Hi besties, just call me Max. Author extraordinaire with a stupidly large amount of favorite characters. Physically unable to stop talking about my blorbos. My writing tag is #my writing.
Ask box is currently open for:
The Lost Boys (all characters, poly included, x reader)
Eddie Munson (x reader, prefer x fem!reader)
Steve Harrington (x reader, prefer x fem!reader)
Eric Draven (x reader, angst is fine)
I will not write:
Any fics concerning ships of the Stranger Things kids
Anything underage (yuck)
Anything Pennywise. Iâll stab him to death with a fork.
Billy Hargrove
Thanks for stopping by and I hope you like my dumb shit! (fic guide coming soon)
One of my favorite things about the Lost Boys gang is that, at their core, they are truly just hanging out. They are simply just doing what they want to, for the most part. Wandering Santa Carla every night, eating pizza and general tso's chicken straight from the carton, sneaking on rides, chatting up pretty people. The epitome of self indulgence with quite literally an infinite amount of time on their hands.
I think Marko likes to paint. Not on canvasses per say, but with his infinite time he goes through bottles of spraypaint like water, tagging anything and everything. Pairs of large red-paint boobies are not uncommon along highways thanks to him. It's probably less about technical ability and talent for him, and more about how it impacts the viewer. Like making them irritated. Yeah, he loves irritation. Makes him feel powerful.
With David's unlimited time, he stews, for the most part. Acts as ringleader and captain when the boys are around, but when he's alone? He's breaking out the Jim Beam, sipping it from a fancy enameled cup he stole at one point or another, and watching the waves. Or watching people. Sharp blue eyes distant, full of thought. Who knows what the hell his past is: but maybe whatever it is, it's put a hole in his person he can never fill with blood or booze or sex.
When Dwayne does with his free time is anybody's guess. He fucks off by himself on occasion, disappears for days at a time. He likes to be alone. Sometimes he night surfs by moonlight. Sometimes he hikes the state park, sits up in the branches of the redwoods. Sometimes he takes his bike all the way up to San Francisco. He doesn't need the gang the way the others do, with that enmeshed desperation for companionship. And yet, he keeps coming back.
And Paul? Well, he might as well be a disciple of Dionysus with the way he uses his endless time. Given free reign, he's off doing body shots off svelte women in dark bars, and doing lines of angel dust off dirty counters in the bathroom. He knows any and every dealer in town. After all, to him, there's no better way to spend a night then throwing some molly down his gullet and dancing his feet off at a beachside concert before bedding the hottest person there.
And that's fine, for them. On and on and on, for eternity: same shit every day, with only the faces changing. Stores come and go, people age and die around them, and they stay the same. They tell themselves they like it that way. That they're better than everyone now, that they're free from the stupid boring lives of humans, that they're living exactly how they want to, that they're powerful.
They tell themselves that so they don't have to think about how their lives ended the moment they got turned. And than now they're just dead men walking.
Your first date with Eddie Munson is fine, as far as first dates go. You get pizza together: meet awkwardly outside the door at 7pm, hands sweaty, exchanging nervous, butterfly-riddled smiles. You eat. He can't stop moving in his seat opposite you, tapping his hands on the sticky enamel tabletop. He looks at you with big brown eyes. Wary, at first, then as the night goes on and it becomes clear this isn't some string-along joke, or a prank, with boyish glee.
But the second date is the one that really shines.
Eddie, in all his intellectual glory, takes you to the Dollar Tree.
It's late, again, and the D in the logo flickers in and out of existence. The air inside smells like cheap plastic, dust, and the urban sprawl of capitalism. This is a place that's usually... dead. A pathetic sort of dead, where dreams come to die, the cashier looks about five seconds from falling asleep, agonizingly boring elevator music plays over tinny speakers, and Hawaiian themed teacups are on sale for ninety-nine cents.
You think god, what the hell are we even doing here? This is hardly a dinner date, or the bowling alley, or makeout point, or any of the usual dates your friends always bragged so cooling about. But then Eddie looks at you over his shoulder, spins on his heel, and throws his arms wide. His outfit jingles.
"Welcome," he says with a glint in his dark eyes, "to the goddamn kingdom of imagination."
You should leave. God knows to anyone else at school this date could sound like a horror story, an uncouth, uncool, unladylike disaster. But there's something in those eyes. Something vibrant and alive and real. So instead of leaving you think, okay. Why not.
Best decision of your life.
He knows this place by heart, every white-tiled aisle under the buzzing fluorescents. And he's funny, too: you didn't expect him to be so funny. As you both slowly amble and push your squeaky-wheeled cart he picks up random shit, talking as he fiddles.
A fuzzy caterpillar cat toy becomes his moustache. He wraps a crinkled paper streamer around his neck like a boa and faints dramatically against some of the shelves. He scurries to the aisle next to you and pretends to walk down a staircase, disappearing from view: when his moppish head pops back up again, his wild hair flounces.
Huh. He smiles like the sun.
Eddie asks about everything possible, and god, under his stoner slang he's whip fucking smart. You crack a joke or a sarcastic reference and he smoothly returns it with equal emphasis, two tennis players on the court.
You check out picture frames. Eddie suggests throwing a little spraypaint on it, a little silver paint to light the edges, some weathering with sandpaper, and suddenly you've got yourself some primo decor.
"You like to paint?" You ask him, standing in the aisle, holding the shitty wooden frame. He's looking over your shoulder. You can feel his body heat, this close.
"I'm a big believer in, uh. Creativity, y'know?" His smile is big, toothy. Still nervous. Like as extroverted as he is, as big as his personality could be, the sting of a scoff or a sneer could still hurt.
You tell him that's cool. Something in his eyes softens.
God, you don't know how many hours you spend in that place, just talking and touching shit and discussing potential DIY projects and cool ideas. You talk comics, and music, and Hawkins social politics. He tells you about Tolkien. You tell him about David Brin. He likes David Murray, you like Siouxie Sioux. You both agree the autumn leaves this time of year make the Hawkins High look like its roof is on fire (and god, if only).
Your cart is full of bullshit you don't really need, bullshit full of promise and potential, and Eddie is letting you ride the cart with your feet on the front bar as he pushes it down the aisle at mach one speed. He splutters behind you, your hair in his mouth. He's laughing.
The total comes to 12 dollars even. The plan for the next date is to turn the kids bathtub toys you bought- ducks and dolls and dolphins- into zombies and mummies and other creatures with the shitty barely-opaque acrylics set you scored.
The sky is black outside, and it's raining. He asks if he'll see you again this week, and you say yeah, duh. The air feels like fireworks- like lightning, like a live wire. You think for a second that he's gonna kiss you.
Eddie pulls out a silver-plastic tiara from under his vest, nicked free of charge from the girl's section, and sets it on your head. It's cheap, pattern-punched plastic with pink plastic gems. It's perfect. He's made you a fairytale.
Munson bows, smiles again- the one that makes his eyes crinkle- and then he's off in his van.
He's so weird. He's so strange. You don't understand him.
Could you write reader finding out food tlb liked from when they were human/their childhood and making it for them as a gift?
I know you wanted a fic but I have so so many thoughts about each of the boys that I'm gonna collect them all in this post!
The Lost Boys: Their Favorite Old-World Foods
Marko:
The little Italian stallion <3333
I HC him as growing up in inner Florence, Italy, during the artistic revolution. He was fairly elite/in high demand as a model
Basically, a brat with an ego
Still despite rubbing shoulders with the greats, he loved to come home to his familyâs little city house and eat his mammaâs cooking
I think Markoâs favorite âold worldâ dish is Garmugia: a simple springtime soup with cured pancetta, lima beans, scallions, and all sorts of other green veggies
Itâs not fancy or especially delicious at all. But I think the smell, the taste, would make him freeze up, flooded with memories
and maybe for a second heâd stop being a feral, combative, snapping undead animal, and youâd catch a glimpse of the athletic young human from centuries ago
Dwayne:Â
My personal HC for Dwayne is he got put in a residential school for native Americans at a young age, basically ripped away from his family
He probably escaped, hightailing it out at around 16, and then survived alone on the streets of early 1800s colonizer cities with the rest of the dredges of societyÂ
(Which to me gives him a very strong âI fucking hate capitalism I truly hate this country and deep down I do genuinely want to see this broken system burnt to the ground, also FUCK copsâ mentality)
I think Dwayneâs most memorable old-world food would be Gingerbread. Not the gingerbread we know: a soft, cake-like bread flavored with molasses, ground ginger, and cinnamon. Very dark and not very sweet
He worked odd (and illegal) jobs to stay alive and when winter rolled around street vendors would sell big hot slices of the stuff
Bringing him some real, legit circa-1810-gingerbread would probably make him remember the far-distant, little moments of actual joy he had in his human life
AND youâd probably be able to convince him to actually talk about his past for once
Paul:
Country boyyyy, I love youuuu
In my mind Paul is rural midwest, late 1800s when the industrial revolution was really kickinâ off and the cities were poppin (with drugs and alcohol lmao)
He was probably raised on a farm & did farmwork most of the time. Picture him in a low ponytail and work duds, pitching hay. That was probably for the best because that dude 100% has dyslexia and a math learning disability
But oooooh he was prettyyyyy and he knew it: I think Paul eventually ran away from his familyâs farm and basically became a partyboy in a big city, like New York, and was changed there
I think Paulâs favorite old-world food is (brace for the cliche) Apple Pie!
Probably a rare treat his momma and sisters would cook up in the autumn and winter: smelling a good, home-style pie now makes him think of barefoot evening sitting on the farmyard porch, listening to cicadas
Unrelated, but I think Paul- thatâs right, partyboy druggie bonerboy Paulie- still remembers how to tie a hog
David:
I have conflicting thoughts abt this motherfucker
His backstory HC for me is still a little elusive, but I have some basic details for him
He comes from a pretty fucked-up biological family (probably a crazy-abusive dad and absent mother), was 100% drafted in a war at some point (I suspect the civil war), and 100% deserted his station in that war. Out of cowardice, fear, or distain, I donât know.Â
I donât think David really has a favorite food?? Heâll eat plain rice. Plain, oily noodles. Hard-tack biscuits. Literally anything like whatever itâs not his personal thing
David like drinking and smoking. I think Davidâs favorite old-world vice is Irish Whiskey. Again, not the drink we think of. A lot less refined, very rough and coarse: it was the most popular and easily-accessible spirit in the 1860sÂ
I think it reminds him of âsimpler timesâ: just him, alone, human, in a dingy old bar, getting the cheapest drink he can get, ducking his head to avoid being seen by military officials and wondering where he can run away to next
Give him a straight shot of Irish whiskey in an old-style enameled bar glass and itâs one of the only times he wonât be full-on Mansplain Manipulate Manwh0re: heâll probably sit on a beachside bench with you, drinking in silence, watching the waves crashing far away. Lost in thought. Looking as old as he really is.
Lost Boys Headcanon #155: The Boys are Basically Graverobbers
Look. Listen. Iâm right about this, okay? I feel it in my bones, guys.Â
The Lost Boys- all of âem, Dwayne, Marko, David, Paul- are thieves. They donât own or buy anything: they take, they rob, they appropriate. I mean, hell, they live in an abandoned ruin nobody else was using! I bet those bikes werenât even theirs till a few years ago- they took out some gang members and just happened to find their rides parked nearby. Free real estate.
Which brings me to my theory about their clothes. Guys. I donât think they stick to the same outfit we see throughout the movie, actually. At least not in the traditional sense. I think theyâre hermit crabs. You know how hermit crabs will trundle along in a shell for a while until a newer, better shell appears, so they snatch it up? Thatâs them.Â
They kill, they murder. After theyâve come down from their high they paw through their victimâs pockets: grabbing keys, pilfering wallets for cash, snatching up jewelry to wear or collect. Then they turn to the clothes. Sometimes, they find bits they like: things that are in fashion, things they like better than whatever they have on currently. Maybe Dwayne sees a dead bouncer wearing a pair of leather pants that look like theyâd fit him just right. Maybe David sees a nice, fancy grey button-down and thinks damn, that would be a lot nicer than the shitty shirt under my coat now.Â
And slowly, over time, months and years, their outfits morph. Theyâre always semi-current with the fashion trends (of course theyâd be, theyâre stealing from other, more hip people) but theyâre always slightly off. Slightly patchwork, out of place, ragged. Because the boys arenât humans, theyâre monsters in human costumes. And they need to keep updating their disguises.
More 80s movies made now. MORE. More airbrushed painting backdrops for panning shots. More haunting single-track synth ambient overlays to drive up tension. More massive sound-stage sets that actors run around on. MORE WEIRD WIGS. MORE PRACTICAL EFFECTS. MORE LATEX-MASK MONSTERS WITH HAND-PUNCHED HAIR AND MULTIPLE PUPPETEERS.Â
