Work Text:
1. my heart's a tart, your body's rent
The first time Patrick approaches him, it’s with a knife.
Richie is thirteen, and shaking. He doesn’t cry, because Patrick would like that, and Richie doesn’t want to give him what he wants, even though it’d make things easier on him if he had.
Patrick corners Richie in the boy’s bathroom at school, empty except for them and puts a knife to his throat. Richie’s entire worldview narrows to the shiny edge of Patrick’s knife and the glint of his teeth, both sharp and dangerous.
(petulantly, and quite unfairly, Richie thinks this wouldn’t have happened if Bill were paying attention, if Bill weren’t busy looking for his obviously dead brother instead of wondering where his best friend is and that’s not fair of Richie, he knows that, that’s a horrible thought, but Richie travels in a small pack for a reason and now he feels a bit like gazelle ripped away from the herd, about to be devoured)
“Hey, flamer,” Patrick grins at him. It’s an awful smile, knowing in a way Richie doesn’t want to think about. His dark hair falls in his eyes, but Richie can still see a hungry look in them, like a mangy dog that found a piece of meat. He eyes Richie up and down, over his legs, eyeing his crotch. “I have a proposition for you,” he goes on, voice dripping with something lecherous that makes Richie feel like covering himself, even with the knife to his throat. “You wanna play?”
“What?” Richie asks, jutting out his chin, before trying to make himself feel braver than he actually is, even if the gesture makes the blade dig a little harder into his neck. He’s not sure he heard right. He doesn’t have a joke right now. It’s hard to think of one at knife point, when he’s sure one wrong move would end with his blood and guts all over the floor. “I don’t know what they taught you at preschool, but that’s not for playing.”
Richie’s voice is shaking. He doesn’t sound as brave as he wants. Please, Bill, Eddie, Stan, someone.
Patrick’s grin grows wider. It’s worse now. Patrick shouldn’t smile. “You heard me, flamer, don’t play dumb.”
“I’m not a—”
Patrick’s other hand—the non-knife wielding one—reaches down and cups Richie’s dick through his jeans.
Richie, instead of talking, forgets all words. All his denials just die on his tongue, trapped in his head as inhales sharply, eyes widening with terror. He wants to look down at Patrick’s hand, but he can’t without cutting his throat. He can feel his heart throb all throughout his body, but his stomach is cold and empty, crawling with dread.
He can feel himself hardening against the pressure on his dick and he absolutely wants to die on the spot. Maybe that’s the point of Patrick’s knife. If he just walks forward he can commit ritual suicide.
Patrick has done a lot of things to him over the years—punches, kicking, swirlies, whatever a psychopathic bully can do to a four eyed kid in a small town that doesn’t give a shit about kids—but this is new.
“See, I knew you were a flamer,” Patrick says, in a low, obscenely intimate voice, like they were friends ( boyfriends, Richie thinks with a shudder of revulsion). “So, just relax,’ he says, while pushing the knife further into his skin, stepping closer. “Think of it as helping. Taking you under my wing! You need to learn these things.”
“Wow, you got me mixed up with some other four eyed kid, you sure you don’t need glasses?” There’s an edge of nervous laughter to Richie’s word, borderline hysterical.
“Don’t lie to me,” Patrick says, leaning in closer. He’s close enough so Richie feels his hair against his skin, slightly greasy. He can feel the chapped skin of Patrick’s lips on his cheek. The wet slide of his tongue ( licking, Patrick is licking him ), the way Patrick’s hand just squeezes his dick, makes Richie squeal like a stuck pig.
“What the fuck?” Richie’s voice is absolutely in full panicked hysterics. “Hockstetter, are you fucking licking me? You can’t, I’ll tell—”
“Yeah, I can,” Patrick whispers in his ear. “I can do whatever I want to you, little flamer, because you’re not gonna tell anyone about this. Not if you don’t want them finding out your dirty little secret.”
The closer Patrick gets, the looser his grip on his knife gets, and Richie has had enough, Richie doesn’t think, he just drops to the ground like goddamn Indiana Jones and runs as fast as his little body can carry him.
He puts as much distance between them as he can and doesn’t stop running.
2. Cause there's nothing else to do, every me and every you
In the woods, Richie gives his first handjob.
“C’mon,” Patrick cajoles him. He grabs him, holding onto his shoulders, like Richie is a rabbit about to burst loose. Richie is a little taller now, fourteen instead of thirteen, but Patrick was still a head taller than him. Patrick is skinny as a rail, built for speed not strength, but his fingers curled into claws on his shoulder and they hurt.
“What are you waiting for? How hard can jacking off a dick be?” Patrick asks. The sneer, the darkness of his eyes, the urgency means Richie doesn’t want to make him wait, doesn’t want to tell him he doesn’t know what he’s doing, that he thinks maybe he shouldn’t have come here, but the hot curl of arousal in his chest and groin and belly means he must want this, right? He came here for a reason, with the wiggle of an idea of Patrick’s proposition a year ago began to make a twisted sense to him, on days when he’s alone.
Maybe Patrick will jerk him off after. Maybe. He never said he would, after all.
Richie wraps his hand around Patrick’s cock, taking an embarrassingly deep breath as he does so, shocked that he’s even touching a cock not his own, that Patrick hisses between his teeth at the touch of his hand—that Patrick likes it. That Patrick maybe likes him and what he’s doing to him. Patrick’s cock gets wet in his small hand, head dripping, slickening the way as he jacks him.
He goes at Patrick’s dick with a kind of clumsy enthusiasm, mainly because if he doesn’t, if he shows hesitation, Patrick may get bored and kill him. He wants to take his time, slow down, because despite the situation, he likes the look of Patrick’s cock, the curve of it, the dark wiry thatch of hair his knuckles keep brushing against. Patrick’s hands squeeze tighter on his shoulders, making Richie wince, but he thinks that’s a good sign that he likes what he’s doing, especially when his cock just twitches in his hand.
“Like that?” Richie asks, breathing hard.
“Faster,” Patrick snaps at him, and he grabs Richie’s wrist now, long fingers wrapped around him, and moves his hand for him at a faster, frenetic pace. Richie’s hand feels like it could cramp up. “How do you jerk yourself off?”
“Um,” Richie says. He jerks himself off as fast and hard as he can, until he’s chafed raw, trying to make himself come in record time so he can block out all the filthy, perverted thoughts he has mid-rub and tug. “Like this?” He twists his fingers a little, not sure what fancy shit Patrick is looking for.
“Christ, that’s pathetic,” Patrick groans. “Don’t tell me I need to teach you how to touch your dick—”
“I can get myself off,” Richie hisses back, and his blunt nails scrape against the sensitive skin of his cock, which Richie is sure is going to get his glasses broken or his nose busted but—
“Yeah,” Patrick hisses between his teeth, staring down at them both, his hand still guiding him. Patrick humps his hand then, hips moving obscenely into his grip; his shirt rides up and a bit of belly gets exposed, smooth and flat with a trail of hair disappearing down into his underwear. Richie’s mouth waters, hating that he wants to lick Patrick, of all people.
“Yeah, that’s good, like that,” Patrick encourages him and Richie’s heart speeds up, his breathing growing heavier. His cock throbs in his jeans as he realizes he’s turned on by Patrick’s words.
Patrick squeezes his wrist so tight Richie almost cries, but he does what Patrick wants him to do, lets his nails drag down under his dick and thumbs his piss-slit for him.
“Fuck,” Patrick groans, low and throaty noise deep in his chest. Patrick sounds different than him when he comes, more like a man than a teenager. Richie can’t stop staring at him the way his eyes slide shut and his throat tilts back, the bob of his Adam's apple, the flush of red over his cheeks as his shoulders rise and fall. Right now, even his hair in his face looks attractive. Richie’s torn between looking him in the eye and looking down at his come stained hand, the gobs of white fluid. It’s not like he’s ever seen it before, but it’s different when it belongs to someone else. When it’s all over him. It’s sticky. It smells a little rank.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Patrick asks.
Richie glances back up, cheeks going hot. Patrick laughs at him.
“You like that?” Patrick huffs. His laughter feels more friendly, like they’re sharing a joke. Like Patrick may be his friend, which Richie knows isn’t true, but since the rest of the Bowers gang are all gone or dead, he knows Patrick doesn’t really have anyone else.
“You like being covered in come?” he asks.
Richie bites his lip and finds himself nodding.
Patrick’s head cocks to the side.
“Then lick it up, baby,” Patrick says. He eyes him hungrily, mouth half parted, like a snake tasting the air, like he didn’t just come all over him, ready for another round.
Richie feels stupid, his belly all cold with dread. “What?”
Patrick’s grip tightening on him is his only warning, before Patrick drags Richie’s hand to his mouth, shoving his own fingers inside. It happens so fast that Richie doesn’t move or even try to get away, that he opens his mouth for his own fingers out of shock, not permission. But Patrick doesn’t just make Richie taste him—bitter and rank and gross enough to make Richie gag—he makes sure he pushes Richie’s fingers down far enough so Richie can feel them brush the back of his teeth, the roof of his mouth, then the edge of his throat, making sure come gets over every inch of his mouth.
“I said lick it up,” Patrick says, as Richie chokes and gags around his fingers, eyes watering. Richie can feel himself gag as his own fingers hit the back of his throat, tickling his tongue, can feel his body start to panic at the sudden intrusion. He forces himself to do what Patrick tells him to do—it’s hard to actually lick, but he pushes his tongue upwards, pressing it against his fingers, the bitter flavor coating his taste buds. His tongue feels fat and heavy, like a lead weight.
Then as suddenly as he started, Patrick retracts his fingers, leaving Richie relieved but choking for real, like a delayed reaction, bent over and gasping for breath. Patrick pats the back of his shoulders hard, forcing another ragged gasp from Richie.
“You’re such a slut,” Patrick says, leaning down, hand on his shoulder, squeezing as he speaks low in his ear. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it, wow.” Richie doesn’t have the breath to challenge him, still coughing, like he’s turned into Eddie. He tried to say fuck you, I’m not a slut, not sure how he could be, he’s never done anything like this before, but it just comes out as ffff—
“What the f—” he rasps and Patrick pats his dick through his jeans. It almost hurts, not an affectionate touch, borderline a slap against his dick, but worst of all, his hips just jerk into it, the way he knew he would, like a Pavlovian touch, can’t help himself. It feels good, as much as it feels bad, as much as it hurts, the brief hint of hard stimulus making him crave more, good and bad tangled together to form something truly nasty.
“Look how fucking hard you got, jerking me off,” he says and Richie’s cheeks burn red. He has no defense. He liked Patrick’s cock, even if the rest of him terrified him. “I knew you were a flamer, but I didn’t know how easy you were for cock.”
Richie whimpers as he forces back tears, not wanting to show anymore weakness for Patrick. “I’m not,” he starts to say and then the wind gets knocked out of him as Patrick tackles him to the ground. His head hits the grassy, wooded ground, twigs and rocks knocking against his noggin. For a moment, he can’t breath, he feels almost nauseous, head spinning, his vision unfocused and only aware of Patrick, smiling like a wolf, moving too fast for Richie to keep track of.
Patrick pins him down on the grass, hands on his shoulders, hips straddling his legs, his body longer and leaner and corded with muscle Richie didn’t know was there. He leans down to mouth at his throat. Then he bites. Richie arches up and bites down on his bottom lip. He thinks he screams, or cries out, the pain in his head making him forget he doesn’t want to attract attention. He thinks Patrick is gonna hurt him again for that, but he laughs, hot breath against the sweaty skin of his neck, like he approves.
The fact that Patrick approves of him at this moment gets him all messed up, caught adrift, stomach swirling in a painful good way, cock aching. His little hips are rutting up against Patrick, and he’s laughing.
“Needy little bitch,” he says, like it’s a compliment and Richie flinches away from that, wants to suddenly crawl away, as much as he wants to push his cock into his warmth. Patrick shoves his hand in his jeans then, too fast and sudden. His touch is like a livewire, too hot and liable to kill him, but it feels so good, Richie keens and spreads his legs.
Maybe I am a needy little bitch.
“C’mon, show me what a good slut you are,” Patrick says. His words make Richie feel all confused, not sure why the disgusting words are making his head spin and cock throb in Patrick’s hand, but he parts his legs as much as he can, wishing he was naked, that Patrick could touch him more, even as a part of him is horrified by the thoughts that pop in his head.
“C’mon,” Patrick says. His voice is a sibilant hiss. He twists down on the head of his cock hard, painful, and still drawing reedy gasps out of Richie’s throat. He’s making these stupid little painting noises, like he can’t stop. “Beg me for it, little slut.”
“Patrick, please, ” Richie spits out, his voice embarrassingly high pitched, breaking on the words. He meant please stop, or please don’t, but maybe that please is all Patrick wants to hear because his squeezes tight and swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, smearing fluid, pressing down on the vein underneath and then Richie spurts up into Patrick’s hand, gasping and whining for him. Orgasm hits him hard, better than jerking himself off, better than anything he’s felt before, even as Patrick smiles and laughs at him and calls him a slut.
Richie squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the pleasure to die down, breathing hard.
It takes a moment to catch his breath.
“Wow,” Patrick says. He reaches over to wipe his hand on Richie’s pants. Ugh. That’s going to stain. “You’re responsive, ” he says. “I wonder what you’ll do for me.” Patrick stares at him, licking his lips, like Richie is dinner. That’s worse than calling him a slut or a bitch or anything else.
Richie stands up and shoves his pants back up, and runs as fast as his legs can carry. Behind him, Patrick’s laughter carries through the woods.
Richie can feel him under his skin, like fingerprint smudges. The mark on his throat throbs, worse than his cock did for him. Like a claim.
3. Another love I would abuse
No circumstances could excuse
“Hey, Tozier!”
Patrick catches him in between classes, a hand on the back of his t-shirt, tugging him backwards towards him. There is no other Loser around, and Richie is glad for that, because he doesn’t want to be saved and dragged away from Patrick this time—well, he does, but every time Patrick is near him, something strange happens to Richie, like he gets taken hostage and loses what little common sense he ever had. There’s always a constant threat of danger with Patrick, a glint in his eyes, or worse, a vast emptiness that scares Richie more than anything else, has always scared Richie, his whole life—but he doesn’t want anyone else to see the way he gets around Patrick, not even a Loser.
(especially not Eddie)
Used to be, all Richie wanted was for someone to step in before Patrick gets too carried away with him, but now it feels like it’s too late for that. Richie’s compromised, and he and Patrick are in this together now, whether he likes it or not. Most of his friends are busy these days, and Bev and Ben are already gone.
Patrick is smart; he makes sure none of Richie’s friends are around either. He doesn’t want to be interrupted for this—he wants Richie all to himself, and Richie kind of likes that.
Patrick tugs him by the back of his shirt again towards him, like it’s a collar.
“Hey,” Patrick says, his voice lower this time, pulling Richie closer. Richie twists and tries to turn around but it’s difficult with the way Patrick is grabbing him. He can’t get a good view of him, but he smells him, like smoke and weed. Richie can see a glimpse of his bared teeth. He looks like a coyote, lean and hungry. “You’re coming today?”
Every time Patrick comes near him, Richie’s alarm bells go off in his head, whatever passes for a self-preservation instinct with him. Richie for most of his life, did a good job out running Patrick. It’s only when he hit puberty and got dick-stupid, that he started having a hard time with it.
“Yeah, Patrick, I’m coming,” he whispers, head lowered. He already agreed to this earlier. He doesn’t want to look at Patrick directly.
He doesn’t look at Patrick as he follows him into the dirty school bathroom, as Patrick kicks the door shut as soon as Richie walks in, and from his backpack pulls out a door stopper—stolen from a teacher, maybe—that he wedges underneath, holding tight and close. There’s something premeditated about that, that has Richie a little terrified. Maybe he should be grateful for this, too. Richie Tozier sucks flamer cock is bad enough, and he appreciates Patrick taking the time to make sure they’re not found.
“Okay, Tozier,” Patrick says. As nicknames go, Tozier is almost affectionate.
He doesn’t waste time. His backpack falls to the ground, as Patrick leans back against it in a lazy, but aggressive sprawl, limbs loose, hips cocked forward so all Richie can the angles of his body just point down to his crotch, cock hard already, watching Patrick’s nimble fingers toy with his zipper.
Richie doesn’t wait for Patrick to bark orders at him, he knows what he’s here for. He walks up to Patrick until they’re lined up together (Richie is still shorter than him, but will beat Patrick in height soon, his legs and limbs getting longer, eye level with his nose) and then sinks to his knees in front of him, right as Patrick pulls out his cock.
Then Richie just stares at it, his cock right at mouth level, Patrick gripping the base of it, as if that’ll help. He’s seen it before, dozens of times, but not this close, not knowing what he’s supposed to do here, his brain and body get stuck.
“Well?” Patrick asks.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Richie says, swallowing hard, looking up at Patrick in askance. He hates admitting this, which makes him feel crazy, because of course he doesn’t know what he’s doing, Patrick should know that by now. It’s not like he’s ever actually sucked cock before, no matter what anyone’s said.
(he’s thought about it, whether it’s idle fantasies about Eddie or Patrick or other men; it’s hard to admit he wants to, but Patrick forces him to be honest)
Instead of getting angry, Patrick smirks.
“Just open wide, kid,” Patrick says and that sends a shudder right through Richie’s body, going hot. He wants to palm his cock, pull it out and stroke it, but he knows how Patrick will react to that. Instead he nods and lets his mouth hang open, like a fish gasping for air. It causes a hot flash of shame through him, burning down his spine. Patrick grabs the back of his neck, his hand large and hot against Richie’s skin down the nape of his neck, and pushes him forward on his cock. Richie lets him, going with the motion, as the velvet-smooth cockhead slips past his lips and rests on Richie’s tongue.
Richie closes his eyes and tries not to think about what he’s doing, focusing on what’s in his mouth. Patrick’s cock is slick and wider in his mouth than it looks. Richie cautiously licks up the fluid, running his tongue over and over the slit—he hears Patrick moan above him, patting his head like he’s a dog who did a good trick.
“Yeah, good isn’t it? You like how it tastes, Tozier?”
Richie moans and nods, looking up at him. Patrick’s face is a mask of lust, eyes dark with desire. “That’s a good baby cocksucker,” Patrick says.
The pulse in Richie’s throat starts beating wildly and he moans without meaning to around Patrick’s cock, vibrations humming through his mouth and chest. It’s like the more ashamed he feels, the more turned on he gets. It’s not fair.
He gives Patrick’s cock little kitten licks, repeatedly lapping the head of it. Fluid drips out, slow and easy, the taste of it musky and heavy and earthy on his tongue.
“Okay, open wider,” Patrick says and with one hand on the back of his neck, he shoves Richie down on the rest of his cock down to the root.
Richie gags, his throat convulsing and fluttering around Patrick’s cock, his eyes tearing up and burning at the sudden pressure. He feels Patrick hit the back of his throat, feels it press against his gag reflex. His glasses have fogged up heavily. He can feel thick globs of spit fill his mouth and spill down his chin, unable to contain it, even as Patrick chokes him with his dick. He can hear Patrick groaning and underneath that, thick lewd sounds from his own throat, half guttural gurgles and half distressed whines.
Richie tries to tell Patrick, stop, but what comes out is just muffled pained moans that rise to a keen. He grabs Patrick’s hips, trying to push back from him, and he thinks he’s very seriously starting to choke and all he can think of is getting away, suddenly, forgetting how to be good for Patrick, like he wants him too. His vision, for a moment, goes dark with stars, and Richie thinks maybe he may actually die choking on Patrick’s dick, of all indignities.
Then Patrick removes his hand and lets him go.
Richie pulls off, choking, his throat feeling scrapped raw already, sucking in harsh lungfuls of air into his chest. He breathes so hard, it hurts, coughing from somewhere deep in his chest. His mouth hurts, his chest hurts, his throat hurts. Is it supposed to hurt? Blowjobs don't look like they hurt in porn, but all the porn he’s seen was with girls, not dudes.
“Patrick,” Richie says, voice like broken glass. He’s pretty sure he’s going to be picking out pubic hair from his teeth.
“Shut the fuck up,” Patrick says, “just stay like that.” But Richie doesn’t know what like that means, until Patrick tugs him by his thick mop of hair and this time tugs his head up, so hard, Richie thinks he may pull out some strands. Patrick doesn’t shove his cock back in his mouth. He jacks himself hard in front of Richie, who can’t stop coughing and gasping for air. A thick glob of white fluid hits him in the nose, slipping down his mouth, then his face, cheek, tongue, slipping into his wide open mouth.
He lets out a ragged choking noise but Patrick doesn’t stop coming on his face; he can feel his come, hot on his skin. Can feel it in his mouth, bitter and pungent. It hits his glasses, streaking his vision with white. Fuck, he’s sure it’s in his hair too. That’s going to stick. Gross.
“Yeah,” Patrick lets out a deep, satisfied groan, pumping a couple more spurts of fluid from his cock before stopping his hand. “Yeah, that was good.” He says. Not that Richie was good. Just the blowjob. That’s the most shameful thing of it all.
Richie reaches up for his glasses, going to wipe them off.
“Don’t,” Patrick tells him, and Richie stills, well trained. “You look good like that.” Blind?
“Good?” Richie asks, blinking up at Patrick. Between the fogged up glasses and Patrick’s jizz on them, he can’t actually see him.
“Pretty,” Patrick purrs, “all covered in my come.”
Richie bites his tongue—he hates it when Patrick calls him that, pretty, like a girl, like a bitch—but hearing that makes him shiver, heat flooding through him, in all the worst ways.
“Did you like that?” Patrick asks.
Richie shudders, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, Patrick, I liked that,” he admits, staring down at Patrick’s feet. He doesn’t know if he did or not—he’s still hard in his jeans, so he must have, he assumes.
Richie tries to get the taste of Patrick out of his mouth but no matter how much he licks and smacks his lips, he still remains there, lingering.
4. I serve my head up on a plate
It's only comfort, calling late
“Hey, Ma!” Richie calls out as he steps inside his house, letting his backpack slide off his shoulders and hit the ground. He can hear his mom moving around in the kitchen, putting away groceries. “I’m home!”
He walks into the kitchen looking for his mom, and finds Patrick Hockstetter leaning back on the kitchen counter, watching his mom put items in the fridge, her back to them both. Patrick has an apple in one hand, tossing it around and catching it, fiddling with his hands like he’s bored. He’s staring at his mother with a smile on his face.
Richie can’t process anything that is happening in front of him. His mind just stalls out, at the collusion of Patrick and his mother, right in front of him.
“Hey, honey,” his mom says, barely glancing back at him—she’s grabbing eggs from a paper bag and stuffing them in the fridge. Richie mostly tries to leave his mom alone, more even more than he’s gotten older. He doesn’t want anyone to notice the marks on him. “Your friend was nice enough to help me with groceries while waiting for you to get home.”
“Hi, Richie!” Patrick says brightly, winking at him. Richie thinks that’s the first time he’s called him by his first name.
Richie cannot make words come out of his mouth. He stares at Patrick, dumb struck, mouth numb, and more terrified of him than he’s been in months. Richie’s fifteen now and he hates Patrick, but he’s also used to him; knows his tells, knows what to expect, knows what to do and how to debase himself to keep Patrick from hurting him too bad. He’s just about as tall as him now, even if Patrick has a way of making him feel like a small twelve year old as always, like he never left the eighth grade.
(he hates him, except for the times he doesn’t)
“Friend?” He chokes out. Richie’s heart is pounding. He’s trying very hard not to burst into panicked, hyperventilating breaths. The sight of Patrick alone with his mother makes him want to grab a kitchen knife and stab him. He can picture it, crystal clear, the knife block, the carving knife, gripping the handle and just stabbing Patrick deep in his stomach. He’d go to jail and his mom would cry, but Patrick would be dead.
“Yeah, I don’t know where your other little friends are,” Mom days off-hardly, not realizing what Richie meant, the magnitude of her statement, the way it stings to think about—Bill moved away months ago and Mike’s grandpa is keeping him busy on the farm and Eddie’s mom keeps him locked half the time and Stan’s trying to graduate early to get away from his dad.
They’re all just pulling away.
“They’re busy,” Richie says softly. Nausea rolls in his stomach. Patrick grins at him. That makes it worse.
“It’s just me, today, Mrs. Tozier,” Patrick says, nonchalant. For a moment, Richie is furious with his mother, a hot curl of anger in his guts, that she’s too busy to realize Patrick isn’t one of his friends from school, that he graduated already, and he works at the video store. It dies down quickly, but the basic instinct is there—the urge for attention, rearing up, look at me look at me.
“We’re supposed to study today, remember, Richie?” Patrick says to him, an idly bland smile on his face. It should make him look hapless and normal but it just sets Richie’s teeth on edge, everything in him on red alert, all wrong on Patrick’s vulpine face.
“Study...” Richie trails off. They weren’t supposed to meet today. That’s not part of their little arrangement. Patrick has never been to his house before.
“Yeah, honey, why don’t you kids run along,” his mom says, head in the fridge, moving things around to make room. Her voice is distracted and distant, and Richie knows when his mom is brushing him off. Richie knows she doesn’t mean to be dismissive, not like that. He knows his mom loves him, with goodnights and forehead kisses and the occasional dinner conversation when all three of them manage to be home at the same time—but she doesn’t really see him and whose fault is that? He doesn’t want to be seen; only Patrick’s cracked through, against his will.
Patrick’s eyes flicker back and forth between him and his mom’s backside. The sight of him makes Richie’s fist clench, anger clawing at his insides, anger and fear and disgust. All those ugly negative emotions Patrick pulls out of him.
“Sure, mom,” Richie says, “c’mon, Patty,” he says, just because he can, catching a glimpse of a snarl on Patrick’s face as he turns his back to him.
Richie has no choice, but to go upstairs and let Patrick follow him.
Patrick trails after him like a ghost haunting him. He doesn’t say anything, and Richie doesn’t turn back to meet his eyes, only the sound of footsteps up the stairs and down the hallway dogging him. It’s only when they both get in his room that Richie finally starts to crack, spinning around to face him.
“What the fuck?” Richie asks, trying to keep his tone steady. “What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be here.”
Patrick looks all wrong in his room—he leans against the back of his door, one boot-covered foot planted against it, his stance casually cruel, like he belongs here. He glances around idly, like he’s trying to memorize the details of Richie’s room, eyes drifting from his goddamn Star Wars sheets to his Lost Boys poster hanging on the wall, to the pile of comic books by his bed.
That’s when Richie realizes the mistake he made, letting him come up here; should have gone back to his house. Should have made Patrick leave. He looks all wrong here, not supposed to be here.
“Your mom’s nice,” he says. Richie wants to throw up. Patrick’s wide mouth curves into a smirk. “Cute, too. Looks like you, but hotter.”
Richie doesn’t think—his vision goes blinding red and he throws himself at Patrick, shoving him hard against the wall without any care for who hears them. Patrick makes a thump against the door, but instead of cringing or wincing from pain, a bark of laughter bursts out of his chest, full of mirth and surprise. Richie doesn’t care, he doesn’t want to hear it, he reaches back to throw a punch, but Patrick easily grabs his fist and pushes him away like he weighs nothing. Richie falls back a few steps, and then throws himself at him again, this time head butting his chest. Oomf leaves Patrick’s chest in a gust of breath, but he’s still laughing, more choked off this time, like maybe Richie managed to rattle Patrick’s ribcage or crack a bone, but Patrick places his hands on his head, holding him away from him.
“Easy tiger,” Patrick chuckles, “you’re real cute, but what do you think you’re doing?”
“Stay away from my mom, don’t you ever —”
Patrick shoves him hard, and Richie goes falling, stumbling back, the back of his knees hitting the footboard of his bed with pain blooming in his muscles and sinew as he gasps. Richie tries to scramble up the bed but he barely has any time to react, because Patrick is on top of him, grabbing him and shoving him down. Richie’s feet dangle off the bed and Patrick is straddling him, hands on his wrists, shoved down besides Richie, his legs spread wide around Richie’s waist.
“You don’t tell me what to do,” Patrick says softly, speaking slowly like Richie is a particularly dumb child. His breath smells like smoke, hot and woodsy. He smells like he’s been smoking out in the woods, smells like something from the forest, wild and half-feral. Uncontrollable.
Patrick places a hand on Richie’s throat, not squeezing, but his fingers all splayed out, large hand pressing into his skin there—telling Richie, this is mine, you’re mine, I could kill you if I wanted to . “I tell you what to do. I do whatever I want to you.”
As if to prove it, he starts grinding down on him, rocking his hips against him in sharp thrusts. Patrick’s cock is hard against belly, the thing lewd and hungry against Richie, hot even through the cloth. Richie can feel his own stirring, unable to contain his own lust, shamefully aroused by the feel of Patrick on top of him, of being bracketed between Patrick’s legs.
“I can fuck you right here, if I wanted to,” Patrick says, one hand letting him go, running it over his chest, softly at first, until he finds Richie’s nipples through his shirt and twists.
Richie cries out, arching up in a bow-like motion against Patrick, cock fully hard now. Patrick tugs at his nipple again, scratching the sensitive skin there until Richie makes soft whining noises. Stupid little kid sounds escaping his mouth.
“Patrick...” Richie starts but he doesn’t know what to say. Stop ? What’s the point?
Patrick reaches down and pulls his shirt off, and Richie lets him, raises his arms so Patrick can get him shirtless. Patrick’s hand is hot on his chest, running his fingers over the hair barely starting to grow, then back to his nipples, pinching and tugging until they’re a dark red.
“Patrick,” Richie whines, shutting his eyes. His hips keep moving in little jerks, small needy thrusts, each time colliding against Patrick and each time making him laugh under his breath. His chest is burning with every flick and pinch of his nipples.
“I could do whatever I want to you, and you’d let me,” Patrick says, as he starts to pull his pants off, hooking his fingers in his jean’s belt holes. “I could fuck you and you’d beg for more.”
“What?” Richie asks. He tries to raise his hands, his fingers, but Patrick violently shoves him back down, hand back at his throat again.
Once again, Patrick is on top of him, leaning until Richie can taste his breath on his tongue.
“You’re not going anywhere, Richie,” Patrick hisses. His fingers curl inwards like claws.
“Patrick, what,” Richie sputters, incredulous. “You cant rape me, I’m not....”
Just saying it makes Richie feel stupid. He can’t even finish his sentence. I’m not ready. He knows Patrick doesn’t care.
Patrick’s laughter is loud and ringing in his ears.
“You can’t rape the willing,” Patrick says, reaching down in his jeans, in his underwear to grope him. The angle is bad for jerking off, but that’s not what Patrick wants. He takes his hand and squeezes Richie’s dick until it hurts, until Richie wants to recoil, until there's too much stimulus on his cock and he might just come from just this, worse than come, just burst entirely.
“I’m not,” Richie protests, “I’m not willing, get out—”
“You’re so unwilling, you’re about to come for me,” Patrick says, nails pressing in under the head of his cock. Richie makes a high and reedy gasp. He tries to think of stuff that turns him off, but he’s too focused in this moment—his comforter beneath him, the familiar smell of his room, surrounded by everything he loves.
“You think you’re so innocent, but you’re just a pathetic slut begging for cock. I’m the best you’re ever gonna do in this town, you know? You should thank me, I’m doing you a favor—”
“Patrick, no,” Richie starts to protest.
“When I fuck you, do you think your mom will hear us? Do you think she knows what I’m doing to her sweet little boy in his room?”
“What the fuck, no,” Richie hisses. Panic courses through him, fogging his brain, making it hard to think, to hear, to feel anything but a primal sort of fear. “You’re not fucking me. Not here.”
“I think I am,” Patrick goes on. “I think Maggie Tozier is gonna hear what a little slut she raised when you moan like a whore for me—“
“No,” Richie protests.
He lets out a too-loud whine when Patrick cups his dick, hard against him, betraying him. Richie can feel it, the sharp bursts of pleasure in his belly, trying to shove them back down. His dick isn’t going down, and the more Patrick squeezes, the more Richie thrusts up into him, body going off sense memory.
He hates it. He hates himself. His eyes are burning and his chest is tight, breathing hard.
Patrick grins wide. “I knew it. I can hold you down and take what I want and you’re just so hard up for it. It’s pathetic. You’re so pathetically desperate, Tozier.”
Finally, he takes his hands away from him, letting Richie go. Patrick starts to undo his pants, fingers on the zipper, shoving them down to his knees, the sight of his hard cock trapped just by his boxers makes Richie’s heart seize in his chest.
That’s going to go in me. He can’t comprehend that. He can’t picture it. He’s never once stuck anything up his ass. Not even fingers. Patrick once decided to put his mouth there, and Richie squirmed away from him, the feel of his wet tongue making disgust rise in his throat.
“No,” Richie says. His voice is shaking.
“Yeah,” Patrick says, cock out now. He gives it a quick stroke, eyes momentarily shut in pleasure. Richie has a moment, there, where he could get up and run, but he doesn’t. He’s a deer in headlights. “Yeah, you’re gonna learn what a cockhungry slut you are. And your mom is gonna hear you scream.”
He can’t do this.
This can’t happen here. Not like this. Not here.
Richie won’t let him. There’s not much he can do from here, but he can do this.
When Patrick’s fingers grab the seam of his jeans, when they undo the button, Richie kicks him square in the chest. Patrick flies back, hitting the footboard of his bed with a heavy thud. Richie relishes the sound, the moment where Patrick seems surprised, that Richie would fight back, clamping down on the urge to apologize to him, to make himself small, because he knows it’s only going to get worse from here.
Patrick simply stares at him, blank eyed, dead-eyed, this look somehow far more terrifying than the naked hunger or rage Patrick has stared at him before. Richie’s voice goes completely blank, his throat aching as he tries to say something.
What’s his plan? He doesn’t know. He just acted. He just wanted Patrick off him. He didn’t want to taint his room with Patrick’s presence anymore than he already has.
“You’re gonna regret that,” Patrick says, with a grin, smiling and laughing at him, as he starts to crawl forward towards him. He moves slowly and Richie gears up to kick him again, but Patrick grabs his leg again, hand clenching tightly around his ankle bones, twisting until Richie lets out a soft cry.
“Delicate, aren’t you?” Patrick chuckles. “Can you go louder than that, baby?”
“Tomorrow,” Richie gasps out, kicking uselessly in Patrick’s hand with his hostage leg. He kicks with his other, hitting Patrick mid-thigh, but it’s ineffectual here, Patrick not budging. Richie is pants-wetting levels of fear and he has no idea if this hail mary pass is going to work. He doesn’t know what he can do in a day to put this off. “Fuck me tomorrow,” he says. Then, lowering his voice, fluttering his eyes, the way Patrick likes it. “Please.”
Patrick barks out a mean sort of laughter. “Why? I have you here now. Your mommy thinks we’re doing school work together.” He leans down, until they’re nose to nose, Patrick’s breath stinking across his face. “I wanna give her something to talk about,” he says.
Richie takes in deep sucking breaths. He knows he must look pathetic. He knows Patrick likes that about him.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” Richie bargains. “It’ll be a surprise. You won’t regret it. I promise.”
He doesn’t know what he’d do, if he gets Patrick to agree. Something. Anything.
Patrick stares at him like a bug. He’s a big kid, with a magnifying glass, peering Richie down like he’s a strangely interesting ant. This close, Richie can see all the details of his face; his pores, his greasy hair, his shining-with-sweat face, his pink lips. Nice lips, Richie thinks, if they weren’t attached to Patrick. Patrick is a collection of interesting and handsome body parts, attached to the worst person. Patrick’s eyes are dead and empty, looking into Richie’s big wide blue ones.
(it makes Richie think of the time when he was ten and Patrick was fourteen and he shoved his head in the toilet; then, Eddie and Bill and Stan both came to rescue him, jumping Patrick from behind. Four against one were good odds—here, there are no odds in Richie’s favor)
“Alright, Tozier, it’s a bargain,” he says, springing away from him, shoving his pants back up. “I’m holding you to that. Don’t think I won’t. I’ll be here at the same time.”
Richie expects Patrick to just up and leave for good, but before he reaches the door knob, he turns back around. Richie watches, in slow motion, unable to move, as Patrick walks back over to him on the bed and kisses him hard on the lips, biting and painful and making Richie gasp.
Like they’re boyfriends. Like they’re dating. Intimate and cruel all at once.
Richie hates how much he likes it.
Patrick tastes like smoke, spreading into his lungs like someone’s last breath.
5. Sucker love I always find
Someone to bruise and leave behind
Richie is drunk and this is all his fault.
“What the fuck?” Patrick says as Richie fumbles with the door handle of the car, his fingers trembling, loose and slippery. Patrick comes to his house again, in his truck, the kind that Richie missed parked down the block the day before. Richie doesn’t miss it now, the moment Patrick pulls up, he rushes his way out of the house—quite a feat, when this drunk, Richie feeling all loose around the edges, like he might slip out of his body. Richie has gotten drunk before, but not like this. Like he might puke.
“You smell like a liquor store,” Patrick says, sneering at him, but he doesn’t protest Richie climbing in the car and Richie doesn’t know what he’s thinking, he’s just, moving and reacting and running on instinct. He climbs into the car and tells Patrick, “drive.”
Patrick ignores him. He lowers his head, like a wolf, a sniffing dog, leaning in to inhale the smell of Richie.
“How much did you drink, Tozier?” His nostrils flare. There’s a dark gleam in Patrick’s eyes but Richie doesn’t care. It’s nice, not to care. There’s an empty space where his sense of fear and humiliation would reside.
Richie shrugs. Or he thinks he does. His body isn’t fully under his control but he slides closer to Patrick, until his thighs bump up against the stick-shift. His voice is thick in his own ears and muffled. “My dad’s brandy, in his liquor cabinet. I’m really in for it now.”
He giggles. It’s a dumb little sound but he can’t help it. Patrick laughs, too, and for a moment, it feels like they’re together.
Richie’s guts churn for a second, thinking, shouldn’t you be getting drunk with your friends and not Patrick Hockstetter? Where’s Eddie where’s Mike where’s Stan where’s Bill where’s everyone —and Richie can’t finish his thought, because as much as his head is spinning, his body is spinning too; it’s not that he’s unaware of stimulus, but almost too aware, of Patrick’s hard, rough hands grabbing his hips, of one arm the wrapping around him and tugging him forward.
Richie, in a tangle of limbs, lands on Patrick, half in his lap, a puddle of teenage boy straddling his thigh. He wants to touch him, but it’s hard to move and he ends up letting Patrick maneuver him, ends up with his face pressed against Patrick’s collarbone, tongue lolling out of his mouth a bit. He’s gonna drool on Patrick’s shirt. Richie feels a bit like a marionette, a puppet ( a dead puppet crawling with maggots flashes in his mind and his guts lurch forward ), letting Patrick puppeteer him like this.
“Mrrm,” Richie says.
“Look at you,” Patrick says with something approaching awe—it’s the first time he’s heard Patrick say anything with awe and Richie shivers at the sound of it, right against Patrick’s skin. Patrick’s hand finds his way in his hair, stroking, petting him like a dog. “You’re so easy now,” he says. Easy drips with contempt, even as he pets his hair, and Richie whines, pressing closer. “All red and hot… I bet you’d let me do whatever I want to you.”
It’s not a question. Patrick pushes Richie back a bit, just to give himself more room, and starts undoing his belt.
Richie blinks. “Here?” He slurs out the word, his head still lolling forward despite himself, watching as Patrick undoes his jeans. They’re gonna fuck here ? Now? Richie wants another drink.
He can feel himself, sloppy drunk, embarrassing and wrong. He can feel how gross and disgusting he is, the wrongness of his actions and words, and how powerless he is to stop it. “Right here?” Richie asks. His words are slow, dulled, harder to process, harder to think. It’s what he wanted, right? To not be here? To let Patrick do whatever he wanted to him, as long as he’s not really here for it.
“Why not?” Patrick asks. But he pushes Richie away, until he’s back on the seat, sitting down, if awkwardly, away from him. Richie watches with a dull sort of surprise as Patrick pulls out his cock—he’s already hard, the gleaming head of it slick, and Richie’s mouth parts open instinctively at the sight.
“Yeah, look at that,” Patrick says, two big hands reaching out to cup his face, staring him down, forcing his mouth open in a pucker. “You’re fucking drooling for it, you little bitch.”
Richie mewls, and a bit of drool runs out the corner of his mouth. Patrick grins at him, something about the way he looks at him, pleased and proud and happy, makes Richie want to do whatever Patrick wants.
When Patrick slides his hand down to the back of Richie’s head, where his hair rests over the nape of his neck, he doesn’t protest.
“You wanna suck my cock?” Patrick asks, which Richie knows isn't actually a request, or even a question, even while drunk, he knows this, he knows what Patrick wants, that he’s not looking for a yes or no answer, he just wants to hear Richie beg for it.
“I wanna suck your cock,” Richie slurs, no tonal inflection to what he says, but he thinks he’s being honest, at least. In Vino Vertias. He doesn’t know what that means but it pops in his head. “I like sucking cock,” he says, and he’s too drunk to taste the humiliation of it.
Patrick’s laughter is sharp, and cutting, and his grin is wolf like. “That’s a good boy,” he says and Richie shivers, down to his bones, as Patrick presses his fingers down on Richie’s neck. His touch burns more than his dad’s brandy did down his throat. He moves Richie’s head down to his dick until the wet slick head pops in his mouth. Richie has no time to savor it, to really run his tongue over the velvet-smooth head and tongue the slit, before Patrick keeps pushing his head down and down until his nose is pressed up against Patrick’s wiry black pubic hair, and his cock hits the back of his throat.
Richie makes a muffled groan, the sound guttural and deep in his chest, but he’s surprisingly not distressed, even as his mouth and throat stretch wide; it’s easy to just let his mouth be used like this, his body loose and relaxed. The part of him that would be panicking is shut off so all Richie does is shut his eyes and hum around the cock in his mouth.
“Yeah,” Patrick groans above him, heavy and deep, lust threading his words. “Bet you can take it all, you filthy slut,” Patrick’s voice is a soft hiss, deceptively sweet. He grabs Richie tighter and moves his head up, until Richie nearly pops off his cock, before pushing him back down again; it becomes a rhythm, a pattern, and Richie can’t so much pick out what the pattern is, but it’s easy to just let Patrick fuck his mouth. It feels nice, even, making him feel good; it hurts a little, when his jaw is too stretched or his cock hits too hard the back of his throat, but the pain and discomfort is so distant and far away that it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Nothing matters.
It’s just this, the moment, this space in time. Patrick’s hand on his back, going up and down, nails digging in like claws. “You’re so hard up for this, aren’t you? You love my cock down your throat?”
Richie moans around the dick in his throat, nods, and his hips jerk forward, despite their awkward position. His own cock feels distant and not a part of his body, but he can feel the throb of it, the ugly need of it. Patrick laughs louder.
“Your parents should come out, I bet they’re wondering why we’re not gone yet. They can get a good hard look at your mouth all stuffed up with me.”
The idea is horribly bad and terrifying and disgusting, Richie can’t really picture it or see it in his head; he’s too distracted, breathing through his nose, making low gurgling noise as Patrick’s dick chokes him. It doesn’t mean anything, what Patrick says to him.
“I think your parents should know how much of a cocksucker their boy is, huh?” Patrick says. Richie groans through it; he can’t stop jerking his hips, his cock just rutting against the seat he’s in, and then he comes, hard, filling his underwear with his own fluids, moaning helplessly against Patrick. He tries to pull back, but Patrick holds him down until he’s buried to the root and holds him still.
“Yeah, you’re gonna choke on it baby. Can you feel it in your throat?” Patrick’s tone is pleased and vicious and he comes right then, down Richie’s throat, doesn’t let him pull away. Richie can’t swallow it all and he can feel it, even with his mouth stretched too wide, wider than it should be, can feel Patrick’s come and his own drool leak out in a gross, fluidy concoction down his chin and out the corners of his mouth.
His mouth is slack when Patrick pulls out his cock, finally, smearing the tip over his lips and cheek before he tucks it away. There’s a string of spit and fluid between his cock and Richie’s lips, and Richie knows he must look disgusting like this. He can taste bitter hot fluid in his mouth and he struggles to swallow it all, drooling down his chin and staining his shirt. He just isn’t connected enough to his body to care.
He lays his head on Patrick’s chest, trying to catch his breath, and mostly feeling a little worn out. His head hurts. It’s starting to spin. He grips the rough fabric of Patrick’s jeans to try to hold on.
He expects Patrick to push him away, when he feels his hands on him, but all he does is turn his head to the side, so Patrick can get a better look at him.
“What a champ,” he says, patting his cheek. “You look so hot like this,” Patrick says and Richie’s chest feels full, heavy and ready to burst, at the thought of Patrick thinking he’s hot. Patrick swirls come and saliva on Richie’s face, smears it up his chin, like a kid finger painting. Richie doesn’t react to it, besides blinking up at him. For a moment, he is warm and happy and glad he did a good job.
“Aww,” Patrick coos at him, stroking a falsely gentle hand in his hair, playing with hair. Richie murmurs, leaning into the touch, and Patrick laughs like a hyena.
“God, you’re so cute and pathetic like this,” he says. He reaches down to where Richie came all over himself, shoving his hand in his underwear and pressing down a little too hard on his soft cock. It starts to stir again, getting hard and Richie gasps into Patrick’s jeans, drooling a bit over them.
“God, look at you, you’re just dripping for that,” he says. He squeezes his hand there, and Richie whines. “You just love it when I fuck you up, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah, I do,” Richie says softly, mostly to himself. The part of him that’d feel shame about this is just gone, tucked away inside him. There’s a rolling sickness inside him. His eyes are very heavy.
“You look good like this,” Patrick tells him. “All strung out and whining for me,” Patrick continues.
“I’m not strung out,” Richie slurs but the words have a hard time connecting in his brain. Not hitting quite right.
“You want me to hurt you, baby?” Patrick goes on, his hand wrapping around his cock to jerk him off, or so Richie thinks, but it’s painful the way he’s gripping him. Richie gasps and moans and he doesn’t tell him to stop. His eyes get heavy and he can feel himself fading away, passing out, jaw aching and throat sore all over Patrick, his hand still in his underwear.
That’s why I like you so much, he thinks Patrick says to him, but Richie isn’t sure. He hopes that’s what he said.
Richie wakes up to pain radiating all over his body, his head on a soft pillow, face down in a strange bed, and the head of a hard cock pushing inside him.
“Fuck!” Richie screams without meaning to, the sudden pain blinding him, trying to get up and raise himself on his elbows and look behind him.
“Relax,” Patrick orders him, placing a large hand down on Richie’s back and pushing him flat down on the bed. His cock slips away from his skin at the moment and Richie’s grateful for it. “I did you favor, you’re already prepped, you just gotta take it.”
“What the fuck?” Richie asks out loud to no one in particular, panic lurching in his guts. He doesn’t feel drunk anymore; he feels very much awake and alive in all the worst ways. His jaw hurts from the way Patrick fucked his face earlier. He has no idea what happened.
“ Relax ,” Patrick orders, grabbing his hips, and oh no, he feels it again, Patrick lining his cock up with his asshole, the head of it breeching—only a little bit, less than an inch, but it’s enough to drag an agonized cry out of Richie, steal the thoughts from his brain. His fingers claw up, fisting the sheets in front of him until his knuckles turn white. “You gotta relax, unless you want this to suck for you, go ahead if that’s what you want.”
“Where are we?” Richie asks, trying to look around, get his bearings. His breathing is coming in hard, labored pants. He’s naked. When did he get naked? Where are his clothes? Where are his glasses? Patrick’s room is covered in music posters and vaguely satanic cult stuff, which Richie has no real mind to pay attention to right now.
“My room,” Patrick says like it’s nothing, and fuck, Richie can feel the hard press of his cock, the blunt head, pushing inside him and he just goes for it, he doesn’t stop, not even when Richie gasps and cries out and cries, digging his fingers in his sheets. Richie realizes he doesn’t have a condom and he can’t even form the words to protest that. He’s too busy trying to endure. Patrick just pushes his cock in until he’s buried deep, balls hitting against his ass with a humiliating wet slap, bottoming out inside him.
Richie bites down hard on his lip to keep from screaming as much as he wants. It hurts. It hurts so goddamn bad. It feels like Patrick’s cock is bigger than it looks, and the pressure of him inside so deep feels odd and alien. He didn’t know his body could accommodate him like this. He doesn’t know how this is supposed to feel good.
He doesn’t have any time to really adjust or react to it in any way before Patrick pulls out—and even that hurts, the drag of his cock on his insides—only to slam back inside again; he goes in easy enough that Richie thinks maybe he wasn’t lying about prepping him, but it still feels fucking weird and pain keeps blooming behind his eyes. Richie keeps making sharp pained noises. It’s a miracle his cock is still hard beneath him; the only bit of pleasure he gets is small sharp sparks when his cock presses hard against the scratchy sheets from Patrick’s thrusts.
“Patrick, st—”
“Fuck,” Patrick groans, cutting him off; pulling out and fucking back in again. Richie thinks he may actually be split in two. “I thought you’d be all sloppy and loose, but you’re a tight little slut,” he says. “You’re gonna be good for me, Tozier?”
That activates some animal part in Richie’s brain, that makes him want to whine and bare his throat. Instead, Richie lowers his head and manages to gasp out in a small voice, “it hurts.”
Patrick scoffs. “You should be thanking me for breaking you in, it's not like anyone else will touch you how you want. You need this,” he says.
Richie tries to raise himself back up but Patrick shoves him back down again, a hand gripping the back of his neck and pushing his face uncomfortably into the pillow. He grabs Richie’s hips then and raises them, gripping him tight and holding him there while he fucks him and that still hurts, like something burning inside him, but the angle means Richie feels something else, overwhelming sensation burgeoning into pleasure as well, something hot contracting inside him when Patrick thrusts. Patrick’s cock hits something that feels good, that makes Richie want more, humiliated by it.
“You want this though, don’t you?” Patrick says, a breathy quality in his voice, a little far away, thick with pleasure. “You like it when I hurt you?”
Richie makes a noise that’s half sob and half moan, loud enough to echo in the room, loud enough he’s sure Patrick’s parents hear him downstairs, how can anyone not hear them?
“You know, if you need to scream, go right ahead,” Patrick says, patting his shoulder, in mock affection. Or perhaps real affection.
Richie buries his face against the pillow and screams.
Patrick keeps thrusting, but he feels Patrick’s nose against the back of his neck, nuzzling against him. It confuses Richie, makes his cock throb, makes him want more of Patrick’s sharp affectionate touches, as the painful drags of his cock keeps making Richie shudder despite himself. Patrick isn’t affectionate, but the rare times he is, Richie craves it. “Next time, I’ll get my friends in here with us,” Patrick says. “All my work buddies. We can all have ourselves a really good time with you.”
“No,” Richie begs, the words just leaving him on instinct. He’s not sure what friends he means—Henry is gone and Belch and Vic are dead, and he doesn’t know anything about Patrick’s coworkers down at the video store—but it doesn’t matter, the thought makes his brain scream.
“Yeah,” Patrick sneers, like it’s an argument, overriding everything Richie says. “We’ll get you drunk again, all nice and sloopy and loose, and let them fuck your pretty mouth while I fuck you. I bet you’d be a really good party favor, a real pro at sucking cock by now.”
A moan escapes Richie’s lips, muffled into the pillow, feeling the hot throb of heat go through him at Patrick’s words. It makes his skin tight to hear Patrick talk about him like that. It makes him wanna crawl right outside of himself. It makes his cock feel all heavy and spurt fluid. He’s sure he doesn’t want that but everything Patrick says hits some dark place inside himself, turning him hot and bothered and desperately aroused and craving for more. Maybe he does want to be used like a slut.
“Yeah, baby, you want that?” Patrick grabs him by the hair and tugs him up, so Richie can no longer be hidden in the pillow. Richie lets out a gasp of pain and pleasure, Patrick’s grip tight on his scalp, Patrick’s cock rutting hard inside him now, no finesse, just rapid sloppy fucking, wet and obscene and squelching inside him, each thrust hurting and feeling good all at once. “Don’t lie to me, I can feel your ass clench around me,” he says and punctuates it with another thrust that has Richie crying out too loudly. “You want us to all fuck you drunk and stupid?”
“Yeah,” Richie gasps, nodding his head. “Yeah, Patrick, okay, I want that, fuck fuck please fuck me.”
He gets rewarded with a hand around his cock. Richie sobs out loud, desperately and pathetic, hating how good it feels, how much Patrick’s rough fingers on him bring him close to his own orgasm; he wants to be drunk, fully out of it again, instead of feeling all of this.
“Cockslut,” Patrick calls him and Richie’s cock twitches as Patrick fucks him, as Patrick gives his cock a twist in his hand. Richie moans for him, Richie shuts his eyes, Richie can’t stop himself from making slutty uh uh uh noises every time Patrick fucks inside him. “You’re so hungry for cock aren’t you, aren’t you, I’m gonna give you all the cock you can handle, you love that don’t you?”
“I do, I do,” Richie cries, eyes burning, hot tears on his face, momentarily grateful Patrick isn’t looking directly at him as he comes on his bed, spurting all over Patrick’s sheets. Orgasm feels shamefully good, like there’s something wrong with him that he’s enjoyed this, but Richie allows himself to just stay in the moment right now—nothing but a flood of pleasure and warmth flooding his groin and chest and belly, his stomach fluttering, contracting and expanding inside him.
“My own personal fuck toy,” Patrick whispers, voice twisting with something like warmth as his thrusts grow erratic, and then Patrick comes in his ass.
Patrick drops him then, barely sparing any time for Richie post orgasm, and he’s grateful for it, grateful to just collapse on the bed, even if he’s right in the wet spot, he doesn’t care. Patrick’s hands are off him and Richie can just breathe, focus on in and out in and out and not the piston staccato rhythm of Patrick’s hips and cock. Richie presses his face in the pillow, feeling strangely empty without Patrick’s cock inside him—a new weird alien feeling to him, but he tries not to feel so deeply aware of body.
Patrick doesn’t say or do anything for a while after that. Richie feels him get off the bed and walk around his room, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Patrick’s pillow and sheets are scratchy against his skin. Richie is still overflooded with warmth, hot, and covered in a gross layer of sweat. His head throbs. He can feel Patrick’s come dripping out of him, warm on his skin, down his inner thighs. He doesn’t want to put his clothes back on without a shower, but like hell will Patrick allow him one.
Richie keeps his eyes shut and focuses on breathing. He could fall asleep again. Last time he did, he woke up like this, but maybe he wouldn’t have minded so much if he just stayed drunk and asleep.
“Hey,” Patrick says after some time, nudging his shoulder. “It’s my bed, move over.”
“Like you actually want to sit in the wet spot, Hockstetter,” Richie grumbles but he moves over, sliding off the bed, letting Patrick settle in. He doesn’t dare try to put up a fight right now. His body is far too sore for it.
Richie keeps Patrick behind him, which may be a mistake, but he’s having a hard time looking at him now, like if Patrick looks at him again he’s going to see right inside Richie, right through him. And that’s just pointless, he’s already been inside Richie, there’s no point to being coy right now.
Richie gingerly squats down, not bends over, to pick up his clothes off the ground. He finds his glasses next to his underwear and reminds himself to clean them when he gets home. He can’t remember how they got here but at least they’re still here. He is starting to feel the pangs of some muscle ache in his arms and legs as he slides his shirt back on. Getting his briefs on is the hardest. There’s a wet spot on them, and he doesn’t remember that either, and they feel gross and squelch against him. They keep the come in him from dripping too far down but god, at what cost?
When he’s done, he finally glances back at Patrick. Patrick is lazily sprawled on the bed, seemingly unconcerned with the fucking they just did. He’s naked, still covered in a light sheen of sweat. He has a Heavy Metal comic book in one hand, and his hand is artfully resting on his knee. Richie can’t help but stare at his body, all its exposed angles, can’t help but admire, and maybe covet the confidence Patrick had in his body.
Richie, exhausted, in pain and eager to go home, really wants to bite him. He thinks it’s not fair, that Patrick should mark him all up but nothing touches him.
Patrick ignores him for a while, flipping through the book. “You can leave now,” Patrick finally tells him, not even looking up. Just like that, nonchalant and casual. There’s not even an air of malice or contempt to it, it’s just empty.
“You’re going to make me walk home?” Richie asks. The silence in the room is deafening. All he hears is his own throbbing heart, the pulse in his throat, butterfly-rapid, and Patrick’s breathing.
Patrick looks at him, at last, lowering his comic book. He isn’t glaring or irritated, but rather just seems confused by Richie’s presence, like he’s something small and bug like. Richie wants to shrink into himself, the more Patrick looks at him.
“You’ve walked home before,” Patrick says, slowly, like he’s stupid, then goes back to the comic book.
Richie’s scared to be too close to Patrick. He wants to climb into bed with him and press against him, until Patrick pets his hair again and calls him a good boy. He wants to ask if he was good for him, if it was good sex, if he liked him. How fucked up is that?
Richie doesn’t push it. He’s not very bright but he’s smart enough to know when he’s not wanted. Even if it makes his chest ache. He shouldn’t care Patrick doesn’t want him around—that’s a good thing, right?
(would be nice if at least someone wanted him around)
He says bye to Patrick’s mom on the way out, or at least, the woman he assumes is her; he doesn’t remember coming in here and he’s not sure if he ever met her, but she waves at him, her small face and dark eyes flinty, not quite empty, eyes like Patrick’s but strangely haunted, like a ghost story lies behind them.
Walking home is hard. Every step reminds him of every single muscle ache he has, and just how careless Patrick was with his ass, with him. He wonders if he's bleeding, if the fluid and wetness between his thighs is more than just come, but he can’t know for sure until later.
So that was losing your virginity, huh? Richie wishes it wasn’t a big deal; that he could say it was boring and mundane and not much to write home about. Disappointing. But he can’t say he’s disappointed. It feels like there are bugs crawling around his insides.
So that’s what it means to be gay, huh ? He asks himself. He’s not disappointed with the answer either. It just feels like confirmation of what he’s always thought, and there’s a little bit of validation in that, of being right, at knowing at least, that your fears weren’t wrong.
He really hopes Patrick was just talking shit when he mentioned his coworkers fucking him.
Richie tongues his cheek and tastes rust in his mouth.
i. all alone in space and time
there's nothing here but what here's mine
The next day, Richie’s body aches, and he decides to not go to school. His parents always leave for work before he does, so it’s easy to intercept the phone call from the school, telling his mom he’s skipped homeroom. Easy to mimic his mom’s voice and act like it’s all okay, then go straight back to bed.
Sobriety hits like a freight train, his head pounding. But the ache is everywhere, and new. He doesn’t want to say it, he doesn’t even want to think it, but his asshole aches, body still burning down where Patrick fucked him. When he gets out of bed, it’s softly and gingerly, struggling to move without pain. He can feel it in his arms, in his legs, in his muscles screaming at him. Can feel it in his stomach, in his jaw where Patrick fucked his mouth. He was one giant, raw sore nerve.
After intercepting the phone call, Richie heads back to the bed, pulling the covers over himself. Last night, he managed to drag himself to the bathroom, to scrub the crusted jizz off his skin, the hot spray of water also making him hurt, overstimulated. There was a hint of blood on his underwear. Richie wondered if his mom would ask about it.
He washed off in the shower and thought about how Patrick didn’t use a rubber, didn’t take any care with him, and he’s bleeding; well, if Patrick had AIDs, then I’m fucked . He shoved that thought aside. That’s a problem for future Richie. That’s not a problem he can handle right now.
Richie goes back to bed, splaying carefully on his front, trying not to think about the weight of Patrick on him.
“Hey!”
Richie stirs, startled out of a dream he doesn’t remember, thinking he’s still dreaming, because he frequently daydreams about Eddie and the shrill sound of his voice. Looking around his bedroom, he finds Eddie standing next to his nightstand, staring down at him, arms crossed over his chest. He seems annoyed, frowning at Richie and Richie isn’t sure why, or what he did wrong.
“Hey!” Eddie repeats, as if Richie didn’t hear him the first time, despite waking him up. Richie winces; Eddie’s voice is loud in his head, making it throb more, but Eddie doesn’t seem to notice. “Why weren’t you in class today?” He demands.
Richie blinks the sleep out of his eyes, can feel it crusted around his eyelids. He wants nothing more than to go back to sleep and pull his comforter over him, but Eddie seems to have ripped it off him, half hanging off the bed; that’s not very neat of him.
Eddie in his room, instead of Patrick. He takes up a lot less space. He’s been here before. That’s normal, right? That’s how it’s supposed to be.
“Why aren’t you in school?” Richie deflects, and he can’t help it, the lilt in his voice, the fake smile, or maybe not so fake; he doesn’t have to fake smiling for Eddie, even in the worst times. Riling Eddie up puts a perk in his step. “Did you cut class? What will your mom say? You bad, bad boy.”
“Fuck off," Eddie says without any heat. “Stan and Mike were worried, I’ve been sent to check on you.”
That deflates Richie a bit; oh, Eddie was ordered to come see me. Not that the thought of Stan and Mike being worried was bad. It just stung a little. There’s just four of them now. He can’t help but think that this thing with Patrick wouldn’t have happened if all the Losers were together again, if Bev was around to make them all brave and throw a rock right at his forehead. If Bill was here to have his back. Richie hates going to the clubhouse now, looking at Ben’s handiwork seems wrong without Ben here. Seven is a lucky number, but what the hell is four?
Eddie sits next to him on the bed, the weight of him making the bed dip. Richie winces, thinking of Patrick last night, the weight of him heavy on top of him, and impossible to escape.
Eddie notices him wincing, his thick eyebrows narrowing even further, big wide doe eyes freezing Richie in place. Richie wonders if he can smell Patrick on him. He can still feel him, even though he cleaned himself off.
“Are you sick?” Eddie asks. He leans closer, instead of pulling away like he should. His hands fumble over his fanny pack, then surprises Richie by reaching out and placing one small hand on his forehead. “You’re a little warm,” Eddie says thoughtfully.
“Should you even be touching me, if I have a fever?” Richie asks.
Eddie shrugs. “I’m around your germs all the time, who cares,” he says, unzipping his fanny pack. “I think I have a thermometer in here,” he says.
“No thanks,” Richie says. “You’re not sticking that up my butt.” Then Richie laughs until his chest hurts.
Eddie wrinkles his nose. “Ew, Richie, I’m not carrying around a rectal thermometer in my fanny pack, who the fuck do you think I am?”
Richie keeps laughing, for real this time, a softer, less painful laugh but more real, some weight gets lifted off his shoulders.
Richie brushes the hair out of his eyes and stares at Eddie. His cute little button nose, the dip of his lips, the freckles spread out across his nose and cheeks. They’re more pronounced in the summer. Eddie liked to spend time in the sun, even though his mom has told him he’s allergic to grass and weeds and dew and everything else that can be found outside in the summer or winter, or fall.
Eddie was a danger to himself every season.
Richie thinks Eddie is beautiful, evergreen, all seasons. He feels like a creep for that. A bigger creep than Patrick. Like he shouldn’t be staring at Eddie and thinking about his thighs in the summer, his collarbone, his lips. What would Eddie say if he knew the thoughts in his head?
Pervert. You and Patrick deserve each other.
“Aren’t you worried about getting sick?” Richie asks. “I could get you sick. Then you’ll really be in trouble.”
Eddie shrugs. “You’re gross,” he says, like stating a definitive fact, “but whatever, if I get sick, so be it. I rather be here than school. Or home.”
He reaches to pat Richie’s hip, playfully, Richie assumes, but he can’t help but flinch, the bruises Patrick left on him flaring up.
Eddie is sharp. He notices that. “What the fuck?” Eddie asks, rapid fire. “Are you hurt? Did you hurt yourself? Did something happen?” Then at last, dropping his voice to a lowered more normal speaking level. “Are you okay?”
He’s concerned for him, it shows all over his face, biting his tongue, radiating from his furrowed brow and wide eyes. Richie cannot let him know what happened.
Richie makes a big show of yawning and stretching, even as his muscles ache and burn with every moment. “I threw my back out,” he says, “making sweet love to your mother. She’s a screamer, that one.”
“Fuck off about my mom!” Eddie says, actually stomping his foot. Richie doesn’t think he even noticed. Eddie is just like that, the full strength of his emotions just bursting out of him, unbidden, unable to stop himself. It’s cute. He’s so cute. Richie’s heart is gonna burst with it.
“But Eds, I asked for her hand in marriage! I’m going to be your stepdad!”
Eddie hits him with a pillow. It genuinely hurts, due to Richie being sore all over and the shocking strength in Eddie’s arms, but he laughs. With Eddie around, it’s almost easy to pretend that Richie is normal.
“C’mon,” Eddie says, grabbing his hand, his skin damp and sweaty in his palm. Richie’s heart starts to race, like a stupid schoolgirl in love. “If we’re gonna play hooky, let’s not waste it in bed.”
Somewhere, deep inside Richie, he knows Eddie is going to leave too. There isn’t anything he can do to stop that. Maybe, eventually, it’ll just be him and Patrick in the end; he has all these pieces of him now.
Right now, he gets out of bed and follows Eddie downstairs.