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Eddie Kaspbrak is a normal, mature, totally adult human man.
But after you’re attacked (and stabbed, quite enthusiastically) by an ancient space clown, and you realize fear has been at a low simmering point in the back of your mind and controlling most of your major life decisions—and your whole life is put in stark perspective—it’s hard not to let your inner instincts get the best of you.
Like, for instance, when that jerk-off in your office—Jeremy, who sent dick pics to no less than five of their fellow co-workers last Christmas after a deep-dive into the spiked punch at the holiday party—tries to dunk on you in the middle of your performance review.
It’s bad enough that this fucker got promoted while Eddie was in Maine. Now he’s sitting in the corner of Mr. Patterson’s office, by the special fucking ficus that the whole office pooled to buy him for Boss’ Day—Eddie remembers distinctly adding more than his share to appear like a team player, even though no one was documenting specific amounts, and on top of that Mr. Patterson didn’t even seem to like the thing—with his stupid blue suit and the line of his stupid dick tucked not-so-carefully into his pants, looking like the cat that got the cream.
Eddie tries to keep his composure. He really does. But as soon as the topic of his absence is brought up, Jeremy sways his whole body from side to side, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs, and Eddie finds that picking at his nails and chewing at the inside of his cheek is no longer keeping the anger at bay.
“Like I said,” Eddie says, for what feels like the fiftieth time since he’s returned, “I was attending a high school reunion and was the victim of an attack. It was in the papers. I brought them in.”
“Yeah,” Jeremy huff-puff-exhales skeptically, and Eddie wonders how hard it would be to side-step an arrest if he lunged across the room and strangled him right then and there. Richie got out of a murder. He’s sure his friends and their excessive wealth could help him here. Just as he’s contemplating if his divorce lawyer is versatile enough to handle a battery charge, Mr. Patterson tries to clear the air.
“I understand that, Eddie. I’m just marking it on your form. It’s standard with this kind of… leave of absence.” The corner of his mouth flinches in what Eddie assumes is a smile.
Then Jeremy mumbles, “Nice way of putting it,” and Mr. Patterson’s pen comes to a screeching halt.
Eddie taps his foot on the carpet three times. “Are you trying to say something here, Jeremy?”
“You left us high and dry.” Jeremy’s eyes don’t leave his. “Just like your wife, right?”
“Jeremy…” Mr. Patterson starts, but Eddie’s already leaning forward in his chair, hands on his knees, knuckles squeezed white with the pressure of his rage.
“That’s really none of your business. And if you two intend to bring my personal life into an annual review about my professional performance, then maybe we should have Joe from HR step in.” He presses himself back into the chair, trying to appear calm, cool and collected. “Or maybe I’ll give my lawyer a call.”
Jeremy’s eyes go wide. Mr. Patterson lifts a hand, shaking his head.
“Eddie, there’s no need—”
“Got pretty litigious on your break, eh, Kaspbrak?” Jeremy slurs, out the corner of his dumb, red lips, licked wet and shiny. “Among other things.”
And that’s fucking it. Eddie shoots up out of his chair like it’s spring-loaded, straightening his jacket in an attempt to still appear professional. That kind of loses its shine as soon as he opens his mouth.
“I fucking quit,” he says, and then blinks, almost as shocked as Mr. Patterson, whose mouth drops open with an audible click.
“Eddie—”
“Wow,” Jeremy says. Something about his tone settles the decision more solidly in Eddie’s gut.
Eddie nods, barks a laugh, and walks out the door. Honestly, it’s one of the best performance reviews he’s ever had. His heart pounds delightfully in his chest with each step he takes through the office, reminding him that he’s alive, that he’s allowed to feel things. To get mad. To live his life. To do what he wants.
Besides, he’s had two job offers pending from the non-profit sector that he’s been sitting on since Monday. He doesn’t need these people. Fuck them. Fuck Jeremy and his stupid fucking dick pictures.
By the time he’s made it back to his own office—smaller than fucking Jeremy’s—he’s got an absurd idea hacking its way up to the forefront of his mind. He plops down in his chair for the last time, pulls his phone out of his pocket, unzips his pants, thinks of big hands holding him around the hips, bruising with intensity, thin lips stretched around him, and he’s hard enough that he’s curving up from his fly. He snaps one picture and waits an appropriate amount of time for his erection to go down.
He emails the picture to himself, ups the copy count to fifteen, and hits print.
It comes out a blobby gray mass, flipped horizontal on the page.
“Fuck.”
No one is going to be able to tell that’s his dick. Much less an idiot like Jeremy.
Running on the fumes of his post-quit adrenaline, he pulls up the print option once more. When he sees “HP ENVY 6055 Wireless Printer” a few rows down, he doesn’t think. He queues up a hundred copies and rushes to the kitchen to watch them roll out, one by one.
The pictures are shiny and full of color, the resolution perfect. It takes all one hundred of them to cover every inch of Stupid Fucking Jeremy’s Subaru Outback, with a few of the shitty black-and-white pics leftover.
Even from a distance, you can definitely tell that’s a dick.
When Eddie is walking back to his own car, his box of belongings tucked safely under his bad arm, he feels like he could rule the world. The pain wriggles under his skin from using the scarred muscles, but he likes it. The rebellion of committing an act so childish piques something like pride in him. For a minute, he considers calling Richie, just to tell him. It seems right up his alley of humor. He scraps that idea just as quickly as it comes. There’s no telling what might slip out of his mouth right now. He just got divorced, and with starting a new job—
There will be time for that soon enough.
So Eddie shoves the rest of the pictures in his glove compartment, drives to his sublet bachelor pad and cracks open the bottle of whiskey Richie insisted he buy to celebrate his divorce.
Two months later, Eddie is sitting in arrivals in the giant Escalade he’s considering selling, waiting for one Richie Tozier to appear through one of the sliding doors.
They had planned this trip almost immediately after leaving Derry—actually, it was more of a strong suggestion that Eddie took too seriously, and when Richie found out he had booked a plane ticket for the beginning of December he had balked, sighed, and then moved things around to make it, which made Eddie feel… it made him feel—and Eddie has been nervous about it for oh, the past two months.
It’s not that he’s unaware of his feelings for Richie. That hit him smack-dab in the face along with a million other things as soon as he walked into the Jade and saw them all. And it’s not that he’s unaware of what this visit means. Eddie is not a subtle man. See: the co-worker’s car full of dick pics. But he’s also not good at flirting. At least, he doesn’t feel good at flirting, since all of his efforts have landed him nothing more than laughter and light-to-moderate teasing in return from Richie. Stan has assured him two things when Eddie called to panic last weekend: first, he would have to be a little more obvious if this is something he truly wants in life, and last, that he does not want to be involved in any more “tips on wooing Richie Tozier” conversations.
So Eddie’s been stewing on it by himself for the past couple weeks.
Except that the “stewing” has mostly meant “jerking off to the blurry Instagram pictures Richie posted four years ago before abandoning his account” so… not exactly productive.
It definitely hasn’t helped prepare him for this moment: Richie peeking out of the doors, a bag slung over his shoulder, wearing a well-fitted blazer and jeans, his hair blown in the artificial wind of the airport exit. Eddie’s whole body reacts, like someone shocked him with a taser, but directly to the heart. And dick.
Eddie knows, in that moment, with alarming and almost painful clarity—again, heart and dick—that he needs to tell Richie how he feels. All the long-distance talking and texting is bad enough. But the dreaming and the day-dreaming and the… jerking off is… starting to get unmanageable.
And he would rather not spend this whole trip trying to will down an erection. In fact, he’s so focused on the situation currently calming down between his legs that he doesn’t have time to get out of the car to help Richie with his bag, or greet Richie like a civilized human being. Instead, Richie swings himself into the car on his own, then turns to face Eddie in a weird half-extension of his arms.
“Hey, man, no hug?” Richie asks, his face open and friendly, if not a little tired. He looks good. Eddie hesitates internally, but tries to make no show of it, leaning over the console and trying to fit their bodies together in some semblance of an embrace. “Oh, we’re doing— okay—”
Richie hugs him back, weird, straight-man pats on the back of his neck, and Eddie suppresses the shiver at finally having the real thing so close. Touching him. Richie’s big hand on his skin, dragging around his shoulders, patting him on the cheek like he did down in the sewers. As soon as that thought hits, stark and dangerous and deep down in his gut, Eddie pulls back like he’s been burned and fumbles with his keys.
“Welcome, uh, welcome!” He shoves the key into the ignition and hears the satisfying rumble of the engine starting. “How was your flight?”
Richie gapes at him. “How was my ‘flight?’”
Eddie wants to slap the air quotes from his hands and kiss him senseless.
“That’s what people ask!”
Richie makes a pfft noise as the air quotes return. “You said ‘welcome.’”
This time Eddie does slap his hands. Richie shrinks away, cackling, and Eddie hides his blush by finally pulling away from the curb. Even biting at his lip doesn’t stop the smile.
“You’re being a little… we— are you smiling at me right now?” Richie leers in his direction, so Eddie pushes gently at him this time. He makes the mistake of looking at him, too, and the shine in his eyes just makes the whole thing worse. How can someone be so annoying and so attractive at the same time?
“Is this how you are on vacation?” Eddie teases, lightening the mood. There’s no way he can manage their usual banter. Not when he’s grinning like a love-sick fool.
“Nah, man, just amped up to be here I guess.” He shakes his head, then adds, “In the Big Apple that is. Been awhile since I’ve been back.”
“Oh?” That surprises Eddie. He’s spent a good amount of time wondering if they ever unknowingly crossed paths in the three decades in-between. Richie waves a hand.
“I mean, I’m here for work all the time. But like… the city. The buildings, the energy, the Chinese food at three AM!” A finger pokes into Eddie’s side, and he yelps. “Isn’t that what you New Yorkers are always boasting about? As if you can’t get good take-out in LA in the middle of the night.”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been awake past midnight in years.”
“Good point,” Richie grunts in agreement. “Me neither.”
That makes Eddie feel a little less like a grandpa. He takes the exit toward his place, then remembers it’s quicker on the toll-road. Richie’s probably exhausted. It would be better to get him back quickly, no matter the cost.
Without thinking, he points toward the glove compartment in front of Richie’s seat.
“Get the EZ Pass out for me, would you?”
“Sure,” Richie yawns. Eddie, pleased that he’s considering Richie’s fatigue, is already imagining the boring tour of his new apartment—which is basically a bedroom, a bathroom and one big room that happens to have a kitchen—when he hears Richie’s breath catch in his throat.
Looking over, he sees a smattering of blobby gray printed pictures of his dick filling the passenger seat well. Richie’s staring down at them, one in each hand, and Eddie swerves the car to snatch one, then the other, away from him.
“That’s—”
“Eddie...”
“I can explain!”
“You can explain?” Richie’s voice is incredulous, but his hands are still frozen in front of him like he’s holding the pictures.
“Yes, it was— it’s just this stupid… oh my— I can’t believe this is happening.” Eddie tries to take a breath; he tries to think of the best way to tell this absolutely batshit story, but can’t hear a thing through the ringing that’s begun in his ears. He’s still fucking driving. He’s on the fucking highway, on the way to his small apartment, where Richie has to sleep on the couch, right outside his bedroom, having seen his dick.
There’s no way Eddie is living this down. Richie’s going to spend the whole weekend calling their friends, posting on social media, writing this shit into his act.
It was the weirdest way I’ve yet to receive a dick pic. What’s next, one of those banners that flies behind planes? Are dick pics becoming the new proposals? The more creative, the better the memories?
Eddie slams his forehead on the steering wheel and groans.
“Eddie,” Richie says again, “is this your dick?”
“Yes,” Eddie replies. Seems pointless to deny that now. “Yep, yeah. That is… mhm.”
Richie nods, slowly, his throat working.
“And you just… have these?” Richie picks up another photo from the floor of the car and turns it upside down in his hands. “Like, a bunch of them?”
Instincts fried, Eddie smacks it out of Richie’s hand as quickly as he picks it up.
“Hey!”
Eddie wants to cry. “Stop looking at them!”
“What if I want to look?” Richie asks, breathlessly.
They both freeze. Suddenly the stirring of Eddie’s dick is back in full-force.
Except… what?
“Can we forget I said that?” Richie asks in a rush, forcing a laugh, and Eddie tries to blink his way back to reality.
“What? No we can’t for—” Eddie’s heart is pounding in his throat, his stomach turning to acid with nerves. “What are you saying?”
Richie’s fingers dance on his thighs. Eddie glances at them in his periphery and almost explodes. The low pressure that’s been simmering at the back of his mind turns up to a full boil.
“What do you want me to say, Eds?” Richie’s voice cracks, hysterical. “You seriously don’t know?”
Eddie huffs, gripping the wheel. “No, I don’t know! I don’t know what the fuck you’re—”
“I’m into you! I want to kiss you and hold your hand and look at pictures of your fucking blurry dick, okay?” All the breath leaves him in a loud exhale. Shoulders slumping, he heaves one final laugh. “Can’t believe I told you that before you explained the dick pics.”
“You’re into me,” Eddie repeats.
When he sees Richie nod, he flicks on his turn signal.
“What are you doing?” Richie asks, instinctively checking Eddie’s blind spot for him. It spreads heat through Eddie’s whole body, for some stupid reason.
“I’m gonna find an exit. It’s a fucking miracle I haven’t crashed already.”
“Listen, Eddie,” Richie says, sitting up in his seat, “I’m really sorry I… I threw that on you, man. We can wait til we get back to your place to talk. I just didn’t expect the waterfall of dick pics, alright?”
“I’m into you too,” Eddie says, matter-of-factly. “I was going to tell you on this trip.” He looks down at the crumpled picture of his cock shoved between his seat and the console. “I didn’t plan the waterfall.”
Richie starts to smile, and Eddie wants to touch him so badly his fingers twitch.
“If this is your seduction technique, you should really try better quality pictures,” Richie says, twisting a picture to the side and squinting.
Eddie scoffs. “It worked.”
By the time they’re finally parked, Eddie is so hard he’s beginning to leak into his underwear. He can feel it, damp and uncomfortable, and reaches down to adjust himself as he rips the keys from the ignition.
“Are you…” Richie starts, then hisses audibly. Eddie catches him staring, full-on, and rubs shamelessly over his pants-tent just to drive Richie crazy. It sends a full body prickle of heat through him, but it’s also thrilling. Richie wants this. Just as much as he does.
Eddie spreads his legs wantonly.
Richie watches him with such heat and intent that Eddie thinks he might go up in a puff of smoke before they’ve touched each other. They haven’t even kissed. Just that one measly half-hug when Richie first got in the car. The whole time Eddie searched for a nice, dark, only-partially-exposed stretch of road, they sat in abject silence, just waiting for the car to come to a stop.
Just as he’s about to open his mouth to apologize—or maybe beg—Eddie’s pulled into a kiss by the back of his neck. The pressure is immediately delicious, a tongue licking over his bottom lip then pressing at the seam of his mouth like Richie’s still asking permission. Eddie gives it to him and then some.
“Fuck,” Richie pants when they part, then his hands are scurrying to undo Eddie’s pants. It’s all so fast, that Eddie doesn’t think—he just slaps at them. Richie reels back, shocked. “Would you stop that? Are you not into this?”
“Sorry. Fuck, sorry.” Eddie pulls back into his own seat and tries to catch his breath. “It was automatic, I didn’t—”
Richie’s hand comes up to Eddie’s arm, soft and soothing. “We can go back to your place, man. This is all…” He laughs, wet and delighted. “It’s a lot at once.”
“No, no, I’m… I’m definitely into it.” Precome seeps further into the fabric of his pants. “I just didn’t plan this.”
“You said that, yeah.” Richie’s hand slides down to land on Eddie’s thigh. Eddie glances at it, big and all-encompassing and warm, and twitches in his pants. Fuck, he’s so pathetic.
Years have passed since he’s been touched by a man, and though he’s thought of it—explicitly and often, especially with Richie—he still feels like a fucking virgin when faced with the prospect of it happening again. The distinct and utter thrill of being this turned on, with someone right there and willing is unfamiliar. But when Richie’s hand squeezes lightly, Eddie looks over at him, and he looks so fond and understanding that Eddie takes a deep breath and rockets himself across the console and into Richie’s lap, attacking him with kisses.
Richie mumbles, “Oh, Jesus, yeah?” into Eddie’s mouth, trailing spit across his chin, and Eddie nods, grinding his dick into the swell of Richie’s stomach.
“Yeah, yeah.” He licks across the crooked line of Richie’s teeth. Richie surges up, and Eddie can finally feel where he’s hard, too, and he breaks away before he passes out. “Like what you see?”
Richie blinks, still panting. “Huh?”
Eddie fixes him with a glare. “The pictures.”
“Oh.” Richie’s hands find Eddie’s hips. “I don’t know, Eds. They were... pretty shitty.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie bites, licking a dirty stripe across Richie’s nostrils. Richie throws his head back against his chair, sputtering, but Eddie has him trapped under his weight, so he retaliates by cupping Eddie through his pants.
“You’ll just have to show me the real thing, huh?” His eyes go dark, heavy-lidded, and Eddie almost comes right there, hissing into Richie’s grip.
“There’s more room in the back.”
Richie looks over his shoulder, eyeing the length of the seat. For as long as he’s quiet, Eddie almost retracts the offer, but then Richie grasps at the back of his neck again. Eddie arches into it.
“Whatever you want,” he says with a smile, then, because he hasn’t broken Eddie’s brain enough, he adds, “I was ready to blow you while you were driving.”
Before he has time to react, Richie is bucking Eddie off his lap, his erection solid and hot against the underside of his thigh, and then they’re both clambering into the back, smacking and kicking at each other like kids trying to win shotgun.
“Beat you,” Richie says, his hair a tangled mess from where Eddie tried to pull him by it, so Eddie plasters himself on top of his long, broad body and sets to sucking a hickey onto his stupid neck.
“You are so stupid,” he says, but he means, You’re so fucking hot. I love you. Please touch me, please make me feel good. Fuck, I love you.
“Stupid over you,” Richie moans back. Eddie coughs a laugh against his skin to hide the sob underneath it. It’s ridiculous. It’s hot and heavy; they’re making out with the kind of fervor Eddie didn’t know he possessed as little as a year ago. Now it’s like his blood is rocket fuel. He squirms on top of Richie like he’s about to blast off, and Richie just tries to keep up. It’s so, so good.
Once their shirts are off, Richie hesitates as his hands find Eddie’s fly.
“You sure this time?”
There’s nothing left to worry about. Eddie’s brain is full of a buzzing, heavy lust, and he wants so badly to see Richie’s dick he wishes he could teleport both of them out of their clothes, so he unzips his pants himself.
“Yes, yes, please,” he gasps, just to drive the point home.
Richie swallows him down quick, shimmying his whole body so he’s insinuated himself perfectly between Eddie’s legs. It’s heat; it’s wet; it’s so fucking good Eddie can hardly see straight. His cock looks so good in Richie’s mouth—stretched red lips straining while Richie whines, rubbing at himself in his boxers. Eddie’s head falls back against the armrest, thumping on the door. The sound of cars passing outside vaguely registers. Maybe it’s just the rushing in his ears. Even if someone were knocking on the window, he’s not sure he’d be able to ask Richie to stop.
“Richie,” he pants, thumbing at the side of his mouth. Richie pops off to suck on it, flicking his tongue until Eddie moans, then taking him back in.
Eddie watches him bob up and down, taking more with each move, until his cock hits the back of Richie’s throat. There’s a strangled gag, and then Richie’s pulling off, spit and precome dribbling obscenely from his tongue. Eddie grips hard at the base of his cock to keep from coming. Richie looks fucking debauched.
“Fuck, you’re hot,” he whispers without meaning to. Richie’s face is red, his eyes dazed, but he smirks.
“Hot for you.”
“Oh my ggggggguuhhhh—” He fits snug and hot in Richie’s mouth; Richie looks like he was fucking made for sucking cock, wrapping his big hand around the shaft when he pulls back up. It’s expert level, at least where Eddie’s concerned. Eddie wouldn’t know if he were horrible at it, but he has a feeling he’s not. The thought of Richie doing this to a troupe of other men occurs to him, but he shakes it off before it takes root. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except how Richie’s clearly desperate for this: his eyes unblinking as they stare up at Eddie, his mouth eager and pliant, his hands rubbing over Eddie’s cock and his own, trying to get them both there together.
“I’m gonna—” he tries to say, but Richie moves back, forcing his hand down his underwear.
“Do it in my mouth,” he says, his voice wrecked, rough in his throat. When Eddie shifts to watch Richie jerk himself, he can see the tip of Richie’s cock poking out, and thinks of it in his mouth, in his ass, tightly gripped in his hand, and then he’s coming deep and hard down Richie’s throat.
“Shit, Rich, shit.”
“Mmm,” Richie hums, like he’s just finished a delicious meal.
The feeling slowly starts to come back to Eddie’s extremities, in warm waves. Richie keeps at it, suckling gently at Eddie’s softening cock, still pressed happily against his tongue, his hand working in his pants. His eyes are closed, so Eddie watches him, feeling like he shouldn’t interrupt. Plus, the sight of Richie’s sweaty, messy curls coupled with his bare, hairy heaving chest is enough to make him think he might get hard again.
“Whaddyou need?” Eddie murmurs, still dick-drunk and half out of his mind, but Richie doesn’t stop. He just holds Eddie’s cock in his mouth and pulls himself out, and then Eddie finally gets an eyeful of Richie’s whole beautiful hard dick, leaking from the tip. It’s purpling at the head; it’s clearly painful, if the water pooling at the corner of Richie’s eyes is any indication. Just as Eddie means to offer his services again—not quite knowing what those are, but feeling up for anything, after such an amazing blowjob—Richie’s moans get more high-pitched, and then he’s shooting all over the back of the driver’s seat. The distance it reaches is actually pretty impressive.
Eddie gasps, then a whole wave of heat hits him as he realizes… Richie came just from holding Eddie’s dick in his mouth. He wants to go back in time and fuck Richie’s face, or maybe sweep a hand through Richie’s hair, or talk dirty to him—something, Edward, you fucked out lump—but when Richie finally releases him, he lets out an overly satisfied sigh.
“Yikes,” he hisses, eyeing the white stains on the leather. “That might be a pain to get out.”
Eddie surges up, pulling Richie with him until he’s tasting himself in Richie’s mouth. It’s kind of gross. When he moves back to wince, Richie licks up over his chin. Eddie bites at his chin.
He wants to do so much more, but instead he says, “You’re ridiculous.”
Richie rolls his eyes, then falls back to rest his cheek against Eddie’s bare thigh.
“Says the guy with a glove box full of his own dick,” Richie says, nosing at Eddie’s pubic hair. Eddie flicks him once, right between the eyes, but lets him stay.
They clean up as best they can, then settle back into the front seat.
“So…” Richie starts, easing Eddie’s hand up until their fingers tangle more comfortably together over the gear-shift. “The pictures?”
Eddie turns onto the exit, his face splitting into a grin.
“You’re gonna fucking love this story.”