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dollarstoreartsupplies · 1 year

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I just finished ur werewolf richie fic what the fuck what the fuck it was v good and i love all of them so much but it also spat on me and ripped my heart out and i’m mad at you (i’m not ily for making this masterpiece im sad it’s over but not cause u put my favorite characters through it). you wrote it ages ago but i thought i would lyk anyway🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

AHHHH THANK YOU!! :') this is so nice thank youuuuu and I truly apologize it is truly so brutal hgjklf <3<3<3<3

as both an apology and a thank u here's a like full chapter of the sequel fic I never ended up writing about how each of the Losers find out Richie's a werewolf

(for context Mike DEFINITELY knows something is up with Richie by the end of the original fic, or at least suspects, so she finds out/talks to richie about it first)

(and also also for context this is a big streddie fic in my brain this part is just a Stozier Moment but it's important to me that everyone knows this)

Link to fic for context :)

She doesn’t mean to go to Stan’s.

Like super does not mean to go to Stan’s.

Like, the first thought when she woke up, sick on blood, cold and hurting, was ‘I want Stan but I cannot under any circumstances go to Stan’s right now because I can’t drag her into this’ doesn’t-mean-to-go-to-Stan’s.

She meant to go to Mike’s when it became clear going home and being alone was not going to be an option tonight, not if she wants to feel like a person tomorrow.

It’s not that she really wants to drag Mike into this either, but Mike had quite honestly dragged Richie, teeth and all, to her and she’s working on trying not to feel like it’s selfish to get her involved.

But she didn’t go to Mike’s house, because she is selfish.

She knows it’s stupid but tonight was one of the bad nights and she’s hurt and she’s scared and she’s just so tired and all she wants is Stan. Stan just has this practical, mini-adult, weirdo way of making everything feel, even if it’s just for the moments you're with her, like it might be okay.

She considers coming through the window like she does with Eddie’s, but Stan’s parents (fucking surprisingly) don’t hate her guts and her whole body goddamn aches too bad to feel like risking it.

So she just knocks, as boring as it is and as weird as it feels to be doing it so very early. They’ve got a doorbell but it makes Donald pissy whenever someone uses it, so, normally Richie slams on it as many times as it takes to get a reaction. But not tonight. Tonight she doesn’t want a reaction, she wants a Stan. So she waits.

And waits.

And knocks again.

Stan (god, fuck, thank god, it’s Stan) answers the door, finally, and despite her repeated reassurance to herself that Don and Andrea Uris do, in fact, like her, Richie feels her whole body slump in relief.

No reaction, just a Stan.

She’s got her arms crossed tight over the front buttons of a cardigan she’d definitely stolen from her dad, it's way too big on her, hitting well past the thighs of her rolled up jeans and tangling around her fingers. They aren’t pajamas, but they aren’t anything Stan would ever leave her house in either, and something muddled in Richie’s tired brain goes ‘huh’. There's a red calculator-keys indent on her right cheek.

There’s always been a sort of art form to understanding the complicated language that is Samantha Uris’ startlingly expressive eyebrows, one most don’t bother learning and Richie is fluent in. She can easily translate, from the way her cocked eyebrow droops into something furrowed as she takes in the scene that is Richie, that she’s fucking concerned.

She’s sure she’s what one might call.. a sight, bloody and dirty and wearing whatever mismatched, musty clothing she’d managed to keep stored in the clubhouse before the full moon for situations like this.

(Last night had been one of the blurrier nights, when she couldn’t quite remember how she’d gotten old barbed wire tangled in complicated knots around her ankle or whether or not she’d killed anything. She hated those nights. Fucking hated them so much. She’d had ample amount of time to adjust, she’d was far better at dealing with the idiosyncrasies of being a monster now than she had when it'd all first happened, but she still hated the not knowing of it all, it made her feel useless and dangerous and often left her in dire need of hugs she was too worried to ask for.)

Stan ushers her in, grabbing her upper arm and then recoiling back in something that could either be horror or hurt when Richie flinches away, hands tucking under her armpits in an awkward crossed-arms self hug.

“What the fuck, Rich?” She hisses, unfolding her arms just long enough to close and lock the front door before she leans against it, shoving her hands back into place. She seems entirely lost on what she’s supposed to do, which is fair enough, Richie hasn't said anything yet. She thinks absently that her silence might be more startling than anything else.

She really doesn’t think she can say anything, she hadn’t thought of an excuse for the injuries Stan hadn’t noticed yet but was sure to once they were out of her dimly lit foyer, she hadn’t thought of an excuse to even be here because she shouldn’t be here.

There is also the dangerous, ever present possibility that she will do nothing but sob if she opens her mouth.

She’s already toeing the thin line between holding it together and a complete breakdown, and Stan Uris has a way of making that already fragile line as structurally sound as a strip of cellophane.

They just stand there for a moment in a silence more awkward than they’re used to.

Richie shifts her weight, wincing when she puts too much pressure on her fucked up ankle, if Stan notices she doesn’t give any indication other than a slight raise of her eyebrows (that means she’s noticed, she’s absolutely goddamn notices, but she’s waiting to give Richie a chance to tell her herself).

The door down the hall clicks softly open, breaking through the quiet. Stan’s parent’s room. Her shoulders immediately tense, hands absently fiddling and straightening the buttons down the front of her sweater so suddenly Richie isn’t even sure Stan knows she’s doing it.

“Samantha? Who's there?” Andrea Uris appears, padding halfway down the hall before stopping, pulling her long, silky robe tightly around itself. Stan’s posture slumps to something more comfortable. She always looks more comfortable around her mom.

(Richie had always liked Stan’s mom, for the obvious reason that she didn’t make Stan all rigid and anxious like her dad did, but there was more to it than that: Andrea Uris was almost startlingly like her daughter. It’s a fact Stan would resent if you told her, so Richie keeps quiet about it and appreciates it from a distance.

Except right now she really, desperately wanted her to go away before she noticed something or told Stan’s dad who would most definitely say it was too early and kick her out. Or call her parents. Which is way worse.)

Her eyes catch on Richie’s ankle and one eyebrow raises carefully. Fuck.

“It’s just Richie, Mama, can she stay over?” Something unreadable flicks across Mrs. Uris’ face, hidden by her quickly pursed lips and slow nod.

“Well, I suppose it’s practically morning anyway, as long as you two keep it down.” She gives a final cursory glance to Richie’s ankle, lifts a hand to wipe a smudge of what she desperately hopes is dirt and not blood off her cheek, and spins on her heel, walking back to her bedroom. Before she closes the door all the way, a snippet of conversation, a lie to Stan’s dad about the paperboy coming bright and early, drifts down the hall that Richie knows only she can hear. Stan’s shoulders untense at the same time as hers anyway.

“Come on, let's go upstairs.” Stan holds her hand out, tentative and wavering in the space between them, not quite touching like she's afraid Richie will flinch again. She takes it, lacing their fingers together and trying very hard not to cry not to cry not to cry as Stan guides her up the familiar path to her bedroom.

She falls back into her desk chair, legs extended and arms crossed as she studies Richie up and down. Richie just stands there, shifting nervously under the scrutiny and shaking her head when Stan looks pointedly at her bed. (She’d managed to slice her back up a little, somehow, and can feel the cuts already scabbing over, they weren’t too deep, but the back of her sweatshirt is still damp with blood and her ankle is still somewhat mangled, she doesn’t want to stain any of Stan’s things. Because Stan gets all panicky about stuff like that and she already shouldn’t fucking be here-)

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Whatever do you mean, Staniel?” She asks, going for casual dismissal and stumbling somewhere closer to ‘I am definitely hiding something’.

“You’ve been acting weird. I thought it was… I figured it was everything that happened that summer,” Stan sat up carefully, one hand subconsciously rubbing up the scars that lined her cheek.

They rarely talked about it, ‘that summer’, nobody quite knew how to go about it and Stan especially could never seem to find it within herself to say Pennywise, not that Richie blamed her.

“But that was two years ago. It’s not that I expected you to be over it obviously, but I don’t think that's what's going on here.”

“What are you talking about?” She laughs, sharp and defensive, and Stan furrows her eyebrows together, rocking out of the chair so she’s standing in front of Richie, one hand firmly on her shoulder like she’s worried she’s a flight risk. Maybe she is.

“Richie, I want to help you but I need to know what's wrong.” She tries for a smile, it’s reassuring in the barest sense of the word but only because it’s Stan. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes, she’s worried, Richie is worrying her, that's not what she wanted.

“Nothing is wrong, I’m fine!”

“I’m sorry, but you can't show up on my doorstep at six in the morning, bleeding and covered in dirt, and just expect me to think you’re fine! Why are you acting so weird?” Stan is getting angry, some of her carefully-crafted-Stan-Uris-patented-composure slipping enough that Richie’s instincts are telling her to shut the fuck up or get the fuck out if she doesn’t want a fight. Coming here was stupid.

Stupid, Stupid, Stupid Richie who still can’t bring herself to leave because even as Stan squints at her, all unwanted concern and frustration, Richie feels so much safer than she has all night.

“I’m not acting weird!” She is. She knows she is. It’s a literal wonder she hasn’t had a thorough Stan interrogation yet.

“Yes you are! What the fuck is up with you?” Stan shoves her shoulder a little too hard, prodding her in the chest like she’s trying to force her worry to resonate in Richie with her finger tip.

“Nothing!”

Her and Stan don’t ‘fight’; they bicker and disagree often enough, sure, they playfully argue in a way that makes half their school think they hate each other, but they don’t fight. Not often, at least. It always makes Richie feel constantly overwhelmed and upset and wrong so she tries to avoid it as often as possible, and, despite how easily she gets into arguments, Stan tends to hate confrontation. Especially with Richie.

“Just tell me!”

“I’m a werewolf!”

(Now, to take a step back, the worst fucking possible thing for one to say to their best friend who they most certainly don’t want to know certain things, such as their incredibly traumatically acquired lycanthropy, is “I’m a werewolf!”

Are we clear on that? Good. Because while it rarely comes up for most people’s day to day lives it’s pretty solid advice that in this moment Richie Tozier desperately wishes she’d been given.

In her defense she’s exhausted and achy and just wants a hug from the person whisper-shouting at her so her critical thinking isn’t really powered up to full but, still, it’s an inadvisable tactic that, in her opinion, probably will end with said whisper-shouting should be hugger running for the hills.)

Why the fuck did she say that oh god oh god oh god shes going to hate her now, fucking idiot, why did she just say that-

Stan just lets out a low, angry laugh, startling her out of her panic and into a new, limited edition version of panic that was just sort of confused.

“Fucking fine. Don’t tell me.”

“What?”

“I said don’t tell me. God, fucking… whatever, Rich.

“What?” It comes out all choked and weird the second time. She’s giving her an out and Richie has no clue why she suddenly feels as though she cannot take it under any circumstances.

“Beep fucking beep. I’m not in the mood for a weird, shitty joke, right now.”

“It’s-” (This is where you stop, Richie,) “I wasn’t-” (fucking laugh like your an asshole so she doesn’t know you weren’t lying,) “Stan.”

“What.” She snaps. She’s fucking pissed and Richie is well aware all she’s doing is making it worse.

“I wasn’t kidding.” Well, fuck.

“Sure.”

“Stan.” She’s making it very hard to accidentally expose life changing truths to her tonight. Which is to be expected, she guesses. Stan’s never been into change or mysticism or things that didn’t have concrete scientific evidence backing them up, but she’d figured, with clown shit that at least this would be a little fucking easier.

And then she does something really goddamn stupid.

Stan blinks hard at Richie’s bite-scarred arm, and then down to where she’d yanked off her sweatshirt onto the floor, and then back up to her bite-scarred arm, and Richie just stands there and shivers in her stupid little tank top and thinks that she really goddamned should have taken the out and let Stan be pissed off at her.

She doesn’t look at the scar when she can help it, it’s gross and it’s big and it’s… uncomfortable. She fucking hates it and there's a reason her wardrobe has shifted exclusively to long sleeved button ups and light jackets regardless of the weather. And now here she is. Just letting Stan stare at it over and over and over like she’s got short term memory loss exclusively for big gross bite scars.

Stan’s mouth drops open, a bit fucking belatedly, before she takes a shuddering breath in through her nose and squeezes her eyes shut, “When- what- no. Okay. No.”

“No?” Richie giggles, feeling a little hysterical. Stan does a weird, garbled approximation of a giggle back.

“You… You’re not kidding? I’d like you to be kidding I think.” She just keeps staring.

Richie considers just cutting her arm right off, “Mmm. I’d love to be kidding.”

She finally looks up, makes frantic, slightly insane eye contact with Richie, and offers a sturdy “Well fuck.”

Stan wraps her ankle. Richie tells her she doesn’t need to, that it’ll be fine in like an hour and maybe she should actually just go- but she just rolls her eyes, pushes her onto the bed, and makes some wry comment about Richie needing to pay her dry cleaning that makes Richie a little dizzy from the sudden awareness of the metallic scent of her blood saturating the baby powder clean fabric softener of Stan’s sheets.

She bites down hard on her tongue to keep from wincing as Stan cleans the sloppy puncture wounds. She tastes copper and somewhere in the back of her head Eddie Kaspbrak cries out some probably-wrong-warning about human teeth being able to bite through their tongues or fingers with the same amount of force you would use on a carrot, it’s just that your brain doesn’t let you.

She wonders, if only to distract herself from Stan’s shaky fingers around her leg, where that statistic falls for dogs.

“Am I allowed to ask questions?” Stan asks, eventually, as she messes with the bandages she’s wrapping around Richie’s ankle. Unwrapping and rewrapping and unwrapping and rewrapping the top layer in a way that means she’s probably-definitely a little more nervous about this whole thing then she’s trying to let on.

“I mean it’d kinda be a dick move not to let you, huh?”

“Probably.” She snorts, and god, it’s all so Stan, and so fucking normal, that Richie wants to cry.

“Ask away, Stan-a-rita.” She says instead. Probably a little too choked up for a word like Stan-a-rita.

“Wow. Horrible.”

“Hey, I’m having a day, cut me a break.”

She rolls her eyes, but her smile seems supremely forced, which makes Richie nervy. Stan isn’t one to fake smile. If she’s unhappy she’s generally more than fine with making sure you know it.

“When? When did you… y’know?”

“Get bitched?”

“Fuck off.”

“Oh, come on do you know how long I’ve been holding off on bitch puns?”

“Richie.” She says, instead of ‘come on, asshole, I know what you're trying to do and I’m not letting you off that easy- answer the question’ but Richie got the message all the same.

“It was fuckinnn’ clown shit, near the end of that school year.”

“Fuck, Rich.”

She lets her head flop back onto the mattress, “Yeah.”

To her surprise, Stan pats her ankle firmly and flops on her back next to her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh, yeah, course, that'd go well: ‘hey Stan, y’know that fuckinnnn’ monster clown that tried to eat your face and killed Georgie fucking Denborugh?’” Stan flinches and Richie tries to ignore it, even if it leaves her feeling like a complete dick, “‘Yeah, he made me a monster too. SURPRISE! Lets have a fucking sleepover.’”

“Don’t call yourself that.” Stan grumbles, softly, reaching for her hand on the top sheet. Richie yanks it away before she can.

“I mean I am.” She laughs, frantically, “I mean- I mean, god, fuck Stan you shouldn’t even be talking to me anymore, I’m… I’m a fucking monster-”

“Hey! Don’t call yourself that.” Stan snaps, too sharp to leave much room for argument. At any other time Richie may not have even tried, bottled it up and decided later whether to believe what she’d said. But this wasn’t one of those times, this was a matter of Stan’s safety and she didn’t seem to understand.

“No! I’m a fucking- I’m a werewolf and I don’t even know what I’ve killed and I’m… I’m a monster.” She repeats helplessly, shoving herself off the bed. Trying to get Stan away away away but she just scrambles off and sits in front of her. Knees pressing against Richie’s tangled up legs.

“You’re Richie.” Stan says firmly, leaning so close that Richie can feel her breath across her nose, the Stan-specific scent washing over all her senses, eraser rubber and grass and too sweet black English breakfast tea, the kind that costs too much and comes in a fancy little gray-blue can she keeps as storage containers in her desk drawers once she uses the last tea bag-

And then they’re kissing.

Richie Tozier has spent a lot of time picturing her first kiss. She never pictured a face, she had hopes of course, but she wasn’t unrealistic and she didn’t want to let herself down before the kiss had even happened.

In her head it was something prettier, she was prettier somehow, less gangly limbs and tear soaked cheeks and bloody ankles, she never had a werewolf living inside of her, instead it was all some romantic bullshit that Ben would have dreamed up.

This isn’t what she’d pictured, not at all, their noses squished together and her teeth got in the way and Stan pulled back almost immediately, she was filthy and smelled like wet dog and her stupid fucking scar was still on fucking display and Stan hadn’t gotten a good night's sleep and her hands were shaking.

But she was just kissing Stan Uris. Stan Uris kissed her, and that is so much more incredible than anything Richie’s shitty little daydreams could have ever dreamed up (not that she hadn’t pictured kissing Stan, she fucking had, probably an embarrassing amount, but she’d never thought it’d be something that could have ever ever ever actually happened).

“What?” She manages, scrambling back hard against the bed even though there's nowhere to go, blood pounding in her ears.

“I… you were being stupid. I had to shut you up.” Stan chokes, bringing a hand up and tugging hard on a loose curl unraveling from her bun. The whole thing tilts lopsided.

“I’m always stupid! You’ve never shut me up like that before!”

“I’m sorry! I thought- you just- that was… out of line, I shouldn’t have done that.” No. No, no, no that’s not what Richie means, absolutely not. Her heart is hammering so hard in her chest it hurts.

“I didn’t say that! I just… wasn’t expecting it!”

“I should have asked, I’m sorry-” Richie tumbles over her own knees to get back to her, accidentally yanking the edge of Stan’s comforter with her and knocking one of the pillows to the floor. For just a second she thinks about how much Stan would hate that, but then they’re kissing again and pillows aren’t really the first thing on her mind.

Second kisses are supremely better than first kisses apparently, less awkward, she knows how to tilt her head and she is the one who initiates it this time so her teeth don’t get in the way.

Stan breaks away slower this time, keeping their foreheads pressed together, and whispers “Oh fuck… thats why your teeth-”

“Yeah.” She snorts, weakly, “Your bedside manner needs some fucking work, though.”

“Fuck off.”

“I mean, come on, that’s why your teeth-”

“You said I could ask questions.” And then, entirely too delighted, “Bitch.”

“I told you! Bitch puns are fun!”

“We’re talking about this some more.” She warns, but she’s grinning.

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie grumbles, disoriented, a little, by the emotional whiplash of whatever the fuck today is shaping up to be, “Can I take a nap first?”

“If you shower.” She says, flatly, pushing herself up off the floor.

“Together?” She teases, wiggling her eyebrows and Stan presses a flat palm against her face, pushing her farther down to the floor.

“You wish, Tozier. Shower.”

“Come on, seriously?” She whines, “I already got blood on your sheets!”

“Yeah, and I’d like it if you didn’t biohazard up new ones.”

She giggles around the facefull of towel Stan launches into her face, “I’m traumatized!”

“Join the club.”

(Fun fact: Third kisses are even better than first and second ones.

Second fun fact: Richie is really, honestly excited to find out if kissing is just one of those upward trajectory things that never really plateaus out.)

And maybe she’s going to cry a little when she gets into the shower, like Stan’s not gonna be able to hear her right in the en suite. And maybe maybe she’s gonna cry again when she gets out of the shower and sees that Stan’s nicely folded the pair of too-long pajama pants and sweater she always steals for sleepovers.

And maybe maybe maybe she’s going to cry a little when she leaves the bathroom and Stan hands her a neatly-written list of werewolf related questions on a piece of college ruled notebook paper with the ripped-up spiral edges very-precisely torn off so the sides are even.

But Stan just rolls her eyes and calls her a baby in an even, pretending-she’s-not-worried-so-Richie-isn’t-a-repressed-weirdo-about-it way.

She didn’t know it was possible to feel so fucking normal after what the fuck just happened. But she’ll have a subsequent werewolf-and-lesbian related crisis later, maybe tomorrow. Right now she’s bizarrely okay for the first time in maybe two years and it’s time for fucking bed.

(Jesus fuck, going to Stan’s was so the right goddamn call.)

#stozier #fem stozier #fem richie tozier #fem stan uris #werewolf au #fic #im ngl I did not totally proofread this but it think its alright???#I think stan and richie deserve to kiss just a little bit

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