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Eddie crept down the stairs, wincing at a creaking floorboard. He wasn’t doing anything of note at the perfectly reasonable time of 3 pm but preferred to go unnoticed on principle. Each week drawing closer to the start of school meant a higher likely hood of the terrible ‘phantom fever.’ (a dreadful disease his mother seemed to invent more and more symptoms for as adulthood grew closer for her son.)
So, he was slow as he walked by the living room door. Though it was still an unlucky (lucky?) coincidence, that he passed by at just the right moment to hear a muffled:
“-Richie Tozier…”
Eddie froze, and he let out a silent groan. Another reason he avoided close contact with his mother: her irate gossip sessions.
She had a small group of ladies who she called on first, dependable for their sheep-like encouragements of Mrs Kaspbrak’s neuroses. Most of the time she had one or two of them over, and Eddie would hide up in his room till they left.
But today she was sharing her horribleness over the phone. Which meant she was close to yelling into the receiver, a habit she never broke, no matter how many times someone told her that they could hear her fine. Her words were muffled, but distinguishable with intent, something Eddie found himself falling towards as he caught more.
--
Sonia, to be perfectly clear, was not saying she would have guessed this all along. For one, it hadn’t actually crossed her mind that concretely, and two, that would, obviously, be quite rude. But she also couldn’t have denied her mind wandering in such a direction.
That day’s topic was that Richard Tozier might be a homosexual. Which Sonia’s friend Eleanor Dunton had heard from a family friend of the Tozier’s. It wasn’t a scandal sort of thing, not based on any found-out behaviour or firsthand evidence, but rather a subject this family friend apparently had thoughts on. Enough thoughts to share over Saturday lunch.
Mrs Dunton was a bit uncertain (of either the validity of the claim or of seeming rude), saying that she thought the Tozier’s fine people, who wouldn’t raise their son to such deviant behaviour.
Sonia of course said she agreed, though she had always thought the Toziers let their son ‘run too free,’ (spoiled might have been a better word) and that she wouldn’t have been surprised if the boy was a sexual peculiarity on top of everything else. That boy was easily summed up as vulgar, hyperactive and strange.
“I have always had a strong dissuasion to him you know,” Sonia continued, “above all of my Eddie’s old friends, he was an obvious terrible influence on him. You know how he smokes.”
Mrs Dunton gave an affirming sound.
“And thinking of it, I can’t deny that he had been far too touchy and affectionate with my son. Always getting too close I feared Eddie catching a cough from him!” She remembered how the Tozier boy seemed to preen under her undisguised contempt. “And though I scarcely want to think of it, thoughts of how he might be corrupting him further have crossed my mind!”
“Oh, you don’t think he’s done anything, Sonia?”
A jolt of background panic ran through her; she had worried that at times. Eddie was so very impressionable, and delicate, and as the years had passed, most boys, including Richie, had grown far above her son ever would. She feared how vulnerable he could be, and loved how she needed to keep him safe.
“No, no! I assure you I would never have let him close enough for that. I just think, with this inclination as a possibility, that the look he had around Eddie sometimes looked far too interested, grown-up, you know. When I know he didn’t think I was looking.” Mrs Dunton gave a concerned hum.
Sonia was glad that Eddie didn’t spend as much time with him as he had in the past-
- (Eddie was lying about that. He saw Richie all the time, along with his other ‘foul friends,’ though not at their houses, or in places where someone could report back to mommy-dearest – He just got tired of begging for them to be let over, and started blurring the truth with more acceptable behaviour) -
- but she might make an effort to nudge him just a little further away.
Sonia followed that she couldn’t say for certain she believed Richie Tozier a homosexual. And as Mrs Dunton said, the Toziers were mostly good folks (rich ones at that), but it was better to be on the safe side. Possibly rubbing the local dentist the wrong way was a small price to pay to avoid her poor, sweet son from being defiled.
Eleanor Dunton, of course, agreed and assured her she would keep an ear out for more. And so, in a second, another next Derry resident was plucked out to be scrutinised.
--
Eddie rushed back to his room with barely a thought to stairs or anything else at all. There was a heaving tightness growing in his chest, and he fell to his desk for his inhaler. Shock and confusion seemed to be the only emotions he could grasp, and his mouth was foul with spray as he glanced around his room.
Searching for something that could be a solution for this problem that had been unceremoniously dropped in his lap.
Richie? A homosexual? That made no sense at all. Richie loved girls, and boobs and joking about fucking and his dick. Eddie had seen the cheery, rapt interest when a pretty actress came on screen scantily dressed, or when mentioning which of their girl-classmates were the prettiest.
Richie wasn’t gay. He just couldn’t be. He was good, and he wasn’t sick and he-
What was it his mother had said?
That she had never liked the way Richie was too touchy, affectionate, a too-interested look in his eyes around Eddie? what could that mean? surely, she was seeking patterns where there were none. He would have noticed if Richie wanted to- to corrupt him, like that.
A shiver went down his spine at those words.
He would have noticed, right?
Richie... was always very touchy. even when they were pretty young, and they had... (what had happened all those years ago? He couldn’t quite catch it). Especially with Eddie. Always calling him names that were more suited to a girl you fancied than your small, thin-chested friend. But Eddie was surely falling into that pattern-seeking trap. But why would he? Why would he want Richie to be-
He didn’t want him to-
To what?
‘Defile’ him? That's what his mother had said.
Eddie was old enough that he knew what that meant. Before recently, he had very little idea of how two men had sex at all. he still didn’t know the details. But he knew that it happened. One person would put themselves inside the other, like how 'normal' sex happened with men and women, but it would be inside the other's ass.
Boys weren't supposed to touch themselves there, his mother had offhandedly said, at some point in his childhood. And he had never dared to do anything further than cautious presses inside while in the shower. Which he told himself were about hygiene, rather than insatiable curiosity. Aside from jokes (mostly Richie's, would you look at that?), his knowledge of sex and homosexuality came from dark comments thrown at the television or radio.
He was also old enough that it was getting harder and harder every year to avoid that sinking, squelching feeling when such comments were made. The way his heart had always picked up, the urge to suck on his inhaler had spread from vague ideas of divine damnation to hell, to more... specific fears.
he wasn't a- he didn't try to think about it. but it was there.
There in the back of his mind when his mother asked if he would want to go church this weekend (it's been too long Eddie! going is important)
there when he woke up from dreams of either two varieties: ones that would lead to him stuffing a pair of underwear into his clothesbin, or ones he didn't remember, that he woke up from sweating and panicked, with the sense of being chased and the smell of rotting, diseased flesh.
there, breaching the surface just too much for comfort when he'd touch himself, furtively and full of guilt.
he didn't do that often. he didn't like the way his mind wandered, the shame from the mess, or the anxiety that is mother would walk in.
when he did, he would sit or lie on his bed, touching himself in ways he hoped seemed innocent. petting, stroking, and shifting his hips, till the tension was just too much, and he'd shove his hands into his pants. getting himself off as quick and mindless as he could. Or other times, he would put a pillow between his legs, or underneath him as he lay on his stomach as he read a book or comic. He would move his hips as slowly and minutely as possible. keeping that innocent movements act going as long as he could, and then waited till the tortuous pleasure would spill into his trousers.
However, they came; he didn’t look at those thoughts too closely.
He was sitting on his bed then, still caught up in his queasy thoughts. He heard a door being opened from downstairs, and his mother calling out that she was going for groceries. She wouldn’t be too long, and he should be careful!
He was alone.
-Richie wasn’t gay. Eddie decided he wouldn’t think otherwise. If he did, he would just be getting-
- It wouldn’t be nice to his friend. But this was hypothetical. And it was his mum through which he had heard it. she was never right about his friends. She wasn’t right when she said that Mike was dangerous because he was black and she wasn’t right when she said he would get a cold from walking near a puddle.
So, sure, Richie wasn’t a homosexual, and Eddie wasn’t going to think (hope) otherwise.
But he didn’t think simply thinking a bit would hurt. Eddie was... Eddie wasn’t sure how well he was, and sometimes it felt he had to let some water out of the dam. Thinking would be easier than stealing a piece of communion bread, and in fact, it felt almost effortless to let himself wonder.
Eddie wondered what it would be like, to be... ‘deflowered,’ like that. What it would feel like to have something (his own fingers, Richie’s fingers, Richie’s cock) properly inside him.
He wondered if Richie had ever looked at him like his mother had said. If dubious ‘intentions’ could be seen in his eyes. Eddie wondered if he had those too-touchy, and too-interested looks at other boys too. Did he think about Eddie? In ways, Eddie didn’t know about? Had he hugged him, touched his arm or back or pinched his cheek and thought about more than just that?
Did Richie spend time with him not just because they were old and trusted friends, who knew more about each other than what seemed like anyone else (maybe Eddie didn’t know him as well as he thought?), that had been through… something together, but because of something else he wanted?
Richie had grown taller over the years, taller yet still lanky, red-brown hair a mess on top, and scuffed loafers all the way at the bottom. Eddie hadn’t grown all that much past 5' 4''.
There was almost a full head difference at that point, Eddie’s shoulder’s slim and Richie’s broader.
Richie’s hands were big too; Eddie hated how his own seemed doll-like, delicate.
Eddie disliked most of his appearance, his mother’s words of fragility couldn’t be separated from his own eyes peering out at his small, pale body.
He wondered if Richie liked the way he looked. He knew that he didn’t dislike him in that way; he had gotten light-heartedly defensive over the years whenever Eddie would be self-deprecating. saying something halfway between genuine encouragement (you and your mum’s full of bullshit, there are plenty of boys our age your height), or something amusingly insufferable (You’re pocket-sized, Eds! How could anyone complain?).
But did he like the way Eddie looked? Richie slung his arm around his shoulder with ease, had, on brief, but memorable occasions, been able to pick his whole body up and swing him a bit around. He liked when Richie did that. Eagerly and guiltily looked forward every time for when Richie would inevitably touch him.
If Richie touched him more, what would it be like? What would happen if Richie chose to do what Sonia Kaspbrak was so very, very scared that he wanted to do Eddie.
Eddie sat on his bed, up against the wall, legs bent up and head in his hands. He became aware that was hardening in his trousers, twitching slightly. He flushed and snapped his legs down, breathing a little heavier.
If Richie did choose to do that they would be at his house, Eddie supposed. He wasn’t at his house often, especially in the past year or two, once again trying to appease his mother, but he liked it. it was nicer than Eddie’s and wasn’t as full of clutter and heavy curtains.
They would be at Richie’s house, in his bedroom, and Richie’s parents would be out for a dinner, Eddie arriving just before they headed out.
He would greet and say goodbye to Mrs and Mr Tozier, feeling just a bit wistful at their loving glances, and the way that Wentworth would dearly touch his wife’s back as they exited for the night. A sad longing for such an example of Love.
At first, they might be reading comics and snacking, laughing at something stupid that had happened at school.
Or maybe Richie would be helping Eddie with homework. Eddie would be sat on Richie’s bed, eyebrows furrowed at a complex equation that Richie could do in his sleep. The other boy would be close, leaning down slightly to see it as well.
Richie would start just touching him a bit. Like was his M.O. but a little bit more; A hand gentle on his upper back as he whistled at Eddie’s silly mistakes at arithmetic. He’d ruffle Eddie’s hair and would sit just a little closer than he needed. He would sit close enough that Eddie would feel small, he’d feel small and lightly flustered (he’d feel good, was what he would feel).
After helping him with his schoolwork perhaps he’d joke around some more. Rile Eddie up, poke his cheek and arm until Eddie tried to ‘getaway.’ Richie would laugh at this, a wide-angled smile showing those crooked gleaming teeth.
His cornflower-blue eyes would be mischievous behind the lenses, but a little darker than Eddie had seen before. A little more intense as he would poise to attack him with tickling fingers, making Eddie giggle the same way as when they were young. And in the same position as all those times before.
Eddie lying on his back on Richie’s bed, wheezing and with some embarrassing drool leaking out, not from Asthma but Richie’s long and nimble fingers, and Richie himself, kneeling above. The smaller boy would struggle and twist, but Richie wouldn’t let him go, tiring him out with sly hands and accompanying Voices.
Richie wouldn’t stop there though, not in this hypothetical.
Eddie had grown harder and bit on his thumbnail.
Richie, after Eddie begins to hiccup slightly from all the laughter, would let his tickling become gentler. Eddie would take this as the end of the assault and relax a bit. His fingers would trace along his sides, arms, tops of his hips and thighs.
Richie's hands just wouldn’t stop, Eddie thought. They would keep on moving across him, light but purposeful. Eddie would start squirming again eventually, and Richie would smile. A small one this time, showing more of that unusual focus.
Perhaps Eddie would ask him what he was doing, or perhaps he would keep silent. Caught between the gentle fear and confusion at what was happening, and eager delight at how good the proximity felt. Maybe he’d just look up into his dear friend’s eyes, anxious but affectionate, revelling in that touch.
Richie would ask Eddie something innocuous, a bit irrelevant as he continued.
Richie’s hands, lightly freckled and fairly pale, would drift down and up his sides, each time catching a bit more on his already loosened shirt. Fingertips would touch his uncovered skin and would begin to trace the waistline of his trousers. Eddie would gasp here, he thought. His heart rate would pick up, and blood would begin to pool at his groin, just as it did in the present, falling deeper and deeper.
Eddie imagined that Richie would shift his legs so that he was caging Eddie in just a little bit more. Or perhaps this whole time he had been pressing Eddie down just a tad with his weight, disguised through the tickling. He knew he would be very aware of it all, the touching, the pressure that was keeping him against the covers, and the ticking of the clock that was in the hall outside of Richie’s room.
Perhaps then Richie’s idle chatter and the conversation would veer, and he would look down at his friend and ask him different questions. Maybe he’d ask if Eddie touched himself, and if he did, what was the strangest or most interesting thing he’d thought about during. Or whether he’d done it that day.
Richie had asked Eddie some things like that before, Eddie remembered, though not in such a context. And had left most of those questions at the start of their adolescence. When other topics dried out, Richie had asked, with a slightly joking yet curious voice, about the other boys' experiences with puberty. A disjointed memory of Richie asking if “you know about fucking, don’t you Eds?” was clear in his mind.
Eddie shuffled his legs under his covers, giving himself the lightest friction over his erection. He wasn't sure how his narrative would progress, despite it being under his mind’s control, he was caught in the delicious apprehension he had created.
He supposed that Richie would ask his questions, eyes eager and interested, and Eddie would turn red, as he had often tried to avoid, under the bespectacled boy’s words and gaze. Maybe he would deny the question or try and shrug it off. But Richie wouldn’t let him wriggle out of his curiosity. He’d tease just a little, not mean-spirited, but with the desire to keep Eddie flustered, like the pokes had led to tickling.
All the while his hands would slip further under his shirt. As he would feel across his belly and hips, Eddie thinks his dick would be hard enough for Richie to notice at that point. And he would, looking down at it, at him and Eddie would be queasy, humiliated, and heated. Richie would laugh slightly, once again not cruelly, and would lean down and kiss his cheek.
Another gasp probably. More light squirming, between discomfort and arousal, and Richie would keep pressing his lips to his face. One of his hands would be fully under his shirt now, and the saliva left on Eddie’s cheek would feel cool and wet under Richie’s breath. Richie would whisper something, Eddie wasn’t sure what, but something, in his ear. His mouth would be close, and the tickle would make him shiver. He would feel gross, and good, very good.
Maybe it would be then that Richie’s hips would be closer than he last remembered (they would be closer, and he would get to know what Richie’s boner felt against his side or stomach), and his hands would be drifting, further, further than before. Eddie would be breathing hard and one of his hands would lift as though to touch Richie’s shoulder, but falter, and fall back onto the covers. Another smile from Richie, felt rather than seen, this time, as he mouthed along the cheek and neck below him.
Somewhere amongst this heavy, cloying affection Richie would pull back and adjust both of their positions, till he was between Eddie’s legs. Whose shirt would be rucked up enough that his friend could touch at his nipples, and Eddie would make some weak questioning protest of “Richie?” more for the principle of what was transpiring, than any want for it to stop. Richie would meet his eyes, mouth still quirked, though now Eddie thought that the look on his face would be bordering on- on something akin to hunger.
Eddie touched himself then, hand unable to resist palming the tent in his trousers. Having his arousal already dragged out meant that his hips jumped at that touch, and a whimper of pleasure also made an appearance. He was glad his mother had left.
Eddie wondered again at being full, full of his fingers, and full of, in this depraved imagining, of Richie. Aside from the height and general size that the boy had over him, he bet that he had enough of a cock that it would be a lot to take. (Maybe it would be good, almost too much, yet good) He had heard girls talk about ‘things’ like that, some saying that it hurt, and others contradicting that it could also feel oh so fantastic. That it was best when it was bigger, and they could feel themselves stretch a bit. Eddie wasn’t a girl, and he didn’t have the parts they would talk about, hushed, but loud enough that he heard (he never got aroused by these eavesdropped discussions, girls were only interesting up until a fearful point). He knew that, but he still wondered.
Would it also hurt? Or feel ‘oh so fantastic’? if Richie decided to put his ‘thing’ in Eddie’s ass and held his hips as he moved? Eddie wanted to know.
His hand began to rub more intently, his eyes squeezed shut and mouth closed around pleasured sounds that wanted out, he shuffled out of his pants. Pushed them down to his ankles and then fluttered his hands nervously for a moment, before doing the same to his underwear. Eddie’s prick bobbed free with a return from that faintly nauseous feeling in his stomach.
He stroked and teased himself slowly, softly across his shaft and head, his whole body taught. He wasn’t sure how long he could pace himself for, but he wanted to see that scenario through. Wanted, in a way, to continue pushing himself, a bit recklessly, past his before travelled paths.
Richie would do away with Eddie’s trousers now too. Undoing the fastening and zipper efficiently, probably still kissing his neck. They’d be off, and he’d guide Eddie to take off the barely-on-shirt. He’d be so very exposed then, heart beating even faster, feeling that rhythm in his chest, in the ringing of his ears, and the throb of his cock.
Eddie got wet when he was very aroused, and he imagined that this would be no exception. Underwear distended and darkened distastefully. Eddie thought with a kind of shameful despair, that he would want Richie to like it, to run a finger across that sticky mess that would be forming. Perhaps Richie would do this and add more of his spit to Eddie’s skin. He would be bare now, and Richie could kiss and suck at his shoulders, collarbones and as low as he wanted.
He would do just that, making Eddie hotter and more writhing. And he’d be moving just more than Richie wanted, so he would press his hands firmly against his hips. Holding him down so that Richie could push his body against the smaller boy’s.
The barrier of Eddie’s closed lips failed, and he let out a loud wavering moan, quickly stifled by his unoccupied hand.
Richie would move firm and hard against him; he’d like the way that Eddie would whine, and he’d let out another dark, yet good-natured laugh. Perhaps it would be slightly shaky from his own arousal, and perhaps then he’d grip tighter.
Just enough for it hurt, and Eddie would gasp again, and his knees would squeeze Richie’s sides. He’d try to hide his face in the crook of Richie’s shoulder. Richie would only let this be for a few moments before he’d move back to nudge his face back to where he could see it. He would make eye contact with him when Eddie would dare to open his eyes again, and maybe he’d see a grin that bordered on wolfish. One that was far, far beyond just “too-interested.”
It’s at that moment that Eddie realised that his imagined Richie hadn’t kissed him on the mouth. It sent a jolt through him, as he pictured any point in the debauchery, his mouth pressing to his own.
He pictured his mouth clearly in his mind. Flushing memories came of looking too long at it when the other boy’s lips were chapped or wet, or maybe just for no reason at all. Touching himself slowly was beginning to be a problem.
he stilled his hands completely, mind still full of his imagined Richie pushing his lips and tongue to his imagined self’s.
His saliva would be filled with lots of fun and varied germs, he knew that. He also knew that as he would twist Richie’s tongue with his own, and as the spit from both their mouths threatened to run down Eddie’s neck, it would be disgusting.
His untouched cock twitched, and he shifted positions.
Then on his knees, he curled his hands in the hem of his shirt, panting wetly. He glanced down to see himself flushed red and leaking and stuck out obscenely. He didn’t want to come just yet. Something remained of the guilty fervour he usually had, but it was overruled by something heavier and new.
He pushed back his dark hair, which was slicked with sweat, and closed his eyes for a moment. In his mind’s eye, he saw Richie, who now himself was bare (a sight created from fevered glances at his topless friend over the years), running fingers across Eddie’s front to touch him fully between his legs.
He would have to almost peel the damp fabric away from heated skin to grasp him and perhaps would tongue against one of his nipples as he did. Eddie would be overwhelmed at that point; barely hanging on from all those thoughts in the present. And he could imagine himself whispering Richie’s name repeatedly, uncertain of what he was asking for, and not willing to verbalise it if he knew.
Richie wouldn’t mind. He’d just detach from his flushed chest to kiss him firmly. He’d stroke his cock and lick far into his mouth. His own cock would rut against Eddie’s thigh, rough enough that Eddie would feel his whole body shift a little.
Eddie opened his eyes again, wanting and feeling nauseous because of it. impatience that he had felt building up over time was beginning to itch at him. He wanted badly to know a taste finally, shamefully of being defiled and full.
He imagined Richie would want to fuck him. Would want to take that piece of Eddie’s innocence that his mother tried harshly and deeply to keep safe. Richie would fuck into him, and he wouldn’t be very gentle, because he, more than anyone else knew and believed that Eddie wasn’t fragile or needed careful care. He’d know that he could take it. Eddie thought of him knowing that he wanted it too.
Richie would bring his fingers to Eddie’s lips, probably still slick with both their spits and coax them open around 1 or 2. Richie would make him suck and lick them, to get them as wet and dripping as he could.
Eddie lifted his own hand to do this exact thing, stomach clenching in lust and mild disgust at the feel of slippery digits.
Richie would push Eddie’s knees back, a little rougher than his other movements (Richie was always a bit impulsive) and pull off that last piece of fabric. Eddie would squeak and as he had not before, clutch at his shoulders, gaining a fuller and more immediate picture of Richie’s plan. He’d softly shush him, dropping his underwear off the side of the bed, where everything else lay in a heap.
Richie would lean over him; Eddie would have another flash of feeling small and good and just a little scared. He’d stare intently down at him and whisper that he was doing very good, very, very good. Eddie was sure he would whine at that, hips jolting up against his dear Richie.
Probably after pushing his legs even closer to his chest, Richie would rub spit-slick fingers against Eddie’s hole.
Just as Eddie did now, breathing picking up even more.
They would be inside him at one point, pushing in and out and far, Richie enjoying Eddie’s cries of pleasure and vague discomfort in response. They would feel more than he had felt before, as in the present, having slipped his middle finger inside, he knew that Richie’s would be much bigger and better. His own were good, it felt strange and right in a way that was hard to reconcile with his mother’s clear messages.
He moved to touch his cock, which had dripped pre-come onto his thighs and sheet. He ached for his fingers to be bigger and to be able to make the angle better, in a way his limbs and body did not allow.
He began to thrust them slightly, wincing at the slight stretch and probably not enough wetness, and rocked back on his heels. He would have been a humiliating sight: sweaty and completely naked, fingers stuffed up his ass, needy stiff cock, and tense thighs.
Eventually, Richie would leave Eddie bereft of his fingers, snorting quietly at his likely incomprehensible complaint. He wondered if Richie would tell him he was being a little bit greedy and impatient, endearingly, and fondly leaning down to whisper that he looked like a slut.
He hoped so, and he mewled louder at a harsh jab of his fingers.
But that emptiness would be filled soon. The wider head of Richie’s cock would press against him and before Eddie would know it, there he would be. Inside of Eddie and keeping him open unnaturally, wonderfully. Richie would either kiss at his neck or mouth again as the smaller boy would have to reckon with the finality of his corruption.
His grip on the boy above’s shoulders would tighten as Richie’s holding open would transition to thrusts and pushes of their hips together. He hoped that it would be good and that it would hurt. Hurt enough and be good enough to fuck his fears out of his head, so Eddie had no choice but to give himself to the pleasure.
The bed would be squeaking, if not before, definitely at that point, and there would be pink marks across his body for hours after they were done.
Eddie was moving quicker on his fingers, pushing his hair back again and knowing that he would feel the burn of his thighs at least a day after he was done.
Richie would groan and thrust harder, deep in Eddie’s form. They would be so joined and close that Eddie would feel like crying, and he was sure that he would a little. Maybe Richie would smile against Eddie’s neck again and he would tell him so many dirty lovely things.
Eddie was so close and took himself faster in hand for a few frantic, desperate strokes.
Richie would jostle Eddie again with the push of their bodies together. Eddie would beg for him to touch him, to make him come, beyond any sense of redeeming, and he would. He’d slickly stroke him till he would come his brains out, all over their stomachs. He would hope and dread the idea of it sticking forever, an indelible mark of Eddie’s desire.
And in the last overstimulated moments, Richie would spill as well, inside, and so deep. And this was worse and better than anything he had imagined before.
And so, Eddie came, whining and sore. His fingers awkwardly and quickly moving, before slowing to a sticky stop.
As though like a marionette cut from strings, the boy fell limply back onto his pillow, twisting to avoid his hand still buried between his cheeks.
Eddie was exhausted.