❝and when i say i'm in love with you,❞ a long pause lays between his words, so much emotion lacing throughout his eyes, ❝i fucking mean it.❞
-⚘ in which i had a smut book with 400k reads and it got deleted. now, i'm writing new, original chapters (l...
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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.
