Carmy spits a thick wad into his palm without needing to be asked twice, back of the throat, just-gagged-on-you-sloppy-blowjob-style spit. "Faster, Richie, I swear to fucking god, or I'm gonna leave you in here to jerk off to the mop and bucket—"

Bullshit that gets cut off at the first brush of getting what he wants, mouth open and silent, eyes falling closed. His body sings with it: please, yes. For a moment not thinking about the volume or his permission or what might feel good, the heat or the cold, the menu that lives in the corner of his mind. The head of Richie's cock plugs him and he's good. He's good for now, white-knuckling the pole he's holding onto.