#i always love how disgruntled he gets when this team gets zesty

[ratatatastic]

man who absolutely wants no part with whats going on on the other half of the couch

spitting image put it in the louvre

[ticklishraspberries]

A Day (Or Six) in the Life

Note: This is from Richie’s POV sorta, so fair warning, there is some vulgar language from time to time. Hope you like it!

Sometimes there’s just too much shit going on in Richie’s head. 

And like, don’t get him wrong – he loves the weird crap his brain comes up with. Makes things entertaining, a little spicy, a little zesty. The only problem with it is that he can’t find the damn remote that turns off the six different brands of Looney Tunes going on up there. 

(He’d once spent an entire lecture assigning different Voices to the markers his professor used on the whiteboard, to the point that he hadn’t retained a single iota of anything the man actually wrote down.)

Man, that red little minx was pretty sexy though.

He snorts to himself as he comes out of his dozing, shoved back into the real world for the present. He can feel the hot line of Eddie at his back, leg hooked over his hip like a seat belt. His lil jet pack. 

Richie reaches blindly for his glasses and pushes them onto his nose, sniffling. It’s still fairly early by his standards, but he doesn’t glance long enough at the digital clock to tell for sure, choosing instead to take one of Eddie’s hand and squeeze like it’s his own personal communications device. “Ground control to major Eds, come in, major Eds?”

No response.

Richie huffs, squeezes harder. “Psht. Major Eds? What’s your mission status, major?”

Maybe Eddie understands what he’s saying, maybe he doesn’t, but Richie receives a huff of hot breath at the back of his neck for his efforts, followed by what feels like a cheek smushed against his head. “S’too early, Rich.”

Flabbergasted, Richie turns over completely to grip a disgruntled, squinting Eddie by the front of his sleep shirt. “It’s never too early in outer space, Eds! Did the academy teach you nothing? I’m ashamed.”

And Richie doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to seeing Eddie so ruffled in the morning. Slow, blinking away sleep from his eyes with those impossibly long lashes, yawning around perfectly white teeth that look like little moon rocks, and - and it definitely seems like there’s a theme going on in his head today, doesn’t it?

“What are you even talking about?” The question sounds irritated, but that’s never stopped Richie before. If anything, it means that he has to go and run his mouth harder, because that’s his default reaction to any indication that someone might be upset with him.

(Except they both know that if Eddie really felt like it, he could just pick up his hot little self and go back to his own bed across the room. Hasn’t happened yet, so. Free game.)

“What am I -? I’m talking about the great race, major!” He pokes Eddie’s side, smiling knowingly at the resulting yip and defensive curl. “Space ain’t some pre teen with a secret collection of skin mags, babe-be, it’s not gonna explore itself.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose but can’t bury his smile in his pillow fast enough for Richie to miss it, sighing a long-suffering breath. “You’re so gross.”

“I try.”

“Where am I going, anyway?”

“Hm?” Richie kinda shifted out of the moment there, it’s gonna take him a second to catch up.

“You know,” Eddie yawns again, gesturing to the ceiling with a limp hand. “Space. Tell me where I’m going.”

“Oh, yeah. Uncharted territory, actually. Forgot to mention that.”

“Mmm…”

A moment of silence passes between them, which is really fortunate for Eddie because it gives Richie an opening for just about the best joke ever. 

Gathering him in his arms slowly, he kisses his cheek, nuzzles up to him, and whispers, “To infinity… and your mom!”

Eddie, who had resettled peacefully in the crook of Richie’s arm, stiffens instantly and snaps one angry eye open to glare at him something fierce. Before Richie even so much as smirks, he finds himself pushed down into the squeaky mattress, two hands digging into any spot they can reach.

“Wait- W-wait!” Richie tumbles back with the force of it so hard he thinks he might get whiplash, but it doesn’t matter because he’s laughing around his next breath, tilting his head back and squeezing his eyes shut.

Eddie’s like a freight train when it comes to this, hands jumping from sides to ribs to neck to armpits to stomach - it’s all Richie can do to hold on to his wrists, tickle-weak and letting it happen. 

“Yeah, laugh it up, Trash mouth.” Eds hisses, though Richie can see through a few tears that he’s grinning, biting at his tongue in concentration. Richie loves it, loves how Eddie can just reach into his head and jumble his brain until his thoughts whirl around like confetti in a snow globe. 

At any rate, those insistent little fingers wring every last one of them out of him by the time he stops, looking down at Richie’s flushed excuse for a face and beaming like he won a prize. Always a competition with him, hoo-wee. “You done yet?”

Richie blinks, drudging through the mud pile that is his brain for a witty retort. “Uh… I…”

Eddie leans down and kisses his nose. “Good. Let’s go get breakfast, I’m starving.”

——————————

“Oh. My. Fuck.” Richie pulls off his hat and tosses it aside the moment he’s through the door. He stops only to kick off his shoes, one landing near the rack and the other hitting the wall. He doesn’t care, though, limping into the living room. After an eight hour shift, he has no fucking business being vertical and wants no part of it, no sir.

He collapses face first into the cushions of their couch and breathes in. It smells like Bill’s cologne. Richie’s back fucking hurts. 

“Owchie mama, that’s sore.” He complains out loud as he stretches to the full length of his gangly limbs, feet nudging the arm of the couch. He doesn’t expect his legs to get lifted up though, hello?

“What’s sore?” A voice asks curiously as the couch dips under his weight, Richie’s legs falling back down across a certain someone’s lap.

Mike. A godsend, for sure. “Oh Micycle, is it really you? It’s been decades since I’ve heard that macho voice, I almost forgot what it sounds like.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Rich. How was work?”

How was work? How was work?? Richie’s gonna combust, but he’s too tired to go all out, so he settles for a small tantrum, flailing. “Never mention that word to me again. If you do, we’ll have to get a divorce, and then who would look after the children? The traumatized little lads, fuck.”

“That bad, huh?” Mike chuckles, and it’s deep and fond and warm, and Richie looks over his shoulder just so he can picture it better. Mike’s holding a book in one hand, and the glass sitting on the table means that he was definitely sitting there before Richie got back, but now he’s sharing his seat like the fine friggin Georgia peach that he is, holy shit. 

Richie whines. “I thought being a barista would be sexy! Like, a wet dream soccer team of sweaty Brazilians asking me for juice and my number, but instead - pardon my French - I get a bunch of douchebaguettes complaining how I spelled their names wrong. I’m gay and illiterate and I didn’t fucking ask them, did I? Stop laughing at me, Mike n Ike, this is serious business.”

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles again, chest shaking with it. “Douchebaguettes?”

“You’re making fun of me. I’m wounded. Way to kick a man when he’s down, M- ah… never mind, I love you. Keep laughing at me.” He groans outright when a warm hand wraps around his foot and squeezes, eking out the ever-present ache that Richie had gotten used to ignoring. 

“I love you, too.” Mike snorts, and Richie doesn’t have to look to know he’s shaking his head. Fine by him, as long as he keeps touching him like that.

“Mm, your hands are the best,” he slurs into the couch. He will abso-fruitly say anything to encourage him at this point, not that Mike seems to want to stop anyway. His palm pushes delicious friction along his arches, pulling satisfied purrs from Richie with each pass until he’s a good and proper puddle. He might actually be drooling, a little bit.

It’s only when his touch lightens that Richie jerks, and the hand pauses. “Is this okay?”

Bless Mikey’s farm boy heart, asking for consent. Richie’s heart’s gonna burst. “Y-yeah, m’good.” 

And he is. Mike’s fingers trace, feather-light, and it’s like there’s shivers buried underneath Richie’s skin, waiting for Mike to pull the trigger. It feels good. 

It also really, really tickles.

He snags a cushion to bury his smile in, the muscles in his leg going taut every time Mike’s fingertips venture down towards his toes. More than a few times, Richie’s foot twitches away from the tingly zaps before he can stop himself, choked off mirthful noises tightening in his throat until a few burble out.

Each time Mike waits patiently until Richie resettles his foot back in his lap, and then his drifting touch returns, slow like tree sap and unbearably electric. It’s an awful game that forces Richie to expose how much he really wants it, but then again, Mike never plays like that intentionally. He just does what seems right because he’s perfect and a gentleman. 

Richie loosens like an uncoiled spring when Mike rubs his thumb over his heel, whining his loss. 

And because he’s a fucking gem, Mike picks up on it right away and huffs softly. “Sorry.” He scribbles gently at the arch of Richie’s slender foot in apology, earning him a muffled snicker and scrunching soles.

“Mihihike.” 

“Mhm?”

“Tickles.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Pfft. Richie shakes his head, laughing harder into the cushion when Mike’s fingers drag down to his toes, scritching repeatedly. It’s not fair. He’s still wearing his socks with the pineapples on ‘em, and it’s worse than if he’d gone bare foot. He guesses it’s true that standing around for too long makes them more sensitive, but then, he’s always been this way. 

His knees jerk far more often now that Mike’s put some gusto behind it, albeit a very small amount, but Richie thinks he does a damn decent job at keeping his feet from wiggling away, all things considered.

Still, eventually, he hears the sound of the book getting set aside. Mike stops his gentle tapping at his soles, and Richie realizes as he sags back into the couch that he’s… tired. Like, stupid sleepy. He yawns and stretches again, humming his surprise when two strong arms turn him over.

“Well hello, handsome.” Richie grins back at Mike’s amused half-smile, more than happy to be the center of his attention for a while. 

“C’mon, Rich. It’s late, time for bed.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

He doesn’t fight it when Mike uses those absurdly strong arms to lift him up, despite being taller than him, wrapping his legs firmly around Mike’s hips and holding on to his shoulders. “Onward,” he yawns with enthusiasm. “Quick now yungin’, before we die of dysentery. Go on now. Git.”

Mike rolls his eyes and adjusts his grip as they head for the stairs. “Yeehaw.”

——————————

Richie tosses his controller on the couch beside him with a pout, watching the letters ‘game over’ flash across the screen. “Man…”

Behind him, he can hear the sound of the kitchen door opening and closing, and with a furrowed brow he gets up to investigate. “If you’re here to rob us, take Eddie first. He’s the easiest to carry.” 

Around the corner, Ben smiles up from where he’s taking off his shoes by the rack (careful, because Stan insists). He’s beaming, actually, and still in his hot little karate outfit that makes him look like a formal dumpling. “You’re so mean to him. What if I wanted to rob you instead?”

“Everybody wants to rob me, Benny boy, get in line,” He hops up onto the counter to watch Ben’s face in the refrigerator light as he goes rummaging for a smoothie. “I’m just saying, if you’re any good at this, you gotta take the valuables first. Bottom shelf.”

Ben chuckles, leans down, and reappears, drink in hand. Richie nudges the door shut with his foot and grins back. “Who says you aren’t valuable?”

“Aw shucks.”

“Besides myself, I mean.”

“Benjamin.” 

Ben laughs at him around a sip of his drink, and Richie couldn’t stay fake mad at him even if he wanted to. It’s really nice that the cheeky fuck has some confidence now, since he’s been losing some extra pounds here and there. He’s not afraid to brush past people anymore, doesn’t shift uncomfortably when his thighs touch someone else’s, and he hip-checks them on purpose with a sly look every now and then. He’s not afraid to take up space now, and all of the losers are proud of him for it, including Richie.

(He’s just, like, super jealous that he can’t have that sorta weight transferred over to himself. Just a little bit, so he’s not all jabby angles and pointy bones. Also? He’s going to miss Ben’s love handles.)

“You seem extra bold today. Care to share anything with the class?”

That happy look from a few minutes ago returns like Ben just remembered something important. “Yeah, actually - hold on…” He turns, fishing in his bag for something before turning back, fingers clutching a bundle of blue fabric. “I, uh, I got my blue belt today.”

“Holy shit!” Richie adjusts his glasses, leaning in to run his fingers over it when Ben offers it up. “You’re pullin’ my leg.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re making it up.”

“I’m not!” Ben’s voice just brims with infectious joy, like a little kid excited to show their first ever drawing from art class. He even has the little jump in his step, too.

“Benny, that’s awesome, dude!” He jumps down to punch Ben’s shoulder, smiling wide at the other’s shy but obvious pride. “And you know,” he thumbs at his upper lip and sniffs. “Not to fuck my own ass or anything, but I’m something of a dōjō master myself.” 

“Really?” Ben smirks, pushing back when Richie continues to push at his shoulder with his knuckles, bouncing on his heels anime fighter style.

“Really really. Call me Sensei, ‘cause I’ll teach you to mess with me.” He dodges with a surprised bark of laughter when Ben grabs for him, ducking and bringing his hands up to defend himself as they tussle right there in the kitchen, play-wrestling – Richie’s favorite thing.

Well. Almost favorite.

“Oof!” Richie hurumphs when the quick scuffle ends with him caught in a headlock, twisting back and forth fruitlessly. “Oi! Unhand me you fiend! You scoundrel! I’ll have you nicked, I will!”

Ben, not even winded, slaps his hand away. “Admit that I won and I’ll let go.”

“I’d rather bloody perish.”

“You’d rather perish?”

“Aye.” Richie grunts, straining against the hold. It’s like trying to empty a lake with a bucket. It just ain’t happening.

“Okay.”

Ben’s free hand digs into his side and Richie collapses back into him instantly, like a buck learning how to walk, except he’s really fucking bad at it and giggling maniacally. “Ben!” 

They crumple to the ground together, though Ben anticipates it, wrapping a solid arm around Richie’s waist as his other hand snakes up under his shirt to scribble at his ribs. 

Richie himself is a pale pile of squirming limbs, pushing back into Ben’s chest and squeaking with each sneaky pinch to his side. He tosses his head back against Ben’s shoulder in helpless snickering, tugging at his arm. “Ch-cheater!”

“I don’t hear you complaining!” Ben shoots back, fingers darting to where his shirt rucked up at his stomach to lay ticklish waste there. They move in a constant clawing motion, gentle because Ben is always gentle, but sadistic in the best worst possible way.

Richie convulses with how hard he laughs. He’s trapped in the most backwards tickle hug to exist, socks slipping on the tile of his kitchen floor, getting tortured by the group’s designated teddy bear.

A wayward finger brushes over the curve of Richie’s hip, sending him jolting even farther into Ben’s lap, tittering. 

“C’mon, Trash mouth. Fess up.”

If Ben thinks he’ll ever tap out, he is sorely mistaken.

“Never!” Richie cries, and then dissolves into cackling when Ben goes straight for his momentarily unprotected armpit.

Neither of them notice when Stanley steps into the doorway and promptly turns to walk back out, not once looking up from his phone.

——————————

Every now and then, Richie forgets that he might actually come off as attractive to the other losers. He’s always jokingly attractive, obviously. ‘Who wouldn’t want a piece of me?’ or ‘Golly, buy me dinner first!’ Are a few easy phrases to throw around, usually with a suggestive cock of his hip or an over exaggerated flutter of his eyelashes, which gets him a laugh now and then.

But like, for realzies? Richie isn’t hot hot, not like Mike or Bill with their big shoulders and mouth-watering biceps, Jesus Christ on a stick. He doesn’t have that cute allure like Eddie or Ben, either. Richie’s just a scrawny friggin beanpole, lanky, unlike the elegant way that Stan and Beverly manage. 

Being so gay is hard sometimes. Everyone looks hotter than you. 

“Rich?” 

He startles out of his musings and comes firmly back to himself where he’s reclined next to Bill on the trampoline, reminded of how his train of thought had gone that route; they’d been messing around until they weren’t, until Bill had cupped his face and brought him into a kiss, and then a fuzzy little parasite called insecurity reared its fugly head.

Richie squashes it down around a dazed smirk, seemingly quelling the momentary unease on Bill’s face. “Yowza.”

Bill snorts and rolls his eyes, plays with the hem of Richie’s “Support Whale Sex: Use Shampoo” shirt. “I thought you weren’t in the mood, for a second.”

“Vat?” Richie cries incredulously, shifting upwards and straddling Bill’s lap. “Bullsheet. Lies.” As if Richie could ever resist a man with legs like that. Damn.

Bill’s smile is genuine when he pulls Richie back down into another kiss, their lips meeting sparking a whole new wave of something in Richie’s chest, so intense that he’s pulling back within a few seconds, “Ven you look like zat? You lift, yes? Vat kind of –“ 

A hand covers his mouth, and Rich realizes that Bill is furrowing his brows at him. “Why are you doing a Voice right now?”

“…I’m nervous.” He apologizes, muffled. 

Bill snorts again as if to say ‘yeah right,’ but his expression softens when Richie doesn’t say anything else. “Nervous, huh?”

Richie nods, then licks Bill’s palm. He pulls it away with a disgusted chuckle, and then.

Then Richie is suddenly on his back, looking up at two dark, mischievous eyes. “Hoo shit.” He whispers. They are not in Kansas anymore.

“You should be.” 

That’s all the warning Richie gets before devilish fingers attack his sides, letting loose a bout of hysterical giggles from somewhere deep in Rich’s stomach. It’s like opening the floodgates every time. A head rush and a half. He squirms immediately, laughing harder when Bill drags him back down and pins him with one forearm against his own.

“Where are you going?” He muses, fond, and Richie’s face blushes ten different shades of crimson.

“B-Bill, please!” He wriggles, fingers clawing uselessly against slick fabric. If he struggles any harder, there’s a good chance the trampoline might start bouncing them for real.

“Please what?” His fingers are skittering up his ribs now, because Bill knows Richie just can’t stand that, and he’s smiling down at him like Richie makes him the happiest he’s ever been, and Richie can’t stand that either.

He squeezes his eyes shut, laughter coming freely the more that Bill tickles up his sides and over his stomach, curling up. Bill doesn’t seem to mind his lack of answer or the way Richie’s knees jerk into his hips, content to pull an endless amount of loud snickering from his partner.

It’s only when Richie arches away with a desperate wheeze that Bill stops what he’s doing, hands rubbing firm circles into the hips he’d just been scritching at - probably a routine he knew well from getting revenge on another particularly bony little shit they knew.

“You’re so - so mean. Gah. I’m taking you out of my will, Billiam.” Richie breathes, reaching up to wipe behind his glasses. 

Bill just chuckles at him and leans down, and they share a soft kiss that makes Richie’s heart flutter in his chest all over again.

——————————

 Kerplunk, sploosh. Kerplunk, sploosh. Kerplunk – 

“Fuck!” Richie jolts with a quiet hiss of surprise, shifting his attention from the lake to the offending pen that had just jabbed his side. Bev, sitting next to him, giggles and points to his textbooks with it. 

“Focus.”

Richie sticks out his upper lip, dropping his handful of pebbles in the grass at his feet. It took him, like, a whole twenty seconds to find those. “I was focused.”

“Focus on your homework, ding dong.” She gestures with her pen again, not looking away from her own book, which she holds easily in one hand. Show off.

Richie grumbles and hunches over, scrubbing a hand over his face. He makes it through two paragraphs before he fidgets again, making to reach in his shirt pocket for a smoke before he realizes, oh, yeah, I’m giving those up. Shit. 

Sometimes character development is just not worth it.

Bev appears to notice the gesture though, because she gently elbows Richie this time, gesturing to the book. “It’s really not so bad. You’ve already gotten through a few pages.”

“Yeah, with like, a bajillion more to go.” He huffs, flipping through the pages one more time before sitting up straight and slapping the table. “That’s it! I quit college.”

“Mhm.” Beverly is far too nonchalant but she can afford to be, since she’s heard the exact same statement fourteen times since the beginning of the semester. Two weeks in and going strong.

“I’m serious this time! I don’t need a degree to be funny, I’ve got that part in the bag. Also, capitalism? Who needs it.”

“Do you really hate classic mythology that much?”

Richie groans and drops his head against the picnic table. “Yes.” He’d thought that it would be cool! Gods and Goddesses and monsters (oh my), but instead he has to bear through three whole paragraphs of a list of men, all sons of other men, because any of that is just so integral to the understanding of the Trojan war. Everyone knows that Achilles was the only real bitch on that battlefield, okay? Literally nothing else matters.

He jumps again, this time snickering, when Bev scribbles at his side. “Hehehey!”

“Cheer up, Tozier. Your vibes are ruining our study date.”

Richie eyes her up, adjusting his glasses. “Are you saying that my vibes are off, Marsh?”

She nods sagely. “They’re atrocious.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve never failed a single vibe check in my life.” And that isn’t going to change today, no sir. Just ask Eddie, the last time he tried to pull something. 

“You’re gonna fail more than just this vibe check if you don’t do your reading.”

“Not true! I know the stuff, I just… don’t like it.” He’s of the philosophy that memorizing shit just makes it harder to remember. Richie can go over some of the professor’s notes online and be just fine. 

Heaving a sigh, Beverly gets up. She pushes at Richie’s back. “Scoot in.”

“If you say so, ma’am.” Though Richie just complies because he wants to see where this is going. When Beverly slides in behind him, legs on either side of his, he can kinda feel her boobs pressing against his back. Nice.

“Oh hello.” Richie grins, feeling free to press back into her. She smells nice - changed her perfume for some reason - and her presence is a welcome warmth, inviting and –

She blows a raspberry against the back of his neck.

– and a fucking trap!

“Bev!” He jerks forward instantly, shoulders hunching. She follows, nuzzling into the space behind his ear, and Richie shivers violently. “O-oho my gawd, why?!”

“I’m just making sure you pay attention.” She teases, weaving her arms around his chest so that her fingertips rest at his sides, making Richie tense. But nothing comes, yet.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tickling him is definitely not going to make him want to read more. It’s going to make him want to be tickled. It’s like trying to punish an addict with cocain.

Bev snorts, fingertips wriggling briefly enough to get a squeak and a weak squirm out of him. “Just keep reading. If you slack off, I’ll bring you back!” 

Ah! So simple! Haha! Wow. Genius. 

Richie sighs heavily to indicate how much he turns his nose up at this frankly childish behavior, but reluctantly opens his book back up to where he was before. Admittedly, having Bev close might help his attention span, just slightly. He can feel her cheek resting against his back, ankles brushing his every now and then, and her arms are a soothing weight against his chest. Like the fancy weighted blanket that Eddie uses on his more fidgety days.

That doesn’t stop his attention from drifting occasionally, of course. When he takes a little too long to turn the page, Beverly tweaks his ribs or snuffles at the side of his neck until he lurches forward in a bout of giggles, holding on to the wooden table for support. And sometimes, when his leg starts bouncing of its own free will, she smooths her hand down his thigh and starts squeezing his knee, earning stronger fits of squirming and yelping that even gets her to laugh. What a meanie.

“You have your own stuff to read, you know.” He huffs after a brutal attack to his hips, having nearly torn his page in half. Richie immediately regrets it though, because he doesn’t want her to stop. He silently prays that she doesn’t move, and whoever’s listening grants him a little mercy.

“I know.” She says, nudging his head with hers. Richie reaches for her hand, thinking he might off himself if she doesn’t take his back, but she does, and they sit like that together for a while, listening to nature do its thing.

“Hey, Rich?”

“Yeah?”

She uses her free hand to get at his stomach, and Richie chokes.

“Do your fucking reading.”

——————————

They’re barely three steps through the door before Stan is on Richie like strippers to a pole, pushing him up against the wall and staring him down with so much intensity that Richie doesn’t have enough breath left to ask the obvious question: what the fuck?

He grips his bag with his work outfit inside of it and tries to remember if he did anything particularly annoying on the drive home, but nothing comes to mind other than when he tried to poke Stan’s jaw and he swatted him away. Richie wasn’t actively pursuing anything because that never works with Stan. He’s like a fucking cat that way; if he gets even the slightest bit ruffled, he leaves the room, all indignant and huffy. 

Hence, his confusion at this particular stunt.

That doesn’t last long though, because Stan shakes his head slowly and pulls Richie’s hat off his head, tossing it aside without even looking to see where it goes, which is a very unlike-Stan gesture.

“Stan –?“

“Shut up.”

“Shutting up.”

They look at each other, and Richie nearly trips over himself when Stan starts moving them both backwards, towards his room. Normally that might raise some flags, but they’ve been through scenarios like this before. Richie doesn’t really mind getting pushed around (in fact he might even like it a little bit if his first childhood crush is anything to go by) but not knowing the reason is… fishy.

Stan kicks the door closed behind them, still walking Richie backwards, but grabs a hold of his shirt before he can go tumbling back on the bed. “Here’s how this is going to work.”

“Uh –“ Richie’s already on board.

Stan’s grip tightens, and then Richie’s world goes scrambled for three seconds when he gets pushed - fucking pushed, the nerve - onto the bed, Stanley following after him easy as pie and hovering over him, predatory, focused. “I’m going to tickle you.”

Richie can’t hide the way his body almost seems to curve up at that statement. If his body was a temple, it was a temple to some very traitorous limbs. Stan deciding he wants to do anything even close to roughhousing is a special treat, but this one in particular has Richie’s name on it

He realizes after a beat that Stan is waiting for him to say something, and Richie, in true Richie fashion, momentarily forgets the English language. “Uhm - yes?”

“Good. Put your arms up.” 

That’s not going to last, but Richie does it, and Stan leans in like the sexy Mr. Rogers that he is and… plucks his glasses off his face, sticking them in his shirt pocket. Friggin thief. When did everyone in this house get so bold? “Hey –“

“Can’t risk breaking them.” Stan answers, fingers already slipping under Richie’s shirt to flutter at his sides. Richie wiggles and his complaint trails off into a snicker. Can’t argue with that anyway he guesses.

Stan tickles him like he does everything else: thoroughly, and with dedication. Quick and nimble fingers drill into the spaces between Richie’s ribs, blunt nails scritching down to his sides, then pulling at his jeans just enough to expose his hips, and Stan’s ducking his head and Richie can fucking see those curls, almost, through his blurry, tear-stained vision, helpless with laughter already, grabbing at the head-board -

– And they pause. Stopping is so much than starting. Richie can feel Stan’s breath against his stomach, where his shirt is rucked up, when he speaks. “When’s the last time you took a shower?”

Through giggle-heavy breath, Richie struggles to answer. “Uhm, like, y-yesterday? Wh- fuhuhUCK!” 

He squeals when Stan’s tongue joins the mix, starting at his belly button until he meets the curve of his hip, nibbling along his V-line with so much enthusiasm that Richie thinks he must actually taste like the coffee he smells like. That’s the only explanation for such an assault.

Richie curls in on instinct, hands going for Stan’s hair, but he must anticipate this because he sits up instantly, grabbing Richie’s wrist and glaring at him. Or, he’s probably glaring. He looks like an angry blur at the moment.

It’s…. pretty hot. Not gonna lie.

“I said keep your arms up.” He growls. When Richie slips obediently back into place without question, Stan moves down even further, hoisting Richie’s calve over his shoulder and setting to work again. 

The sweeping motion of his fingertips is not as aggressive as before, though it’s probably because they don’t need to be. Even through the denim, that light swishing motion from his thigh to his knee and back again has him cackling, all reserve flying out the window as he scrambles, pulling at the sheets.

Stan pulls at him in response, taking a firm hold of his ankle and scribbling in a relentless, spidery motion at the back of his knee.

Richie 1. Screeches, then 2. Does his best impression of a hula dancer having a seizure.

Apparently breaking the arm-up rule no longer matters at this point, because Richie is just beside himself in the agonizingly sweet, tingly jolts running through his nervous system, spasming on the bed and doing anything within his physical power to get away from it.

Stan doesn’t let go, though, only moves with him, tickling and tickling. Yes, Richie thinks. Please don’t stop. This has to stop. Don’t stop. Don’t let go. Oh god, this is the fucking worst this sucks this is so good, don’t stop, don’t stop – 

By the time Stan has thoroughly decimated Richie’s thinking capabilities, having seen to it that both legs have received proper attention, Richie is a curled ball of silent, wheezing laugher in the center of the bed. He takes a deep breath only to let out another fresh peal of laughter, shaking, as Stan lays beside him to rub his shoulder.

“Don’t.” He sighs after a few moments of cool down, as if exasperated, but it sounds fond. 

“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh while you were killing me, I’ll take note of that for next time.” Richie snarks, sniffling and wiping at his eyes.

“No, I mean don’t whine like that.”

Richie whined? “Like what?”

“Like the minute someone stops touching you, it’ll never happen again.” Stan explains patiently, like it’s obvious, twisting one of Richie’s curls around a slender finger and, for now, neglecting to mention how he needs a hair cut.

Oh, that… that – “You don’t know that.” He defends feebly, accepting his glasses when they’re pushed into his palm. Sometimes he forgets how easy it is for Stan to just look at him and see him. It’s unnerving how perceptive he can be, and possibly just as unnerving how much Richie wants to be seen, scary as that might be. He’s had killer clown dreams that terrify him less, and yet.

“I do,” Stan disagrees, making room for Richie to turn over. Neither of them are surprised when Richie ducks his head to hide his face in Stan’s button-up, cheeks burning pink from more than just exertion. “You make it painfully obvious, but it’s a ridiculous fear. There’s six other people in this house. No one’s going to stop touching you unless you ask them to.”

Richie snorts into Stan’s chest. Fat fucking chance.

Still, there’s always that lingering Voice - the one that sounds most like himself - asking him if six people will be enough. Richie Tozier has not one, but six partners and he still wonders if that attention is enough. Talk about high maintenance.

Richie closes his eyes and just enjoys Stan’s hand in his hair, trying not to think about that too much, even as he counts down the seconds to that touch stopping too. “Is it…annoying?”

“That you like tickling? No.” Stan scratches at the base of his neck and Richie hums, pressing closer. “It’s only annoying that you think it’s going to go away.”

Well fuck him, Richie can’t just control how he feels about it, okay? It’s not like he hasn’t tried before. It’s hard, he doesn’t want to think about it, he doesn’t want anything good in his life to ever end, and he especially doesn’t want Stan to stop tracing the curve of his ear like that.

Two fingers tilt his chin up, and Richie blinks back at Stan’s surprisingly soft eyes. “It’s not going to stop.” He murmurs, then kisses Richie’s forehead. 

It hits him harder than a baseball bat to the gut. How did Richie Tozier die? It was the curly twink in the bedroom with unconditional love.

That being said, it’s not like he doesn’t appreciate the reassurance, even if it makes him the slightest bit vulnerable. Just a little too open. A little too raw. Tickling allows him to be like that for a short while, and maybe that’s why Richie likes it so much. Instant satisfaction, zero commitment, and it’s fun too. No arcade game or cold shower can scratch an itch for something like that.

He smiles back up at Stan and took his hand so he could kiss the back of it. A moment of mushy, romantic weakness if you will. “Aw, Staniel. You make me blush. If you wanted to woo me so badly you could have put on some judge Judy and those cute little pajama pants, maybe with some ice cream - no, definitely with some ice cream -“

Stan sighs but indulges Richie in his rambling, fingers trailing through his hair all the while. Things have already shifted back into normal territory, but there’s this new, unspoken truce between Richie and this obsession of his - the confirmation that each of his partners knows what he needs, when he needs it, and that they’re not going to drop-kick him out of their lives for asking for it one too many times. It’s nice to have something consistent in his life.

But if those six losers think they don’t have the same exact fate lingering over their heads, they have no idea what force they’re reckoning with. Richie is nothing if not a giver, and he intends to deliver their due retribution.

In full.