note . . . this is the bullshit draft, but i’ve been gone so long that i haven’t read it and no longer hate myself because of it
— carmy sways, limbs heavy, mouth around the open neck of a bottle.
he dances with two left feet and all he can hear is how his sneakers squeak when they catch navy linoleum, stagger in the emptiness of the bear. there’s an unescapable ache in his chest and raspy mumbles of your name, a dish named after you. it’s all he can do, materialise his grief. unread text messages, laminated menus.
printed in a pale blue and stitched between leather, scribbled on a note pad, and he plates it up. watches in the gap as people lick you off their lips, swallow your fucking name like he didn’t put it there. he runs a hand through his hair, pushes a scoff into the gulf of space. stretches across the room like a scar on skin.
warped around a limb, a hand, jagged in a palm. he’s torn. he knows that a hangover won’t make this easier when he presses chilled fingertips to his lips; a kiss of death. however, he smiles at the sparks of heat that glow in his chest with each swig of amber. the warmth of wildfire between lungs that feel so so heavy.
you watch, from the doorframe, and carmen imagines the light behind you. above you. maybe it’s too bright, because he squints and you blur. until there’s the glow around the length and wisps of your hair. the last thing he remembers seeing you wear. maybe one day he’ll be able to say goodbye to the people he loves, but that wasn’t the day of mikey’s funeral. when he sat unmoving in the driver’s seat of his car.
and it’s not today. when he pours more alcohol into his open mouth, lets it dribble down the length of his chin. wets the flush of his chest under the new stain on his white crewneck. carmy sways into a heap on the floor.
content warnings ⋮ nsfw content, minors dni. choking , handjob , mentions of panic attacks , smoking. no use of y/n, lowercase intended. 0.9k words.
𖦹 summary ⋮ why not ruin yours.
— carmen's lungs are ruined.
there's damage done by years worth of uninterrupted panic attacks, stifled breaths, attempts to calm himself and go unheard. shaky fingers tapping and tapping and tapping at his keyboard in the early mornings when he couldn't sleep, too late to even bother, searching for a remedy. an exercise to control the rapid, shallow stutters of breath. choking on cigarette smoke, souring the satisfaction of clean air.
there is ash and then there's a pack in the bin, a promise to quit, but his hands itch near his apron pockets. fish in deep blue, the surface of memory, and then he asks someone for theirs.
he doesn't know how to ask gently, it's carmy, and it's a cough around a question. a lot of looking down, stumbling over words until he can get them all out at once. a quirk in his brow and slicked back hair, then it's tangled curls and the lingering taste of copper in the back of his throat.
it's there when you ask him, it accompanies the dryness in his mouth and guilt on his tongue. he swears the way you look at him is penance.
it's your lungs and his hands. he doesn't know why he agrees when they're unsteady in his lap, shaking as they close over your neck. they don't fit right, his hands, your throat is so pretty under half-healed blisters from boiling water, the nicks of a knife, tattoos he sees as sacrifice on skin. he can't think of a time they ever have, clenched in a fist, folded into a prayer for a funeral he didn't attend.
you tilt your chin for him anyway, as his knuckles tremble when the spread over your pulse and apply the pressure you'd begged him for. you lean into his hesitance and your mouth parts instinctively, he feels the vibration of the noise you make in his palm. carmy watches as your lashes flutter and his heart beats loudly as a gasp dies.
your hand slips lower, nails grazing down the length of his chest, toying with the hem of his white t-shirt. it slips to the bulge in his work pants, thick and straining, curved at the seam. your fingers twist to the shape of him and he jolts, hips slotted between your thighs.
"fuck," he curses, drops his forehead against his own bicep. you squeeze him at the same time his grip tightens. you're mirrored and he's hard already, leaking into fabric and twitching under your palm while your throat closes under his.
you rasp something indecipherable.
trying to work him free, tugging at the rigid zip until there's enough room for your fingers to slide inside. he's pulsing angrily, the head of his cock smearing precum across the pads of your fingers. you hold him, gently trace a vein and he groans.
he ruts into your fist messily, your wrist jerking and his knuckles digging deeper when you bump the stretched fabric of his trousers. his hold is jagged when you stroke him harder and he's wet in your hand, a breath caught in his teeth when you circle his tip. it sounds like he's the one suffocating.
there's blue drowning in black when you tell him to look at you. strangled, but he stills hears it and his pupils are wide. tears glisten on your cheeks.
you tighten around his cock and his grip gets stronger. sliding your grasp to the base of him, he lets your breathing shallow, his hips slamming forward when his release replaces air. sticky over the curve of your fingers.
your pussy clenches around nothing, your own orgasm soaking the fabric between you. your thighs shake and his name's on your lips, rot in your throat and swallowed by his hand. he loosens it slowly and your fist slackens around his softening cock.
carmy collapses into your chest, his own heaving and red marks bloom on your neck. he reaches tiredly for a cigarette.
content warnings ⋮ jealousy , power imbalance , crying (obviously) , no use y/n, lowercase intended. unfinished, not proofread.
note . . . i’ve lost interest in finishing this but clearing out my drafts and didn’t want to delete :|
— you’re late again.
there’s the stain of tears on your skin and you can’t remember a time they haven’t been there, but the office moves around you. a brutal reminder that your workday hasn’t waited for you and your coworkers click softly at their keyboards, leer at the paperwork that you’ve let pile up on your desk, the disheveled state of a white shirt you’d uselessly steamed last night on the back of your bedroom door.
you frown and tears start to pool again, line the white of your eyes. drowning in an overwhelming feeling that you can’t name. it’s pathetic and you’d rather cuss yourself out than let your teary eyes stray to your boss, separated by a pane of glass and a light oak door he keeps locked.
although, you can’t help it. it’s fruitless attempt, after another, to avoid looking in his direction as the hours drag on and your desperation to go home is interrupted with the sudden thought of having a reason to cry. you can’t not look at him, especially not when he insists on not wearing a tie, messily opting to leave a couple of his top buttons undone, hem untucked. forearms choked by pushed up sleeves and the frames of his glasses crooked on the flat bridge of his nose.
your heels are silent on carpet as you tap your foot impatiently, but colleagues notice and wonder why you’re antsy in your chair, what you’re waiting for. they give you strange looks and passive remarks as they start to tidy up for the day, returning staplers, refilling tape dispensers, asking questions about nightcaps. an open invitation.
and you think that that’s what it takes for your phone to finally ring.
vibrating atop sleek wood, you smirk and the endearingly oblivious sparkle in the blue eyes opposite you spoils the gratification that causes your thighs to clench together. “s-so, is that a yes?”
your smirk parts, falters, and your head is empty. he’s wearing a tie, navy and slightly off centre as it hangs delicately around his narrow neck, covered by the paleness of his collar. he pulls at it nervously as he waits for your answer, smooths a careful hand over perfectly styled hair. dried gel in his palm. your leg starts to bounce.
you try to smile and his voice sounds so small. the corners of your mouth twitch, tremble as you stare back at him, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. you should say yes, with hands twisting in your lap, making him wait for your answer feels cruel.
before you stammer out something polite, try to soften the embarrassment creeping up his neck, there’s the heavy sound of a door unlocking.
he says your name, drawn from the strain of his teeth. “maybe some other time, no?”
he lingers in the doorway and blue eyes look between the two of you, to the white of his boss’ knuckles still holding the handle. understanding seems to dawn on him at the way sang-woo’s skim over the scene, looking at you when he says it.
blue eyes stammers an explanation, stumbles over a hurdle he’d spent sleepless nights trying to figure out a way to get around. that he’s not in a position of authority, there’s no power imbalance and it’s reasonable for him to want to ask you out. you don’t look at sang-woo, stay fixed on the woven fabric of a navy tie. it hangs.
he hmphs a response. moves to stand behind you and petulant hands sweep hair back from your shoulder, over the nape of your neck until he can see bare skin.
“is this inappropriate?” he wonders quietly, drags a finger where your spine starts under your collar, a delicate trail.
he dreams of the way nails dig into his shoulder when he asks. bury into skin, burrow into memory and his fingertips press harder into your nape.
trying to end my hiatus with some bullshit draft but instead i am going to kick and cry and scream and beg for at least 1 person to send me a request
could be 3 words and a character from a show i have not watched. i will sit down and consume all i can about it. 2 seasons or 20, i don’t care, i am DESPERATE and i definitely sound it :<
it won’t be posted immediately (obviously, i’m a loser) but i had some not so good thoughts today at work and i need to obsess over something, even if it takes me moooooonths to write and all that’s typed is a 10k fic that’s just a metaphor for the length of an eyelash
Crush by Ethel Cain reminds me of Sang Woo a little
Just thought I would share
i just listened to it and now i’m itching to write a drabble fixated on his hands #needthat
but also listened to the rest of the album bc i’d never listened to ethel cain and i was expecting.. more? i liked inbred ? but i don’t think her music is for me. maybe i’ll listen to another album and change my mind
