Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13574274.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      IT_-_Stephen_King, IT_(2017)
  Relationship:
      Bill_Denbrough/Mike_Hanlon/Ben_Hanscom/Eddie_Kaspbrak/Beverly_Marsh/
      Richie_Tozier/Stanley_Uris, Eddie_Kaspbrak/Richie_Tozier, Eddie_Kaspbrak/
      Stanley_Uris, Richie_Tozier/Stanley_Uris
  Character:
      Bill_Denbrough, Mike_Hanlon, Ben_Hanscom, Eddie_Kaspbrak, Beverly_Marsh,
      Richie_Tozier, Stanley_Uris, The_Losers_Club_(IT)
  Additional Tags:
      Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Polyamory, Alternate_Universe_-_High_School,
      Possessive_Behavior, Kissing, Frottage, Intercrural_Sex, Panic_Attacks,
      Omega_Eddie, Alpha_Stan, Alpha_Richie, the_rest_are_up_to_your
      imagination_;), Biting, mentions_of_mpreg, OT7
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-02-04 Words: 4787
****** This Must Be the Place ******
by brittlelimbs
Summary
     “You guys need to get out of here,” Eddie wheezes, head flopping back
     against the pillow, tossing to one side. “I’m messed up, for real. I
     don’t want you getting it.” His voice starts to go gummy, wet-fresh
     with tears. “I—I got Bill sick, and I feel like such an asshole, you
     guys, I really didn’t mean to but after he came over he started to
     get all funny too— ouch!“
     Richie licks over the fresh indention on Eddie’s knuckle where he’d
     bitten it.
     “Spaghetti Man,” he says, “I love you, but you’re a fucking moron.”


     (ABO HS AU. Sophomore year starts off boring for the Losers Club, but
     their relationship gets exciting quick once its members start
     presenting.)


Notes
     no idea what this is-- all i know is that there isn't enough in the
     tag for this OT7 and i wanted to add some more. low key in love with
     this weirdos
     title taken from the talking heads song of the same name
     unbeta'd
See the end of the work for more notes
It punches them all right in the fucking face.
Pow.
Fistful of flowers, fragrant and silky, even though it’s the fall and half of
Derry’s gone orange with lengthening, black nights and talk of homecoming,
Halloween. Sophomore year is drawing up to be a colossal disappointment after a
vacation spent living out of each other’s pockets and garages, swapping spit
and shooting the shit, as if there’s much of a difference between the two,
anyways—Richie-styled twang of sass, lemon-zest-curled on half a dozen lips as
they proceeded to love together, savoring every minute spent in each other’s
arms and not-forgetting the taste.  
The term’s fresh enough that they’ve still got August stuck between their teeth
when Eddie goes down first. Of course he does, nose to the air, hypersensitive-
hypochondriac with a deft sense of direction that always sort of freaks Stan
out, makes Richie waggle his eyebrows and say: lead on, Spaghetti Man, letting
Eddie pull them hand-in-hand through the feminine hygiene aisle of Rite-Aid, or
a crowd at the local public pool, or hell. But his mama’s still laid out over
his life like a soggy cotton t-shirt, seeping right into everything, so when
Eddie suddenly misses a Tuesday the week before Mike’s birthday, it doesn’t
really raise any hackles.
 
“Where’s Eds?” Ben asks Bill when their fearless leader rolls up the front
steps with Stan at one elbow, Mike on the other, and Bev coming up behind, eyes
peeled for Bower’s gang. Before school is second-preferential beatdown time to
afterwards, but they’re not cool yet (doesn’t help that nobody knows what the
fuck is up with them, who is kissing who and why, the rumors about Bev curling
nastier and the ones about the boys growing dangerous, even, in a small town
like Derry). They’re getting bigger, though, slowly but surely, growing into
themselves a bit, smaller gaps at the backs of their shoes and the collars of
their shirts. None of them have presented, yet, but the summer had its
progress. Richie’s started shimmying his bluejeans lower and lower on his hips
to the half-delight-half-irritation of everyone else, depending on whose thumbs
he’s hooking into his beltloops and crooning at, pressing up against the wall
to kiss. Bill let Mike give him a fresh cut right before school started in his
kitchen, brown hair on linoleum, the lulling of his skull into the scritch of
thick, capable fingertips while the razor buzzed and jarred his teeth-- they
all like running their hands over the shorn-short hair at the nape of his neck
and shivering at the feeling.
Stan got a dorky sock tan that everyone refuses to stop giving him shit about.
Ben shot up three inches. Bev boob’s got bigger (Beep-beep, Richie).
“Dunno. He d-didn’t walk to school with you?”
Bill sweeps his knuckles across the inside of Ben’s wrist, gently knocking
their summer-bodies together while the others stand guard and witness.
“Nope.” Ben pops the ‘p’ and swings Bill under his arm—he fits there easy as a
dream, now, with all this new height-- as they walk through the big, red metal
doors of purgatory, the rest in tow.
“Huh.”
“It’s probably his mom again,” Bev supplies.
“Did somebody say Eddie’s mom?” Richie’s voice busts in out of nowhere, aka C-
hall, where he was serving a zero-period detention for prrrrobably being the
one who scribbled butts all over the PE teacher’s door with shower soap last
week, which nobody but Richie found fucking hysterical, ipso facto it was him.
 
So: Tuesday is chill. They notice Eddie’s gone, of course, but it doesn’t mean
anything much at this point.
By Friday afternoon, things are getting a little freaky.
 
“I’m g-gonna head over there,” Bill says after class gets out. Picnic bench
under the big old oak tree by the basketball court; the usual hangout.
“He probably just ‘has the flu’, or something,” Stan supplies, letting Richie
tangle their legs under tabletop, scuff-heel to slender ankle. “Ouch, Tozier.”
Richie just makes kissy faces at him.
Bill props his head into his hands. “Aren’t you w-worried too? Even a little?”
Their boy hasn’t been answering any calls, not even his mom picking up to tell
the Losers to fuck off in her own suburban white mom way. Stan’s silence is
enough; this is weird, and they all know it. Something has been starting to
grow tense between them all since the summer, like a stretched-taught rubber
band pulled between thumb and forefinger, loaded to fly up in their faces,
thwap!
Bill slides his backpack over one shoulder and stands, ambling over to where
Silver gleams like a legend in the bike rack, wheeling her out. Swings a leg
over and plants his feet either side of the pedals. Bike’s huge, like a boat,
like a horse, and his body is just now stretching to accommodate the size of
it.
“Tell us if he’s okay?” Bev asks, listing into Mike’s shoulder. “Or, yanno,
dead?”
Richie just crosses his arms. “Sargent Stanley expects a full report on his
desk when you get back, soldier. Typed bulletpoints n’ shit.”
Bill rips off a smart salute, pushes off.
They watch him go, and it feels like the beginning of something, a hazy shape,
felt out in the dark by touch alone.
 
Radio fucking silence from Bill.
Afternoon stretches to late afternoon stretches into purple, sleepy evening,
and through a few hesitant calls the remaining Losers figure out that they know
precisely nothing about what the hell is going on. Bev phones in: no response
from the Denbroughs. Stan calls Richie to tell him that they’re going to meet
outside Ben’s house in half an hour, be there, which means serious shit because
Stan isn’t likely to set aside his geometry homework for anything less than a
major emergency. Richie, on his part, sounds like he’s champing to skin
something already on the other end of the line; shows up amber-dipped under the
streetlamp with an old swiss army knife tucked into his sock, puffy jacket with
pockets full of who-knows-what, eyes crazy. Big Bill andEds. Not one funnybone
left in his body, for once, all their minds bee-lined, pulsing on the same
terrible thought.
What if IT--
Stan has two walkie-talkies from Scouts, big clunky black boxes that might land
a sizeable goose-egg on someone’s noggin if swung correctly, and he doles the
second one out to Mike, tucking the first in his satchel.
“You take Bev and Ben and go to Bill’s, see if he’s there. I’m taking Richie to
Eddie’s place.” He’s in all dark clothes, with gloves, which looks a little
goofy, but also somehow makes the situation more scary, like he’s a criminal
preparing to break into Eddie’s house. A joke about stealing Eddie’s lil achey-
breaky heart dies in Richie’s mouth. They’ve done worse, for the sake of each
other, and clearly, they’re prepared toworse again; the lack of a smart Yessir,
Sarge, or some comment about Stan the Man is disarming, and the smack of Bev’s
gum and the brisk whistle of the wind fill the silence. They stand there for a
moment, skinny and shivering, domestic weapons wielded with too much finesse
for the hands of high school kids; no, they haven’t forgotten. Not one second
of it.
 
A bat flaps overhead from one telephone pole to another. They hop on their
bikes and make like bananas, or popsicle stands, and get the fuck out of there.
 
Richie watches the light from the streetlamps clip across the back of Stan’s
dark jacket as they coast down the route they could bike in their sleep, left
turn then right, blue-yellow-blue-yellow-blue. He prays and prays to the timing
of the tick of the spokes, and even if it’s to nobody in particular, he thinks
it helps.
 
 
Eddie’s house; squat red-brick ranch-style thing with a landscape job that
started out thoughtful and sort of meandered into unkempt over the years, too
much work to maintain for a single mother and a son she wouldn’t let outside
for long if she could help it—he’s allergic to the grass, you know. Hayfever.
Not to mention the sunburn.
Stan and Richie ditch their bikes in a bush a few doors down, then creep like
bandits behind an arbor vitae hedge until they’ve circled around to the back of
the row, where the fences are low and crumbly and easy-ish for them to
circumnavigate; within seconds, Richie’s scraped a knee on a loose nail, and
Stan has mud all over his pristine tennis shoes. One of the neighbors has their
curtains open and they can see clear into the livingroom as they slink by: a
paunchy beer belly rising and falling with sleep on the couch, The Price Is
Right reruns blaring blue from the oversized TV set. Somebody wins something,
and the light makes Stan’s blonde hair look white for a second. They squeeze
beneath a row of picket and end up crouched in knee-high grass, the thick
ribbon kind with edges that’ll slice your fingertips right open, looking across
the backyard to Eddie’s room (far left, flowery curtains his mom picked out
that even Ben admits are pretty fuckin’ girly, dude). The night is dark and
quiet as a pocket, save for the rustle of half-turned leaves, the whispering
grass, and Richie’s muttering.
If she’s done something to him I’m gonna kill her, I swear to fucking God,
psycho bitch--
“Shut up!” Stan whispers.
Richie cusses again, then obliges. Stan can hear his heart pounding even
through the thick coat that’s full of knives. He reaches out in the dark,
squeezing his lax and sweaty palm for one hot moment, then proceeds.
 
The little ill-fitting lip at the bottom of Eddie’s window is there, as always,
even in dreams, and Stan’s fingers are well acquainted with the feeling of
slipping into the crack in preparation of mischief. They’d discovered it in
second grade and it’s been Eddie’s second-best kept secret ever since. He can
tell Richie’s holding his breath beside him as he lifts the thing open with a
smooth hiss, shoes already starting to sink into the furrow of overgrown loam
that sits right next to the house, afraid to make a peep. Afraid of what
they’ll find. The window gapes open like a black-hole-maw, making the curtains
flutter a little, framing the nothing behind them. He motions for his friend to
go over the sill with a jerk of his chin. Richie doesn’t have to be asked
twice.
Watching a young man who’s over six feet tall and at least eighty percent
gangle fold himself through a window frame is a pretty funny sight, or it would
be, if he could see more than garbled shadow. Stan slides in afterwards. He
pitches headfirst into the blackness via the heavy counterweight of his bag,
and nearly eats shit on the way down, saved only by grabbing a handful of
Richie’s coat.
“Hey!”
“Shhhh.”
If it was night outside, Eddie’s room is jet-black, the kind of hot darkness
you’d find inside of a closed mouth. One short stint of orange wire floating a
few feet away demarcates the crack at the bottom of a doorjamb, and Stan wills
his heart to stop thumping so loudly, lest it give them away (Mrs. K has a
preternatural sixth sense for boys up to no good, some eyes on the back of her
head type shit).
But the smell. It’s incredible; the space is jam-packed with it, crammed to
brimming with a rich, unnamable scent that Stan can’t describe as anything
other than—mouthwatering? It clots on the back of his tongue like sweet, heavy
cream, like when his mom cuts fresh heaps of roses from the bushes in their
backyard and leaves them on the kitchen table for Stan to secretly pluck the
petals and rub, thumb to forefinger. Like chlorine on wet skin in the sun,
something that he aches to nibble, rasp up with his tongue. He feels his dick
getting hard in his pants.
“Richie?” he hazards, mouth dry, reaching out to grasp at where he thinks his
friend’s wrist might be. “Do you—“
“Uh-huh.” I smell it.
Their eyes are adjusting, now, and they can see the hazy shape of Eddie’s bed
and the boy himself laying on it.
“Eddie?” Richie stage-whispers.
The Eddie-shaped lump flops over, groans. They can see, now, that he’s down to
his little Y-fronts, and his white belly glows in the moonlight, all the covers
bunched at the foot of his bed like he’s way, way too hot. Fuck. Maybe he
really just does have the flu.Stan thinks for one terrible second that they’ve
just busted in uninvited to make their feverish friend all the more miserable.
“Eddie?” Richie tries again, moving closer while Stan tries to make a grab for
his coatsleeve.
“Richie, no—“
“Hunh?” comes a quavering little moan from the sheets. Richie is on him in
seconds, bony hand effortlessly spanning the near-width of Eddie’s bare stomach
as he half-kneels, half crouches over him, mattress bowing under his weight.
Stan is helpless to follow.
Oh, Eddie. Their boy’s bangs are pasted to his forehead with sweat, already too
long since the last time his mom cut them, dark eyebrows steepled in the middle
in the textbook worried Eddie moue. And holycrap does he smell good; Eddie’s
kissable on any given day but Stan wants to stick his nose in his armpits for
some reason, drink from the sweaty hollow of his neck, lick his cheeks, get as
close to the smell as his body will let him. He settles for resting a hand on
his sternum instead, palm to flutter, skin to glove.
Eddie’s in a tizzy, now fully awake. “What’re you guys—“ he pauses to gulp down
spit “---why’re you here?” And quickly on the heels of that: “My mom’s gonna
find out!” His narrow chest is starting to rise and fall in rapid little
spooked-animal breaths, a signal that Richie and Stan are well versed in:
panic. He’s already having trouble breathing through the fever, and he sounds
congested as hell, maybe even bordering on an asthma attack.
Stan, being Stan, strongarms the situation right away.
“Where’s your inhaler?” he asks quietly, Richie’s hand coming to lapse over his
where it lays on Eddie’s chest, as if the two of them can will his stupid,
lovely little body to just breathe by touch alone. Press the breath right into
him; the weird sickness right out.
“Drawer,” Eddie gasps, and Stan is already reaching to the little bedside table
and yanking open said drawer to get his hand on the L-shaped piece of plastic
that’s as much a fixture of their friend as his skinny legs, his eyes, his
laugh. He brings it to Eddie’s lips and pumps for him, two sets of hands cupped
around it, one big one little, with Richie making sure his breaths are deep and
even down below.
“Shhhh, Eds,” Richie whispers, once Eddie’s gone through a few relatively
healthy cycles, hand still clamped in hand. “We just had to make sure you were
alive.”
“You guys need to get out of here,” Eddie wheezes, head flopping back against
the pillow, tossing to one side. “I’m messed up, for real. I don’t want you
getting it.” His voice starts to go gummy, wet-fresh with tears. “I—I got Bill
sick, and I feel like such an asshole, you guys, I really didn’t mean to but
after he came over he started to get all funny too— ouch!“
Richie licks over the fresh indention on Eddie’s knuckle where he’d bitten it.
“Spaghetti Man,” he says, “I love you, but you’re a fucking moron.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not sick. I think—you’re an omega.”
Oh.
 
Stan is personally offended, for a second, that Trashmouth Tozier figured it
out before he did; a bright spike of stuck-up straight-A student indignation,
not used to feeling of getting the answer wrong, the rude jerk of a rug yanked
out from under his feet when he sees the red slashes on corrected papers. Of
course. Of course, the smell, the fever, the way Stan’s starting to ache and
pine in ways it shouldn’t for Eddie’s sick little body; it’s a really simple
fucking equation, Uris, and you didn’t even think to put two and two together.
 
“Earth to Eds,” Richie says, waving a hand in front of his face. “Your mom
didn’t tell you?”
Eddie still seems a page or two behind. “That I’m a…what?”
“O-me-ga, idiot. You know, as in alphas and omegas?”
“S-she just said I had the flu.” The words are whimpered, low and ashamed. Male
omega: Eddie thinks he’d rather die. His mom probably wants to deny the whole
thing completely, planning to palm off the symptoms to sickness then dope her
son up on suppressants and whatever other shit to make him seem like a
plainscented beta
“That bitch.”
Stan’s wondering who said it until he realizes it’s literally him-- something
in the tone is so bone-deep protective that he shivers, subvocals playing on
some unknown frequency that resonates in his chest, something primal, something
that has big teeth. Wires are crossing, ugly puberty hormones doubling up with
this new heat that’s coming up over the back of his neck and his scalp like a
hood, all his pores opening, body screaming alive alive alive where he grips
Eddie’s chest like deliverance. Secondary gender, Stan thinks dizzily, words
printed in his brain from a textbook he’d found in a secretive corner of the
library, looking for bio texts and finding something else. Derry High’s sex ed
is non-existent at best, and these things tend to get generally lumped into the
category of missing children and killer clowns; i.e, they’re shuffled into the
dark corners of the town’s collective memory and forgotten, gone all tacit and
unmentioned.  
The third part of the equation slides neatly into place: Stanley Uris is
blooming into his alphahood, right here in the middle of Eddie’s blue-is-for-
boys painted bedroom that still has all his science fair trophies up on the
walls, and it feels right. He moves closer to Eddie, ready to snap up all the
sounds right from that pink little mouth, drink them straight from the tap,
even though he knows that logically he should be halfway out the window by now
and running towards home.
“Woah, Stan-man, leave room for Jesus,” Richie huffs, but when Stan looks over,
his cheeks are stained with an incriminating flush, sweat-sheen on cupid’s bow,
eyes sparking behind those dweeby glasses he still wears. It strikes Stan that
this is fucking his friend up just as much, maybe more-- his hindbrain does
some weird sizing-up thing for a second where he’s trying to assess if Richie’s
a threat, if he’s gonna take his omega way from him, before logic of
familiarity beats it back: the collar of Richie’s chewed up coat, his long
spindle-bone fingers with crud lined under the fingernails, the way his posture
slopes into an endearingly crooked curve when he tries his best to stand up
straight. The part of Stan’s heart that long ago chipped off and buried itself
in Richie Tozier—he likes to think of how his heart has been thoroughly divvied
up amongst the Loser’s club, the selflessness and safety of it—warms at a
sudden epiphany, instead:
Two alphas. Brothers, more than that, blood pushing through them to the same
sort of synched rhythm that it did before but better.
“You’re— one too?” Stan asks, not really sure how to phrase the question. He
feels earnest and young as he did in Kindergarten, asking the boy with tangled
dark hair, plopped next to him on the carpet over Lincoln Logs: Do you wanna be
friends?
Richie palms his cock, hand groping lazily at his half-hard dick as if in a
dream. “I think I really wanna get Eddie fucking pregnant right now so…. Yes?”
Oh, nasty. Stan almost thinks he’s joking for a moment before he feels his own
cock pulse at the idea, at the delicious possibility that hadn’t even occurred
to him, despite the fact that just thinking the words knock Eddie up should be
ridiculous; now he can’t stop repeating them like a mantra, guiding him through
the incense-haze of heat scent. Fuck. This is bad.
“Guys…” Eddie says, starting to squirm under the attention. The smell gets
impossibly stronger.
“Oh, shit,” says Richie. “Are you getting, uh, wet… down there?” Stan sort of
wants to clock him again, annoyed that he knows too much about how Omega’s
bodies work when he hasn’t even read any books on it. Just random Richie
knowledge, the same way he knows the names of all the counties in Alabama for
some reason, odd bitesized tidbits of factoid Stan thinks he just collects by
osmosis, or luck. Or porn.
Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, mortified, but bends his knees up towards his
chest, opening gently like a shy sea-creature. Between his folded legs sits a
dark stripe up the crack of his washed-thin undies, once white but now stained
deep blue in the night. He’s definitely wet; it’s absolutely the hottest thing
that Stan has seen in his entire life.
“Oh my god,” Richie says, voice tiny and awed. His hands go right to Eddie’s
thighs, trying to manhandle them further open, and Stan’s cock jumps again at
the little squeak Eddie makes in response.
We are so screwed.
They’ve done a little messing around, sure, orgasms unavoidable when there’re
six other hot mouths to press against your body and six sets of hands to snake
a hand between your legs and stroke. Watching Top Gun in a puppy pile on the
couch and rubbing over clothes, creamed undies in jeans with the fly unzipped
and teeth splayed open around curious hands. Tipsy humping, fingers slick with
curiosity. But never—this.
Never three exposed nerve endings, grating against each other with pure, white-
hot feral friction.
Eddie’s fingers are starting to probe around the edge of his tighty whities,
flirting at the idea of dipping into his wetness with glazed-over eyes, and
Stan knows that if they don’t leave now, they never will.
“Rich, we can’t. This could get really, really bad.” Teen pregnancy headlines
blare in his forebrain, stories about teenaged knot-slut omegas dropping out to
become barefoot and pregnant for the rest of their lives, living for their
alpha’s cock. Condoms are probably scarce in a household where Eddie’s mom
still trims his fingernails, and they can’t risk it. They just can’t.
“Hunh?” Richie mumbles, too busy watching and rubbing his hands up and down the
soft insides of Eddie’s thighs to give a care about anything else.
Stan falls onto Richie, height almost leveled to his and limbs almost as long,
and pulls himaway, chin banging into shoulder and hands squeezing into biceps.
There’s a tousle, for a moment, scrabble of jackets and the real danger of
getting a pointy-ass elbow somewhere painful.
“Stop it.” Stan hisses, constricting tight, and for once, Richie does. “Do you
want his mom to wake up?” A shake of shaggy black curls. Richie’s hair smells
like the cold October air outside. “Do you want to hurt him?” Another shake,
and Stan releases him. Richie stays obediently still and just moans with the
unfairness of it all, zombie-out with arousal, dick clearly trying to push its
way out of his jeans.
Eddie looks from Stan, to Richie, then gives a little sob, absolutely
heartbroken that he won’t be getting either of their cocks tonight.
“Shh, Eddie. Soon,” Stan whispers. “Soon. But not tonight.” He can feel a vein
throbbing in his forehead with the force of keeping his cool, threatening to
bust, trembling on the tenuous edge of flinging himself fully into the baying
pit of his arousal and dizziness and need. But he’s Stanley Uris. He’ll risk
the aneurism.
 
 
They only make it like fifteen feet from Eddie’s back porch before Stan’s
kissing Richie. Or, it’s generous to call it kissing; the way Stan snags a hand
in the collar of Richie’s coat and draws him in is closer to a bite, a painful
clash of teeth and spit hastily crammed at an awkward angle. Cheek-to-cheek
swerved to lip-on-lip with only the barest hint of finesse as they run away
from Eddie and into the darkness. They tumble to the grass in a way that can’t
be quiet, right smack dab in the middle of dangerous territory, but both of
them have eclipsed the horizon of giving a damn long ago, frankly. Stan’s got
Richie’s thighs pinned beneath his butt and starts going for his fly, control
evaporated and the prospect of getting off absolutely foregrounded above all
else. He pulls the glove off his right hand with his teeth, spits it to the
side, which Richie is evidently really into.
“Fuck, Stan.”
He jerks Richie’s jeans down his skinny hips, bird-bones fluted and slender in
the dapple of the moon, and his sticky briefs come right after. There’s so much
precum that Stan’s jittery grip almost slips right off him as he attempts to
jerk Richie off and get out of his own jeans at the same time. Richie grunts
and goes to work on the zipper, helping him, and something about that makes
Stan’s heart swell three sizes too big. Then he’s free; the cold air feels
weird on his dick. He rolls them over and his friend goes willingly, some
ancient itch to manhandle Richie Tozier and finally get him to be quiet
scratched to satisfaction. They’re both so wet that it’s easy for Stan to take
his dick in hand, push between Richie’s thighs, and fuck. Sloppy, sweet. Alpha
on alpha, but teenager on teenager just as much, filthy in the dirt like
squirming animals.
Somewhere in the chaos Richie manages to cram a hand between their heaving
bellies to get a hand on his own dick, and the trashmouth comes back with a
vengeance.
“You pretending I’m Eds, Stan-man?” he gasps. Stan moans into Richie’s
shoulder, mouth full of sweaty cotton. “Gonna knot me?”
“Yeah, fuck yeah,” Stan chants mindlessly, already so fucking gone with it,
hips snapping and stuttering with no rhythm at all.
“Please, Stan,” Richie taunts in a bad knockoff of Eddie’s voice, all wheedling
porno-moan. “Fuck me on your fat fucking Jew dick, I want it so bad.” It’s
still hot and Stan hates it.
“Beep-beep, Richie,” he growls, mouth to crook of neck.
“C’mon, Daddy, make me fucking come—“
Stan fucks up brutally, grabbing Richie’s ass for purchase. “Then be a good
bitch and shut up.”
“Fuck!” Richie’s laughing, breathless, and then complies, scorching hot wetness
flooding between their two bodies. Bill. Stan just thinks he hears Richie moan
it over the pound of blood in his ears, he’s not sure, but knows for certain
that it’s too much. Whiplash-arousal. He groans like he’s been punched, struck
dead by the idea of what's happening to Big Bill, what the other four of his
perfect parts must be doing at the Denborough house,right at this waking
moment—
His orgasm hits from a deep, primal place in his pelvis, whiteout bliss-blind
goodness that blows past anything he’s had in months. He grabs Richie’s thighs
with a deathgrip to squeeze around the base of his dick where it's swelling
up—his knot, fuck—so that he can sorta-kinda pretend he’s really locking with
Eddie, humping with little jerks of his hips, pumping him full of his come. His
chin drops in exhaustion and sees that Richie has his own bulge knot white-
knuckled in his hand, still pulsing hot between their two bodies. They’re both
just, still coming. This new biology is bizarre; Stan needs to study up.
 
Richie lets out another bark of laughter, body skinny and humming and feeling
full-up with summer. Stan’s always bewitched by him when he’s like this,
tangled in bad-boy sex appeal and loose-quick mischief, dripping dark angles,
sleaze. Hard to look away from. Richie’s head drops back to the ground with a
thumpand a lazy smile. “Holy fuck, Stan-Man. At least wine and dine me first,
next time.” Stan drops to his forearms and clumsily seals his lips over his
friend’s to shut him up for real; there’s something different and unnamable to
the taste of his mouth, now, a sweetness, and he needs to perform a few more
case studies before he can determine precisely what it is.
 
Fuck boring. Sophmore year is going to be one of the most interesting years for
the Loser’s Club on record, bar none.
End Notes
     come find me @ tongue-biter on tumblr to yell at me about these guys
     please please!
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