#you feel guilty and sympathetic for the loser — he clearly just craves and longs for affection and love.

[konigsblog]

Revenge sex!! Popular!reader filming herself with nerd!konig who thinks that she has feelings for him!!

nerd-könig doesn't realise that you're simply just taunting him for your own enjoyment and gratification.

you had been dared by a couple of your closest friends to get with the big, large loner in the corner to see what he's got between his thighs, and you almost felt guilty if it wasn't for the curiosity burning inside of you. it wasn't a surprise that könig was so large and girthy. i mean, you could tell just by looking at him, that deep down he was nothing but a pathetic, perverted loser. könig fixes the rectangular glasses sitting crookedly on his face, his breath reeking of booze and the scent of marijuana sticking to his fair, flushed skin.

könig doesn't deny that he's a virgin. you take full control by pinning him down to straddle his broad waist, attempting to bounce on his achingly large cock with the stretch burning inside of you. his breathing is ridiculously heavy and his eyelids are heavy with exhaustion and delirium, thrilled that a woman has finally shown interest in him, or so he thinks. könig is tired of jerking himself off and getting off to porn magazines and videos all alone in his bedroom. he needs a woman to tend to his sexual needs and desires.

könig is almost a little too eager to lose his virginity, especially to a gorgeous girl like you. it's laughable and humiliating for the poor creep, who can't keep his grimey, dirty hands off of you. you push his large hands down to his side, recording yourself as you ride him and take nearly every inch of his slick and swollen dick. könig pathetically begins to thank you for being so generous, for allowing him to feel a pussy for the first time. it wouldn't be unbelievable if könig never lost his virginity.

he's too open with you, sharing all of his filthiest, darkest secrets with you, oblivious to your untrustworthiness and the fact that you plan to leak these videos and recordings.

[s-oulpunk]

Vendetta (1/3) - Stenbrough

Summary: All Bill really wants is a shoulder to cry on.  All he really wants is for someone to tell him it’s going to be alright.  Robert has never let him down in that regard.

-

Bill hasn't been the same since his brother's disappearance, and the only man that seems to understand him is Robert "Bob" Gray. It doesn't matter that he's three times his age, Bill craves that understanding. He craves for someone to look him in the eye and tell him that everything's going to be okay. Unfortunately, there's always a price to pay, and Georgie was only the beginning.

TW: Violence, Manipulation, Non-Con, Kidnapping

Notes: This is a lot darker than my other fics, and, basically, I am so sorry.  The non-con stuff isn’t super graphic, but it is there so please be careful.

There are three parts to this fic.  I promise I will post them all, but updates will be slow.  All the chapters are really long and I’m busy with a lot of other things, so it takes me awhile to finish.

Also while this is technically a Stenbrough fanfic, their relationship isn’t the main focus of the fic.  It carries a lot of the plot but, overall, the fic is about Bill’s journey.

Read on AO3

Part One:

The Disappearance Of Georgie Denbrough:

Georgie Denbrough has been missing for half a year when Robert Gray shows up.  He just waltzes into Bill’s life, with a charming smile and sympathetic eyes that tell stories Bill can’t quite understand yet.  If Bill stares into them long enough, he thinks he can start to see pieces of some of those stories.  And they chill him to the bone.

He doesn’t know why.  He doesn’t know what exactly the stories are (and a part of him doesn’t know if he will ever want to), but Bill doesn’t need to know to feel the chill that runs down his back.

Robert Gray’s eyes are haunting.

And yet the rest of him is friendly enough, so Bill tries to not let himself worry over his eyes too much.  Instead he focuses on the warmth of Robert’s hand on his shoulder, on the way he smiles so wide it nearly splits his face in half, on the kind words he utters when Bill comes to him sobbing at odd hours of the day.

His friends don’t see it that way.

They see Robert and they see, to put it plainly, a creep who jumped at the opportunity to spend time with a bunch of fifteen year olds.  And they have no qualms about letting Bill know about their true feelings.

“You’re gonna get fucking murdered, Bill,” Eddie had said a few days after Robert’s first appearance. “You’re gonna get kidnapped and raped and then you’re gonna get murdered, is that what you want?  They’re gonna find your body in the basement of some creepy old house or, or, or deep in the woods or, like, in his bedroom.  And your skin’s gonna be all gross and decaying.  Or, fuck, what if he’s like some crazy cannibal?  They’re gonna find you with chunks of flesh missing and an eyeball in a martini glass and he’ll be making some kind of crazy, fucked up, dinner using your insides - Fuck, Bill!  Is that what you want?”

Bill thinks Eddie has quite the imagination.

All Bill really wants is a shoulder to cry on.  All he really wants is for someone to tell him it’s going to be alright.  Robert has never let him down in that regard.

“He’s a guh-good guy,” Bill had told Eddie. “You jj-juh-just have to give him a chance.”

Eddie had merely scoffed and told Bill he would never, ever let Robert Gray get close enough to do that.

Bill thinks that’s a tad bit unfair, but Eddie refuses to budge.

Sometimes, when Bill looks into Robert’s eyes, he can see why.  But those moments are fleeting.  They’re only a few seconds of gut twisting, vomit inducing anxiety before he remembers who he’s talking to and he’s overrun with unshakeable guilt.

In the weeks since, his friends still haven’t come around.  But they will eventually, Bill’s sure of it.

As of currently, they’re crowded into the clubhouse.  Richie and Eddie are curled up together in the hammock, lost in their own little world.  Bev is smoking by the open trapdoor.  Ben and Mike have combined efforts to put various posters and photos on the walls.  And Bill is sitting in the far corner, softly murmuring his latest story and trying very hard not to think about the fact that Stan is sitting so close he might as well be on his lap.

Stan doesn’t say a word throughout the story.  Instead he listens attentively, like Bill’s thoughts are worth paying attention to.  It makes Bill’s heart melt just a little bit.

When he finishes, he puts the notebook down gently, and turns to stare curiously at Stan. “So?”

“I didn’t like the ending,” is all Stan says.

“That’s ww-wh-what you said about my last one!” Bill exclaims.

“It’s too sad,” Stan says. “Sean never gets to go back home.  All his friends and family are looking for him, and he’s stuck trapped in his own head forever.”

“Robert luh-luh-liked it.”

Stan scoffs loudly. “Do I look like Robert to you?”

This, admittedly, does earn a chuckle from Bill.

“Just because it’s ss-suh-sad doesn’t mean that it’s not good.”

“But Sean deserves to be happy, don’t you think?”

Bill considers this for a moment.  Then, “Nope!” he says, popping the P.

“Why not?” Stan asks, lurching backwards to stare at him incredulously.

“Because I mmm-muh-made him,” Bill says. “And, therefore, I can dd-do whatever I want with him.”

Stan hums softly because, technically, this is true, but, “Why don’t you use your power for good?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“That rr-ruh-rarely happens in real life,” Bill murmurs.

It’s so much sadder than their previous conversation, and much more serious.  Bill almost feels bad saying it.  But it’s true.  People are rarely happy in real life, and if there is someone in the sky looking out for them, they sure as hell aren’t changing their ending to please their friend.  Even if said friend is cute as a button.

“I guess so,” whispers Stan. “But don’t you wish it did?”

“Yeah.” Bill does.  All the time. “Sometimes.”

Stan shuffles closer, tucking his head between Bill’s shoulder and neck.  Bill tries to ignore the heat that sprouts there, spilling through his veins and out to the rest of his body, making him tingly all over.  But he can’t.  As soon as it gets his attention, he’s gone.  The clubhouse disappears, replaced by Stan and the warmth that fills his veins.

“I think you’re gonna be alright,” Stan says. “Whoever’s writing your ending is looking out for you.”

Bill fiddles nervously with the corner of his notebook. “Robert thinks we mmm-muh-might still be able to find jj-juh-juh-Georgie.”

“I...Yeah.  Maybe.”

Stan looks so defeated.  Like he knows Bill won’t listen to whatever he has to say.  Which, in all honesty, he probably wouldn’t.  But that doesn’t make Bill feel any less guilty.

“Are you still looking for him?” Stan asks.  But he knows the answer.

“Yeah,” Bill says. “Robert usually huh-helps me.”

“That’s nice of him.”

“Mhm.  We’re supposed to go ll-luh-look down by the barrens later today.”

“Oh.”

Bill can feel Stan stiffen beside him.  He’s got his legs pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped securely around his knees, and Bill’s sure that, if he were wearing shorts, his fingernails would be digging into his skin, judging by how tightly he’s gripping his knees.

“Robert?” The intrusion, while Bill loves all his friends, is unwelcomed.  These moments with Stan feel intimate.  Special.  Richie doesn’t get to interrupt just because he overhears something he doesn’t like. “You’re still talking to that freak?” He’s swinging slowly in the hammock, a worn out comic in one hand, Eddie wrapped securely in the other.  But he’s not paying attention to either.  Instead he’s got his gaze fixed on Bill, his glasses making his infuriated eyes seem 12x bigger.

Bill rolls his eyes. “He’s not that bad, Rich.”

“Not that bad?” Richie says. “Eds, did you hear that?  Robert’s not that bad!  Not at all!  We better shout this from the rooftops.  Hey, Losers!  Robert’s not that bad!”

“Sh-Sh-Shut up, Richie,” Bill groans.

“We’re just worried,” Bev says.  She flicks some of the cigarette ash onto the ground. “You can’t blame us for that.”

It’s true, he can’t, but, “Yuh-You don’t have anything to be worried about.”

Bev hums softly.  She clearly doesn’t believe him.  It infuriates Bill a little bit, but he wills those emotions away.  These are his friends, of course they would be worried.

Stan must sense another quarrell coming on, he’s got a fifth sense for that kind of stuff, because he gently taps Bill’s knee and murmurs, “Write me another story.”

And who is Bill to argue?

-

Bill doesn’t like the barrens.  He had been so hopeful when he first started searching here, so sure he would find clues.  Subconsciously he had hoped he would find Georgie just sitting there, patiently waiting for his big brother to find him.

But he never did.

And now the barrens represent that failure, that loss.  He doesn't know if he’ll ever be able to step foot in them again without remembering the brother who didn’t come home.  And yet he’s still down here constantly, still searching for possible clues.  He still never finds any.

“This is useless,” Bill hisses. “Hh-huh-he’s not down here.  He’s not-” He sniffs harshly.  He can already feel the tears stinging at his eyes. “This is sss-stuh-stupid.  Dad’s ruh-ruh-right, he’s-” Bill grits his teeth.  He can’t afford to think like that. “We need to look somewhere else.  If he ww-wuh-was here, he’s not anymore.”

Robert glances at him curiously. “Where do you want to look?”

“I-” Bill doesn’t have an answer.  Because he’s looked, quite literally, everywhere.  He’s searched every inch of this god forsaken town, then searched it again, and again, and again.  There’s nowhere else to look. “Maybe he got ll-luh-lost.  In the woods.  Maybe we jj-juh-just have to look harder.”

It’s pathetic, really.

On some level, Bill knows Georgie isn’t in the woods.  He knows he isn’t anywhere.  No seven year old can survive for half a year on their own.  And yet he can’t admit it, even to himself.

“We’ve checked the woods, kid,” Robert says with a heavy sigh.

“But - But -” Oh, nononono, Robert’s giving up on him too.  The one person who didn’t judge him, and now he thinks he’s gone crazy as well.  Not that Bill can really blame him.  Sometimes he wonders about his own sanity. “We haven’t looked that dd-deep.” Bill knows he sounds desperate, but he can’t stop it. “Maybe - Maybe we’ll ff-fuh-find something.” Before Robert can respond, because Bill knows that look in his eye, knows he won’t be getting the answer he wants, he hurriedly adds, “I can do something for you.”

That catches Robert’s attention.  It always does.

He hesitates, and for a moment Bill worries his answer isn’t going to change.  But then he says, “Alright, get in the truck,” and Bill doesn’t think he’s heard a better suggestion in all of his life.

He practically runs to the truck.  Not that it matters.  He still has to wait for Robert to open it, because he has, like, a million locks on the damned thing.

Robert unlocks it with a chuckle, like Bill’s a child who just asked the sugariest cereal at the grocery store.

“Okay,” Bill says, as soon as they’re both seated. “I think we sh-sh-should check past the town limits.  We huh-haven’t looked-”

“Bill.” Robert chuckles again. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Bill’s heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach. “Nn-Nuh-Now?”

Robert looks at him pointedly. “There won’t be time afterwards.”

Which, Bill supposes is true.  Once he starts looking, he doesn’t stop until he can’t see two feet in front of him.  Even then, oftentimes he has to be dragged away.

But he hates this part.  It makes him feel weird, like there’s dirt trapped under his skin that he can’t dig out.  Being able to wait a few more hours would be nice.  Nevertheless, a deal’s a deal.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Yuh-Yeah, okay.  Just-” Maneuvering himself into the right position is, admittedly, harder than it looks.  The truck is cramped and by the time Bill manages to find a semi-comfortable position, Robert’s already growing impatient.

Bill’s barely managed to get Robert’s belt open before calloused fingers are grasping at his hair, pushing him down, down, down until air has become a precious resource.  Luckily, Bill doesn’t have to do too much work this time.  This happens sometimes, if Robert gets too rowdy too fast.  He’ll take control of Bill’s actions, ignoring if he gags or if his face turns purple, forcing him to go as fast or as slow as he wants.

As much as Bill hates having to work hard at something that is, admittedly, disgusting - not that he’d ever dare say that to Robert’s face - having Robert control him is always so much worse.  Bill’s sure Robert wouldn’t ever hurt him, but it’s clear in moments like these who has the control.  If something went wrong, Bill wouldn’t be able to get away.  He can’t move an inch.

But he shouldn’t be worrying about that.  Because nothing’s going to go wrong.  Besides, Robert’s doing so much for him, this is the least he could do.

It seems to take forever before Robert’s finished.  But once he is, Bill jumps back, cheeks still puffed wide like a hamster.  This is the worst part, he thinks.  And the longer he waits, the worse it is, but he can’t get himself to take that last fucking step.

“Good?” Robert purrs.  Bill nods, even though he wishes the ground would swallow him whole, because what the fuck else is he supposed to do? “You look so pretty like this.” Bill wants to cry.  Which is a stupid fucking reaction.  Who cries after - after - after that? “C’mon.” Robert’s got a hand on his cheek, thumb gently brushing the bone. “I know you can do it.” And, God, Bill just wants him to stop talking.  So he does it.  He swallows as quickly as he can, fighting his instinct to gag it all back up. “Good boy.”

Bill turns quickly, forcing Robert’s hand to slip off his face. “Can ww-wuh-we go nuh-now?” he asks.  He stares straight ahead as Robert starts the car.  It doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t mean anything.  He’s still fine.  He’s still good.  He’s still redeemable.

-

The next day, things are not better.

They didn’t find anything relating to Georgie, the Losers still think Robert’s a creep, and, to make it all worse, Bill’s throat feels like it’s on fire.

“You don’t sound too good, Billy,” Eddie says. “You might be getting sick.”

Bill hums softly.  “Mm-Maybe-” he winces at how rough his voice sounds. “-Maybe I sh-sh-should go home.”

“Just rest here,” Stan suggests. “You can stay in my bed.”

“I - I don’t wanna get you ss-suh-sick.”

Stan shrugs. “It’s fine, I can change the sheets.  I know how to do laundry.” Richie wolf whistles from across the room. “Oh, fuck off!”

“We can make you soup,” Eddie says.  He’s already gathering the ingredients, so Bill supposes there’s no point in arguing.

He drags his feet up to Stan’s room, ignoring the growing pit in his stomach.  He should just tell them the truth.  It’s not that big of a deal, right?

It’s not until he’s curled up in bed that he notices Bev standing in the doorway.

“I know you’re not sick,” she says.

“I am,” Bill insists. “Doctor E-Eddie said suh-so.”

Bev gently shuts the door behind her. “Doctor Eddie’s also never had his throat fucked before.”

Bill winces. “That’s nuh-not what happened.”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she hisses. “I’m not an idiot.  You have to stop doing this.”

“I’m not doing ah-anything wrong!”

“You protected me from my dad, you think I’m not gonna do the same for you?”

“It’s not th-th-the same.  Wuh-We’re just friends, Bevvy.”

“He is not your friend, William.” Bev regards him warily. “I won’t tell the others.  But I think you should really think about your so-called friendship with Robert.” Bev turns to re-open the door.  At the last minute, she turns back to face Bill. “Stan wants to know if you’re staying over.  Ya know, parents out of town.  Losers sleepover.”

Bill nods. “Pp-Pruh-Probably.”

Bev smiles softly. “Cool.  And think about it, Bill.  Alright?  We really do want to help.”

And then she’s gone, leaving Bill alone with his thoughts.

The worst part of the conversation is that Bill remembers having the same talk with Bev a little less than a year ago.  Their places had been reversed then.  Bill had dragged her away from the prying eyes of the rest of the Losers and begged and begged until she broke.  She told him everything that night.  And he held her through all of it, clutching her to his chest as Beverly Marsh, perhaps the strongest of them all, sobbed into his shoulder.

The memory is still raw, and not one he’s willing to share with anyone.  She told the rest of the Losers the next day, but that night had been something private.  Something that wasn’t meant to be shared.

It had been one of the most terrifying nights of Bill’s life.  Second only to realizing Georgie wasn’t coming home.

The thought almost makes him chase after her, almost makes him tell her everything.

Except it’s not the same.  Because nothing’s wrong.

Robert’s not his father.  Robert’s his friend.  He holds him when he cries, and listens to him when he needs to talk about Georgie again and again and again, and takes him wherever he wants to look for his baby brother, even if he knows they won’t find anything.

He’s sure if he explained that, she would understand.  He didn’t understand either at first.  But, “It’s just like a trade,” Robert had told him. “Remember how I drove you to town limits?  I even bought you lunch afterwards.  I do so much for you.”  Which, admittedly, is true.

It’s not like Robert’s holding him down or ripping his clothes off.  Bill goes willingly, even if he cries afterwards sometimes.  But Robert says that’s normal.

“Knock, knock.” Stan’s standing in the doorway now, a piping hot bowl of chicken noodle soup in his hands. “Eddie’s insistent that this will cure you.”

“Mmm.  Doctor’s oh-orders,” Bill says, making grabby hands at the bowl.

“Doctor’s orders,” Stan repeats, a fond smile on his face.

He closes the door gingerly behind him before crossing to sit on the edge of the bed, soup balanced carefully on his lap.

Bill looks forward to these moments with Stan.  These quiet, intimate moments where it feels like anything is possible.  It’s these moments that make him think maybe this godforsaken town is wrong, and the way he feels about his friend is okay.  It’s these moments that make him think maybe Stan feels it too.

“Are you gg-guh-gonna spoon feed me soup?” Bill asks as he fumbles to sit upright.

Stan just shrugs. “I mean, you’re sick.”

Bill nods gravely. “Deathly ill.”

That makes Stan crack a smile, but he quickly ducks his head in an attempt to hide it from Bill’s prying eyes.  Bill sees it though, and it warms his heart far more than the soup ever could.

“Alright,” Stan murmurs. “Open wide.”

The soup, to put it lightly, is not good.

Out of all the Losers, Mike and Ben are probably the best cooks.  But judging by how anal retentive Eddie is, Bill has no doubt that he refused their help.  He can practically see him, in his head, shooing away his friends as Ben desperately tries to salt the slowly warming broth.

He doesn’t say a word, but Stan must notice the way Bill’s face contorts as he tries to force the soup down because he murmurs a quiet, “Sorry.  Eddie thought adding anything else would take away from its quote unquote healing properties.”

Stan’s always been able to read him like a book.  All the Losers are close, but something’s special about his friendship with Stan.  Bill’s never had to say a word for him to know exactly what he’s thinking.

“Ff-Fuh-Figures,” Bill says.

“He just worries about you,” Stan says.

“He sh-shouldn’t have to. That’s not his jj-juh-job.”

Stan shrugs. “You would do the same for him.”

Bill doesn’t answer, because he knows it’s true.

-

At around 1 in the morning, Bill decides he can’t stay over any longer.

He’s got the bed to himself, on account of him being “sick,” but the rest of the Losers are spread unceremoniously across the floor.  He has to tiptoe over their sleeping bodies, nearly tripping over Mike’s legs, to get to the door.  And, of course, Richie and Eddie are cuddled up directly against it.  He nudges them away with the top of his foot until there’s enough distance for him to slip out, which he does as quickly as possible.

He grabs the phone in the kitchen, which he’s sure is far enough away that it won’t wake the others, and quickly punches in the numbers swimming through his head.

The phone rings once, twice, three times.  Enough that he thinks maybe he won’t pick up.  But right as he’s about to hang up, a quiet voice rumbles through his ear, “Hello?”

“Robert!” he chirps.

“Billy?  What the hell are you doing up at this hour?”

Bill gnaws nervously on his lower lip.  Of course Robert’s asleep, he should’ve remembered that tiny detail.

“Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t huh-have woken you.”

“It’s alright, kid,” Robert says. “I’m up now.  What do you need?”

“Can you pick me up?” Bill asks, before he can talk himself out of it.

“Sure,” Robert says through a yawn. “You at your house?”

“I’m at mm-muh-my friend’s house,” Bill says. “Hang on, I’ll guh-get you the address.”

Once he’s sure Robert’s going to come, he sets about writing a note for the Losers.  He knows there’s pen and paper back in Stan’s room, but it’s too risky going back there, so he settles for digging through the office until he finds what he needs.

He’s halfway through said note when a soft noise startles him.  He whips around, half expecting to come face to face with a knife-wielding murderer.  But it’s just Stan.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

He’s blinking sleepily, obviously barely staying awake, and his hair is sticking up in all directions.  His pajamas are a little too big on him, which is a sudden change from the Stanley that refuses to wear anything unless it fits just right.  It’s suddenly too difficult to not imagine Stan in one of Bill’s oversized flannels.

It’s all so overwhelming that Bill nearly forgets to respond.

“What’s that?” Stan asks again, gesturing weakly to the pen in Bill’s hand.

“I - Uh - I’m guh-gonna go,” Bill says. “I just - I dd-duh-didn’t want you to freak out in the morning.”

Stan cocks his head curiously, and it’s so cute that Bill nearly calls Robert to tell him he’s changed his mind. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah,” Bill murmurs. “I’m ss-sorry.  I don’t wanna get you guys sick.”

A more honest man would have told Stan that he’s terrified of facing Bev’s wrath again tomorrow.  But Bill never claimed to be an honest man.

“Is your dad picking you up?” Stan asks.

“I - Um - I called Robert.”

That makes Stan pause. “You gave Robert my address?”

“How else is he gonna puh-pick me up?” It’s a lame argument, but it’s all Bill’s got.

Stan seems to be at a loss for words too, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “But - But - Why - I don’t want-”

“It’s ff-fuh-fine, Stan,” Bill assures him. “He’s not even gonna come inside.”

“I don’t know if that defines fine,” Stan grumbles.

Robert pulls up less than a minute later.

Bill scrambles to give Stan a hug before rushing outside to meet him.  The summer air keeps most of the cold at bay, but it’s still fairly chilly, so Bill throws himself into the car as quickly as he can.

“Th-Thanks,” Bill says.

“Don’t mention it,” Robert says.  He sounds much more awake now than over the phone. “You alright?”

“Mhm,” Bill says. “Jj-Juh-Just had to get out of there.” It’s then that Bill realizes the street they’re on doesn’t go to his house. “Wh-Where are we going?”

“Back to my place,” Robert says. “Figured we might as well just rest there.  That alright?”

Bill figures that sounds reasonable enough. “Yeah.  Th-That’s alright.”

In all honesty, it is fine.  What’s Bill gonna do at home?  Sit and stare at his ceiling all night and then not talk to his parents the next morning because they don’t care what happens to him?  Sounds fun, but he’ll have to pass.

Bill’s never been to Robert’s apartment before.  It’s smaller than he expected, but nice nonetheless.  It has a cute little kitchen, a big, comfy couch directly across from an old TV, and huge, open windows.  It’s normal.  Almost overwhelmingly normal.

Bill almost wants to call his friends and tell them as much. “He’s not a psychopath,” he would say. “What kind of psychopath lives in a normal apartment?”

Psychopaths live in old, run down, abandoned houses in the middle of nowhere.  Friendly people who are absolutely nothing like Beverly’s father live in normal apartments.

“You have a nuh-nice apartment,” Bill says, politely.

Robert chuckles lowly. “Thank you.”

Then a hand is being placed on the small of Bill’s back and he’s being pushed farther and farther into the apartment until he collapses into the big, comfy couch.  Robert sits next to him, a single casual hand on his shoulder.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Bill shrugs. “It’s not a bb-big deal.  They just...They don’t understand.  Ss-Suh-Sometimes it’s hard to be around them.”

It’s not completely true.  They’ve lost people before.  Eddie lost his father.  Mike lost his parents.  Stan lost his grandmother just a month or two ago.

But it’s not the same.  Because none of them were responsible for that loss.

Robert nods and pulls Bill closer to him, tucking him against his side.

“People who haven’t been through what you have, they’ll never understand,” Robert says. “They don’t know what it’s like to lose someone like that.  The bond between siblings is something special, and tearing it apart is one of the most painful things one could do.”

Bill sniffles quietly and shuffles closer to Robert’s side, burying his face in his shoulder. “I muh-muh-miss hh-him.”

“I know,” Robert coos.  A gentle hand cards through Bill’s hair. “I know you do.”

“Duh-Does it even get easier?” Bill asks, voice muffled through the fabric of Robert’s T-Shirt.

Robert sighs heavily. “I’m gonna be honest with you kid, not really.” He chuckles softly at the whine Bill lets out. “I know, I know.  But you learn to live with it.  I miss my brother every day, it’s just a part of my life now.”

Bill twists around to stare up at Robert with wide, starry eyes. “Wh-What was your brother like?”

“Maturin was the sweetest soul I’ve ever known.  He always put others before himself, always made sure everyone else was happy.  He would give up everything if it just meant I would crack a smile.” He offers Bill perhaps the saddest smile he’s ever seen. “The best of us are truly the ones we lose too soon.”

Bill nods mutely.  Georgie was truly the best of the Denbrough family.  He was always willing to help out however he could, even as young as he was, and was always happiest whenever everyone else was happy.  It almost pains Bill to hear someone else described as the “sweetest soul.”

“I’m - I might guh-go to bed,” Bill mutters. “I’m - I’m pp-pruh-pretty tired.”

“Great idea,” Robert says.  As if on cue, he lets out a loud yawn.

“Do you huh-have some blankets I could borrow?”

“Yeah, sure,” Robert says.  He makes a show of walking towards the linen cabinet before stopping and turning back towards Bill. “Ya know, why don’t you just sleep in my bed tonight.”

Bev’s words ring out through Bill’s head.  He forces himself to keep eye contact. “Why?”

Robert shrugs. “I’m tired, you’re tired, and it’ll take awhile to make up the couch.  The bed’s big enough” When Bill still hesitates, he sighs heavily. “Billy, have I ever hurt you before?” Bill shakes his head. “Then what’s the big deal?”

Bill pauses for only a split-second.

“No big deal.”

He follows Robert into the bedroom.

-

The next time Bill sees Stan, it’s just the two of them.

They’re lounging on Bill’s bed, Bill furiously scribbling into a notebook as Stan watches over the top of his book.  It’s peaceful, just being with Stan like this.  Something as simple as his presence has always done wonders for Bill’s nerves.

“What are you writing?” Stan asks.

“Re-writing th-the ending,” Bill says.  His voice is slow and distracted, but Stan doesn’t seem to mind.  He puts down his current book and shuffles closer, peering curiously over Bill’s shoulder.

“The one you let me read at the clubhouse?”

“Mhm.”

Stan lets out a little huff. “How are you torturing poor Sean now?”

Bill finally tears his gaze away from the notebook, instead fixing Stan with an affronted stare.

“I’m nuh-not torturing him!” he insists. “I’m trying to write a hh-happier ending.”

Bill doesn’t know why, but it’s embarrassing to admit.  He feels like he’s just revealed some deep, dark secret.  But Stan’s smiling, grinning almost infectiously wide, so Bill can’t be too hard on himself.  He’s always liked making Stan smile.

“Really?”

He sounds so excited.  Bill thinks it’s kind of dumb.  He’s half tempted to remind him that, hey, Sean isn’t actually real.  He’s just a clump of words on a piece of paper.  But Stan looks so unbelievably happy, Bill can’t possibly take that away from him.

“Jj-Juh-Just for you,” Bill says.

It makes Stan smile softly, like he can’t really believe it. “For me?” Bill nods. “I wrote it ff-for you, I can’t give it an eh-ending you don’t like.”

Stan scrunches up his nose, a key sign that he’s deep in thought.  It’s cute, and it kind of makes Bill want to kiss him.

“I want Sean to kiss Suzie,” he says finally.

Bill groans loudly. “That’s so mm-muh-much extra work!  Now I have to ah-add in a whole romance-”

“What about Jacob?” Stan says the words so quickly that Bill’s almost positive he’d imagined them.  But Stan is red-faced and rigid, and that’s all it takes for Bill to know that the words he heard were very much real. “Would that - Would that be okay?”

Bill blinks slowly.  Would that be okay?  He thinks so.  But how would he explain that to his mother if, God forbid, she ever stumbled upon this story?

“Bill?” Stan sounds so small, and when Bill snaps out of his thoughts he can see a sense of terror in Stan’s eyes that he’s never seen before.

“Yeah,” Bill murmurs. “Yeah, that’d be okay.”

Stan doesn’t say anything as Bill continues to write, but he watches him like a hawk.  It’s like he’s afraid Bill will change his mind the moment he turns his back.  Like he’s scared Bill will retaliate, and that it won’t be unlike the insults Bowers and his goons usually throw at him.  The fact that Stan even thinks that makes Bill hot with shame.

“Sean’s buh-better with Jacob, anyway,” he says, just to quell Stan’s worries.

Stan still doesn’t answer, but he does shuffle a bit closer.

By the time Bill finishes the story, Stan looks like he’s ready to implode.  It’s about five pages longer than it was originally supposed to be, he still needed to add basically a whole other storyline to make the romance work, but Stan still reads it diligently.

“It’s cute,” he says softly, once he’s finished.

“You like it?”

Stan nods. “Better than the old ending.”

That makes Bill beam, because all he ever really wants is Stan’s approval.

“Look,” Stan murmurs, setting the notebook down gently beside him.  He handles it with care, like it’s something worth worrying about. “I’m really sorry I made you do that.  I didn’t - I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“I ww-wuh-wasn’t uncomfortable!” Bill insists. “It was a guh-good idea, it was cute!  I jj-just didn’t know-”

“I’m gay.” And Bill has so many things to say, so many questions, but Stan barrels on before he can get even one of them out. “You probably figured that out, though.  Fuck - I shouldn’t have - I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean - I didn't mean to make things weird.  Really.  Can we just pretend like this never happened?  I’m - I’m sorry.  You can write the Suzie ending.  You can just - just burn that one I guess.  Fuck.  I’m sorry-”

Bill grabs him by the front of his perfectly ironed polo and pulls him closer, closer, closer until their mouths are clashing together.  It’s everything Bill’s been dreaming of.  His lips are soft, softer than Bill could have even imagined, and it fills every dark, broken, crevice that haunts Bill’s heart with a warm, sunshiny feeling.

Bill pulls away to find Stan wide-eyed and pink-faced.  He desperately wants to know what Stan’s thinking, but he’s shocked into a silence that speaks one too many volumes.

“Ss-Suh-Sorry,” Bill mutters.  He forces his hands to unclench from around Stan’s shirt.  The material is still wrinkled, but Bill figures that’s the least of their worries at the moment.  Because, fuck, Stan didn’t mean him. “I sh-shouldn’t have assumed.”

“I mean,” Stan’s fingers lift up to ghost over his lips, “A little warning would’ve been nice.”

Bill’s heart stutters in his chest. “Wh-What’s that muh-mean?”

Stan shakes his head, like he isn’t really sure himself. “You could’ve asked.”

Bill swallows the lump in his throat. “Can I kiss you?”

Rather than answering, Stan lurches forward and presses their lips together in a bruising kiss.  And, fuck, this is even better.  Stan’s got one hand in his hair, the other gripping his shoulder like he’s steadying himself.  The way his lips move against Bill’s leave him lightheaded, and he has to grip Stan’s hips to remind himself that he isn’t, in fact, dreaming.

“Huh-Holy shit,” he says, the words muffled by Stan’s lips.

“Shut up, shut up,” Stan chants.  Bill can feel Stan’s lips fumble against his own as he speaks.  It makes him just a little bit crazy.

Bill does, in fact, shut up.  He drags his hands up to cup Stan’s face, holding his cheeks like he’s precious cargo.  The kiss slows but doesn’t stop, turning into something so sweet it makes Bill’s teeth rot.

He pulls away slowly, because it’s just about the last thing he wants to do, but his lungs are starting to ache.  Seeing Stan with puffy lips and glassy eyes is enough to convince Bill to duck back in for one last peck before pulling away for good.

“You’re beautiful,” Bill blurts out.

“Oh.”

“And I think I’m in love with you.”

“Oh!”

“I think I’ve always been in love with you.  Ever since we were kids.  Ever ss-since you waddled into my life as a cute little preschooler and demanded I use the hand sanitizer before shaking your hand.”

“You were covered in dirt,” Stan says weakly.

Bill laughs.  A real laugh, from deep in his stomach.  He hasn’t laughed like that in a long time.

He tries to go in for another kiss but Stan stops him, a hand clamped tightly over his mouth.

“Wait, wait,” he says. “I need to tell you something.” Bill hums softly against his palm.  Stan’s eyes wander slowly over Bill, taking him all in.  He looks flustered, but Bill doesn’t think he’s stalling.  Taking a mental picture, more like.  Bill understands.  If there’s one moment he never wants to forget, it’s this one.  Then, “I love you too.”

Bill’s spent his entire life trying to perfect the english language.  He’s spent years hunched over a notebook, writing and re-writing and writing and re-writing until he’s gotten it as close to perfect as he possibly could.  But nothing he’ll ever write will even get close to the perfect poetry that just flowed from Stan’s lips.

Bill grabs Stan’s hand between his own, leaving millions of tiny kisses along the palm.

“Please luh-let me kiss you again,” Bill practically begs. “Please, pp-please, please.”

Stan grants his wish, leaping forward to press their lips together again.

Distantly, Bill thinks this is better than breathing.  If there’s one way he wants to die, it’s suffocating with Stanley Uris’ lips against his.

-

Two days later, no one has seen Stanley in a full 24 hours.  A familiar panic has settled in Bill’s stomach.  He’s gone through every other possible scenario in his head, gone through every excuse.  But on some level he knows, Stan met the same fate as Georgie.

The Losers have spent the whole day wandering around town, hoping against hope they’ll find him somewhere.  That it’s all just one, big misunderstanding.  Bill keeps half expecting to see him around every corner, waiting for them with an eye roll and a dry joke that lets them know just know silly they were for thinking he had gone missing.  He’s never there.

They’re all uncharacteristically quiet that day.  Even Richie doesn’t say a word.  He just clings to Eddie’s hand and searches with an uncharacteristic amount of diligence.

Bill wants to fucking scream.

He wants to tell Richie it’s okay to talk, it’s okay to joke, it’s okay to be fucking normal.  Because nothing’s wrong.  Stan’s fine and he’s going to be back any minute.

But, at the end of the day, Bill still finds himself in front of Robert’s door with enough tears to fill the Derry city pool streaming down his face.

“Huh-He’s guh-guh-gone,” Bill sobs.

Robert ushers him inside without another word.  He lets Bill bundle up in his bed, pulling the covers up his chin and burying his face in the pillows.  Somewhere in the back of his mind he recognizes some form of guilt for letting Robert’s pillows get so wet, but that’s the least of his worries at the moment.

“Billy.” Robert kneels by the edge of the bed.  Through blurry eyes, Bill can see his eyebrows furrow in concern. “What happened?” Bill shakes his head.  He can’t.  He can’t say it.  Saying it makes it too real. “C’mon, you can do it.  I know you can.  Tell me what’s wrong.”

“St-Stanley.  He - He’s-” Bill doesn’t get to finish before a fresh wave of tears wash over him.  Fuck.  Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

Robert scoops him up in his arms, cuddling him close to his chest.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re going to be okay.  I’m going to make sure you’re okay.”

And Bill can do nothing but believe him.

-

Bill wakes up about an hour later to Robert gently mouthing at his neck, his hand gripping Bill’s hip hard enough to leave bruises.  Bill grumbles softly and tries to roll away, but Robert tugs him back.  He moves the hand on his hip to wrap tightly around Bill’s waist, effectively pinning him against him.

“‘M tt-tired,” Bill whines, voice still sore from crying.

“Had a dream,” Robert mumbles.  His breath against his neck makes Bill’s skin prickle, but not in the same way Stan’s lips had. “A good dream.  Need your help.”

“Ruh-Robert,” Bill huffs.

Not now, he wants to say.  Not after he just got his heart stolen from his body.

“I’ll help you look for Stanley tomorrow,” Robert says.  He’s moved on to mouthing at Bill’s jaw. “I always help you.”

Bill’s resolve crumbles.  How is he supposed to argue with that? “Ff-Fine.”

He reaches down for Robert’s belt, but Robert catches his wrist in one, big hand and pins it above his head.  It has Bill’s heart pounding in his ears and ice filling his veins.

“I have a better idea.”

Bill squirms, hoping it’ll convince Robert to let him go, but all it does is egg him on.  He squeezes his wrists tighter, until Bill has to grit his teeth to stop himself from flinching.

“I’ve nuh-never - Wuh-We’ve never-”

“We can look all day tomorrow.”

“I - I don’t know.”

Robert sighs heavily. “A man will only be so satisfied with blow jobs, Billy.”

And, God, Bill just wants to go home.  He hasn’t wanted to go there in so long but right now it’s the only place he can think of.  He wants to fucking go home.  He wants his mom to hold him and tell him he’s going to be alright.  He wants his dad to hug him tight and promise to keep him safe.

He just wants to be okay.

“All day?” he asks weakly.

Robert nods. “All day.”

“Oh-Okay.”

-

The first thing Stan notices when he wakes up is that he’s cold.

The second thing is that it’s dark.  Too dark to see anything.

The third is that he can’t fucking move.

His hands are behind his back, rope biting into his wrists.  His legs are curled underneath him.  He doesn’t think he could stand if he wanted to (which he does, he really, really does) but his ankles are tied together anyway.  And his back aches from being hunched over for God knows how long.  He tries to sit up straight, but something yanks him back down.

And then he stays there like that for what feels like at least a thousand years.

When a door is finally opened, it’s almost too much to bare.  The light is dim, barely there, but Stan still has to squint to get used to it.

And in the doorway is a man.  A very familiar man, in fact.  A man who knows his exact address after picking up his dumbass friend at 1 in the morning.

“Good morning,” says Robert.

He’s grinning wildly and Stan wants to fucking cry.  He wants to sob until his lungs give out, and then he wants to cry some more.

He can feel the beginning of pinprick tears forming behind his eyes, and he bites the inside of his cheek harshly to stop them from spilling out.  He may be a coward but he’ll be damned if he lets Robert know that.

“Aren’t you going to say hello?” Robert says cheerily.

Stan doesn’t answer.  He’s too focused on other things, like not crying in front of a psycho kidnapper.

“Awe, Stanny, that’s not very polite.”

He crosses the last few steps to ruffle Stan’s hair and Stan fucking breaks.  A sob wrenches its way out of his throat, making his shoulders shake and eyes burn.  Tears dribble pathetically down his cheeks, landing in tiny puddles on the floor.

“I’m suh-sorry,” Stan manages to choke out. “Wh-Wh-Whatever - Whatever I dd-duh-did.  I’m sorry.” He flinches as Robert cards his fingers through his hair, wrenching his head back when his fingers catch on the curls. “Please.”

Stan doesn’t know what he’s begging for, all he knows is that it doesn’t work.  Because Robert fucking laughs, all loud and boisterous, as if Stan’s told him one of Richie’s shitty jokes.

“Oh, Stanny,” he murmurs.  He moves to grasp Stan’s chin with one hand, squeezing his cheeks and pressing dirty nails into his skin. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had just kept your hands off of what’s mine.”