#and because I live in an apartment trick or treaters don't come to my place. they go across the street where all the houses are
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I wish I were still young enough to go trick or treating
#I could possibly maybe get away with it cause people think Im like 15 or 16 still#but most people don't even think teens should trick or treat so Im still stuck#without being able to tho it makes halloween so boring#like I literally want an excuse to dress up#and now if Im not working that day (like this year) I don't have a chance to#I don't have any friends#so there's no chance of me beibg invited to a Halloween party#and there's no Halloween events in my area where everyone can attend and dress up#and because I live in an apartment trick or treaters don't come to my place. they go across the street where all the houses are#like I could ādress up just because/for myselfā#but you could say that for every day of the year#I could dress as a vampire or zombie whenever I please. but its only socially cool on this one day a year#what else is there to halloween as a child free friendless adult#ooo watch horror movies. I literally do that all year#my family didn't even decorate this year and it depresses me sooo much#and everyone around me has been saying since the beginning of October that they're over Halloween already#and want fucking Christmas to come#fucking CHRISTMAS??#you mean the most capitalistic expensive and stressful holiday? are you dumb?#you'd rather skip over such a whimsical day like Halloween for an over saturated over exposed holiday like Christmas#it makes me sooo fucking sad#Halloween is my favorite holiday bit its just. man its just not good or special anymore
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All treats, no tricks
pairing: natasha romanoff x fem!reader
summary: natasha comforts r after a rough day and possible rough evening
warnings: anxiety themes
word count: 492
a/n: this is sooo short but thatās okay. also this was 100% supposed to be a fun halloween fic but instead i turned it into a comfort blurb because of emotions. iāll write the original idea of this prompt later :)
you do not have permission to translate/repost my works anywhere! all mistakes are mine and mine alone. likes, comments, and reblogs are always welcome & appreciated <3
GIF by kamalaskhans
The moment you walked through the front door and saw the look on your girlfriendās face you knew she was going to try and drag you out of the apartment tonight. Instead of immediately acknowledging her, you go to slowly remove your shoes and kick them over by the door and set your keys and purse onto the table. Continuing into the kitchen feeling the redhead right on your heels you sigh and turn around to face her, opening your mouth to speak before getting cut off by a rush of her words, āWe should go out tonight. Thereās this amazing haunted corn maze in the next town over. I know that youāre scared of everything that is Halloween but come on, detka please letās go.ā A deep, loud exhale leaves your mouth as your eyes close and for a second, the redhead thinks sheās completely overstepped. Her eyes run up and down your body unsure if sheās hoping to see a sign of confirmation or contradiction to her thought.
After many moments pass, without any answer to Natashaās thought, she gently lifts her hands to cup your cheeks guiding your head up to try and bring your eyes up to her. When your eyes are still closed the russian gently rubs her thumbs along your cheekbones. āOr we stay in tonight. Maybe we can watch Ghostbusters?ā
The mention of your all time favorite Halloween movie caused you to finally start to open your eyes and look into the green eyes just slightly higher than your eye level. You roll onto your tippy toes ever so slightly to press a soft kiss onto your girlfriend's lips.
āBut you wanted to go out,ā your face and voice showing the guilt through your body. After your horrible day, you just wanted to lay down and cuddle with your girlfriend, not walk around a haunted corn maze while people try to scare you. All of this of course did not go unnoticed by the redhead who loved you more than anything.
āI think a nice little movie night would be amazing. This way I can wrap my arms tightly around your waist to protect you. Plus we can eat all the candy we bought for the trick or treaters,ā Natasha said, her voice joking more towards the end. She began to slowly drag you toward the sofa in the living room. As the two reached the sofa, Natasha placed her hands onto your shoulders and gently pushed you to sit down.
The redhead leaves you sitting on the couch for a moment as she walks into the kitchen and returns with bags of unopened candy. She scoots behind you, places the bags of candy onto your lap, then pulls your back against her front. She leans forward placing her chin onto your shoulder turning her head slightly to whisper into your ear, āMy dear girl, you don't have to worry; I'm all treats, no tricks."
#shay writes#natasha x reader#natasha romanoff x reader fic#natasha romanoff fic#natasha romanoff x fem!reader#natasha romanoff
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Bonfire, full moon, and squash for the autumnal asks?
Bonfire (favourite autumnal activity)
Oh, this is a tough one because I love them all so much! Ultimately though, it's tough to beat just watching the leaves drop, taking pictures of the explosion of colour or stargazing (and moongazing and planet-watching and sitting quietly thru the whole entire sunset with reverence...) on a clear and spooky October night.
Full moon (favourite candy and why)
That would be candy corn because I love controversy and drama! Lmfao (I also enjoy the aesthetic and the texture but I should probs not subject my poor pancreas to that level of refined sugar again ever at this age tbh).
And if I go to the "European" aisle of the grocery store there are these Dutch licorice gummies in the shape of cats that have IMHO a much stronger flavour than any other black licorice I've ever seen, which might be my favourite thing ever (I've been known to chew dried star anise raw bc I adore that infamous polarizing flavour). "Katjedrop" they're called iirc. You can get those year-round but come on they're black cats! And they're ADORBS placed on top of halloween-themed cupcakes.
Squash (traditions)
Oh, I love this one!
Usually the fun stuff (baking, horror movies, etc) I do during the day, as I've never been much of a partier and I've always lived in apartments rather than standalone houses that would get trick-or-treaters. I almost always take this day off if it's not already on one of my regular days off.
The local tattoo shops always totally go off with first-come-first-served drop in Halloween flash sales so on years I can afford a new tattoo I show up bright and early!
I try to always do something involving remembering our dead with other people, often just a small evening drop-in (or on Zoom the first year of covid or when the weather is bad etc) where we just tell stories about the people and pets who've passed on, I try to time it so people can come and go before Halloween parties get underway or they have to be home to answer their doors etc. Whenever possible I try to hold this in person around a campfire and encourage people to toss notes or letters into the fire for their loved ones.
And then when people kinda stop coming I go inside and do some more personal things to that effect at my altar, mostly I take some time to send some love to the marginalized dead of the past year (queer, impoverished, racialized and/or disabled people whose lives were cut short by chronic stress, hate crimes, systemic injustices, generational trauma, medical neglect etc) bc I don't tend to participate in that on the more mainstream designated days (like, I think TDOR is mostly a day of performative BS for cis people now, and I feel drained even thinking about it etc).
It's one of the few times per year when I'll read both Tarot and runes for myself in the same night. If I've fucked up in some big enough way that the guilt has followed me all year, I consider this a good time to ritually lay it to rest. And then if there's time and energy left I have a specific yearly spell I which is intended to bring me strength and support to get through winter because I HATE winter in the cold wet slushy town I've lived in all my life, but sometimes I just go to bed and leave that part for November 1st lmao
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'Ghosts don't exist' Stanlon (no one dies, leave my boys alone)
Iām so sorry this took me literally a month to write. But here you go. Some Stanlon Ghosts
Read on A03 the formatting is better there
Tag List:
@richardtoz @aizeninlefox @chocolatemangoose @godtozier@jem-carstairs-is-perfection Ā @studpuffin @oldguybones @its-stranger-than-you-think @reddiepop
āStan, come on! Please! You know Iāve been dying to do this!ā
āThen do it by yourself.ā
āNo way! You know itās always so much better if thereās more people.ā
āLay off, Richie. Iām not going with you.ā
āDonāt make me get on my knees and beg, Stan. We all know youād rather have Mike down there than me.ā
āYou are on thin fucking ice.ā
āCome on! We all know how this is gonna end. Weāre gonna bicker for twenty minutes and youāre going to give in. Letās just cut the shit early. What do you say?ā
āNo. Fuck you.ā
āCome on! Mikey, help a boy out!ā
Mike looks over from his place on the couch to where the two boys are standing. Stan is leaning against the wall while Richie is practically tearing his hair out in desperation. Mike offers no more than a shrug at them both, keeping his vow to stay out of it. If Stan agreed to go Mike would go. But if Stan said no they were going to stick to the plan on watching B-list horror movies with the others until everyone passes out.
āFuck you, too, Hanlon.ā Richie shoots before turning his attention back to Stan. His light tone betrays his harsh words. Richie is nothing but jokes and unabashed love for his friends. And stubbornness. Which is how theyāve ended up in this situation: Richie begging Stan to explore an old, supposedly haunted house with him while Stan adamantly refuses.
āRichie, give up. This is a stupid idea and we all know it. We could get hurt!ā
āIām going no matter what, Stan. Itās just your choice of whether or not you want to be there to help me when I inevitably fall through the floor.ā
It was a low blow and they both knew it. Stan, despite his standoffish nature, is extremely protective of his friends. He would rather do something he knows heād hate than watch one of his friends get hurt.
And just like that, Richie wins the battle.
At a quarter to midnight the three boys find themselves walking along Neibolt street to the old, abandoned house near the trainyard.
āRumor has it this is the house where Bob Grey killed all of his victims back in 1989,ā Richie says from his spot between Mike and Stan. āThey caught him on Halloween night, exactly 29 years ago. Itās kind of funny that weāre going there tonight. I mean, its 29 Neibolt street and itās the 29th anniversary of his death.ā
āShut the fuck up, Richie. Nothing about this is funny,ā Stan cuts. He can feel his nerves creeping in the closer he gets to that damn house. Everything about it is freaky, even during the day. The windows are all boarded up and the outside is practically falling apart. He doesnāt want to know what the inside looks like but heās going to find out anyway.
āOne of the kids was Denbroughās older brother, George.ā Richie continues, unphased by Stan. āGrey killed him when he was only six and Bill was nothing more than a twinkle in his fatherās eye.ā
Mike groans from the left before delivering a quick elbow to Richieās ribs. Richie just staggers and grunts in response before pressing on. āThey say that when they caught Grey they found all kinds of fucked up shit in his house. There were bones in the basement and body parts in the fridge and āā
āAlright, Richie. Thatās enough,ā Mike sighs. Nothing seems to deter Richie, though. Heās like a little boy on Christmas day as they turn onto the property and begin to climb the steps of the porch. He takes the lead, leaving Mike and Stan together on the steps as he runs up to the door and tries the handle. Because Richie possesses some kind of terrible, dumb luck the door opens without a problem other than the loud, screeching creak it makes as it swings in.
That sound makes a shiver run right through Stanās spine. He honestly didnāt think they would get this far. He can feel the weight of the situation settling in the pit of his stomach, making it flip and turn in the worst kind of ways. Thereās no reason for them to be out here right now. Itās late at night, the trick or treaters are long gone, and everyone who is sane and normal is inside watching movies or sleeping. Which is where they should be right now.
āYou okay?ā Mike asks, moving into Stanās space and resting a large hand on his shoulder. Stan jolts slightly at the sudden touch, too caught up in his own thoughts to hear Mike approaching. He recovers quick, sending Mike a curt nod in a vain attempt to fool them both into thinking heās okay.
āLetās just get this over with. There canāt be that much to see in this place. The quicker we get in, the quicker we get out.ā
āOh, fuck yes,ā Richie exclaims, stumbling into the main room. His face lights up like a firecracker and he practically skips around the center to look at the old, decrepit furniture. Everything is either falling apart, covered in a once-white bedsheet, or both. The dust is thick and coating everything in sight. Stan can see the way it dances in the streetlight that leaks through the boards as they disturb it from its thirty-year sleep.
Altogether, the house is unremarkable. Stan thinks it could have been a beautiful home once. The stairs lead up to a second floor with a banister that wraps around the landing. He can see two, maybe three doors at the top that might be bedrooms, closets, or maybe even a bathroom. The downstairs living room leads into what might be a kitchen and thereās a door at the far end of the room that probably leads down into a basement. Maybe this place was beautiful once. Maybe in another life he could have lived here.
Stan feels another shiver roll through his body. This is not the house of a well-loved family. This is the house of the damned.
Ahead of him he can see Richie sifting through an old bookshelf lining the wall. Stan watches as he continues to disturb the dust. It dances up, up, up in the streaks of moonlight until he canāt see it anymore. A vague part of his mind wonders where itās going, where itās going to settle next.
A loud crash sounds to his left that sends him practically out of his skin. Reflexively, he yelps and jumps to his right, knocking into Mike who wraps his arms around Stan and effectively steadies him from toppling over to the ground.
āHey now, itās okay. It was probably just some old furniture that gave out. Itās probably been so long since this stuff has been touched that our footsteps alone are knocking them down,ā Mike says, voice low and soothing in Stanās ear. Stan relaxes gradually, muscles loosening at the feeling of Mikes hands rubbing gently against his side and shoulder.
āYeah,ā Stan agrees, voice shakier than he wants it to be, āyouāre probably right.ā
āLetās go check it out. Maybe itāll help calm you down,ā Mike suggests and before he has any time to process Stanās being led through the doorway and into the kitchen. āSee, nothing to worry about. It was probably just that chair in the corner giving out.ā
Stan looks to where Mike gestures and sure enough he sees an old, rotten chair collapsed in the corner. Instead of responding, Stan just wraps his arms around his body and nods. It makes enough sense but it does nothing to ease his anxiety. Mike pulls him closer, tucking him away under his arms and making himself a temporary shield against the darkness in the house. The hug is tight and comforting and it instantly relaxes Stan.
Mike releases him too soon for Stanās liking but the warm smile he sends is comforting on its own. Together they make their way back to the living room. When they get there the find the room surprisingly empty. Stan glances around a few times before looking at Mike.
āWhereād Richie go?ā He asks, voice quiet in the still room. Richie was just here a moment ago and now heās gone.
āIām not sure. Maybe upstairs?ā Mike says, voice equally quiet but firm. Something about the way Mike is standing puts Stan immediately back on edge. Heās tense and his shoulders are squared off. Heās looking over the room as if heās searching for something other than their friend.
āMike, I donāt āā Stan starts but he doesnāt get the chance to finish. Another loud crash comes from the second story of the house. Stan jumps back again, backing up and frantically pressing his back against the wall. The house is eerily silent following the noise. Neither boy moves for a moment, the air hangs like static between them and the rest of the room.
āIāll go check it out,ā Mike whispers, carefully walking forward. Stan goes to try to stop him, ready to beg the other boy to please, please not leave him alone when Mike continues. āThat was probably Richie. Who knows what heās up to up there. Iāll bring him right down and we can get out of here.ā
Stan goes silent at this. Any protest he has on his lips dies. Mike is right, itās probably Richie. Their combined weight would probably be too much for the old structure of the house. He just nods solemnly in Mikeās direction before Mike starts up the stairs, disappearing from view.
And with that Stan is left entirely alone in the ground floor of the house.
He tries to keep himself calm. He swears he can feel the house breathing. The floorboards seem to shift and the doors move from left to right. Its disorientating and alarming. Stan canāt tell which way is up or which way is left. The door to the kitchen that he swears was on his left is suddenly behind him and it doesnāt even look like a kitchen anymore. Who knows where it leads but Stan feels himself being drawn there. As he turns to move something from the corner of the room catches his eye. The door to the basement, the one Richie was standing by when they last saw him, has a faint glowing light coming from beneath it.
Suddenly, the house rests beneath his feet.
āRichie,ā Stan grumbles beneath his breath. He changes his course and walks to the basement door, stopping directly in front of it. As he reaches his hand up to the knob he feels a chill run up his spine.
Thereās no way heās stay in this house longer than he has to.
He grips the handle and slowly pushed the door open, peering down the stairs into the dim light. He could have sworn it looked brighter from under the door but now, staring down at it, there is nothing but a faint glow. He can see the floor and some of the surrounding area but nothing else.
āRichie?ā Silence answers his soft call. He listens for a moment but he canāt hear anything, not even a footstep. āCome on, Rich. Games over. Mike and I wanna leave.ā
Nothing. The feeling that follows the silence is nothing short of unsettling but Stan shucks it off in favor of his annoyance. Richie really is going to make him go down there, isnāt he?
Stan weighs his options. He can wait for Richie to come up from where heās hiding or Mike to come down from his fruitless search. Or he can take matters into his own hands and go get Richie himself and end this early.
He takes the steps slowly, one at a time. His weight on the old wood makes an unforgiving sound as he descends the steps into the glow.
When he reaches the bottom, he looks around. There is an open door in the far corner leading to a dark room, several decaying boxes and crates, and a large slope of coal leading up to a window. The room itself is rather unimpressive but Stan finds something captivating about being down here. As he moves toward the center of the basement he can feel the weight of the situation lifting off of his shoulders. Each step he takes is another pound that he doesnāt feel. Soon, he thinks idly, heāll be weightless.
A soft squishing sounds from beside him that draws him out of his thoughts. Its faint, nothing more than a squish, squish, squish from the darkness of the other room. It catches his attention, bringing him back to the moment. The moment proves to be exactly where he wants to be. He finds himself acutely aware of the smell that lingers in the room. It canāt be but it is. Itās impossible, yes, he distantly knows that, but itās also so very real. The smell of popcorn, the kind you would get at a carnival, wafts from the darkness.
Squish, squish, squish.
Itās just enough to lure Stanās natural curiosity out. He finds himself drifting toward it. He isnāt aware of the way his feet hardly move. He all but glides across the floor and when he reaches the doorway the smell is so intense its clogging up every other sense Stan has. He can taste the thick butter on his tongue, feel the grease of it on his fingers.
Squish, squish, squish.
His arm raises, hand floating through the space that separates him from whatever is on the other side. When it passes through the darkness, shadows slowly consuming his fingers, hand, and wrist, he feels the faint touch of ice.
Squish, squish, squish.
Startled, Stan pulls his hand out and stumbles backward. The smell in the room instantly changes. The sweet, buttery scent he had smelled just a second ago is suddenly rotten. He coughs twice but it overwhelms his system. Its putrid, burning up his nose and down his throat and choking him from the inside out. It smells like garbage mixed with rotting meat, decaying flesh, rotting fish.
It smells like death.
Stan could feel his breath getting shorter. It comes in and out in quick, shallow huffs and no matter how fast he tries to gulp the air down it still feels like heās suffocating.
The noise sounds once more before the room settles into silence yet again. Out of the darkness steps a little girl no older than eight. Stan canāt take his eyes off her. He canāt look away from how the flesh of her neck hangs open and the dried blood soaks her chest and stomach. She stumbles on one leg, the other mangled from the shin down and dragging behind her. Her mouth hangs open in a constant gape and her eyes ā fuck.
Stan found himself staring at with a grim, sick sort of fascination.
Her eyes were the worst part. Stan could come to terms with the gore of it all. He could understand the way her body was broken in some senseless, horrific murder. But he could never unsee the way the whites of her eyes were actually pitch black. They framed bright blue irises that were glinting in the soft glow of the room the same way Richieās would if he were down here.
Suddenly, Stan remember why the fuck he came down here in the first place. She starts to amble toward him, leg dragged against the hard ground behind her and Stan knows he needs to get the fuck out of here right now but he canāt. His legs are rooted to the ground. It was like the air around them was frozen cold. The flesh of his arms and legs rose in the sudden change of the room and time ticked slowly to his inevitable death in this dark, musty basement.
His mind was screaming at him to move! Run! Do something you honey roasted shithead! but he canāt. All he can do is watch her move. He can feel her getting closer, invading his space. When sheās close enough to reach him, she does. One bloodied, gashed open arm lifting from her side and reaching out toward him. Her fingers feel like ice on his skin, slowly dragging up the side of his face and tangling almost tendering in his curls. The horror of this situation contrasts with the stupidity of her gentleness. She brings herself impossibly close to him, dark, dead eyes devoid of all emotion baring into his soul as she moves her face toward his.
āWhereās my shoe?ā She asks, lips all but pressed against the shell of his ear. Her voice is rough, grating against this skin like an old knife might be and itās just enough for him to break out of his trance, stumbling backward and causing her to yank strands of hair off of his head.
Once heās far enough, he turns on his heel and full on sprints to and up the staircase. The door is in sight and he feels relief flood his system. Heās so close, only a few more steps and heāll be free. Heāll be safe.
When he reaches the top he practically throws himself against the door and turns the handle. Heās lucky he has enough awareness to hold on, though, because the door does not budge and Stan feels the reverberation echo through his body. He almost falls down the stairs but his grip on the doorknob saves him.
He frantically wiggles the doorknob, the rattling sound mixing with the squish, squish, squish he now knows in the dead girl approaching him from beneath. It wonāt budge. Itās like someone locked it from the outside but he doesnāt even remember closing it behind him. He canāt even really remember how he got down here, though, and it doesnāt help him now so he shucks the thought from his mind. He has to get out of this basement, now.
āMike!ā He screams, voice desperate and shrill, āHelp! Please, for the love of God!ā
He gets nothing in return. No one is on the other side of that door. No one is coming to save him.
Squish, squish, squish sounds from below him again and he knows, he knows, heās going to have to decide or die in here.
He tries the door one more time, throwing his whole body against the wood, before he turns and flies down the stairs. He doesnāt look for the girl but he knows sheās here, waiting for him. He looks around twice before seeing another door on the far end of the room, opposite the door the girl came out of. He takes his chances and runs. He can feel the ice on his skin, something grazing his arm and warmth splitting his arm, but he doesnāt pay attention to it. He canāt. He makes it to the door and this one opens for him. He doesnāt think before he throws himself through it and slams it behind him. Distantly, he hears a screeching noise and then the room settles into an uncomfortable silence.
Stan looks around, taking in the room heās now in. Thereās something oddly familiar about it but he canāt place it. He doesnāt spend too long trying to and instead he moves to the center to get oriented. There are no other doors but there are no dead little girls, either.
Stan closes his eyes for a moment, taking a steadying breath as he weighs his options. He could stay in here and wait for the sun to come up or he could turn around and fight the good fight. He remembers the window at the top of the coal pile and he knows he has an out if he gets there fast enough. Ultimately, itās the idea that his friends are still somewhere in this horror house that has Stan opening his eyes with a new determination. He has to find them and get out.
Stan looks around the room again before his eyes settle on the door. Itās almost as if the room had changed while he was thinking. Nothing seems to be how it was. There are new boxes and an old table that he knows wasnāt in here before. Thereās still only one door but he swears it was behind him. Now, it is immediately in front of him.
He doesnāt have much else of a choice and he doesnāt waste time weighing the one option he has.
Stan is ready to run as soon as the door opens. Or fight. Or scream. Really, heās ready to do anything it takes to survive. His eyes are wide, alert, as he watches each inch of the other room come into full view. Unlike before, there is no glow. There is no nothing. Instead, there is only a long, strip of hall laid out in front of him lit only by several dim overhead lights and a quiet, unidentifiable sound coming from the other end.
Stan hesitantly steps through the doorway. There is nothing in the other room for him to go back to, no other exits, no way out of this hell heās found himself in.
Stan can hear the noise getting louder and louder as he makes his way down the hall. A quarter of the way down he realizes heās listening to someone crying. And not just crying, its full out wailing. That feeling from before creeps up his spine again. It makes its way into the base of his neck and creeps all the way down his shoulders and into his hands. His sweaty palms are numb with fear, a dull tingling sensation crawling all the way to the tips of his fingernails.
The walk down the hall seems never ending. Stan steps carefully, slowly moving from foot to foot to keep his steps as silent as possible. This could be a trap. This could be the monster he saw in the basement luring him into his death. The cries only get louder and louder until heās standing right outside of the doorway to the room at the end of the hall.
He peers in, careful not to expose himself to whatever is on the other side. Heās surprised when he doesnāt see the bloodied, beaten corpse of the young girl. Instead he sees a figure practically crumpled in the middle of the room. Their dark skin glints off the soft moonlight coming in through the window and. Wait. Holy shit.
Holy shit. Itās Mike. Heās folded over himself, face practically buried in the hardwood floor. His hands pull desperately at the hair on his head as he rocks back and forth on his knees.
Stan doesnāt move at first. He doesnāt know what to do. Heās never seen Mike like this before. Mike is strong, fearless. Heās faced down Bowers with more courage than any of the Losers ever have but heās also soft and kind. Gentleness flows through his veins and courage roots his feet to the Earth under them. What the fuck happened to him?
Mikeās head suddenly snaps up and suddenly Stanās theyāre face to face and Stan gets a good look at his face. The skin below his eyes and nose are shiny with tears and shot. His eyes have a hazy glaze over them and arm framed by red, swollen rims and his lips are red and almost bitted through.
āOh my god,ā Mike gasps, sucking down air between his broken sobs. āIām so sorry, Stan. I couldnāt save you.ā
āMike, I donāt ā what the fuck are you talking about?ā
āI couldnāt save you. Iām so sorry,ā Mike repeats, shaking his head and grasping blindly at the floor under him.
āMike, Iām fine. Iām right here,ā Stan says, grabbing Mikeās face and forcing him to look Stan in the eye. After a moment his eyes seem to clear.
āStan, oh my god.ā Mike says, throwing his body full force against Stanās and wrapping his arms around Stanās shoulders.
āIām right here, Mike.ā
āI swear to god I saw you, Stan.ā Mike says, voice too loud and too desperate. His hands are clutching at Stanās shoulders and his body is shaking so hard Stanās scared he might fall apart. āIt was you. I thought it was your ghost. You were so mangled. There was blood all over your hands and face and your entire stomach was wide open. You screamed at me. āHow could you let this happen to me Mike! I thought you cared! Why would you leave me down there!āā Mikes voice crumbles again, breaking off into heaving sobs between his words. āYou walked through a wall and disappeared.ā
āGhosts donāt exist, Mike!ā Stan screams, voice shaking despite how desperate he is to remain calm. He wants to believe it, he wants to be so sure of himself, but the dead little girl he saw standing in the basement has him questioning his own beliefs.
Mike quiets against him. His body still trembles but his sobs fade until there is nothing but the gentle sounds of their breathing. Slowly, Mike pulls back. His brown eyes dance in the soft light of the room. He looks at Stan as if he wants to say something, mouth hanging open slightly and eyes darting between Stanās own in a searching way.
āI thought I lost you,ā he says as he brings a hand up to Stanās face. Stan closes his eyes automatically, leaning into the warmth. Mikeās palm is huge on his face and cover most of his cheek, his fingers reaching up and touching the tips of Stanās curls.
āYou didnāt,ā Stan whispers back. A beat passes between them before Stan hears a gentle inhale and then the soft press of lips against his. Itās over as fast as it begins. Mike pulls away almost immediately and Stan opens his eyes but the weight of it lingers between them. Itās a mixture of please donāt let me go and escape escape escape.
āThere is a staircase over there,ā Mike says, clearing his voice with a quick cough and gesturing toward the corner of the room. He stands up and takes Stanās hand in his, pulling Stan to his feet gently. Together, they take the stairs one by one. Stan doesnāt even realize heās back on the ground floor until theyāre in the kitchen, practically back where they started. Ā
āMike. How ā I never went upstairs,ā Stan says quietly, hand still in Mikeās. āI went into the basement to look for Richie and I ā fuck. Mike. Whereās Richie?ā
āI donāt know. He wasnāt upstairs.ā
āWe need to find him!ā Stan cries, spinning around to scan the kitchen. Panic begins to cloud his head again. He hasnāt seen Richie since they got here. Neither of them have. Both of them have gone looking for him but neither of them managed to find him and, logically speaking, theyāve searched the whole house. But logic went out the window a long time ago and he knows if they donāt find Richie soon they never will. He can feel it in his bones.
He slips his hand from Mikes and before he knows it heās sprinting out of the kitchen and into the last room they were all together in. The living room.
āRichie!ā Stan calls, frantic and desperate and scared. He can feel his heartbeat all the way in the roof of his mouth as he calls for his friend.
Mike is on him again, arms holding him from behind and grounding him. He hears Mike suck in a breath to start talking, probably to chastise him for trying to go alone, but it never comes. The sudden absence of air by his ear hangs heavy between them. Stan cranes his neck back to look at Mike but Mike isnāt looking at him. His eyes are trained on the far corner of the room, wide and shocked and confused.
Stan goes to follow Mikeās eyes when he sees it. A thick, viscous red trail leading to the corner. There isnāt a doubt in Stanās mind that itās blood. The trail starts in the middle of the room and moves in the direction of a larger puddle in the corner. And in the center of that corner is none other than Richie himself.
Stan doesnāt move at first. He doesnāt even breathe. All he does is stare at the crumpled shape of his best friend. Richie has his back propped against the wall, head lolled to the side and arms dangling from either side of him. His shirt is torn open and stained a deep red. The rips frame two deep gashes across his chest running from his right shoulder to his left hip. From what he can see, blood is drenching practically every inch of Richie. His hands are slick with it, his arms are dripping, and the legs of his pants are splattered, likely from him crawling to his current position.
He looks like a shell of the boy Stan saw only an hour earlier.
He looks dead.
Mike moves first, releasing Stan and rushing to Richieās side. Stan watches as gentle hands take hold of Richie body, one on the side of his neck and the other on his chest.
āHeās still alive, Stan!ā he calls, moving his hands to take his shirt off and press it against the wounds.
āMike, we have to get the fuck out of here,ā Stan says, voice wavering with the effort it takes him to stay composed. He comes up behind Mike and presses his hands to Richieās face, choking down a sob as he feels it roll to the side lifelessly. āRichie, come on man. Please. We gotta go.ā
Mike grabs Richieās shoulder and pulls the body to his chest. He then hooks his right arm under Richieās legs and lifts him up, cradling him close to his body and motioning toward the door. Stan gets the hint immediately and runs to the exit, grabbing the handle. Just like in the basement, Stan finds himself unable to get the door open. No matter how hard he twists and slams his shoulders against the door nothing budges.
Just as he feels like heās making progress, he feels the ground of the house begin to vibrate under his feet. He can hear metal rattling in the kitchen and furniture collapsing around them from the force of the vibration as it turns from soft to violent. Stan braces himself against the door and watches, wide eyed, as Mike kneels to stop himself from dropping the unconscious boy in his arms.
āCome with me, Stan. Float with me. With me, you can stay children forever,ā a haunting, broken voice sounds from above them. Stan whips his head around, desperate to figure out where the voice is coming from but it echoes throughout the house from every direction. It comes from the basement, the kitchen, the stairs. Itās everywhere and nowhere at once.
āStan!ā Mike screams, voice dulled from the sounds shaking house. His eyes are wide and terrified as he holds their friend. āStan we have to go!ā Ā
A bright light flashes and suddenly theyāre not three anymore, but four. Across the room, no more than ten feet from the boys, is a tall, hellish figure of a man. His red hair stands at every angle and his smile is painted on in a bright, bloody red. Brightly colored pom poms dance up the center of his silvery, tattered clown suit. He resembles the kind of clown in they might see in a horror movie.
āYouāre not real,ā Stan says. His voice is laced with terror and nothing but a soft squeak.
āYes, I am, Stan. I am real and I am going to kill you,ā the clown says, stepping slowly toward where Mike and Richie are. His eyes train on the boys and Stan knows that this is it. This is how theyāre going to die if he doesnāt do something.
āNo!ā Stan says, more defiant this time. He steps between the clown and his friends, squaring his shoulder and puffing his chest out in an act of pseudo-bravery. āYouāre not real! I donāt believe any of this!ā
Stan steps forward and, to his surprise, the clown steps back. āGhosts arenāt real!ā He says, voice rising with each word until heās screaming. āHouses are just houses and they donāt move around! Dead little girls stay dead and they donāt live in basements! This is real! This isnāt happening!ā When he finishes, Stan lets out a scream heās been holding in the entire night. It comes from deep inside his chest and it rattles the house in a new, frightening way and when heās done theyāre left alone in the quiet, empty, decrepit house.
Two weeks later
Stan watches from his place on the couch as Richie attempts to do a cartwheel for the second time.
āYouāre going to fuck up your stitches, Richie,ā he drawls, only mildly concerned.
āNo, Iām not. Doc said Iām almost fully healed!ā Richie shoots back, chipper as ever. For someone who was on medical bed rest less than a week ago, Richie was as energetic and spry as ever. Despite his argument, Richie relents and towers over Stan. The bandages heās still required to wear poke out from under the collar of his blue Henley.
āYeah. Almost. If you keep dicking around youāll never get there.ā
āHey, itās not my fault I saved both your asses from that fucking bear.ā
āYeah,ā Stan says, eyeing Richie has he grabs a bag of chips off the counter. āWeād be goners if it wasnāt for you.ā
āTell me the story again, Staniel. I still canāt believe I canāt remember anything.ā
Stan rolls his eyes and launches into his rehearsed script, grabbing the handful of doritos that Richie offers him. Itās a tall tale of out they came out of the house in the backyard and decided to fuck around in the woods due to sheer boredom. Theyād encountered a bear and Richie had jumped in front of Mike and Stan, taking a near fatal paw to the chest. His scream alone managed to scare the beast away and save them all. Stan and Mike carried Richie to the closest occupied house and called an ambulance.
The doctors said it was a miracle Richie survived the hit and they all werenāt killed then and there.
The last part is the only true part but Richie doesnāt need to know that. No one does. No one needs to know how they tumbled through the front door, faces soaked in tears and snot, and ran as fast for their lives from 29 Neibolt street.
As Richie listens intently, Mike saunters through the front door of the Tozier household, settling on the arm of the couch next to Stan and gently combing his fingers through the gold curls on his boyfriendās head.
āAnd I canāt believe I missed this! I was out for two days, two days, and all of a sudden you two are macking all up on each other. I canāt believe all it took was a near death experience for you two to finally get your shit together.ā
Stan feels his face flush as Mike chuckles and pulls him close. He feels the warm press of lips to the crown of his head and hums in appreciation.
āWe just figured we should stop wasting our time. Lifeās too short,ā Mike says, fondness in his voice. Stan looks up and catches Mikeās smile.
āYeah,ā Stan says, echoing the sentiment. āYou never know what could happen.ā
Mike catches his lips in a chaste kiss but it says all the things they almost donāt get to say.
I almost missed you.
I almost lost you.
I love you.
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