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dirtsweet · 1 month ago

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CONGRATS ON 300!! for the songfic challenge: hope by blood orange (i would pick a line or two but the whole song is perfect…) for carmy or richie from the bear? 🍊🧸

oh my god!!!! i’ve been wanting to write for richie and this is the perfect opportunity, thank u anon 🥹🥹 (p.s. i love blood orange so much amazing song choice)

HOPE | richie jerimovich

it was never clean, never easy. richie jerimovich didn’t know how to hold onto good things without shredding them first. you weren’t trying to fix him. you just kept showing up.

cw: alcohol, emotionally stunted men, mutual pining, situationship angst, suggestive themes, smoking, coarse language, emotional vulnerability, food service industry chaos, soft smut-adjacent tension, messy feelings, slow burn with no neat resolution, richie being richie

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @imperishablereverie, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna, @nozhdyved

The first time you meet Richie Jerimovich, he’s halfway through a loud, crass story about a buddy of his taking a shit in a Jewel-Osco parking lot. You’re elbow-deep in prep, eyes stinging from onions, and his voice cuts through the kitchen like a busted neon sign — too bright, too insistent to ignore. He talks with his whole body, hands slicing the air, laugh sharp and borderline obnoxious. Every sentence punctuated with a “you fuckin’ believe that?” like the room’s just lucky to witness his genius. You keep your head down, but your mouth quirks, because he’s an asshole, but he’s a funny asshole. And somehow, already, you can tell he knows it.

You don’t talk to him much that first week. He’s older, rooted in this place like a splinter under the skin, and you’re the new kid with too much to prove and no idea how to soften your edges. Richie smells like cologne that’s too sweet, cigarettes, and kitchen grease. He makes these offhand comments, lobbing them across the line like grenades, watching to see what explodes. You clock the way he needles the other guys, how he puffs up when Carmy’s around, like some half-feral stray desperate to stay in the room. You don’t rise to it. Not yet. You’ve got your own shit to survive.

But the kitchen’s a pressure cooker. Long hours, burned palms, the constant hiss of ticket machines like a pulse you can’t escape. It does something to people. Rips away the polite parts, leaves you raw and too awake at midnight. You start catching Richie’s eye in the chaos, some dumb, crooked grin aimed your way when you nail a pickup. An elbow brushing yours in the cramped walk-in. Private jokes layered with something heavier underneath. It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate, unpolished. It tastes like exhaustion and nicotine and wanting.

The first time it happens, it isn’t planned. It’s a shitty bar after close, the kind of place with sticky floors and well whiskey that burns going down. Richie buys you a shot, calls you “hotshot” with this smirk that dares you to swing. You should walk away. You don’t. There’s too much noise in your head, in your chest, and he’s loud enough to drown it out. One minute you’re arguing about some song on the jukebox, and the next his mouth’s on yours, rough, needy. It’s clumsy, teeth knocking, a mess of heat and frustration you’ve both been choking on for months.

After, neither of you talk about it. He ghosts for a couple days, then shows up at work acting like nothing happened. Throws a paper cup at your head, calls you a fuckin’ rookie, dares you to keep up. You match it with distance, ice in your veins, and that should’ve been it. But it isn’t. Because you start noticing the quiet moments — how he lingers when you laugh, how his gaze sticks to you a beat too long when he thinks you aren’t looking. He’ll say something shitty, then watch you like he’s hoping you’ll punch him just to keep him tethered.

Richie’s not soft. Not even close. He doesn’t know how to handle things that feel good without ruining them first. Every time it edges too close to real, he retreats into ego, into that cocky, abrasive armor. And you, stubborn asshole that you are, keep showing up anyway. On the line. In the alley behind the restaurant, sharing smokes in the dead hours before dawn. At the bar, half-drunk, daring him to be a person for five fucking minutes.

There’s a night — brutal double shift, one fryer down, tickets piling up like bad karma — where the whole kitchen’s about to snap. You’re sweating, fingers burned, hair sticking to your neck, and Richie’s barking at everyone like a man possessed. But then, in the lull between orders, his eyes find yours across the line. And there’s something in them. Not soft, not sweet. Just… stripped bare. Like you’re the only thing in the room not asking him to be anything else.

You toss him a towel. He grins. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

After that, it gets worse before it gets better. You fuck, sometimes. Quick, messy, a hand fisted in your hair, his stubble scraping your throat. The kind of thing you promise yourself you’ll stop doing, but never do. He’ll murmur shit against your skin — “fuck, you’re killin’ me, hotshot” — and you’ll pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because you both know neither of you’s good at meaning.

But then there’s a night you find him alone in the kitchen after close, hands braced on the counter, staring down at nothing. The room’s quiet, lights dim, the hum of the fridge like white noise. You don’t say anything, just step in close, your hand brushing his. He flinches, like he’s about to bolt, but you don’t pull away. Neither does he.

“Hey,” you say, voice low, careful like the walls might cave if you’re too loud.

He laughs, this wrecked little sound, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Christ, you always do that shit, huh?”

“What shit?”

“Just… show up.”

You shrug, a ghost of a smile. “Someone’s gotta keep you in line.”

And maybe it shouldn’t be enough. Maybe it’s pathetic, how you keep making space for him in a life that’s already too crowded. But it is. It’s enough. Because you see it — the way he starts seeking you out, how his jokes soften around the edges, how his hands linger longer when he thinks you won’t notice. He won’t say it. He can’t. Not yet. But it’s there in the way his voice dips when he says your name. In how he calls you on his breaks, claiming he needs to bitch about Carmy, then sitting in silence with you on the other end of the line.

And you realize, somewhere between the rushes and the drinks and the bruised nights, that you’ve become the place he runs to when the noise gets too loud. Not to fix him. Just to exist. To be the steady thing in a life he keeps trying to wreck.

You don’t ask him to be anything else. And for a guy like Richie, that’s hope.

It’s fucked up, clumsy, built on bad habits and worse decisions.

But it’s yours.

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dirtsweet · 1 month ago

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idk how you manage to make porn sound beautiful your writing is sooo good,, could i request D from the nsfw alphabet for carmy??🙏🙏🌸 please and thank you

😭😭 thank you so much, this is seriously such high praise! i’ve definitely spent a lot of time honing my craft, so i’m happy that it’s paying off! now, enjoy getting let in on carmy’s dirty little secret…

d is for dirty secret | carmen berzatto

warnings: explicit sex, degradation (consensual), emotional vulnerability, power dynamics, aftercare, past trauma mention (work-related stress), crying, dom/sub elements

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

It doesn’t come out easily. Nothing ever does with Carmy—not the good things, not the soft things, and definitely not this. He’s too guarded, too clenched behind the ribcage he built out of guilt and grief and sharp-edged expectations. Sex, for him, was always something that existed in theory. He’d had it, sure. Here and there, quick and forgettable. Mostly desperate. Never deep. Never slow. Never safe. And never like this—with someone patient enough to wait for the real him to come out, for the parts he doesn’t understand, the ones he’s afraid to want.

It starts one night with him restless beneath you, half-sweaty, half-high from the way your mouth had ruined him earlier, his chest rising sharp and fast like it always does when his brain’s spinning. You’re curled over him, sticky from his come, his hands still trembling a little on your waist. And you whisper it again—what you’ve been asking for days now, soft and coaxing at the seam of his ear.

“Tell me what you want.”

He’d brushed it off every time. With a shrug. A scoff. A smile so fake it could’ve been carved out of soap. But now, with his body unraveled under you and his walls cracked just wide enough to bleed, he gives you something real.

It’s barely a whisper.

The kind of truth that feels like it might fall apart if he says it any louder.

“I want you to… talk down to me,” he breathes, like he hates himself for saying it. Like the words are burning their way up his throat.

You don’t react at first. You don’t laugh, or blink, or flinch—and that’s what keeps him from shutting down. Just you, breathing steady, still wrapped around him like warmth itself. Your hand rests flat over his ribs, right where his heart stutters like a wounded animal. You feel it when he says the next part, even softer.

“Like, really mean. Tell me I’m fucking lucky. That I don’t deserve it.” He closes his eyes, shame flickering behind his lashes. “Tell me I’m not good at it. That my dick’s big but I don’t know how to use it. Just—fuck with me. I want that. I think.”

There’s silence between you for a beat. A long one. Weighted like a decision.

You kiss the underside of his jaw, gentle, slow. Your voice stays low, careful, reverent in a way that makes him shiver.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Why?”

He turns his head, eyes still shut. His breath catches. Like he’s scared you’ll ask, and even more scared you won’t.

“I used to get screamed at every day,” he says. “New York kitchens. Every service. Every fucking hour. About things I couldn’t fix. About things that weren’t my fault. I’d throw up before shifts sometimes. Wake up with my heart pounding so hard I couldn’t breathe. And no one gave a shit. You just kept your head down. You took it. Or you left.”

He swallows.

“But when you do it—when you say those things—I’m not alone in it. I’m not scared. You still want me. You’re still inside me, on me, with me… whatever. I can take it. It makes it feel like… power, I guess. Like I get to choose it, this time.”

The words bleed into the dark between you, soft and aching. He’s not looking at you, not even now. He’s never looked so open and so closed at once—shoulders tense, jaw sharp, but his chest… wide open. Exposed. Like a wound that stopped bleeding and never learned to scar.

You take your time before responding. You run your thumb over the ridge of his hip, feel the tremor in his leg as your palm drags down the muscle of his thigh. He’s still half-hard. The confession didn’t scare his body like it scared his voice.

“Okay,” you say again, slow and deliberate. “I’ll say whatever you want. I’ll be so fucking mean.”

He groans at that, almost involuntarily. His cock twitches between you, already starting to swell.

“But I want you to listen, too,” you add, leaning in, brushing your mouth over the corner of his. “When it’s over. When I say the other stuff. The real stuff. You gonna be able to do that, Carmen?”

His eyes open finally. Wide. Blue. Fragile.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I want that, too.”

So you rise to your knees over him, slow and deliberate, watching the way his gaze trails up the length of your body like it’s a prayer he doesn’t know the words to. He’s beautiful in this light—hair a mess of curls, collarbones sharp and flushed, chest still marked where you bit him earlier. He doesn’t look away when you reach down and wrap your hand around him again.

He’s thick in your palm. Heavy, flushed pink with arousal, veins standing out with the blood rushing under his skin. His head tips back again as you stroke him, your thumb grazing the slit—wet, slick, leaking already like the need never really left him.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Please.”

“You are lucky,” you say, your voice sharpening just a little, steel under silk. “You don’t even know how fucking lucky you are, do you?”

His eyes flutter. He pants.

“You get to fuck me, Berzatto. And you don’t even know what you’re doing. All this dick and no clue how to use it.”

He moans. Loud. Desperate. You climb over him again, press the thick head of him against your entrance and watch him come undone.

“God, look at you,” you murmur as you sink down onto him—inch by inch, slow and merciless. “Already losing it. Haven’t even started.”

And he hasn’t. His hands clutch your hips like you’re a lifeline, his chest arched up into yours, breath wild and broken as you bottom out.

You see it in his face—this release of something deeper than lust. Like shame being peeled off layer by layer. Like trauma being rewired by pleasure so sharp it makes him cry out. You ride him slow at first, but the way he bucks up into you, the helpless noises—he’s not going to last. He’s not meant to.

You lean in, fingers gripping his jaw. Your mouth close to his ear.

“Bet they made you feel small, didn’t they?” you hiss. “Made you feel like you weren’t worth shit.” He nods, choked, undone.

“Well now I’m making you feel like that. And you’re fucking hard for it.”

He shouts, hips jerking helplessly under you, his whole body convulsing with the force of it.

“That’s it, baby. Fucking take it.”

And he does. With everything he’s got.

You don’t slow down. You don’t stop—not when he’s this far gone. Not when his eyes are rolling back, not when his jaw’s gone slack and his hands are pawing blindly at your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His cock is twitching deep inside you, thick and swollen, pulsing like it’s too much for him to hold in. Like he’s going to break apart and you’re the only thing keeping him from floating off the bed entirely.

“You feel that?” you whisper, dragging your hips up and slamming back down—hard enough to knock a sharp gasp out of him. “That’s me doing the work. Not you. You just get to lie there like a good little fucktoy and take it.”

His breath shudders. You can see the way the words hit him—low and deep and hot, turning something in his chest inside out.

His mouth opens, tries to form a sound, but nothing comes out. Just a gasp, a moan, something wrecked. You lean down, mouth against the sweat-damp skin of his neck.

“I could get off on this cock without you even doing a single thing,” you murmur, voice sharp as teeth and sweet as poison. “All that talk about how good you are with your hands, how precise you are in the kitchen—but in bed? You’re fucking useless.”

He groans—full-bodied and helpless. His hands clench on your thighs like he’s in pain, like the pleasure is boiling over and he’s barely holding it in. His face is flushed to his ears, hair stuck to his forehead in damp curls, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitching.

You grin—slow, dangerous, almost fond.

“Pathetic,” you hiss. “You’re so goddamn pathetic like this, Carmen. You like that, huh? Being used like this? Being told what a worthless little thing you are?”

His whole body jerks. His back arches off the mattress. “Yes—fuck, yes—don’t stop, please don’t—”

You don’t. You fuck him harder. Faster. The wet sounds of your bodies colliding fill the room, slick and obscene. His cock slips so deep inside you it punches little cries out of your throat, but you don’t stop—not when he’s so close, not when you feel his stomach start to tighten and his legs begin to tremble under you.

You bring your hand to his throat—gentle at first, just resting there, just enough pressure to feel his pulse hammering. His eyes flutter open, dazed and desperate. You don’t squeeze—you don’t have to. The look in your eyes alone has him panting like he’s about to die from it.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” you say, low and firm and mean. “You’re gonna come like a desperate little bitch because I said so. Because you’re mine. You hear me?”

“Yes,” he gasps. “Please, I—fuck, I’m—”

You slam down on him one more time, and that’s it. His mouth falls open around a silent cry and he comes—hard. Harder than before. Harder than he’s ever come in his life. His whole body seizes beneath you, thighs clenching, spine bowing, his cock kicking deep inside you as he fills you with it—hot and pulsing and endless.

He doesn’t make a sound at first. Just trembles. Just holds on like he’ll die if he lets go. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, wet at the corners like he’s short-circuited, like whatever he just felt was too much to process in real time.

When it finally passes—when the shock stops rolling through his nerves and his body goes soft beneath you—he blinks up at you like he forgot how to speak.

You pull off him slowly, carefully, your thighs trembling as you settle next to him. He’s a mess—chest heaving, sweat gleaming on his skin, hair ruined, come smeared across both your thighs. You reach for a towel and gently wipe him clean, pressing kisses to his jaw, his temple, the corners of his mouth.

He swallows hard. Blinks. Still not quite there yet. You drag your fingers through his curls and wait.

“You okay?” you whisper, soft again. Stripped of cruelty. Honest.

He nods, dazed. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I just—” He lets out a long breath, like something that’s been stuck in him for years finally dislodged. “That was… insane. I didn’t even know I could feel that much.”

You stroke a thumb under his eye, wipe away the tear you hadn’t pointed out.

“I meant what I said earlier,” you whisper. “You’re not useless. Not even close. You’re so fucking good, Carmen. And I love you.”

His eyes cut to yours then, sharp and clear, and he smiles—small and warm and real.

“I know,” he murmurs. “You’re sweet.” He leans in, kisses you lazy and slow, tongue dragging against yours like a man drunk on want. Then he laughs, rough and low. “But goddamn, you look so hot when you’re mean.”

You grin against his mouth.

“Lucky for you,” you whisper, “I love being mean to you.”

And from the look in his eyes—hungry, wide, reverent—he knows you mean it.

#this makes sooo much more sense than praise kink carmy #the bear #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy the bear #carmy berzatto #carmy x reader #the bear fx

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