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When he thinks about it, there's never been a time when Carmen didn't have this habit.
When he was a needy kid, consistently following Michael around the house, the bottom of his pyjama pants dragging on the floor, he always had his thumb in his mouth. Even when kids his age had stopped, little Carmen hadn't, much to his ma's dismay.
Richie remembers Donna's exaggerated sighs whenever she would notice her youngest son still sucking his thumb absentmindedly. He remembers the light slaps on the back of the head she would give him, and her raspy voice, "You're gonna get buck teeth, Carmen."
Mikey would make fun of him, obviously. "If you want to hang out with us, you have to stop being such a fucking baby, Carm."
Richie had laughed at his best friend's mocking tone, sitting on the floor in front of the TV, fiddling with the controller of the Playstation. At this time of their life, Richie was spending most of his time at the Berzatto's, escaping the climate of perpetual tension in his own house.
Carmen was at that awkward age, between elementary and middle school, lost, insecure, and looking at his big brother, and his big brother's smart-mouthed best friend, like they were the coolest people to ever walk this earth. He would follow them everywhere, like a kicked puppy, with his big sad eyes, and his thumb in his mouth, and Richie would ruffle his hair just to watch him smile a little, for once.
-
Then, when Carmen started high school, he occupied his mouth with cigarettes, instead.
Richie had given him a disapproving look the first time he had caught Carmen sneak outside for a smoke after a particularly stressful dinner, one evening when Donna was bad, making everyone feel like pure shit.
He had lit his own cigarette, and smoked next to him silently, not knowing this habit of nervous, silent smoke breaks, would still remain a decade later, next to the emergency exit of their shit-show of a restaurant.
After a while, he had noticed that Carmen smoked even more than him. It had made a weird feeling settle in the pit of his stomach.
-
On Mikey's last birthday, everyone had had a genuine good time. A surprisingly carefree, fight-free, night, in the Berzatto household, filled with cheap sparkling wine, laughter and music. Even Donna had sung, danced, hugged her kids, and gone to sleep without getting hysterical about anything.
Richie had been so, so drunk, but he still remembered the sight of Carmy, equally drunk and happy, for once. The multitude of small wrinkles around his eyes, from smiling so much, the content sigh he had let out when he had hugged his brother before calling it a night.
He remembered the weird feeling in his stomach resurfacing at the sight of his best friend's little brother, fast asleep on his twin bed, hugging his pillow, with his fucking thumb in his mouth.
-
"Who the fuck destroyed my fucking pen?"
Sydney's voice would startle Richie if he wasn't so used to it, by now.
She storms into the kitchen, an angry frown on her face, holding her pretty teal gel pen, which's upper half is almost completely chewed.
Richie laughs. Oh, he knows who did that.
"Is that funny, motherf-" She's angry angry, sticking the ruined pen in his face.
"Cousin !" Richie calls. "Syd found your chew toy !"
Carmy's looming over a table in the other side of the kitchen, studying a new possible option for the menu, completely lost in thought. He's biting his nails again, and Richie scoffs. Always something in his fucking mouth.
"Carm." Sydney's annoyance is barely contained when she approaches him. "Did you use my fucking pen as a chew toy?"
"Hm, sorry, chef ?" He's still not looking up from the messy notes splayed hastily over the table, his brows furrowed in concentration.
"Carmen." Ice cold.
He finally looks up, and Richie holds his breath.
"Why did you chew through my fucking pen."
"Fffffuck." He presses his hands in his eye sockets, hard. "Is that yours ?"
"Yes, chef. It's mine."
"'M sorry, chef, I thought it was mine. I'll get you a new one."
Sydney takes a deep breath, shoves the pen against his chest, and turns back on her heels without looking at him. "Keep it, I don't care."
Richie fights the urge to blow a cynical whistle. She's really pissed.
Shit. And Carmen is really sorry.
He's rubbing his face, cheeks slightly reddened with embarrassment, clutching the damaged item. He's already having a shit day - he seems to be having a lot of those, lately - and this is just the cherry on top. One more mistake to add to his never-ending list of self depreciation. It makes Richie's heart feel tight in his chest. For some reason.
So, he squeezes Carmy's shoulder when he walks past. Bends a little so he can whisper in his ear, low enough that the rest of the staff doesn't hear.
"No big deal, cousin. Don't worry about it."
Carmen nods without much conviction, but still reaches over his shoulder to give Richie's hand an appreciative tap.
They've been doing this a lot, lately. Touching. Subtle pats and squeezes, the occasional hand on the small of each other's back.
For some reason.
-
Which is why Richie doesn't overthink it when he grabs Carmy's hand, while they're eating at family, and pretty much everyone's attention is on Marcus explaining... Something. About.. Donuts ? Maybe ? Richie doesn't know. He hasn't paid attention, lost in his own thoughts, until he had noticed the reddened, damaged skin around Carmen's nails.
He brings the limp hand to eye-level, squinting.
"You gotta stop biting your nails, cousin."
"Hmm." He tries to remove his hand from the unwanted attention, but Richie's grip is tight.
"Seriously. It's not even the nails anymore, you're chewing at your own fucking skin, Carm." He can't help the slight worry in his voice.
"'S just a habit." Carmy's tone is slightly tainted with insecurity.
Richie's fidgeting with his fingers, now, the crease of worry between his brows deepening as he evaluates the damage. "You know what I'm gonna get you? A fucking pacifier. Or- or a chew toy."
To his surprise, that actually makes Carmy laugh a little. He removes his hand, shoving it deep in his jeans' pocket.
Only a couple minutes go by before his knee starts to bounce under the table, another nervous habit. Richie wants to splay his hand over his thigh under the table, just to stop the anxious jittering, but he can't help but blush a little at the tought, and decides against it.
-
Sydney is starting to notice, too. She stares at Carmen's face with furrowed eyebrows, her upper lip curved in something akin to disgust.
"Dude, you're bleeding."
And he is, he worried his bottom lip too much again, his teeth ripping the fragile, chapped skin, until crimson blood started to mix with his saliva, threatening to spill over his chin.
Instinctively, Carmy touches the tip of his index finger to the small, pulsing cut on his lip, and curses under his breath. Sydney gives him a sympathetic look as she offers him a clean napkin, and he nods appreciatively, dabbing at the blood.
Richie's chest feels too tight from where he is, a couple meters away, wiping the counter. Because Carmen looks miserable, with deep, dark circles underlining his piercing blue eyes, and when his eyes meet Richie's, he sees the lost kid again, his best friend's little brother who looks like he carries all the sadness of the world on his frail shoulders.
So when the day is finally over, and everyone's going home and saying tired goodnights, Richie asks Carmy if he wants to hang out.
Which. Could be weird. Because they don't really do that much, really, it feels like since Michael's death, they've only hung out when one or the other was close to losing his mind and couldn't reasonably be left alone for the night.
Carmy says yes, though. Offers to drive, and Richie lets him.
They watch a movie on Richie's couch, one that they've seen many times before, and they drink a few beers. They don't really talk, but it's not uncomfortable, it never is.
Halfway through the movie, Carmy's eyelids start drooping. He fights it for a while, trying to focus on the action scene on the screen, basking the room in flashing, orangey light. Richie wants to tell him to sleep, to finally rest, because he looks like he fucking needs it, but he knows the comment would just pull Carmy right out of the relaxed state he's in (for once).
So, he says nothing when Carmen's head falls on his shoulder, his hair brushing against Richie's cheek.
When the strain on Carmen's neck starts to bother him, he mumbles something, more than half-asleep already, and shifts so he can curl up on his side. The couch is too small for him to be able to lay down completely, and Richie guides his head on top of his thigh, without thinking about it. Just to support his neck, like a pillow.
Just so Carm can get some fucking sleep.
And Carmy lets out a sigh of contentment, or relief, nuzzling the worn fabric of Richie's sweatpants, clutching the blanket to his chest.
Jesus.
There's that weird feeling again, that warmth inside his ribcage, spreading all the way to his neck, his face, at the sight of Carmy's relaxed, peaceful features, curled up with his head on his lap. Absentmindedly, Richie threads his fingers through Carmy's messy hair, just a couple times.
For some reason.
And he sighs again, almost a moan, and when he clumsily brings his thumb to his mouth, Richie isn't even fucking surprised, just scoffs fondly at the gesture.
He watches him for a while, finding the sight of his lifelong friend suckling his thumb on his lap more interesting than the movie. He reaches for his hair again, petting it a little, letting his fingertips touch his scalp, the side of his neck, his ear. Carmy makes a high, whiny sound in his throat, subtly leaning into the touch.
The feeling in Richie's chest is gradually slithering lower, lower, simmering in his stomach, until he realizes he's getting a little hard.
Carmy makes a wet sound around his finger, and hell no. Richie's dick is definitely interested, now, stiff and brushing against the fabric of his sweatpants, the friction just enough to make him hiss. Hell fucking no. He hastily removes himself from the couch, supporting Carmen's head just long enough to replace his lap with a pillow. He makes a little frustrated sound, but Richie ignores him, turning off the movie.
In the bathroom, he washes his face with the coldest water, and avoids staring at his reflection when he brushes his teeth. He feels like a creep, getting hard from this. Its been a while - a really long while - since he got any kind of sexual attention, except for the occasional passionless one night stand, but it doesn't justify getting aroused by his dead best friend's brother asleep against him.
He goes to sleep full of self-loathing. frustrated, with a tightness in his pants.
-
If Carmen notices the worried, pitiful way everyone in the kitchen looks at him lately, he doesn't say anything. Doesn't bark an aggressive What ? ; doesn't give anyone a reassuring "I'm fine", as a formality. Just avoids eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. Goes for more smoke breaks than usual, and slams the door hard on his way out.
"He's losing it, lately." Marcus says quietly. Richie can only nod, staring at the closed door, like if he focuses hard enough, he will be able to see through it, to watch Carmy's silhouette outside. Just to make sure he's okay.
They've decided to turn The beef into The bear, a few days ago, and it seems like Carmen's the only one whose excitement is completely crushed under the weight of responsibility, the stake of it. Like, there's no room to breathe.
It makes Richie's skin crawl with dread. He's fucking worried. He refuses to let his brain make any kind of assimilation between Mikey, and Carmy's current state. Doesn't think about it, pushes those thoughts away.
All he can do, then, is try to be helpful, and the least annoying possible. He doesn't want to be another source of stress for Carm, so he's polite - at least he tries -, he cleans up messes, and he actually thinks about the future of the restaurant. He looks for ideas, he listens to everyone's input. Around Carmy, he doesn't even dare to be a dick anymore. He's docile.
And Carmy must notice, after a while, that Richie's trying, really trying this time, and maybe he understands that he's trying for him, for his sake, because he looks at Richie with something in his eyes, something... Appreciative. Appeased, almost. He gives him silent nods, and holds eye contact until Richie has to look away and clear his throat.
When Richie calls him over to the counter so he can take a look at a new floor plan idea that he came up with, Carmy presses himself against Richie's side, and drops his hand to the small of his back.
"Show me ?" He asks, and his voice is so close to Richie's ear that he shivers a little. The warmth at his side, at the bottom of his spine, isn't uncomfortable at all. If anything, it's kind of comforting, but it makes Richie all nervous, makes him stutter. "If we, uh, if we put table four in the corner, like that, it could make room for another one there."
Carmy nods, taps his fingers against Richie's back. "Yeah, yeah. Good."
"And we could do a high table there, with a couple of those fancy-ass stools."
Carmy leans closer to get a better look at the rough sketch on the countertop, his chin brushing Richie's shoulder. He's really close, now, and he realizes he's holding his breath.
"Yeah. Yeah, great, thank you, cousin. You're doing great." He strokes his back, just once, an appreciative rub, before retreating to his office.
-
The sun has almost completely set when they leave the restaurant for the night. Carmy has been spending most of the days in his office, lately, sorting out paperwork, digging through files for shit that Sugar needs for administration, occasionally coming out the check on the renovation work.
Richie kind of misses his presence around.
Also, he kind of doesn't want to go home, now. Not by himself.
"You wanna hang out ?" He asks Carmy when he hears the lock of the door click.
"I, uh, can't, sorry. I'm going on a date." He doesn't make eye contact.
Richie tries not to sound disappointed. "With Claire Bear?"
Carm nods, a small smile on his lips.
"She's picking me up."
So, Richie can only clap him on the back. "Go get her."
He lights a cigarette on the way to his car, trying to ignore the cold, uncomfortable feeling in his gut.
-
The next day, he doesn't ask how Carm's date went. Doesn't need to, honestly. There's not a hint of a smile on Carm's face, if anything, he looks even more stressed and frustrated than usual, greeting everyone with a weak g'morning, chefs, before rushing to his office and slamming the door.
But of course, Sugar does. As soon as she sets foot in the restaurant, with a bright smile, the first thing she asks is "Where's Bear, I need to ask him about Claire."
Richie realizes he doesn't really want to know, so he grabs his pack of cigarettes and heads outside. The noise of the street welcomes him, and he takes a deep, deep breath.
He's barely lit his cigarette - the last one of his pack, shit - when the door slams open, and he would flinch if he wasn't so used to sudden, loud clanging noises. Carmy joins him, urgently patting his pockets.
"Fffuck, I'm out."
And, Richie really doesn't want to deal with the version of Carmy that can't have a smoke whenever he's too stressed, so he doesn't hesitate to bring his cigarette to Carmen's lips.
Which.
When you think about it.
He could've just passed it to him. But. For some reason.
Carmen's eyes widen a little in surprise, but he mumbles something like a thanks and brings his lips to the lit cigarette between Richie's fingers and takes a long drag.
And, oh. Richie likes this. His heart rate is going up rapidly at the slight contact of Carm's lips on the pads of his fingers.
When he brings the cigarette back to his own mouth, he searches for the taste of Carmy's spit on the paper. Can't find it, even through the slow, slow drag he takes.
So, before he can even exhale, he lifts it up to Carmy's level again, and he watches with heavy eyes as he leans down a little to catch the filter in his mouth, watches the relief of the nicotine rush paint itself across his features.
It's hot, he realizes. It's hot to make Carmy smoke from his fingers, it excites him and he doesn't know why. He only knows it makes a faint feeling of want pulse in his groin.
And, fuck, Carmy's looking at him, staring at his eyes through the smoke, and the sight shouldn't be erotic, but it is, it is and he wants to hold the cigarette there until Carm chokes a little, coughs, he wants to be in control-
Shame floods him.
He brings the cigarette back to his own mouth and takes a shaky drag, before handing the rest of it to Carmy. "Y' can finish it."
Carm nods, brows furrowed imperceptively, and Richie slams the door on the way back in.
-
Less than a week later, Sydney gifts Carmen a little tube of cherry-flavored chapstick.
"I, uh. Thanks, chef ?"
She gives him a pat on the shoulder. "Please use it before you bite your lip until you bleed again, chef."
"I will. Thank you. Syd." He's blushing.
Richie's stomach ties into thick knots when he watches him tentatively apply a thin layer of product on his chapped lips. It's got a slight, very discreet tint to it. Cherry red.
Richie wonders how it tastes, on Carmy's lips.
He looks away.
-
Turns out, Carm really likes the chapstick. It's got a sweet, subtle taste, that lingers on the tip of his tongue when he swipes it over his lips absentmindedly, and it deters him from biting them.
Too bad that the tube is so... Bite-sized. He doesn't even register it at first, the way he keeps it in his hand after applying a thin layer on his lips, the way he brings it to his mouth to worry the plastic between his teeth, until it's full of bite marks and slightly deformed.
Richie notices, though. That Carmen's newest chew toy is the tiny chapstick bottle, and he shakes his head in disbelief. This man has a problem.
So, the next time he sees him, out of the corner of his eye, take out the damn little tube out of his apron's pocket, Richie watches carefully. Watches Carmy lean against the counter, run a hand through his messy hair, and smooth the product over his lip in a quick, swift motion.
Then, just as he fucking expected, he doesn't put the tube back in his pocket. No, he fidgets with it, screwing the tiny cap back on, and keeping it in the palm of his hand for a few seconds, before bringing it to his mouth, to bite at it softly.
In a couple of steps, he's right there, in Carmy's space, crowding him against the counter, and snatching the item right out of his mouth, a little bit of spit clinging to it.
"If you chew through that too, Syd will actually kill you. Like, genuinely. She will stab you. Until you bleed out."
Carm's mouth is parted in surprise, and he takes a moment to figure out what he's talking about, his eyes drifting between the chapstick and Richie's frustrated face.
"Fuck. I- I don't even do it, like, on purpose, you know."
"Yeah, I figured."
There's a tense silence between them. Richie's still in Carmy's space, they're almost chest to chest, and he can't help but stare at his cherry pink lips, glistening with moisture. He has the urge to reach out and touch, feel them with his thumb.
Carm clears his throat. "It's like a- a habit, you know, like-"
"Yeah, like biting your nails and shit. Smoking, too." Richie's voice is hoarse. Carmy nods, looking down, like he's ashamed.
"Is it, like, an anxiety thing ? Or some shit like that ?"
He nods again, more urgently, and meets Richie's eyes. "I think so. It's, uh. Soothing. Or something. Makes my head quieter"
"Hmm." If Richie was a dick, he would make a cruel joke about Carm being a fucking baby, still sucking his thumb to sleep in his thirties. But he can tell he's being honest, vulnerable. He trusts him with that specific information, and Richie just... Doesn't want to ruin it. He wants to keep it, to care for it. The friendship. The trust. Wants to nurture it.
He gives the little chapstick tube back, slips it back into his apron pocket. Before he can think better of it, he brushes a few stray strands off Carmy's forehead, back into the mess of light brown curls. Gives him a nod, not breaking eye contact. Ignores the heat in his stomach.
Goes back to work.
-
"You look like shit, Jeff."
And Tina's right. Carmen looks like shit. The dark circles under his eyes seem to get deeper everyday, and he's been in desperate need of a haircut for months now. His curls are getting out of hand, messy and slightly greasy. Richie isn't counting, of course, but it seems like his smoke breaks are more frequent too.
He's more aggressive when he shouts order in the kitchen, apologizes less. He twitches a lot, restlessness showing through his agitated behavior.
Also, he keeps on staying late at the restaurant, in his office, when everyone else has already left for the night. He dismisses Syd and Nat's worried questions, says there's some papers that he needs and he can't find in the mess that Mikey has left him, a heap of unorganized files, unopened envelopes.
Richie's worried again.
So, on friday night, he waits until everyone's left, and he knocks at the slightly opened door of Carmy's office.
"Yeah ?"
He's sitting in his chair, legs spread, and he sorting though a big pile of mail. He looks tired. The little desk lamp casts a yellow-ish light all round the cramped room, and it illuminates Carm's face in a way that makes him look both younger and older at the same time.
Richie doesn't realize he's staring until Carmy gives him an expectant nod.
"D'you need help?" Richie asks. It doesn't feel right to go home knowing Carm's sitting in his own misery, going through paperwork and painful reminders of his brother's mistakes by himself.
As he expected, Carmen shakes his head, and immediately shifts his attention back to the administrative nightmare on his lap. "Nah, go home, cousin. Thanks, though."
He won't take that as an answer. Not tonight.
"Carm. Let me help."
He doesn't look up, a faint look of annoyance crossing his features. "No need."
"Bear. Come on." He sounds defeated, and that catches Carmen's attention. "What exactly are you looking for ?"
A beat of hesitation. "The- uh, the last electricity bill before Mikey changed the lights. It's, uhhhh-" He hastily flips through pages. "Supposed to be the one from april 2018."
"Okay." So, Richie steps inside the small room, and starts looking through the piles of documents that Carm has yet to sort. He quickly realizes how big of a task that is, and he feels a pang of guilt in his chest at the thought of Carm facing that alone, on top of the renovation of the restaurant and his own very worrying, very fucked-up mental health.
After a while, Richie decides to sit down on the floor, adjacent to where Carmy's still sprawled in his office chair. He's going through piles efficiently, not lingering on any of the papers, not letting the name Michael Berzatto on all of them sting more than necessary.
Occasionally, Richie lets himself stare at Carmy. He's sorting papers quickly, his brows furrowed in concentration, the blue of his eyes underlined by dark, dark circles. His hair is a heap of dirty curls, and his biceps are bulging under the material of the thin, white cotton t-shirt he's been wearing all day.
The room is silent for a good half-hour, save for the faint buzzing of Carmy's desk fan. Richie feels restless, like there's an itch under his skin, that's been simmering there faintly for weeks, getting harder to ignore. He feels the need to bounce his leg, or to light a cigarette just to have something to fidget with. He understands Carmy's habits a bit more.
Richie hears the faint, familiar sound of the little chapstick tube being screwed open. He wills himself not to stare, keeping his focus on the envelopes in his lap, as Carmen coats his lips in shiny cherry red.
Then, the sound of plastic. Richie can't help but look up, taking a glance at the way Carmy's absentmindedly biting and suckling the tube, his eyes fixed on the paperwork in front of him. He's oblivious to the way the material creaks and protests under his teeth, until it makes a distinct snapping noise and breaks right against his lip. Carmy flinches, swearing under his breath when he realizes he not only pinched his lip hard enough to hurt, but also messed-up Sydney's thoughtful gift. "Shhhit."
And, oh, Richie's had just about enough.
He's up on in his feet in a second, and crosses the distance to Carmy's desk in a couple of urgent strides.
Without thinking about it, he stands next to the chair and roughly grabs Carmy's face, digging his fingers into his cheeks, and twists him until he can get a good look.
Carm looks up at him with his big, sad eyes, and his lips are satiny, red and slightly puffy where the plastic snapped. It makes something stir deep within Richie's guts, something animalistic and shameful, that he keeps carefully hidden.
"Fucking hell, Carmy." He hisses, low and almost menacing.
Carm doesn't answer, just keeps looking up at Richie from where he's sitting, with an intensity that makes his fingertips burn against his cheeks.
He doesn't think about it either when he touches the achy part of his lips, presses the pad of his thumb against it. It's slightly wet with chapstick. "Always gotta have something in your mouth, huh." His tone is just a whisper now, and his heart skips a bit when Carmy parts his lips at the touch, blinking slowly.
He can't help it, doesn't even try to suppress the urge. He eases his thumb in Carmen's mouth slowly, giving him time to slap his hand away, to call him a fucking creep. But he doesn't, he just parts his lips slightly further obediently, letting Richie's palm cradle his chin, his cheek, as his thumb slides until it brushes against the warm wetness of Carmy's tongue.
Richie lets out a trembling breath at the feeling. Experimentally, he caresses the flat of his tongue with the pad of his finger, marveling at the warmth, the smoothness of it.
Carmy's eyes flutter closed for a second, and he leans into the touch with a soft moan. The sound goes straight to Richie's dick. He's getting so turned on, and he knows that it's soon going to be painfully obvious in his tight pants. But he can't help his body's reaction to the sight of Carm below him, letting him feel up his mouth, his lips parted obscenely, with a look of pure relief on his face.
Because he really does look like.... Like this is what he needed. What he was craving. His features are relaxed, his eyes almost completely closed in pleasure, and he closes his lips against the skin of Richie's thumb and sucks.
Holy shit. "Carm." A warning.
He hums around his thumb, his tongue sliding over the skin, coating it in spit. Richie's going to lose his mind. He presses down on his tongue, hard, and Carmy gasps, finally looking up at Richie. His pupils are so dilated that the piercing blue is reduced to a thin rim around the lustful dark of them. His eyelids hang low on his eyes, like he's lost in sensation, unfocused.
He looks so good like this, so pretty. He wants to tell him, but the words are stuck in his throat, and he's tiptoeing a line he's not sure he can cross.
Richie's hardening in his pants, straining against the fabric. His crotch is just a few inches away from Carm's face, and he knows that if he looks just a bit lower, he will notice. It makes his heart beat faster, insecurity and shame clawing at his insides, and he slowly starts to remove his thumb from Carmy's mouth.
Before he can even fully let go of his face, Carmy makes a noise of protest, and grabs Richie's wrists to keep his hand there, pressed against his cheek, and, oh. He wants this. Wants his touch, his fucking finger in his mouth.
Carmy breaks eye contact as he separates Richie's index and pointer finger from the rest of his digits, and greedily slips them into his mouth.
Oh, shit. Richie's dick throbs in his pants. "G-god, Carm. Fuck."
He moans appreciatively in response, closing his lips around Richie's knuckles, suckling on the two fingers like his life depends on it. His hand is still holding Richie's wrist in a vice grip, encouraging him to press into his mouth further, to make -fuck-, to make back and forth movements, like...
Carmy's eyes roll back in his head when Richie gets the memo and starts fucking his mouth in earnest, sliding his fingers against Carmy's spit-slick tongue, until the tips brush against the hollow of his palate, the dip of his throat. A pitiful whimper tries to escape him, ends up muffled around the thick digits.
"Fuck, 's that what you wanted ?" His voice sounds foreign to his own ears, hoarse with arousal.
Around his fingers, Carmy nods urgently, staring at Richie with a pleading look in his eyes. He tries to take him further, and gags a little, a choked-up sound escaping him at the same time as a little bit of spit runs down his chin.
And, fuck. It's the hottest thing Richie has ever seen. He keeps on sliding his fingers in and out of Carmy's mouth, a filthy innuendo, focusing on his tongue lapping hungrily at the skin of his phalanx, his cheeks hollowing out to suck. He can't get enough of the desperate sounds he makes, of the way his brow is creased slightly, a look of rapture on his face.
He glances down at Carmy's lap, at his spread thighs on the desk chair, and he can't help the seething feeling of arousal that licks at his spine when he notices the bulge between his legs, pressing against the zipper of his vintage Levi's. He's just as turned on as Richie is, hard in his pants just from sucking on his fingers. He can't help himself, it's instinctive, the way he reaches for his own erection with his free hand, urgently palming himself through his pants, grunting in relief.
Carmy’s eyes follow the movement of his hand, and he whines. His eyes drift between Richie’s face and the hardness in his pants, the clumsy way he gropes the length of it through the fabric, seeking friction.
“Fffuck, Carm, is this okay ?” His voice is a whisper, like he’s telling a secret, like if he speaks low enough, no one will ever know that he’s in his dead best friend’s little brother’s office, desperately rubbing himself through his clothes, inches from his face, his fingers deep in his mouth, smearing spit on his chin when he nods enthusiastically.
This is so wrong. So filthy.
But Carmy looks at him like he wants him so fucking bad, like he needs him, and he hasn’t felt like that in so, so long. He watches, transfixed, as Carm drops his free hand, the one who isn’t bruising Richie’s wrist, to the prominent bulge between his thighs, and mirrors Richie’s frantic movements, pressing the heel of his palm down hard enough to alleviate some of the pressure, never stopping the sloppy licks and sucks around his fingers.
Fuck. Richie’s so hard it’s almost painful, it makes his head spin. And Carm’s dark eyes won’t stop staring at his dick, and it’s the hottest thing ever to be watched like that, it makes him pulse in his pants, against the palm of his hand, and fuck, it’s not enough. He wants to take his dick out, to jerk himself hard and fast, just the way he likes it, wants to use the hand that’s coated in Carmy’s spit. He groans.
Carmy’s squirming in his chair, trying to rub himself through the thick material of his jeans, while keeping Richie’s fingers in his mouth. He’s panting, pitiful little whimpers that go straight to Richie’s dick, and oh, he can’t fucking take it anymore.
“Your- your fucking mouth, baby, it’s making me so hard.” His voice is trembling. “Y’re so good at this.”
He can tell the praise gets Carm hot, and it doesn’t even surprise him. As soon as the words are out, the fucking pet name, Carmy’s dropping his other hand to his lap, trusting Richie to keep his hand right there, to keep feeling around his mouth, and he undoes his zipper just enough to be able to reach into his jeans, to palm himself through his boxers. He’s still looking at Richie with this fucking look, those pleading eyes, begging for more silently.
“So fucking pretty, baby.” Can’t help himself. Can’t help the way he talks, like he’s trying to get lucky with his first high school girlfriend, because it feels right, and it gets him hot, and he knows it gets Carm hot too.
Carmy’s eyes roll back in his head at that, and his hand speeds up inside his pants. Richie wishes he could get a better look. He wants to know how Carm touches himself, how he strokes his dick when he’s chasing his own pleasure.
More importantly, he wants to cum. He’s so close already, just from rubbing himself through his pants a little bit, because he’s never been more turned on in his life, and he uses the hand that’s not knuckle-deep into Carmy’s mouth to ungracefully undo his belt, his zipper. He hisses at the contact of his fingertips against his hard length, like the feather-light touch could send him over the edge.
Carmy watches him with hungry eyes, the little whimpers turning into needy moans as he finally frees his dick from his underwear, giving it a couple of slow strokes. And, fuck¸ Carmy’s face is so close, with spit dripping down his chin, and a starved gaze fixated on his dick, and Richie really can’t control himself anymore when he asks, “You want it, sweetheart ? You want a taste ?”
Carm finally lets Richie’s fingers slip away from his mouth, catching on his slick chin, so he can croak out a pathetic “Yes, please.”, and Richie’s done for. He guides his dick until the wet tip of it rests against the cherry-red, puffy bottom lip, and lets Carmy decide what to do next. He doesn’t want to force anything, he doesn’t know if Carm’s ever done anything like this before, fuck, he hopes he hasn’t, he hopes he’s the first one to make him feel like this, to turn him into a goddamn flushed mess.
And Carm doesn’t hesitate for longer than a split second, darts his tongue out just enough to lap at the engorged tip, the fat bead of pre-cum, before he wraps his lips around the sensitive head, suckling gently, experimentally, and oh, fffuck. It’s been a long, long time, since anyone gave him this kind of attention, and he fucking loves it, has always loved it, and he’s so fucking close. Richie can tell from his peripheral vision that Carmy’s hand has slowed down a little in his pants, no longer urgent and desperate, just kind of lazily stroking himself, preferring to focus on the heaviness of Richie’s tip on his tongue.
Carm’s not even doing anything special, really, he’s mostly holding the head in his warm mouth, letting his tongue caress the underside, dip into the tiny, dripping hole, and it sends sparks of pleasure all over Richie’s body. He feels the familiar heat of his impending orgasm wash over his thighs, his lower stomach, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Carm’s shiny, reddish lips on his dick, his eyes almost closed in bliss. He strokes his hair affectionately, pushing a few strands away from his forehead. “Carm, ‘m gonna cum, baby. Y-you have to pull back-“
Carm doesn’t pull back.
He moans, high and whiny, and Richie gasps at the sheer strength of his orgasm. He watches his dick throb, shooting ropes of white inside Carmy’s mouth – inside Carmy’s fucking mouth, fucking hell –, and can’t hep the long, throaty moan that escapes him, because it feels fucking incredible, and it lasts so fucking long, because Carm keeps on softly suckling on the softening skin, doesn’t relent until Richie’s shivering from overstimulation.
When he lets the head of his dick slip out of his mouth, he can’t help but moan again at the realization that Carmy swallowed. He’s overwhelmed with an emotion he can’t exactly pinpoint, between arousal and affection, and he doesn’t even tuck himself back in his pants before bending down, supporting himself on one hand besides Carmy’s head, on the back of the desk chair. He presses his forehead to Carmy’s temple, whispers. “Let me ?”, as the fingers of his other hand – the wet ones – skim over Carm’s bulge, waiting for permission.
Carm spreads his legs as wide as the chair allows him, mumbling a weak “Yeah, yeah, please.”, and Richie slips his fingers under the waistband of his boxers, grabbing the hard length of him. Carmy bucks his hips to meet his hand, desperate. “Yeah, fuck, Richie.”
He doesn’t even need to spit in his palm, his fingers still coated in Carm’s warm spit. He gives him a few firm strokes, earning a string of curses. When he briefly swipes his palm over Carm’s angry-red tip, and he’s mesmerized by the wetness of it, the amount of pre-cum oozing from the stiff head, dripping down his shaft. “Fuck, Carm.” And, Richie doesn’t mean to tease, or to sound the way he does, when he whispers against Carmy’s temple, “You’re so fucking wet.”
Carmy cums.
He shoots pearly white all over Richie’s knuckles, shuddering, panting, and. Holy fuck. Just from that ?
“Shhit, baby, there you go, that’s it.” He doesn’t stop stroking him through it, even when Carmy whines from the sensitivity. He doesn’t soften, either, doesn’t have a chance to, because Richie’s hypnotized by the sight of Carm’s rock-hard length, engorged and coated in spit and cum, it’s so fucking hot, and he wants to see him cum again.
Carm hisses, squirming in his seat, trying to slow down the stimulation. “T-too much…”
“Shh. I got you.”
Carm takes deep breaths, eyes fixated on Richie’s unrelenting hand, trying not to get too overwhelmed by the white-hot sensation.
“Gimme another one, baby, come on.” He doesn’t know why, doesn’t think about it, he just knows he wants to make him cum again.
“D-don’t know if I can, hmmm.” But he’s bucking his hips again, both chasing the friction and shying away from it.
“Yeah, y’can, sweetheart. Look how fucking wet you are.”
“Oh, fuck.” He throbs in Richie’s hand, pleasure creeping up his spine again. Richie speeds up his pace imperceptibly, twisting his wrist on the upstroke, just the way he does to himself. He needs Carm to cum again, needs it so bad.
“Come on, baby. Y’re almost there, I can tell.” Carmy’s nodding against his forehead, watching Richie’s fingers work his dick in swift, precise strokes.
“’M close.” He sounds so strained, barely like himself.
“I can tell. Come on, baby, cum for me.”
His second orgasm rips through him almost painfully, and he thinks he feels tears well up in his eyes from the intensity of it. “Fffffuck.”
“There you go, there you go.”
This time, Richie strokes him through it with his fingertips, softly, until he goes soft, until the last aftershocks are wrung out of him.
He straightens up, then, his mind still clouded with arousal, with pleasure. He tucks himself back in, before leaning down to tuck Carmy’s spent dick back in his boxers, zipping up his vintage jeans.
There’s a beat of tense silence, an hesitation.
Then, “Let’s go home, I’ll drive you.” Carmy’s close to falling asleep on his desk chair, his head lolling to the side already, the afterglow easing the stress of the day out of his body. He nods, takes a few seconds to stand up. He’s unsteady on his feet, and Richie grabs his shoulder before he can trip. “You good ?”
Carm meets his eyes, a sleepy, fucked-out look on his face. “Yeah. Wanna sleep.”
He drives them to Carmy’s apartment in comfortable silence, and doesn’t hesitate to follow him to the door. It feels natural, when he toes off his shoes, steps out of his pants, and lays down on Carm’s couch, like he’s done dozens of times before.
He’s tempted to follow Carmy, when he goes to bed, but decides against it. Decides he’s close enough, on the couch opposite of Carm’s bedroom door. Decides that, if he needs him, he’ll be there.