Carmy treats his body like a tool; he's not unaware of the appeal of the tattoos and his cool little scars and the musculature that comes from his workouts, but he doesn't, like, inhabit that. He doesn't feel, like — sexy, very often, he's fit because he needs to be fit to do what he does. But the way Richie touches him, the way he presses kisses over his chest and abs, making Carmy aware of his whole body, of his skin as an organ, the blood heading steadily south.

As is Richie, apparently, crouched down there. Carmy groans and runs a hand over his buzzed hair, shivering a little, pale lashes low. "Shit, uh." He's hard in his shorts, tenting them out. "Are you - you don't have to —" He makes himself look around, glances around in the dark; not that far off the light of the party, around the other side of the hose shed.

Carmy lifts his other hand to scrub over his face, pink with awareness that he might be too noisy for this semi-public place. He can't help it, because so far it's been about like, what he can do for Richie, which works for him as a freak overachiever. He doesn't know what to do with all this sweet attention. Thumbs Richie's temple, a little wordless, a little torn. But he wants it, he wants it so fucking bad. And after a second he tugs at the elastic of the shorts, slips them over his cock, which bounces up so eager he nearly smacks Richie in the face, making him laugh breathlessly, eyes wide and shining. "Fuck."