fckmecarmy

[fckmecarmy]

i wanna be like. carmen’s puppy girl so bad

[fckmecarmy]

Divorced dad Nanami who still pines after his ex wife until he meets you, the adorable bakery owner who makes the best focaccia he's ever tasted. He tells himself it's just the bread. The warm, inviting atmosphere of your storefront. The way you smile at him when he starts visiting several nights a week on his way home from the office, like you've picked up on some ulterior motive of his that even Nanami himself isn't aware of.

He visits one Saturday morning with a cute, small companion with the same sharp brown eyes you've come to find yourself daydreaming of in moments alone. She presses her tiny face against the glass case where all of your sweets are displayed and points to a giant chocolate chip cookie.

"That one, daddy. Please?" She looks at him and pokes her little bottom lip out. As if she'd ever have to beg him for a thing.

You're busy packaging up her cookie and a loaf of rye and making polite small talk with the girl when you hear the bell above your front door ring.

"Welcome in! I'll be right with you," you call with a smile. The new customer doesn't say a word to you, but you look up to see a very put-together woman with a deep frown on her delicate features. She crosses her arms over her chest and positively glowers at Nanami.

"So it's her," she says simply.

The little girl turns around, chocolate already smeared across her cheek from the giant cookie in her hand. "Mommy!"

Nanami seems to stand straighter, and his cheeks flush a brilliant pink. "I'm sorry?"

"Don't play dumb," the woman says. "You haven't stopped raving about this bread for weeks." She nods curtly to you. "I doubt if it's the bread, Kento."

Caught in their crosshairs, you announce the total price for Nanami's purchases. He seems to blink himself out of a trance and hands you his card with a mumbled apology. You wonder why he feels the need to apologize on this woman's behalf, and suddenly, you feel as if you're intruding on some intimate argument. There's history here, and you smile sympathetically at their little girl, who seems totally unbothered by the tension between her parents.

"Doesn't matter, I guess. It's not like we're married anymore," the woman says with a look toward you that you can't read. "Maybe now you'll finally leave me alone and move on." She's haughty, with her nose in the air and bitterness in her tone.

Nanami looks at you as if he wants to say something, but seems to think better of it. He grabs his daughter's hand and nods to you in thanks, then steers her toward the door.

"Bye, mommy!" she calls through a mouthful of cookie, waving a little hand as her father guides her away.

"Two baguettes, please." Your attention is drawn back to the woman at the counter, whose lips are spread into a thin, mirthless smile. "And don't let him waste your time."

You can't help but bark out a laugh. "I beg your pardon?"

"We've been divorced for 2 years," she confides as if she's letting you in on some grand secret. "He hasn't moved on, clearly."

You nod, trying to conceal your grin. "Clearly."

She pays you for the bread and leaves without another word, and you have to brace yourself against the counter when she's gone.

What? Was that?

The next time Nanami visits, it's to buy another cookie for his daughter.

And slip you his number when he pays with cash.

[fckmecarmy]

i have such a soft spot for pathetic boys. ugh stop pouting and crying before i make you cum so hard you forget your own name.

[fckmecarmy]

carmen berzatto humping your leg carmen berzatto humping your leg carmen berzatto humping your leg carmen berzatto humping your leg carmen berzatto humping your leg carmen berzatto humping your leg carmen berzatto humping your leg carmen berzatto humping your leg carmen berzatto humping your leg carmen berzatto humping your leg

[fckmecarmy]

i firmly believe fanfic writers should do whatever they want forever. there is no wrong way to write fic. i love you all

[fckmecarmy]

all your boyfriend lip wants to do is get you something nice, even if it’s in an unconventional way.

“what are you looking at?” you ask lip, turning to follow his gaze across the way from your booth together. he’s been unfocused in your conversation since you sat down.

one second you have his attention, the next he’s staring past you.

“… that your ex?”

you see past the restaurant’s parties, focusing on a familiar head of curly hair. alden laughs with his head tipped back, sitting with two other men. they too are laughing at something he said, one pausing so he can drink from a glass of frothy beer.

“uh huh,” you murmur, eyes tracing the side of alden’s face before you shift to look at lip again.

lip’s attention is mostly still on alden. if you had to describe what he currently looked like, you’d call him annoyed. it’s not that alden has done anything to lip, but there’s something in lip’s gaze that slightly unsettles your stomach. you saw it around that time you and lip were being weird with each other after your first kiss, and you swear you saw it when you would interact with mr. vale. now that you’re together, there’s no deniability of what it can be, you’re not stupid.

“why’re you staring at him?” you prompt lip.

“m’not,” he mumbles… while still staring at alden.

“can you look at me?”

lip sighs, obliging your request within two seconds of thought. you smile softly at his lack of delay, and although his eyes still carry that irritation, he slowly smiles back. something calms the tide in him.

“that’s better,” you hum.

but lip winds up flickering his gaze back over there and then quickly back to you.

“he’s comin’ this way,” he says through his teeth, quiet in his assessment.

your eyebrows furrow before you turn slightly to confirm. lip’s right; alden’s heading straight for your table.

alden whistles as he approaches, spouting your name. he looks similar to when you last saw him and to before that. he’s… unchanging. it used to be a comforting thing, but now you have no clue how you didn’t end everything sooner.

“hi, how are you?” you politely question. you still have your manners after all.

“doing fine. what about you? this a date?” he gestures generally over the table. lip’s got you sandwiched between him and the wall, technically in the middle of you and alden as well.

“i’m good,” you say first.

“and… yeah, this is a date. this is lip.”

“her boyfriend,” lip adds without hesitation.

for it being a few months of dating, it still makes your stomach and chest so warm to think of lip as your boyfriend. except, the way he uttered it to alden, you know what he’s doing. staking his claim immediately to assert himself and to not become lost in the interaction between you and alden.

“oh… word?” alden says. for a moment, and you could be mistaken, you see something cross alden’s face. it’s familiar, the brief doubt and insecurity. you lived with him for so long, it’s hard to shake the habits you grew used to.

lip doesn’t know alden that well besides what you’ve told him before, but he notices it too. his hand reaches for yours under the table, dragging it onto his thigh as he envelopes it.

“wait, i remember you. you’re one of those parents from her ballet classes. i saw you the last time i came down.”

one of those parents. lip’s jaw ticks, but he forces a stiff grin onto his mouth. you squeeze his hand under the table for reassurance.

“mhm. remember you, too. came to see my girl for somethin’, right?”

you can groan at the way lip says that. it’s a mix of feelings that spring in you. one part elated lip’s freely referring you to this way, the other mortified about it being in possession towards your ex boyfriend.

alden doesn’t have to know that you weren’t lip’s girl yet at that time, lip thinks. but he feels a bit more smug that the belief is instilled in alden as the other man awkwardly rubs the back of his neck.

“guess so,” alden mumbles.

“nice to officially meet you,” he adds, looking back to you, “i just came by to say hi… and that i hope you’re doing well for yourself.”

lip’s hand tenses. alden’s care, as you previously have told lip, is present despite everything. you two ended on good terms, which is why alden came to you all those months ago to confide in you about a predicament with his new apartment, at that time new, and his mother.

that doesn’t mean lip has to like it. he’s on okay terms with tami himself, but there’s not that friendliness that you and alden seem to have, and that stupid look of longing on alden’s face as he looks at you perturbs lip. it would perturb any boyfriend, especially on an outing with his beloved girlfriend.

fuck off, lip wants to say, you had your chance.

“i am,” you state. lip turns to you, for some reason, surprised by your declaration. your fingers lace with his.

“i’m happy… and i hope you are, too.”

as always, which you have a talent for, it assuages the rising fire in lip’s being. his shoulders lower, the subtle reminder necessary for his floating insecurities. regardless of your history with alden, things are different now. you’re in a relationship with lip and you’re happy, he’s happy. he doesn’t need to get so territorial and shield you away from a once perceived threat.

“… getting there,” alden says honestly.

but it unnerves lip how you and alden smile at each other. it’s understanding he’s not privy to. he doesn’t know that look. he has his own look with you, but this one between you and alden is loaded. it’s familiar. silent communication. lip wants it to stop.

he clears his throat, tapping his thumb onto the back of your hand in case you forgot about him.

“well, it was nice seeing you,” you say, glancing at lip. lip’s relieved you’re ending this interaction.

“you, too. take care, alright?”

alden awkwardly waves at you and then at lip. then he goes back to his table with his possible friends. lip’s head turns to watch as alden gathers his keys, phone, and wallet, muttering something unintelligible to the others. lip can’t make out what he’s saying, even if it’s evident he’s leaving, and he doesn’t get an opportunity to linger.

your fingers under his chin guide him back to looking at you. he realizes what he was doing once he sees your pretty face come into view. a sheepish grin overtakes his mouth.

“eyes on me,” you instruct. he huffs an amused breath.

“you got it, gorgeous.”

the car ride home is quiet.

lip stares forward through the windshield, his elbow on the center console, his hand empty from usually holding yours. as you glance at the side of his face, you see how his jaw continues to flex, tense, and set. he’s restraining himself, and while you appreciate it, it’s not your style to remain idle as someone you care for needs to let something out. you also can’t sit in this mood and wait for the inevitable. your anxiety will only rise.

“… baby, please talk to me,” you murmur.

his bicep twitches as he holds onto the wheel. he answers you with another beat of silence.

“you know he doesn’t mean anything to me anymore, right?”

you can’t wait for home to do this. you know how lip likes to deal with conflict, how he’s unlearning old habits, but you don’t want to retreat into yourself. you’re prodding because you want to get closer to a resolution.

lip sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. he believes you, he does, but there’s a stubbornness refusing to let go of the opposite notion.

“you care about him,” he utters succinctly.

“i care about you.”

it’s too quick for lip to come up with an immediate rebuttal. because even if you do still care for alden, less like you say or greatly in a subconscious manner like his brain’s attempting to warn him about, it doesn’t negate the fact that you care heaps more about lip.

“i don’t like how he was lookin’ at you,” he decides to say after a moment.

you sigh, doing your best to maintain your patience.

“i can’t control that. but i didn’t notice. i wasn’t there for alden.”

another truth thwacks lip. without having to say it, lip picks up on it. you didn’t notice alden’s staring because you were looking at lip and eating your meal. you were on a date with lip and you honored that. you lived in it and relished in it, shared fries with him, kissed him when you both were food and crumb free.

there’s another issue at hand besides his jealousy. it’s definitely a factor that’s worsening how he perceives this whole thing, but he’s not just pissed at alden appearing out of the blue. he was fine when alden left. it’s more so what happened after you and lip got up to the register with your ticket.

“did he have to fuckin’ pay for our food?” lip grumbles, unveiling more of the source of his sour behavior.

“… i didn’t know he was going to do that.”

you were just as surprised as lip when the hostess explained that a gentleman with dark brown hair took care of the bill.

“you didn’t? he didn’t know about me losin’ my job recently?”

you hate what lip’s implying. while you know it’s coming from a place of disbelief, it doesn’t mean you blabbed his problems to alden. besides, lip’s been working from home remotely for your brother elliot’s company selling and keeping track of auto parts. he’s mostly on the company phone and computer they sent him sending emails and bargaining according to a script he’s still getting used to, but it’s only while lip figures out the money to start classes soon. he’s not going to make the same mistake relying on something he’s not even passionate about. his car experience has helped immensely as of late with this new gig. he’s still in the probationary period and his first paycheck is due in a week.

“i haven’t talked to alden since that day he stopped by the studio, so you can cut that out,” you state sternly.

although you’re spectacularly good at handling lip’s temper, you also won’t let yourself be talked to like that when you did nothing wrong. it sobers lip enough for him to relent as he stops at a red light. he slowly turns to look at you, guilt on his face.

“i’m sorry,” he utters.

“i just… i feel like he was remindin’ me about the shit i’m in. s’not your fault.”

your gaze softens. you understand where lip’s head is. alden unknowingly exacerbated lip’s current insecurity regarding his career on top of stirring jealousy in your boyfriend.

“i think he was just trying to be nice, but i get it, okay? remember you’re not sinking. we’re okay.”

lip nods. he forgets that just because something bad happened, it doesn’t mean something else will. it’s like he keeps looking out for possible threats and outcomes. alden showing up struck up a bullshit thought that he might actually lose you. him paying for the bill made lip feel inadequate. the foundation feels shaky.

“i… i don’t want him to think i can’t take care of you,” he mumbles, his hand turning palm up as it waits for yours.

it’s a heavy admission. sometimes, you feel like you’re moving so fast with lip. other times, not fast enough. while you’ve been his girlfriend for a short period, you both seem to know where this will eventually head. it thrills and scares you. him holding his hand out like that feels like a promise.

but you take it anyway. you squeeze it like a lifeline.

“don’t worry about him. it’s only you and me in this relationship. no one else… and i think you’re already taking care of me just fine.”

your reassurance means the world to lip. it clears the smoke, the fire, and leaves him more level-headed about the situation. tami may have a say with his kids, but she has none of it with you and him. he has to apply that same mentality with you and alden. you won’t drop lip for someone else like that. you’ve chosen, and are actively choosing, lip.

he has a job. he’s looking into options for finishing his degree. the world isn’t crumbling. it’s changing, but it’s okay. he’s okay. you two are okay.

“c’mere.”

he leans in close over the console and you smile as you meet him halfway. it’s like puzzle pieces clicking into place, the way your parted mouths touch for an intentional and simple kiss. but it never continues that way, sliding and then indulging in another, and then another, until it’s lip deepening. until you follow his lead and hum a pleasant thing against him.

the car horns behind you resound. you pull away in surprise, flustered as you recall where you both are.

“lip, the light—”

before you can get too much away, his hand tucks itself onto the edge where your jaw connects to your neck.

“let ‘em wait.”

and it’s hard to argue when lip initiates a hungrier kiss. it absorbs the logic right from your head. so much so that you can barely hear the angry, blaring car horns honking behind… mostly.

lip grunts as mickey tosses him a box of inventory from the giant truck he’s working in. mickey works for a high end store, which always baffles lip, but they utilize mickey in a variety of ways.

security, delivery, stocker, negotiator. mickey’s top skills are consistently put to use.

lip’s being paid for his service. he’s done a number of tasks for his siblings, side jobs, mechanic work for the parents at your studio. it’s kept him coasting while he waits on his first paycheck and it’ll do nicely in the fund he’s starting towards completing school.

maybe being optimistic isn’t so bad. he feels like more of a jerk for behaving how he did with you. so negative when he didn’t have to be.

“shouldn’t you be more gentle with this shit?” lip asks as he sets a box down onto the stack nearby.

“nah. s’not the expensive stuff yet. like this one’s expensive. s’got the fuckin’ logos all over it. see?”

mickey hands it off to lip. lip glances down and blinks at the stamped logos on the tape and the box itself. it feels like overkill.

while the two of them continue to work and lip sets the logo covered boxes with gentle effort, he can’t help the old way his brain used to work, and how a spark of it ignites for a second. if a younger version of himself stumbled upon this opportunity, he’d be taking the contents of the truck, along with his siblings, and making the money they needed for the house. those survival instincts of his are kicking in.

memories of hiding the money from frank, ensuring how they can get kevin in on it somehow, someone he needs to call soon to check up on, see how veronica and the twins are doing, since he hasn’t in a while. he thinks about it quietly, shifting his gaze to mickey who absentmindedly continues his duty.

“you ever think about selling anything?” lip asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

mickey lifts his head. much like lip, mickey has that warped viewpoint that’s stuck with him for so long. not everyone thinks like the gallaghers and milkoviches. it’s like mickey is recognizing the similar thread that pulls him to ian, the one that his rich neighbors and the customers he sees often don’t have.

no sense of bark or bite, because they never had to have either for what they have.

“… yeah,” he murmurs with a shrug, “but they’d notice if i took too much so i always take a little sumn sumn every now and then, but not often ‘nough for them to catch on.”

lip nods. he gets that. mickey has to be careful. it’s better to have this kind of job than not. he’s doing okay for himself and lip’s brothers.

“what’s the last thing you took?”

mickey pauses as he thinks. a small smile breaks onto his face.

“a watch to celebrate ian’s support group. told him i got it as a gift from work… he pretended to believe me.”

that makes lip smirk. ian’s never exactly been on the straight and narrow himself, but he does try to be better than the day before. lip has always admired that about him. he’s more consistent about taking his meds as well.

with the topic at hand, lip thinks about you. he’d like to get you something nice like mickey’s gotten for ian. he can’t afford anything crazy like a snazzy watch, but the idea of it is something that strikes him. you put up with his shit, you’re good to his kids, you work so hard to go above and beyond for the people you care for, you’re working your summer ballet classes, and you love him. he wants to do something special for you and not feel bad about it hurting his wallet.

and what with alden’s underhanded move of “kindness” that’s been fucking with his head in this transitionary period of careers, lip really wants a win here. a bigger win. he wants to see you smile and show something off that he got you. he wants to show you he’s capable of taking care of you.

“hey, uh,” lip chimes to regain mickey’s attention, “would you mind if i looked through and grabbed somethin’?”

mickey stops at the edge of the truck. he folds his arms against his chest, a knowing expression on his features. lip braces himself.

“window shoppin’ for tutu?”

there it is.

lip makes a soft sound of amusement and shakes his head. he won’t give mickey the satisfaction of a full laugh.

“yes or no?”

mickey points behind him where he stands inside the container.

“go ahead. jewelry’s in the back of the truck.”

you linger on your couch, lying down atop of it as you thumb through the pages of your book. you’re enjoying the seldom quiet after a long day with all the kids from your classes. instructing ballet in the summer is a bit more taxing since you get new kids into your roster, a portion only there so their parents can get them out of the house and away from their eye for a while. the classes, in turn, are more rambunctious. you’re good at navigating them, but you are only one person.

lip’s assisted you every now and then, there simply to help wrangle them into behaving by parroting your teachings and steering them back to what they’re supposed to be doing. another voice has definitely positively impacted the way they listen.

and speaking of lip, there’s a knock at your door. you smile in anticipation as you slide your bookmark into your book and set it onto your coffee table. how can you not be happy? your man’s here, presumably done with helping mickey and the errands he had to run for ian.

you open the door with a skip in your step. lip stands on the other side, a smile spreading over his mouth in an instant. he closes the distance and plants a kiss onto your lips with no hesitation in a greeting.

“hey, beautiful, how are you?”

“tired. what about you?”

“same; glad i’m here.”

he takes your hand and leads you to your couch. you blink curiously as he guides you to sit down with him.

“got you somethin’.”

you tilt your head in question as lip retrieves a rectangular box from his pocket. the velvet finish of it throws you off guard. it’s not that lip doesn’t gift you things, because he does, but he hasn’t given you any kind of jewelry, nothing extravagant. 

“you didn’t have to do that,” you say despite how you eye the box with a raise of your eyebrows.

“wanted to. here. open it.”

you take the box from lip and stare at it for a moment. as you look up skeptically, he has a soft expression. he gestures his head for you to continue.

with a sigh, you slowly lift the lid of the box. the sparkle from the earrings inside is immediate, dazzling diamonds simply surrounded by their white gold cocoons. from the look alone, you know these aren’t from a typical superstore or department one.

your head shifts up, touched, shocked, but confused. lip’s smile widens.

“you like ‘em?”

“lip… they’re gorgeous, but…”

“but?”

you have to tear your eyes away from the expensive and abundant gift with a bit of effort.

“where did you get the money for this? i… i love them, i just… these look like they cost as much as my car.”

lip snorts. for one, which he won’t say aloud because he loves you, your car is a piece of shit. then again, he understands the correlation you’ve made since you told him you bought it used. so the prices may align. not like he knows since he didn’t spend a dime on these.

“i, uh, didn’t buy ‘em.”

your head tilts, further bewilderment on your features. he likes how you keep looking back at the earrings, the attention they continue to rob.

“lip…”

“baby, come on, you deserve this. i can put them on you for you if you want.”

“lip,” you say again.

normally, he likes how his name sounds coming off your lips. sweetly, in pleasure, in a whine, playfully when he makes you laugh. but the way you say it right now, with a bit of an edge, sincerity he knows he can’t get past, he scrambles a bit in his head. he thinks about how mickey lied to ian about the watch, but you’re too sharp. not only does lip not like lying to you, there’s no use in pretending when you already have suspicion like that in those beckoning eyes of yours.

“okay… okay,” he relents. he’s not sure what your reaction will be. he braces himself as he takes a deep breath.

“when i was helpin’ mickey unload stock, he said it’d be okay if i took somethin’ and that they wouldn’t notice long as it was one thing.”

the more lip speaks, the more the truth settles in. it takes you a beat to register the depth of what he’s saying as he explains himself gradually. you glance again at the earrings and then at lip.

“so you stole these.”

his eyebrows furrow with the use of the s word. it takes him aback. he thought you’d be more thrilled, but you sound accusatory more than you do grateful.

“no, i took ‘em ‘cause i thought you deserved somethin’ nice for bein’ such a good person and girlfriend and for helpin’ me out through this hard time in my life.”

but you still stare at him unimpressed. in fact, to lip, it looks like disappointment.

“okay, so i fuckin’ stole ‘em, so what?” he grumbles under the weight of your glare.

“mickey said no one would miss ‘em, anyway. don’t know why you’re lookin’ at me like that.”

it appalls you how lip seems to graze over the severity of his actions. the earrings are nice, yes, but he skips over the wrongful part of what he’s done.

“because you stole them. mickey giving you permission doesn’t make it okay,” you attempt to explain, but lip’s in defensive mode.

he stands abruptly from the couch and rolls his eyes.

“save me the fuckin’ lecture,” he says with your name at the end of his sentence. your own eyebrows knit together from how he’s behaving.

“excuse me? i’m just trying to tell you that i can’t accept these—” you get up yourself and push the earrings towards him.

“why the fuck not? they’re yours. i got them for you.” he pushes them back towards your body with firmness.

“because they’re not mine, lip! they’re not even mickey’s.”

that’s a technicality. lip feels a surge of emotions welling up in him. suddenly, he thinks about to the multiple conversations you’ve both had about the person he used to be, your claims of belief and support. it feels damning, like a lie, like he should’ve known you wouldn’t accept a younger, stupider, cockier version of himself. not with the moral righteousness everyone seems to have about things he saw as normal to survive.

“i thought you’d be happy,” he says bitterly.

maybe it’s the strain on your body and your mind, maybe it’s how tense you are, and maybe it’s because you don’t have the patience at the moment with him talking to you like this. but you shake your head and push the box to him again.

“i was… but you bring me earrings and tell me they’re stolen while trying to convince me that it’s perfectly fine—what else am i supposed to say?”

“how ‘bout thank you.”

your face falls further. it conveys to him how that’s not going to happen, as well as how the box is still suspended in the air. with an annoyed scoff, he snatches the box from your grip. your hand drops to your side, noting the radiating anger coming off of him.

“fine. i’ll take ‘em back since you want to be a fuckin’ ungrateful brat.”

his sudden insult takes you aback. as much as his words sting, so do your eyes as they well with tears. you do your best to keep your voice steady as you avert your gaze and clear your throat.

“… it’s for the best.”

you walk behind him as he storms out. you close the door for him, one hand still on the surface of it… the other raising up to cup your mouth as the tears start to stream from your eyes and down your cheeks silently in your empty apartment.

you step away from it, not bothering with the lock, needing to pull yourself together first. you don’t want to cry right now, not like you have a choice, and you’re trying to minimize it. you don’t know how he could be so cruel, how it escalated so quickly, how you want to take it all back.

but you startle as the door slowly comes open. your head lifts up in that direction in time for lip to rapidly decrease the space between you and then wrap his arms around you. your head falls into his neck, a pained squeak slipping from your throat. the contact seems to have broken the dam you held back.

“i’m so fuckin’ sorry, baby,” he whispers against your head.

he had seen your tears forming, attempting to listen to the urge to bolt, but as soon as he got past the threshold, something deep in him stopped him. all that progress, all the work he’s done, for once that’s what urged him to turn back, louder than the instincts from before.

that’s been happening more and more these days. it’s new. full. he’s not used to it.

“s’okay,” you say between soft sobs. it fucking kills him.

“it’s not,” he says, right before he kisses your forehead.

he walks with you again to your couch. only, when you get there, he sits with you in his lap. your head remains tucked in his neck as he strokes the outside of your thigh back and forth soothingly. it helps greatly in lessening your tears. he leans in to kiss some of them away.

“you’re right. it was wrong of me to take the earrings. don’t cry,” he murmurs.

you see what he’s trying to do. while you appreciate it, you’re aware you weren’t trying to deescalate yourself. so you separate from his neck to look at him. there’s guilt on his face that you want to wipe away. you cup his jaw, pleased to find him leaning into it.

“i think they’re amazing,” you clarify first.

“and thank you for thinking of me—”

“you don’t gotta do that, baby—”

“no, thank you, i mean it. your intentions were sweet.”

he swallows and nods. he notices the gratitude now beyond the veil of defensiveness that came over him. which makes him feel more like shit for going off on you that way.

“now can you tell me what that was about?”

lip removes his hand from your thigh so he can draw yours from his face. he kisses your palm, holding your hand thereafter. while it calms you, you know it was also to calm himself.

“i, uh… i-i used to steal a lot growin’ up. needed it for the bills, to keep our house. there weren’t a lot of options for me to make money at my age ‘sides that. fiona was already workin’ so much.”

you listen intently as lip explains himself. the more he does, the more you understand.

“i don’t know… when you were tellin’ me it was wrong, i… i felt like… you were judgin’ me.”

and it’s obvious not just for stealing the earrings. you don’t know the specifics of lip’s troubled past, but you see now that your reaction made him feel like you were judging the act of lip stealing in general. it was his normal. it’s still a subject that’s taboo. you feel a bit foolish for being so adamant now.

“never,” you say with a shake of your head. lip nods along, pressing his forehead to yours.

“i know… i know. sorry for bein’ an asshole.”

there are parts of lip that are unsavory. but you’ve been there yourself. you know he had to make difficult decisions, like your parents did, like you and your siblings did. the line between right and wrong has been blurred here, but you comprehend how his intentions were pure. he cares about you and is trying to show that outside what he usually does. that’s what you want to focus on. the thought.

“i’ll keep the earrings,” you say softly.

he feels a bit of hope within, but he doesn’t want you to compromise yourself for him. he knows what he’s done, his regrets, and non-regrets.

“you don’t have to. i can take them back.”

“no, no, i want them,” you insist, “you got them for me. they’re special.”

hearing that administers a balm onto his frayed nerves. his shoulders lower as the tension escapes him. you’re not mad at him. you’re not upset with him. you don’t think he’s some kind of low-life.

“yeah?” he asks with a twinge of aspiration.

“yeah,” you confirm, nose brushing his.

“but i’m going to wait a while to wear them, just in case… and let’s try to keep the stealing to a minimum now?”

he chuckles a little. relief spreads throughout him. you don’t think less of him and you’re accepting his gift. there’s no need for the alarm bells that were once going off in his head. your approval means the world to him.

“deal. just wanted to you to have somethin’ nice.”

you smile and press a kiss onto his lips. he responds in kind, letting his mouth linger for more. he waits for you to initiate, which you do, appeasing him by kissing him again and again in a succession of pecks.

“you don’t have to spoil me,” you whisper.

“but i want to,” he mumbles back.

“one day… one day i’m goin’ to buy you more than that. maybe a car… fuck, maybe a house.”

that surprises you. you pull your head back to look at him. your eyes are a touch red from crying, but twinkling from the glisten of the previous tears. they’re devestating to him. not because they make him sad, but because he knows he might just do anything for them if you let him.

“a house?”

there’s that intensity that keeps coming up between you two. you dip more and more into a future together. you’re both less and less sheepish as the topic comes up. lip’s never been more ready for it, and he will be even more so tomorrow, and a week from now.

so he knows that it’ll eventually come.

“someday.”

someday, someday with you. a house, his kids, waking up to you, going to bed with you… extra rooms, extra feet running around besides yours, his, fred’s, and bambi’s.

en avant masterlist

if you would like to be tagged in future installments, please let me know; ageless blogs will not be tagged so be sure to add it to your bio

tags: @purplerainx1, @pain-in-the-ashe, @smoooore, @natureartisian

[fckmecarmy]

a man who fucks you with every intention of being your last. delivering impossibly deep and rough thrusts that have stars bursting behind your eyes and burns away all of the ghosts who ever dared touched you before, leaving nothing but him.

his voice is low, but clear as he brushes his lips against your earlobe, spilling out his unspoken desires that carves into your very being.

“i’m so deep in you, baby, you feel that?” his heavy palm rests over your lower abdomen, pressing down a little as he pants out, “gonna fill you up right here so everyone knows exactly who you belong to.”

[fckmecarmy]

i am unfortunately a sucker for “kissing practice” that escalates to making out with a little too much interest. and escalates. and escalates.

[fckmecarmy]

Omg can you please do a baker x dating Sydney camera roll

your camera roll if you were a baker dating sydney adamu ᥫ᭡。 trying out new recipes for each other....being bffs with marcus....surprising her with baked goods.... kissing frosting off her nose...i'm literally smiling so big right now!!

taglist :: @melonlovesthings

[fckmecarmy]

[fckmecarmy]

loveee ur writing can u pls do a carmy fic in the exes to lovers trope? maybe along with some jealousy and angst too? tia <3

a/n: hi tia!! thank you so so much for sending in an ask, im so excited! and thank you so much for reading, it means a ton! i hope this is at least sort of what you had in mind, if there's anything i can add or tweak definitely feel free to let me know! always happy to add stuff on, etc. hope you like it! :)

contains: angst, a break up, mention of mikey, happy ending, guest starring luca.

chicago, now

The kitchen is chaos.

The heat presses in like it’s a second skin, leaving everyone warm and sweaty, tense. 

Carmen runs a hand through his hair. 

“Let's fucking go chefs, move it, we’re behind!”

He says it loud enough for it to bounce off the walls of the kitchen, loud enough to potentially shoot out into the dining room. 

Someone yells, “Heard!”, someone else drops a pan.

You wipe your forehead with the back of your arm and slide a plate onto the pass.

“Two minutes out on the salmon!” you call out.

Carmen doesn’t even look at you.

“More char on that. It’s under.”

You pause, blink at him. “It’s not under.”

“It is.”

You reach for the plate, but he’s already re-firing, his hands are a blur, and you feel yours involuntarily curl into fists.

“I had it under control,” you say, low, tense, your teeth clenched.

He doesn’t respond to you, doesn’t have to. 

Behind you, the printer shoots out about three more tickets.

You spin back toward the station, plating faster now.

“Behind,” you mutter, slipping past him.

“Say it louder next time,” he snaps. 

You slam the spatula onto the counter.

“Maybe you need to pay more attention, chef.”

He looks up at you, sharp, cold. 

“Excuse me?”

You take a deep breath, but it’s already too late. You’re vibrating with rage, exhaustion, and heat. 

“You treat me like I’m one of your fucking interns,” you spit. “I’m not your fucking student, we staged at the same places together, chef.”

He turns fully around, looking you dead in the eye. 

“Then fucking act like it, chef.”

copenhagen, before

The kitchen in Copenhagen had been quieter. Still intense, still cutthroat, but it was silent and cold in a way that was different from the other places you’d staged at. You remember the snow, the way your fingers burned when you left work too late, too tired to feel them thaw.

You remember burning your hand one day- careless, in a rush, reaching for a hot pan, not really thinking about it. You bit down the pain and forced yourself to finish the shift, cradling it behind your back when no one was looking. You didn’t want to step away. You couldn’t afford to seem weak, like you couldn’t handle it, the kitchen. 

Carmy had seen it anyway.

He didn’t say anything until you were both outside after work, coats on, breath and smoke clouding in the air.

Without a word, he reached for your wrist. You flinched at first, but didn’t pull away. He turned your hand over gently with his eyes skimming the angry red surface of your palm.

Then, still silent, he crouched down beside a drift of fresh snow and slowly, deliberately, guided your hand into it.

The cold bit sharp, made you hiss.

“You’ve gotta stop hiding shit like that,” he murmured, close to your ear, not looking at you. His hand stayed wrapped loosely around your wrist. “This place doesn’t reward it, no one comes out to give you a fucking medal for pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

You didn’t respond, just stood there, the snow numbing your burn, his hand steady on yours.

That was the first time you’d touched.

Later, in the shared hostel kitchen, you ate instant noodles out of the same bowl, and didn’t exchange many words. You watched his hands, how careful they were even with a fork, and thought, I could really like you. I could be with you.

You didn’t sleep in your own bed that night. Or the one after that.

new york, almost

New York City was louder than either of you could’ve ever anticipated. Even in the tiny apartment that you shared, sixth floor walk-up, radiator that hissed like it was alive and had something to say, there was still noise. Construction. Sirens. The constant hum of ambition and rush bleeding in from the street.

You both worked doubles, constantly. Staged wherever you could. Slept when you remembered to. Sometimes you would come home just to find Carmy already passed out on the floor in his chef’s jacket, shoes still on, head tipped back against the wall. You’d nudge his foot and he’d grunt something half-asleep, crack one eye open and whisper, “You okay?”

And you’d smile at him and say something like, ‘“Didn’t quite make it to the bed?” 

One of your favorite things about Carmy was how he could make you laugh.

Really laugh, head ripped back, snort, breathless kind of laughing, usually over little things, stupid things. A Yelp review, a guy on the L train screaming about boiled eggs. The way the two of you would show up to dinner service together with matching burns on opposite hands from pots and pans.

You lived off takeout dumplings and your shared hatred of your landlords. You split a single egg for breakfast once because it was all you could really afford at the time. There were nights you came home with fingers bleeding from prep and he’d bandage them with the mini first-aid kit you kept in an old Altoids tin. Sometimes, you kissed, talked for hours on end. Other times, you just stared at the ceiling together, side by side, talking shit, fingers brushing, head on his chest. 

But then the silences started creeping in.

Not the good kind, not the ones from Copenhagen where you were warm in a shared kitchen, quiet in understanding. These were sharp, loaded. He’d be in the middle of rewriting a menu, eyes flicking fast back and forth over some scribbled note in a margin, and you’d ask what he wanted to eat and he just wouldn’t answer. 

Not because he hadn’t heard you, but because he couldn’t be pulled back.

And you, you started keeping things to yourself. Not on purpose, exactly, not at first. It just got harder and harder to explain what you were feeling when every day left your body aching and your heart stretched far too thin. You didn’t want to burden him.

That’s what you told yourself.

The first time you fought, like really fought, it was over a salad.

You said it didn’t need the microgreens, he said it did. You said he wasn’t listening to you, he said maybe you should listen to him more.

You left the apartment that night and walked for three hours. When you came back, you find him asleep, curled up on his side with his hand on your pillow.

You crawled in next to him like nothing had happened.

But something had.

The next morning, the apartment felt colder somehow, despite the thermostat reading the same temperature as usual. Like the warmth had all just slipped out of the back door sometimes after you crawled into bed with him, curled up beside him.

Carmy was already awake when you left the bedroom, coffee cup in his hand, eyes heavy but sharper than usual. He didn’t say good morning. 

You leaned up against the counter, tracing on the chipped sides of the marble.

“I’m tired,” you said.

He nodded, not looking up at you.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said, just above a whisper.

He finally met your eyes, tired, frustrated, and something like regret.

“I’m not doing it alone,” he responded, jaw tensing and untensing.

“But it feels like it.”

You took a breath, swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat.

“But I’m not,” he repeated.

“But I am,” you said, quietly.

There was a silence. One of those terrible ones. This great and terrible silence that usually only meant one thing.

The end.

Carmy set his mug down a little too hard on the counter, making you flinch.

“Then maybe you should just go,” he said, not meeting your eyes again.

The words landed on you, hard, mean, cruel. 

His voice was calm, but it felt more like a slap in the face.

You blinked at him.

“I should go?”

“I don’t know.” He rubbed a hand over his face, leaned forward line there was a weight on his back pushing him. “I just, fuck, I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what you want me to say. You say I’m not here, I say I am, we’re both tired as shit, and just trying to-” He stopped short, hands gesturing helplessly.

You stared at him.

“Trying to what? Build a life? Build a restaurant? Burn out before thirty?”

He looked up at you then, and there was something in his expression, something worn-down, something stubborn, something…scared.

“I thought this was what we wanted.” 

You laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. It was cracked, empty in the middle.

“It was, Carmy, it really was. Maybe it still is. But not like this.”

He swallowed, jaw tight.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means I don’t know how to do this with you if you won’t let me in, Carm,” you said, your voice starting to break. “It means I miss you even when you’re standing right in front of me, and you don’t talk to me, and you make me feel…You make me feel like I’m just another task on your list of things to do, and- and I…I love you, I thought we were building a life together.” 

Carmy exhaled, slow and sharp, like he was trying not to explode. Like he wanted to say a hundred things but knew every one of them would just make it worse, like he wanted to yell like he did at work, scream, throw something. 

When he opened his mouth, he spoke calmly. 

Measured and quiet.

“I never asked you to stay,” he said finally.

You stared at him.

Your mouth opened, then closed again. You didn’t have words for the way that your chest cracked open just then.

“I know,” you said after a moment. “You didn’t have to.”

The silence between you stretched, you felt it wash over you. 

Carmy rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes darting toward the floor.

Then he looked up at you. 

“You want honesty?” he said, voice tight. “Fine.”

You didn’t move. Just waited.

“You talk like I’m the one who shut you out,” he said. “But you- you wanted some, some fantasy. This, like, I don’t know, this fake, made up thing, the boyfriend, this guy who like, wakes up and makes coffee and doesn’t spend every second thinking about everything he hasn’t done yet. You wanted someone who would just make space for you and be with you, but I can’t even make space for myself. But you’re fucking wrong- you don’t fucking know me, okay? Stop acting like you do. You don’t.”

You were quiet for a moment, blinking hard, willing yourself not to cry.

“Okay,” you said, voice steady. “Message received.”

Carmen didn’t stop you when you went into the bedroom.

Didn’t stop you when you started packing a bag.

Didn’t stop you when you took your keys and left.

Didn’t say anything when you came back in the following weeks to take all of your things.

Didn’t say a word.

‘Message received,’ you thought to yourself, taking your last box out of the place that you shared with Carmen, and closing the door for good. 

chicago, now

You look Carmen dead in the eye, dropping what you’re doing entirely.

“Carmen, I came here to help with your restaurant,” you said, words pointed.

“Well, I didn’t fucking ask.”

You don’t blink. “Richie did. And I’m here as a favor- to him. Not to you.”

His jaw tightens, but you don’t stop.

“So I’m going to do what I came here to do. I’m going to do a damn good job at it. And you-” you step in just slightly, eyes lock on his, “you are going to leave me the fuck alone. Because I might be at your restaurant, but I’m not here for you.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you like he’s trying to find something familiar in your face…and failing.

The kitchen is silent. Even the sizzle of oil on the stove seems to have fallen quiet, like the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting to see what might be said next. 

Sydney pauses mid-chop. Tina looks over from the other station, brows lifted, mouthing Damn, to Marcus who has since turned the mixer off. Richie’s eyes bounce from you to Carmen like he’s watching a bomb that’s about to go off.

But Carmen says nothing. Just stares at you, like he’s trying to figure out when you started being someone who looked at him like that. Like he doesn’t even recognize your voice anymore. And he knows it’s his fault.

Then, quietly, he turns and walks away.

You don’t watch him go, you go back to your station. The clang of your knife hitting the board is sharp, steady, controlled. 

You don’t say another word for the rest of the shift.

You’re leaning against the alley wall, jacket barely zipped, the night air biting at your skin. Just trying to breathe. Just trying to come down from it all.

Your hands are trembling, but it’s not from the cold.

The door swings open behind you with a familiar metallic creak. Luca steps out, calm and collected, two cigarettes pinched between his fingers and a lighter in the other.

He offers one without saying anything at first. Just a quiet look.

You accept it, light up, the inhale steadying something in your chest.

“Nice of us to come help out, right?” he says, dryly, a soft laugh under his breath.

You let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and an exhale. “Yeah. Real warm welcome.”

He leans next to you against the wall, close enough to share the silence, but not enough to crowd it.

“I saw what happened,” he adds, voice low. “You alright?”

You hesitate for a moment before replying. “I’m fine.”

He hums, clearly unconvinced, but not pushing.

“Carmen’s…he’s- he’s under a lot of pressure right now.”

You turn your head to look at him, eyes tired. “Yeah, well, so is everyone else. Doesn’t give him the right to treat people like that.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

The silence stretches again.

You glance down at the end of your cigarette, then up at the stars, or maybe it’s just the faint glow of the city haze. 

“I just…I didn’t come here for a fight,” you say, softer now. “I came to help. And he looked at me like I was the enemy.”

Luca tilts his head, looking at you. “You’re not.”

You meet his eyes for a moment, and something about the way he says it, quiet and certain, makes your chest clench.

The door bangs open again.

Carmen.

He stops dead in his tracks when he sees the two of you, just a beat too long to play it off. His eyes flick to the cigarette in your hand, then to Luca. Then back to you.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks.

You raised your eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“This. Out here. You two.”

You blink, stunned, then let out a short, bitter laugh. “Are you serious?”

“I’m just-” his voice tightens. “I didn’t know we were doing this now.”

“There is no this,” you say sharply. “And even if there was, it doesn’t concern you, like, at all. You made that pretty clear.”

Luca clears his throat, stepping slightly away like he’s trying to give space that doesn’t exist. 

“I was just offering a smoke. Chill, mate.”

Carmen’s jaw is clenched so tight you can practically hear his molars grinding.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else.

“You don’t get to care, Carmy,” you say. “You don’t get to act like this.”

He doesn’t respond, he can’t.

You toss the end of your cigarette to the ground, crush it beneath your shoe, and head inside.

Neither of them follows.

You don’t make it far.

Halfway down the hall, the sound of footsteps follows fast behind you.

You don’t turn around.

“Hey,” Carmen calls. “Wait- fuck, just…wait. Please.”

You stop, slowly turning to look at him.

He looks wrecked. Not in the usual work-tired way, but like, something is just unraveling behind his eyes.

“What do you want?” you ask, flatly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Runs a hand through his hair, paces two steps, then stops again. His breathing’s shallow.

“You never used to smoke,” he says finally, voice rough.

You blink. “What?”

“You never used to fucking smoke,” he repeats, louder now, like it matters far more than it should.

“And you used to call me Carmy. Now it’s Carmen?”

Something sharp tugs at your chest. “Yeah, well, you’re not the same either.”

He looks at you, eyes glassy, mouth opening and closing like he’s not sure which truth to say first. And then he says all of them, in a rush.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore, okay? I’ve been angry, so- so fucking angry, ever since,” he pauses for a moment, voice cracking, “since Mikey…I’ve just been so fucking angry. Like every day, just…I’m so fucking mad at him, and I’m so…I’m just so fucking sad. Sad all the time. Like something’s just gnawing through my fucking chest, and it’s- it’s just so fucked up, because, he’s the one who’s not here, I should- I should feel bad, right? Like I shouldn’t be angry, what’s there to even be angry at, it’s not like he’s here, it’s not like he knows, I can’t fucking tell him off.”

His voice breaks, he fists his hands into his apron, and his voice is strained when he continues.

“And when you left, fuck, when you left it just felt like…I don’t know, but I just realized. I realized that I can’t keep fucking losing people. And I…I missed you. I miss you. Every fucking day of my life, and I was so angry back then too, and I just- I don’t want to keep losing people, I don’t want to keep losing you. I- I still love you.”

You stare at him.

At the way his hands are shaking. At the way he won’t look at you now that the words are out, like he’s afraid that you’ll take them and gut him with them at any second.

You should be angry.

Fuck, you were angry, for such a long fucking time.

But right now, all you can feel is this ache beneath it, beneath everything.

The weight of it all. Everything unsaid.

You sigh. It comes out shaky. Like the breath has been sitting in your lungs for months. No, years.

“I was angry too, you know,” you say. “Still am, sometimes.”

He looks at you, eyes rimmed red. 

“I waited,” you say. “I waited for you to say something. Anything. And when you didn’t, I thought- okay. I guess that’s it.”

“I didn’t know how-” he mutters, stopping, and then starting again, “I didn’t know what to say.”

“Yeah, well,” you blink hard, throat tight, “I didn’t know how to leave either, but I still had to.”

For a while you both just stand there, staring at each other, until Carmen breaks the silence.

“I waited for you,” he says. 

You laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s just too much.

Too cruel. 

Too full-circle.

“You, what?” You ask, incredulous. 

“I waited,” he repeats, “All these years, okay, I’ve waited. I mean…I hoped, and I…I just didn’t- I couldn’t imagine being with anyone but you.”

His voice breaks at the end, and you swear he looks how he did when you first met him in this moment. Younger. Hopeful. The man who used to hold your hand under tables, who used to cook for you when he didn’t know what else to say. The one who took your hand and placed it in the snow that day. The one who noticed in the first place.

Your breath stutters in your chest.

“Carmy, I-” you start, cutting yourself off, tired and sad. “You didn’t call. Not once.”

He winces. 

“I didn’t know if I had the right,” he says. “After everything…I just- I thought you would be better off. Without me.”

You shake your head, tears starting to leak out.

“You didn’t get to decide that for me, Carmen.”

He flinches at his name. 

“I know,” he says. Voice small. “I know that now.”

You wipe your face with the back of your hand, angry at the tears, at yourself, at him.

Mostly just at how much it all still hurts.

“I would’ve chosen you,” you whisper. “You just had to let me. You just had to choose me too.”

Carmen lets out a shaky breath, stepping forward like he wants to close the space but isn’t sure if he’s allowed.

“I was scared,” he admits. “Of ruining you. Of dragging you into- into my shit. I thought I was protecting you, but really…I was just running. Like always.”

He finally looks at you, really looks at you, and says, even quieter, “But I wanted you. I still want you.”

Something inside you shifts.

You don’t move, not yet.

But your voice is softer when you ask, “So, what is it that you really want?"

He sighs, reaches forward, takes your hand, just like that first night in Copenhagen all those years ago.

“I want you. I want you to stay, here, with me. I want us, again. I want to make you coffee in the mornings, I want to wake up with you, I want to lay awake at night with you, I want to be the one to smoke with you- I mean, I want you to quit, but I want-”

You can’t stop yourself from laughing.

It bubbles out of you, shaky from leftover tears, but a real laugh. Carmen stares at you, shocked.

“Jesus,” you say breathless. 

“What?”

He runs a hand through his hair, sheepish.

“You-,” you say, shaking your head. “You always make me laugh.”

Carmen’s brow furrows, like he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or if he should apologize for it. You can see the panic flicker in his eyes, like he’s waiting for the punchline to hurt.

“I mean it,” you say quickly, softer. “Even when I didn’t- don’t want to. Even when I was so fucking pissed at you, you’d say something dumb or just…look at me like that,” you gesture vaguely at him, “and it’d ruin the whole mood.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry?”

You shake your head again. “I mean- how am I supposed to be brooding and mad when you look at me like that.” 

He blinks, caught off guard, then laughs quietly, soft, almost embarrassed.

“That’s unfair,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

“Unfair?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. You know, being disarmed by me is just part of my charm.”

You grin, the tension easing between you.

“Well, it’s working.”

He steps closer, eyes searching yours.

“Can we do this?” he asks, “Please?”

You hold his gaze, heart hammering in your chest.

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “We can try.”

He closes the distance, and when his lips brush yours, everything, the anger, the pain, the silence, seems to melt away, leaving only the certainty that this is where it starts.

[fckmecarmy]

cw ₊ ˚ ⊹ f!reader, sexually explicit content, set after friends and family night, implied once casual/fwb arrangement, *rough* oral & fingering (f!recieving), fucking doesn't solve anything, mean!carmy, jealous & bratty!reader

carmen is furious. 

after being stuck in the walk-in, a heated argument with richie, breaking things off with claire, and your stubborn refusal to listen to his incessant voice notes that begged you to come to friends and family night, he needed to blow off steam; lots of it.

you swore that you'd never see carmen again; vowing to slam the door shut the moment he stepped foot on your doormat or tried to call you back. it was ridiculous when he expected you to show up. 

you couldn’t bear to be hurt again, especially not by him. 

despite the seething anger and bitter resentment that consumed you when he started seeing claire again, you still desperately longed for the way he fucked you: the sweet feeling of his thick girth filling you up inch by inch or how the rough pads of his fingertips roamed the contours of your body in a tender—bordering romantic way.

you knew these trysts and stolen moments at the back of the beef or tangled up in his place would eventually come to an end, after all, you were—they were just casual. 

no strings attached. no feelings. you felt foolish. 

on the lonely, touch-starved friday nights where you missed him just oh, so much, with a pillow stuck in between your thighs, you convinced yourself that you were just horny and that your insatiable lust was fleeting. surely anyone—someone much better and emotionally stable than carmen could give you just what you wanted. 

right?

maybe it was the way his chef whites hung loosely over his burly shoulders, how his sleeves were rolled up and the veins of his arms bulged out of his calloused flesh. the way he convinced you so easily into letting him in—just for tonight, one more time, it can’t hurt—beads of sweat gathering at his brow, and two seconds later, shoving you shamelessly against your front door; effortlessly tearing down the cemented brick wall you’d spent months carefully rebuilding with a gritty determination that bordered spite. 

you knew better. at least, you should’ve. 

one thing led to the next, and you found yourself here: your body spread out on your kitchen counter with your leg slung over his shoulder as his lips—hot and silky—slope harshly against the smooth, creamy expanse of your slick inner thighs.

you couldn’t for the life of you figure out why every alarm bell was sounding off in your head—begging your body to stiffen and forcefully resist the man in between your legs—was reduced to nothing more than indiscernible tv static the moment the wet cavern of his mouth suctioned firmly on your succulent folds.

“why didn't you fuckin’ come to opening night, huh?” carmen spat, punctuating each syllable with a harsh suck of your cunt. “been ignoring me for weeks, why’s that?”

you barely registered carmen’s words or your sagacious judgement for that matter. the last vestige of any wise reasoning was clouded by the blissful feeling of his feverish mouth on you, your nimble fingers threading patterns through his sweaty strands. 

“m'sorry, i was busy..” you writhed weakly, knowing it was a futile excuse. you subtly maneuvered your hips towards his face, feeling the tip of his nose graze against your clit nearly making you drool. “mmph...got a new job and—”

“and?” carmen jeered, retracting from your heat.

offended and deeply frustrated, you glared darkly at carmen. your gaze met his, a brief flicker of sweltering desire and humor gracing his blue irises. 

with a sudden keening cry, you quickly seized your legs around his head, trapping him in between your thighs. your shaky hands shot to pull on the back of his head, desperate to find purchase and coax him to continue.

"jesus fuck!" carmen grunted. "fuck!"

your boldness paid off, for carmen was nose deep in you once more. with the sweet, intoxicating scent of your slick luring him in, your hips churned wantonly against his face as his tongue pumped greedy circles against your throbbing core.

"jesus—fucking hell—for once in your life—stop. fucking. thinking." he gritted out gruffly. "i-i broke up with claire, happy?”

elated was an understatement. 

with a moment of relief washing over you, you suddenly felt two of carmen's tattooed digits plunge fiercely inside your gaping pussy. 

"shit!" you howled out, your velvety walls steeling and clenching against the punishing thrusts of his fingers as the euphoric, white-hot waves of release began to crash in. "hngh—carmy—what the fuck?"

your vision was obstructed by the tears that threatened to spill out from the swollen corners of your eyes; you wanted to scream. 

“you happy?” carmen sneered, your stomach fluttering at the way his pupils dilated the very moment he slipped a third finger into your core. 

you were so done for. 

“this is what you fuckin’ wanted, right?”

"carmen! fuck!" your teeth gritted hard enough to crack. carmen leaned back down, lapping at your raw, overstimulated flesh with a perfect precision; drawing out near sobs and an overwhelming feeling of pain and pleasure—you couldn’t make out which. 

with his free hand, he began to fumble with his belt, the metallic clasp clinking against the hard muscles of his lower abdomen.

carmen was hard. rock hard. achingly so. 

so hard, that a damp smear pooled dubiously on the cotton fabric of his boxers.

you needed him; he needed you. 

"legs open, now." carmen demanded, ravenously eyeing the slick dribbling down your thighs and onto the kitchen counter. “gonna show you how much i fuckin' missed you because you don’t fuckin’ believe me.”

juno's note ₊ ˚ ⊹ hey yallll.. hope u like! ദ്ദി >⩊< ) likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3

[fckmecarmy]

You good ?

[fckmecarmy]

i love you corruption kink. i love you older men who want to take advantage of my naivety and inexperience. i love you men who coo and praise and reassure me when i cum embarrassingly hard from being touched like this for the first time; who laugh and pat my head and tell me that it’s okay, that it’s natural, that that’s exactly what i’m supposed to do. i love you men who want to be the first — and only — reference i have for what sex is supposed to be like. everything i know had to be taught from him, from his hands, from his cock. i love you <3

[fckmecarmy]

prettiest theme ever!

THANK YOU SWEETIE BABY ANGEL PIE!! :3 i had pinterest, canva and a dream <3 hope ur stay here feels like summer at a really luxurious resort.. early morning swims, suntanned skin and drinking water out of coconuts!!! LOVE YOUU (∩˃o˂∩)♡

[fckmecarmy]

unhealthy codependency is really a top tier dynamic. like they need each other to survive but god. should they.

[fckmecarmy]

crying in the walk-in

crying in the walk-in

summary: after a brutal dinner service at The Bear and overall horrible day, you find yourself crying in the walk-in. but not long after, you end up in the back seat of carmy's car.

word count: 3k

content warnings: smut MDNI!!! afab reader, hand stuff (m and f-receiving), oral (f-receiving), PIV, semi-public sex, soft dom carmy(?), mega praise kink

notes: this is my first fic so please be nice. and send any requests! love you all, especially my greatest inspirations @carmenberzattosgf and @saltnsugarbear

---

at your previous jobs, anyone could tell you: when the going gets tough, you cry in the walk-in. but this was The Bear. the most respected, most esteemed place you'd ever worked. The Bear was not the kind of place you felt comfortable crying in the walk-in. definitely not as a stage, and especially not as the newest, greenest one of the bunch. but one particularly miserable tuesday night, you broke your one rule.

it's was a very valid meltdown. your car broke down on your way to work in the morning, which made you late. being late meant you had to rush through your prep. rushing through prep meant when you were working with the molten sugar for marcus' white violet dish, you burned yourself. bad. at least a second degree, but you weren't gonna be a fucking baby about it.

you rinsed your hand in cool water for an agonizing minute or two, bandaged yourself up, threw on a glove, and got back to work. at least it was your non-dominant hand. this was The Bear, and you knew the dessert course always came up faster than you expected, so you needed all the time possible to finish prepping. when did people start eating so fucking fast? it feels like the pasta course went out two minutes ago, and now you were suddenly sending out desserts.

to make matters worse, one of the servers was out sick. some stomach flu or something, that motherfucker. that meant front of house was stressed, which in turn meant back of house was stressed, namely carmy. and a stressed carmy is never ever pleasant to be around. he never yelled at you directly--after all, you were a pastry stage, responsible more for prep and wiping plates than actually working through service--but his voice booming throughout the kitchen was giving you a headache.

and here's the kicker: you dropped a fucking plate. and whereas most of the earthenware dishes would break into clean pieces if and when they were dropped, you were serving one of the desserts on delicate glass plates. it shattered into a million pieces, and your heart did too. and jesus christ did carmy yell about it.

by the time you're done with service and cleaning your station, you need a beer. or six. you need a cigarette. or a pack. and you need a good cry. or, rather, an ugly sob. and since your car got towed to the mechanic in the morning, you couldn't just go out to the parking lot and cry in your car like you usually would.

which is how you end up wailing in the walk-in.

you think everyone's gone, aside from carmy meticulously scrubbing surfaces that have already been cleaned at least twice, but you know he's in his own world cleaning, so you're not worried. that is, until the door to the walk-in creaks open.

you're turned away from the door, but you can feel carmy's presence. he approaches you, and you can sense the warmth of his body in contrast to the cold air around you. you try to make yourself presentable, wiping your tears and snot on your sleeve before turning around.

his vibrant blue eyes are calm and kind. neither of you speak for a moment. finally, you feel composed enough to speak.

 "i'm so fucking embarrassed," you say, dabbing at your eyes again with the corner of your sleeve. your voice comes out a squeak, but you continue. "the burn's not even that bad, i'm being such a fucking baby."

"hey," carmy says so gently you could burst into tears again, "you're good."

"i don't wanna be, like, too personal. like, if this is... inappropriate or anything--"

"chef?" carmy says, pulling you out of your spiral. you see him circle his fist over his chest, and you realize he really means it. "you're good."

"thank you, chef," you say, breathing a sigh of relief that you haven't fucked everything up. that the sky's not falling. "it was, like, you know those moments when the world feels so loud that you can't actually hear anything at all?"

there's a small, knowing smile on carmy's face. "yeah, something like that." after a much-needed moment of quiet, he says, "it's late. you ready to head out?"

you nod and follow carmy out of the walk-in. the kitchen is empty, spotless, about a thousand degrees cooler than it gets during service. it's bizarrely calm.

"it's so different when it's empty," you say. "full of, like, possibilities."

carmy holds the back door open for you, and you flip off the lights as you walk out. he locks the door behind you and promptly lights up a cigarette. he takes a drag, then sighs.

"could i--" you begin to ask, and before you even finish the question carmy's handing you the cigarette. you take a couple puffs, then hand it back to him. but after he takes the cigarette back, he takes your hand in his, looking at your fresh injury.

"impressed you made it through service like that. fuck," carmy says lowly. you try to stay calm but your heart flutters the longer he's holding your hand.

"thank you, chef," you say. he squeezes your hand and looks you dead in the eye.

"you don't have to call me that," he tells you firmly, leaning closer into you. he doesn't want to think about work. he doesn't want to be your chef right now. he wants to experience this moment with you, this moment of real human conversation outside the bubble of chaos that was The Bear during service.

you take a step towards him. "thank you, carmy," you say without breaking eye contact. that is, until carmy's eyes go straight to your lips. then you can't help but follow suit and stare at his. they're full and plush and you can just imagine them all over your body. desperate to pull yourself together, you take the dying cigarette from carmy's hand and take a final drag. it emboldens you.

but, before you can make your move, carmy gestures to the parking lot. "how you getting home? you said this morning your car's fucked," he asks. you sigh.

"fuck, i hate taking the L at night," you reply.

"i can drive you," he offers. you're a little stunned. not like it was an insane thing to offer; his place was in the same direction as yours, and although you weren't friends per se, everyone at The Bear looked out for each other. still, he was your boss and not a particularly social guy, and you could tell how exhausted he was just by looking at him. why was he offering this?

"i can call an uber--" you begin, but he cuts you off.

"that's stupid. i'll drive you," he says. he starts walking towards his car, and you follow. but after a moment, you stop, and he stops with you.

"carmy?" you ask, that bubble of sadness and anxiety and rage in your stomach quickly turning into something else entirely. "would it be ok if--"

he cuts you off with a kiss straight to your lips. he's gentle at first, just testing the waters, but when you open your mouth to him, he goes fucking feral. it's all teeth and tongue, one of his hands going to your hip and the other cradling the back of your neck. carmy's lips taste exactly how you expect them to--cigarette smoke and mint gum and unscented chapstick--and it couldn't be more intoxicating. you lean into the kiss, grabbing the soft fabric of that familiar white tee shirt in your fists, trying to hold onto this moment. to hold on to him.

carmy's hand creeps from your waist down to your ass, giving it a playful squeeze. you moan softly, and he does it again, harder, eliciting an even louder groan from you. one of your hands creeps up under his shirt, feeling the firm, chiseled muscles of his stomach. his skin is softer than you expect, and his body is radiating heat. finally, he pulls away from you. you already miss his lips.

"get in the car," he says roughly. as you reach for the passenger door, he shakes his head. "nuh uh, back seat."

you feel your stomach jump to your throat and the heat in your core growing from a flickering spark into a fucking wildfire. you'd been in love with carmy as a chef since you spent an ungodly amount of money to eat at Ever back when you were in culinary school. luxuries for you weren't clothing or perfume: they were meals. meals that made you feel inspired. meals that made you want to be a better chef. and after years following him in magazine interviews, you finally ended up at The Bear, and you realized you weren't just in love with his culinary skill or creative vision: you were in love with the man himself.

you climb into the back seat, and he follows you. as you settle, he leans over, gripping your face sweetly but firmly as his lips crash back into yours. your hands find his abs again, desperate to feel his skin, one hand travelling up to his chest and feeling the muscles there too. sensing what you want from your wandering fingertips, carmy pulls off his shirt. you do the same, leaving him looking like a greek statue and you flushed in your lacy bra. you can't deny it: you started wearing lingerie to work under your kitchen clothes, hoping this moment would come eventually, though you never expected it to actually happen.

one of his hands rushes to knead your breast through the fabric and the other begins to work on unbuttoning your pants. you both moan into each other's mouths, the heat around you rising as the windows begin to fog. with carmy's help, you push your pants down around your ankles, revealing your matching lace underwear already saturated with your wetness. carmy loops his fingers under the elastic of your panties, pulling it and letting it slap back to your skin. the tiny sting sets you on fire.

"please, carmy," you moan desperately, not knowing what exactly you're asking for. all you know is you need it. you need it now.

carmy senses what you want, and you shift your bodies into a different position. "gonna make you feel so good," he says, his voice deep and erotic. you lay your head against the driver's side window, your open legs stretching across the seats. carmy positions himself at your feet, his feet resting in the footwell and his body leaning towards where you need him most.

carmy kisses around the edges of your clothed pussy, nipping at the fabric, teasing you. you don't even try to stifle your moans, letting longing, wanton sounds reverberate in the car. you need more, more, more. once he's finally tortured you long enough, he pulls your underwear down your legs and attaches his mouth directly to your centre. his tongue swirls around your clit and you squeal into your hand.

"not like that, baby, wanna hear you," he says before diving back in. as your moans resume, even louder than before, carmy starts pumping one finger in and out of you, quickly adding another. the stretch around his fingers is agonizingly good. he's obviously dextrous in the kitchen, but you quickly realize his hands may be even more gifted in the bedroom. or, rather, the parking lot.

as his fingers continue to stretch you out, hitting that sensitive spot inside you over and over again, you feel your orgasm building. the bubble of pleasure in your stomach begins spreading through your entire body, and you feel like you're on fire. carmy talks you through it. "so good, just like that, there you go. good girl, show me how well you can take it. you take my fingers so well, baby, fuck." he continues to ramble praises as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, adding a third finger and increasing your pleasure tenfold.

you know you're close, but you try to hold out, to receive as much pleasure as you can before you burst. he's mumbling into your pussy, his words swirling through your fucked-out head. you can barely make out what he's saying until he grabs your hand and looks you in the eye. "you deserve to feel good, baby. gonna give you everything you deserve, my good girl. say it. say you deserve it," he says, staring through your eyes and into your soul.

"i deserve it," you say shakily, but he shakes his head, his hand still moving. you try again. "i deserve it, i deserve it," you repeat with more fire behind it this time.

with that, he sucks directly on your clit, and your orgasm hits you fast and hard. "carmy, i'm cumming," you whine, and he continues sucking and thrusting, working you through your orgasm with skill and enthusiasm.

"that's it, that's it, yes, baby. cum for me, baby, you look so fucking pretty when you cum for me. fucking perfect," he grunts. although your vision is blurry from the strength of your orgasm, you can see he's palming himself through the fabric of his jeans with his unoccupied hand. you see the tent growing in his pants and you want it. you want it bad.

carmy leaves a final, gentle kiss to your pussy before climbing back up and resting his body on top of yours. as he ruts his hips into yours, he roughly shoves his fingers into your mouth. "taste yourself, tastes so fucking good," he says, and the sweet tanginess of your release combined with the feeling of his fingers filling your mouth is so filthy and so. fucking. good.

"carmy please," you whine around his fingers. "please, please, carmy please," you continue, and he begins taking off his belt, quickly followed by his jeans and boxers. his cock, red and throbbing, is a little longer than average, but what astounds you is how fucking thick he is. your mouth salivates with the anticipation of feeling him inside of you. without hesitation, you spit on your good hand and begin pumping his length, pulling a forceful groan from him. "want you to fuck me, carmy, please, fuck me." you're nearly crying with how good his mouth was and how good you know his cock is about to be. "please, ple--"

before you even finish the word, he pushes into you, stretching you wide. you whimper at the stretch, and he makes eye contact with you, concern visible on his face. "ok?" he asks.

"yes, god, yes, it's just been a while," you say, too turned on to be embarrassed.

"then we'll take it nice and slow," he replies into your ear, slowly pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back into you slowly but forcefully. you moan louder than before, your eyes flying shut for a moment before you realize you can't look away from his face. you want to memorize it--every line, every freckle, the tiny scar on his cheek, his dilated pupils and bright blue irises, the vein running down his neck, the beads of sweat on his brow. everything.

"more, more, please," you beg, a tear rolling down your cheek. again, you're not sure what you're asking for. harder? faster? deeper?

carmy takes his chances. he gives you all three. as he pounds into you, letting out pornographic moans of his own, you find yourself screaming. you can't tell if it's out loud or inside your head, and you don't care. with that, he shoves his fingers back into your mouth, cutting off your sounds and filling you to the point of almost choking you. it's fucking heavenly. as your eyes roll back in your head, you see that the windows are completely fogged up. the air is thick and dense, the car full of the smell of sex and the sound of skin slapping skin. you're in your own perfect bubble in the middle of that sketchy chicago parking lot. you want to stay like this forever.

as you feel the pleasure building up through your body, carmy can sense you're getting close. his right hand goes from inside your mouth to around your neck--not applying any pressure, but reminding you that he could. his other hand snakes down your body, twisting at your nipple through the lace of your bra, then trailing down between your bodies to rub tiny circles around your clit. "oh, fuck, yes, just like that. fuck, carmy i'm gonna cum," you whine, and he continues thrusting into you, his movements getting progressively more sloppy.

"me too, baby. so fucking close," he forces out through groans of pleasure. "cum for me, wanna feel you cum around my cock." with that, he crashes his lips back to yours, kissing you furiously as your orgasm hits you like a freight train. you're pretty sure you've died, that the pleasure has you literally ascending. as he works you through your orgasm, he hits his peak too, and you can feel the spurts of hot cum deep inside you. "fuck, cumming," he barely makes out through his moans which have gradually gone up in pitch. he continues to fuck you until he's too sensitive to move, after which he collapses on top of you. you're both panting into each other's mouths as you come down from the high. after a few moments, carmy brushes your sweaty bangs off of your forehead, kissing you gently and playfully all over your face.

"gonna take you home now," he says, getting up from his spot on top of you and searching for his clothes. you quickly realize he means he's taking you to his home. that this night is just getting started.

it's in this moment you know you're completely and utterly fucked.