Work Text:
At exactly noon, there’s a tap on his office door.
One thing Eddie has discovered in the month since they left Derry is that Richie is surprisingly punctual. He knows when Eddie has his lunch break, he knows that Eddie can no longer fuck off for a full hour at lunch—not since he fucked off for a few days to Maine—and he knows what sandwich Eddie likes from the deli around the corner.
Richie plops two pastrami sandwiches and a bag of chips to share on his desk and takes the seat across from him.
“Thanks, Richie,” Eddie says, finishing up an email with a couple decisive keystrokes before he double taps enter to send it. He turns away from his computer to dig into the sandwich. “How’d the meeting go?” he asks, hoping Richie will talk for the next few minutes uninterrupted so Eddie can eat.
It works pretty well. Richie sighs and as he speaks he keeps lifting his own sandwich to take a bite only to stop, lower it again, and add something else. “It went okay. I’m probably gonna keep looking. I don’t know. I keep getting paranoid that this is gonna get leaked. I still haven’t told Steve I’m shopping around. But I might not leave, I still haven’t totally decided. I just… It seems like a good time for a change if I want one.”
Eddie nods and mumbles through a mouthful, “Yeah.”
He’s a little distracted because out of the corner of his eye he can see his inbox filling up with requests and questions from coworkers who can’t figure out anything on their own. And he’s distracted because he has a terrible crick in his neck, bad enough that he can barely turn his head to glance over his shoulder. It started last night before he went to bed and despite his best attempt to stretch and sleep in a careful position when he woke up it was only worse.
Eddie doesn’t get this kind of thing often, but when he does it can linger for days, leaving him pretty desperate to get rid of it. While Richie keeps talking, Eddie tries to stretch, turning his head slowly one way and wincing. He uses one hand to lift his chin higher, the other to push his shoulder against the backrest of his chair.
Richie trails off, but Eddie doesn’t realize for a moment. He opens his eyes. Richie looks at him, a little amused and confused. He’s smiling, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Neck hurt? From spending all day bent over a computer?”
“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Or… I don’t know. The stress maybe.” He rubs at his own shoulder, digging his fingers into the tense muscle at the base of his neck. It provides some relief but not enough.
“You seem like the type of guy to have, like, an ergonomic office chair and great posture,” Richie says.
“Well.” Eddie shrugs a little, gesturing to the chair that is pretty ergonomic, as long as he sits in it right. “Not always. I get something like this once or twice a year and it fucking sucks, it’ll last all week and just get worse. I can barely turn my head. I keep trying to stretch but…” He drops his left shoulder and turns his head as far as he can in the opposite direction, rubbing at the meat of his shoulder with his other hand. The pain is concentrated under the base of his skull, just to the left of his spine. It makes his entire body feel tight and gross, and the stretching barely helps, even though sharpening the pain for a moment is a relief compared to the dull persistent ache.
Richie watches him. He sets his half-eaten sandwich down and wipes his hands on his jeans. “Do you want me to help?” he offers. “Little back rub before you get back to work?” When Eddie doesn’t answer right away, Richie smirks and adds, “Rub one out real quick?” making a perfunctory handjob gesture.
Eddie pulls a face, but doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Maybe? I don’t know.” He is in a lot of discomfort, so he considers it for only a moment longer. “Sure. Why not.”
Richie immediately pops up from his chair.
“Can you pull the blinds?” Eddie asks, nodding toward the window that looks out over the rest of the office.
“Oh?” Richie stops in his tracks, grinning. “Is this gonna be… one of those massages?”
“No, god, shut up,” Eddie says while Richie laughs. “I just… don’t want everyone in the office watching, okay?”
“Okay…” Richie sounds unconvinced but he does as he’s told. “If you want a happy ending, maybe we should have a code word, okay?”
Eddie rolls his eyes, but Richie doesn’t see it. He’s standing behind Eddie, his hands already on his shoulders. Eddie’s wearing a crisp white button-down, the back a little wrinkled from where he’s been sitting against his chair all morning, the fabric slightly damp and lived-in. He doesn’t wear a tie anymore and his coat is already hanging over the back of the chair. He leans forward slightly.
Richie starts to rub, digging his thumbs into his shoulderblades and curling his fingers to grip over Eddie’s collarbone. It feels startlingly good right from the start, tingles shooting down to Eddie’s tailbone. He sucks in a breath and tries not to squirm in his seat. He fights the instinct to bat Richie’s hands away, and tries not to think about the last time someone really touched him like this. (It has been a long time.)
“Let me know if it hurts too much,” Richie murmurs. “But if it hurts a little, that means it’s working.”
At the moment, it doesn’t hurt at all. It feels great, actually, but it probably isn’t doing much—which is the point of this whole charade. So Eddie intervenes.
“It’s mostly, uh…” Eddie brings up his own hand to press against the base of his skull. “Here.” He trails his fingers down the left side of his neck to his shoulder. “To here.”
“Okay.” Richie’s hands walk up his neck, fingertips tracing lightly over the shivery bare skin above his collar. His nails scrape into his scalp for a moment—Eddie’s eyes flutter shut at the sensation—and then his fingers are splayed wide over Eddie’s head, on either side of his ears, as his thumbs press lines down his neck, firm on each side of his vertebrae.
It feels good and it gets to the tender spot effectively, as if ironing it out. Eddie imagines it spreading the pain out across his skin, distributing it until it’s something manageable that can be slowly absorbed.
Richie keeps working for a few minutes, the same repetitive motion, lulling Eddie into something like a semi-conscious state. He rocks back and forth slightly in his chair, surrendering to the rhythm of Richie’s hands. Once he’s adjusted to the neck massage, enough that Richie’s fingers in his hair don’t make him feel quite so shivery, Richie’s hands glance down his shoulders and he presses down with not insignificant force.
Eddie’s spine feels a little compressed under the weight, but the tightened muscle of his left shoulder sings. He hums in relief and tilts his head to either side. “Nice stretch,” he murmurs.
“Yeah?”
They’re both speaking gently, softly. Richie pushes down again, his fingers curling over Eddie’s collarbones. He finishes by kneading his shoulders, occasionally glancing his hands down over Eddie’s biceps or lower to his shoulderblades in a move that makes Eddie fist his hands in his laps. He doesn’t know why he’s so sensitive. It’s embarrassing.
“That’s your twenty minutes,” Richie says quietly, giving him a few final rubs.
“What, are you charging me?” Eddie asks, still swaying under Richie’s ministrations.
“No,” Richie says with a laugh. “Your lunch break. It’s over.”
“Oh.” Eddie blinks to refocus his eyes. Richie draws his hands away and there’s some relief in that, even if he wants them back on him immediately.
Eddie sits there a little dazed, watching as Richie packs up what’s left of his sandwich to take with him. He can’t help but stare at his hands as they move. Long thick fingers, the broad veiny back of his hand that narrows slightly toward his hairy wrist, the square joint of his thumb. Eddie’s mouth feels dry. He realizes with a bit of dread that his cock is starting to chub up inside his work slacks.
“Have a good rest of your day,” Richie says brightly, shooting him a grin, before he kicks the door open and leaves Eddie’s office.
Richie is surprisingly, frustratingly punctual. Who would’ve thought?
In his absence, Eddie shifts in his seat, grimacing a bit, annoyed with himself for being so turned on. The pain returned as soon as Richie took his hands off him. He tries recreating the way that Richie stretched him, grabbing onto the seat of his chair and pulling away from it, but it’s not the same.
He spends the rest of the afternoon distracted by the discomfort, the tugging muscles in his shoulder, and the thought of Richie’s thumbs stroking firm lines down his neck.
Shortly after five, when Eddie is getting ready to leave the office, his phone buzzes with a text from Bev.
Bev
Wanna come over for dinner/movie?
Eddie pauses with one arm in his coat to text back:
Eddie
Yes. Leaving work now.
Eddie gets in his car and makes his way uptown to where Bev is staying in an AirBnB with Richie. The booking is under Richie’s name as an extra security measure. She didn’t want to be alone, Richie didn’t want to go back to LA—he had flaked out of his tour dates anyway—so the arrangement made sense. Eddie’s been seeing a lot of them for the past few weeks. It’s been a long time since Eddie has had friends he spends time with just because they both want to see each other, without the guise of a pre-work racquetball match or after-work drinks. It’s nice having Bev and Richie in the same city; they’ll probably both be moving on soon—Ben has a nice, secluded spot upstate, and Richie’s home is on the opposite coast—but Eddie’s trying to enjoy this while it lasts. Even if the circumstances aren’t the best. Bev’s been having a hard time working up the nerve to leave the apartment.
After circling the block a couple times, Eddie finally finds a spot large enough for his tank of a car—after he got it back from the body shop he considered just selling it; stupid to own a car like this in Manhattan—and texts Bev as he walks toward the door. It’s an apartment above a semi-underground liquor store, which sounds seedier than it is. It’s one of those hipster liquor stores with mix and match bottles of craft beer. He gets buzzed in and takes the stairs two at a time on his way up the three flights. He’s still winded when Richie answers the door.
“Come on in,” Richie says and leads him to the living room. “We’ve been watching– Did you ever watch Making a Murderer? Neither of us watched it when it was the hot thing a few months ago, so we’re catching up. No spoilers if you did!”
Eddie nods a greeting to Bev who’s sitting on the couch with her feet up. “Uh, no, I haven’t.”
“Oh, we can get you up to speed,” Richie says. “We’re on episode… what?”
“Four,” Bev answers as she presses play.
“Okay…” Eddie sits down between them on the couch.
The episode begins to play. Eddie stares at the screen for a moment, absently stretching his neck and rubbing at the base of his neck with one hand. He wills Richie to notice, to say something, to offer to touch him again. He’d be lying if he said that wasn’t the reason he was so eager to come over in the first place.
Eddie’s aimless prayers to the universe are answered. Richie turns to look at him and after a moment says, “Neck still hurt? Want me to work my magic again?” He makes jazz hands, spreading his huge, stupidly square fingers.
“Uh, sure,” Eddie says, taking care to not sound too eager. He turns toward him. “Where do you want me?”
Richie nods to the floor in front of him and hands him a couch cushion.
Eddie’s pulse is already pounding as he slides onto the floor to sit cross-legged in front of Richie. He leans backward hesitantly and finds himself between Richie’s spread legs.
“Where’d you, uh… learn to do this?” Eddie asks him as Richie starts with some basic shoulder kneading, same as in the office. Still it’s an instant relief to his strained muscles.
“Uh, I dunno,” Richie says. “Observation? My manager’s really into all this shit, massages, acupuncture, used to make me do all of that. Also, um…” He trails off, a smile in his voice. “ASMR videos. I have insomnia sometimes.”
“AS– what?” Eddie says, before Bev shushes them.
“Trying to watch,” she says.
So they sit in silence, aside from Bev and Richie occasionally commenting on new developments in the murder investigation, and Richie rubs Eddie’s back. He keeps a good pace, staying in one place long enough to really relax him, but moving around enough to keep it interesting.
Soon, Richie works further down his back. His hands press out against his shoulderblades, arching his back. Eddie sighs into it, letting himself be pushed around a bit. He still feels as weird and shivery as he did at the office, and it’s worse the lower on his back that Richie’s hands travel. He fights the temptation to tell Richie he’s had enough because the truth is he could never get enough of this; he’s just worried that there’s a limit of how much he can take before his body falls apart at the seams.
The light touches are almost unbearable; Eddie digs his nails into his own thighs and tries to endure it. It reminds him of when Richie used to tickle him when they were kids. Richie figured out that Eddie had a lot of sensitive spots—his knees, his sides, his neck, his stomach—and he would poke and prod until Eddie flipped out. This is not unlike the tickle attacks, except now Richie’s hands move much more slowly and softly—which is worse; it’s taking all of Eddie’s willpower not to squirm away from him—and his hands are much larger—which is… Eddie’s trying not to think about that too much. His dick is already far too interested in this and they’ve barely started.
When the light touches against his shoulderblades and ribs are threatening to drive him mad, Richie’s fingers find the knot of muscle beside his spine. Eddie’s not sure whether muscle knots are a real thing—it sounds sort of like quack medicine—but it certainly feels real as Richie begins to roll the tense spot beneath his fingers.
It fucking hurts, a big change in sensation from the light touches a moment before. Sharp pangs thrum all the way down his arms to his fingertips. Eddie grits his teeth, wincing.
Richie chuckles a little, the bastard. “That’s the spot, huh? Let me know if it’s too much,” he says, and digs his fingers in again.
And, well, that’s the perfect way to guarantee that Eddie will never tap out. He’s not going to admit to Richie that it’s too much, even if it sort of is. Same with the unbearably light tickling, Eddie tries to feel the pain, and sit with it, and let it pass through him. Eddie’s always been unreasonably afraid of pain, ever since he was a kid and he tried to barricade himself into his room to avoid getting a vaccination. Because of that, it’s always been freeing to be in the moment of pain and realize that he’s strong enough to endure it. Whether that’s breaking an arm or getting stabbed through the cheek or, well… This, which is admittedly far less intense. He can take it. He’s not going to tap out, because it’s not too much and it never could be.
So Eddie breathes through it for a few minutes until Richie decides to move on, of his own accord. Eddie sighs and lets Richie move him, pushing his left shoulder down and turning his head in the opposite direction.
“Good?” Richie murmurs.
“Yeah,” Eddie answers, and he realizes that– he’s hard now. Not the uncommitted, will-it-away-with-a-thought semi that he had a few hours ago in the office. This is a full-on, public-indecency boner. And two of his childhood friends are sitting on the couch behind him, watching some true crime documentary series on Netflix, and the overhead lights in the living room are on, and glaringly bright. Jesus, Eddie.
The situation is not helped when Richie starts sliding his fingers into Eddie’s hair. He starts with the pads of his fingers, swirling circles over his scalp and gently breaking the bonds of his hair gel. Then he starts scratching with his nails in little circles, working his hands in symmetric patterns all over his head.
Richie and Bev make a few comments back and forth about the show, but Eddie hasn’t absorbed a single second of it. He lets his eyes slide shut and leans back between Richie’s spread legs. He lifts his chin involuntarily, pressing up into the touch like a cat.
“I sorta… have a headache,” Eddie says because it’s true. “That feels really good.”
Richie takes the cue and rubs the pads of his fingers over his forehead and temples too, gently pulling the skin. When his fingers slide back into Eddie’s hair, he tugs lightly at the hair at the crown of his head and above his ears. Eddie sighs his contentment.
He’s still hard enough to feel his pulse in his dick, but he folds his hands over his lap and if he presses down a little that’s only to alleviate some of the tension, not to further stimulate himself.
Richie keeps it up for the entire episode without comment or complaint, without even pausing for a moment. But as soon as the credits roll and the autoplay starts to count down to the next episode, Bev slides to the floor and elbows Eddie out of the way.
“My turn,” she announces, shoving at him.
Eddie rolls off the cushion, still sitting on the floor and drawing up his legs to hide his hard-on. The next episode begins and Richie starts rubbing Bev’s shoulders, pausing now and then to carefully move her hair out of the way. Instead of getting back on the couch next to Richie, Eddie says, “Uh, sorry, but I actually… I’m gonna head out.”
“No dinner?” Bev asks, shooting him a perplexed glance.
“Yeah, sorry.” Eddie hurries out of there, calling, “Thanks, Richie!” over his shoulder.
When Eddie gets home, he hangs his keys on the hook by the door and takes a few steps across his tiny Manhattan bachelor pad—or maybe better dubbed a divorcee pad—until he can collapse into his bed, undoing his fly along the way.
Thinking about Richie’s hands on his shoulders and tugging at his hair, it only takes a few seconds for Eddie to get hard again. He jerks off with abandon, imagining Richie’s hands on his hips and thighs, holding him down, moving him around. Eddie wraps his other hand around his own thigh and squeezes as hard as he can, wishing Richie were there to pin him down and make him take it. Wishing Richie’s large warm hand were wrapped around his cock, smart fingers teasing his head, overwhelming him.
Eddie comes in mere minutes, jaw clenched hard enough that his teeth ache after.
Okay, so. He’s attracted to Richie. That’s pretty obvious.
Eddie knows that he’s attracted to men—he’s known for a while and he told Myra when he asked for a divorce—and he knows that Richie is gay, too. That’s a big part of the reason why he’s taking a comedy hiatus and shopping for new representation; he wants to come out and subsequently pivot his career away from straight-dude standup.
Eddie doesn’t think this is just about being touched by someone for the first time in a long time. He hasn’t filled an absence in his life and then blown it out of proportion. This is about Richie in particular. Richie has been an indispensably good friend over the past month. Richie brings Eddie his favorite lunch a couple times a week at exactly the right time. Richie offers to give Eddie an hour long back rub like it’s nothing. Richie is always so quietly caring and giving; he volunteered to stay with Bev while she goes through her own divorce and cleans up after her life in New York, and he slipped Mike some ten thousand dollars before leaving Derry and apologized that he couldn’t write him a bigger check at the moment without shuffling some funds around. Richie is so thoughtfully considering the next chapter of his own life, while doing everything to help his friends figure out theirs.
So Eddie loves Richie as a friend in a very uncomplicated way. The only thing that’s complicated about it is that he’s now pretty sure he also wants Richie to hold him down and fuck him.
When Eddie wakes up in the morning, he rolls over and hesitantly stretches his shoulder, but it’s better. Completely better, actually, with just the ghost of tenderness at the base of his skull. He prods his fingers at it, but the pain doesn’t flare. He gets up and gets ready for work, expecting it to get worse, but it never does. He feels light and he can concentrate again.
It’s mid-morning when Richie texts him asking how he feels today.
Eddie debates responding with, Great, thanks to your magic fingers, but some strange urge overtakes him. It feels almost out of his control as he watches himself reply.
Eddie
It’s worse today.
Within a second Richie responds.
Richie
Oh no :(
Eddie almost feels bad enough to own up to the lie, but he doesn’t. Another text rolls in.
Richie
If you have a yoga mat or something I could give you a real massage.
That is if you trust me to not fuck up your back worse.
Eddie
I don’t have a yoga mat but I have a bed.
Could you come over after work?
He sends the texts before he can lose his nerve. As he pockets his phone, he sees that Richie replies in the affirmative.
The rest of the day passes slowly, the minutes heavy with anticipation. Eddie runs out a few minutes before five, which is pointless since Richie’s not planning to come over until seven. Maybe he can make use of his extra time by jerking off so he won’t pop a boner the second Richie lays hands on him.
Waiting for Richie to arrive is torturous; Eddie wishes he hadn’t tried to play it cool by throwing out a later time. The two hours drag past, his stomach knotted up in nerves. Eddie makes the very purposeful decision to not change out of his work clothes. It would make sense to change into a t-shirt and sweats to receive a massage, but he has an evil scheme that necessitates staying dressed in his collared shirt and slacks until Richie arrives.
When Richie does finally arrive, he quips, “You’re gonna have to start paying me. This is the last freebie,” as he kicks off his shoes by the door. Eddie leads him straight to the bedroom of his tiny apartment. He has a full size bed, not huge, but he sleeps here alone anyway. He’s removed the blankets, leaving the crisp fitted sheet and a couple pillows, in preparation.
Richie stands at the foot of the bed, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, his standard fare, and looking pretty awkward. He tugs at his own hair, long around the nape of his neck. Eddie turns to him and says, “I guess I should take off my shirt.”
His fingers are already on his own buttons, eyebrows raised. This is step one of the aforementioned evil scheme.
It seems to work.
Richie’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “Yeah, yeah. I guess. That’s fine. I got warm hands.” He rubs them together to illustrate.
So, Eddie unbuttons his shirt, facing away from Richie and tosses the garment onto the dresser. Then, with his heart pounding, he slips off his pants, too. In only boxer-briefs and socks, he gets onto the bed and slowly lays down on his stomach, arms folded under one of the pillows and resting his head on top.
Eddie knows he has a nice body. He’s lean and lightly muscled, narrow waist, smooth skin. This is his best shot at making something happen, if anything is going to happen. If Richie isn’t into him, that’s fine, Eddie made his move, but if Richie doesn’t back down from a half-naked massage in bed, well… His whole body feels tightly wound in anticipation, every hair standing on end.
When Richie crawls onto the bed on his knees, the mattress shifts beneath Eddie and he holds his breath. His cock is already throbbing between his legs and nothing has even happened yet.
Then Richie’s hands are on him, and they are warm, smoothing over his shoulders at first. “Left side still bothering you?” He’s straddling Eddie’s thighs.
“What?” Eddie says into the pillow. “Oh, yeah. Uh. Yeah, same spot.”
“Okay.” So Richie starts there, kneading firmly at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.
Eddie exhales, melting into the mattress. How does it feel so good? It doesn’t really make sense. He can do this to himself, or something similar, and it doesn’t come close to this sensation. His spine lights up all the way down to his tailbone.
Slowly Richie moves his hands down from his shoulder over the bare expanse of Eddie’s back, knuckles rocking down either side of his spine. Eddie tries to breathe through it, but his body feels like a malfunctioning switchboard, sparking and crackling with electricity.
“Feels… weird,” Eddie mutters when he can’t stand it anymore. He tries hard not to squirm.
“This?” Richie sounds surprised. “I’m barely doing anything. Just touching your back.”
Eddie breathes in deep, his lungs pushing his ribs up into Richie’s palms. He shivers. “Are those, like, pressure points?”
Richie hesitates for a moment. “Um, no, I don’t think so. I dunno.”
He resumes, sliding his hands, flat-palmed, down Eddie’s back to the dip of his spine. Eddie’s muscles flutter under the light touch. He wants to scream or to reach back and grab Richie’s hands, and he kind of wants his wrists tied so he can’t do that. God, he’s really going insane.
“You’re so sensitive,” Richie remarks quietly. He curls his fingers around Eddie’s sides and Eddie lets out a shuddering breath, arching his back against him.
“It feels good,” Eddie says, his cheeks burning in embarrassment. Richie can tell how extreme his reaction is. Jesus. He should make him stop.
“This is a great ego boost, not gonna lie,” Richie says and he finally returns his hands to Eddie’s less sensitive shoulders. “Let me know if anything hurts.”
“I… lied,” Eddie admits, the words floating from him without effort. “My back feels better today, but I just wanted… I wanted…”
Richie’s hands pause for a long moment. The air leaves the room. Then he resumes, sliding his hands down Eddie’s back, feather-light and almost unbearable. His hands come to rest over Eddie’s shoulderblades, fingers in the divots between his ribs, and Eddie feels the mattress shift as Richie leans over him. His breath is close to the back of his neck, warm puffs, and then Richie presses his lips to the vertebrae.
Eddie whines in response, so overwhelmed, wanting to jump out of his own skin but more than that wanting to lie there and take it, see how much he can feel before he shakes apart.
“What did you want?” Richie asks between soft kisses.
“Wanted you to touch me,” Eddie breathes. His face is still buried in his arms, a warm dark cave where no one can see him. “Like this, just like this.”
Richie’s voice is low when he says, “Fuck, Eds.” He angles his hips down and grinds against Eddie’s ass. He’s hard. Eddie can feel it through his jeans. His pulse jumps.
“Richie,” Eddie breathes, squirming a little under him. “I wanted this.”
“Me too,” Richie says, soft and rough. He presses a bite to the soft skin at the base of Eddie’s neck. “Think about this all the time.”
Eddie lifts his hips to try to press back against him, but Richie’s hands are on the small of his back then, pinning him back to the bed, and he grinds against him, rough and hard, the zipper of his jeans scratching through Eddie’s thin layer of underwear. Richie’s breathing heavily above him.
“What do you want?”
“Whatever you want,” Eddie tells him.
“Can I?” Richie asks, his fingers tugging at the hem of his boxers.
“Yes, yes,” Eddie says, nodding rapidly. Richie pulls his boxers down and Eddie lifts his hips to help him. They end up rolled down his thighs just above his knees, constricting the movement of his legs. It feels a little less than real and his heart is pounding, every inch of skin shivery and flushed. Considering he was losing it just from Richie touching his arms and back, he’s scared of how he’s going to react when Richie starts touching him elsewhere.
“What do you want me to do?” Richie asks again, but he starts to rub over Eddie’s ass and thighs, taking firm handfuls of skin and relaxed muscle.
Eddie keeps his face buried in his arms. His nerve endings are screaming. His cock is painfully hard between his stomach and the mattress. He can’t move much with the weight of Richie over him. He shakes his head a little, but then Richie’s hand is there, fingernails scratching into his scalp like he did before. Eddie gasps.
“What?” Richie asks, his voice firm. “Tell me.”
“Anything,” Eddie says as Richie’s fingers tighten in his hair. “Fuck me.”
Richie inhales sharply. “You want me to fuck you?” His hand moves over Eddie’s ass and he slides a thumb over his hole.
Eddie feels the muscle contract against the touch. “Yes.”
“Do you have, uh…” Richie laughs a little awkwardly but at the same time he presses in the slightest bit with his thumb. Eddie sucks in a breath. “Lube? Condoms?”
“I have lube.” Eddie lifts his head and flings an arm out, pointing to his bedside table. “Don’t need a condom unless you, uh… need one.”
He puts his head back down while Richie retrieves it. His heart is pounding, pulse throbbing in his hands and throat.
“Okay.” Richie’s knees hit the bed again, disturbing the mattress. Eddie bounces slightly. He can feel now that Richie is naked, having shed his t-shirt and jeans. His thighs are hot and rough with hair against Eddie’s. “Are you sure that…” Richie starts. A lubed finger circles his hole but doesn’t push in. Eddie tries to move back against him again but Richie uses his other stupidly large hand to pin him back down again. “This is… good, yeah?”
Eddie groans a little, frustrated. “Yes. Now please just–”
Richie doesn’t wait any longer. He slides in his middle finger up to the first knuckle. As big as his fingers look, Eddie discovers they feel just as big.
Eddie grips at the pillow until his hands ache. “I don’t need a lot of prep,” Eddie tells him. “I like it when it… I’ll let you know if it’s too much. Just use a lot of lube.”
“Jesus,” Richie mutters, and he slides in two fingers this time, thrusting shallowly in and out until he’s buried up to his knuckles. “You like it kinda rough? Doesn’t surprise me.” He crooks his fingers once sharply.
“That’s– that’s good,” Eddie says, muffled. He’s leaking steadily onto the sheets beneath him, a slick mess under his belly. “That’s enough.”
Richie pulls out and wipes his wet fingers on Eddie’s thigh—Eddie snorts a quiet, wrecked laugh at that—and then reaches for the pillow that’s under Eddie’s head and slides it down to his hips, nudging him until he takes the hint.
Eddie settles down on top of the pillow, his ass raised, exposed and prone. Richie doesn’t make him wait any longer, placing his left hand on the small of Eddie’s back again to hold him down and he pushes in. The blunt head of Richie’s cock enters him, sending tingles of pain all the way to the tips of his toes. Eddie feels the need to bite down on something, so he makes use of the heel of his own hand, as every inch stretches him out, heating him up from the inside out.
“Fuck, you’re so…” Richie pants above him. “Fuck, Eddie.”
Once Richie’s hips press up against his ass, he pauses. Eddie squirms a little, because his body is adjusting fast, but he wants at least a couple thrusts that he’ll feel in the morning. He reaches back blindly for Richie, patting his thigh.
“Come on.”
“Okay, okay,” Richie says, chuckling a little. “Needy.”
He catches Eddie’s wrist and pins it back to the mattress next to his head, and starts to move. The first few thrusts are shallow, dragging against the tight resistance of his body. Eddie likes it best at the beginning, when he’s still adjusting, and he can feel every move inside him. He’s tried to do something like this to himself with varying success using a dildo, but there’s no substitute for Richie actually holding him down and fucking him up the mattress.
Eddie’s cheek and elbows rub against the sheets and his hips rock into the pillow beneath him, rubbing against his cock. Eddie gives into it completely, still loose and boneless and so relaxed from the massage, and still sensitive all over. Richie’s hands keep roaming his back and thumbing at his hipbones and squeezing his ass.
“God, Eds,” Richie pants. He accentuates a sharp thrust in by hauling Eddie back to meet him; the resulting smack drags a breathy moan out of Eddie, unbidden. “Did your neck ever hurt or was this all–?”
“No, it did,” Eddie says, laughing a little. He clenches around Richie and they both hiss. “It did at first.”
“Well, thank fuck for that.”
Eddie’s orgasm had been building since the moment Richie entered him; if Richie had laid a hand on his cock he would have shot off like a rocket, but instead he’s left to rut helplessly against the pillow, and has very little leverage to do so with the way he’s pinned under Richie’s weight. Still, it doesn’t take long for the steady rhythm to push him up to the edge.
“You always this much of a pillow princess?” Richie teases, but his voice is low and breathless. “Not that I mind. You’re taking me so fucking well.”
“God, fuck,” Eddie groans. “I’m gonna come.”
“Yeah? Want me to touch you or are you happy humping yourself on your pillow?”
Eddie feels totally powerless to stop it and he doesn’t want to, just wants to feel everything his body is capable of feeling. It’s most intense the moment before he starts to come, his thighs shaking as he makes an involuntary noise deep in his throat. Then all of the sensation focuses to a point and he comes in a few strong pulses, gasping.
Richie hauls him back by the hips and presses deep inside until he comes, too, shuddering and littering Eddie’s back with biting kisses.
Together, their breathing slows. Richie falls onto his side next to Eddie. Eddie rolls over onto his back. He’s exhausted and happy and warm, and he realizes that he and Richie have hardly looked each other in the eye since this started. In retrospect, that’s kind of slutty, especially for a first time, but Eddie wouldn’t change a thing about it.
“Well, shit.” Richie laughs, sounding as worn out as Eddie feels, and Eddie smiles, turning his face into his shoulder.
“Don’t start.”
“‘I don’t have a yoga mat but I have a bed,’” Richie parrots. “That’s a great line. I’ll have to remember that one.”
“Shut up,” Eddie says and kisses him.
They hadn’t done that yet, either. They’re both a little lazy and unfocused; Eddie licks into Richie’s open mouth and strokes his hand over his chest, ruffling up the hair. Richie hums contently into it.
When Eddie falls back against the pillow, one leg thrown over Richie’s, Richie sighs and muses, “Quite the happy ending.”
Eddie laughs again and runs his hand down over his stomach, broad and soft, because he hasn’t touched much of Richie yet and he’s not going to waste any more time.