we’ll do the things that lovers do

a second part to lay with me i’ll lay with you, requested by a couple of lovely anons. in which some boys continue to be dumb, and a first kiss is had.


As it turns out, they choose not to watch Insidious for their first date. This is because after his cheeks have paled back to a less alarming colour, and his heart has stopped rattling in his ribcage, Will confesses that horror movies tend to have a poor effect on him.

“I would probably end up, like, passing out on you,” Will admits.

Nico thinks this doesn’t sound too bad.

“Or throwing up on your shoes. Gods. I’d scream down Camp and the harpies would literally have me for breakfast.”

And yeah, okay, maybe not.

Keep reading

Birds Don’t Float, They Fly - Stanley Uris x Reader(IT)

This is honestly the best shit I’ve ever written. Not to sound pretentious, but for once I’m proud. ok enjoy <3

Prompt - Stan’s loved you since you saved him from Bowers, but he was never able to tell you until Stan and the Losers have a brush with It. You’re the only one who can calm Stanley down after he’s attacked, giving him the chance to express his feelings.

Warnings - Swearing (you know, Richie), sex references (that trashmouth), 

A/N -  Told from Stan’s POV. There’s a flashback in the timeline. Italics = Internal Thought. ‘Italics+Quotes = Past Quote.’ You’re a part of the Losers Club, hun. <3

Words ~ 5341

Summer 1989

The wind whipped past my ears and pulled at my button-up as we⎯minus Bill⎯biked to Neibolt. My feet were spinning around the gears of my bike faster than I would have liked, but I told myself it didn’t matter if Bill was going to hurt himself trying to fight this imaginary monster. We all turned down Neibolt Street like a flock of Geese that began migrating too late in the season, flying with speed for fear of what would happen if we stayed where we were.

Arriving at the withering building, Beverly spotted Bill walking up the front steps and began to yell for him. “Bill! Bill, you can’t go in there alone!” She skidded her bike to a halt, hopped off, and let it hit the street with a metallic clank.

I stopped my bike, got off quickly, and threw the kickstand down. As soon as I looked up from the pavement my eyes locked with Y/N’s and for a second I forgot about the dark threat of the house. I’d fight any made-up monster if it gave me the fucking courage to ask her out. I wish I had done it the first day I met her, but Bowers had made me feel like such a pussy that I don’t think I’d be able to give Bush the time of day.

Spring 1989

School had just let out so the hallways were empty, but somehow I managed to walk down the same one with Henry and his goons. In every other situation, I would have walked away, but Victor Criss had found a dead robin outside and those assholes were kicking it around with their engineer boots. I wanted so badly to turn and leave but Belch Huggins had delivered a kick so nasty I had felt it in my own gut.

“Hey! Leave the bird alone!” I squawked loudly enough to interrupt their laughter. The words hung in the air, unbelonging, like a burp in a silent Bar Mitzvah.

Henry turned to me with a look in his eyes that screamed he was in the mood to break something bigger than a bird and he yelled with such ferocity it was nearly a screech. “You wanna take its place, fucker? Want us to kick you around instead?” Belch and Victor laughed at Henry’s witty slap, but I wasn’t laughing. I could already feel the sweat dripping down the back of my neck. They were maybe forty feet away. If I run now, I thought. Maybe I’ll have a chance.

So without wasting any time I turned and bolted, sprinting down the hallway with two thoughts in my head. Don’t get caught by Henry and Fuck, my lungs hurt. Is this how Eddie feels? I ran as fast as my feet would carry me, ducking down hallways. With one hand on my kippah, I turned around a corner, hoping that the soles of my shoes held up, which they did. They carried me around the corner but not the girl carrying her books. I managed to crash right into her. Books flew and folders opened, dumping papers everywhere as she threw her arms up in surprise and discontent.

“What the-” She yelled angrily, staring down at what was once in her hands. She looked up at me and our eyes locked, giving her time to survey my terrified expression and finish her complaint. “What the fuck, dude.” She said, slightly softer, less angry. “Who are you running from, bolting down the hallway like that?”

As if they heard her ask, Bowers’ footsteps grew louder. “Come here you Jewish freak!” Belch Huggins yelled. I turned around expecting to see Bowers. Suddenly it was as if someone pressed the fast-forward on my life. Everything sped up and I knew that if I got caught I’d be dead meat, but something stopped me from running.

I turned back to the girl, not wanting to leave her with the mess I made, but when I looked at her again, any trace of anger had fled from her face. Instead, it was a look of pity, with an almost unnoticeable undertone of fear. “Bowers?” She asked quickly, but quietly. I nodded. She looked behind me, behind herself, and then to her left before talking again. “Get in a locker.” She could see that I was confused, so taking my hand in hers she pulled me to the lockers. “If you trust me, you’ll get in and you’ll stay quiet.”

She let go of my hand as I got in. I felt a sudden emptiness below my wrist as if she took my own hand with hers before closing the door. I could see through the slits in the metal that she quickly knelt beside her papers, just in time for Henry to nearly run her over. All three of them came close to taking a tumble but they managed to stop and simply stare at the mess.

“Jesus, Bowers,” She spoke, but the voice wasn’t hers. At least not the one that I knew. She sounded so full of confidence and typical disgust that if I had my eyes closed I would have assumed it was Greta Bowie. “Late for your tea party?”

Victor scoffed. Belch giggled. Henry glared. “Where’d he go?”

“Where’d who go, Henry? Your boyfriend?” Henry stepped forward onto one of her papers and began to talk but Y/N put one hand flat on his chest and pushed him back slowly. I was taken aback by her courage. It was like I’d been looking at Y/N in the dark and someone just threw open the blinds. I saw how her face curved and how her hair flowed. All of a sudden I wanted nothing more than to throw open the locker door, grab her by the waist, and pull her in close, but the gang was still there, so I was still trapped.

Victor and Belch began to look agitated, like Henry was fanning the embers under their asses. “We’re looking for Stanley Urine.” Victor squeaked. I winced at the mocking name. They’d been using it since the third grade. I didn’t want Y/N to know me as Stanley Urine, the cowering boy she shoved in a locker. No, not like that. “Real ugly, Boy-Scout lookin’ thing. Seen Him?”

Y/N’s voiced adopted a fresh tone of shock. “Wait,” She held her hand up above her head, palm down. “‘Bout this tall, pressed shorts, curly hair, running like a maniac?” I furrowed my brows in confusion. What was she doing? All three stared at her with reignited rage bubbling in their veins. They nodded their heads furiously. “That asshole came barreling around the corner, knocked my books out of my hands, then took off.” Suddenly it made sense. She was playing them like harp strings.

Belch spoke first. “Where the fuck did he go then?!”

Y/N raised a pointed finger and directed their attention to the exit doors twenty feet in front of her, in behind them. “He skid out those doors. Looked like he was heading for the East field. Playground maybe.”

Without saying another word the bullies took off. Before throwing open the doors, Victor turned to Henry and yelled too loudly for his own good, “That’s the one you like, Henry?” Who only retaliated by giving him a swift kick in the ass before grinding up the dirt of the east field.

Y/N stuck her tongue out and made a retching sound before walking over and opening the locker I was in. I must’ve looked pathetic cause she let a little chuckle echo through her nose. “Sorry I called you an asshole. I had to play into it.” She was being genuine. For a second I wondered why she bothered to help me at all, but she brought me back to reality with her soft, calm voice. A voice too calm for someone who just went toe-to-toe with Bowers. “It’s Stanley, right?”

I chuckled and managed to talk. “Yeah, Stanley Uris. But my friends call me Stan.”

Y/N smiled. “I’d love to hold that honor, Stan.” She laughed. “But I knew it couldn’t have been Urine.”

That time we laughed together, then I noticed her books and papers were still scattered. “Here,” I offered, kneeling. “Let me get these for you.” I expected her to stand while I handed her papers, but she knelt down beside me. Occasionally we would reach for the same paper and our arms would brush⎯Y/N, I thought⎯ or we would look up at the same time and lock eyes⎯Y/N Uris, I thought.

We had collected everything and stood up in unison before Y/N spoke again. “Thanks for helping me collect my things.” She said quietly, almost bashfully. Was she being shy? In front of me? But not Bowers? You’re so confusing, I thought. I think I’m in love. “Well, I guess I should head on my way then.” She said, softer this time. As if she didn’t want to say it at all.

“Oh,” I choked. “Yeah, me too.” We both nodded but remained stationary, neither willing to move away. Even if you can’t ask her out, don’t let her go, Stupid. “Actually,” I said with the last sliver of pride I had after that fiasco. “I’m going to meet my friends in the barrens. If you have nothing better to do, I’m sure they’d love to meet you.”

Y/N smiled so hard her eyes crinkled. “I’d love to, Stan.”

So we walked to the West entrance, away from Bowers and his goons. I flicked up the kickstand of my bike and with Y/N sitting on the handlebars, we were off to meet the losers.

We found the group in the usual spot and I explained what happened at the school. Most of the story was made up of Richie’s commentary, but everyone fell silent when I told them how Y/N handled Bowers

Bill spoke first. “Wuh-well, it’s n-nice to m-m-meet you, Y/N.” He stuttered.

“Mhmm, it’ll be nice to have another girl in the group.” Beverly joked, elbowing Eddie, who continued to stare.

“Yeah,” Ritchie pulled his glasses from his face and wiped the condensation off on his shirt, looking Y/N up and down. “I agree.”

Y/N was beginning to blush, but something Beverly said stuck out in my head. “In the group?” I repeated. “You mean, you guys are cool if she-”

“Joins the Losers Club?” Mike interrupted. “Please do.”

The Losers murmured in agreement and Y/N smiled. It was one of the wide ones that made her eyes crinkle.

And so we were eight.

Summer 1989

“Stan, would you stop staring at Y/N and come grab a stick?”

I turned to Eddie, my eyebrows furrowed in frustration, my cheeks red in embarrassment. He matched my expression and then threw up his eyebrows, as if to say “Yeah, Stan. I can do that too. Now get over here.” I turned to Y/N. She smiled and shook her head before walking past me to the huddled group of losers.

Mike had found and cut eight tiny sticks, all at different lengths. “Everyone chooses a stick. Longest stick stays watch. Deal?” Everyone nodded and murmured mhmm.

Richie was the first to draw. The twig he drew was about the length of his pinkie. “Fuck.” He mumbled as he turned his head to the house. He looked up at it as if the dark, solemn house was a librarian, peering over his shoulder to find him drawing dicks on the cover of Lord of the Flies. Richie shook his head. “Man, I can’t believe I pulled the short straw. You guys are lucky you’re not measuring dicks.”

“Shu-sh-shut up, Richie.” Bill stuttered.

Y/N chuckled and everyone’s heads turned. We stared because for the first time in forever, laughter felt foreign. None of us had laughed in so long. Too long. We were all so intimidated by what may or may not lie in that dead house that we forgot to have fun. Isn’t that what summer’s all about? Having fun?

Y/N noticed everyone’s eyes and promptly figured out why they were staring. “You guys know what?” She said, boldly, in her Greta Bowie voice. “I’m not scared of this house. I feel the same way about going into this house as I feel about doing homework. Sure it’s daunting, but only cause I have no clue what the fuck’s going on. But once it’s done, I can enjoy my summer. And that’s what I intend to do.” She reached towards the small bundle in Mike’s hand and pulled out a twig. It was half the size of her forearm.

“That’s the longest one,” Mike said. Half appalled, half annoyed.

“Well, fuck.” She mumbled. I chuckled. It felt odd, like a forced burp, but I chuckled. Then I laughed. Y/N looked at me and began to laugh too. Then Richie. And Beverly. And suddenly the losers were laughing. All of us were laughing in the dead brush of the Neibolt property, totally forgetting any burden we carried. We felt like kids again.

Though none of us were passionate about running into crackhead houses, but we could now all agree that we’d be happy to go in together. Ben took a deep breath. “I guess that settles it. Y/N stays watch, the rest of us go in.”

The group nodded, and though the mystery contents of Neibolt should have been my priority, I couldn’t take my eyes off Y/N. Even in the face of death, I thought. She’s just so stunning

Death. The word tumbled around in my head like a brick in a dryer, before I clenched my fists and pushed it out. There is no monster in that house, I assured myself. No death. No need to worry, Stan. Don’t be fucking stupid. With a deep breath and another glance at Y/N, I took up the front steps of Neibolt, leading the losers.

“You go, Stanley the Manly.” Richie chirped smugly. “Let’s go fight Count Chocula.”

I turned around, unable to leave Richie uncorrected. “We’re not going to fight anything, Richie. We’re going to prove that there is no monster.”

Richie only chuckled and put on a British accent. “Right sir, good ‘ol chap. Let us go. Pip pip cheerio.”

I put my hand on the cold doorknob, twisted, and opened the casket on fear.

Neibolt smelt damp and dark, as if the cellar grew and consumed the whole house. The dust on the windows tinted the sun orange, so that what little light made it through illuminated the floor in a warm, dead glow that resembled a rotting pumpkin.

The group of losers was the only source of heat in the house. “I feel like this place is sucking out my soul,” Eddie said quietly, as if he was afraid something would hear him.

“Are you saying you would rather have it suck your-“

“Richie!” Eddie yelped, only no one laughed this time. Eddie was right. There was something about this house. Something dark.

I clenched my fists again. Don’t be stupid, Stan. Something like that isn’t empirically possible. But then I heard it. It sounded low and soft, like a woman humming a sick child to sleep. The humming flowed through the air and into my soul, so that it no longer sounded like humming. It was my mother shouting my name. It was my scout leader calling us in. It was Ms.Douglas, a curled finger pointing at my chest, commanding a solution out of me, and I had no choice but to answer.

I followed the sound as if it was a trail of candy and I was a little child lost in the woods. Any traces of my friends were blurred in my mind by the filter of pure and simple curiosity. I trailed out of the foyer and down a long hallway before I lost the sound entirely. I turned my head, spinning in circles trying to pinpoint the tune, but it was gone. It wasn’t until I spun to face the way I came before I heard the creaking. I turned to face the door again. The creaks and groans sounded unnatural, fake, as if they were playing through an old walkman. But then the knob began to turn.

It spun to the left, then to the right before making a final full turn to the left. It’s Richie. My brain exclaimed, unaccepting of what it what seeing and hearing. This isn’t real. It’s just Richie. It’s a prank. It’s not real, Stan. It’s not-

The door made a sound that resembled a dying cat as the old bolts wailed together, struggling to hold up the ancient wooden door as it swung open slowly, regretfully. As if the door knew it was releasing something bad. Something evil.

You’re being stupid. There’s no evil. My thoughts cried. Stand your ground, Stanley. Be a man.

The door stopped opening. No light shone through. The room that lay beyond the door was dark and draining. ‘I feel like this place is sucking out my soul.’ Eddie had said. All I could do was agree with him, though I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to agree with Eddie, because admitting that this hell-hole was draining the life out of me was admitting that I was scared.

Turning away from the open door, I began took a quick step down the hall before I saw her. Y/N. Standing at the end of the scuffed, peeling floorboards. She was standing still, looking at me as if she were scared. Seeing her in here made me feel worse than any evil could. Imagining that this house could bring her pain opened up a black pit deep in my stomach, allowing a red-hot ache to flow over my insides. If this dark, decrepit house even dared to bring her fear, I’d burn the whole thing down.

“Y/N?” I called quietly, concern bleeding through my fake confidence. “Y/N aren’t you supposed to be on watch?”

“I couldn’t stay there, Stan.” She cooed. “Not without you.” I was so distracted by her silky voice that I almost didn’t notice how unnatural she sounded. Her voice resembled the creaks and groans. Fake. Not real. But like the humming, it was enticing. Moving towards Y/N was like moving towards road-kill. If you really valued your peace of mind, then you would stay away…but in the end, curiosity grabs you by the balls, and you do anything but stay away.

“Why would you want to come in here?” I joked in an effort to mask my own fear. “This garbage dump is the last place I’d want to be.”

She took a step closer to me. She was so close that I could smell her shampoo. I could have kissed her if curiosity would give me my manhood back. “It’s no dump if you’re here, Stan.” She was practically singing, and I didn’t mind.

“Ha, uh. Yeah.” I mumbled. “Did someone take your place? I’d hate if the police found us snooping around-”

“We don’t have to worry about adults, Stanley.” She interrupted. She wasn’t singing now. She was nearly whispering through her teeth. She put one hand on the back of my neck, the other under my arm placing it flat on my back, pulling me in. “No one’ll find us here, Stanley. No one. We won’t be found, Stanley. No no no.”

She trailed off as she rested her head on my shoulder, but with each sentence she sounded less and less real. It was as if her voice were coming through the radio and someone was slowly turning the dial to the static grey area in between stations. The feeling of worry began to bleed through the admiration. Y/N was no longer a source of heat. I could feel her change in my arms. She became the same dark emptiness that was draining Eddie. Draining me. Draining all of us. Y/N became Neibolt.

I quickly tried to pull away, but Y/N tightened her grip. Her arms were clamped around me, unyielding and ungiving. She spoke again but there was no music left in her voice, no tune, no hum. It was all static. All darkness. “We don’t need to leave Stan. We can stay. We can float. We’ll all float. We’ll all float!”

I yelped and squirmed and twisted in her grip. The sweat that made its way through my button-up made me just slippery enough. I gave one final twist, working my arms under hers. I ducked my head and pushed her back, throwing her off.

No. No, it wasn’t her. The carcass that stood in front of me wasn’t Y/N. It looked like her. Exactly like her. Except her eyes were glazed over, frosted like a sheet of ice over a dead animal. The skin on her face wasn’t radiating her characteristic glow, it was grey, dead, peeling from her face like sheets of slush off a poorly shingled roof. There was no life in her chest. Instead, her missing sternum revealed her open ribcage where black, rotten organs resigned. They looked like vegetables my mother had once left on the front steps. Our cat had gone missing, but my mother figured that if she offered food and wished hard enough, it would come back. But the cat never did, and instead, the vegetables rotted and turned black and mushy, leaving a stain of failure in front of our house.

It was only looking down at my hands that I noticed the blood and chest tissue that covered my fingers. I screamed and kept screaming. I couldn’t stop forcing the sound out. I screamed so hard that my diaphragm hurt. I figured the force and the stench of Y/N’s rotting corpse would make me puke, but somehow I kept it down. I wouldn’t have cared if I puked. I could have thrown up a kidney and I wouldn’t care, because all I could see was Y/N. It was her voice I heard. It was her corpse I saw. It was her blood that coated my hands, and it was real. It was all real.

I stared and screamed some more. I could hear the losers yelling but it was all so distant. Y/N was so close. So close and so real. So real. “Come float with me. Won’t you, Stanley?” She whispered. She was quiet, so quiet, but her voice was a shriek.

And so was mine. I screamed, one final time, and then the world went black.

When I woke up everything was shaking. Bobbing? I turned my head to find Mike’s chest. I glanced at my feet and found Ben and Beverly, each with a leg in their arms. The losers were carrying me.

“Hu-hey, g-g-guys!” Bill managed to squawk. “S-Stan’s awake! P-Put him d-down on the g-guh-grass.”

I felt them put me down on the grass. It tickled the back of my neck but I didn’t care. I looked straight up at the sky. The sun stabbed at my eyes, but it also warmed my face. It made me feel warm. Alive. She’s not alive anymore, my head screamed. I think Eddie asked me a question. He was muttering something about concussions, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t give two shits. Y/N was dead. She was my cat. Gone.

When I closed my eyes I could still see her hair, glowing under the fluorescents that illuminated her and Bower’s gang. I could still feel her warmth and smell her perfume and I remembered that one Friday night in June. The losers were having a sleepover, but I had a nightmare. One that I can’t even remember now, but it shook me to the point of tears. Y/N had woken me up and pulled my head softly into her chest. “It’s okay, Stan.” She cooed, as if I was an injured baby bird. “It was only a nightmare, Stan. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real, Stanley.”

If I listened hard enough I could still hear her voice. ‘Stan.’ I could hear her call. ‘Stan. Stanley.’ “Stanley!” Suddenly I opened my eyes. “Stanley open your eyes. Oh! Stan look at me. Look at me, Stan.” My eyes were frantic. It took a few seconds for my brain to process what I was seeing. It was Y/N, standing above me. There were tears streaming down her cheeks. “Stan? Stan! Holy shit I thought you were over the hedge! What happened in there?”

She wasn’t real. She couldn’t be real. Her blood, Stan. The blood. That was real. I sat up, screamed and pushed myself back. It wasn’t Y/N. It couldn’t be Y/N. I stared at her. I stared and stared, expecting her to die in front of me again. The static spun around and around in my head like a demonic merry-go-round. ‘We’ll all float. We’ll all float.’ “We’ll all float,” I muttered.

Y/N looked so concerned. If that was even Y/N. Could it be? Was there any empirical way? “Stan, what-”

“You said we were all going to float.” I wheezed. “You’re dead, Y/N. You were dead.”

Ben stepped forward. “Stan, what do you mean?” I turned my head and stared at him. I was frantic and he must have seen it because he looked down at me with pity. 

Beverly put a hand on his shoulder. “Y/N never came inside until you screamed, Stanley. By the time she got to you, you were unconscious.” Some of the losers nodded, the others murmured mhmm’s.

I turned back to Y/N. More tears trailed down her cheeks, wetting the canals that led to her chin and down her neck. She stretched a hand out. I didn’t take it. I couldn’t take it. My world was upside down. “That’s impossible.” I croaked. She took her hand back. “That’s not possible. You were-” I could feel the tears welling up my eyes. They started to trickle down my hot cheeks. “You were dead, Y/N. I felt you in my arms. Your eyes, your face, your-your-” I stared down at my hands. They weren’t clean on account of all the dirt, but there was no blood. No stains. No trace of Y/N. I started to cry harder. I looked up at her again, my eyes cloudy with water. It was as if I was looking at her through the bottom of a coke bottle.

The tears had stopped falling down her cheeks when she knelt beside me. She extended her hand out again. Palm up, as if offering something. A little sanity maybe. “Feel my hand, Stan.” I kept looking at her. I blinked tears out of my eyes so I could see her fully. Clearly. I looked at her hand. I was so reluctant. I was scared that if I felt her hand the skin would peel off and It would happen all over again, but there was something about her now. There was no static in her voice. It wasn’t tainted with a hum either. It was just her. It was Y/N. Could it be Y/N? It had to be. I think.

It was the uncertainty that was rotting inside me. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know. I had always known before this. Before Neibolt. Before It. I knew how to treat Poison Ivy. I knew not to fuck with Henry Bowers. I knew I was in love with Y/N. But now I didn’t know if she was even real anymore. I didn’t know if what I was seeing was real. I didn’t know if I should cry tears of joy because she was alive or cry myself into madness because she was worm-food. I didn’t know. I had to know. I had to find out, so I took her hand.

It was warm and inviting. It was real. This was real. This. Y/N smiled. That was real. She offered her other hand. I took it. That was real. Real. Real real real. She was real. It was almost too good to be true. “But you said we were going to float, Y/N. You were in there. I couldn’t have imagined it, Y/N. It was so-”

“Real?” She let out a chuckle. It was out of place but I didn’t argue with it. “All of our nightmares feel real until we wake up, but you’re awake now, Stan, so good morning. It’s 92 degrees in sunny Derry, Maine. A great day to go biking with friends and forget about death houses.”

I chuckled. She always knew how to make me forget what I needed to forget. Forget things like evil houses. Death houses. Dead dead houses. She was dead. “You were dead,” I mumbled. The panic was beginning to bubble violently now. It was sloshing over my bearable limit, over the rim of the pot of my life. “We’re gonna die.” I choked. “We’re all going to float. We’re gonna-”

The words stopped. They wouldn’t come out. I heard Richie make a gagging sound, but it was distant and I was distracted by Y/N anyway. She was close. So close I could have-

I knew why the words wouldn’t come out. Y/N had grabbed me by the collar and pulled me in. Her lips were locked to mine. I could smell her shampoo, her perfume, her chapstick. I could feel her warmth. I could feel her nose against mine. I could see that her eyes were closed. She meant this. She was real and she meant this. So real.

She pulled away and her eyes fluttered open. Those stunning eyes. They weren’t dead. They weren’t iced over like dead-meat in a freezer. They were as vibrant as ever and they drew me in. I was in such a trance that I almost didn’t notice her speak. Her voice was a sweet melody that reminded you of a warm summer day, just like this one.

“We won’t float, Stan. Never. You, me, the losers. We’re birds, Stan. Birds don’t float, they fly.” Y/N stood up. Taking my hand in hers, pulling me up off the dead acidic soil. “So how about we fly?”

I smiled. It was a genuine smile. Y/N had rekindled the fire. My heart burns there too. “You’re right.” I walked over to my bike, the losers watching me carefully. I kicked up the kickstand, threw my leg over, and checked my watch. “Ice-cream shop’s still open.”

The Losers club erupted in cheer. Ben ran to his bike and hopped on with surprising agility. Everyone else jogged to their bikes, pulled them up off the road, and got ready to take off. Everyone except Y/N, who walked slowly over to my bike. She stood bashfully beside me. I was close enough to kiss her. She spoke very quietly. “I’m sorry if that back there was…um. Well if it was-”

I leaned forward and pressed my lips to hers, finally managing to cherish the kiss now that I wasn’t half dead myself. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first day I met you.”

Y/N chuckled bashfully. “I know.” She leaned in and kissed my cheek. Softly but surely. “Me too.” We both smiled at each other before she leaned in close again, only this time she didn’t kiss me. She only whispered in my ear. “Race you to the Ice-cream shop.” and with uncanny speed she hopped on her bike and sped off, the two of us leading the Losers Club in a mad dash on wheels. We forgot all about Neibolt speeding down that street, Bill triumphantly yelling “Hi-ho, Silver. Away!”

And down Neibolt street, through Derry, away from all the fear and the pain… we flew.

I love you all with my life and I want you to know that the IT imagines aren’t stopping here!

Peace out girl-scouts!

Love, E


The tendency for children to enjoy reading fantasy/adventure stories about children older than them rather than their own age, and the accompanying feeling of melancholy or unbelonging that stems from growing to be the same age as or older than their favorite child protagonists without ever having gone on adventures. Name proposal: The Hogwarts Letter Effect.


Anoint me with sludge, so that I
might cry acidic tears
and smudge
    once beloved
                 oil painted cypresses.

keeps your gears pristine,
                                      allow it
                       to wash my slate

 Discarded. The plastic cups; the
 tin holders; the bags once filled
 with groceries.

                  The hunger is stilled.
The thirst is stilled.

Discarded I –       a drifter at sea.

A mouthful for the seagull.

A turtle neck choked.


             I am plastic patches.

Even the ocean is not deep enough
                               to drown
                 my sorrow.

I am the unbelonging; I float where I
should sink to disappear.

Afraid to make the world of tomorrow,
         I destroy everything I used to
                               care about

Is this our sacrifice for advancement?

      Instead of soiling the bed,
      can’t I just leave it

                       - M.A. Tempels © 2017

anonymous asked:

fareeha and angela have a picnic

The picnic is in the second half because when I was writing the picnic scene I had An Idea (a fluffy one) and so I needed to establish a background.  But the picnic is definitely there… and very important to both of them… for reasons which will become obvious.

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The Awakening

You have the ability to guide people back from the dead with the smallest touch. Yet what happens when you lay your hand upon a stranger that never possessed a beating heart to begin with?

=> Jungkook x Reader AU

Warning: Mentions of death and blood. Nothing too bad though.

=> 1 |


Black boots crunched under the thickening snow, the frosty air biting into his lungs with each useless breath inhaled. The sky glowed above with a darkened hue, fog surrounding the abandoned town while the moon shone down and lit the path before him. Yet behind the smell of fresh snow and freezing rain hid the stench of death, and in the splatters of red canvasing untouched white was when Jungkook knew he had found the right place.

A place of death.

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Renji+Ichigo Progression

Can we all just take a long moment to appreciate the beautiful development these two have gone through in their relationship? 

I mean, okay, I admit it, I’m shipping trash, so Renji’s badass bro speech was viewed with my 3D shipping goggles, but even sucking the romance out and viewing that platonically, holy shit Kubo, well done with the development of this relationship.

Seriously, I’ve been waiting for their friendship to be acknowledged, because this speech of Renji’s is really a culmination of the entirety of his character - he’s such an empathetic caring loyal friend that it’s kind of weird that they haven’t had the, ‘I know I used to hate you, but…’ speech yet.

What’s more is that the whole thing was a gigantic thank you to Ichigo, and for good reason.

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ok so I,,, misplaced an ask in a series of unfortunate events but! I have fixed things! Five days after promised!! For @600ml​, hope it lives up to expectations :’)

NozoEli - #34 “You can put your cold feet on me.”

The first thing Russia greets Nozomi with is a small airborne blonde.

“Nozomi-chan!” Alisa dangles off Nozomi’s neck, giddy with the rush of seeing her again after an entire semester away. Nozomi laughs and, with a quick glance around for stray passersby first, spins Alisa in a circle that lifts her feet.

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After all these years of waiting. Waiting for the fire to come down from the sky. I think I am ready to walk without that feeling of unbelonging been a shadow. A shame that makes me feel like a visitor in my own country. Im ready to wash out the heartache that kept me kneeling.
—  Tapiwa Mugabe, tapiwamugabe.tumblr.com

The category of gender is a construct, and gender identity is a way of relating to the discursive act upon the body and conditionally accepting or rejecting aspects of it. To completely accept this discourse is rare, especially because of the violence that comes with gendering of the body-object. While other power structures may contribute to the emotions that lead to existential turmoil and philosophical angst at the discourse of gender surrounding one’s body, that gender is part of the assemblage of oppression is not to be denied. This is especially true in cis women, who identify as women but must deal with the resultant violence.

All of this is to say that basic, reductive conceptions of cisness that describe it as a comfort with the body-object in relation to gender rely upon incredibly fraught assumptions about relating to the body-object as well as how cisnormative standards dictate this process of relating and in turn how one may relate to that process of relating. 

Furthermore, it reduces transness to dysphoria, which is itself not only a limiting and restrictive narrative of transness designed to medicalize trans experience while allowing it to be understood as a subjectivity based upon pain and unbelonging in the body-object that may be easily consumed by cisnormative metanarratives. 

Dysphoria without gender would still be possible, but it would not be transness by any measure of construction because transness is a relation to discursive forces of gender. Destruction of gender can relate in a far wider range of expression and comfort, and in fact would be at its core a destruction of the relations involved in gatekeeping for trans people, trans women especially. Creating incoherence-of-gender in the meantime is a rather strong way of resisting forces of gendering, but it cannot be the extent of one’s resistance to gender. Rather, it must be a starting point from which the relations of gender may be analyzed and deconstructed, and the points at which gender is deconstructed in turn examined for a replication of gender under other modes of construction and exertion of power. 

Destroying the colonial apparatus of gender does not mean destroying identity or cultural manifestations of that which is called gender. Rather, the power structures involved which allow for gendered violence and for gender to be a part of violent assemblages would themselves be gone. 

This is not an inherent aspect of socialism; some socialists and communists would be unwilling to engage in this specific project because of the necessity of poststructuralist analysis and drawing-upon of postmodernism (a sort of post-postmodernism) but to say that these are thusly alien goals to socialist liberation is an incorrect assumption. The vocabularies and ways of analyzing structures could potentially be different, but I would not begrudge more orthodox marxists who worked upon the same projects of unintelligibility towards gender and an eventual realization of what identity would constitute in assemblage post-gender. 

Maybe I followed you too long
like a stray, but you kept offering
me milk. You have the sweetest
shoulders. I want to come in and
to be yours; I’ve been unbelonging
for a while. You have the nicest
eyes. You have the warmest touch.
This all feels like love to me, but
it’s not, is it? You feel bad for my
hunger and for me. I wish I hadn’t
met you so I wouldn’t have
someone to miss.
—  Rebeka Anne, love like charity
Today I am full of
Like water dripping
From clasped palms
That do not know how
To hold me.
Seeking stillness
But always moving, running
Through places
That do not thirst
For my presence.
—  3.6.15
maybe she’s homesick for a place where her heart is full and her mind not haunted. sometimes her alone gets so large, the people on the bus can hear it. nostalgia cracks the walls. the cleaning, the dusting, the scrubbing - these are all ways to begin afresh, ways to begin again. the unbelonging, the unbelonging, the unbelonging. it took everything in you to get up from the sofa today, didn’t it? did the sadness keep you still? exhaustion and heaviness are cruel lovers who make homes at the bottom of the heart, in the curls of the hair, under the tongue.
—  notes about the macaanto with the tired eyes, leyla ahmed