to watch the grainy art frames. You sat there, subconsciously strumming at the guitar still perched next to you. You sat there until the cookies were done baking and went back to watching the old shows.

Time passed by like syrup, slowly and thickly in your brain. You swapped out the laundry, put away the cookies, and gave the guitar another thoughtful strum before deciding to try and go back to bed.

The memories of the nightmare had faded, and you almost felt silly for how scared you felt.

This time, your bed looked far more inviting. You plugged in your phone, cursed under your breath at how late it was getting, and finally crawled back under the covers. You were tired. Your mind could calm down, and it took very little time for you to get comfy enough to doze.

You were right there, on the cusp of being swept under the current. A faint thought passed over you, and you swore you could hear the low thrum of a melody from the other room. But you were too far gone to focus on it. Sleep claimed you quickly, deeply.

You didn't have any dreams the rest of the night.

In the morning, you dragged your feet out of bed and swore you were dozing off in the shower. Not even coffee helped. It felt like a blanket was weighing you down.

All your hours on the road must have finally caught up with you.

You felt irritable, like you weren't entirely comfortable in your own house, and paced around the rooms.

Nothing you wore felt right. You eyed the old Metallica shirt carefully as you pulled it out of the dryer. After running your thumb along the old lettering, you smiled. You decided to pair it with some old jeans and finally felt comfortable.

But you were still so out of it that you didn't notice the guitar or the snapped strings splayed along the couch as you hurried out the door.

It was better at work, surprisingly. You worked a whole shift and felt better than you had all morning. The tension in your shoulders was gone; more than once, you looked down at the Metallica shirt affectionately.

You felt much better when you made it to the grocery store. The fluorescents in the store were bright, and you rubbed your eyes, trying to focus. You had written out your list of staples to get. At the bottom of your list, you remembered quickly scribbling down chocolate milk on your way out the door. You grinned and shook your head.

You must have really had a tough night. It had been years since you actively thought about chocolate milk. Maybe it was the late-night baking or cartoons. There was a nagging feeling in your belly to hurry up as you walked down the aisles. You bypassed the refrigerated section altogether, and sitting on a shelf next to juice and Caprisuns, you found a case of Yoo-hoos.

You couldn't recall if your parents bought them when you were a kid, but you reached out to the packaging anyways. And it wasn't long after that you were checking out and loading up your trunk with groceries: You had other stops to make, after all.

The music store was intimidating.

You walked past aisles of sheet music to the guitar gear with small steps. There were acoustic and electric guitars hanging on the walls, and boxes of amps and speakers were below them. There was so much to look at. You were never particularly musically inclined - but your parents were. Maybe it was time to learn for yourself.

The shop was quaint, and there might have only been two or three other customers while you looked for strings. And when you found them? Oh man, there were a bunch of them.

The strings ranged by guitar type and brand, and you quickly got frazzled. The price range was obscene. When you finally fidgeted toward a box, you hesitated.

"It's a rip-off."

The words were followed by a low whisper of a breath, and you looked over your shoulder. You wanted to see who was giving their feedback. But the only person remotely close by was an older employee.

You could have sworn the voice sounded younger.

You looked around again before shaking your head, forgetting about it. You reached for some middle-of-the-road strings and a winder. They didn't break the bank, and you even snagged a couple of fun guitar picks before calling it a night.

The house was much colder than you remembered leaving it that morning.

You crossed your arms after putting away groceries, frowning when you looked at the thermostat. It was the same as you had left it. With a grumble, you turned up the heat and moved to your bedroom, throwing on a sweatshirt.

You baked a frozen pizza and drank a Yoohoo for dinner before settling in on the couch, but you felt restless. You couldn't stay still.

It was only then that you noticed a couple of snapped guitar strings. You cursed under your breath, your fingers blindly reaching toward the music shop bag.

Three tutorial videos and a half an hour later, you were winding, clipping, and pulling the first string into place, only to find out it was the wrong string. It was an arduous task.

Your back ached, and you groaned, sitting up from your spot. You let your arms stretch above you and thought the air was warmer.

When you finally blinked away from the guitar, you felt a chilled rush of goosebumps on your neck and tilted your head back to the kitchen. For a moment, you thought you saw something just out of the corner of your eye.

You bit your lip anxiously. It didn't matter what you thought. You were feeling paranoid.

Or at least you thought you were paranoid.

Days started to pass quickly as you got back into a work rhythm. You still woke up to strange dreams. They were all vivid at the moment, but none were as frightening as the initial dream of bats and lightning. Their memories sizzled out when you woke up, but you were left with a strange feeling.

Every morning you woke up with a heaviness in your bones that wouldn't cease until you left the house.

There was a chill in the air regardless of the warm fall sun. Sometimes you felt like you weren't entirely alone.

Learning the guitar came slowly. The pads of your fingers burned and ached, and most nights, you let the guitar sit all alone on its side of the couch.

You turned to old comfort films to fill your free time and started to expand your music horizons. Sometimes you would watch old rock and roll music videos with heavy guitar solos and look at the guitar with a longing expression.

You could do that.

If you applied yourself, you could do it.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, you swore you could hear the guitar playing from out in the living room. It was slow and sweet, and you could almost feel the thrumming vibrations in your sleep.

Sometimes you would wake up on the couch with the guitar in your lap or a blanket draped over you. Those days you felt especially drained.

You couldn't remember how you got out there but could imagine it was the aftermath of a bad dream.

One morning you woke up to the soft sound of the TV. Your eyes were sleepy, and your neck ached, but you were content. The remote was right next to your hand, and when you focused, you realized the music was the end of the Lord Of the Rings.

You didn't overthink it. You loved those movies.

You reached for the remote and turned on the second one - The Two Towers - before settling back on the couch.

But your precarious sleeping patterns also messed with your appetite.

You went through another pack of Yoo-hoos and bought chips and pop tarts.

Playing the guitar became a subconscious effort like maybe you knew how to play after all. You were zoning out one night, strumming blindly while watching cartoons, and startled up when you realized you were playing the notes of Stairway to Heaven.

It was slow and maybe a little choppy, but it was there. The trouble was, you didn't even know how to play that song.

You put the guitar down for a while after that.

It wasn't until one Friday night, after you settled in after a long work week, that you got a noise complaint from the neighbors.

They were grumpy, spitting up and down that they could hear your 'devil music' during all hours of the day. They listened to the incessant noise all afternoon. They even complained about hearing the raucous music in the middle of the night.

But you had a hard time understanding them; you weren't even home in the middle of the day. You didn't even have time to run home on your lunch break.

You didn't have speakers or an amp, so what were they hearing?

There was a sudden chill in the air behind your back. Oh. You swallowed hard and tensed up, but tried to keep your composure and calm down your neighbors.

You promised to lay off the music, and when they finally relented and let you get on with your night, you sent a scalding glance at the guitar.

"You're putting on a show without me?"

When you finally dared to pick up the guitar, you moved it from the couch and made a beeline to your closet. Until you knew what was going on, you didn't have the nerve to look at it.

Even the dark, carved words Corroded Coffin stared back at you with grief. But you closed the closet door anyway.

You had no idea what you were doing.

What did you bring into your house?

You stayed in your bedroom the rest of the night. Whatever was in your house wasn't malicious. That much you were sure of.

You took to the internet for help. Cold air? Strange noises? It could mean anything from poor airflow to a mouse infestation. Strange dreams? It could mean phycological distress or uncertainty.

And as much as you wanted to skirt around it, you eventually searched for what was really consuming your thoughts.

Ghosts. Haunting spectre. Demonic presences.

You didn't know where to start.

'Ghost anomalies could be caused by connections of the deceased to places or objects. These spirits can have an effect on the environment around them. They can influence temperature, and electronic devices can go haywire. Magnetism shifts are expected. Sometimes, if left alone for long enough, it could even affect the living.'

You frowned, letting your head fall in your hands.

The strange behavior didn't begin until you brought that guitar home.

It would explain your own peculiar behavior. Some days it felt like the strength from your bones like you had been hit by a bus. But maybe it wasn't a bus at all.

You cleared out your search bar and looked up Corroded Coffin, but the results were few and far between. You looked up haunted instruments, but that search list was even shorter.

And then you pulled up a map, trying to backtrack the route you drove home.

It must have all stemmed from the estate sale.

You tried to remember the path, zooming in and out of the major cities and small towns. Did you take County Road 19? Didn't you make an exit at Highway 75?

It was an arduous process, and when you finally did get back into the weeds of Indiana, your eyes almost lit up.

Hawkins. Bingo.

You opened a new tab; a new search.

Hawkins, Indiana estate sales.

There was a list of fancy, middle-class homes with estate sales. But there was nothing about a trailer park. You kept trying.

Hawkins, Indiana trailer park.

You did find the trailer park, but there was very little information on who lived there or how to get in touch with them. There was just an old brochure attached in the city records that must have been from the 70s. Maybe you weren't looking in the right place.

Hawkins, Indiana obituaries.

Why would they have an estate sale unless there was no one to take care of the trailer? Someone must have recently passed away.

The search pulled up a newspaper. The Hawkins Post. It was a weekly paper that mainly covered local sporting events and the mismanagement of tax policies. Still, at the end of the articles, there was an obituary section. It was a small town, after all.

You started looking back, digging through weeks of online copies of the paper, searching for a needle in a haystack.

You almost gasped when you finally found something that lingered from your memory.

Wayne Munson.

Munson Estate Sale

He passed away about a month before the estate sale and had a short obituary underneath his name.

Wayne was a dedicated worker at the power plant for over forty years, had a soft spot for fishing and fried foods, and was as kind as he was gruff around the edges.

Unfortunately, Wayne is not remembered by family members. However, he is and will be recognized by this community. Wayne was a devoted uncle, but after the town events of 1986, he remained alone. We will remember Wayne and all the work he has contributed to Hawkins.

You read over it twice. Maybe you were haunted by the memory of Wayne Munson. But it didn't make any sense. What happened in 1986? You went back.

Hawkins, Indiana 1986

Your eyes went wide at the results. There was a massive earthquake that destroyed the town. People were killed, and others went missing. There were pictures of the wreckage.

Your belly ached. You thought about the guitar and looked at the closet door across the hall. Wayne had a family. Someone went missing.

"What happened to you?" You whispered into the air, clearing your search bar again.

Missing Persons Hawkins, Indiana 1986

You scrolled through missing person pictures, and there was a massive spike in the spring of 1986. The town really was devastated.

And then you found it. Edward "Eddie" Munson.

It was a missing person's poster of Eddie Munson.

The black and white poster was old and grainy, and you zoomed in as closely as possible. His hair was long and dark, unruly, with curls that framed his face. You couldn't help but smirk. He definitely had hair to fit the period. His eyes were dark, or maybe it was just the picture, but his features were soft. You leaned back against the bedframe. He looked so young when he went missing. It must have been a school picture.

Eddie Munson.

You thought back to the estate sale and the woman carrying that big old box of tapes. Eddie's name was on the top of it. Eddie was into music.

When you looked back at the picture, your heart skipped a beat. He was wearing an all-too-familiar Metallica shirt in the photo. That same shirt was draped over your desk chair with the rest of your clean laundry.

You zoomed back out and saw a link to details of the disappearance with a newly formed curiosity. But your computer screen froze as you moved to click on the link. Not even a moment later, the screen turned black, and you jumped.

There was a shadow looming behind you.

You practically jumped off the bed, but when you turned around, no one was there. No shadows were lingering between your bed and the wall.

You were all alone when you looked back at the dark computer screen. It couldn't have run out of battery charge - it was plugged into the outlet.

Panic spiked in your veins.

You made a move to stand up but faltered. The air was too cold. You could see the puff of air as you exhaled, and your head ached.

It was a heavy, suffocating feeling. You couldn't think straight.

The room was spinning around you, and you braced yourself on the headboard to steady yourself. But the effort was fruitless. You blindly collapsed between the bed and the dresser only a moment later. And as your eyes fluttered shut, you were out before your head could hit the floor.

But your head never hit the ground.

You were cradled between the hardwood and something invisible to the naked eye. You were brought to the ground gently, your skin jumping with goosebumps at the sudden chill. For the first time in a long time, everything was silent.

And Eddie didn't know what to do.

He was scared.

"Sorry, sorry," He apologized. And he meant it.

Eddie didn't want you to look for him, worried about what you might find. He was accused of so many things - devil worship, child endangerment, murder. He was the ostracised freak of Hawkins, and he couldn't even die right. He wasn't at peace.

And when Dustin gave his uncle the guitar, he found his way back. Not that anyone could see him, but he was there.

He was tied to the guitar in the upside-down, and when Wayne locked it in the back room with all of Eddie's things, he thought he'd be stuck there forever.

You saved him.

Your entire existence was different from the life he had known. It was white linens and peace. It was clean air and the chance to grow up.

Eddie didn't feel dragged down by his upbringing. He wasn't a freak.

You felt it too. You could feel him, even if you couldn't put it into words.

And Eddie tried to be a polite guest, but he was just so antsy. He was in a new place and didn't feel so alone with you. He wanted to be content for the first time in a long time.

He got to see you, the real you, in the safety of your own home. He spent his mornings staying out of your way, watching from a distance as you hurried to get ready and make it to work.

He appreciated the slow, cat-like way you stretched out after a long day. He'd watch how you slowly pluck at the guitar strings when you needed to decompress. Sometimes he even wanted to help. He even tuned your guitar and ensured the strings were tight before you played.

Eddie's taste in movies was rubbing off on you; he was sure of it. You'd put on old slasher movies without really thinking about it. And when woke up to the Fellowship of the Ring? He was nervous about being too involved, but you jumped right in. Eddie had been in a bubble for so long and didn't want to be locked away again.

At night, when you were just on the cusp of falling asleep, he felt the closest he ever had. It was like the plane between life and death was thinner somehow. You were on the cusp of wakefulness and sleep, and he could reach out to you. If he could just show you, talk to you, he -

Eddie froze.

He was lonely. He just wanted someone to talk to.

Most nights, he'd linger in the doorframe until sleep pulled you under, waiting until he could feel the electricity in the air. He was so close to something. And he reveled in that feeling.

He could reach out to you in your dreams.

At first, he didn't mean to do it. And he never meant to scare you, but he could vividly remember the upside-down. Your dreams and fears were his own.

Eddie needed to show you. He didn't want to jeopardize whatever attachment he formed, but he needed you to understand. He wasn't a monster. He wasn't a killer.

Eddie was enamored by you.

He didn't know if it was love or the need for companionship, but he didn't want to lose you. He had waited years, almost lifetimes, for a change. He had been waiting for you all along.

And if you knew what other people thought about him? If you believed them? He wasn't sure if he would recover.

The fear was paralyzing, so he panicked. He had to stop you.

He didn't even know just how much influence he could have. His body was still trapped in the upside-down, and he could feel the lingering power of the heavy atmosphere. So he overwhelmed the energy of the room.

You couldn't have fought against it if you had tried.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He assured, reaching out to touch your face. "I promise."

But Eddie didn't know if he was trying to assure himself or you. He wasn't even sure you could hear him. He'd have to be careful. His touch was nervous, pressing into your temples and watching as your expression softened. He moved his hands away quickly.

You were pulled up from the floor and laid back in bed. Eddie assessed you with a frown. His connection was stronger than he thought. He leaned in close, sitting on the edge of the bed, and twirled his rings on his fingers anxiously.

He was going to tell you the truth, his truth, before you could find out on your own. But when he took your hand in his own, you startled up.

You could see him. You were staring straight at him, grasping his hand tight as you looked him over. It wasn't another dream.

He was really there, wearing an old, beat-up jacket and jeans as he sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes were just as dark as the picture. You could see and feel him and hear how his breath got caught in his throat.

"Eddie?" You were startled. It wasn't from fear, no. You were startled by how comfortable you felt. You were safe and secure.

You could feel the rush of power, of energy from his hand to yours. And as those dark eyes shifted to yours, he knew.

Eddie wasn't connected to the guitar anymore. He was connected to you.

Hellfire Haunts Masterlist

#hellfire haunts #writing challenge #ghost!eddie munson #ghost!eddie #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #ghost x reader #spooky stories

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thesinglesjukebox · 8 days

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CALVIN HARRIS X RAG'N'BONE MAN - "LOVERS IN A PAST LIFE"

youtube

So 2000 and late...

[4.07]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: [A deep][trance][scorcher] about [old love] by [Calvin Harris] & [Rag'n'Bone Man][!] [6]

Will Adams: Disappointment! After last year's fantastic duo of singles that breathed life into the trance revival, Calvin Harris slips back into Euro-filler, where the only notable features are a marble-mouthed vocalist and a way-too-loud guitar riff. [4]

TA Inskeep: Calvin Harris, ever the musical unoriginalist, sounds as if he's interpolating the likes of Darude here -- because if there's anything Harris knows, it's what's hot in dance/pop at this moment, and right now that's retro '90s dance and trance-pop. The oontz-oontz is pleasant enough, and Rag'n'Bone Man's overdone vocal "ache" fits it well. Neither terrible nor great, just as one would expect. [4]

Alfred Soto: It has the anonymity of a dozen Eurohouse tracks that Miami played around the clock 30 years ago: I can hear Real McCoy's "Another Night" in its verses. What I didn't expect was a guitar solo with "My Sweet Lord" in its rear view. [5]

Hannah Jocelyn: Why did Calvin Harris stick a rag (possibly also a bone) in his vocalist's mouth before recording? The guitar sounds more human than he does! [3]

Nortey Dowuona: Rag'n'Bone Man's lush and rough voice works for EDM since it's just smooth enough not to clash with drum programming. It feels light, excitable and lively when freed of the obligation to imitate R&B and blues -- both genres he clearly wishes to be a part of, yet lacks the finesse or power to. Here, he lives out his fantasies of being Teddy Pendergrass. His voice is too raspy and phlegmy to hold during the verses, but once the pre-chorus synths take hold, he soars, ebullient and lithe as the guitar line over the slimmed-down 1986 pop drums. By the end, he is absent because he's served his purpose. [4]

Dave Moore: The vocals set my teeth on edge: wannabe journeyman pap, like Blues Traveler with all the wrinkles ironed out. I might have found the wallpaper pop-house backing from Harris to be a reprieve, but instead it's just a tepid bath for Rag'n'Bone Man to soak in. You couldn't get me in an unplugged hot tub with either of these guys. [3]

Brad Shoup: On "Giant," Harris redirected Rag'n'Bone Man's gale-force soul through the doors of the Wigan Casino. There was also a hint of boogie, which "Lovers in a Past Life" broadens. I love how this is hectic but not urgent: wrapping itself around the bullcrap until it's drilled a hole in the floor. When Harris drops the twangy hook, it's three docks before Balearic: lovely and gauche, like a restaurant's wall-length photo transfer of a sunset. [7]

Katherine St. Asaph: "Miracle" : Y2K :: "Lovers in a Past Life" : the Y2K club that probably exists in deleted footage from The Beast. (To be fair to this song, I would be more OK with being Rag'n'Bone Man's lover in a past life than that of the guy from The Beast.) [3]

Taylor Alatorre: Just as I was readying a wisecrack about the repackaging of Eastern spiritualism to suit Western categories of romance, I take another listen and realize the song isn't even that: "we were lovers in a past life, for all we know." How do you take a title that hints at reincarnation and cosmically linked fates, and reduce it to a shouted pick-up line at the club? Analyzing EDM lyrics is the province of fools and YouTube essayists, but Rag'n'Bone Man is credited as a co-lead, and his voice is launched at us in the first second, ironically while slurring the word "patience." If there ever were a stage name that implied a commitment to the bit, you'd think it would be "Rag'n'Bone Man," but here he is unwilling to give full expression to the fantasy contained in the premise. His misaimed realism leaves us with little to chew on but Calvin Harris' ongoing Eurodance fixation, which is more subdued and weary-sounding here than it was on "Miracle." That one was turn-of-the-century nostalgia in the service of untrammeled exuberance; this is just another day in the Logic Pro mines. [4]

Ian Mathers: So anodyne and pro forma that I've played it about 5x more than the other songs today because I keep forgetting what it sounds like. Would not care (or even notice?) if it was playing on the radio or whatever, and cannot even vaguely imagine getting it stuck in my head, let alone seeking it out. [4]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Something about this (maybe Andrew Watt's slide guitar solo?) makes me feel actually literally ill. If I heard this in the club I think I would die on the spot. [0]

Isabel Cole: Rag’n’Bone Man does a good job at something I’m not particularly into (soulful warbling), and Calvin Harris does an adequate job at something I’m easily suckered by (a perfectly passable beat occasionally punctuated by, e.g., swooshy laser noises or handclaps), so I guess this is… fine? [6]

Daniel Monteshenko: Rag'n'Bone Man has a powerful bleat that's all grit, and I've never believed a single lyric he's yowled. The streak continues here. "We were lovers in a past life," he pushes on the chorus, but there's no history, no mangled emotion, no wide-eyed wonder of what romance brings. They're just things he's saying. Calvin Harris is 6'5" and cruising through life. [4]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#calvin harris #rag'n'bone man #music #pop #pop music #music writing #music reviews #music criticism #the singles jukebox #Youtube

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teakklv · 11 months

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— нет ничего жалкого в том, чтобы просить прощения. и в том, чтобы любить – тоже.

шикарный, пугающий Тотспел.

— (арканум;; romance club)

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animewallpapersio · 11 months

Text

Suzumiya Haruhi is a popular character from the light novel series "The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya," written by Nagaru Tanigawa and illustrated by Noizi Ito. The series has also been adapted into an anime television series, several films, and manga adaptations.

The story revolves around Haruhi Suzumiya, a high school girl who unknowingly possesses the power to change reality. Haruhi is an eccentric and energetic character who is bored with her ordinary life and seeks out supernatural phenomena and extraordinary experiences. She forms a school club called the "SOS Brigade" (Spreading Excitement All Over the World with Haruhi Suzumiya Brigade) to find aliens, time travelers, and espers.

The SOS Brigade consists of several other main characters, including Kyon, the story's narrator and Haruhi's skeptical classmate, who becomes an important figure in her life. Other members include Yuki Nagato, an alien humanoid interface, Mikuru Asahina, a time traveler, and Itsuki Koizumi, an esper. Each member of the SOS Brigade has their own secrets and connections to Haruhi's powers.

The series is known for its mix of various genres, including science fiction, comedy, slice of life, and elements of romance. It often plays with narrative structure, employing nonlinear storytelling and sometimes breaking the fourth wall. Haruhi's character is notable for her strong personality and her ability to unconsciously reshape the world around her based on her desires.

"The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya" gained a significant following due to its unique storytelling, engaging characters, and references to otaku culture. It has spawned numerous spin-off media, merchandise, and a dedicated fanbase. The series continues to be a beloved part of anime and manga culture.

See more Suzumiya Haruhi wallpapers:

https://animewallpapers.io/category/the-melancholy-of-haruhi-suzumiya/

#animewallpaper #anime wallpaper 4k #anime wallpaper girl #anime wallpaper live #anime wallpaper iphone #anime #wallpaper #cute anime girl #haruhi suzumiya

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thesouthernpansy · 2 years

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scents and sensibilities (7/8)

(word count: 3,200; chapter rating: 🔥🔥)

“Well, we’ve started a little book club for ourselves, haven’t we,” Katherine tells the camera. A mismatched collection of chairs surrounds the sofa where she holds court, occupied by Nick and Stu, Edith and Ruth and a couple other members of Elderly Eternity. “Nick here suggested the series, and it’s been a lovely way to pass the time.”

Nick shrugs. “Yeah, they’re pretty good.”

“They’re sensational,” says Ruth, holding her copy up to the camera for reference. The cover is a lurid illustration of a stern, hirsute hero with exaggeratedly wolfish features and a bandolier of wooden stakes, one arm wrapped protectively around the waist of a swooning, dark-haired vampire wearing an exaggeratedly low-cut dress and an expression of utter devotion. A full, yolk-yellow moon rises in the background, the black lines of a gallows silhouetted against it. The Hunter Was Hung, reads the title in embossed white font, Book One of the Moonrise Lovers Series: A Paranatural Romance.

Ruth taps a finger excitedly against the embracing couple. “Make you think of anyone?”

Stu squirms a bit in his seat—”Yeah, I kind of wish she didn’t keep saying how the main guy reminds her of Anton?” he admits later to the cameras. “Makes it a bit weird, since he’s, like, my Alpha and that.”—and turns his copy of the book face down in his hands.

Before the assistant producer can answer, a frustrated shout comes from the corner, where Deacon is currently camped out playing World of Warcraft with someone creatively named d10n_the_w0lf.

“Where does it say that I cannot kill a member of my raiding party?” he demands into the headset he’s wearing. “Well if they kick me out they will not have either of their tanks, so who is the arsehole now, hm?” He pauses, scowl deepening as someone responds on the other end. “No, no, you must leave the party along with me, I will still look like the aresehole if you’re not on my side,” he hisses insistently.

“Deacon, dear, would you mind keeping it down a bit?” Katherine calls over, smiling apologetically at the cameras.

“Me?” snaps Deacon. “Go fuck yourself, this is the computer’s room, why don’t you go somewhere else for your disgusting book club?”

“—now Deacon, that isn’t—”

“Don’t you talk to her like that—”

“—here first anyway—!”

A din of voices breaks out, the majority of them sounding much more disappointed than angry, though Ruth seems more than prepared to meet Deacon’s increasingly physical posturing.

“—don’t think for an instant that means I couldn’t tear you apart with one hand!”

“Ruth, I don’t think that’s helping—”

“—like to see you try, you brittle old hag—”

The door to the lounge slams open. Swift, absolute silence as those assembled turn to see Viago in the doorway, swaying on his feet, hollow-eyed and covered head to toe in gouts of gore.

“I knew it!” crows Deacon. “Where is Vladislav, I have to say to his face ‘I told you so’!” He starts to get up, pauses and puts a hand against the earpiece of his headset. “Viago has defeated your pathetic ‘Alpha’ in glorious battle is what has happened,” he replies, as though it should be obvious. “Well how should I know that? What does that—are you crying? Don’t, hey, don’t—”

“Stay here, please, everyone.” Katherine rises and goes to Viago, taking his hands and pressing a hankie into them. “Would you like to talk somewhere else?” she asks gently.

Viago nods pitiably.

They go to where Katherine has set up her coffin, a former sitting room newly wallpapered with daisies, cozily decorated with porcelain knickknacks and a little table and chair drenched in crocheted doilies. Katherine settles Viago in and putters about setting some blood to warm on a hotplate in the corner. Viago wipes miserably at his face with her handkerchief.

“Now,” says Katherine, dusting her hands as she turns back to him. “What’s all—oh my, Viago?”

With an anguished wail, Viago throws himself onto the floor in front of her, both fists clenching at the front of her skirt as he sobs into them. Katherine places a comforting hand on the top of his head.

“There, there. Has something happened with Anton?” she asks carefully, which makes Viago cry even harder. A firmer expression comes onto her face, and she asks, “What’s he done?”

Viago shakes his head vehemently. “No, no, it isn’t—Anton has done nothing wrong. It’s me, Katherine, I—” He lets out another hiccough of a sob, and sits back on his heels, looking up at her with huge, sorrowful eyes.

“I have been unfaithful to you, in my actions and—” he twists the handkerchief in his hands with such force that the stitching starts to come apart. “—and in my heart.”

“What’s that now?” asks Katherine.

“I would never want to hurt you,” Viago tells her quickly, reaching to cradle her hands in his, “and I have no regrets about what has happened between us. But you deserve perfect honesty from me, and I have realized tonight that I can’t continue what we are doing here anymore. You see, I—” And here his expression lightens, something gentle and quiet coming into his eyes. “I am in love with Anton.”

Katherine does not seem surprised for nearly as long as Viago might have expected her to. She laughs a little, pats a palm fondly against his cheek.

“Oh, Viago. I know.”

“You know?”

By the time any of the crew can get away from the chaos in the lounge, they nearly collide with Viago rushing out of Katherine’s room. He stares practically through them, hair tousled and eyes sharp, and a fierce, determined set to his posture that wouldn’t be too far out of place on one of the book club’s paperback covers. He doesn’t seem terribly pleased by their presence, and a little of the metaphorical air goes out of him. He sniffles a bit, opens his mouth, closes it. He turns to the window, peering out at the lurking pink dawn. Looks at the crew again. Then, in one swift motion, Viago throws up the sash and bats out and away into the dwindling night.

If the camera had been able to follow him, this is what it might have seen: Anton, startling awake at the pounding on his window. Scrubbing the sleep from his eyes as he stumbles over to pull aside the curtain. The slow tick of seconds as the bleary expression on his face gives way to recognition to panic.

“Wha—Viago, is that you? It’s almost morning, what are you doing, get in here!"

He lets out an oof as the little bat that zooms in through the window hits him full in the chest with all the sudden weight of a full-grown and very clingy vampire.

“Am I dreaming?” asks Anton, hands careful on the small of Viago’s back, like he isn’t quite sure that VIago won’t disappear on contact. “Is this because I went to bed angry at you?”

“You are angry with me?” Viago pulls back to look at him, wilting visibly. It’s not exactly the greeting he’d hoped for.

“You just left me there in the park!” Anton reminds him. “And in a bit of a compromised position, might I add. I had to get a ride back with the documentary guys, and then I got in to half the pack ready to declare war because Deacon told Dion you’d killed me? What’s going on there?”

Viago winces, gesturing to his bloody clothes. “I think he may have made some assumptions."

Anton lets out a harsh breath through his nose. “He’s a real fucking egg sometimes, that guy. It took ages to convince Dion I wasn’t some kind of vengeful spirit. Plus someone had called Clifton about it and Denise was half out of her mind with worry, I had to explain to the guys that I had willingly let the wolf out in the middle of Wellington Central, I’ve only just got the blood out of my hair and as if all that weren’t enough here you come trying to get yourself killed getting caught in the sunrise! What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I wanted to see you,” replies Viago honestly, and Anton lets out an involuntary breath, glances away.

“That’s not worth you being incinerated,” he says, but it’s not quite the scold he clearly meant it to be.

“Well obviously I did not get incinerated,” Viago points out, rolling his eyes. “See? Hello, here I am, all in one piece!”

"Here you are," agrees Anton thoughtfully. Then, "Why'd you go in the first place?"

Underneath that is the more complicated question that Viago has really only just pieced together the answer to for himself. On the surface of it, though, well.

“It turns out that I was, um, mistaken about some things,” he says, embarrassment catching up to him now that he has to hear himself say it out loud.

“I don’t follow.”

Viago fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve, cringing as it flakes dried blood onto Anton’s shoulder. "I went to go break up with Katherine."

Anton’s eyebrows disappear into his fringe. "You went—you two were still together?"

"As I said, I was mistaken about some things.” It comes out as a bit of a snap, but Anton is already laughing, his hands sliding up under Viago’s jacket.

“Do you vampires not talk to each other about this sort of stuff? You know, if you maintain open lines of communication before these problems come up, you can—”

Viago makes a frustrated sound and surges forward to kiss him.

“Is talking all you werewolves ever want to do?”

“I like talking to you,” says Anton, half-breathless. “But I’m open to other suggestions.”

His eyes fall to Viago’s mouth and the familiar ache of hunger pulls at Viago's gut. He grins—it feels all fangs and need, dark and honey-sweet, Anton sleep-warm and rumpled in his boxers and a ratty t-shirt. His hair is half-dried and stuck up on one side, and there are still pillow marks on his face, and Viago finds he wants him as badly as he did when he still had the taste of blood on his teeth.

When they kiss again, it’s not quite picking up where they left off, the urgency tempered, if only slightly, into something slower and more thorough. It’s careful and unhurried until it’s very much not, building heat as Anton licks heedlessly into Viago’s mouth and Viago’s knees nearly give from under him. Anton doesn’t miss a beat, taking his weight easily with an arm around his shoulders. Viago hmms happily and admires the way Anton’s pulse flutters against his palm.

“I, uh,” Anton seems to lose his train of thought briefly, kissing his way back to it along Viago’s jaw. “I don't wanna presume, but I’ve only just washed these sheets and your clothes are still, well, still a bit—”

Still a bit filthy and crusted with blood and not getting anywhere near my clean bed, is probably his intention, and Viago can’t really find fault with that. It’s already begun to rub off in places on Anton’s pajamas, streaks of rust along his chest and shoulders. Viago looks down at himself.

“I could…take them off?”

Anton’s eyes go dark at that. "Yeah, that could work."

Viago’s clothes are dried stiff enough by now to be unwieldy, but Anton is eager as ever to help. If he’s less careful than Viago might like—to his credit, he only pops a single button in his frustration with Viago’s pants— any annoyance Viago might’ve felt is greatly ameliorated by the way Anton chases every new swath of exposed skin with his mouth.

“Wait—” There’s a scrape of teeth at Viago’s hipbone, the shivery sensation of skin just before the breaking point. “Come here, come here.” Viago grasps at anything he can reach of Anton and hauls him back up.

Anton follows like a tidal wave, heaving Viago onto the bed and crowding in against him, one long line of solid weight and heat. Viago grabs and comes back with hands full of t-shirt, snarls in frustration.

“That’s no fair,” he says. “You must take this off, too.”

Anton surfaces from what would be a very impressive hickey if Viago’s body were capable of it. He yanks the shirt over his head and tosses it aside, revealing a broad chest that makes Viago’s mouth water, downy with ginger hair. The impulse to touch, the realization that he can, is overwhelming, the spread of his own fingers against Anton's flushed skin almost hypnotizing. Anton startles and shudders, and Viago blinks up at him in concern.

"Your hands are cold," says Anton sheepishly.

Viago starts to apologize and retract them, but Anton stops him, bends to kiss the sentiment into silence.

"We'll just—is it sexy offering to warm you up? Is that anything?"

"I don't think that's possible, like this," laughs Viago, running his hands thoughtfully up to Anton's shoulders. "Though now that I am thinking of it I have never tried it quite like this."

"First time for everything," says Anton, breath hitching as Viago takes the opportunity to roll their hips together. Through the thin remaining fabric between them, his erection is undeniable—and impressive, hold on there.

“May I—?” Viago pauses with a hand at Anton’s waistband.

“Yeah, yeah,” Anton nods. “Hang on, I can—” He shifts away briefly, twisting awkwardly as he seems determined to get his boxers off without ever getting quite far enough away that he can’t still be kissing Viago at the same time. There’s a faint ripping, the knock of his knee into Viago’s thigh, and then, finally, the slow, delicious drag of bare skin. Anton’s fingers dig into Viago’s hips as he ruts against him, shaking with the obvious effort of control.

Viago tries to be subtle about peeking, but subtlety has never really been his forte. He feels Anton’s eyes on him as he cranes his neck for a better look, the attention managing to pull a blush from Anton even under their current circumstances.

“The, uh, the change did come with a few perks, turns out.” Anton seems a little self-conscious, but mostly pleased.

“I would certainly say so.” Viago wets his lips. There’s not a single inch of Anton that he doesn’t want in his mouth, but there are now several inches he’s thinking about more than some others. Several ruddy, leaking inches that slot against Viago in a way that forces a gasp out of him, desire punched up from his gut and settling, viscous and thick, into his limbs.

"Oh, do that again."

Anton complies with a groan. He bears down, trailing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along Viago’s neck, teeth grazing the unresponsive pulse point. The pressure between them increases, the pace of Anton’s hips, the friction and heat of his cock a building bud of slick, boneless pleasure at the base of Viago’s spine. Both arms grope for purchase around Anton’s shoulders; a low growl rumbles in the back of Anton’s throat as Viago’s neatly manicured nails dig desperate half-moons into his skin.

“G—hngh, Viago.” Anton gets a hand between them to curl loosely around Viago’s cock and stroke, and a liquid shudder ripples through Viago’s body. He mouths aimlessly at Anton’s jaw, the bared column of his throat, tasting sweat and his own high, needy keens.

Anton kisses them out of his mouth, hand still working. The rhythm he sets is a little clumsy, at first, all stops and starts in time with the noises he wrings from Viago until it settles into one long unbroken litany of whimpers and sighs and praise, voice tight as the knot of his heart in his throat.

Anton's breath comes in short, harsh pants. "Is—does it feel good?"

Viago tangles his fingers in Anton’s hair, buries his face against the side of his neck, so wildly, viciously happy he’s certain Anton must be able to feel it, humming along the surface of his skin where they touch.

"Yes,” he sighs, “yes, it’s lovely, oh Anton.”

Anton moans, deep and tight and hungry in the pit of his chest. His hand, his hips, pick up speed, messy, driving desperation that surges over Viago like the tide, in and out and up and up and up, coiled and huge and clear. Anton's pulse soars under Viago’s tongue, the rapid thrum of his blood pooling in Viago’s mouth like something tangible, a tantalizing echo. Viago feels shuttered loose from his body, steadily and inexorably taken to shuddering pieces under Anton’s capable touch. Anton says Viago’s name halfway to a snarl, hips stuttering, and Viago clings, arching up, and cums with a cry.

It’s a long, sticky moment before Viago manages to return to his senses. Judging by the way Anton is trembling and petting mindlessly at Viago’s face, at least they’re on the same page about that. Anton lets out a shaky breath that turns into a shaky laugh as he sits back, his blissed-out smile veering sideways into what could almost be surprise.

“Huh, I, uh, wasn’t sure you could actually—”

“Oh, yes,” Viago assures him. “A vampire’s seed is quite potent, actually.”

“Well,” says Anton. “Learn something new every day, don’t you.”

“Did you not—? You’re still—” Viago gestures.

A flush creeps up Anton’s neck as he tucks his knees up around a dick that is still unmistakably erect.

“No, I did, it’s uh—”

Understanding flickers promisingly in Viago’s belly. “Another perk?”

“It can be,” Anton starts but Viago is already pushing him back onto his elbows and moving to straddle him. He kisses Anton, slow and thorough, once and then again, unable to stop himself from grinning so wide that one fang snags Anton’s lip as he pulls back. Anton’s breath hitches and flares, his eyes half-lidded as Viago presses another biting kiss along his jawline, his clavicle, over the swell of his chest where his heartbeat is strongest. The softness of his belly, the toned plane of his inner thigh.

Anton is making the most spectacular noises above him, clenching his fists in the sheets, in the air, against one another like he knows where he wants them but isn’t sure if it’s allowed. Viago takes pity on him, butting his head gently into Anton’s palm until he takes the hint and winds his fingers into the curls near the nape of Viago’s neck.

“You may pull if you like,” he tells Anton, “but be gentle.”

Anton looks back at him with pupils blown to black, the faintest hint of gold and a depthless, incredulous warmth.

“I, uh, just don’t want to, uh—” He stalls, thumb rubbing circles behind Viago’s ear in a way that melts him a little.

“You’re very sweet,” Viago tells him fondly. “You don’t need to worry about that, though, I haven’t had a gag reflex for centuries!”

As if to demonstrate, he bends to finally tongue the head of Anton’s cock for an appreciative moment before swallowing him to the root with a hum.

“Fuck,” hisses Anton beautifully, fingers tightening.

Viago would tease him for the profanity, but his mouth is rather otherwise occupied.

#vianton #wwdits #wwdits viago #wwdits anton #vanton #my fic

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