a/n: back again with another dirty little drabble for kinktober (2/?)
carmy’s already in work mode, the sounds of him moving around the apartment pulling you from sleep.
drawers open and close, shoes shuffle toward the door, and the click of his belt buckle echoes in the quiet. you drag yourself out of bed and lean against the doorframe, still in your sleep shirt, your hair a mess. you watch him as he finishes getting ready: dark pants on, shirt half-tucked, his hair already a little wild.
he glances over, tight little frown like he’s trying to be good. “mornin’,” he says, already reaching for his jacket.
“mornin’,” you echo, soft, coy, and when he looks back you give him that look. one that makes his jaw clench, because he knows exactly what you’re thinking.
“nah, babe, i can’t. i really can’t–gotta be on time. deliveries, new people, all that shit, okay?” he’s trying to sound firm, but his eyes already betray him, flicking down your bare legs.
you just smirk. three steps and you’re close enough that he can smell your skin, warm from sleep. you hook your fingers at the hem of your sleep shirt and tug it up, over your head in one fluid motion. for someone who just woke up, you move so fucking gracefully it knocks the breath out of carmen.
his eyes go wide for a second, then dark, heavy, glued to your tits like he never stood a chance. and you know it, too. know the way he always goes stupid for you the second you bare yourself to him. so you tilt your head, lips curving into a pout that’s more weapon than plea, using every ounce of his weakness against him.
“you’re never quick,” he says, but his voice cracks a little, betrays him.
“then that’s on you,” you tease. “not me.”
and yeah, he should walk away, he wants to walk away, but you’ve got that smile, that determination, and he’s helpless against it.
you’re on your knees before he can tell you no again, fingers at his belt, tugging his pants down just enough. his half-protest dies in his throat the second you lick along the head, teasing.
it’s easier now, practiced, the way you take him into your mouth. still hungry, still greedy, but smoother, and he notices it: the way you’ve been learning him. and god, he’s never felt heat as good as the heat of your mouth, the wet slide of your tongue, the way you look up at him like you own him this way.
he braces his hand on the wall, his other buried in his hair, dragging it back, muttering, “y'gonna make me late.”
you hum around him, glancing up with that playful, knowing look, and his head tips back. “fuck–don’t-don’t look at me like that—” he stammers, because it feels too good. too much too fast.
he already knows he won’t be able to think straight the rest of the day.
your own hand slips between your thighs as you work him, fingers finding that slick, aching spot. every stroke of his cock in your mouth makes your hips twitch, makes your fingers circle harder. your lips are wet, mouth stretched around him, breath hot and messy against his skin. he finally caves, threading his fingers through your hair, hips stuttering like he can’t stop himself.
“god, baby, you–fuck–we should stop, i have to–” but his voice is breaking apart, every moan raw and needy. he knows this is why he’s lighter at work lately, why the new hires smile at him more, why sydney doesn’t have to dodge his sharpness so much. because of you. because you do this to him.
carmy gasps when you swallow him deeper, when your free hand cradles him at the base, when you moan against him like you want him to hear how badly you need it, too. his thighs tense, his head falls forward, and when he finally comes, it’s with a strangled, desperate sound, hot and heavy down your throat.
you don’t stop, not until you’ve swallowed him down greedy, not until you pull off with a loud, wet pop—obvious, deliberate, obscene. his cock twitches at the sound, and you smile up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand like it’s nothing.
he’s staring at you, chest heaving, hair a mess from where he’s dragged his hands through it.
“baby,” he breathes, dazed, looking down at you. “you’re— fuck, you’re somethin’ else.”
and you laugh, licking your lips, smug as hell. “you should be thanking me, carm. pretty sure your whole staff should be, too.”
you get to your feet and press the softest, most innocent kiss to his mouth — a sharp contrast to what you’d just done on your knees for him. it makes the corner of his mouth twitch, like he almost wants to laugh, and you give him a little push toward the door, sending him back out there to work.
vaporwave
prguitarman
titsay
yousharknotpass
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
