Eddie wakes up, as he usually does, five minutes before his alarm is supposed to go off.
It’s not that surprising, because it’s not actually that early. Eddie’s workday starts at 9, and his office is a fifteen-minute drive from his and Richie’s apartment. It’s not an amazing job, he took a significant pay cut when he moved here, but it is closeby and low-stress, so he likes it. And the proximity means he doesn’t have to get up at six in the morning like he used to. He now sets his alarm for a much more reasonable seven-thirty, which is still half an hour earlier than he really has to get up. It’s nice.
It’s especially nice on nights when he sleeps in Richie’s room, now that they’re actually together and he can. And on those mornings, like this one, he can pick up his head blearily, reach for his phone, and turn off the alarm before it even goes off, and then lay his head back down to just...bask, a little. Eddie thinks after forty years of misery he deserves a little basking.
It’s warm under the covers, and Eddie worries a little that he’ll fall back asleep, but he doesn’t think he will. Richie is a solid, steady weight next to him, breathing slow and deep, and there’s soft grey light falling in through the window. It’s February, and cold as fuck in Chicago, but Richie puts out heat like a fucking furnace. He’s bare-chested right now—gets overheated if Eddie’s in his bed and he’s wearing a shirt—and that’s just fine with Eddie, tucked into his side as he is. Eddie kisses his shoulder softly, stretches out next to him, wraps an arm around his thick waist. Everything about Richie is broad and thick and soft, and Eddie loves it, finds it unnaturally enticing and indulgent. Richie was really self-conscious about it at first, seemed to think that because Eddie is thin and wiry that he wouldn’t be into his heavier body type. But Eddie has not been shy about showing his appreciation.
He’s not shy now, rubbing his thumb over the edge of Richie’s soft middle, curling his fingers around his love handles. He’s so warm, and he smells so nice—not like anything in particular, just like Richie, and Eddie’s disturbingly into it—and Eddie can’t help but mouth lazily over his shoulder and bicep, the closest things he can reach. His skin is soft and Eddie likes the feel of it against his lips, likes rubbing his mouth over the sprays of freckles there.
The thing about touching Richie, though, is that it awakens something in Eddie every time, and that’s the need to touch Richie more. Eddie never considered himself a tactile, physical person, never really expressed himself through touch, but that was because he was repressed and traumatized. After Derry he was maybe a little needy, always craving some kind of reassurance that he wasn’t alone and that people liked him, and hugs became commonplace among the Losers, and especially from Richie. And then they got together and that really opened the floodgates. Eddie is obsessed. He’s got a hunger he cannot sate. Also an oral fixation.
All of this to say, after a couple minutes of running his hand up and down Richie’s side and kissing his shoulder messily, Eddie decides that isn’t enough anymore, and bodily drags himself over Richie to lie on top of him. That seems to be the only amount of contact that can really scratch that ever-present itch—full-body. Richie huffs against Eddie’s hair as he tucks his face into the crook of Richie’s neck, and Eddie settles in, feeling Richie’s barrel chest rise and fall against his, feeling the softness of his stomach, the warmth of his torso through Eddie’s shirt. He tangles their legs together, tucks his hands up under Richie’s armpits, and then retracts them so that he can lift himself up a bit and hitch up the front of his shirt. Like this, when he lowers himself down again, his stomach and chest are pressed directly up against Richie’s, and god, that’s nice. Deeply intimate, and also viscerally satisfying, the way the soft curves of him press into Eddie, warm and human. Eddie wants to sink into him. His mouth starts seeking skin again, like a vampire—his lips meet the slope of Richie’s neck where it meets his shoulder and he sucks a kiss there.
Richie hums and shifts beneath him. His big, warm hands come up to settle on Eddie’s waist. Eddie smiles, and sucks more kisses into his neck and shoulder, and Richie rubs circles into his hips with both thumbs. “Morning,” Richie says, voice low and raw and hoarse. “Happy Valentine’s.”
Eddie makes a vague sound in response—he hadn’t even remembered the holiday. He and Richie have only been together since August. Last February they were still firmly in repression mode.
“Are you giving me a hickey right now?” Richie rumbles, and Eddie can feel his voice vibrating through his chest.
“No,” Eddie says, kissing the dip of his throat. “I could if you wanted, though.”
Richie chuckles softly, palms running down over his ass to curve over the backs of his thighs. “Nah, I have important meetings…eventually.”
“Not today,” Eddie says, because he knows Richie’s schedule.
Richie yawns in his ear. “Not today,” he agrees. “But yes tomorrow, so unless you can give me a hickey that’ll be gone in twenty-four hours, which I know you can’t—”
Eddie rolls his eyes and bites the edge of Richie’s collarbone gently, and then kisses down the centre of his chest, lips scrubbing over the soft hair there, following the gentle dip between his pecs. He has to squirm down Richie’s body for this, stomach dragging over Richie’s, and then over his crotch. He can feel Richie’s morning wood against his abs. Richie doesn’t mention it, but Eddie’s mouth waters, a little.
“Eds,” Richie groans, arching his back up against Eddie’s mouth. “Will you come back up here?”
“Bossy,” Eddie says, scratching his nails up Richie’s sides. “Your mouth is gross.”
“Too bad, it’s Valentine’s Day.” Richie grabs at his shoulders. “Make out with me.”
“I’m going to invest in some bedside mouthwash,” Eddie says, slithering his way back up Richie’s chest. “If it’s too gross, I’m making you go brush your teeth.”
“You’re so boring,” Richie sighs amorously, and then pulls Eddie in to kiss his mouth.
Eddie honestly doesn’t mind morning kisses as much as he always says he does. In theory, it’s fucking gross, but in practice he always ends up forgetting about that in favour of kissing the living hell out of Richie. As a man with a fairly recently discovered oral fixation, Eddie just really likes making out, and would make many exceptions for the sake of kissing more. For example, it’s currently the time when his alarm would be going off, but Eddie is stubbornly ignoring that in favour of threading his fingers into Richie’s hair and catching Richie’s lower lip between his own, licking at it gently. Richie hums out his pleasure, opens his mouth against Eddie’s, tips his chin up into it.
Eddie doesn’t really know if Richie is a good kisser, because his experience is limited to boring women he was really not into, but he thinks he must be, because Eddie really likes kissing him. It’s everything he always thought making out must be like, as a kid, with the added bonus of Richie’s morning stubble rubbing into his jaw, rasping against his own. Which is something he honestly likes a lot more than he thought he would. In any case, kissing Richie is a fucking revelation. It lights Eddie up inside, zings down his spine, curls heavy and warm in his stomach. It’s addicting, makes Eddie hungrier the more he does it, a deep aching want that settles in his throat and makes his fingers itch, his toes curl. It makes him groan softly, bite at Richie’s mouth, mouth moving sloppily, insistently.
Richie smiles between kisses, hands moving restlessly up and down Eddie’s back, dragging between his shoulderblades. Eddie catches a hand that curves around the side of his neck and holds it there, traces Richie’s knobby knuckles with his thumb as he tilts his head to the side to fit their mouths together, trace the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue.
Richie makes a pleased noise, sucks gently on Eddie’s lip as he squeezes Eddie’s hips with his thighs. It feels good, like Richie wants to keep him there, and Eddie fits so well into the cradle of his hips. And, of course, the movement presses Eddie tighter against Richie’s crotch, and that is always a plus.
He pulls away to catch his breath for a second, and takes that opportunity to shift his hips down, just a fraction, to feel the hard shape of Richie’s cock through his boxers. He swallows thickly, heat pooling lower in his stomach, but then Richie catches his mouth in another kiss, and another, and Eddie gets distracted. He gets too caught up in the way Richie’s breath hitches in his throat, and the soft wet sounds of their mouths connecting and reconnecting, and the way Richie’s hands skim down his back, over his ass. Eddie is hot all over, and his stomach rubs up against Richie’s, and his hands run obsessively over Richie’s shoulders and chest and jaw. Eddie is so into him it’s ridiculous. And Richie is so indulgent when it comes to making out. Like he’d gladly do it for hours.
Eddie thinks he would, too, right up until Eddie trails sticky kisses up his jaw to his ear, and then takes the edge of his ear very gently between his teeth. Richie groans and squeezes two big handfuls of Eddie’s ass, and they grind into each other instinctively, hot and slow. Eddie moans threadily, and Richie freezes up. Eddie pulls back to look at him, breath coming a little hard.
Eddie is a little hard. He is...more than a little hard. And he’s not the only one. His pulse thrums in his throat and blood rushes in his ears. Richie still hasn’t let go of his ass, and instead is looking straight at him, mouth bitten red and lips parted, eyes blown, chest heaving. He can feel Richie’s cock, thick and hot, pressing against his hip through their boxers. Insanely, Eddie’s only thought is holy shit. This is it. This is finally it.
And then Richie shakes himself a little, and grins, and smacks Eddie’s ass lightly. “Okay, get off,” he says. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”
Cold disappointment washes over Eddie, and he tries desperately not to let it show, rolling his eyes and climbing off of Richie carefully, so that they don’t press together more than they have to. The tent in Richie’s boxers is very clear as he sits up and stretches, feeling around for his glasses. He leans over and kisses Eddie’s forehead, tickles him under the chin.
“Be right back,” he says, voice too chipper for how hoarse it is, three seconds post-makeout. He stands up, adjusts the front of his boxers conspicuously. “Don’t ask me what I’m doing in there,” he adds with a laugh, and then tosses Eddie an annoying wink before disappearing into the attached bathroom.
Eddie flops back onto the mattress and groans.
A second later, the shower starts up, and Eddie’s dick twitches. “God, stop,” he mutters, glaring at it. Something cold and dark curls in his stomach as he listens to the shower run. Eddie knows that Richie jerks off in the bathroom, probably. He’s always known. But it sucks to know for sure, when Eddie is lying on Richie’s bed, hard and frustrated and alone. It’s just, it’s fucking dumb, he feels like a fucking teenager and he hates it.
The thing is, they’ve been together for...something like six months, now. And they haven’t even—they haven’t even done handjobs. This was the closest they’ve gotten to doing anything in six. fucking. months. And Eddie is horny as hell and he doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong.
At first he thought maybe Richie just had some hangups about sex, and specifically about having sex with men. Which was fair and Eddie obviously didn’t push it. He has and has previously had a hell of a lot of hangups of his own. That’s why he goes to therapy. But Richie’s said a lot of things since then that have made it clear that that isn’t the case with him. He likes sex. He’s into sex. He’s had pleasant sex with other guys who aren’t Eddie in the past and it wasn’t traumatizing.
So Eddie thought maybe it was just that Richie didn’t want to have anything that could be misconstrued as casual sex anymore or whatever. So he waited. But now it’s been six months. And nothing. No more than a little ass groping, and as soon as things get hot and heavy, Richie backs off and disappears to the bathroom or whatever, like the idea of having sex with Eddie is revolting. Eddie was fine with taking it slow, but this is too much. They’re forty fucking years old. They pined like fucking idiots for years, and now they’re together, and Eddie is lying on the fucking bed while Richie jerks off in the shower. What the fuck is wrong with him?
Eddie takes a deep breath and lets it out slow, unclenches his hands. He just, he might have to face the facts, here. That Richie...just doesn’t want to have sex with him. That he likes sex, but just not with Eddie. Eddie thinks that if it was anything else, Richie would have told him. The only reason Richie wouldn’t have told him is if he knew it would crush Eddie, but now Eddie’s just had to figure it out on his own, which fucking sucks. Because now Eddie is lying on Richie’s bed, horny as hell, and Richie isn’t into him like that.
Which is—fair. Eddie desperately tries to convince himself that he can’t hold that against Richie. It’s not his fault. Eddie...Eddie doesn’t find himself very sexy, either. He doesn’t, he doesn’t think he’d be that into the idea of having sex with himself, either. He just, he thinks it’s a little unfair that Richie didn’t fucking tell him, beforehand, before Eddie let himself think about it so much. Maybe then he wouldn’t be this fucking horny all the time. Also, fuck Richie just a little bit for not even giving Eddie a chance. Maybe Eddie’s fucking great at sex. He wouldn’t really know, but. Richie might have at least tried it one time, pretended it wasn’t such a repulsive idea, and then decided it wasn’t for him.
Eddie sighs heavily, shakes his head, rubs the heel of his palm over his dick a little too hard. It’s fine, he tells himself firmly. It’s fine, because they’re together, they’re in love, and making out is nice, too. It’s really nice, Eddie loves it, it’s all worth it because Eddie gets to kiss him every day and Richie still holds his hand, smiles at him, holds Eddie when they sleep. Eddie doesn’t, he doesn’t need to have sex with him. He’s just cranky and frustrated and turned on right now, but he doesn’t need to have sex with Richie to be happy. He can just, he’ll just jack off on his own, like Richie. Right now, he’s going to jack off right now, right here in Richie’s bed, because he’s going fucking feral with how horny he is and the bed smells like Richie and Eddie can still feel the ghost of Richie’s dick pressing into his hip and right now Richie is in the shower getting off under the spray of hot water and god, Eddie’s going to lose it. He’s going to fucking lose it, thinking about Richie’s hand on his own dick, leaning against the tiled wall, breathing hard.
Eddie pushes a hand into his boxers, wraps his fingers around his cock, hisses at the pressure. God, he’s fucking hard, and there’s been a damp patch on the front of his boxers since he and Richie were making out. And it’s not hard for Eddie to work himself up even more, stroking himself steadily, with all this sense memory of Richie underneath him, the shape and feel of his body, his strong arms, his big hands. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and lets his mind flick between thoughts of Richie touching himself and of Richie touching Eddie, rubbing his hands over Eddie’s thighs, his ass, his cock. Using his big fucking mouth for something other than talking, god, Richie kissing along his hip to his cock, swallowing him down— Richie sucking a hickey into his inner thigh— Richie pushing a slick finger between his cheeks—
Fuck, Eddie squirms at the thought, gasping as he twists his hand over the head of his cock, spreading the wetness gathering at the tip. He spreads his legs wide, kicking the blankets off of them, pulling up the hem of his shirt to rub over his stomach with his free hand, remembering the feeling of Richie’s torso against it. He thumbs over his own nipple gently, twitches into it, strokes his cock faster. He thinks about Richie doing this, right now, in the shower. Touching himself, stroking his big fucking cock, thumbing over the head, running his hand over his chest, finding all the spots on his body that make him jerk and moan. Fuck, he’s so hot, and Eddie wants him so fucking bad. He wants Richie on top of him, under him, kissing him, touching him. He wants Richie to find all of Eddie’s sensitive spots and exploit them mercilessly until he’s shaking and moaning. He wants Richie’s tongue on his chest and down the centre of his stomach and on his thighs, on his cock, between his cheeks. God, fuck, Eddie doesn’t even know what Richie’s into, but Eddie wants it all, wants to try everything, strokes his cock hard and fast thinking about all the things he wants Richie to do to him. Wants to be completely wrecked by him.
He comes hard, gasping, all over his hand and stomach. His spine arches with it, and he groans, stroking himself through it, breathing hard. He licks at his dry lips as he shivers through the aftershocks, like he can taste how good it feels. Shit.
He starts coming down a few seconds later, and then he immediately feels gross and kind of guilty. If Richie doesn’t want to have sex with him, he probably doesn’t want Eddie jerking off in his bed. God.
He plucks a few tissues from the bedside table without moving, wipes himself off, chest still heaving. He tucks himself back into his boxers, and then settles his arm over his eyes, hating the feeling of sweat cooling on his body post-orgasm. Felt fucking good, though.
The bathroom door swings open, and Eddie jerks his arm down guiltily to look at Richie, who is standing in the doorway, staring at him. Eddie must still look like a fucking mess, his legs still spread, his skin still flushed. It’s really fucking obvious, what Eddie was doing in here. There’s no hiding it.
But instead of looking disgusted or angry, Richie’s eyes flash, and he looks…hungry. His lips are parted, and he licks them quickly. His eyes rake over Eddie’s body. His throat bobs. He looks, for a split second, like he’d eat Eddie alive. Eddie’s cock twitches feebly.
And then Richie blinks and clears his throat and says, “I’m gonna go make you Valentine’s breakfast,” and fucking runs for it.
Eddie tries to catch his breath and thinks about what just happened very hard. Richie...did not look bothered by the sight of Eddie all flushed and post-orgasmic in his bed. He looked interested. Eddie thinks he definitely might have looked interested.
Perhaps, Eddie thinks, all is not lost. Maybe Richie can be convinced that Eddie is someone he wants to have sex with. All Eddie needs to do is...seduce him.
It’s Valentine’s Day, after all. What better time to seduce your own boyfriend?
He’s thought so a couple times before, too, that it looked like Eddie had been jerking off, or sounded like it, or whatever. Richie tries not to dwell on it too much. He looked it up once, if people who aren’t into sex still like jerking off. Because Eddie isn’t. Into sex. He told Richie once, right at the beginning of their relationship. They were making out, and Richie was getting kind of handsy and grabbing Eddie’s ass and maybe pressed a little too firmly between his cheeks, over his jeans. And Eddie jerked and squirmed and made some interesting faces and then that same evening he told Richie he’d never really been into sex. Never really liked it. Or looked for it. Or enjoyed it when he had it, historically.
And Richie had just swallowed thickly and nodded and never brought it up again. He’d been disappointed, at first. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about having sex with Eddie before they got together. Eddie is fucking hot as hell, and has such a nice ass...and Richie does crave that closeness. That connection. But he’s gotten used to the idea. If Eddie doesn’t like it, he’s not going to push. Richie had a girlfriend in college once who didn’t like sex, which was fine with Richie because he didn’t really like sex with women that much. She was very firm that it wasn’t a trauma thing or a lesbian thing or any kind of thing other than just not liking sex, so Richie understands.
It’s just...it’s too bad. But making out is nice and it isn’t like Richie can’t still think about Eddie when he jerks off. He just doesn’t tell Eddie about it in case it makes him uncomfortable. But he thinks about it a lot. Maybe Richie will get tired of his hands eventually, but they can talk about that when the time comes. Plus, he can look into toys, maybe. And he’s not a teen anymore! He’s had plenty of sex. It’s not like he missed out on ever having sex. Just...sex with Eddie.
But that’s okay. Eddie doesn’t want it. But god, fuck, seeing Eddie all spread out and wanton on the bed, with his shirt rucked up and his skin all flushed… So fucking hot. Richie almost had to go jerk off again. He almost did.
All the websites he saw said that some people who aren’t into partnered sex still like solo stuff, it really just depends. As he pokes at his eggs and sticks bread in the toaster, Richie wonders vaguely if Eddie would ever let him watch. But he goes all hot and dry-mouthed just thinking about that, so he focuses on breakfast instead. It’s Valentine’s Day and despite the lack of sex that will take place he will non-sexually romance the fuck out of this man whom he has lured into his bed and his life. Because Richie fucking loves him! And Richie wants him to feel comfortable and happy and cared for! He is Richie’s dream man, sex or no sex, and he is the love of Richie’s life, and he’s not really that romantic, but fuck it, Richie is allowed to be gross today. Maybe he’ll fuck around and get some roses or something. Bring Eddie lunch at work. Leave a cute-ass note in his jacket pocket. Kiss him on his embarrassed little nose.
He hears Eddie coming into the kitchen behind him, and Richie schools his face into something presumably not-sneaky and not-horny before turning around to grin at him.
He freezes instantly when he sees Eddie coming in through the doorway, rubbing a hand through his damp hair, wearing—of all fucking things—one of Richie’s shirts, unbuttoned and open over his chest, and his tiny fucking red shorts.
“Hey,” Eddie says, eyes flicking over him curiously. “What are you making?”
Richie has to swallow twice before he can croak, “Eggs.”
Eddie hums, and then crosses the kitchen to open the fridge door, bending at the waist to open the produce drawer at the bottom. It gives Richie a ridiculously good view of his ass, thighs flexing below the hems of his shorts. Richie could just, fucking...sink his teeth into them. His hands itch to reach out and grab him.
He clears his throat as Eddie fishes around for a carton of strawberries. “Why aren’t you, uh, dressed for work?”
“Mmm.” Eddie turns around and plucks a strawberry from the carton, takes a slow bite out of it and then sucks the juice from his thumb. Without even washing it first. Richie thinks he might be losing his mind. “It’s a holiday,” Eddie says, voice light. “I called in sick.”
Richie gapes openly. Eddie has six paid sick days a year at his new job, and Richie expected him to save them until he heard there was some kind of flu outbreak. He didn’t even take his birthday off of work.
Eddie blinks his huge fucking eyes at Richie innocently. “Watch the toast,” he says.
“Uh-huh,” Richie says vaguely, watching strawberry juice drip down the side of Eddie’s hand until Eddie licks it up delicately.
Eddie smiles and steps up right in front of Richie, his feet bumping up against Richie’s. He sets the strawberries down next to the stove, and then curls a hand around the back of Richie’s neck and pulls him down into an absolutely fucking scorching kiss, his free hand sneaking up under the hem of Richie’s shirt to brush over his stomach. Richie makes a pathetic sound into it, knees going weak as Eddie licks into his mouth filthily. He tastes like toothpaste and strawberries. Richie can barely breathe.
And then Eddie breaks away, and grins, and says, “The toast, Rich.” And then he grabs the strawberries again and steps away to bring them to the sink, and Richie turns dumbly to the toaster, mind buzzing with shock and arousal. Jesus Christ.
Richie really kinda wishes Eddie was into sex.