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It’s two-thirty in the afternoon when Richie gets the call.

Eddie gets it, he does - they’re in their forties, and most normal couples in their forties probably aren’t having sex right in the middle of the day, on a weekday, granted - but Richie’s home, not out filming or having meetings or whatever, and since Eddie started doing consultancy work his schedule has opened up a whole lot more; now he can work from home, and work when he wants to. Richie has pointed out that Eddie doesn’t need to work at all - he makes enough money to take care of the both of them, which, admittedly, is something of an appealing prospect, but Eddie isn’t quite willing to submit himself to a full-time role as Richie’s live-in chef/cleaner/sex doll just yet. And besides, they’re happy as they are; ridiculously, riotously, relentlessly happy.

Before now - before this, before the reunion, before Richie, Eddie had felt like he was plodding through life, head down, blinkered. The future had seemed like a thick line of grey asphalt, unchanging and bleak, something to be conquered. Now, waking up and getting moving doesn’t feel like a chore. Eddie Kaspbrak had never thought of himself as the kind of person who looked forward to tomorrow, but, he guesses, things can change. Things have changed. It swells his heart, when he thinks of this. So perhaps, he supposes, they can be forgiven for the two-thirty PM sex - theirs are exceptional circumstances, after all.

The other thing is, the call was originally scheduled for three - Richie’d told him this over breakfast that morning - and yeah, two-thirty is probably cutting it fine, with Eddie still being spread out across the bed, hard and wet and not allowed to come just yet (like Richie could disallow Eddie from doing anything - it’s a game they love, though; the orders, the denial) but if Richie had just got on with things, and granted Eddie the quick, hard fuck he’d been promised when he’d caught him changing the bed sheets and felt compelled to grab him by the waist and toss him down onto the mattress, then maybe they wouldn’t be in this situation.

This situation being:

1. Richie’s co-writer for the show he was currently working on - a new direction for him, scripted comedy-drama, but one he was nonetheless thrilled to try out - had called him thirty minutes earlier than previously agreed;

2. Whilst Eddie was currently flat on his back on their stripped, sheetless bed, his legs wrapped around Richie’s waist and eyes rolling back in his head every time Richie nailed his hips forward with absolute, merciless precision; and

3. Richie, the absolute fucking asshole, had picked up his goddamn phone when he was buried deep inside Eddie’s guts, and said, “Hey, Pete!” like Eddie wasn’t currently seeing fucking stars beneath him.

Eddie had frozen, hissed, “What are you doing?” and Richie had given him this look which Eddie, stupidly, had taken to mean, I will get rid of him and then we can get back to the more important business of rendering you incapable of walking or sitting down for the next 24 hours.

Only - Richie hadn’t done that.

Pete, on the other end of the phone, had said something that Eddie couldn’t hear, and Richie had said, “Oh no, now’s fine.” Eddie had stared up at him, incredulously, and Richie had had the audacity to fucking wink.

He’d made to sit up, to pull away from the other man - it wouldn’t be the same, but he could stomp off into the bathroom and make himself come with his own fingers between his legs instead, and Richie could have fun sitting on a bare mattress with his big stupid sad fucking dick out, talking to Pete, and when he got off the phone Eddie could yell at him then.

Only Richie, still holding the phone against his ear, had reached out with one hand, and pushed Eddie straight back onto the bed.

The thing is, yes, Richie is bigger and stronger than Eddie. But the push wasn’t that hard. And Eddie had known that he could get up if he really wanted to;say no, get up and walk away, and Richie would let him, because Richie loves him, and Richie would never, ever, force Eddie to do something that would make him uncomfortable.

But there’s a reason Eddie’s chosen to make his life partner a man almost twice as wide as himself. (Admittedly, the main reason it’s Richie is because he’s in love with him, and has been since they first met at five years old, and he’d still be in love with Richie if he was four foot tall and as skinny as a rake, but.)

Eddie kind of fucking loves being manhandled; loves it when Richie pushes him around a little; loves when he picks him up and tosses him over one broad shoulder in a fireman’s lift; loves when Richie’s palm and fingers engulf his entire wrist; loves when he pins him back onto the bed with just one hand and a look. He adores the reminder of Richie’s masculinity, his strength, the fact that he, Eddie Kaspbrak, is finally, openly, happily in love with another man, a man who is big and hairy and strong, and capable of moving Eddie around like his weight is less than nothing. And so Eddie had gone back, and stayed down, heart pumping so wildly in his chest he’d been sure Pete would hear it.

So - Eddie is on his back, trembling with the effort of keeping quiet, hips still bucking up just a little where the two of them are joined, almost-but-not-quite against his will, and Richie, the asshole, is still stood on the floor, leaning against the edge of the bed, still fucking pumping painfully slowly into Eddie, into the warm dark between his thighs, discussing the whereabouts of an actress they’d hoped to cast but had not managed to obtain with his co-creater, whilst Eddie slowly loses his mind beneath him.

“No, man,” Richie’s saying, and Eddie can’t believe his voice is so steady, so even. “Her agent said she’s working on that fucking regency thing. That period piece.” A moment’s pause. “Sharon. Yeah. From WME.”

Pete says something in response to this - Eddie thinks, distantly, that if he wasn’t so fucking turned on and desperate he might just be able to hear him - but as it is, he can’t hear a goddamn thing, other than the rush of his own blood in his ears.

“Maybe,” Richie says, “I can ask Steve.”

Eddie wriggles a little beneath him. This is a bad idea - he knows this is a bad idea - but he’s almost unbearably hard, unreasonably desperate, and he cannot in that moment fathom the notion of ending this.

Richie says, “Sure, but I think we should reconsider. She’s great, but there’s other - I thought Jessica Barber was good.” He fucks his hips forwards once again and manages to hit Eddie’s prostate head-on.

Eddie bites down on his own thumb, hard. Richie’s expression - previously focused and thoughtful - softens somewhat, and he reaches out to pull Eddie’s fingers away from his mouth. Eddie lets out a long, shaky breath.

Pete must finish whatever it is he’s saying on the other end of the line, because Richie’s expression returns to the serious, pensive one it was arranged in before. “I know Audra, yeah,” he says. “It’s just a little awkward at the minute because Bill - yeah, exactly. And look, she’s brilliant, but I don’t think the role needs star power. Like, I totally get what you’re saying, but I feel like someone like that could almost detract from the thing itself, y’know? Like I get it, but we’re already greenlit, man. Plus, I know what kind of figures Audra makes, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable - not when everyone else - yeah, right.” He reaches down, like he’s not even thinking about it - and he probably insn’t, he’s gazing just beyond Eddie and towards the wall behind him - and rubs a big palm over Eddie’s cock.

Eddie twitches and gasps. Richie’s not jerking him off - not even close to it - but it’s making his body seize up, his nipples harden, and his toes curl in a way he cannot control. It’s the mixture of gentle - almost comforting, petting, as though Eddie is an antsy cat or something - and carelessness, like Eddie’s not Richie’s primary concern right now and he can’t be bothered to expend enough energy or focus to even get his fingers around him that makes Eddie buck up into the contact and grit his teeth.

“Well, let me speak to Steve,” Richie says, “and I’ll see what he can find out. If she’s already signed the contract, there’s not much we can do. I really think we should go back to some of the other tapes - the thing is, when we wrote this role we didn’t have her in mind, and the reality is there’s so much more that can be done to flesh it out; it could become something totally different with someone else -”

It’s almost unbearably hot, when Richie gets like this - when he’s focused and excited and all business, when he’s talking about something he loves in this way. This show is a dream come true for him - Eddie knows that - and to see his boyfriend so driven, so passionate and knowledgeable and confident in what it is that he wants in order to realise his vision is somehow thrilling, gratifying, and sexy in equal measure.

What’s also sexy is the way the rhythm in which Richie is slowly, steadily fucking into him hasn’t faltered once since he picked up the phone. Eddie feels pathetic; laid open and wet and whorish and bare, like a pretty yet insubstantial distraction - barely a distraction, even; just something to occupy Richie’s restless, high-energy body whilst he’s mid-conversation. A toy to fiddle with. Eddie lets out a quiet whine at the idea, biting down on his own lip in an attempt to contain the noise so Pete won’t hear.

Richie’s gaze flickers down to him, and for a moment, Eddie thinks Richie will pause the call; will press his finger to his own lips, reminding Eddie to be good and silent. But instead, he shifts the phone to his other ear, and, quicker than Eddie can register it, draws his hand back and slaps him on the thigh.

Eddie gasps; eyes wide, clenching down on the cock inside him. He’s so big; so big and thick and hard. The stretch and the squeeze stings and Eddie can’t get enough of it.

Richie breathes out, a little harder than usual, but it’s not a suspicious sound; not hungry and pathetic, like the little gasps Eddie is barely managing to bite back. His eyelids barely even flutter.

“Yeah,” he says, “It’s like - once we decided we wanted her we couldn’t picture anyone else, I totally get it. But there’s a reason that role’s under-written; we always said we wanted someone who could come in and improvise and add to the character. I’m not interested in being prescriptive. I want this to be a collaboration, y’know?”

He wraps a large hand all the way around the thigh he’s just slapped; adjusts Eddie a little like it’s nothing, and, somehow, just this movement has his cock sliding in deeper. Eddie, unable to stop himself, tips his head back and moans softly. It feels, with this change, like Richie’s buried even further inside him; like he’s in his stomach, between his lungs, nestling at the back of his throat. His mouth waters and he gasps, finding he cannot close it.

“Just a second,” Richie says, and tucks the phone against his neck, effectively dulling the sound travelling through the ether to his writing partner. “Eds, I’m just on the phone with Pete, baby. Give me a moment.”

The breath almost stops in Eddie’s chest. The reality of the situation, the fact that he’s spread out like a whore, like a thing, an object for Richie to fuck when he feels like it, regardless of who else is there, who else can hear, steamrolls his brain and his innards. He needs to be quiet - he knows he needs to be quiet - if he isn’t, Pete will figure out what they’re doing, and Eddie won’t be able to look him in the eye again. He imagines it - Pete coming over to work, and looking at him, and Eddie knowing that he knows what Eddie sounds like when he’s getting fucked. He tries to grit his teeth, but Richie chooses that exact moment to push in again, slow and deep - like, deep deep, and worse, hold it there, pressed so firmly and so far inside Eddie’s body it makes his legs shake and his heart shudder. He feels his mouth drop open into a desperate O-shape, and hears himself, faintly, moan Richie’s name.

Richie doesn’t look worried at all - doesn’t shush him, doesn’t try and give some bullshit excuse to Pete, who, Eddie thinks, through the fog clouding his mind, must have heard, surely - he trembles at that - instead, he reaches out, and for a moment, Eddie is certain he is going to put his big hand over his mouth, or slap his cheek, or maybe even squeeze his throat. But he doesn’t. Instead, he grabs one of Eddie’s hands, the one which is currently white-knuckled and grasping desperately at the thick mattress topper Eddie refuses to sleep without, and places it over Eddie’s mouth, pressing down once, firmly, so he will know it must remain there.

Somehow, this is ten times more arousing than any of the possibilities Eddie had come up with by himself.

He whines behind his own palm, short fingernails now digging into the sides of his jaw. But Richie, apparently listening intently to whatever Pete is saying on the phone, only spares him a momentary glance, before returning to his earlier routine of steadily, torturously fucking Eddie and discussing the show with Pete, his voice not wavering at all.

“I think we should give her a call,” Richie says, “can you let Kate know?”

Pete says something indistinct down the line, and Richie takes advantage of the moments in which he is not required to speak by driving his hips forward more viciously, hoisting one of Eddie’s legs up his body to hook over his own shoulder like it’s nothing.

Eddie, yet again, feels his eyes roll back in his head. His insides feel like they’re on fire.

“Sure,” Richie says, “look, I don’t wanna steamroll you, buddy. This is your show too.”

Richie’s so good, Eddie thinks, weirdly, deliriously, so kind and giving, and for some reason the thought makes him squirm even more, when suddenly Richie pulls out almost all of the way, then drives in so hard it sends Eddie sliding back across the bed. He clamps his own hand down on his face even harder, and sobs quietly into his palm.

He feels so wet and open and messy, sweat beading along his hairline, prickling like tiny beetles down his neck, shining across his chest and sticking him to the mattress like Velcro. They’d used a lot of lube earlier - not unusual; Richie is always somewhat on the generous side, concern for Eddie’s asshole and his weird passion for the noises Eddie’s body makes when it’s getting fucked driving him to cover the two of them in the stuff. Eddie can feel it sliding out of him, coating his thighs, the crease of his ass, dripping onto the bed, and the next time Richie pulls back, he slides all the way out.

The air is cool between his legs, and he feels shivery and cold and empty, and he moves his hand away from his mouth to whine at Richie to come back, come back to him, fill him and stroke him and complete him. But Richie just thumbs at the red, raw place where he’s so wet and open, tenderly, lovingly, staring down at him, shifting his hips into place before he pushes back in, hard, knowing Eddie can take it, and Eddie can’t help the helpless “Ohh!” that drops from between his lips.

Richie says, “Sorry, Pete, it’s kinda noisy on my end. I don’t know what Eds is doing.”

Eddie whines quietly through his nose, eyebrows pinched together, incisors cutting hard and sharp into his lower lip. It’s ridiculous, he knows - crazy ridiculous.

Pete must say something else then, because Richie laughs, gaze still fixed upon Eddie, and for all Eddie knows, they’re laughing at him, laughing at what a slut he is, at how whorish and pathetic and desperate for cock he is, and it burns, the embarrassment and humiliation of it all, it burns so hot and so good and his entire body is flushed with it, arousal and mortification and horror. He turns his head to the side, tipping his face back, closing his eyes, unable to bear it, but Richie just reaches out again and grabs his chin, pulling him back and forcing him to meet his eyes as he grins at whatever it is he’s being told down the phone, and in response, says, “Yeah, he is.”

Eddie’s throat goes rubber-band tight. His entire body is so tense he thinks he’ll surely snap. He wants to beg Richie, beg him not to do this, beg him for mercy, beg him for more, above all else, more - but he can’t. He can’t. He has to keep quiet.

Richie gently strokes the big oblong of his thumb over the bottom of Eddie’s chin. It’s far too sweet and gentle for the shit-eating grin that’s currently plastered across his face; for the way his cock is steadily, consistently hammering away between Eddie’s legs. Eddie adores it.

“What about tomorrow?” Richie says, “I don’t have my schedule right now but I think I’m free in the afternoon - how’re you looking?”

It’s a mark of the control he has over his voice that he can sound so nonchalant, so much like he’s not stood at the edge of his bed, fucking open his slutty, pathetic, wanting boyfriend, that he can keep it so steady and calm and even, despite the fact that his hips are jolting back and forth, hard, and there’s sweat glistening across his shoulders and forehead and down his neck. Richie, after deciding he wanted to be a ventriloquist at the tender age of ten, had launched himself into learning how to throw his voice with all the tenacity of an excited, determined child who’s never been told by his parents that he can’t do something, and the skill has never left him. The shittiness of his boyhood impersonations has faded too - now they’re something he’s good at, known for, and it’s infuriating and arousing to Eddie in equal measure. He loves it, Richie’s talent; loves that he’s achieved his dreams, is so hopelessly thrilled for and proud of him, and in many ways it makes him feel the way he does now, wild and out of control and searing with adrenaline in the best possible way.

“Sure I will,” Richie says, to whatever Pete is saying, and somehow manages to nail Eddie’s prostate head-on, right as he lets go of his face and moves his hand back down Eddie’s body to run the blunt tips of his nails over his cock.

Eddie throws his head back again, back arching at the sensation, air escaping his lungs in a sharp, shocked gasp, but this time, Richie doesn’t force him to look back, or make him cover his mouth. He just laughs - Eddie has no idea if it’s at him or his phone conversation, and honestly it doesn’t matter, he’s just so desperate, so parched, his mouth is dry and he’s so humiliated, so close. He doesn’t even realise there’s tears escaping from the corners of his eyes until he tastes the salt on his tongue.

Richie laughs again, a proper cackle, the cackle that’s become so synonymous with the jokes he makes at Eddie’s expense, with the teasing and poking which Eddie loves but will never admit to loving (but Richie knows about anyway because he knows Eddie, he sees him in the same way Eddie sees Richie), and it’s almost Pavlovian, the thrum of pleasure and excitement it triggers in Eddie’s body. His thighs tense up against Richie’s sides, and his hands curl up into fists, and he knows he’s tightened up around Richie’s cock too - knows it because suddenly Richie feels impossibly bigger inside him, and the stretch is burning now, and Richie’s hips stutter, just a little, and he hears his voice hitch when he says to Pete: “Uh - okay, well - wait, tell you what, let me have a look and I’ll call you back, give me ten - i-is that okay?”

Eddie has no idea if Richie’s hung up when he breaks - when he tosses his head back and sucks his own fingers into his mouth in a vain attempt to dull the noise, and moans, the sound long and thin and high and hungry - but the next thing he knows, the phone is hitting the carpet with a dull thud, and Richie’s hot hands are yanking his hips down the bed, and he’s resting one knee against the mattress and nailing Eddie so thoroughly he doesn’t think he’ll ever stand up again.

He manages to choke something out - “Rich!” he thinks he says, but it’s drowned out by Richie biting out the words “Fuck, Eds, you’re fucking ridiculous, you know that?”

Eddie gasps out a sharp little “Ah!” - bites down on the inside of his cheek. He says, “You’re the one who answered the fucking phone!”

Richie grins. His glasses are a bit lopsided, and his damp hands are starting to slip where they’re gripping Eddie’s thighs. “Yeah, but look how hot you are for it. You loved that. D’you think he heard us?”

“Richie, stop it,” Eddie moans. He can barely keep his eyes open. His head is swimming. He can feel the pleasure building and building, rising and rolling inside him, and it feels like it will never peak; never crash against the shore.

“Oh yeah?” Richie says, and another thrust has the bed creaking in protest beneath them. Richie, Eddie would think, were he not currently out of his mind, does not fuck like a forty-year old comedian with a receding hairline. “You want me to stop? Y’want me to pull out, baby?”

“No!” Eddie snaps, and he knows he sounds ridiculous, knows Richie’s laughing at him, but somehow it just makes everything that much better.

Richie’s expression is positively wicked. “Well, d’you want me to get the phone again, then, Eds?” he says. “Want me to call Pete back? Or someone else? You want everyone to know what a dirty little slut you are for me?”

Eddie says, “Oh, God!” the words ripped from his throat, painfully, and he’s going to tell Richie to stop it again, but he can’t, he can’t - can’t, because he doesn’t want him to stop.

Richie’s still going. “Yeah?” he’s saying. “You like the sound of that? Huh? You think he heard you? Think he could hear you, whimpering like a little bitch? You were practically begging for my cock, baby. You think he heard you getting fucked?”

Eddie gasps; reaches out blindly; scrabbles for Richie’s hand. Richie takes it, his thumb running gently back and forth over the hard bumps of his knuckles. Eddie can feel him trembling.

“You gonna come, baby?” Richie says, and his voice isn’t quite so steady anymore.

Eddie nods, the motion quick and aborted. He feels like he’s about to shatter into a thousand shards; like too much movement will ruin him. He doesn’t realise his lower lip is caught between his teeth again until Richie’s hand is suddenly on his face, and his thumb is sliding into his mouth, carefully rubbing the place where the skin is trapped and starting to break, and he’s murmuring, “Hey, let go, Eds, let go, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t quite black out, but it’s a close thing - the pressure and the pleasure ricochets through his body abruptly, slams into him with the force of a tsunami, and before he knows it, his back is arching and his hips are lifting, and all of a sudden Richie’s grip on him has turned bruising - and then his head is spinning and suddenly he can breath again, so he does, greedily gasping in oxygen in great gulping breaths.

Above him, Richie is saying, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” and still drawing his hips in and out, though slower now, more shallowly, like he can’t help himself, like all that furious, fizzling energy from before is still leaking out of him uncontrollably and has to go somewhere…

He hears himself gasp out - though the sound seems to emanate from somewhere far away in the distance - and then the sensation of Richie inside of him returns, and it’s sore and aching and wonderful, and he loves it, but it’s too much, far too much.

“Wait,” he says. His mouth feels swollen and slow and foolish.

Richie breathes in deeply through his nose, once, then falls still. He’s leaning further over him now, Eddie realises; still holding his hand but resting his other palm against the bed on the opposite side.

“You okay?” Richie says.

Eddie says, “Mmm,” then, “yeah.”

“Fuck,” Richie says. Clumsily, shakily, he pulls out. Eddie winces at the sensation of it, and at how open and raw and wet he feels afterwards, but it’s okay. It’s kind of nice, in a way, to have that physical, bodily reminder of how Richie has changed him.

Richie says, “Fuck,” again, and flops down on the bed at Eddie’s side, breathing hard.

Eddie, not moving to stop him, says, “Rich, no, you’re gonna make the mattress dirty.”

Richie snorts. “And you’re not?”

Eddie tries not to smile, but his orgasm has slackened every muscle in his body. Fighting his natural instincts is impossible. So he just lies still, eyes closed, and lets it happen. He can’t even be bothered to react when Richie shuffles closer to him; runs his fingers through his sweaty hair.

“Was that okay?” Richie says.

“What, you want grading?” Eddie forces his eyes open; turns his head. Richie has propped himself up against the headboard and is leaning forward, his fingertips crawling in small, tight circles close to Eddie’s left ear.

Richie says, “I just wanna make sure you didn’t mind me calling you a slut.”

Eddie laughs; he can’t help it.

Richie’s still grinning. His face is reddened; his eyes bright. He’s ridiculous, Eddie thinks, fondly. “I mean, you seemed to be having a pretty good time from where I was standing, but, y’know…”

Eddie says, “Fuck me like that again and you can call me whatever you want.”

“You got it, Spaghetti.”

Eddie groans, and Richie sniggers. “Except that.”

The air in their bedroom feels particularly cool against his sweat-drenched skin, and it’s nice, for a minute or two, just lying there with Richie, listening to their own breathing beginning to slow.

After a while, he turns his head, and says, “Do you actually think he knew?”

Richie says, “Huh?”

“Pete! you think he knew what we were doing? D’you think he heard me?”

“I think the folks over in Anaheim probably heard you, Eds.”

“Shut up!” Eddie says, and elbows him. “I wasn’t that loud.” He hesitates. “Was I?”

Richie grins at him fondly. “I don’t think he heard you, baby,” he says. “You want me to text him and ask?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie says, laughing. He rolls onto his side; faces Richie.

The look Richie gives him is familiar; it’s soft, and warm, and flooded with adoration.

He tucks his hands beneath the side of his head; gives him the same look back. Softly, he says, “You were put on this earth purely to make fun of me, weren’t you?”

Richie reaches out; strokes back the wavy strands of hair that have started to slip into Eddie’s eyes, and it’s inevitable, the way Eddie shuffles closer to him. “I’m beginning to suspect I might have been,” he says. His body, as always, is fever-hot. It wards off the chill that is beginning to tingle on Eddie’s damp skin.

“You said you were gonna call Pete back,” Eddie says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie says. “Give me a moment.” He sits up properly, regardless.

Eddie sits up too, wincing at the stretch in his back, his thighs, his hips. Richie stands, starts fishing their discarded clothes up off the floor, groaning dramatically each time he bends over.

“Getting too old for this, Eds,” he says, with an exaggerated sigh.

“Oh yeah?” Eddie says, though he’s sore too. “Time to give it up, you think?”

Richie grins, tosses him his now wrinkled t-shirt. “Well,” he says, “we probably shouldn’t stop ‘til we hit a nice round number, y’know? And we’re already past forty. Fifty’s the one, I think.”

Eddie smiles; he can’t help it. Richie’s so full of shit. The aches and pains don’t matter, and neither does the receding hairline. They’re still going to be doing this in ten years’ time, he knows. Probably twenty years, too. The future for Eddie, now, is one long, golden, unbroken line of promise, bright and inviting as the sand on a California beach.