Evan Peters Imagines and One Shots

Sweet, but Psycho Pt. 10

Mark and Eric's skin would look beautiful as lampshades or any furniture I could admire to remind me of their demise. Those two idiots put me in the worst predicament. Tate sat across the dining room table, waiting for me to finish the same cinnamon twists I'd been eating for an hour and a half; the sweet treat was my only excuse for avoiding our conversation for the moment. Even when enraged, he was the sexiest person to roam the earth. I swooned at him as I took slow nibbles of the snack in my hand. We hadn't spoken since we left the Taco Bell because I requested he let me finish my snack first, so I could figure out how to approach the discussion. Tate sat with his arms folded, tapping his foot on the ground. He furrowed his brows as he glared at me, shaking his head in disbelief as he noticed my avoidance.

"It shouldn't take long to eat cinnamon twists, Y/n," Tate declared.

"I prefer to savor the flavor, so I take slow bites," I lied.

He snickered as he leaned back in the chair.

"You sure are something," he grumbled.

"Aww. Thank you, baby. You're so..." I answered, smiling like a baby watching cartoons.

"That wasn't a fucking compliment," he asserted.

I'd become the Sahara Desert with no drought as I squirmed in my seat. Tate's eyes darkened as he leaned closer to the table. His eyebrow raised as his brown eyes fixated on me. I slid my half-filled snack bag farther away from me on the table. He had my full attention.

"Oh, now, you're finished. It only took you about an hour," Tate mocked.

Tate became harsher as the days passed. I thought it made him hotter. He'd claimed the darkness of the house had possessed him and had been causing him to forget things. I believed him, as he'd forgotten about me a lot over time; Tate remembered me from when we were on the playground as children, but he'd seemed to have forgotten much more or wasn't telling me everything he remembered. It concerned me because I hated seeing him beat himself up over it. He told me my support helped him fight against his demons. Whatever that meant, as long as I made him smile, that's all that mattered.

"What's on your mind?" I asked.

"You fucking tell me, Y/n. You've been hiding so much shit from me. I could pretend I didn't notice at first, but it's practically thrown in my face now and I don't like that Mark and Eric know about you than me. I shouldn't have to learn about my girlfriend from Fuckass and Dumbass," he declared.

I could understand why he was so agitated. I'd lose my mind too if another girl knew more about him than I did, especially after all those years of biking past his house, borrowing his stuff without him noticing, and monitoring him without his knowledge; if that were to occur, she and I would have to take a secret trip to the lake, with a gasoline canister, a lighter, and weight heavy enough to sink a car. The thought alone annoyed me, but I couldn't stay mad as I admired the beautiful guy interrogating me.

"Then you pulled out a pair of scissors from god no knows where and threatened them like this was normal," Tate acknowledged.

"They were in my back pocket- they're always in my back pocket and I have to protect myself somehow, Tate, it's a cruel world out there. There is legal documentation stating that Mark tried to attack me and is my stalker, yet legally he's still allowed to be around me and harass us at Taco Bell," I expressed.

"What did Eric mean when he said you stabbed his hand?" Tate questioned.

"I might've poked him a bit after he and Mark tried to bully you in the lunchroom a couple of days ago," I responded.

"Poked him, Y/n? His hand had to be bandaged. He even said if you stabbed it like that again he won't have a hand to use," Tate argued.

"I never said the poke was gentle. He should've learned his lesson the first time," I murmured, folding my arms.