#though i might have fried every braincells in my head

[sucrosette]

★— ⋆｡˚ [He Loves My Butter Lips]

For Day 25 of Carry on Countdown 23, Carnival/Faire. @carryon-countdown

Simon Snow hates his boyfriend and his boyfriend's ego and all the plushies he's won for him so, so bloody bad (but not really, not really at all).

Rated T for... honestly I think Simon is cursing every other sentence in this.

⋆｡˚

The best part about the faire is the bloody food. The cheese sticks, the corndogs on sticks, pickles on sticks, the spun sugar on sticks, in certain parts of the world (this part of the world!!) the fried butter on sticks, everything fried and everything on sticks. It’s divine. I’m going to die of a heart attack at one of these godforsaken carnival-faire-decadence-things, but Merlin and Morgana both, it will have been bloody worth it. The best bloody thing is the fucking food. Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise. If they think otherwise, they’re bloody daft.

Now some people might claim having a boyfriend who could hack all the carnival games would be the best bloody part, but their boyfriends are not Basilton fucking Grimm-Pitch, are they? No, the honour of calling that one a boyfriend is mine, and he’s too bloody smug about it.

Not to say that I don’t love and cherish each and every one of those ridiculously large plushies, and not to say that they don’t each get a name and a little home in our littler apartment, but does Baz have to bloody fucking smirk about it every time he predicts right? Does he have to be right so bloody often?

He’s such a sodding twat about it, I hate him. (I love him. He’s perfect. Never bloody tell him that though, his ego is killing me already.)

Presently, I have four fucking plushies squished in between the space between my arms and my chest and each of them is the size of my torso. “Basil!” I can see him heading to win me a fifth, “Basil, I swear, I literally cannot hold another sodding plush bear, please do not.”

I just want that fried butter, but how will I eat the fried butter without hands to hold the stick required to eat the fried butter? Baz probably wouldn’t even let me eat the fried butter anyway. He should let me eat the fried butter, it’s not like I won’t go at a stick occasionally anyway. He’s trying to train me out of it, the ninny. As if I want to learn better than eating sticks of butter.

He’s already out of bloody earshot.

I huff down at my growing collection of plushies. Mr. Bun, Mrs. Bear, Sir Froggington the Fourth, and the Little Duck that Could will surely have another companion soon. The Little Duck that Could is in fact the largest of the plushes, but he has small animal energy. I think he might also technically be a swan, but it’s too late, he’s already been named. It’s sticking.

There’s nothing to be done about it, I suppose. I faithfully trudge after Basil and pray he’s wrong about his skills in this carnival game, just this once, and then I see what it sodding is.

Bloody fucking football.

No wonder he’s practically whooping about it. Well, as much as Baz might whoop. It’s basically just an overly enthused grin, the smile showing the in the curve of his cheek, a not-quite-there, but not-quite-not-there dimple, his eyes sparkling. I can’t very well tell him not to kick footballs about, it’s Baz Pitch, king of the pitch, it’s in his sodding name.

I find a nearby bench to sit my hindquarters on and plop myself down. At least from here I can partake in a particular favourite activity of my own: staring at Baz’s ass while he kicks bloody footballs about.

It’s been three whole years since Watford and 4 years since he played on any kind of regular team, and he has not lost his form. I rest my chin atop Mrs. Bear’s head and sigh. He’s so bloody handsome it hurts to look at sometimes. I think I feel myself losing braincells I turn so braindead just from the man bloody existing.

I hate him so bloody bad. (He’s so perfect I forget how to speak. He’s so handsome I forget how to breathe. I love him so badly it aches whenever he’s not around. Sometimes I think I’m going to be sick from how insane he makes me.)

He’s beaten the game in a solid minute, he’s such a fucking wanker, I love him so fucking much it’s ridiculous. He’s already walking his way back to me with a giant fucking pink kitten plush in his arms, with ridiculous white patches over it’s eyes, and then he does something that makes me love him some impossible amount more.

A small girl, no more than six or seven, I think, had apparently had shit luck with the game, because she’s looking up at Baz with the biggest pleading eyes I have ever seen on a child. He’s kneeling down to talk to her now and the girl’s adult, I think maybe an older sister or very young aunt, is waving her head, like Basil doesn’t have to do whatever he’s thinking about doing, but Basil only shrugs and hands over the plush like it was nothing.

Oh, he’s so smug and soft and kind and perfect, how bloody dare he.

I am going to snog him so sodding hard when we get home.

When he saunters over to me, he shrugs again, as if to say ‘what more can you do?’ but I still have every intention to rib him about it.

“Did you really just give away Sofia the Third of her Name without asking me?”

Baz perks a brow at me, relieving me of Mr. Bun’s company (how dare he?? We have been bonding??) and my arms thank him for it. “I can win you another if you like.”

“No, no,” I sniff dramatically and I can tell Basil knows I’m just taking the piss, “She seemed nice and not at all like an evil child. You can make it up to me in other ways.”

“And how might I appease his royal plush collector?” Basil doesn’t hesitate to rib me right back and I make a show of thinking about it, looping my arm around his and dragging him away from the games and towards the intoxicating smells of fried food.

“Well, you can start by telling me the little miss’s sob story,” I answer and lean myself a little more against my prick of an overconfident boyfriend as we walk, “And then maybe I’ll decide.”

It’s a lie, by the way, I’ve already decided.

Baz, of course, knows this, but he tells me anyway. “Well, she lost all her tickets trying to win a goldfish, but then fell in love with your Sofia the Third–”

“Sofia the Third of her Name,” I correct.

“Right. She fell in love with your Sofia, but with no tickets she couldn’t even attempt. Besides, it’s already past her bedtime and her aunt needs to get her back home before it gets too late. It wasn’t really much of anything. Sofia cost me basically nothing.”

“Because you game the system,” I’m nodding along even as I hear Baz start to huff over it. It makes me laugh a little.

“I’m just good at the bloody games–” He protests and I’m still laughing.

“Good at breaking them, yes,” I agree, already moving on, “Anyway, you can get me a ride on the ferris wheel with all your obscenely large plushies and a stick of fried butter.”

“Simon,” Baz looks down at me, utterly appalled, “I absolutely refuse to get you a stick of fried butter. I refuse to be party to your early, untimely, cholesterol-related death.”

“But Basil,” I give him my best impression of those puppy dog eyes, “I thought you loved me.”

“We are getting you your ferris wheel ride, but there is absolutely no way I’m kissing you post fried butter. I refuse.”

I’m still pouting ferociously at him.

He’s avoiding looking at me.

We’re stopped in front of the dreaded butter stall.

He’s still not looking at me.

I keep pouting.

He caves.

I’ve got my butter stick, my ferris wheel ride, and kisses at the very top of it, despite his complaints and protests.

I love him so much I might die. I might also die of too much butter intake. I don’t care. It’s stupidly delicious. I’m stupidly happy. He could ask me to marry him right now, I’d definitely say yes. He’s too busy bitching about my butter lips to ask me to marry him though. He’s lying through his teeth.He bloody well adores my butter lips and I know it.

[jamieedlund]

Parasite

And from the boy's arm sprouted the witchweeds

Very well!- the plant exclaimed

Your life force shall be an acceptable trade, we will undo the curse.

Timelapse

Extra notes: my agenda is saving your idiot on death door and being smug about it afterwards like 'Haha you didn't think I'd let you die that easily right? You literally raised me to be the strongest human mage, you bastard!' vs 'There are witchweeds literally growing out of you, give it here before it kills you' *gets rid of the parasitic plants*

[safetycar-restart]

OH I FORGOT ABT YESTERDAY????????

YES charles belly bulge! makes him feels so full and so owned! and he loves feeling so full and so owned!

not only can he feel your cock inside him, rearranging his guts (which he, once again, loves) but he sometimes unconsciously places a hand on his stomach and feel you move inside him.

the poor man's brains just fries up. head empty, only how you are inside him because charles is fucking weak and finds it a huge turn on.

if you place a hand over his when he touches his belly bulge, literally just softly pressed your hand on his to make him feel how big you are inside him and he will become a putty mess!

he'd seriously be in heaven, eyes rolling back and calling out for his mommy. he just pulls you down a bit so he can fully hug you, hold onto you and give you a kiss on YOUR forehead this time. then, he'd go back to burying his face in the crook of your neck, whimpering and pouting, loving how deep you are inside him.

- 📓

I read this and then had to go stare at the wall for a few minutes because it’s just too good. What did we do to deserve 📓 anon in our lives?

Firstly, I completely agree about Charles feeling owned when he can feel you like that. Like of course he knows you’re fucking him the strap, he can certainly feel that are you. But feeling it with his hand on his tummy is a whole other thing?

In fact it’s almost like an out of body experience for him?

Which is just far too much information for Charles’s little braincell to process while being fucked. The only option is for his poor braincell to malfunction and for him to end up smiling dumbly as he holds a hand on his tummy.

And then to have to put you hand there? Insane. Charles has died and gone to heaven because now you’re feeling yourself there? Charles has never felt so owned before this is absolutely everything.

Sometimes Charles will have little moments during scenes where he just becomes so overwhelmed with how much he loves you that he feels like his heart might actually burst if he doesn’t express it. And feeling you press your hand down on his tummy is a sure fire way to get him to have one of those little moments.

He just whimpers and pulls you down, kissing every inch of your skin that he can reach because he must express his love for you right this second. That’s when you’ll get your forehead kiss.

It’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen, and of course you just let Charles do it.

Also, imagine kissing his tummy during aftercare after he’s spent half the time you were fucking him with his hand on his tummy to feel you inside him?

You kiss his tummy, maybe blow a raspberry or two just to hear him giggle.

Charles squeals and giggles and says, “Mommy! I felt you right there!”

“Really?” You ask him, though of course you already know the answer. You just love listening to a fucked our Charles try to explain something.

Charles nods, “Could feel you with my hand! On my tummy! It was so good.”

Of course you just have to kiss his tummy again.

[vynseducationalflagpole]

First Love

"How your love story started"

(Vyn Richter)

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Fem!reader

Warnings:none

Genre:all fluff and basically Vyn head over heels inlove with u

Probably not proofread(I have very bad memory🏃‍♀️)

A/N: Gonna make one for every tot man and might add the obey me! characters as well depending on my 3 independently working braincells(NOBODY TALK ABT HOW SOME PARTS DONT MAKE SENSE M'KAY? 😭)

Vyn Richter was an overachiever. He was well aware of how much of a perfectionist he is judging by how he dislikes it whenever he sees even the smallest speck of dust somewhere. Because of this fact, he makes sure that he excels in his studies. He claims that he despises his father yet even Vyn himself notices how in any step or decision he makes, he slowly becomes a clone of the man he'd hated his whole life. He hates how he prioritizes his role as a duke than never letting go of his wife which he claimed and vowed to love forever. Despite Vyn knowing well that he's absolutely attractive, he hates how he mirrors his Father's image. Everyone he knew teased him about it. Always mentioning the saying, "You become what you hate the most".  That is if he does manage to make friends in school.

He sees people as greedy beings that would only take interest with him because of his Father. He loathes how people look at him in endearment even if he's just doing the bare minimum. But you—the way your eyes look at him gently. The way that whenever he meets your gaze, you'd always show him your cheerful smile setting aside the envious looks you get from your classmates. He likes how you treat him. He likes how you treat him as an 'Equal'. But is that really the only thing he likes about you? It was subtle but he sometimes notices how he'd look at you during classes neglecting his studies. Whenever he stares at you, everything around you would cease to exist. You'd always look like a lone Rose in the middle of no where supplying the light in the endless void you stay in. He's never actually initiated any type of interaction with you unless you're both paired in a project or when you need help with exams but as the school year nears it's end, he decides to test his luck.

He's now seated on the side, drinking a glass of coke as he squint his eyes because of the blinding lights flashing around the room. Laughter and other noises reverbs around the room. Everyone looking lively and having the time of their lives. He lightly laughs at himself for just sitting around with a glass of coke in hand staring at the people on the dance floor. As his eyes dart around the room, his eyes meet a familiar figure. There you were in the distance, talking with your friends. Your hair tied up and being held in place by a clip designed like a Rose. Your red gown mixing in. He took his time to drink up this breathtaking sight in front of him until he was snapped back to reality by someone calling his name.

"Vyn—Vyn—Vilheilm!" He snaps his head to the left and hid eyes are met with thr sight for 2 men standing near. One holding a bowl—probably full of French Fries and the other standing before him, right hand in front of his face while his left arm is holding an empty glass. The said man in front of him breaths a sigh of relief. "Next thing you know, he's drooling over that girl" The boy holding a bowl of fries teases him while his mouth is full of tasty treats. The other slaps the back of his head as he reminds him not to speak with his mouth full. Vyn sits there quietly putting his attention back to you. "Fix yourself up. Honestly, you look like a lost puppy admiring your owner—wait that does kinda suit you." "Says the one eating like a pig" Vyn snaps back followed with a snicker. "Hey—!" "Vyn's not wrong though. I mean look at you, staying at painting your crush instead of actually talking to them."  "Weren't you the one that secretly gifts your crush some antiques because you're also scared of approaching her?"

Vyn lifts his glasses a bit and pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "Luke, Marius, may I ask the reason why you decided to disturb my peace and annoy me?"  "Aw, look at him acting all elegant and all" The boy named 'Marius' teases Vyn which just fueled Vyns annoyance. "Nothing really. We just saw you staring at nothing, smiling like an idiot." Vyn looks at Luke as his eyes sharply pierces through him. "Anyway, I'm tired of seeing you stare at that woman like some kind of hawk—stand up, you're gonna ask her to dance." Luke continues talking to avoid Vyn's incoming scolding. As soon as he finishes, Vyn looks up at Luke with confusion. "Excuse mE—" Both of Vyns' arms are pulled up by Luke and Marius as he's dragged towards you. "Stop it— I already have something planned! YoU'RE GONNA RUIN EVERYTHIN—" Vyn tries to reason with the two but it all fails. He's now standing in front of you, his hair looking a bit untidy. Marius and Luke waves at him goodbye as they both look around, presumably looking for something. Or—someone. Also, for some reason, your friends, whom you were just talking to have now disappeared. You stare up to Vyn's eyes as he stands there in silence trying to comprehend what had just happened. "Vy—"  "Would you like to share this dance with me?" Vyn cuts you off. You were taken aback by his sudden invitation but you took on his offer. "Just follow my lead, please don't get nervous." He takes you in the middle of the dance floor as the sounds of the piano surround the room. Vyn puts his right hand on the small of your back whilst his left holds your hand.

"Put your hand near my shoulder" Vyn lightly whispers to you and you follow suit. As soon as the other people around you move, you both take off as well. The speed onto which you both move was both fast but also manageable. You couldn't describe how you felt about the current situation, but you knew deep down that you're happy about it. As you both dance to your hearts content, neither of you had realized how much time has passed until Vyn's expression suddenly shifts but quickly goes back to his usual calm look. "We're nearing the end of the dance." he whispers to you with enough loudness reserved only for your ears.

The music starts to pick up, and in response, everyone in the dance floor moves a bit faster too. The rhythm picks up, the music gets louder. You follow his steps as the music goes faster. Unbeknownst to you, the hair tie that was holding your hair up in a bun had gotten loose while you were completely bewitched by Vyn's charms. He notices your loose hair as you both stare at each others eyes. While yours were coated with worry, his were filled with delight. As his golden eyes catches your attention once more, the music comes to a stop, you see people around you already paused in a stance whilst Vyn still moves then comes to a stop. He spins you lightly and your dress flows and moves as fluidly as water. He's now partially on top of you, leaning into your face with enough distance for people to witness the events unfold. He leans in closer as his mouth goes beside your ears as he mutters something under your breath. His words come as a shock knowing well that the chances couldn't have been likely but you still happily obliged.

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A/N: it's been like a week since I posted anything— aNYWAY- HAVE THIS VYN LOVE STORY TO FUEL MY our SOUL

Nah not the crusty musty gold seperator thingy why is the quality so low smh

(huge shout out to me for learning wtf is a Viennese waltz is before tryna add it here even tho u cant rlly tell<3)

ALSO U BETTER LISTEN TO US THE DUO SONGS THEY HAVE SUCH GOOD SONGS

IT MAKES ME WANNA ICJSOCOSOCJJSIAZHXI9AOWORIJX

[ghostnebula]

Sincere and Dignified

“Eddie's twenty-first birthday + The entire Losers' Club + Las Vegas + Being in love with your best friend = Well, exactly what you'd expect.”

[read it on Ao3]

(or here)

    Eddie’s birthday is in November. Which makes him the youngest member of the Losers’ Club. Which makes him the last Loser to turn twenty-one.

    Which means they go all-out to celebrate, since it’s the first time they can all (legally) celebrate together. And because they’ve kind of forgone “proper” twenty-first birthday festivities for everyone else, so no one would ever feel left out. Finally, no one needs to be left out of it.

    They’ve all been living together for over three years now, they’re all getting close to graduating from college, and they all saved up for this one, because this is pretty much it. The last big, fun, tangible milestone in their young lives. The last “new” thing they’re earning the right to do (legally) after driving and voting. You bet your ass they go ham on Eddie’s birthday plans.

    That’s how they end up in Vegas. Several long weeks of planning, lots of money they scraped together into jars over the last few years ready to be spent, checking and double-checking every class syllabus to make sure no one misses anything important on Friday (they have to be at their hotel in time for check-in or, between Stan and Eddie, someone will pitch a fit). Then they’re all piling into Ben’s station wagon with as little luggage as they could manage to bring for a weekend trip (the station wagon is “spacious”; it is not a fucking miracle vehicle).

    Roughly ten hours later (five hours for driving, two for check-in plus cramming all their crap into the motel room and then attempting to organize it, one for figuring out and agreeing on where to even start with the partying, two more for getting ready) Eddie Kaspbrak has his first legal drink as a proper twenty-one year old, on this night of November third, and there’s no aftertaste of guilt like usual. He’s got Richie pushing shots into his hands, Mike making sure he’s eating some snacks once in a while so he doesn’t get too trashed too fast, Bev directing bartenders to make the most delicious fucking drinks he thinks he’ll ever taste in his life (Porn Stars, or something else inappropriate like that).

    He has Bill, the oldest, practically under oath to stay sober (at least for tonight) so there’s one semi-coherent Loser present to keep the rest of them safe and sane until he can drag them all back to the motel.

    He has a wad of cash in his pocket, a chunk of his savings from the past year, ready to blow on booze and gambling and whatever the fuck he wants, because it’s his birthday, so he’s allowed to do whatever the fuck he wants.

    It’s safe, and more importantly, it’s legal, and most importantly, it’s Vegas. He never thought he’d ever have the balls to set foot in a place like this -- the kind of place his mother would demonize when he was a kid. Drinking, before he left Derry and his mom and the vice grip she had on his life, was completely out of the question, let alone getting hammered in a casino in Sin City, of all fucking places, under the care of the “evil little shits” he calls his best friends.

    He more than lets loose. He lets twenty-one years of virtually non-stop anxiety unwind in one night.

    When he wakes up the next morning, hung over for the first time in his life, it’s almost worth it. Bill’s the only motherfucker awake already, being that he’s the only one who doesn’t have several bottles of vodka et al. to sleep off, and he’s draped across the ratty arm chair in their ratty motel room, channel-surfing with the television volume as low as it can get. The light burns Eddie’s eyes, still, when he lifts his head and -- instead of turning, his head just kind of lolls on his shoulders until he can look at Bill properly.

    He wants to ask him to end his suffering, which he can only assume he has yet to see the worst of. Suddenly he understands why aspirin exists. He wants Bill to pump him full of painkillers until he stops feeling like he’s made of electrified cotton. Instead, he says, articulately, “Guh.”

    Bill turns his attention from Scooby-Doo to where Eddie is half-lying, trapped under the weight of Richie’s arm and half his chest. Richie is snoring away, glasses askew on his face, a cooling puddle of drool soaking Eddie’s shoulder. It’s gross, but he can’t really complain at this point. He’s accustomed to it by now.

    “Ah, he lives.”

    “Ugh,” says Eddie.

    “I bet,” says Bill. “So, do you want a recap of the events of last night, or did you keep your promise and remember every life-altering decision you chose to make?”

    Bill’s voice, which he’s hardly putting much effort into keeping down -- owing to the fact that all his effort is being channeled into trying not to laugh, and Eddie can’t even begin to fathom what’s so funny -- is causing the other Losers to stir. His splitting headache doesn’t want him to try to figure out what’s funny. He must have fried a metric shitload of braincells with all those Porn Stars last night, or whatever the fuck sugary booze Bev was pouring down his throat before everything went hazy.

    “Life-altering?” he repeats after a few moments, as Richie’s arm finally stops crushing him. It’s the only word that really stands out to him in the jumbled mess of hangover discomfort his brain is fighting, and it should cause him anxiety but he’s more worried, right now, about drinking some water. Richie sits up beside him, yawning.

    Bill hums. He looks terribly pleased with himself, which can be good or bad depending which side of the story you’re on, and Eddie’s got this sneaking suspicion he’s on the wrong side, here. “Yeah, that life-altering thing I tried to talk you two dipshits out of for longer than the actual ceremony took?”

    “Ceremony?” Eddie asks, trying to feel back through his poor, poor brain to remember anything after slot machines and vibrant chatter and deceptively sweet beverages being passed to him. Richie’s head drops onto his shoulder as his arms wrap around Eddie’s waist. “Guh,” he says into the fabric of Eddie’s rumpled shirt. Habitually, Eddie reaches up to pat him consolingly on the head. Richie’s not one for mornings.

    “Why don’t you take a look at your ring finger, birthday boy?” Bill says, but Eddie’s already frozen, because there was a flash when he raised his hand and he’s not entirely sure he’s believing what he’s seeing, and where the fuck did he even get the ring anyway, let alone a ring as nice as this? “Or, sorry, I should say: Mr. Tozier?”

    Eddie... mostly ignores him, in favour of smacking Richie a few times on the skull to get his attention, hangovers be damned. “Richie,” he hisses, heart going a mile a minute. “The fuck did I do?”

    Richie grumbles some kind of complaint, lifting his head from its safe space on Eddie’s shoulder, and when he follows Eddie’s gaze he lets out a kind of... laugh? More of a squawk, really. His left arm jerks off of Eddie’s waist lightning-quick, and then he’s holding up his own hand beside Eddie’s to show off their matching rings. “Oh my god,” he says, quiet (for Richie). A little bit of tension melts out of him. Then, “I think you mean, ‘the fuck did we do?’”

    “Oh my god,” Eddie squeaks, and Bill loses his battle and dissolves into peals of laughter, remote slipping out of his hands and landing somewhere on the floor. “Bill, you were supposed to be babysitting.”

    It takes a while, but Bill manages to regain his composure long enough to say, “Well forgive me, but you were a man on a mission. I distinctly remember a lot of, ‘we’re practically dating anyway’ and ‘no time like the present’ and ‘Bill, if you don’t step the fuck off I’m gonna shove this ring so far up your nostril you’ll be sneezing gold until you’re ninety.’ What was I gonna do about it?”

    “Oh my god,” Eddie says again, red-faced, mortified, heart still going-going-going. They aren’t dating, though, is the problem, and yeah, he’s always had this stupid little idea in his stupid little head that they might as well be, but he’s never asked, because he wasn’t sure if he should. Wasn’t sure if it was safe. Wasn’t sure if Richie wanted something proper or to just stay very, very close friends until the grave. They weren’t dating, and now they’re married, and ohJesusMaryandJoseph why did he let himself get so drunk last night?

    He doesn’t expect Richie to be resentful or anything, but he’s also an anxious mess by default, and post-drunken-haze Eddie is a different, apparently less chill person than mid-drunken-haze Eddie, because he doesn’t remember having this freakout last night.

    He doesn’t think that Richie will be pissed about it, necessarily, but he’s terrified that Richie’s going to want to... undo this, somehow.

    He expects regret.

    He doesn’t expect Richie to slide his hand against Eddie’s so that their rings clack together, letting out a soft little, “Aw,” as he does so, or to press his scratchy, stubbly face against Eddie’s cheek to plant a kiss there, or to say, just as quiet and soft as ever, “We’re married, Eds.”

    “Is that okay?” Eddie asks, heart in his throat, wondering if he somehow forced Richie into this when he wasn’t in full control of his faculties.

    “More than okay,” Richie says. “Is it okay with you?”

    Eddie nods dumbly, staring at their rings again, wondering what the fuck possessed them to make such a rash, life-altering decision like this, yet understanding all too well that his love for Richie is too big to contain and it has to spill out in little doses like this, or it’ll probably kill him, or make him go crazy. “Yeah,” he says finally, nodding perhaps too fast. “Yeah, Richie, it’s more than okay.”

    He turns in Richie’s arms to kiss him properly, apparently not for the first time, and just the action brings a couple snippets of last night’s escapades abruptly to the surface.

*

    “$25 Weddings,” a pink neon sign outside a squat white chapel proclaims, “Sincere and Dignified.” And below that, in smaller, baby blue lettering: “Can provide: Flowers, Rings, Witnesses, Transportation, Attire...” The list goes on. It’s a wonder Eddie is coherent enough to read it, let alone comprehend it, but he’s rounding on Richie, whose arm he’s hanging off of, with the best fucking idea already leaping from his lips.

*

    “Ffffffuck Kaspbrak,” Eddie slurs as a reluctant Bill helps him slip on a suit jacket, fiddling with the purple clip-on bowtie Richie threw over the divider at him. “Fuck Kaspbrak, right, Rich?”

    “Right,” Richie says enthusiastically -- probably too enthusiastically -- from the other side of the thin wooden divider that separates their “changing rooms.”

    “Fuck that name,” Eddie decides, nodding to himself. Bill takes the bowtie out of his hands with a sigh, and Eddie lifts his chin to let Bill fasten it to his shirt, grumbling all the while about how stupid they both are. “And fuck my mom.”

    “Fuck your mom!” Richie shouts. There’s a beat of relative quiet, then, “Not, like, fuck your mom, obviously. Fuck... you, maybe?” And then Bev’s raucous laughter echoes through the whole room.

    Eddie can’t help laughing with her, even though Bill’s insisting he stay still “so you can at least look semi-presentable for your pictures, c’mon, Eddie, this is a big moment for me, too.”

*

    “How are you the bridezilla, here, Bill?”

    “Could you please just work with me here, I swear to-- agh!” (More laughter from Bev. Stan saying something incomprehensible but loud and boisterous. Mike trying to shush them.) “I’m just trying to make sure this is actually special since you absolute buffoons refuse to just wait and do this right.” Is Bill fucking crying?

*

    Richie’s tongue down Eddie’s throat, over and over and over: in the chapel; in a bar; in front of the bar; just before Bill drags them away from the casino they’re trying to sneak back into and instead towards the station wagon he’s doing his best to herd the Losers to; in the station wagon; in front of the motel.

    Bill prying them apart with minimal assistance from a piss-drunk Ben who insists he’s “helping,” telling them once again that they are not allowed to consummate their fucking marriage in public, and especially not allowed to do it in the motel room all seven of them have to sleep in--

*

    He hears Bev’s little “aww” behind him somewhere as he and Richie break apart, and Stan’s grief about how fucking early it is “for this shit.” Eddie can hear something like a smile in his voice, if not just plain old amusement.

    “We’re married, Rich,” Eddie repeats incredulously, and Bill is saying something about their marriage license in his wallet because neither of them can be trusted, but Eddie couldn’t care less about licenses or whatever, because Richie’s smiling down at him in that way that makes his heart feel too full. And he doesn’t mean to, but a choked noise bubbles up out of him, almost a sob, maybe a laugh. Tears burn in his eyes.

    But that’s alright, because Richie’s crying already, and he wraps himself bodily around Eddie, rolling them over so he’s squishing him into the mattress while he kisses all over his face and his throat until Eddie’s squealing with laughter despite his agonizing hangover. He almost feels too good to care about it now, but he’s definitely getting some water and painkillers into his system the second the weird high he’s feeling subsides.

    “Okay, okay,” says Stan, standing above them suddenly, swatting at Richie’s shoulders. “You’ve had your fun. Noisy assholes. We were too drunk for proper congratulations last night. Move over.”

    All the Losers squeeze themselves onto the queen bed, somehow, and water bottles and aspirin get passed around. At some point Bill gets up to start the coffeemaker and comes back with (good fucking lord) their “wedding photos” in a crisp manila envelope. They’re just as gaudy as he expected. Leave it to Richie to find the ugliest possible outfit for his literal wedding.

    Eddie gets hugs and shoulder-squeezes and cheek-kisses from everyone, over and over, and Bev actually cries for about ten full minutes while she holds him, then at least ten more while she holds Richie, and then Ben cries, and... well, they all end up crying all over each other, but it’s awash with joy. “We’re happy for you,” they keep saying, and Eddie’s happy for them, too. He didn’t expect to accidentally do things this way, but he has to be glad it happened.

    “God,” he says a while later, shaking his head as he sips sugary coffee from the mug he and Richie are sharing (this room is meant for four people, max, not seven, and is equipped accordingly). He’s still examining a picture of Richie attempting to give him a piggy-back ride out of the chapel. Bill is visible in the background, eyes red and puffy, a wad of tissues clenched in his hand while Mike tries to console him. Eddie has been making fun of him for about half an hour now. “My mom would flip if I told her about this.” But the thought doesn’t scare him. He doesn’t get scared of her anymore. Not like he used to. Not when he’s so far away and he feels so safe with these six idiots who bring so much joy to his life.

    Richie’s thumb rubs over the skin of his lower back where his hand has crept up Eddie’s shirt. “Good thing you don’t have to,” he says, and that familiar mantra of “You never have to see her again,” bleeds through, plain as ever.

    Eddie hums. Passes the coffee back to him. “I know. But... I kinda want to. Just to watch her head explode,” he says with a shrug and a grin, earning a chorus of easy laughter from his friends. He stares at the ring on Richie’s finger as Richie throws back the rest of their coffee, something warm and familiar blooming brighter in his chest.