#i can’t believe this man got an emmy nom for playing a character called hot neighbor

[cillixn]

danonation we are so back

[octoberobserver]

I recently had a dream about a plot for a fic where reddie get a duck from mike on their wedding day and the note makes it seem like it’s meaningful to their relationship and they spend their whole honeymoon trying to figure out what the deep meaning of this duck is and it turns out stan and bev dared mike to do it to fuck w/ them and when i woke up i immediately was like SOMEONE HAS TO WRITE THIS and i immediately thought of you! (literally u don’t have to it’s just funny how i thought of you)

Hi Nonnie! This *probably* isn’t what you had in mind, but I hope you like it anyway ^_^ ♥️

Your Love Life’s DOA (read on ao3)

“...a chick.” 

“Pretty sure it’s a cock, dude.”

“It’s a chicken, asswipe. Cocks are roosters.” 

“Huh. And here I thought cocks were—”

“Don’t,” Eddie Kaspbrak held up his hands, cutting Richie Tozier off mid-terrible-joke. 

Richie just smirked, his eyes alight in a way that never failed to make Eddie’s stomach swoop.

“Cock, chicken, whatever it is,” he waved dismissively with the hand not cradling the miniature poultry, “it’s cute as fuck.”  

Eddie stared at Richie staring down at the (probable) baby chicken, warmth spreading across his chest. 

He only basked in the feeling for .2 seconds however as the irritation he had felt this morning when he opened the door to go grab their mail and nearly stomped on the little feather-ball, made a swift resurgence. 

“But why the fuck was it outside our door?”

“...”

“Richie.”

“...”

“Rich.” 

“...”

“Trashmouth!” 

Richie’s head snapped up from where he had been gazing down at the chick that looked comically small in his ridiculously large hand. 

Eddie’s treacherous stomach did an impressive (if annoying) front handspring. 

“I don’t know, Eds. Maybe it was meant for the butcher shop down the street. Or a petting zoo,” he tilted his head, looking pensive, “maybe it’s Erica Delaney getting her sweet revenge on me after I broke our egg-son in the first five minutes of class. Or it’s the chicken god’s gift to us to raise in his image, fucked if I know. All I do know is,” he shrugged, gently, with one shoulder as to not jostle the chirping baby bird, “we're definitely keeping it.” 

Eddie blinked.

“We can’t keep a chicken in the apartment, Richie.”

Richie’s eyebrows raised halfway up his expansive forehead.

“Why not? I own the building, and I say it’s all good for lil Chick-Fil-A to stay.”

“We’re not naming it after a homophobic chicken restaurant, dickwad.” 

A slow smile spread across Richie’s face that had Eddie’s pulse simultaneously racing and screeching to a halt. 

“...But we are keeping it?”

Fuck.

~*~

“Chicken Little?”

“No.”

“Chicken Run.”

“What?”

“Chick Flick.”

“Hell no.”

“Oh! Wait! I got it - Chicken Carbonara! Carbs for short.” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“I agree,” Stanley Uris piped up as he meandered his way over to where Eddie and Richie (baby chick loudly making her presence known in his shirt pocket) were arguing at the sink, glass in hand, topping up Patty’s Merlot.

“You don’t have a horse in this race, Staniel,” Richie dismissed his input, gently running a finger over the chick’s fuzzy head, adopting a sickening sweet baby voice, “Isn’t that right, Carbs? Uncle Stan the Man wouldn’t know a good nickname if it kicked him in the face.” 

“Coming from the man called ‘Trashmouth.’” 

“Eds gave me that name, so blame him,” Richie quirked an eyebrow, elbowing the man in question. 

Eddie’s Chardonnay tipped dangerously close to the rim of the glass. 

Richie ignored his murderous glare. 

“Now all we need,” Richie beamed with pride as ‘Carbs’ gave another loud chirp from her cloth perch, “...is a duck.” 

Eddie winced, “You need to stop binge-watching Friends, Rich. Who are we, Joey and Chandler?” 

“Dibs on Chandler!”

Eddie rolled his eyes, gesturing up and down at Richie. 

“Well duh.” 

Richie merely smirked, tilting his head at him, “You’re definitely more of a Monica than a Joey, though.” 

“So in this scenario, you two are married?”

Both Eddie and Richie whirled around to blink at Stan who had attracted the attention of the rest of the Losers, each now awaiting some sort of response with rising interest. 

Eddie refused to give one. 

He also refused to look at Richie not give one. 

“Ooh we’re playing the Which Friends Character Are You game, huh?” Richie asked, stepping around Stan, eyes still focussed on the chick. 

Stan rolled his eyes, “There’s eight of us, it doesn’t work.” 

“Spoken like a true Ross.” 

Stan shook his head and sighed.

Like the Ross he was.

“Alright, I’m game,” Bev piped up, raising her glass from across the room, her eyes glinting at Richie. 

“Do your worst, Trashmouth.” 

Richie smirked, clearly tickled by the challenge. 

“Alright, Marsh,” he cleared his throat, beginning to pace the room like Columbo at the end of every episode, where he explained how he solved the whole damn case with nothing but a moved potted plant, “You’re Phoebe obviously, because you’re a fiery but lovable enigma who’s cooler than all of us combined.”

Bev chuckled, “Damn straight.”

“Haystack here,” Richie whirled around, cradling Carbs to his chest in one hand and pointing with the other, “is our Joey for his actor good-looks and lovable nature.” 

Ben sank down into the couch next to Bev, picking up her socked-feet and rubbing them, “I’ll take it.” 

Bev grinned, “I did always think Joey and Phoebe should’ve got together. Although Paul Rudd was great.”

“Which leads me to,” Richie turned to his left, smirking.

“Oh no,” Mike held up his hands, “count me out. Black people weren’t even a thing on Friends until like season 9 or whatever so—”

“Oh yeah, the diversity sucks ass Mikey, no one’s disputing that,” Richie agreed with a nod, “but hear me out. You’re Mike, Mike! A sexy, African-American Paul Rudd. Think about it...you may come in late in the game but you win everyone over instantly with your good looks, nerdy charm and wicked air-piano skills! Just like you did with the Losers Club!” 

Mike blinked, amused.

Stan tilted his head.

“I don’t think that’s exactly—”

“Same with Patty!” 

Richie cut Stan off, clearly on a roll, whirling around to point at his wife.

“It feels like she’s always been with us, right?” he asked the group at large, smile pleased when everyone nods in agreement, Bev winding an arm around her from where she was perched on the arm of the couch, causing Patty to flush and grin behind her wine glass at the compliment. 

“And you know who was always with the Friends? Always there, like an honorary 7th member? Or 8th in this case?” 

Eddie rolled his eyes, not quite believing he was going to participate in this.

“Gunther.” 

Richie winked, “Gold star for Kaspbrak.” 

“She does make a mean Cappuccino,” Stan mumbled almost absentmindedly as Patty gave her charming snort-laugh, letting her head rest against her husband’s shoulder as he stood next to the couch. 

“Which leaves…”

Richie slowly turned on the spot, like the dramatic bastard he was. 

“Congrats, Bill. You’re Rachel. Our Jen Aniston. People are gonna start copying your hairstyle soon.” 

Bill chuckled, “Yeah, don’t think ‘The Bill’ has quite the same ring to it, Rich.” 

Richie gave a dismissive wave. 

“It’ll catch on. Then you’ll become a mega movie star and forget the rest of us exist. Except for Eddie, of course.”

Bill frowned.

“Why just Eddie?”

Richie threw him an exasperated look.

“Because he’s Monica! Courteney Cox. Best friend of Jen to this day. Duh.” 

“So you two are married, then?” 

Eddie felt his throat tighten as Richie squared his shoulders at Stanley, gently putting Carbs in her bed before huffing out a laugh.

“Nah man, we’re still in the friends-who-help-friends-give-their-dates-orgasms-in-seven-steps, stage.” 

Stan rolled his eyes.

“Right.” 

Eddie watched as the two friends stared at one another, a weird tension draping over them.

And in true Phoebe-style, Bev broke it.

“Hey, who wants to hear my Smelly Cat rendition?” 

Richie’s analysis was flawed, of course. Bill didn’t know jack about fashion (that was Bev), Ben built stages not performed on them, Stan actually loved, cherished and respected his partner, Patty wasn’t desperately in unrequited love with Bill (that was Mike, though it was requited), Mike wasn’t married to Bev (that was Ben) and Bev…

Well.

Bev was spot on, actually. A riddle, wrapped in an enigma, shrouded in mystery, all while being simultaneously cool and lovable. 

And Eddie?

He was Monica Geller and proud of it, dammit.

A damn shame Courteney never got the Emmy-nom, in his opinion. 

As for Richie?

Richie wasn’t Chandler Bing. Chandler Bing was Richie Tozier.

“If only they had let Chandler be gay,” Richie sighed wistfully as Eddie closed the door, waving off the last of their guests, Bill and Mike as they hopped in an Uber headed for Casa Denbrough. 

“Why? So you could fuck Ben instead?” 

Eddie knew how his voice sounded as he slowly leaned back against the door, reaching out to pull Richie towards him by his collar, crashing their lips together in a bruising kiss that he had ached for all night. 

Richie gasped into his mouth, his hands roaming Eddie’s body like a hyperactive octopus, pressing him back against the door and rolling his bottom lip between his teeth.

Eddie groaned, breaking the kiss, staring up at his best-friend-turned-secret-boyfriend. 

“So, when do we tell them we hooked up at Ben and Bev’s wedding?” 

Richie chuckled, leaning down and pressing his lips against Eddie’s neck, right over the spot he knew drove him crazy, breathing hot against his skin. 

“Not until I ask Bill for his eyelash curler and Ben figures us out. Duh.”

~*~

They really should have been all fucked out after three weeks of eating, drinking, sleeping and sex-ing in Barbados, and yet, as soon as they got back to their apartment, they christened their old bed, their leaking shower and the living room floor because they just couldn’t get enough of each other.

Married.

They were fucking married.

Husbands. 

Legally bound.

Til death—

No, not even death could stop them. They proved that already.

“You’re heavy,” Eddie groaned, his chest vibrating under where Richie had his face squished against it. 

“It’s all the Barbadian food, dude. S’gone straight to my thighs.”

Eddie brushed his hand along said thigh, squeezing roughly.

“Hmm. I like your thighs.” 

“I like you.”

“You better. You’re kinda stuck with me now.”

Richie lifted his head off Eddie’s sweaty chest, smiling softly, interlocking their left hands, pressing their rings together. 

“Guess my love life isn’t D.O.A anymore, huh.” 

Eddie groaned, and not in the sexy way he had been five minutes before. 

“Those Friends references grew old in the nineties, dude. Stop.”  

Richie pecked at his lips, letting out a sound of disagreement. 

“I’ll have you know, Eds, I—”

The unmistakable sound of a knock echoed throughout the apartment. 

They blinked at one another.

“Who the fuck is that? No one knows we’re home yet.”

The post-Honeymoon-fuck had come (heh) above all - including texting the group chat that they had made it back safely onto California soil. 

Marriage had made them selfish like that.

Eddie shrugged, “I don’t know. Could be Rosa dropping off Carbs. I did tell her we’d be back today, and she might have like...sensed us. You know what she’s like.”

Rosa was their downstairs neighbour, a lovable, elderly woman who seemed to have had a sixth sense for everything Richie and Eddie-related even before they had become a couple, often calling them out for the pining bullshit before they got their act together, got tipsy at Benverly’s wedding and jumped each other. 

Or as Richie put it once - “She high-key ships us, man. Wants us to bone it out.” 

To this day, Eddie had no idea what that meant. 

Another knock came, this one louder.

“Alright, I’m coming,” Eddie called out, pushing a whining Richie off his chest before he could make the obvious joke and forcing himself to sit up, grimacing as the sheet stuck to his back. 

He’d have to be the one to answer. No way he was unleashing a half-naked Richie onto Mrs Hernandez. 

Eddie actually had the decency to pull on sweatpants and an old Trashmouth-tee before padding to the door.

He knew his husband did not.

Husband.

Eddie smiled to himself, his stomach doing its usual somersaults that he knew would never fully disappear. 

Richie Tozier, his lifelong best friend, was now his husband too. 

Crazy. 

“Sorry Rosa, we were—”

His incredibly made-up-on-the-spot excuse died on his lips as he opened the front door to reveal - nothing. 

Frowning, Eddie stared into the empty air, turning his head to glance down the very vacant hallway.

And then, he heard it.

Quack! 

“Oh, not again.” 

“Duck!” 

Richie said it like fuck.

Like he had been human-autocorrected.

“Yes, Richie, I see that,” Eddie sighed at his husband who had appeared over his shoulder, still shirtless, staring down at the baby duck sitting pretty in a box, much like Carbs had two years before.

“We’re not naming him Daffy,” Eddie grumbled, bending down to gently pick up the box, cradling the duckling against his chest and kicking the door shut.

Richie opened his mouth.

“Or Donald.” 

Richie closed his mouth. 

One quack called Donald was enough. 

“We’ll brainstorm,” Richie grinned, leaning down and capturing Eddie’s lips, before softly patting the new addition to their family on the head.

They’d find the note later. The one that read, 

To Chandler and Monica, 

You two were the last to find out.

Not Stan. 

Here’s a brother for Carbs.

We left her with you as a prank, for Richie’s Friends obsession, but you became the best dads ever instead. You’ll do it again. 

Just don’t get them stuck in the Foosball Table. 

~The Losers