eddie kaspbrak (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hypochondrias) wrote2025-09-13 03:24 pm
hypochondrias) wrote2025-09-13 03:24 pm
open post;; yeah why's it so fuckin' funny dickwad?
text/call/action ; open to losers and cross-canon! ; drop a starter or send me a prompt! ; specify era/age if you please
text.
https://www.partycity.com/couples-costumes
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text;
does this shirt make my dick look small?
[ pretend it's Richie wearing the shirt in his underwear ]
dljkfgh yes
Unless you think I've got x-ray vision
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Sacrificial idiot lamb: the AU
When Richie woke, it was like climbing out of a pit filled with molasses, a weight sitting on his chest that just wanted to push him right back down every time he tried to pull himself out of it. His head felt like it was filled with sawdust, his mouth tasted like someone had poured the entirety of the Sahara desert down his throat, and everything else mostly just hurt. All the same, he glanced around, eyes momentarily panicked as he tried to piece everything back together.
They were in the sewers, toe to toe with the fucking clown, and he’d gotten stuck staring into its stupid fucking eyes until Eddie interrupted It. Somehow he’d managed to get his limbs working again, enough to get Eddie out of the way anyway, and then... Mostly just blood and everything hurting and not at the same time.
The soft beeping and antiseptic smell implied he was in a hospital. Okay, that probably made sense. Eventually, his attention settled, gaze clearing enough, not that he could see much right now, but there was a vaguely human-shaped blur nearby so he looked over at it with a dreamy kind of half-smile.
“Why does my throat hurt, did I blow half the fucking hospital while I was asleep or something? Fuck.”
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It wasn't just the freely roaming escaped convicts, the string of child murders, or even the killer clown that crawled out of the worst corner of the universe that crowned the little New England town with such dubious honors. It was the way Derry seemed to draw in everything you loved, sink its disgusting spider legs into it and drag it back under the darkness. It was the waiting, the dread, the deep sense of guilt that clung to Eddie's bones with each artificial beep of the vital signs monitor. It was how Derry stole everything Eddie held dear - and nearly counted one more life among its victims.
Richie had been lucky - miraculously so. He could make a recovery from surgery, and Eddie would be there when he regained consciousness.
After the second day of waiting, Eddie had lost count of the hours. That was when Beverly and Ben had come by to urge Eddie to come back to the Townhouse for a shower, nap, and a change of clothes. But less than five hours later he was back, just as night had fallen. Draped across two chairs, Eddie found himself dozing lightly when a voice cut through the brain fog, sending him nearly bolt upright.
Pitching forward, Eddie blinked bleary-eyed at a face that was now blinking back at him.
"Oh my God, oh my fucking God." The words spilled out, full of relief, hands reaching out to touch gently at Richie's arm. "Yeah, you - yeah, shoulda seen yourself. Half the hospital, lined right up just for you." He blinked back tears that threatened to well up in his eyes and shook his head.
"You have... no fucking idea how good it is to hear your voice."
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text.
if i send you a recording can you do a remote diagnosis
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text.
[ ATTACHED: a picture just like this ]
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You wearing any of these or this completely insane incentive sale
How aren’t they losing money?
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EVERY TIMELINE IS THE MARATHON SEX TIMELINE
eta an hour
[ because he's cabbing to the airbnb, the address of some strangely scenic brownstone in manhattan. he thunks his head against the glass of the cab window and tries not to think, even though his nerve endings tingle, his pulse erratic in the side of his neck. he feels like a metal detector and eddie is something gold and buried and distant. he feels like he should be practicing a speech in his head; he knows he won't. later he can call it speaking from the heart.
the cabbie finds the place easily enough, which leaves richie standing outside with his duffel bag for a long moment, looking the place over with a knot in his throat. he can spot, parallel parked with excruciating skill, eddie's giant ass tacky cadillac; his mouth dries to even look at a place where he knows eddie has been. god, he's had it so bad for so long, the entirety of his life sculpted around this want.
get it together, tozier, he tells himself. he steels his spine as much as he can and heads towards the brownstone, punching the code in the lockbox and letting himself in, calling out as he drops his bag: ]
Honey, I'm home?
[ it's supposed to be a joke, it really is, but as soon as he says the words out loud something in his belly flashes cold and hot. right, he realizes. jokes about domestic comforts are only funny when you actually want that. his expression flickers into something a little pinched as he waits for eddie to pop out from the dishwasher or whatever. ]
twilight zone music
Eddie looks up the facade of the brownstone, slowly coming to terms with the simple idea he'd made reality in under 24 hours: the entire townhouse was his and Richie's home for the next two nights. He scrubs a hand over his face, and when thinking about it too much sets his pulse racing, Eddie retrieves his weekend bag (a week's worth of luggage for most other people not adept at being overly prepared) from the trunk and climbs the steps.
The inside of the place is as lived in as it had looked online, and gives Eddie the distinct impression that he's stepping into somebody else's life. Mostly Eddie just stands in each room and stares, almost in disbelief, imagining Richie in this space with him, the way he commands attention no matter where he goes.
Eddie's just set his bag down in the master bedroom when he hears the key turn in the door. He inches out of the bedroom, then nearly freezes, the air sucked out of his lungs. ]
You're home.
[ And that is also supposed to be a joke, but the breathless way he answers sucks all the humor out of it. He's still dressed in a navy suit and yellow and blue striped tie, his beard a comfortable, well-groomed length. He shifts his weight awkwardly, but doesn't move closer yet. ]
I even look the part, don't I? Haven't had a chance to change yet. Just got here.
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text.
did you see the group chat
[ even if eddie doesn't do more than a cursory glance down at the losers' chat, it's been aptly renamed bensgiving 2019. so yeah, they're due in nebraska at the end of the month. ]
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I saw Bev renamed it
So we’re all staying together in one house huh?
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when your life is arctic monkeys songs playing through a club bathroom door
you up?
why’d you only call me when you’re high dot mp3
now whenever richie tozier texts him, eddie feels a thrill run through him in a way he thinks he’d left behind as a teenager. there’s a giddiness and excitement he’s come to relish that’s given him endless boosts of happiness throughout many a miserable work day. now whenever richie texts him, eddie gets a specific chime tone and buzz that’s set to go off at any hour. sleeping time included.
so when richie texts now at an hour approaching midnight, eddie is roused from a light sleep, eyes blinking as the text comes into focus and drips something warm through his gut. slowly he slides out of bed, successfully leaving his wife asleep, pads downstairs, and gets comfortable on the couch in the living room. ]
Why, you looking to get laid?
[ that one is typed with slightly quivering hands, but gets sent before he can second guess it. ]
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dumb texts.
[ ... it's just a picture of eddie at the grocery store weighing two gluten-free pasta bags in his hands. ]
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boring couples' stuff.
they're at their gate already, richie thumbing through his phone and eddie beside him, when the voice of the lady at the counter chimes in to let them know their flight has been delayed by another hour. richie almost misses the announcement, too distracted by celebrity sniping on twitter, but after a moment his eyes flick up towards the ceiling, a frown pulling between his eyebrows. ]
Sucks. [ but he's not particularly bothered otherwise. ] Probably means we should eat now.
we contain multitudes
over the course of the hour waiting, eddie’s worked up enough courage to lean himself against richie's shoulder, and more than once press his palm to richie's, fingers threading together. when the announcement comes, eddie straightens, unlocking his phone to refresh the weather app. ]
It’s that shit rain in Omaha. Knew this would happen.
[ he’s the worst person to travel with and he knows it. instead changes tact to compensate. ]
Nearly five. Buy you a drink?
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text.
Re: text.
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you know this guy?
sounds hot imo
[ attached: a picture of a small mail pile on their coffee table, mostly catalogue spam, addressed to a MR. EDDIE TOZIER ]
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Maybe he's the guy who took care of the Costco membership for you?
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i know i loved you then, i think i love you still.
richie went back to the townhouse for a shower last night—beverly had pleaded; when that didn’t work bill all but ordered—and then he had nearly gotten pulled over in his roaring rental mustang because doing 75 on small town roads was generally frowned upon. aside from that brief interlude, though, richie has been been at the hospital almost every waking minute for the past he doesn’t fucking remember how long. just long enough to develop earnest resentment towards the built-in irony of waiting on a second miracle at a hospital named after a saint.
time passes funny when your every limb is weighed down with dread. for once richie lives out movie scenes entirely accidentally: dreamlike, seeing rather than experiencing the act of feeding quarters into a vending machine with his head pressed to the glass; subsiding otherwise on hospital jello. mostly, though, he keeps his vigil in eddie’s hospital room and waits for him to wake up.
in the room there are two chairs, muted teal upholstery stretched over a metal frame. richie uses one as a table. his brain is basically liquid, but he can’t sleep, won’t: the idea of dreaming sounds terrifying after the vast and reckless endlessness of the deadlights, and anyway he’s sick with the idea his wake-up call will be the sound of flatlining, the slender body on the bed going fully prone at last. he’s hanging on by his fingernails in a place where that won’t happen, where it isn’t possible, because the alternative is unthinkable; the alternative is him living with anger that men weren’t meant to feel and still wake up in the morning with beating hearts of their own. people call him a cynic but truthfully richie has always had ideas about fair and correct, the things people are owed when they make it back through hell.
richie just got him back. stupid to have lost him in the first place. stupid to lose him now.
he bought a deck of cards from the gift shop at some point. the seat of the chair opposite his knees is just barely big enough to hold a game of solitaire: it’s something he can do exhausted. he’s two-thirds of the way through a stretching column of hearts but less than halfway through the game. at some point his hands stopped shaking. maybe when he stopped glancing up. ]
i sighs longingly
memory is a weird thing. people tend to think of it like a video, some kind of recording. like the brain can just pull up the youtube link when needed, and reference minute 43:06 for the information required. what color shirt was he wearing? - yellow, definitely yellow.
eddie knows better than most - that the truth is, memory is not infallible. it's a xeroxed photo that gets copied and copied and copied, information lost over time, emotion, and mental state the more it's recalled. eddie knows better than most that his memory is not to be trusted, that there are gaping holes and yawning chasms where friendship and love and yearning go. whole building blocks of his adult life obscured under the haze of an alien clown monster.
when eddie wakes, it's with the sensation that he'd been dreaming. the first thing that enters his mind is a memory that is both familiar and foreign. there's the grass of the barrens around his ankles, the stream rushing below him. the weight of a hand in his, the looseness of alcohol in his system, and the freedom of knowing whatever ridiculous dance he'd left at derry high, it couldn't be half as good as this.
despite the heaviness of his body, eddie's eyes finally open. the hospital swims into focus, the sight more of a comfort than a fright. he coughs, throat raw and scratchy.
he turns his head to the right, feeling his hand reach out to the only other person in the room. a presence that lit up something in his brain, filling him with a kind of drunken happiness and ease. richie tozier, a sight for sore eyes. ]
Richie. [ eddie's smiling, dopey and stoned. the drugs are a hell of a cocktail; he recognizes the symptoms in himself and opts to enjoy the effects instead of fighting the uphill battle. it feels nice to let go. the cards in richie's possession have him focusing intently on the look of richie's hands. eddie's forefinger lifts, like he wants to reach out to feel a living person under his palms. ] I think I was dreaming.
[ his eyes close, like this will help draw the memory back out. ]
About... playing hooky in high school. From the school dance. I don't remember anyone else. It was just you.
text.
( img attached )
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Who's the wife that knows everything
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woof woof
it's different, once he and eddie are living together. there's something that sounds suspiciously like beverly's smug purr resting in the back of his head as he finally purchases a calendar, to hang up in the bedroom.
you know — this distance from derry couldn't stop him from being a werewolf, but it sure as fuck had him forgetting a boy he imprinted on when he was twelve. it's the same for all of them — bev and mike, although mike never really forgot, just made all the more intense for twenty-seven years of distance from bill. forty years old now, all of them hit puberty a second time around as their partners come back into their lives, and richie buys a fucking calendar, because he thinks eddie might have an aneurysm if he ever wakes up and a wolf is beside him instead of his goofy boyfriend. the dates get marked, a red circle looming as the full moon wanders closer into view. the cowboy on this month's spread is a happy, sandy blonde, shirt missing in action while he sits beside a cow's utters. terrible graphic text beside it reads, don't flatter yourself, cowboy, i was looking at your horse.
richie hardly sleeps the night before, too sweaty and hot and staring at the cowboy staring at him, wondering what's so sexy about milking a cow, anyway. he'd rather look at the cow, richie thinks as his teeth start to ache, fangs digging into his lip until they're sharp enough to pierce the skin. steak sounds pretty good.
the good thing about having a house on private property is that richie can run as hard and as fast as he wants to through the surrounding trees, without having to worry about someone calling animal control. the good thing about having a werewolf for a boyfriend, instead of just a wolf, is that he can take himself out for walkies.
the bad thing is that by the time the crack of dawn hits, all richie wants to do is be with eddie, who's still understandably in bed. so an overly fluffy, oversized all black wolf sits on their back lawn, massive tail thumping back and forth as he stares up at their bedroom's balcony, before he lets out a crackling howl. and another. and another, until eddie wakes up. )
WOOF WOOF WOOF
apart from sex, which said internal clock demands at frequent and blissfully exhausting intervals, richie could hardly be relied on any kind of schedule or routine. if richie was paying attention to anything eddie ever said to him, he'd know by now having a set routine was the best method for easing any number of life's stressors, and though psychologytoday.com didn't expressly name lycanthropy in the body of its article, eddie would wager that would be one of them.
so that's the first order of business. and though richie might not take it more seriously than buying a fucking novelty calendar and circling the date with a cartoonish red circle, eddie does. there is research, lunar tracking apps, reminders set on laptops and phones, not that they're needed. eddie's anxiety builds for the couple of days before regardless of incessant notifications, and on the night of, they're both restless enough that neither gets much sleep until the main event.
eddie's seen the transformation over the years. it should worry him that the stomach churning reaction from the first handful of times is nothing but a distant memory. now, when richie begins transforming, it's almost a relief - the proverbial other shoe dropping, the drugs finally hitting. it means eddie can finally relax, because really, richie's still rather docile as a giant wolfperson, and maybe, ironically, more easygoing than his human counterpart.
when he lets richie out into the yard, eddie takes his usual position of standing on the back porch until richie disappears into the darkness. that's the point where the edge finally dissipates, and sleepiness finally takes over. when eddie crawls into bed, he's bone-tired, so wrung out from hours of worry that he knocks right out, hard enough that hours later, he sleeps through at least two or three mournful howls from his own backyard.
he sits up suddenly, knuckles rubbing his eyes even as he gets to his feet, practically on autopilot as he makes his way back down to the enormous glass doors that separate the living room from the porch. on the deck, a familiar form sits almost patiently by the doors, eyes glinting from the hallway light. throwing open the door, eddie leans against it, effectively blocking richie's way. ]
Hey there, handsome. What's a guy like you doing in a place like this? [ eddie's not sure what's gotten into him besides the sleepless insanity that comes with managing your boyfriend's fucking werewolf curse. ] Wanna come in, stay awhile?
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Random texting!
The kind that tug on his heart strings and those he wished he had just asked while back in Derry.]
So?
What made you decide to choose New York?
oh hello!!
it's about a harmless an icebreaker as anything, considering richie's usual. but just that's enough to set off a bell in eddie's head. why's richie asking this now?
eddie hunches over his phone in his office, mercifully alone. ]
Why not New York?
It's like the opposite of Maine which was goal #1
Goal #2 was getting the highest paid version of the job I wanted to do
So I found a school in New York and just stayed here
That was the plan all along
[ maybe he's talking too much. but it feels nice. ]
I've had people tell me I seem like a New York native
Supposed to be a compliment
One extremely lonely trashmouth loser at your service!
have an eventual divorcee! also if richie is chicago vs la just pretend i did the right one
I've done both so LA is great ❤
perfect!
:D
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