Guys pls I need more Randy x Bob fanfiction I'm sorry but like I read most of them on AO3 and most made me sad but pls omg I love them (also someone deadbutt needs to make a randy x Dallas and Bob x Dallas like pls I want crack ships NOW. !!!! Ykw ima make my own.
can u pls write sumthin for a bob sheldon (from the oustiders lolol) x a female greaser reader that is lowkey a female verion of dallas but much more chaotic and unhinged????
also a bit of friendly harassing from her (kinda like dallas w cherry in the drive in), cuz she's just a girl🤭
────۶ৎ i can't decide
a small blurb for bob sheldon meeting the twin spark of his thought worst enemy, dallas winston, and changing his mind on which greaser does he really hate the most.
ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: omfg this is my first request, and it's so good! i'm so exciteddd, i hope it turned out good😖
Bob Sheldon hated Dallas Winston.
Everybody knew it, too obvious in the way they both clashed like feral hellhounds fighting for territory. A soc with a reputation in the west side that rivaled the one a greaser had in the east side, different sides of the same coin they were.
Or that was until you showed up.
Fresh out of the cooler from a petty crime —stealing from a shop, whoops! Meaner than mean, and with a bite worse than your bite. Twin flame to Dallas Winston's fiery spirit and twice as annoying.
As soon as you sneaked into the Drive-In, some shitty teen drama movie playing, and dared to slice the tires of his precious Mustang. Bob has had you in the shooting scope of the shotgun of his drunken rage.
There is not a night that goes by without Bob cursing on every leter of your name and insulting everything you've done back to your first breath.
Everybody knows that Bob Sheldon hates you.
You're pretty much his friend group's main target, even if it never goes the way they plan it. You're never where they expect you to be when they come for you in a group, or maybe you are and they're too drunk to see properly in the dark. Either way, it's when it comes to one on one that you always appear with your switchblade reflecting the night light, looking for a fight.
"It's a bitch convincing people to like you" Bob grumbled into the neck of the bottle he was holding, lazyly lolling his head to the side to stare at Randy.
His best friend just hummed, clearly not as drunk as he was. "Pleasing everyone isn't like you" he noted, flatly.
"ughhh" he groaned, rolling his eyes exageratedly. "I can't decide whether she should live or die"
It didn't take a genius to know who he was talking about, he only seemed to have a mouth to spit on your name. That's when one of his friends seems to remember something, straightening his back against Bob's parked car. “Heard that greaser chick was back behind the alley again,” some Society boy slurs. “You know, her. That real freakshow with the Coke and the switchblade. Scared the piss outta Matty the other day.”
“Paul said th'brother of one of 'is friends got a real scare earlier-” Another one added. “Said she pulled a blade an' asked if he wanted a new haircut”
“She’s a bitch,” Bob said, wiping foam from his lip. “that's the- that's wha' she is, a fuckin' bitch”
But he kept drinking. More than what he had planned.
Enough to tip himself just far enough into the dark. Enough to walk out of the bar when no one’s looking and follow the scent of smoke and burnt sugar to the alley behind the park.
The one he knew you frequented this day of the week at this time at night.
He stumbled out of the bar around midnight, tie crooked, pupils blown wide. He didn't tell the boys where he’s going. Hell, he tells himself he’s just walking it off. But his boots find the alley behind the bar like magnets to iron.
And there you are.
Back to the wall, cigarette perched between your lips, hair messy and gorgeous like she’s just crawled out of some boy’s bed and left him crying in it. A Coke can in one hand. Switchblade in the other. The metal glints under the flickering alley light like a grin.
“Well, well…” you purred, blowing smoke through your nose, “look at what the cat dragged in, you lost pretty boy?”
Bob snarled, or tried to. “Don’ flatter yours’lf. I jus’ came to make sure you weren’ mugging one of m’guys.”
You chuckled loud. Obnoxious. Like he had just said the funniest joke you had heard all week —because you had. “Please, baby, your boys mug themselves when they see me.”
You took a step forward.
He didn't step back.
He never does, and that’s the problem.
You're toe-to-toe now, your breath warm and sweet with cherry Coke and his own sour and bitter with beer and the shame he knows he'll feel tomorrow morning when the hang-over hits. Your switchblade flicks open with a click like a thunderclap in his ears, pupils dilating and focusing on the way the sharp blade caught the light.
“You drunk, Bobby?” you said, voice taking on a mocking cooing tone, as you taped the blade under his chin. Tilting his head up like he’s your little plaything. “Or just lookin’ to get gutted?”
His back was against the wall now, not even remembering when he stumbled back further into the depth of the alley. His breath hitched. “You wouldn’t.”
You leaned in, almost feline in the grace of your movements. You were in your element. “You know, I could throw you in the lake" you hummed, blade pressing harder against his adams apple as it bobbed after a nervous dry swallow. “or feed you poisoned birthday cake” you added. “I won't deny I'm gonna miss you when you're gone”
The blade traces down his jaw, flirts with his neck, slides just under the collar of his button-down like it’s undressing him. He’s shaking like a puppy and trying to act like he’s got wolf teeth.
“You think you scare me?” he growls, but it’s wet, like his throat forgot how to be mean. “I could bury you alive!" he huffed out, hands weakly fisting at his sides.
You grinned, wide and nasty. “Oh, but then I'd crawl out with a knife..” you cooed, the sharp tip of your blade slowly starting to put pressure on the underside of his chin. “and kill you while you're sleeping.”
You pressed the flat of the blade against his lips.
He never went so still so fast in his whole life.
Not moving. Probably not even breathing.
“God, you’re such a spoiled little rich bitch,” you spat, “All that money, all that pride, and look at you now. Drunk in an alley, hoping I rough you up enough to feel something.”
He moaned—actually moaned—when you digged your fingers into his hair and yanked his head back. Though he'd probably deny it to his death.
“You’re disgusting,” he breathed, though his voice was cracked and whiny. He could deny it as much as he liked, lie to everyone he wanted, but both of you knew he was pretending to choke on your name every night when all he wanted was to be choked by you.
You laughed right in his face. “I should carve my name right here into your throat. Let everyone know you belong to me.” You whispered, hot and dangerous against his ear.
“Do it.” He groaned, loud. “I don’t care— do it.”
You paused. Just a second.
Just enough to drag the knife down to his collarbone, not breaking skin—not yet—but enough for his knees to buckle a little. “Look at you,” you hummed, low. dark. “You’d let me ruin you.”
Bob noded, dumb and drunk and dizzy, drunker on you than the liquor. “Yeah,” he slurred, “please.”
“I'll think about it, bobby-boy” You tapped the flat of your blade against his jaw. Tap. Tap.
And just like that, he was hooked on for another night.
You knew that, He knew that.. He knew that you knew. And he'd come crawling back to you again, drunker than tonight, as soon as the sun set again.
