hi new bestie! can you please write some stanley or bill x reader fluff :)
Bestie indeed I got you 😚😌✨ So this is a strange amalgamation of stuff from the book and stuff from the movie because I couldn't pick one and uh- I hope it isn't too confusing. If you have any questions at all just leave them as a reply and ill answer in no time at all :) Also, in AUs where Stan doesn't die I like to headcanon him as like,,,, some reincarnation of the Turtle or something. It's totally unrealistic but it's a lot of fun to think he keeps all his memories and is just a little bit omnipotent. Yay.
Stanley Uris x Reader Fluff
You sat bolt upright and uttered a sharp gasp, your eyes blown wide. Goosebumps rippled back and forth along your arms, pricking eerily as the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end- you were certain you would be screaming right now if you weren't painfully out of breath, your lungs clamped tightly together as if trapped in the unrelenting jaws of some beast. With your heart thrumming too quick inside of your chest you felt as if you were dying, as if you'd run a thousand miles just like you had seemed to be moments earlier in the midst of your nightmare. The menace, the fear, it played back in your head like some sick home movie, terrifying you to your very core and drawing out something akin to a wail, like the sound of a wounded animal, quiet and choked and desperate.
The space around you was vast, eternal, stretching left and right and up forever yet being lit by a yellowish, alien glow. People were with you, seven people but you didn't know their names. Someone had your hand on one side, someone else on the other and your stomach was roiling with horror. Before you was a demon, something that could only have come from hell and even that seemed to be a stretch. Through the endlessness you could only see eyes, glowing and red and promising death, and muscle rippling under fur-covered spider legs.
Your arms clamped around you in a death grip, your eyes slamming shut and begging for the images to be out out out out out. These images, why the hell did you keep seeing these images? This scene from beyond was forced upon you night after night after restless, sleepless night and you didn't understand why. The reasoning was there, you knew it was, you knew that the cause of these dreams lie somewhere in your brain but you just couldn't grasp onto it and right now you weren’t sure if you even wanted to. You pull your knees to your stomach, tears brimming in your eyes, your hitching breaths becoming desperate sobs and no further helping the hurting in your chest. You wanted to scream, to get up and run towards anyone and anything that would keep you safe but everything was too much, too sudden, too frightening and it your chest hurt and your head was spinning and the images, oh god the memories-
The beast roared, deafening, your hair pressing backwards and blowing wildly in the wake of it. The smell overwhelmed your senses and dug up stray memories of the Canal Days Festival, of petting zoos and goats and pigs and the stench of an animal carcass. You felt as if you were going to throw up but the grip on your either hand grew tighter and you swallowed down the bile. The phrase, Turn Light Into Dark, it washed you with a sense of power that only made your head throb more. Blinding lights spun down, down, closer, and though you knew your eyes were shut you could still see Its true form even though you didn't know what It was.
A hand pressed over your mouth to stop another wail from escaping, louder this time now that you had spare breath in your lungs. Tears spilled over and swam down your cheeks like small rivers guided by a canal cut through stone, the Kenduskeag, Derry- You forced the thoughts of Derry away and swept them under a mental rug. When you thought of Derry you grew afraid that you would find out why you were having these nightmares. You couldn't stand that. You were shaking, oh how you were shaking, tremors rocking you back and forth as if a dog- no, a werewolf had sunk its teeth into your spine and was regarding you as nothing but a chew toy. You needed something, someone, you needed to get this to stop-
These lights, the Deadlights, they doused you back into that cold sea of terror that the still-new power had almost saved you from. Seeing them now, here, descending, physical, you did not think that you could kill them. These candle flames would not be snuffed, you thought, and yet you screamed your throat raw nonetheless. A chorus of voices you felt rather than heard chanted over and over Turn Light Into Dark Turn Light Into Dark Turn Light Into Dark and then the lights were gone, swallowed up by something magical, something that killed monsters if you believed it did until the circle broke as one of you went to lock It up in Its new cage. As the circle broke so did the flowing power and a red glow overtook the alien yellow as the lid was pushed up and away and the sleek scarlet surface of a blood-coloured balloon emerged from the magic prison. You felt your stomach sink, your blood run cold, the power drain from your veins for the briefest moment as your belief waned completely and oh no oh God this was it you thought you would have killed It would have extinguished Its flame but It was eternal It was the Eater of Worlds and it wouldn't-
The door whipped open and you let out a startled cry halfway through a choking sob, not having noticed that you had begun to cry aloud. At once you slapped a hand over your mouth yet again, scrubbing at your cheeks with the heel of your palm and slapping on a shaky little smile that entirely contradicted the wild look in your eyes. Your heart was thrumming again both from the memories and the jump as the door flung open. You had to tell yourself again and again and again that you knew this man, that he was familiar and his name was right there at the tip of your tongue, curly hair and brown doe eyes and a kind, concerned crease in his brows that only deepened at the sight of you- Stanley, it was just Stan and suddenly you felt safe enough to cry. Your arms both going to pull your knees into your chest you let the terror grip you and the sobs rip free from your throat.
"(Y/N) what- what happened? Are you okay?" For a moment Stan hesitated, looking instinctively down at the palm of his hand for a reason you did not know and then he went surging forwards and to your side, gathering you up in his arms. He didn't speak just yet, simply holding you close, quiet, something about him dripping with a sense of calm. Laced underneath that pressing security was the power you had felt ripped from you in your dream, the power you did not know the meaning of but were certain was important, had been important, in some vital way. You cried and cried in Stanley's arms as your group of eight, a lucky number, crazy eights, was split instead into twos and ones.
One with glasses, one with a patch on his cheek, one with hair lit aflame like January Embers, one in love and one who was too smart for his own good and one who would lead them to safety no matter what and no matter when- and then there was him, he who let out this forcefield of strength, the one thought to be the weakest now doused in some strength greater than It, than love, than the Turtle whoever that was and he had your hand in his and you were running and trying to get away. Trials, terror, doors and bathroom stalls and clubhouses and (how do you know this?) little brothers and the macroverse. The Deadlights and blood and broken hearts and fear and pain.
"Do you want to talk about it?" His voice was soft, safe, and his hands rest on either side of your face to guide your eyes to his own. They were dark like melted chocolate, solid, calm, steady and unmoving and nothing like the ruby red ones belonging to It, to the creature you didn't think possible to imagine. You didn't have to answer for Stan to know you would decline. He didn't scold, he didn't chastise- he would never do that. Instead, he leaned forwards and placed a kiss on the space between your eyebrows, guiding your head to rest on his shoulder. He did nothing more than hold you, silent, waiting for the fear to run it's course.
Belief grew strong all over again, the Leader fanning the flame of hope and driving forth the metaphorical wooden stake at last. You had felt something like hellfire roar through you, a driving agony that nearly drove you into madness but then it faded to the back of your mind and It was flaking away. There was crying alongside the groaning of the earth, a lurching sound like wood moments from snapping in two. Urgency, warm and throttling, tied each of you eight together and forced you onwards despite the exhaustion tethered like weights to your limbs. A hand in yours, you raced into darkness, leaving behind webs to collapse and bodies to fall and be buried. The gargantuan remainders of what was Its nest would lie dormant in the ground for millennia to follow, undiscovered. Eight of you, one two three four five six seven eight, retraced steps with the help of a dying man and grew closer and closer to light and life and safety. You climbed rough rock, something or someone (Turtle? Other?) lending you all the collective determination to move quick and careful and leave no man behind. The earth sang a song of despair as it clung to itself with all of it's force, urging you forwards, cheering you on, hoping you would all make it out before it could cling on no longer and collapsed atop your sorry heads.
"Focus on your breathing, my dear. You're all right. I have you," Stanley let his hand rest on your hair, stroking, smoothing, calming, "You're going to be alright." For a moment the floodgates in your head flung open and you knew everything but then they slammed shut once more and you were left hopelessly, blissfully clueless. You curled tightly into yourself, coiling like a frightened snake, letting the golden power coming off of Stanley in waves lay over you like soft, light silk. Something about this strength, glowing brighter than the sun in a manner much more pleasant than the Deadlights(?) felt ancient as well as young and fresh. You are certain Stanley has had this aura forever, and yet you have never ever felt it this strongly. It was almost as if you could see him lit from the inside out.
More darkness, sewers, the dead things smell fading slowly yet steadily. You passed places that were achingly familiar and yet felt worlds away, not having even the chance to stop and say farewell (did you say farewell to nightmare places?) since the roof was dropping flakes of grit and the rumbling had grown near a roar. Another well, a rope, heaving and pulling, up up up out of the dark and into the light, the homestretch. The feelings you felt were smothering, a sickening concoction of relief and one last choking bout of terror. It was not over yet. Eight of you, all eight, running through the house on (Nelson? Neibolt.) street towards safety, towards the end, towards-
You had never seen this far before. Your nightmares always cut off abruptly before you could even start to flee. They always cut off right before you defeat It, whatever It was, right before you snuffed Its light from this realm. Now, however, as if coaxed forth or caught on the end of a fishing line, you were seeing the ending, the ending of everything. Stan was still petting your hair, rocking gently back and forth as your trembling began to ease and your crying, ever-slowly, began to subside. The memories were still frightening, coming to you in rapid flashes, reminding you of an old black and white film spinning on a reel.
Towards the door. Floorboards creaked and groaned and split, sinking down, breaking underneath your feet. Glass shattered as walls sank towards collapse, as the dirt began to part, opening into a grave. Somewhere behind you the roof collapsed and spilt old dust-soaked furniture, a coffin, a collection of porcelain clowns down towards their resting place. With one final shriek of snapping wood all eight burst out into the Summer sun and the house gave in behind them. They didn't stop; the cement path was cracking, the weeds being reclaimed by the soil. The Earth opened up at last, providing just enough time- maybe held together by some greater strength- for the eight to reach safety. You all spun, watching, awestruck and horrified and solemn as the Earth opened up it's unrelenting jaws and swallowed whole the home of death that It had claimed as it's own.
Your shaking had stopped. Your sobbing had halted. Your heart had slowed to a regulated beat like that of a drum. Slowly, Stan's grip around you had begun to ease and you wrapped your own arms around him in turn. Your eyes, which had been screwed tightly shut, fluttered open and then fell closed once more, soft, not afraid.
"There you are, baby-love," Stan whispered the words into the top of your head and bumped his nose gently against it, "All better, right? You're going to be okay." With a swell of love that almost made you want to cry once more, you believed it. He was going to keep you safe just as he has done forever. With a concrete certainty you knew that Stanley would fight of Heaven and Hell if it meant saving you. With a concrete certainty you knew that, at some point, he basically had. You shift, slow, leaning away from him to gaze into those dark caramel eyes yet again. That's where the power came from, you were certain; from those eyes of his. They were so calm, so collected, so firm and confident and adoring. They shone with nothing but utter love.
"Stan..." Your voice was weak and shaky but Stan nodded his head, patient, waiting for you to find your words again, "Do... do you ever get nightmares?" At this, Stan cracked a radiant smile that was brighter than starshine and glowed in a way entirely different from the burning of the Deadlights. This smile was otherworldly, like the beams of the sun in the form of man. He nodded.
"Of course, dear," he hummed, and let his head fall forwards, forehead against your own, "We're only human." The last sob shook your body, and then you grew still as Stanley bumped his nose gently against yours. Your goosebumps sank away. The tightness of your lungs eased. A honey-toned warmth seeped from a newfound crack in your memory floodgates, letting through scraps of your childhood you had long since forgotten. The Summer of '88 had been pushed from your brain; as far as you had been concerned it had never even happened, it had just been Spring and then Autumn but now, with the door cracked open just a sliver, the memories spilled through and they were brilliant. You remembered the Barrens, playing guns and tag and Parcheesi and jungle hunters, winding through bamboo and splashing in the river and building a dam and an underground clubhouse. You remembered buying ice cream and movie tickets and picking through the dump with the seven greatest friends you had ever known. You remembered Stan the first time you'd seen him, haloed by the setting sun as you fell upon him and his friends on the cliff above the quarry. You remember Beverly's kind smile, Bill's welcoming eyes, Mike's handshake, Ben's timid wave. You remembered Richie's ill-timed joke and the way Eddie had so lovingly punched him so hard in the shoulder he had almost tumbled right off the rock he was seated on. You remember feel- hearing a click like pieces of a puzzle slotting together and you remember thinking these are my people.
Underneath these warm memories were dark ones begging to push through, to smother the good things, but for some odd reason you could imagine Stan fending them off, keeping them at bay for your sake. You can imagine him keeping the door held shut enough that the big ugly thoughts about hurt and fear on the other side of the gates. And you were grateful.
"You know," Stan said, and placed one hand on your cheek, his thumb skimming lightly over your cheekbone, "Those things in your nightmares can't hurt you. Monsters can always be killed," And, as if he had spoken directly to your brain, you feel-heard him saying if you believe they can. You met his sunbeam smile with your own, smaller but just as listlessly beautiful. Yet again you felt the aura around him, around your man, your husband, the only person you ever needed in your life.
"I know," You replied, and kissed him soft, "and I believe they can so long as you’re here with me.”
—————
Okay i actually,,,,, adore this I think? Stan doesn’t get enough love and I would die for him. So, just to kind of explain this in case I failed to do that through the text itself, Stan was gifted a few nifty little powers by either The Turtle or The Other depending on what makes more sense to you. He can (with a little struggling- that’s why the ‘floodgates’ opened and shut suddenly before finally only letting the good stuff through) staunch and release the memories of It and Derry in all of his friends heads, meaning he can choose what they do and don’t remember. He can also, just a little bit, project his thoughts onto other people. I’m not exactly sure why I went with this idea but I thought it was nice and fun and after playing a lovely It based game called ‘Use You Outside Voice Richie Tozier’ I fell in love with God-Stan. Thanks for reading :)
Request/synopsis: “Hi! If you’re still writing Stanley Uris, could you write a little childhood piece taking place during the first movie where the reader is one of the bullies’ little sister and hates what her brother and his friends are doing to the losers and starts to hanging out with them and the boys make fun of Stan because it’s obvious that he likes her and one day they’re walking and end up on the kissing bridge and he just starts rambling to her about something he saw and she interrupts him by kissing him”
Word count: 4,390 I think I got carried away
Warnings: Swearing. Mentions of attempted murder? Use of the term flamer, it means flamboyant gay, Stan is called that by Patrick in the books. Mentions a lewd act that happens in the book as well. Violence from a brother. Bullying. Some angst? Pennywise, that should definitely be a warning lmao. Blood/gore/violence, typical for the IT fandom. Sort of mentions character death.
A/N: Sorry if this wasn’t exactly what you wanted, I tried to do this request justice (since it was my first! Thank you to the anon that asked for it!) but I definitely took it on an angsty ride lol. I definitely focused more on Henry and the time in the sewers than I originally planned. Sorry this took so long as well, I wasn’t sure how to fit all of my ideas together. I really like how this turned out, but it’s also like two in the morning so there could be typos.
Do you like being Henry’s little sister? Of course not. Siblings or not, Henry treats you like shit too, at least he has the decency to keep it behind closed doors. On top of that, everyone avoids you, expecting you to be just like your brother or Greta. Greta is relatively nice to you, or as nice as demon spawn can be, she never makes fun of you or bullies you, she even tries to include you in her shit. Thinking, like everyone, that Henry actually likes you; and this way she can make a good impression and he can finally ask her out.
You walk out of the front doors of the school on the last day to see your lovely brother and his idiot friends teasing Stan and his group of friends, stealing the curly-haired boys kippah. Richie, being his typical self, starts screaming and insulting Henry, making him angrier. Henry takes said anger out on Stan, pushing him to the ground and pulling his leg back to kick the smaller boy in the side.
“Hey!” you scream and rush over to the scene, before you can realize what you’re doing.
“Come to defend your boyfriend?” your brother sneers before laughing like a lunatic.
“Back off Henry,” you glare at him, stepping between him and Stan. You can hear the poor boy behind you struggling to stand up.
“Or what?” Henry leans in, face inches from yours. He has never made his dislike for you public, even his friends are shocked by his actions. “You gonna run home and tell Dad?”
“Tempting,” you push him away from your face, mindful that your father is on duty somewhere in the ocean of students. As he’s distracted by the shove, you yank the kippah free from his grasp. “You want them, you go through me.”
“That can be arranged,” he grits his teeth, gesturing for his friends to grab you.
They look shocked for a second, before Belch wraps his large arms around your middle to hold you back. Your brother smirks at you as he advances on Stan, preparing to punch him. Your pleas for him to stop advancing on the loser’s, as they’re dubbed, fall on deaf ears.
“Let go of me you creep!” you yell at Belch, before slamming your foot down on his. He lets go of you before bouncing around in pain, like a stupid cartoon character. You run between Henry and the Losers, but not before he can shove Richie to the ground. “Go home Henry,” you shove his chest again.
“You can’t make me,” he flips open his switchblade as he advances on you. The rest of the world seems to still and all you can think is will Henry really hurt you? You hear the muffled cries from the boys behind you get louder with each step your brother takes towards you.
“What’s going on here?” your dad’s voice cuts through the haze, Henry backs off and hides his knife before Dad can see.
“I was just offering her a ride home,” Henry scowls as he turns to your father.
“And I was telling him that I was going to go hang out with my friends,” you use your thumb to point at the boys behind you. Your Dad eyes them wearily before ultimately coming to the conclusion that they’re a harmless group of nerds. He nods at you and sends Henry a small glare that if you blink you’ll miss before heading back the way he came.
“Watch yourself,” Henry warns before making his way to Belch’s car, friends in tow. You let out a sigh as they drive away, shoulders slumping as your adrenaline wears off.
“I think this belongs to you,” you smile at Stan, handing him his kippah.
“Thanks,” he breathes, he looks like he wants to continue speaking but no words come out. As he grabs the kippah from you, his fingers brush against yours and a blush creeps up his cheeks. You grin at how adorable he is.
“Are you guys okay?” you glance between him and Richie. Stan just nods and Richie rolls his eyes at the doe eyed look his friend is giving you.
“I’d say we didn’t need your help, but Stan the man here certainly liked being your damsel in distress,” Richie smacks a hand on Stan’s shoulder and laughs, you soon join in. Stan smacks the boy with the glasses harder than you think anyone realized he could. “Ow, that fucking hurt” Richie whines, rubbing his arm and sulking off to Eddie.
“D-do y-y-you wan-nt to go-o to the qu-qu-quarry wi-with us?” Bill asks and Richie smirks at the idea.
“I should go before Henry gets even more mad,” you play with the hem of your shirt. “But thank you for asking.”
“Please,” Richie clasps his hands and blinks dramatically at you, sticking his bottom lip out in an over dramatic pout.
“Why not?” you grin at the losers, but at Stan the most.
Synopsis: (Y/N) finds out that her best friend didn’t arrive back in Derry with the rest of the losers club, and finds out that he tried to kill himself. Glimpses of her past with Stan are seen as she visits him in the hospital. Will the best friends that have been pining over each other since they were kids finally get their happy ending, or will Patricia and the very different lives the lead get in the way?
Word count: 5,314 this is a lot more than I originally planned, guess I got carried away.
Warnings: Attempted suicide. Talk of self harm. Blood/gore/violence, typical for the IT fandom. Brief implication of domestic violence from a father and a wife. A little angsty at times, but fluffy. Swearing. Tooth rotting fluff near the end.
A/N: Stan may be OOC, but I tried my hardest for my first IT story. Stan the man Uris is fantastic and deserved so much better. AU where the characters I love don’t die. The reader in this story isn’t Jewish, if you are Jewish, I apologize. There is a cute little story-line that relies heavily on the reader not having the same faith as him.
It had been just over twenty years since you were last in your home town of Derry Maine, and you hadn’t thought if it once. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to remember, you just couldn’t. There were days when the name Stan would randomly pop in your head, and from a place buried very deep in the back of your brain, you were sure he was an important person in your adolescent life.
When Mike Hanlon called to tell you that Pennywise was back, your heart started pounding so hard you were convinced it would leap from its place inside your chest. You didn’t exactly remember Pennywise, but you remembered the fear. You also remembered a mop of curly light brown hair that you immediately associated with Stan.
Upon arriving at the Chinese restaurant in Derry flashes of your childhood came back, they were so unfamiliar it was like watching somebody else’s life. Stan was the center of almost all of them, your old best friend and boy you had been in love with since you were six. It was great catching up with your old friends, but it didn’t feel right without Stan.
The other six members of the losers club opened their fortune cookies, spelling out; ‘I,’ ‘cut,’ ‘not,’ ‘it,’ ‘guess,’ and ‘could.’ Your heart falls into the pit of your stomach as you open your own and see the thick black letters spelling out Stanley.
“No,” you gasp out a plea to no one in particular. You lean forward and numbly move the papers around to say, ‘I guess Stanley could not cut it.’ The rest of the losers club had remembered enough over dinner to remember just how much Stan meant to you, causing them to stare at you as you try to blink back tears.
The group running from creatures breaking out of fortune cookies happens in a blur, your head isn’t clear until the cool night air hits it. Mike gives you Stan’s number as soon as he comes to his senses. You walk away from the group, wanting privacy for whatever you get on the other end of the call.
“Who is this?” a female voice answers the phone. Your furrow your eyebrows in fear and glance over at Mike who is watching you closely.
“Uh, (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” you state nervously, picking at your already chipped nail polish. “I’m sorry, I thought this was Stan Uris’s number.”
“It is,” the voice says slowly. “How do you know him?”
“We grew up together, we were best friends,” you smile as you remember gripping onto his hand as the wind whipped around you two the first time you jumped into the quarry. “Our friend group was having a mini reunion back home, and we got worried that he didn’t show up.”
“He’s in the hospital,” she says with no real emotion in her voice.
“What?” you ask in disbelief. Not your Stan.
“He’s in the hospital,” she snaps. “Do I need to say it slower for you? He slit his wrists and lost a lot of blood.”
“Oh my God,” you murmur, knees going weak at the thought. “Which hospital? I’d like to visit him before I go back home.”
She tells you the name of the hospital and hangs up before you can say anything else. Your knees buckle as soon as the line clicks dead, causing you to fall and scrape up your knees on the dirty pavement. Tears stream down your face and silent sobs shake your body. Ben and Bev immediately rush to your side, Bev kneeling beside you as she rubs soothing circles into your back.
“(Y/N)?” she asks nervously.
“He’s in the hospital,” you sob out weakly. “He tried to kill himself.” Bev helps you stand and sets you in Richie’s car so you can head to the hotel.
The rest of your time in Derry is a blur, it’s over so quick, but feels painfully slow. You instantly knew that your token was the menorah necklace that you’ve worn everyday since you had gotten it in sixth grade. Stan had bought it for you for Christmas as a joke, his father had made a not-so-pleasant comment about you not being Jewish the week prior. You knew you loved him the moment you tore the ribbon off of the box; he knew you better than anyone else, he let his guard down when he was with you, and he was the kindest, sweetest boy you had ever met especially when he stood up to his father about your religion.
Before you know it you’re assaulted by the smell of bleach and shiny white floors as you walk into the hospital Stan is in. After finding out the room number from the receptionist you slowly head to his room, wondering if you should really be there.
Through the small window of Stan’s hospital room you see a blonde woman sitting on a couch on the far side of the room, typing away on her laptop. When you enter the room she slams her laptop shut and walks over to you, making sure to stand between you and Stan’s bed.
“I’m Patricia Uris,” she makes no move to stick her hand out for you to shake, but makes the diamond on her left hand noticeable.
“I’m (Y/N),” you give her a small smile that drops as you look behind her, seeing Stan’s body lay there unmoving. “We briefly spoke on the phone the other night.”
in every version of IT eddie dies a different way. in the book he loses an arm, the mini series he is crushed, and in the film he is impaled. completely different deaths. but in all three versions eddie uses his last moment to comfort richie with an inside joke which that particular richie would understand. no matter how eddie dies he will always use his last minutes to joke with richie. only richie. in this essay i will -
the whole thing of how their scars start to fade after they kill pennywise like… implying that eddie’s internal bleeding stops and his organs magically heal and he sits up in the sewers like guys hey guys where is everyone
like three days later they’re all getting a late brunch at the derry town house and the door swings open and eddie’s just standing there drenched in blood and ordure and they’re all like, “what the fuck” and eddie’s like, “what do you mean what the fuck, i’m the one who should be asking what the fuck, you guys just fucking left me in the sewers” and bev is like, “oh eddie we thought you were dead” and eddie’s like “so you couldn’t carry me out to give me a proper burial” and bill’s like, “i mean you’re like, heavy” and eddie’s like “i can’t fucking believe this” and richie’s like, “so approximately when did you resurrect" and eddie’s like, “i don’t know, sometime yesterday. why?” and ben goes, “so you don’t have any recollection whatsoever of richie melting down and clutching your body like a drowning man and kissing your wounded cheek” and eddie’s like, “can i please take a shower before we continue with this conversation”
another commission for @izupie who is without a doubt the sweetest bean on this planet ;; Thank you so much!!!
Also this was done during the stream today so thank you so much to everyone that came by!! I will be streaming most of the week-end at www.twitch.tv/daikimine if you want to join next time!
After Henry dies in IT chapter 2 he is sent to his own personal hell where he's basically stuck working at a knock off walmart for all eternity. The only clothes they sell are Rogan & Marsh brand clothes, they have entire store displays dedicated to Bill Denbrough's books (that HENRY has to set up all by himself), and instead of shopping music they just play 24/7 unfunny Richie Tozier stand up over the loud speaker. If Henry doesn't do his job right evil hell manager Stan Uris will pelt him with rocks (don't worry, it's not the real Stan). Karen's constantly yell at him and get his name wrong even though it's on his fucking name tag. The bathrooms always locked for some reason. It's always 2 o' clock on a monday so there's never any pay day or lunch break. Sometimes Eddie shows up just to be the most annoying customer ever.
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