#ben hasncom

[n0velaes]

@divcrse, brianna marsh required a one liner from ben hanscom.

" being brave means doing what you’re afraid to do. "

[obviouslyelementary]

Title: You Won’t Break Me

Summary: Losers Club Big Bang fic 2021 - The Losers Club has been the Losers Polycule for a year, but one member has been too nervous to partake in most of those activities. That is until he realizes just how much it means to one of his partners and really hears him out.

Tags: Polyamory; Poly Losers; Body Image Issues; Non-sexual Intimacy; First Time Bottoming; 

For the Losers Club Big Bang 2021 ! @losersclubbang​

[ozzybears]

i have these charms on preorder until the end of december! collect all seven tokens and kill an interdimensional murderclown. 

check them out on my etsy!

[blue-collects-things]

queer commandos, chapter 5 - my gaydar is impeccable

stanley: So…

el: so…

stanley: You don’t have to answer my question, but it would really be helpful.

[hadersz]

richie tozier confronts the losers

Except from my Stranger Things/It: Chapter 2 crossover fix-it fic. Read here [x]

It was that afternoon, they had all returned to the townhouse after the quarry and he silently went up to his room. After he showered and changed, he was crying so much he ended up dry-heaving into the toilet, curled up on the tiled floor of his ensuite. He was shaking uncontrollably, wrapping his arms around himself and hugging tight. He left him down there. He could never forgive himself.

Intense grief turned into furious anger. He hadn’t wanted to leave Eddie. They made him. They pulled him out of there. All of them, they forced him out of there.

“Honey, he’s gone,” Bev had said, but was he? Did they really check? Maybe he still had a pulse. Maybe there was some way to save him. Mike had the fucking ritual bullshit knowledge, maybe there was some fucking magic they could do. Bring him back.

We can’t leave him. But Ben and Mike grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled, yanking him, forcing him away. Even at the street, all of them held him back from lunging into the collapsing house on Neibolt Street.

In the quarry they joked. They laughed. Jesus Christ, even Ben and Bev fucking—

Suddenly Stan’s voice was in his head from all those years ago; hysterical, frightened, but stubborn.

You’re not my friends. You left me alone.

There were no more tears left to shed. Richie began furiously throwing things into his duffle bag, banging around his room, ignoring the faint knocking he heard.

“Richie, come on, honey, talk to us,” Bev had called from the other side of Richie’s door at the townhouse.

You left me alone. In Neibolt. You made me go to Neibolt.

“Hey, we’re all upset, man,” Ben’s voice was next, nervously tapping against the door frame. “I don’t think any of us should be alone right now.”

That did it. Richie swung his duffle bag around his shoulder and wrenched the door open so hard it slammed against the wall and its hinges whined.

“I’m leaving,” he said, pushing past Ben with a shove and thundering down the stairs. Bev and Ben stood paralyzed for a second before barreling down after him.

Richie turned to walk toward the front door when Bill and Mike entered from the lounge, blocking his path. “Move.”

Mike’s hands were up in front of him in defense, walking slowly toward Richie as if he were a feral cat, spontaneous and reckless, he couldn’t anticipate his next move.

“Richie,” he began.

Richie stepped forward, hand still gripping the messenger bag strap on his arm. Bev and Ben were behind him on the stairs, hesitating, but definitely blocking him in. Bill stayed put in the center of the doorway to the front entryway.

“Fucking move!” His shout echoed in the high-ceiling foyer. Bev winced at the shout and Ben put a hand out on his shoulder to stop her from moving.

“Richie,” Mike continued. “We’re all upset. Why don’t you wait until tomorrow. We can all sit and—”

Richie stepped forward until he was right up against Mike, while three inches shorter than him, he somehow still managed to tower over him. “Move,” he repeated, his voice like gravel.

“Hey, Rich,” Bev’s voice wavered behind him. She took a step down on the stairs, but didn’t get too close. “We’re worried about you.”

Richie lost it. He laughed, spinning on his heel and walking toward Bev with venom on his breath. “Worried about me, huh, Bev?” He cackled. “Didn’t seem fucking worried about me when you and Ben were making out in the fucking quarry.”

“That wasn’t—”

“Our friend just fucking died, but you think that’s a great time to suck face, huh? Are you a fucking psychopath? I mean, what the literal fuck,” Richie bellowed.

“C’mon, Rich,” Bill was suddenly behind him, hand on his shoulder pulling him back.

“Oh like you are any better, B-B-B-Bill?” Richie snapped, rolling his shoulder and shoving Bill away from him. “Fucking making lovesick eyes at Bev ‘cause she chose Ben? Am I the only one who cared about E-E— him?”

You’re not my friends.

“Richie, lay off him, man,” Mike said, stepping forward to put an arm between them. “We all cared about Eddie.”

“Don’t fucking say his name,” Richie grunted, not missing a beat. “And Mike, fuck, you’re the worst of all,” he took another step toward Mike, shoving him back by the shoulders. “First Stan, now Eddie? Maybe I should have just left Bowers to it.” He continued to shove Mike until he was pressed against the wall, Richie’s forearm pressed against his collarbone, forcing him back.

“Rich!” Ben yelled, suddenly behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder and trying to pull him back, but the adrenaline was too much.

Richie turned around and swung, getting Ben right in the jaw. He stumbled back and Richie’s hand sung with pain, but it didn’t matter. Mike took the moment to pull Richie’s arms behind him back and hold him there, Bev and Bill huddled around Ben. Richie twisted and pulled, breaking the grip Mike had on him.

He straightened the strap from his duffle bag on his shoulder and took the opportunity to bust through the front door. He ignored the calls and yells behind him and headed out to his car, slamming the door shut, and making his way back home.

You’re not my friends.

[mygazeboeffect]

Loser’s Club-I Lived

MV I did

[awkwardness-is-my-middle-name]

IT CHAPTER 2 THEORY???

Aight so I know nothing about the books so if anyone has info on this theory (and pennywises origin) lmk pleassseee

So during that scene where Bev is drinking tea with pennywise that old woman it’s implied that her “father”, the man in the pic is pennywise.

So this man is probably pennywise somehow (or at least a disguise pennywise wears, again idk book origin of pennywise)

So this man is probably bill skarsgard in old man prosthetics and makeup (probably, idk)

And then later bill skarsgard seems to be taking his makeup and prosthetics off

Assuming the other man is indeed pennywise, under the makeup will it be a young bill skarsgard, the way he looks now, or will he look like the man in the pic???

I think it’d be pretty cool if it’s the old version of him but idk. Just a theory or really a question tbh.

[missroseleigh]

me: yo pass the aux cord

friend: you better not play trash

me:

[losersclubimagines]

pretty much dead already — [losers club x reader]

title: pretty much dead already

pairing: the losers club x reader [ platonic ]

summary: you get ‘taken’ by It instead of Beverly, and your friends do all they can you bring you back. In the end, of course it would be something so simple.

warnings: one curse maybe? angst sorta. but mainly fluffy!

The Losers found you hovering several feet above the rocky floor in a dark underground cavern, mouth parted in a silent scream and ghosts clouding the colour of your eyes.

At first, they froze, pausing somewhere between cold, flooring shock like they’d just had ice water tipped over them, and a total, paralysing horror, because God, none of the illusions or monsters It had stitched together for their own personal anxiety could compare to this.

You looked pretty much dead already.

After that beat of paralysis, that one second that flashed like the muzzle of a shotgun, they clamoured to rush over, footfalls going a mile a minute as they stampeded over to your floating frame with a desperation so scarcely seen in kids so young.

Eddie was the first to yell. “Y/n! Can you hear us?” His squeaky, terrified, throaty little voice couldn’t break through to you.

The other followed, jolted into action, shouting your name like a mantra with growing desperation as Stan and Mike, the tallest of the lot, reached up to grab onto your calves and attempt to pull you down.

You weren’t yanked, as they were probably all expecting - you drifted, like you weighed nothing, a helium balloon covered in a child’s sticky fingers held down fast by a weight at the end of the string.

As they successfully pinned you down so your feet were flat on the ground, they almost wished they hadn’t. Your face was perfectly expressionless - not one line in the skin, not one muscle holding tension - lips gently parted, eyes wide and unblinking, hair seemingly weightless as it ghosted over the cage of your head, brushing your skin like feathers. But worst of all were your eyes - pallid and clouded, staring straight ahead, your usually bright irises packed with cold ghosts and cold tears as you stared straight through them all, like they were just seven more wailing kids to the ones already in your head.

“Y/n!” Mike tried this time, his strong voice ricocheting off the cavern walls, but to no avail - Beverly, on the brink of tears, reached out, grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you roughly, hysterically, until Bill murmured for her to stop.

Richie blinked at you, eyes wide because Christ, he hadn’t planned for this. He’d just assumed - well. That everything would work out. Because it did, didn’t it? Things worked out in these types of stories. Only it wasn’t a story. You were here, looking like a goddamn corpse in this freakish cavern with dead children floating in a frenzied spiral, up and up and up until the mysterious white light swallowed their little figures. Just another in the graveyard.

Their pleading voices rose into a cacophony of choking, hoarse, broken pleas and sobs, hand grabbing your arms, face, trying to wring some feeling back into your light puppet body.

Eddie was the first one to cry.

“Y/n!” he cried, hoarse and squeaky, tears cutting tracks down the grime and dust on his face. “Wake up!”

This seemed to set off a chain reaction - in a few seconds, Richie had turned and stumbled a couple feet away from the commotion to scrub at his eyes with the edge of his flannel, Bill’s and Mike’s eyes grew brighter in the dim light, Stan’s closed his eyes and pressed his mouth into a stoic line, Ben’s lower lip began to tremble in earnest and Beverly began sobbing into her hands, staggering backward and crashing to the floor.

“Y-Y-Y/n,” Bill called desperately over the din, too panicky to be embarrassed that his voice was breaking. “C-c-come on, you - you can’t l-l-leave us now, we n-need you! We can’t - we can’t - we can’t do this w-without you, Y/n.”

Nothing. Your pale, stoic gaze kiltered on straight through him, and finally, the noise ceased save for Bev, Richie and Eddie’s stifled cries, and Bill dropped his head onto your shoulder in despair, drawing comfort from the crook of your neck like he did when Georgie - when Georgie...

A moment later, Eddie dropped to his knees and grabbed your wrist, pressing his face to your hand deliriously, reminding himself of the times you’d gently stroked his cheek to coax him to sleep, fingers running through his hair till he shivered.

Mike sniffed, and his arm draped itself round your left shoulder, reminiscent of the time you’d half-dragged him to the emergency room after Bowers had aimed a baseball at his left knee and effectively crushed it under the wood.

Riche drew in a stammering breath as he wrapped his skinny arms round your stomach from behind and pressed his damp face into your shoulder, feeling the warm comfort of you like he did on cold, lonely sleepover nights when his brain wouldn’t shut off for long enough for him to drift off.

Now surrounded by trembling bodies, Stan made do with draping an arm round Richie’s shaking shoulders and grabbing your hand through the gap between the trashmouth and Mike.

Beverly and Ben followed suit, the former clinging to Bill’s hand with one arm and the other skating through your hair that she so loved to ruffle, and the latter content to put a supportive hand on Eddie’s shoulder and, with shaking fingers, reach out to touch your arm - the only part of your body visible to him through the gasping, shaking coffin of people packed around you.

As soon as all seven of your friends were touching you, however, something changed.

Beverly, hovering over Bill’s shoulder, saw it first, albeit through a vision blurred with tears. You blinked.

She inhaled a stuttering gasp, mouth parting to explain, bit she didn’t have to - next second, you seem to jolt like someone had plugged you into a live electric current, your body spasming in a second, head thrown back as you inhaled a rush of warm, damp hair for what felt like the first time in years. You blinked the cold out of your eyes as you panted, filling your empty, aching lungs, and as soon as the cloudy white fled your vision, you were met with the sight of your best friends peering at you in a dark, cavernous room with wet eyes and faces simultaneously startled and so, so sad.

“Guys?” you manage to dredge up, and your voice is quiet and throaty but there, and there’s a moment before all seven of them let out joyously disbelieving exhales and barrel into you, arms squeezing you in a hug so tight you can’t breathe. You have a face full of Richie’s curls that smell of passion fruit shampoo and Ben has inadvertently punched you in the jaw in his haste to embrace you. Beverly is crying into your shoulder and Bill is rubbing soothing circles onto her shoulder with one arm and grabbing you tight with the other, looking dazed and deliriously happy all at once. Mike coughs and ruffles your hair, Stan lets out an oddly hysterical, breathy laugh and buries his face in the crook of your neck.

You are a pile of limbs and laughs and tears, and even if you don’t know exactly what had happened, you could get a pretty clear picture from the way your friends looked at you - like they were assuring themselves you were really there.

Eventually, your huge group hug cracks and drifts apart, Eddie hanging back to give you one last hug so fierce it squeezes the air from your lungs, and you look round all your friends with a smile that you hope doesn’t look too overwhelmed.

“Hope you guys didn’t kill the clown already,” is what you manage to choke up, and a collective laughs bubbles from the group even though it wasn’t that funny.

“We waited for you,” Mike offers weakly.

“Figured you’d want the honours,” Beverly reiterates, cheeks flushed with joy and tears.

“Well, then.” You force the tremble out of your hands and look around your assembled best friends.

“Let’s go kill this fucking clown.”

———

tag list: @bi-bi-homophobes @maggie-duvall @strangerschnapp @thepitybear @tapetayloe @speakfandom @wolfhardstozier @socially-awkward-nerd @the-chase @princess-ravenclaw @derrysdenbrough @gay-ships-and-tea-sips @praise-the-walls @oh-no-stenbrough @lettucewayne @crazycaleigh101

[mitchmarnier]

COLOUR PALETTE CHALLENGE {ICON EDITION} [2/?]. Ben Hanscom + Heart of a Poet

UNDER THE CUT: 25+ icons of Ben Hanscom  from the film IT (2017).

Like/Reblog if you use.

Credit if asked!

[miaandmydikrats]

am i the ONLY one who cried while watching IT?

also im gonna start reading the book #readyforthetears

[eds-tozier-for-u]

HAPPY BDAY TO MY BEAUTIFUL BOI, JAEDEN DJLEBFLEJFKE<3 This boy is a hecking angel and he grew up so fast omg

Last day you can reblog this ->

[stan-denbrough]

Mike Hanlon had always been an outsider. He was a black, homeschooled, ranch hand in Maine. He lost his parents, and then he lost his grandfather. Mike was sure he'd always be alone. He had no family. But when he's stuck in a group home with 6 other kids who are just as much Losers as he is, they slowly worm their way into his heart, and he thinks he might just be able to make a new family.

My overly maudlin and twee foster home au! And if you want Mike Centric Content, you’re being fed today sis!

[blue-collects-things]

queer commandos, chapter 4 - here comes philosophical richie

january embers: so

january embers: what r everyones fave musicals

bitchin’: i thought you’d never ask

[gaybullies]

not to be a drag but what a sigh it is to look up mike hanlon or ben hasncom and immediately see everyone else.......... i wish they were included more independently... like i wish there was more popular stuff that was about just them, not just having them there cause theyre part of the losers club but like actively enjoying their characters and making stuff about just them. yknow?

[losersclubimagines]

Talker

Title: Talker

Pairing: Richie Tozier x Reader

Type: Platonic | Romantic | Familial | Other

Warnings: profanity, angst omg, thats it??

Summary: in which Richie will keep talking until someone remembers him.

You’d spent your life searching for love.

You searched for it in your house - between cracked mirrors and dusty mantels and air thick with wine and yelling, but you couldn’t find it there. You searched for it between the pressed pages of your library books, in the cassettes that drowned out the yells in early hours of the morning, in the pencils arranged and re-arranged in colour order like a set of toy soldiers lining your desk, but you couldn’t find it there, either.

In fact, you found it in the place you least expected.

You knew ordinary people loved the most simple, ordinary things - flowers and cakes and clothes, a song or a poem or the stars on a clear night. But none of it seemed to work for you. You wanted something that made you feel so fiercely that you felt it with ever fibre of your beings - something that made you ache and sore at the same time, the perfect blend of pain and euphoria.

But love wasn’t a stew simmering in a pot, and you couldn’t find it in a thing.

You found it in a person - and that person was the one you’d least expect.

Richie Tozier was, dare you say, nefarious in Derry. His loud mouth got him into trouble often, and he seemed to spend more time in class doodling absently with a pen lid in his mouth, blowing spitballs or flipping off other students loudly - and yet, inexplicably, the straight A’s on his report card practically glowed through the envelope at the end of semester. You’d never paid much mind to him - you had little time for trashmouths, save for the odd “shut up, Richie,” when he made a passing remark at you in the hallway.

So, you two had spoken before. But you’d never talked, not in a real way.

Not until you found him curled against his porch bannister at midnight, freezing cold with his chin buried in his knees.

At first, you hesitated to even go up to him. But he looked so very lost at that moment, your empathy got the better of you. So, slightly against your better judgement, you cautiously made your way over to the half-asleep boy, who had still failed to notice you.

“Richie?” you called timidly, and he started violently - clearly you’d just jerked him from a heavy half-slumber, but as soon as he saw you, his face cracked into a wide smile.

“Hey there, sweetcheeks,” he countered cheekily, stumbling to his feet. “What’re you doing here?”

You shrugged. “Just...passing through. Why are you on the porch?”

Richie suddenly seemed to remember where he was. “Oh.” He kicked the decking with his sneakers. “Just... got locked out.”

“Aren’t your parents home?” you inquired with a frown, making further forward before stopping at the porch.

Richie laughed, a sound slightly too bitter to be considered genuine. “Yeah, uh... they’re the ones who locked me out.”

“Oh. Sorry.” There didn’t seem to be much else to say, much as you wanted to come up with something. “Are you... okay?”

“Me? Never better, Bubs!” He brushed off your concern like a dust speck, that wide smile ever-present. “I just love it out here, y’know? Freezing my balls of is, personally, the highlight of my night. Other than talking to all the pretty girls cruising through my neighbourhood.” He sent a wink at you, to which you rolled your eyes.

“But...” you chewed your lip. “They’re not gonna leave you out here all night, right?”

He scoffed. “Nah - no way. Mom’ll be out in an hour or two to throw out the empty wine bottles and I can probably sneak in, like, incognito. Like a ninja.”

You laughed, despite yourself, and Richie seemed to swell with some kind of self-assurance. “Okay, well - I should head home. If you’re sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“Hey, if you’re looking for an excuse to stay, look no further!” His arms splayed out wildly before flopping back to his sides. Rolling your eyes again, you backed out of the driveway and clambered aboard your bike again.

“Later, Tozier,” you said in goodbye.

“Only if I’m lucky, sweet thang,” he replied with a pretty terrible accent of something that sounded like it was supposed to be Western, and you grinned to yourself in the dark as you started up the pedals.

You didn’t see the way his smile slipped as your bike took off down the dark road, as the silence filled the street, and as he sank back down onto his porch, a scared little boy once again.

After all, if Richie wasn’t talking, what was he good for?

—————

The next time you talked to Richie Tozier was when you found him in the girls’ toilets - and not in the context you’d expect.

He was crouched in the end stall - or, to you at that time, the only toilet not blocked by paper towels. Awkwardly, you reached for the door and knocked.

“Hey, um - sorry, are you almost done in there? All the others toilets are blocked,” you explained gingerly. There was no reply, but you heard breath hitch in a throat.

You bent down to glimpse through the gap at the bottom of the stall, and a pair of feet stared back at you - bright stripy socks, clad in black sneakers with the soles almost completely torn off, and most definitely not belonging to a girl.

“What the fuck?” you muttered, before rapping on the door. “Who’s in there?”

“Don’t freak out,” came the muffled reply, and you frowned as the lock clicked open. The frown turned to shock as the door edged open, and the brown eye of Richie Tozier stared balefully out at you, magnified by his thick red glasses.

“Tozier?” You gaped at him. “Jesus Christ - I should’ve known.”

“No, hey! Hey, it’s not like that!” he protested in a harsh whisper. “I - I’m hiding from Bowers and his army of fuckwads, alright?”

“Don’t you think a girl’s toilet is the first place they’ll look for you?” you countered drily. The brown eye widened affront.

“That’s fucking mean.”

You grinned. “I saw Bowers five minutes ago on the art block, laying into that Bible kid in second grade, alright? You’re good for now.”

“Really?” The door edged open, leaving Richie looking sheepish and out-of-place, with his garishly-bright, untucked shirt, head of messy curls and shabby sneakers, against the bland, placid toilet cubicle around him.

“Mm,” you hummed in affirmation. Richie blew out his cheeks in relief, nervously knocking his glasses back up his nose.

“Thanks,” he proffered, and the word felt odd in his voice, almost like he rarely said it.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your eyes were suddenly drawn to a discoloured patch of skin peeking over the hem of his grey undershirt. The hue of dying flowers, the bruise loomed over at you, ugly and fist-shaped, and you winced despite yourself. “Bowers give you that?”

“Wha-” His fingers skittered down to his collar, yanking up his shirt to shield the bruise from view. “Hockstetter,” he muttered after, letting his arms hang limp at his sides. “Dickwad. All because I told him he had ever venereal disease known to mankind, too!”

A giggle leapt from your mouth. “I’d have socked you too.”

Richie looks at you sharply, before the annoyance splinters and he dredges up a weak smile. He hauls himself onto the sinks, apparently getting comfy.

“To be fair, I only said it to keep him from laying into Bill,” the bespectacled boy continued thoughtfully. “You’d think the day he came to school after Georgie went missing, Hockstetter would be less of a bitchbag, but I guess not. Long story short, Hockstetter’s a sadist, Bill was pretty fucking sad, and I got mouthy, and then I got decked. God’s balance of nature is pretty mesmerising.”

You looked at Richie then - really looked at him, under the mask he wore with a huge painted smile under porcelain eyes, and you saw him. You saw a boy who’s mouth ran faster than his brain, who’s jokes unravelled quickly to the black bitterness at their core. And it was sad.

“I think-” You cleared your throat. “I think that was really good of you.”

Richie glanced at you in surprise, then began swinging his legs absently. “Thanks, I guess.”

Your small smile slipped as Richie suddenly swung down from the sink with extravagant vigour, landing with a flourish at your feet. “And, next up on Richiana Jones, he takes Greta Bowie and Belch Huggins’ ugly heads and - WHAM - the force of the two idiots colliding is too great for our cosmic universe.”

He kept at it until you were laughing, laughing so hard you had to hold the sink for purchase and your throat was aching. When you finally subsided with a giggle and a hiccup, Richie was beaming as if he’d accomplished the greatest feat in the world - and then the guilt slid over you, hot and cold and burning.

You’d given him just what he wanted. For a second, you’d seen beneath his mask, touched the skin beneath the cool plastic - and he’d hated it, hated how it made him shudder and ache for more. And so the only way was to make you laugh. You had a nice laugh, anyway. Not like most people. When they laughed, it was to be pretty, or seem clever or fun or humorous. You laughed with your whole body.

You swallowed, feeling the smile slide off your face like oil over water. “You don’t have to do that,” you mumbled.

“Do what? Because I personally think a snake bite to the dick would do Criss some good-”

“That, Richie! You’re doing it now. It’s okay to... let people care about you every once in a while!”

He blinked, eyes huge and wounded behind his glasses. When he spoke, his voice was smaller than you’d ever heard it. “I just like making people laugh.”

You sighed. “Because you’re terrified everyone will forget you if you don’t. You’ll just keep talking until someone remembers you, won’t you, Tozier?”

You’d hit on a truth like a lightning bolt - Richie was horrified to feel the prick of tears at the corners of his eyes, and you watched with a heavy chest as he scrubbed furiously at his cheeks.

“I gotta go,” he mumbled, shoving past you none too gently. You almost let him, but at the last second, your hand shot out, closing over his wrist.

“You don’t. You don’t have to run.”

He turned back to face you. “It’s just... stupid. I feel like I have to try so fucking hard, even with my friends, y’know? But it’s like, they’ll move on eventually. They’ll find someone less annoying, less loud, less unpredictable and good ol’ Richie Tozier’ll find himself right back where he started.”

He squeaked embarrassingly loud as you suddenly pulled him close in a hug. He flailed feebly, arms waving like an octopus in distress - and then he caved, letting your warmth soak through his clothes, letting his breathing fall into step with yours, burying his chin on your shoulder.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, and he hated how pathetic it sounded as it left his mouth.

You hugged him fiercely. Your eyes were wet. “I know,” you whispered, and you felt the first wet drop of tears on your shoulder.