Carmy thrusts a couple times against Richie's hands, hips rabbiting into the grip just to feel it keep him in place because it's turning him on as much as everything else. His head is tipped back a little, eyes almost closed in pleasure, but a sliver of blue remaining because he doesn't wanna stop looking at Richie, transfixed watching his dick disappear into his mouth over and over.

He only stops looking when he has to, like has to. Who knows how long it's been, he's lost all sense of time, but it still feels way too soon to be about to pop, and he whines and squeezes his eyes shut and tries to eke out a little more time thinking the least sexy thoughts he can manage. Except that's all insane traumatic shit, that's Chef Fields over his shoulder, and his psyche is already fucked up without reenforcing that he associates being mentally destroyed with sex. Fuck that, he can't, he's too in the moment, too in his body, every time he starts slipping sideways Richie sucks and pulls him right back into it.

His eyes peek open again, groaning loudly into his own palm. Gritting his teeth, heaving and panting and trying to get his shit together so he can pull his hand away and warn Richie before he nuts in his mouth. He manages with sheer force of will. "Hey. Hey, fuck, Richie, you're gonna make me come, man, I can't... I'm so fucking close."