Carmy has a knee on a shelf that's gonna rip out of the wall if he puts all his weight on it, and he keeps taking Richie's fingers deeper than he should while trying to say what he's just saying and gargle-gagging on them instead. It's good. It's good because he wants to yell, wants to blame other people, wants to complain that nobody is helping him even though literally everyone is working their asses off helping him, and instead of hereditary poison there's just the tang of blunt fingers, nicotine and ink sour over his refined fucking palate.

They're also in his ass. That's also a thing that's happening. Good in a different way, a different way to vent all the ugly boiling through him in this sweltering heat. But also: this is the kind of shit that gives food safety inspectors heart attacks. He can't cum in the walk-in. He can't fucking - they can't do this not in the walk in because it's too hot to be touching, but they also. Cannot. Be doing this in the walk-in. Mouth and ass. He wonders, if he bucked hard enough, bit down, if Richie would swap his hands over.

"Mrrrghnm," he says, spit-wet, lifting a hand to clutch the flat metal of a bracket; it's a cruel cold line against his palm and it stops him putting too much weight on the shelf and breaking it as he spreads sluttier for more. More inside him. If he can still respond, however unintelligably, he doesn't have enough yet.