bruises [ stan uris x reader ]
summary: bowers cuts (name)’s hair off and stan comforts her
warnings: mentions of child abuse, henry bowers being a dick
a/n: this is written for @superwolfiestar ‘s “Beauty and the Beast Halloween prompt challenge”! this is day 17 and prompt purple. Also, I used @horrificmemes
31 Horrific Days v2 [October Writing Challenge] ! same day, prompt sratching. also, request by anon and @michelangelui: could pretty pretty please (with a cherry on top) write more stan stuff? he’s adorable. also your writing style is one of the best here on tumblr, i love it / could you do a Stan Uris x Reader where the reader has really long and curly hair and she really loves it and the Bowers gang gets her alone one day and they cut it off and she goes to stan after? thank you!!
It’s October 16th and there are exactly ten purple bruises on your body that hurt from the slightest touch and three scratches from long nails that had gripped your upper arm too rough. Sometimes you count how many dot your body. They appear so often that it’s the only bright side to the dark void that has become your life. Days pass slow and you wear longer sweaters each day, even if it’s summer, long skirts and long pants and never wear swimsuits because that is too revealing. Because one scary day someone will ask what goes down back at home. And when that day comes, you won’t know what to say. So you hope it never does. But now is Autumn. Chilly weather urges you into heavy clothing that covers you to a T. The skies are a bit brighter. And so is your day when you spend it with Stan Uris.
See, you have this beautiful wild curly hair. Stan has a similar hairdo, so you always felt a connection with him because of this. He always called your curls pretty, too. And that is exactly the reason you developed a crush on him.
You love your hair. It’s your prettiest aspect, at least that’s what you believe. You love how it bounces by your sides as you walk. You love how playful and full of life it is. But most of all, you love how it can’t be ruined. Can’t be decorated with icky bruises and deep scratches.
So naturally you are in shambles because Henry fuckface Bower’s cut it off.
It’s October 16th and you were walking by the Barrens – your home is quite a walk away, but you don’t mind since you don’t want to go there anyway so a long trip doesn’t hurt, - letting your mind wander to what had happened today. Stan Uris, a cute boy in your class, had asked you to join him and his friends for lunch. You have seen the boys around before, and you’re quite familiar with Beverly though you wouldn’t call her your friend. Yet. Today you had the feeling that you were finally apart of something bigger. That you’re finally accepted for who you are and not mocked for wearing clothes ‘not fit for a girl’. Despite yesterday and today’s morning being an utter shitshow, the afternoon had been a bliss of love struck glances and friendly jokes.
Then Bowers showed up, all smug and powerful and reminding you so much of your father that you grew small and insignificant in front of him. He and his goons that drooled behind him had informed you that you had ‘joined the loser’s club’ and ‘this is your initiation’. Confused and frightened, but trying not to give in, your eyes had darted around for an escape route, possibly a passing car to cry out for help. But nothing. There was no escape, and that realization dawned too slow and you didn’t have enough time to move. Bowers’s friends grasped your upper arms and lifted you – the bruises squished and hurt, - and you barely stopped yourself from releasing a pained yelp of surprise. Bowers took out silver scissors from his pocket and you paled; your mouth pried to say something, anything, but all that came out was a meek pleading breath as tears picked at the corners of your big (color) eyes.
You pound on the Uris household’s door. Your cheeks are dyed in blotches of red and few tears had dried on your cheeks. Smoke comes out your mouth as you mutter ‘please’ over and over again, until you hear footsteps approaching and a note of panic strikes. What if Stan isn’t home? What if his mother opens the door and then what will you say? She’ll ask what had happened to you. Then she will ask why you didn’t go home instead. And then you’ll have to tell her and you’ll be in so much trouble and—
“(Name)?” Stan calls you surprised, standing by the open door with his eyes narrowed as if he can hardly recognize you. Your breath hitches in your throat and a bitter taste floods your mouth. A new batch of tears rolls from your fingertips: squeezes your heart and throat painfully before finally striking your eyes and in desperation you rush to him and hug him tightly. He is still for a moment, unsure of what to do and what is happening, but feeling his shirt damp from your muffled cries he hurriedly hugs back, running his fingers through the tips of your now short hair, “What…happened to it?” He asks gently, but you simply shake your head.
He had let you in. Gave you his favorite blanket and seated you in the living room, on the couch, as he ran to make hot cocoa. Then he gave you his mug – one with power rangers, - sat next to you and intertwined his fingers with yours. Frankly, he wasn’t sure what he was doing exactly. His mind was set ablaze with hurt and anger upon seeing you so…broken and he wanted to do everything he could to help you. He just didn’t know what. So he did what his mother used to do when he was sad – hot cocoa and blankets. The hand holding is entirely his spin on it. A subconscious reaction. Wanting to run his fingers through your pretty hair is one, too.
“I-I-I-It was B-Bowers…” You murmur, your voice still riddled with sobs as you stare into the black screen of the TV. Stan frowns.
“We’ll get back at him, I promise—“ But you shake your head again and his brows knit together in worry. Finally, you look at him, fix a crooked smile and he can feel his heart breaking.
“I don’t want him to hurt you, too…” You say, “I mean…Look at me. Look what he did to me. I look…disgusting.”
Now he’s shocked. The crying, Bowers bullying you - that he can understand, but you…Saying that, when to him you are the prettiest girl he had ever seen in his life? Impossible, and he leans in almost unconsciously in alarm, his eyes wide in surprise as he catches your gaze, “What? No, no, no don’t ever say that, you’re—“ His free hand comes to curl a lock of (color) hair around his finger, feel the soft fiber, admire the way the Autumn sun shifts and plays on it through the window, “you’re beautiful, (Name).” Your heart catches in your throat and you look at him – he looks just as surprised by his words as you are. Tears subdue. You feel the tips of your ears burn with fire, “We actually…have matching hairstyles, now. Which is pretty fucking cool if you ask me.”
You smile, feeling so genuinely overwhelmed by his positivity and how much he cares about you that you can hardly hold back a new batch of happy tears. With a faint sniffle you squeeze his hand, “Thank you, Stan.”
He cracks a smile of his own, “You should never thank anyone for telling the truth…”
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