#ft gratuitous bruins references

[wastingstarlight]

but i'm weak, and what's wrong with that?

pairing: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier rating: E word count: 3.9k tags: Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Masturbation, Pining read on ao3

It’s an accident, Eddie swears.

He clicks a link Mike sent him to download his stats textbook and all of a sudden his screen is covered in popups.

He makes a strangled noise and frantically tries to click away, but only succeeds in clicking one of the tabs open. Thank fuck Stan is studying in the library because all of a sudden his laptop starts autoplaying, at full volume, a very explicit home video.

Eddie means to click away. He really does. But his eyes catch on the the man’s sharp hipbones, the angled planes of his stomach, the way his fingers—long and elegant, like a pianist’s—curl around his dick and Jesus, okay, it’s like his computer custom picked this video just for him because all of the blood in Eddie’s body is going straight to his dick.

Stats homework forgotten, he shifts his laptop to the side so he can palm at his dick through his sweatpants, eyes never leaving the man on the screen.

The guy’s face is out of frame, the camera trained below the waist. His dick is big; not the biggest Eddie has seen, but pretty damn close. And as if that wasn’t enough to get Eddie the rest of the way revved up, the man shifts back and for a heartbeat, Eddie catches a glance of the bright blue dildo the guy is riding on.

Fuuuuuuuck.

Eddie shoves his hand down his pants and starts jerking himself off in earnest, matching his strokes to the way the man grinds down onto the dildo.

He tries to hold out for Video Guy, but on one stroke the guy moans so prettily and that’s it, that’s all it takes—Eddie tumbles over the edge with a stifled gasp.

It turns out the man doesn’t take too much longer to finish and Eddie watches him cry out as come pulses onto his stomach.

Eddie is about to click away from the video when the guy leans forward to turn the camera off. Eddie doesn’t see his face or anything like that, but the camera shifts just a bit to the left and Eddie sees—

He pauses the video.

He rewinds.

He pauses it again.

On the wall behind the guy’s bed, there are two things—one, a poster of a pair of hockey players in Bruins jerseys sporting the numbers 63 and 37, and two, a purple and white Torrance University men’s hockey pennant.

Eddie’s stomach makes a sickening lurch. Because he’s seen those hands.

Because those hands belong to Richie Tozier—loudmouthed first-line center of the Torrance University men’s hockey team, all-around sarcastic asshole, and the guy Eddie’s had a crush on for the past three years.

And Eddie has to see him in class tomorrow.

///

“Eds! What’s happening, my dude?”

Richie slings an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and Eddie just about melts into the floor. Instead of doing something embarrassing, like leaning into Richie, Eddie shoves his arm away.

“Gross, keep your germs to yourself. Don’t you know it’s flu season? Have you even been vaccinated? You’re basically like a walking talking petri dish of disease right now,” Eddie says. He stalks towards a seat near the front of the class and sets down his bag before sliding into the seat.

Richie collapses into the chair right next to him and gets a look on his face before he licks his palm showily. Eddie is brought viscerally back to the way those fingers curled into a bedsheet.

“I don’t taste like a petri dish,” Richie says contemplatively. He reaches forward as if to bring his hand to Eddie’s mouth. “Here, wanna try?”

“No fuck you asshole,” Eddie hisses, smacking his hand away.

Richie laughs, eyelids crinkling at the corners. More students have started to file in and a few give them odd looks but for once, Eddie can’t bring himself to be bothered.

///

Eddie has known Mike since before they were born, technically—their moms attended the same prenatal class back in Derry. After Mike’s parents died, Eddie’s place had become just as much a home for him as his grandfather’s house.

Mike is the brother Eddie never had—the calm to Eddie’s storm, the voice of reason to Eddie’s panic. Eddie talks to Mike about everything.

Eddie does not talk to Mike about this.

It’s bad enough that Mike knows about Eddie’s frankly embarrassing crush on the most popular jock at Torrance. The last thing Mike needs to know about is the fact that that jock—who also happens to be Mike’s teammate, his linemate—is getting himself off on the internet.

So Eddie lets it stew for a few days.

Then he gets horny again.

And he knows Richie’s username now…

This time, Eddie comes with three fingers in his ass and Richie’s breathy gasps in his ears.

This is going to be a problem.

///

The thing is. The thing is.

What Richie’s doing could get him in trouble. Like, serious trouble, from the school and shit. So Eddie’s stuck—he could stay quiet and let Richie keep risking being caught or tell Richie what he’d seen and try to convince him into stopping.

When and where did his life go so wrong that Richie fucking Tozier’s sex life is now his problem?

///

Torrance hosts UMass for their first game of the season and Stan drags Eddie to the rink to watch.

For being a math major, and a diminutive one at that, Eddie knows a lot about hockey, all thanks to growing up with Mike. Way more than Stan, so it had been odd that Stan had been the one dragging him here, but Eddie can read Stan like an open book and the way he bats his lashes at Torrance’s captain, Bill Denbrough, whenever he thinks no one’s looking is positively incriminating.

He’d make fun of Stan if it didn’t hit so close to home.

The teams are neck and neck through all three periods and despite himself, Eddie is on the edge of his seat.

When Richie scores the game-winning goal with less than thirty seconds left in regulation, Eddie is the first on his feet to cheer.

///

The decision is made for him on Tuesday.

Stan is in class for the next three hours, so Eddie has the dorm room to himself. He’s bored and done with his homework, so if he checks in on Richie’s site, well, sue him.

Eddie sees Richie has a livestream scheduled in half an hour.

Eddie can’t let Richie do a livestream in half an hour.

A recorded video is one thing, but a livestream? What if the camera moves the wrong way and catches Richie’s face in the shot? What if someone walks in while he’s filming? What if, what if, what if—there are too many what-ifs. Eddie is a good person, goddammit—he’s not letting Richie throw his life away.

Face burning, Eddie exes out of the tab, shoves his feet into his sneakers, and tugs on his windbreaker.

///

The men's hockey house looks different in the light of day. Quaint, almost, or as quaint as a glorified frat house can be.

Before Eddie can talk himself out of it, he knocks on the door. Someone shuffles around inside and Eddie shoves his hands in his jacket pockets while he waits—fall in Maine was settling in fast.

The door swings open and there’s Richie, wearing a ratty old band t-shirt over dark grey sweats that Eddie knows for a fact are featured in several of his videos. “Eduardo!” he beams. “To what do I owe the—”

“Trashmouth69,” Eddie blurts out.

Richie’s jaw goes slack, and Eddie has the distinct pleasure of watching all of the blood drain from Richie’s face.

“I…” Richie starts weakly.

“Shove it, Tozier,” Eddie says, pushing past Richie and into the house. It smells like stale beer and AXE body spray. From the quiet and the fact that Richie had a livestream planned, he assumes everyone else is in class.

The door closes and when Eddie turns to face Richie again, he still looks a bit pale but he’s recovering fast.

“How did you—?” Richie starts.

Eddie interjects again because that’s not a route he wants to go down. “What do you think you’re doing?” he starts, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “If I found it, do you think scouts won’t? What if the school hears about it? Do you think they’d let you keep your scholarship if they found out you were filming pornography on school property? There are like, literal rules about that, okay? Jesus Christ, Richie.”

“Okay,” Richie mumbles like he hadn’t even thought of the possibility, because of course, he hadn’t. Richie is many things—quick-witted, infuriatingly pretty, good at hockey—but he is not good at thinking things through.

Richie tugs at the hem of his shirt and looks at Eddie with big stupid doe eyes, made larger by those comical glasses. He looks so genuinely remorseful. Eddie hates him.

“If you needed someone to get off in front of you could have asked,” Eddie says, tightening his arms around his chest.

“I— What?” Richie asks faintly. He looks like he’s gotten the wind knocked out of him.

“If—fuck, man, it’d be safer than posting shit on the internet okay? So…if you need someone to watch you get off…” Eddie says. This is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea.

Eddie watches Richie’s throat constrict as he swallows.

“I…Are you fucking with me?” Richie asks suspiciously.

“Yeah, right; I offer to watch all my friends jack off,” Eddie rolls his eyes as Richie starts to scowl. “No, asshole—I’m not fucking with you.”

Richie catches his bottom lip between his teeth and nods once.

There’s a bit of awkward silence.

“Does that, uh. Does that offer start now?” Richie asks hesitantly.

Eddie blinks. He’s really doing this, huh?

“Only if you cancel your livestream,” Eddie says decisively. “And delete your account,” he adds after a pause.

Richie scrambles into action, a flurry of movement again. Eddie follows and is led up the stairs and into Richie’s room. It’s odd to see the entire thing and not just the snatches of the bedspread.

Richie has his laptop open and seems to be busy doing what Eddie told him to, so Eddie takes the time to glance around a bit.

The Bruins poster and Torrance men’s hockey pennant are still on the wall above Richie’s bed. His side of the room is about as messy as Eddie expected it would be: laundry is vaguely piled in the vicinity of a hamper; his desk is covered in stacks of paper; clean clothes appear to have been folded, but never put away; a bag of hockey gear is shoved against the one free wall. There’s a bi pride flag in the pencil holder on Richie’s desk. The other side of the room looks just as cluttered, but it’s a more put together sort of chaos. Richie’s is just, well, chaos.

By the time Eddie returns his gaze to Richie, Richie is looking at him with those doe eyes again.

“How do you wanna…?” Richie asks and Eddie shrugs jerkily.

“Uh, you get in bed I guess and I can sit in the chair? I don’t fucking know, man; you’re the one jerking off,” Eddie says with a bark of a laugh that he knows sounds more shrill than anything else.

“No, yeah, that sounds good,” Richie says. He gets into bed and then just waits, watches carefully as Eddie takes off his windbreaker and folds it over the back of the chair before taking a seat in it.

“Well?” Eddie says. “What are you waiting for, Trashmouth?”

“You’re sure about this?” Richie asks again.

“Yes, Jesus Christ, just fucking start already oh my God,” Eddie says, but there’s a little piece of him that’s thrilled by the way Richie had asked for consent at every step of the way.

“Okay, okay,” Richie mumbles. He takes a breath before tugging his shirt off over his head and Eddie is treated to a closeup view of Richie’s hockey-defined abs. Eddie kind of really wants to lick them.

Richie’s hands drop to his sweats and he hesitates before tugging them down and kicking them off. Richie isn’t wearing any underwear because of course he isn’t and for the first time, Eddie comes face to face with Richie’s dick. It’s just as massive in real life as it is on a computer screen and Eddie’s mouth waters.

There’s a click as Richie dribbles lube from God knows where into his hand and then just like that he’s jerking off. There are a few experimental strokes to get himself warmed up and then he glances at Eddie and the gasp he makes cuts through the heavy silence and goes straight to Eddie’s dick.

Eddie fights to keep his face impassive even as his dick throbs.

If he’d thought watching Richie jerk off on screen was difficult, watching him jerk off in real life without being able to touch himself or Richie is pure fucking torture.

Eddie manages to make it through the whole thing without coming in his pants—which he’s honestly very proud of, thank you very much (though he had come close when Richie had fondled his balls near the end and had punched out a whine that made him sound like he was dying).

It’s not as awkward as Eddie had thought it would be, after, mostly because Richie doesn’t let it be.

Eddie makes it back to his dorm room with just enough time to get himself off furiously before Stan makes it back from class.

///

It becomes a thing.

Richie jerks off.

Eddie watches.

Eddie goes home and jerks off, and pictures Richie’s hand on his dick instead of his own.

Rinse and repeat.

Eddie is thriving. Really.

///

“You’re being weird,” Mike says before taking a massive bite of his meatball sub.

“I’m not being weird. You’re being weird,” Eddie frowns. He pokes his pasta around his tray with his fork.

Mike rolls his eyes. “Dude, I’ve known you for twenty years and I’ve never seen you this picky about Italian food.”

Eddie scowls at his fettuccine alfredo.

They’re both quiet for a few moments as they eat, but it’s a familiar sort of silence.

“Have you ever, like…done the whole friends with benefits thing?” Eddie asks finally.

Mike blinks slowly. He finishes chewing before speaking. “No,” he says finally. “Why, are you finally over your Tozier-shaped crush?” He pauses and then his eyes go wide and he grins. “Are you gonna ask Tozier to be your fuck buddy?”

“What—no! Gross!” Eddie sputters and Mike just laughs, that bastard.

“Cause he’d probably say yes, you know,” Mike says slyly.

Eddie feels his cheeks heat up. “That’s not funny,” he mumbles.

“I’m not kidding,” Mike counters, nudging Eddie’s foot gently beneath the table. “He talks about you all the time, dude.”

“He—what?” Eddie blinks.

“All our conversations lately have either been about practice or you. When did you guys start spending so much time together anyway?”

“We have a class together,” Eddie says faintly. Richie talks about him?

“Right,” Mike replies. He shrugs. “Anyway. Don’t break his heart or whatever. We’re playing Minnesota this weekend.”

“I’m not gonna break his heart, ‘cause I’m not gonna ask Richie Tozier to be my fuck buddy,” Eddie hisses.

Mike smiles and takes another bite of his sub.

///

After his conversation with Mike, Eddie starts noticing things he hadn’t before.

Sometimes, after he jerks off, Richie asks Eddie to stick around for a while. To do homework, play video games, whatever. At first, it had been frustrating because that meant he had to leave his own dick unattended to, but Richie beams at him with those big stupid blue eyes and Eddie is helpless.

He doesn’t know how it happened, but somehow he’s started spending more time with Richie than with Stan or even Mike.

For as much as he acts like a fuckboy, being around Richie is so easy. His jokes are lewd at best and downright offensive at worst, but he picks up on what makes Eddie smile through his shrieks of disgust and narrows in on them. And he’s funny—like, actually, genuinely funny.

Eddie doesn’t know what to do with that information.

He goes to more hockey games in the next month than he has all last year, and he tells himself it’s because the team is actually good this year and because he’s there to support Mike, but he knows it’s not true.

When Richie roars in celebration after netting a slick bardown through the BU goalie and Eddie feels butterflies in his stomach, Eddie knows.

Something's gotta give.

///

The party is loud and boisterous, already spilling out into the street. Stan is stuck like glue to Eddie’s side. He was the only reason Eddie was out in the first place—Eddie had been on the fence about going out tonight, but then Stan said he was in and, well, that only happened once in a blue moon, so here they were.

Eddie pushes the way through the crowd and makes his way to the kitchen where he snags them a couple of beers.

“Eddie Spaghetti!” a voice booms and goddamn, did Richie have a tracker on him?

“Hey, Rich,” Eddie says, turning to face him. He’s greeted by an arm slung around his shoulder and a wet, smacking kiss on his cheek.

“Gross,” Eddie says, scrunching his nose, scrubbing at his cheek, and wiggling away.

“Stan the man,” Richie grins, turning his attention to Stan instead. Stan fixes him with such a scowl that Richie doesn’t even try to come close. Richie shrugs and nudges Eddie. “Bro, I need a beer pong partner and you’re the best there is. I’ll pay you in alcohol.”

It’s true; Eddie is the best there is at beer pong. Well, maybe after Bev. Richie, though, is hopelessly bad.

“Liquor, not beer,” Eddie says finally. “And the good shit, too—not whatever you heathens think passes for vodka.”

“Nothing but the best for you, sweetheart,” Richie drawls.

Eddie’s stomach swoops pleasantly at the pet name and, with Stan in tow, follows Richie deeper into the hockey house.

///

They win.

They win, and Richie picks Eddie up and spins him, squeezing him tight before settling him down.

“You’re a fuckin’ beaut, Eds,” Richie says, beaming down at him. Richie’s breath smells like cheap beer and for a heartbeat, Eddie thinks Richie is going to lean down and kiss him.

Someone grabs Richie’s shoulder and tugs him away, and the moment is gone, but Eddie is left with his heart pounding in his throat.

///

It’s too much. It’s all too much, and Eddie is at the end of his rope. It had been a bad idea from the beginning, and now he’s losing sleep over it because whenever he tries to close his eyes, all he can think about are the little noises Richie makes when he twists his hand just so.

So the next time Richie texts him, Eddie goes so far as to show up at his door before blurting out: “I can’t do this anymore.”

Richie has the good grace to look dumbfounded. “I—”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie interjects, blood rushing to his cheeks. He takes a step back. “I have to go. I’m sorry.” He turns on his heel and flees.

///

9:52 PM Richie: is everything okay? Richie: eds? Richie: fuck, man, tell me what’s wrong so i can fix it Richie: please let me know that you’re okay

1:31 AM Richie: i’m sorry

///

Mike corners him in the library about a week after The Incident. “Remember how I told you not to break Tozier’s heart?” he says.

Eddie narrows his eyes. “I told you, I—”

“Eddie. C’mon. I’m not messing around. I don’t know what happened and you clearly don’t want to tell me and that’s fine, but he missed an actual empty net today at practice. An empty net.”

Eddie shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Mike sighs. “I know Richie isn’t your problem, but he’s kind of mine, and if there’s anything you could say just to…give him closure maybe? I don’t know, but just…think about it, okay?”

Eddie is quiet for a moment before he slumps. “Okay.”

///

Eddie takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before knocking on the door.

“It’s open!” a voice calls and Eddie tests the handle, turns it, and lets himself in. Bill is sprawled out on the couch in the living room and he gives Eddie a quick smile.

“Richie’s in his room,” he says knowingly and Eddie feels heat creep up his cheeks.

“Um. Thanks,” Eddie says before fleeing.

Eddie steels himself again before knocking on Richie’s door. There’s no going back now.

Richie’s voice is muffled. “Bill I swear to fucking Christ I would rather rip my own balls off than play Mario Kart with you right now.”

“It’s Eddie,” Eddie says with a wince.

It’s silent for a heartbeat and then there’s some scuffling and Richie is tugging open the door. His hair is even more of a mess than usual and he looks, well, soft in dark grey sweatpants and a Torrance men’s hockey shirt.

“Oh,” Richie says. He nudges his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Eddie replies. “Do you, um, have a minute?”

“Yes, sure, sorry let me just—“ Richie says, motioning for Eddie to come in before shoving some laundry into a hamper and kicking a pair of sneakers under the bed.

Eddie closes the door carefully behind himself.

“So, um,” Richie starts. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he breathes out like it’s all one word. “I shouldn’t have assumed that you were still okay with what we were doing and I should have checked in more often and if I’d known you weren’t having a good time I never would have—“

“Rich,” Eddie says, dropping his gaze to stare at his toes. “If I wasn’t having a good time, I would have stopped you. I was just, uh, more into it than I let on?” He clears his throat. This is happening. “I, um, was. Really into it. Watching. But it was hard after a while to just watch and not touch, so.” Eddie shrugs. “But. Yeah. I didn’t want to make things awkward. Which I’m totally doing right now anyway.”

God this is so embarrassing.

When Eddie finally glances up again, Richie’s eyes are dark. Eddie’s stomach flips.

“You wanted to touch?” Richie says quietly.

“Yeah, Jesus, Rich, you’re fucking hot, okay?” Eddie retorts, cheeks blazing.

“So you’re saying I could have been getting you off this whole time?”

Oh.

Oh.

“Oh,” Eddie breathes. He closes the distance between them, tangles a hand through Richie’s hair, and drags him down into a kiss.

It’s messy from the start and Richie licks into Eddie’s mouth desperately, drawing a whine from deep within Eddie’s chest. Richie’s hands run down Eddie’s sides then toy with the strip of skin just beneath the hem of his shirt.

Eddie breaks the kiss to gasp when Richie’s hands travel back to knead at his ass.

“Is this—” Eddie’s breath hitches as Richie presses a kiss beneath his ear. “Is this happening?”

Richie chuckles, breath hot on Eddie’s neck. “Do you want this to be happening?”

Eddie thinks about it—actually really stops to think about it. It doesn’t take too long.

“Yes.”

///

Eddie shows up to his lunch date with Mike the next day with two purpling hickeys on his neck and Mike doesn't even bother trying to hide his grin.