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“First and foremost I’m writing for myself,” I hiss through my teeth, resisting the urge to refresh my email for an Ao3 message for the 100th time.

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Every unhinged fic writer needs an equally unhinged friend who "yes ands" their ideas and encourages them to write all their most far fetched and insane stories.

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"You can cover your faces, we can still tell you're pigs"

Seen in Seattle

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bob taylor havin just a quiet peacful morning enjoyin life

Stay a moment

Pairing - Bob Taylor x Gn!Reader

Summary - A slow morning with Bob.

Word Count - 557

Warnings - no use of y/n, fluff, smooching, semi proofread

A/N - God, I genuinely missed writing for this character. Thank you anon, here's something short and sweet.

The morning sun peeked through the drawn curtains. 

Bob sighed, as its warm glow caressed his eyelids, effectively waking him up. He blinked, struggling to shake off the haze left behind by an already forgotten dream. Through his drowsiness, he spotted your sleeping face beside him completely at ease. You snuggled into his side, your lips grazing over his pale shoulder. As always, his chest swelled at the sight of you curled up against him. 

When Bob used to imagine peace, he often thought of a black hole, completely devoid of paralyzing thoughts and a body. He used to think about death too during those periods. It felt like the closest he could get to picturing the sanctity of peace and him existing together. 

Of course, that was back then. 

Now, peace resembled the sight of your fluttering eyelids and lazily smile.   

“Morning,” you mumbled, blinking up at him. 

Bob smiled, and moved his arm to settle over your waist. He dragged you towards him, and lovingly nuzzled into the side of your neck. The sound of your infectious giggle rang out in the quiet room, causing his stomach to flutter. He shut his eyes, hoping to soak up the warmth of your presence before the weight of life pulled you two out of bed. If only he could stall the morning, and cocoon you in the space with him for a little while longer. 

“You’re in a good mood,” you mentioned, slowly wrapping your arms around him. 

Bob hummed, and nudged his nose against your cheek, like a cat to its owner. His head buzzed from the faint lingering scent of your shampoo. It dulled his surroundings, numbing his overactive mind that spun and spun until he forgot what day of the week it was. 

He pulled away from you, but kept his hand on your hip and his thumb stroked mindless shapes and patterns over the exposed skin. “Good morning,” he finally answered.

“Did you sleep alright?” you asked, reaching up to toy with the ends of his hair. He nodded, struggling to quell the giddiness that rose within him as your fingertips tenderly brushed back his bangs. A shudder ran through him from your touch, as he anxiously bit the inside of his cheek. 

Love’s existence was overwhelming, always threatening to consume him from the inside out. Sometimes it showed in the tremble of his hands when you would kiss him, and they would wander, wanting to hold onto every inch of you at once. Sometimes love’s weight was there pressing on him whenever you would ruffle his hair, or make him tea, or giggle at his poor, awkward delivery when he would recall a joke he heard. 

Sometimes it all threatened to spill over, and all Bob could do was sit with you until his pulse slowed. Right now though, looking down at your sleepy eyes, all Bob wanted to do was kiss you. 

He slowly leaned forward, his heart thudding in his chest as his lips finally met yours. Bob could feel the shape of your smile against his mouth as you hummed, and pressed against him. His hand snuck under your loose t-shirt as he slid his palm up the small of your back, eager to feel your warm, plush skin against his. 

This was peace.

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what do you mean stephen sanchez plays a small part in the official warriors musical soundtrack????????

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Happy Pride Month!

Faust is back for the 5th time! If you want to use the flag of your choice as an avatar, they're under the cut. They're free to use as long as it's for personal use only.

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just thinking about teasing jack backstage, moments before he has to face the daunting cameras and audience. you’re sitting in his lap, vaguely aware of his hard on pressing against your ass as you press fleeting kisses along his jaw. the scent of his rich cologne flooding your senses. his warm hand squeezes at your upper thigh, desperately trying to tug you closer. you can feel his pulse quicken beneath your lips, as you travel down to nip along his neck. a soft whimper escapes him, the sound earnest and quiet in the vacant dressing room. you gently press against him, grinding down on his hardened member, eager to hear him whine against you. he’s soon putty in your hands, as his ears fall deaf to the urgent rapping against the door.

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"what are you thinking about?" w/ johnson !!

How Do You Sleep

Pairing - Johnson (Reprisal) x Fem!Reader

Summary - Despite Johnson being there, loneliness still creeps up on you.

Word Count - 838

Warnings - heavy angst (seriously), reader is lonely, mentions of mother and daughter dynamic, comfort, established relationship, not really a happy ending??

A/N - I originally had a different plan for this but took a nap and wrote this instead- enjoy.

Loneliness eats the body.

Never whole, only in small sections. It starts at the heart, and slowly makes its way to the layers of tissue and muscle. Sometimes, you felt it. Stirring in the cavity of your chest, a parasite constantly feeding. Its hunger was never satiated, even with bits of fat dangling between its teeth. You imagined there was a constant echo inside of you, reverberating off of your ribcage. 

Could people be born lonely, or only born out of loneliness? Perhaps it was given to you by your mother, a family heirloom carried by multiple generations of women. Loneliness often meant a form of separation, but it was the only time you ever felt connected to your mother. 

Or maybe it was there from the beginning, wading with you in the womb. The vanishing twin you consumed. 

Johnson stirred beside you, sighing into the crook of your neck. His arm was slung over your stomach, pinning you to his side. 

“What are you thinking about?” He muttered, lips brushing against your pulse. His voice was low and hushed, as if still pulling himself out of a dream. 

“It’s nothing.” You whispered, the shadows of the bedroom making you feel small. “Go back to sleep, love.” 

He lifted his head, drowsy eyes searching for you in the darkness. The covers were pulled over your bare bodies. Every so often, a pair of headlights would shine through the window before fading. The bed was shoved in the corner, with you cramped between the wall and Johnson’s body. You stared up at the ceiling, feeling his gaze penetrate through layers of darkness. 

“It’s never nothing, darlin.” He said, shifting to prop himself up on his arm. The sheet fell away, exposing his pale chest. Various shades of bruises and hickies were displayed along the curve of his neck. You reached out, dragging your fingers against the faint marks. 

Johnson shuddered, breath hitching from the sensation. His curls hung over his eyes, hiding the visible concern he knew you couldn’t stomach. 

I was here, you thought, the knowledge of your mark reassuring. You delicately pressed your fingertip into the bruise, hearing him hiss through his teeth. 

Despite the vacancy inside you, a part of you was here and real. It was wanted, almost desperately, by another. If you could just hold onto that thread of your existence maybe the hollow spaces inside of you would seal. 

“Please talk to me.” 

Your eyes flickered up to his, already feeling their pull. It was like a never-ending fall, down into nothingness. 

“I…” You faltered, the words getting caught in your throat. Something inside of you was pulling them down, trying to drag them back to whatever dark corner or pocket they waited in. 

Johnson trailed his hand up to your stomach, tracing faint lines over the skin. The ticklish sensation made you flinch. 

“Take your time.” He softly said, resting his cheek into the curve of his palm. 

You harshly swallowed, forcing back the bile wanting to come up instead. 

“I love you, so goddamn much.” You eventually forced out. “You have to understand that, Johnson. I love you but I’m so-

A whimper slipped past your lips, the sound like an ugly open wound. 

“But I’m so fucking lonely.” Your body trembled as you cried, the confession causing you to curl into yourself. Johnson pressed you into his chest, cooing into your ear like an ushering mother. He kissed the edges of your hairline, muffled words of comfort fanning against your skin. 

“I don’t want to feel like this.” You sobbed, squeezing your eyes shut. “It’s killing me, I swear to fucking god it is.” 

Your throat clenched, trying to cut off your airways. The parasite burrowed deep inside of you knocking against your ribcage, pleading for you to take it back. This confession was not meant to be said. It didn’t belong to you. 

Johnson placed a tender kiss on the shell of your ear, whispering for you to come back to him. 

“Deep breaths.” He instructed, rubbing soothing circles in your back 

You listened to the pattern of his heartbeat, breathing in sync with its steady rhythm. Tears pooled in your eyes, each blink sending them to trail down your cheek. 

The outline of Johnson’s lips ghosted over your forehead. “That’s right, babydoll. Breath with me.” 

Drowsiness slowly overtook, as your cries soon fell to quiet sniffles. Johnson’s grip on you was firm, as if he was holding the cracked mold of you together. 

“I’m sorry.” You said, guilt swelling inside of you. 

“You did nothing wrong.” 

You wrapped your arms around his waist, digging the nubs of your fingertips into his skin. If only to feel the flesh he provided, to know you weren’t alone tonight. Another body was present, and beside you. 

But I did, you thought.

Dawn would break through your window soon, stalling the parasite (worm, slug) embedded inside of you.

But tonight, in the shadows of your room, it was awake. 

Yearning and needing. 

And alive. 

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"People will see us, Jack." "Then you should try and stay quiet, huh." He grinned down at you, as his hand continued to wander up your thigh, eventually pushing up the edges of your sundress. You shuddered, peeking out the window at the unsuspecting couples, and groups of friends all packed inside their own vehicles, too compelled by the movie playing before them to notice you.

Jack's fingertips ghosted over the band of your underwear. "Keep your eyes on the screen, honey," he whispered, before pressing a chaste kiss to your temple.

You nodded, pulling your eyes away from the audience surrounding you. The scene before you was nothing short of romantic, as Elizabeth Taylor gazed up at Montgomery Clift, her bright eyes softening with tenderness. She seemed to be searching his face, for a sign of something you were not sure of.

Then Jack's hand slipped beneath the waist band, his fingers gently encircling your bud. The scene fell away as you gasped from the sensation. You glanced over at him, to find his eyes staring straight ahead, as if he were truly engrossed in the movie.

"Jack..." you whimpered, feeling heat creep up your neck.

"Do I need to tell you again?"

You gulped, and stared back at the screen. Jack continued on, his index finger soon slipping inside. Your stomach coiled from the intrusion, as you felt your nails break through the leather patent seat. He mercilessly pumped in and out of you, drawing a whine from your lips.

You immediately shut your mouth, struggling to pay attention to the lovers quarrel happening on the screen in front of you. You could feel his finger curl inside of you, digging deeper until your back began to arch from the seat.

"F-Fuck," you stuttered, allowing your eyes to slip shut for a moment. The sudden sting of a slap against your inner thigh made you jerk, and open your eyes. You glanced up to find Jack's coal eyes staring into yours, like a shark who had found its prey. A stark contrast from the soft, and affectionate gaze from the woman on the screen.

"Please," you mewled, rocking your hips against his wrist.

"You seem to have a difficult time following directions," he chastised, clicking his tongue in disappointment. He began to slow his movement, his index finger almost coming to a halt inside of you. You began shaking your head, spouting out excuses, anything to get him to move again.

"I'll listen," you promised, nodding to yourself. "Please, baby."

He cocked his brow at you, patiently waiting.

You swallowed, forcing your eyes on the damn screen once again. Only to find Elizabeth and Montgomery grinning at one another, as if they were in on a joke.

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bob taylor havin just a quiet peacful morning enjoyin life

Stay a moment

Pairing - Bob Taylor x Gn!Reader

Summary - A slow morning with Bob.

Word Count - 557

Warnings - no use of y/n, fluff, smooching, semi proofread

A/N - God, I genuinely missed writing for this character. Thank you anon, here's something short and sweet.

The morning sun peeked through the drawn curtains. 

Bob sighed, as its warm glow caressed his eyelids, effectively waking him up. He blinked, struggling to shake off the haze left behind by an already forgotten dream. Through his drowsiness, he spotted your sleeping face beside him completely at ease. You snuggled into his side, your lips grazing over his pale shoulder. As always, his chest swelled at the sight of you curled up against him. 

When Bob used to imagine peace, he often thought of a black hole, completely devoid of paralyzing thoughts and a body. He used to think about death too during those periods. It felt like the closest he could get to picturing the sanctity of peace and him existing together. 

Of course, that was back then. 

Now, peace resembled the sight of your fluttering eyelids and lazily smile.   

“Morning,” you mumbled, blinking up at him. 

Bob smiled, and moved his arm to settle over your waist. He dragged you towards him, and lovingly nuzzled into the side of your neck. The sound of your infectious giggle rang out in the quiet room, causing his stomach to flutter. He shut his eyes, hoping to soak up the warmth of your presence before the weight of life pulled you two out of bed. If only he could stall the morning, and cocoon you in the space with him for a little while longer. 

“You’re in a good mood,” you mentioned, slowly wrapping your arms around him. 

Bob hummed, and nudged his nose against your cheek, like a cat to its owner. His head buzzed from the faint lingering scent of your shampoo. It dulled his surroundings, numbing his overactive mind that spun and spun until he forgot what day of the week it was. 

He pulled away from you, but kept his hand on your hip and his thumb stroked mindless shapes and patterns over the exposed skin. “Good morning,” he finally answered.

“Did you sleep alright?” you asked, reaching up to toy with the ends of his hair. He nodded, struggling to quell the giddiness that rose within him as your fingertips tenderly brushed back his bangs. A shudder ran through him from your touch, as he anxiously bit the inside of his cheek. 

Love’s existence was overwhelming, always threatening to consume him from the inside out. Sometimes it showed in the tremble of his hands when you would kiss him, and they would wander, wanting to hold onto every inch of you at once. Sometimes love’s weight was there pressing on him whenever you would ruffle his hair, or make him tea, or giggle at his poor, awkward delivery when he would recall a joke he heard. 

Sometimes it all threatened to spill over, and all Bob could do was sit with you until his pulse slowed. Right now though, looking down at your sleepy eyes, all Bob wanted to do was kiss you. 

He slowly leaned forward, his heart thudding in his chest as his lips finally met yours. Bob could feel the shape of your smile against his mouth as you hummed, and pressed against him. His hand snuck under your loose t-shirt as he slid his palm up the small of your back, eager to feel your warm, plush skin against his. 

This was peace.

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someone send in a soft bob request plz 🥺

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the lost boys; get your girl fic was everything!!! id love to see your take on it with dwayne or david? <33

Thank you so much, I'm glad you liked it. I decided to go with Dwayne for this, enjoy! For anyone looking for Paul's version you can find it here.

Dwayne's Mystery Girl

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Dwayne (Lost Boys) x Female Reader

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: You were just enjoying a night on the boardwalk with your friends when a mysterious stranger with dark eyes and a dangerous pull walked straight into your life—and now, he's not letting go.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 ��𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 1.4k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: mild stalking behavior. implied possessiveness. some suggestive tension (no explicit content).

𝗣𝗮𝘂𝗹 • 𝗗𝘄𝗮𝘆𝗻𝗲 • 𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗸𝗼 • 𝗗𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗱

The Santa Carla boardwalk pulses with life, a chaotic symphony of laughter, arcade chimes, and the distant crash of waves. Neon lights bathe the night in garish pinks and blues, and the air is thick with the scent of popcorn, sweat, and something darker—something primal.

You're weaving through the crowd with your friends, your laughter mingling with theirs as you clutch a half-finished leather bracelet in your hands, the cords dangling between your fingers. The night feels alive, electric, like anything could happen.

Somewhere in the shadows, Dwayne feels it—a shiver, sharp and unyielding, slicing through his immortal veins. His head snaps up, dark eyes narrowing as he scans the boardwalk.

Paul's grin widens, all teeth and mischief. "Whoa, dude, you good? Lookin' like you just got zapped."

Marko's already bouncing on his heels, his patchwork jacket swaying as he leans closer, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. "Somethin's up. Somethin' big."

David, leaning against a railing with his usual air of detached authority, flicks his gaze to Dwayne. "Feel it?" he asks, voice low, knowing.

Dwayne doesn't answer; he doesn't need to. His jaw tightens, and his nostrils flare as a scent hits him—sweet, warm, like sun-warmed skin and wildflowers, but with an edge that makes his fangs ache. It's not just blood. It's her. His. The pull is instinctive, a tether yanking at his core, and he knows, without doubt, that whoever this is, they're meant for him.

"Go," David says, a rare glint of amusement in his eyes. "Find her."

Paul whoops, slapping Marko's shoulder. "Hell yeah, let's hunt down Dwayne's mystery girl!" Marko's already darting through the crowd, his laughter wild, but Dwayne doesn't need their help.

The scent is a beacon, pulling him forward, his boots heavy against the wooden planks. He moves like a predator, all focus, all purpose, the world narrowing to that single, intoxicating thread.

You're oblivious, standing with your friends near a carousel that spins in a blur of lights and music. The leather bracelet is almost done, your fingers deftly weaving the cords as you chat, your voice bright against the night.

Your friends are giggling about some guy at the cotton candy stand, but you're only half-listening, lost in the rhythm of your craft. The air shifts, though—a prickle along your spine, like someone's watching. You glance up, but see nothing but the crowd.

Dwayne sees you first. The world slows as his eyes lock onto you, standing among your friends like a flame in the dark. Your hair catches the neon glow, your smile soft but unguarded, and that scent—God, that scent, it wraps around him like a chain. He's drawn to you, moth to flame, unable to stop himself as he moves closer.

Your friends notice him first, their giggles faltering into hushed whispers. He's tall, dark hair falling over his shoulders, leather jacket creaking as he moves with a grace that's almost too smooth, too deliberate. His presence is magnetic and dangerous, and they feel it, their chatter dying as he cuts through the group.

You look up, startled, as he stops in front of you. His eyes, deep, endless meet yours, and for a moment, the world falls away. Something about him makes your breath catch and your heart stutter. He's beautiful in a way that feels unreal, like he stepped out of a dream, but there's an intensity to him that makes your skin prickle. You don't know why, but you're not afraid. Not really.

"Hi," you say, voice softer than you mean it to be. Your friends are staring, but you barely notice, too caught up in the way he's looking at you, like you're the only thing that exists. Your hands move on instinct, finishing the bracelet, and before you can think better of it, you reach out, tying it around his wrist. The leather looks right against his skin, like it belongs there.

Dwayne doesn't speak, doesn't move, just watches you with an intensity that makes your cheeks burn. Your touch lingers in his veins, a spark that shouldn't be possible, not for someone like him. The bracelet is simple, rough-hewn, but it feels like a claim, a bond he didn't expect. He's struck silent, awed, by the way you smile at him, so open, so unaware of what you are to him.

Your friends tug at your arm, breaking the spell. "Come on, we're gonna miss the band!" one of them says, pulling you back toward the crowd. You glance at Dwayne, a little apologetic, but you let them drag you away, your laughter trailing behind you like a melody.

Dwayne stands frozen, staring after you, the bracelet warm against his skin. He lifts his wrist, studying it, and something in his chest, something long dead, stirs.

Paul's at his side in an instant, practically vibrating. "Dude! She's perfect! Are you really gonna let her get away?"

Marko's grinning like a maniac, circling Dwayne like an excited pup. "That's her, right? That's the one! You felt it!"

David steps up, his hand landing on Dwayne's shoulder, firm but not unkind. "Time to get your girl," he says, his voice carrying the weight of a command, but there's a knowing edge to it, like he's seen this before.

Like he knows what it means.

Dwayne's eyes are still on you, your figure disappearing into the crowd. The scent lingers, tugging at him, and he knows he can't let you go. Not tonight. Not ever. He's never believed in soulmates, not in the way humans do, but this—this is different. You're different. The pull is undeniable, a thread woven into his very being, and he's not about to let it snap.

He moves, slipping through the crowd with a predator's ease, his brothers trailing behind, their excitement a low hum in the air.

You're near the stage now, your friends dancing to some band you don't really care about, your mind still on the guy with the dark eyes. You touch your wrist, where your fingers brushed his skin, and wonder why it feels like you left something behind.

Dwayne finds you again, his presence a shadow at the edge of your vision. You turn, catching his gaze, and your heart skips. He's closer now, moving with purpose, and your friends fall silent again, sensing the shift. He doesn't stop until he's right in front of you, close enough that you can smell the leather of his jacket, the faint tang of something wilder beneath it.

"Hey," he says, his voice low and rough, like he's not used to speaking. "Didn't get your name."

You smile, a little nervous, a little thrilled as you tell him your name. The way his eyes soften at the sound makes your stomach flip. "And you?"

"Dwayne." He says it like it's a secret, just for you. He lifts his wrist, showing the bracelet, and there's something almost shy in the gesture. "Thank you for this."

"You're welcome," you say, bolder than you feel. "It looks better on you than it would on me..."

His lips twitch, not quite a smile, but close. The crowd presses in, but it's like you're in your own world, the noise fading to a dull roar. Your friends are watching, whispering, but you don't care. There's something about him that makes you want to stay and know more.

Paul and Marko are lingering nearby, barely containing their glee. David's watching from a distance, his expression unreadable, but there's a nod, a silent approval. Dwayne doesn't notice them, doesn't notice anything but you.

He's not sure how to do this, how to be human enough to keep you close, how to tell you what you are to him without scaring you away. But he knows one thing: he's not letting you slip through his fingers.

"Wanna walk?" he asks, jerking his head toward the quieter end of the boardwalk, where the lights are dimmer, the crowd thinner. You hesitate, glancing at your friends, but they're already waving you off, giggling and whispering about how you've "scored the hot one."

"Sure," you say, falling into step beside him. The night feels different now, charged, like the air before a storm. You don't know what's coming, don't know the truth about him or the world he belongs to, but you feel it— the pull, the connection, the spark that's already tying you to him.

Dwayne glances at you, his hand brushing yours as you walk, and for the first time in decades, he feels something close to alive. You're his, and he's yours, and whatever comes next, he'll face it with you by his side.

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The Princess and the Guttersnipe

Best Friend!Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Banter between long-time friends, insults, and a joke mistaken as a deal to be his starry-eyed, small-town girlfriend—it’s lunchtime with Eddie.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: Eddie’s a menace and a perv, simulated masturbation in public, degradation, both you and Eddie pick on Gareth as it is custom, lots of dialogue because this idea stemmed from me wanting to write specific dialogue, Eddie’s kinda gross lol, simp!Eddie, pining, jealousy, lots of insults (to Eddie), I think this fic is funny and I think I wrote funny dialogue, mention of prostitution, Eddie’s horny, mention of Eddie’s dick, Eddie makes a fool of himself for the bit, flirting met with insults—my kinda party, you call clingy!Eddie a tumor

A/N: This was in my drafts for a while. Written because I think 'guttersnipe' is a hilarious insult. Also, a bottom bitch is the prostitute that’s been with the pimp the longest and usually makes the most money (you'll understand once you read it).

Masterlist

I’m imagining you’re a part of the Hellfire friend group, but you’re literally Eddie’s longest and best friend—we’re talking since elementary school. He’s always been a lot and you’re used to it, but the only way the balance is upheld is if you continue to put him in his place, or else he’ll just become too powerful.

He’s pushing four days in his Hellfire shirt because he thinks it makes him look sick as fuck, completely unaware of the overwhelming B.O. that’s emanating from the flimsy fabric.

You’re already sitting at the table for lunch, picking at the sorry excuse for pizza being served. It’s no Papa John’s—more like dirty cardboard from the back alley, topped with sour tomato sauce and the waxiest mozzarella you’ve ever had the displeasure of consuming.

Deciding you're above it, you toss the hard slice onto Gareth's flattened brown paper bag and swipe the sandwich right out of his hands—his mouth still open for the bite he would have taken had you not ‘traded.’

The surrounding boys chuckle at the brunet's misfortune, ever an easy target for both you and Eddie.

“Hey! What the hell, dude?”

Taking a big bite of the stolen food, you shake your head and mumble with your mouth full, eyeing the abandoned pizza with disdain. "I’m not fucking eating that shit."

Gareth shoots you an indignant look, “And I should?”

You wait until you’ve fully swallowed your food before responding, cocking your head at him knowingly. “Gareth, you’re literally built like a tank. Albeit, a very small tank, but I’ve seen you eat drywall. Your stomach can handle Hawkins High lunch.”

Ignoring the boy's scoff, you look down at the sandwich in pleasant surprise. “Damn, this is good. Where’d you get this?”

“My mom made it.” He watches in pitiful resignation as you reach for his opened can of Coke, taking a swig.

Sighing at the taste of the fizzy drink, you give an approving nod. “Well, my compliments to the chef.”

Out of nowhere, a heavy weight drapes across your back. In an instant, the sandwich is plucked from your hands. You know exactly who the culprit is when he moans obnoxiously into your ear, taking a bite of the now-communal sandwich.

“Mmm. Damn, that's a good sandwich.”

Thrashing your body, you shuck the boy off of you. “Ew! Get the fuck off, you guttersnipe.”

Eddie lets out a maniacal laugh, stumbling into the empty chair beside you—his usual throne. The metal legs of your chair screech against the scratched linoleum as he grips the seat beneath your thighs, dragging you closer.

He usually does this. The touchy person that he is, he never strays far from your personal space. If you try to explain the foreign concept to him—and you have—he turns into Karl Marx, talking about, “Our personal space.” It's useless trying to emphasize ‘personal’ to the idiot.

“Hey, quick question. Are you aware of the putrid stench that is emanating from your bodice, my liege?"

Ignoring Jeff’s cringing face as he gets a whiff of Eddie next him, the curly-haired boy waves you off. "Oh, it’s not that bad."

"Not that bad?" you repeat, eyebrows nearly up into your hairline in disbelief. "I knew you were coming. I literally smelled you five minutes ago."

Throwing his arm over the back of your chair, he leans into your wincing face. You lean back at his movements, the position perfectly airing out his underarms. "But I heard ladies love the smell of guys. It's like pheromones or some shit," he grins, completely ignoring your attempt to get away from him.

Pressing a single finger against his forehead, you push him back into his own space, a look of disgust as you sit up straight again. “I’m pretty sure that’s guys they like, and I don’t like you.”

At your diss, Gareth attempts to start an, “Ooo,” around the table, but Eddie chucks a pretzel at his face, effectively shutting him up. 

“Well, you like me enough to stick around.” He’s smug at his comeback, surely you can’t argue against ten plus years of friendship.

Taking a pretzel from him, you sigh wistfully. “It’s less of a choice and more that I can’t afford the treatment to have the tumor removed.” Your unimpressed look stalls him—apparently you can argue against ten plus years of friendship.

With his stunned silence, you continue. “You’re the tumor, by the way.” 

Huffing out an amused breath, he nods. “Yes, I caught that, sweetheart. Thank you. First, I’m a guttersnipe, now I’m a tumor. Big day for me—a lowly man who gets off on degradation.” His Cheshire Cat grin is unsettling, especially since he’s always capable of twisting your insults into a dirty joke.

Trying to halt his perpetual ‘Yes, and’-ing, you deadpan, “You’re fucking disgusting.” 

You should've known better because your words only lead Eddie to start simulating masturbation under the table. Vibrating his body, he hunches over, pretending to desperately fuck his fist. The lewd display causes the guys around the table to burst out laughing—you’re surrounded by near-adults who have the humor of twelve year olds.

“Fuck, baby, say it again,” he grits out, closing his eyes and pinching his brows in pleasure. 

You tilt your head, watching as he proceeds to embarrass himself publicly. The need to get him back for his comment is nonexistent when he’s already making a fool of himself better than you ever could. Instead, you just lean in with an evil smirk and a mischievous glint in your eyes.

With the clearest diction you’ve ever used, you loudly admonish him. “You’re a disgusting pervert and when I look at you, my pussy gets so dry, it crumbles into dust.”

Throwing his head back in fake pleasure, he heaves out, “Fuck! Shit, shit, shit, I’m cumming, I’m cumming!” 

You make eye contact with two cheerleaders walking with lunch trays behind him as he shakes vigorously. Their disgust is as clear as day as they watch in horror while Eddie pretends to touch himself in the middle of the lunchroom. 

Your smirk widens to a sickly sweet smile as you wink and blow a kiss at them. The unnerving action only causes them to clutch each other and hurry away. With Eddie’s eyes still closed, simulating the come-down from an intense orgasm, you reach over and swipe the cardboard pizza from Gareth’s hands—your third robbery of the day at only 12:37 PM—and throw it at your best friend’s face.

Jerking back at the assault from the mystery object, Eddie finally opens his eyes, wiping the wetness from his face. When he looks down at his fingers, he sees marinara. Throwing his head back in agony, he screams out, “Oh god, I’ve been hit! I’ve been hiiiitttt!” Keeling over, he falls out of his chair onto the ground beside you. 

Scattered laughter travels around the group, but nobody gets up to help him. Propping your elbow on the table, you rest your cheek on your palm as you watch him play dead, smiling and raising your brows at his occasional twitches—an interesting acting choice. You watch him peek an eye open after a good forty-five seconds of no reactions.

“Really? Nobody’s gonna come check on me?”

Turning to look at the sheep, you see they’ve all started their own little side conversations as they continue to pick at their lunches. Glancing back at Eddie, you shrug. 

“Okay, you guys would never make it in the army,” he deadpans, looking at you as if you’re a representative for all of the still-living Hellfire crew. Sitting up on his elbows, he nods down to his homemade shirt. “But seriously, the shirt is working, right?”

You give him a lighthearted nod. “Yeah,” you say, before following up with your true feelings—“Working against you.”

Leisurely picking himself up off the ground, he dusts off his jeans before grabbing a napkin to wipe away any residual sauce from his face. Sitting back down in his chair, he pats your knee condescendingly. 

“You’ll come around, sweetheart. When I move the hell out of this town, you’ll miss me so bad. You’ll be crying to come crash at my place in L.A.” He pitches his voice up a few octaves, mimicking a tone that sounds nothing like yours, “Oh, Eddie, please, can I come live with you? I’m so lonely and I miss you and I’ve never seen your penis, but it’s probably really big, so I miss that, too.”

Unimpressed, you ignore the way he completely butchers your voice and mannerisms—fluttering his lashes and clasping his hands near his cheek like a Disney princess. “And how exactly are you gonna make it in L.A? You gonna start selling your body?” 

Leaning into you again, he grins, “Well, if you come with me, I can sell your body.”

Watching him leer at you, a salacious look in his muddy irises, you narrow your eyes. “Oh, please. You’d be a horrible pimp. You’re too jealous. I couldn’t even go to junior prom with Bobby Jeffries without you begging for my attention like a dog most of the night.”

Reeling back in offense, Eddie shoots you an indignant look. “I did not beg!” 

Gareth butts in, glancing over at Eddie and nodding. “No, I was there. There was definitely some begging going on.”

His reference to that night has some of the other boys nodding in agreement. They all remember watching with amused pity as their shameless leader constantly inserted himself between you and your date. If you were on the dance floor during a slow song, Eddie trailed after you, standing beside your entwined bodies and making idle conversation until your date eventually gave up, awkwardly breaking apart to just stand there. If you were sitting at a table, he pulled your chair close to him like always, putting physical space between you and Jeffries. And if you tried to go somewhere ‘quieter’ with the guy, Eddie tagged along, talking your ear off about the weather, world news, last year’s Olympics—anything to stall.

The only reason you even asked Bobby Jeffries to prom was because, before you could pop the question, Eddie told you he wouldn’t step foot in that place, calling it an ‘inane ritual for horny preps.’ Then the night arrived, and Eddie forced you to let him drive you there—after a thirty-five-minute lecture on why you shouldn’t rely on a guy that’s not him to drive you anywhere, because then you’d be stuck in a car alone with said guy. Once he dropped you off, you found your date, and about forty-five minutes later, in comes Eddie, formal wear on and a can-do attitude—the ‘do’ being ruining your night.

You gesture to your defense team before throwing your best friend a smug look, “See?” 

Grumbling at being ganged up on, especially on something as sensitive a subject as that fateful night, Eddie concedes, opting to drop the argument. “Okay, fine. How about I pimp you out to myself. Then you really can stay with me! You can be my bottom bitch,” he eagerly offers.

You snort at his infallible logic. “Please, if anything, you’re my bottom bitch.”

“Jesus, fine! I’ll be your bottom bitch, will you just say you’ll at least come visit me?”

“You should really have higher standards for yourself,” you say seriously. “But sure, bitch, I’ll follow you to L.A. And hey, I can even be like your starry-eyed, small-town girlfriend!”

Your sarcasm is lost on him at the mention of you being his girlfriend. “Deal,” he hurries, forcing your hand into a binding shake.

A/N: First fic post-hiatus so pls for the love of god be sweet because I'm so fragile rn lmao. Like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed this.

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[how-serene]

The Evil Dead (1981)

[how-serene]

The Lost Boys (1987)

[how-serene]

A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis