#and carmy never forgetting that

[sluttyhenley]

Carmy's stuck in the walk-in? Alright. So what are we gonna do?

THE BEAR | 2x10 The Bear

[thecapricunt1616]

Chapter One The Bear & His Honey

Summary: Carmy + Winnie meet, He obviously tries to weasel his way into her heart by cooking for her.

A/N: Eeeep! I am sooo excited to be writing again, i've written fic's since like 2010 & stopped for quite a while, But Carmen has awoken the beast in me once more LOL !!! It's not without much thanks and love to @daysofyellowroses - Her encouragement & excitement for my ideas has inspired me in the most beautiful way. Give her a follow please! Her fic's genuinely are sososooooooo good that they made me want to start writing myself again, The theme and overall organization of her works is immaculate, I admire her works so much! I highly encourage any Carmy lover to take a look!! She is also such a doll!! And so so sooo sweet!!!

Anyhow, I love longer fics - this chapter is nearing 6k words & it initially started as a one shot, so reader be warned I am very wordy!

Warnings; Cursing, ehh I think thats it? Oh! Smoking Cigarettes & The green stuff, but thats all! *We will be getting VERY spicy, angsty, and sickeningly fluffy in this story - if that isn't your cup, ask me anything if you like my style! I am only writing for Carm at this second, but I will be writing ACOTAR & likely other things as I wet my pallate - it's been years for me, but if you have an idea that you want to throw my way, or just wanna talk (even if you just need someone!) I'm here for you peeps! Without further ado- let the show begin.

(Comments + Reblogs + Kind critiques are not only appreciated, but heavily encouraged!)

𝒞𝒽𝑒𝒸𝓀 𝒪𝓊𝓉 𝑀𝓎 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉!

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One

I took a deep breath, the dry, late winter air sticking my nostrils together momentarily- fuck. I hate this god-damned weather. I shuffle across the street, my boots mushing through the late-winter Chicago slush. I slosh into the alley, my boots squelching with every step. I trudge across the street, nearly gagging at every soggy step, feeling my socks ever so slowly become wet. 

I sludge my way finally to the (god-blessed, shoveled) alley across the way, that connected The Next Page to the street in front of it, and hear a muttered “fuck” & my eyes lift from the locked spot on my salty, wet boots. They meet the side-profile of an undeniably handsome curly dirty blonde male, my eyes rolling, as he pats his pockets down. I assume he forgot his light. 

As I approached him, I piped up. “Missin’ somethin’?” I flick my pink lighter to life with my thumb, My eyes meeting his large blue ones. He leans forward, gently lighting his cigarette between my thumb and the flame. “Thanks” he muttered, sucking on the cigarette between his lips, his eyes locked on me. 

“Y’ smoke?” he questioned. I shook my head gently, “Not cigarettes, but I’m bout’ to eat, s’why not?” I slipped the small tin from my pocket, pulling a shorty from the box. I put it between my lips, leaning in close, touching the joint tip to the burning end of his cigarette gently, and took a slow drag once it was fully lit.

“Work here?” I motion at the building next to us with my chin, smoke spilling from my lips as I speak. His white t-shirt made me guess he could be a line cook or a bus boy at the restaurant that had been crowding the block the past few months. He nodded, a large puff of smoke leaving his lips, the edges of his lips upturning a bit into a smile. 

“Mhmm, own it.” he said casually, taking another drag, my eyebrows raising. “Hmm,” I hummed, smoke puffing from my nose obviously in the winter air. “Wow, from the shirt- thought you’re a busboy, quite the humble owner mm’?” I teased, a smile dancing on my lips as I pulled another puff of my joint. “Yea- guess so” he teased, shrugging lightly. 

“My boss comes by once in a blue moon, so either you’re a grade-A asshole, or have crippling OCD and you think your business is gonna fail.” I teased, blowing smoke past his left as I leaned against the brick wall. He chuckled, “Alright, well- Sugar says I’m OCD whatever the fuck that means, so you got me” he shrugged. I laughed. “I can so see it, what’s your name?” I asked. 

His eyes flutter to my lips, before meeting my eyes again. “Carmen.” He replied, putting his cigarette back to his lips and taking a deep drag. “Winnie..” I replied nibbling the inside of my lip gently. Carmen. Carmen. Carmen. The word echoed in my mind like an invocation. “Winnie” he repeated, smoke spilling from his lips in tendrils.

“Full name?” He questioned. A heat rose to my cheeks and I rolled my eyes, gaze flicking to my sneakers as I took another drag of my joint. “Winnow. Shut up, if you laugh, I’ll cut off your dick. My parents were never married, not sure what they were thinking.” I mutter, the tips of my ears heating in embarrassment. “Mmm” he hummed.

I look back up at him, “No slick comments?” I asked, genuinely surprised. He shrugged. “Winnow is pretty, people make fun of that?” He questioned, dropping the mostly burnt cigarette to the ground and crushing it with his chef's clog. My cheeks felt like they were on fire. “A dude named Carmen, not used t’ people pokin’ at your name?” my glance meets his.

His arms were now crossed over his chest, his delicious biceps becoming more prominent. “Go by Carm, mostly” he shrugged. Carm. “Hmm.” I hummed. “Carm. Suits you.” I said, my eyes grazing over the tattoos adorning his arms. “Yeah?” his tongue grazed his lips, a smirk pulling at the corners. 

“Mhhmm” I reach out, my finger brushing over the ‘773’ on his arm. “From ‘round here huh?” I questioned, my eyes meeting his blue ones once more. “Ye’, east side” he said, to which I nodded. “Sorry, don’t know too much, from New York.” I said, my arms crossing over my own chest. 

“Yeah? Where about? Did culinary school out there.” he replied. “Rochester” I nod, my accent coming out slightly. “Ah, alright. Like yourself a garbage plate?” he teased. I laughed, a real laugh, something few and far between these days. “Wow, so you really went to school out there eh’? I do actually, know how that came to?” I asked my fingers finding a loose string on my jacket to fiddle with.

“Not at all, thought it was a myth- you really eat that shit out there?” he joked. I giggled. “Don’t make me hit you, Yes! We do, so story goes, frat guys stumble all drunk in to Nick Tahoes, and they tell the line cook to give ‘em the plate with ‘all the garbage’ on it. And so, since it was closing time, they took all the carby leftovers they were gonna throw out, and threw em on a plate- the guys loved it” he grimaced playfully “eugh! Guys never heard of a burger?” 

 I laughed again “there is a burger, Carm! mmm,” I hum my eyes closing and head falling back at the memory of such a comfort meal. “oh my god, mac salad, cold! Has to be cold, Carm, then you do baked beans,” I paused at his brows furrowing “Don’t look at me like that, asshole” I shove his shoulder playfully, earning a chuckle. 

“No- nope keep on explaining your… catastrophe” he teased, I gasped, feigning a shot to the heart. “Wow, Carmy, you know how to flatter a girl huh? Insulting the indigenous dish of her homeland?!” I joked, causing him to really laugh. A beautiful sound I wanted to hear more often. “Ok, ok, so then you add the homefries, then - the house chilli, ohhh my god!” I groaned my head falling back “Soo, so good, then, you add on a burger patty, or a hotdog, or both if you feel frisky” he laughed again, his eyes crinkling adorably.

“How often do you feel frisky mm? Or are you a more tame girl?” he teased. I smacked the side of his jaw gently with a large bashful smile adorning my lips, “Carmen! You do not ask a lady how often she gets frisky!” I giggled, poking his muscular chest gently. “Ok, ok, keep going- or is that the end of the abomination?” he questioned and I dug my knuckle into his chest playfully.

“Nope!! Then you add chopped onions, ketchup, and mustard!!” I grinned and he grimaced jokingly. “Holy Jesus, your breath could knock out an army after that I’d bet” he teased earning another true laugh from me. “I swear, you own his place? If you thought you were busy before- add a garbage plate to the menu, and you’ll be rich, Carmen” I adjusted the Saint Anthony chain around his neck gently, so the pendant was facing front. 

His cheeks got a bit flushed. “Well, i’m makin’ a new dessert menu, if you wanted to come in and check it out, How bout’ I make you a garbage plate, well, the Carmen-Garbage plate, we don’t do chilli here, but I think you’ll like what I pull together” he offered. 

I took another drag of my joint, contemplating. “Alright. Shops been slow today so, Mel won’t notice if I sneak an extra few minutes in” i put out the nub on the wall, before dropping it and crushing it under the toe of my boot. 

“C’mon” he nods, pulling open the large metal door that leads into the kitchen.

Read Chapter 2 Here!

[glitterslag]

Obsessed with the implication that fak and carmy have been best friends for years. I can't stop imagining them in high school together as these two inseparable, weird nerdy kids who are like never seen without the other. They'd probably be the kind of kids who run around pretending to battle each other with lightsabers during recess (cute, right? Although not many people seem to think so when they're still doing that shit at 16 lmaoo).

And in class, you just know they'd be paying absolutely zero attention, getting diabolical grades without fail and not caring one bit cause they're too busy with their autistic shenanigans in the back row of desks. Most of the time it's Fak infodumping abt video games while Carmy just goes non verbal and draws all over his textbooks. They're good kids, mostly, but occasionally they do partake in clowning the teachers or throwing paper at the back of the popular kids' heads

Anyways they're so lame I love them like sons 💘💘

[brzatto]

having a carmy type of night (listening to old dance gavin dance)

[lovebugism]

thigh riding Carmy because he isn't paying attention to you please please please 😭

summary: carmy misses date night and finds a way to work and make you feel good at the same time (2.2k)

pairing: carmy berzatto / f!reader

contents: established relationship, thigh riding, public setting (ish), dirty talk, smut with sprinkles of fluff 18+

Carmy’s office is a windowless concrete cage of chaos. There are a million papers stacked and scattered across his desk, half-hidden beneath books that are flipped open to random pages. You’re not sure how he’s keeping up with any of it. Though, to be fair, you’ve never been able to completely understand his mind.

You know him better than anyone else, but he’s still such a mystery to you sometimes — like a language you can read perfectly but can’t speak all the way. 

You don’t know why he runs himself aground with work even though it kills him, even though he swears the enormity of his desire brings him back to life again. You just know to try and save the drowning man from himself from time to time, and not to let him strangle you with his panic in the process.

“Bear?” you call gently into the amber-lit office, knuckles rapping against the opened door. “You ready?”

Sitting slouched over his desk, you can hear the faint tap tap tapping of his pen against the paper, an anxious tick for his ever-fidgeting fingers. “No. Not— Not yet, baby. I’m fuckin’— I’m drowning in this paperwork right now.”

He lifts his heavy head from his tattooed hand and glances at you over his shoulder. The sight of you makes his breath catch — leaning against the doorframe, all pretty in the lamplight, wearing the dress he bought you.

The deep emerald silk drips over your body like summer rain. It dips low at your chest and flows just above your knees, fitting you like a total dream.

Carmy, for a flicker of a moment, forgets to be anxious. 

While his eyes dart over your form, the rest of the world disappears — it could be entirely falling apart for all he knows, but all he can see now is you. Your stormy eyes, your soft skin, and your quiet sensuality. Your ruby lips, your cheeks like wine, and your gentle voice. 

His mouth falls agape to say words he can’t make out. His ocean eyes go wide, glimmering a deeper blue in the low light — which casts dark shadows over the sharp edges of his face. His gaze is like the sea. You feel yourself drowning in it accordingly.

“It can’t wait?” you press gently, lifting yourself from the doorframe and sauntering slowly towards him. Closing the door behind you, you drop your chin to your chest and flash the boy a sheepish smile. “All the restaurants are gonna close soon.” 

Carmy huffs. He knew better than to plan a date. He’s far too busy — or, rather, he doesn’t allow himself to be anything other than busy because there’s a voice inside him that just won’t be still. Working himself to death was an art he did exceptionally well, which hadn’t bothered him so much until he met you.

“I gotta get this done, babe,” he answers sympathetically, tilting his chin to keep his eyes locked with yours as you near him.

Your familiar scent sets the stagnant air aglow. The warmth of your perfume cradles his senses when you loom beside him. Your hand rises to his shoulder, fingers fidgeting with the swathe of curls at the nape of his neck. His wide palm smooths over your hip — softly calloused against the satiny fabric. 

You smile softly down at him. “So I got all pretty for nothin’?” you tease with a scrunched nose.

“Well, you got all pretty for me, actually,” Carmy corrects.

His pink lips curl in a faint smirk. Your grin widens tenfold. The subtle act of possessiveness, coupled with the strong hand on your waist, makes your chest sparkle. 

“Yeah, I did,” you hum proudly, bending at the waist to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. He tastes fleetingly of nicotine and sweet plum wine — a maddening concoction.

You rise to full height again. Carmy pats your hip twice before his fingers fall away. He turns back to his desk, and you feel half-invisible again. It’s hardly his fault, though. There was something deeply intense about his stone-blue eyes. You feel strangely held when he looks at you, left inevitably mourning every time he turns away.

His pen darts across the gridded page in chicken scratch you can’t make out, worsened by his wrist smudging the ink. Your arms wrap loosely around his neck. You bury your nose in his chestnut curls and inhale the familiar scent of grill smoke and cedarwood. 

“You know I don’t care actually about going out, right?” you mumble there.

Carmy hums, half-distracted. “Mhm.”

“Just wanna spend time with you… Don’t care what we’re doing…”

You press a kiss to his temple. He leans instinctively into your touch. “Well, I’ll make you the best damn PB&J Chicago’s ever seen when we get back home, alright?” he muses with a quiet smile. “How’s that sound?”

“I’m holding you to that, Bear,” you say, grinning into his curls.

“I’m countin’ on it.” Carmy chuckles and lifts his free hand to squeeze your wrist. His touch slips away soon after when he turns back to his work. 

Quiet returns, heavy and deafening, filled only by the distant clanging of pots from stragglers in the kitchen. It makes you strikingly aware of yourself — of the space you’re filling in this tiny office, and the distracting weight of your arms around his neck. Feeling more like a burden, you clear your throat and pull away.

“I’m, uh— I’m gonna see if Richie left yet. Maybe he’ll let me bum a smoke or something.”

Carmy mourns your warmth the second you’re gone. He spins in his swivel chair to face you, laughing to cover up his ache. “What happened to us spending time together?”

He knows how you think. You think he gets so involved in his work that he doesn’t spare you a single thought. But really, he’s so strongly devoted to you that it feels like the emotion could rip him open from the inside.

You squint. “Watching you sign a bunch of paperwork while you pretend I’m not here is not spending time together,” you argue, laughing despite yourself.

“Don’t go. C’mon,” Carmy pleads, very distantly begging. He tilts his head and blinks at you with wide, pleading eyes. “Come sit,” he tells you.

“Sit where?” you scoff.

“In my lap.”

“I’ll squish you,” you insist, giggling.

“Shut up and sit down,” he commands, still playful but leaving little room for argument. His wide palms smooth slowly up and down his denim-clad thighs. Your heart lurches into your throat.

You walk the short distance to him with a huff of feigned annoyance, dress swishing around your knees. Carmy pushes away from his desk to give you space to sit. You take a seat on his lap, just like he asked you to, but he stops you with a pair of strong hands grasping your hips.

“Not like that,” he murmurs.

Your brows furrow in response. “What do you mean?”

“On my thigh,” Carmy corrects, swatting playfully at your clothed hip. “C’mon. Sit right.”

You rise slowly, with a hesitant squint in your eyes. “What are you playing at, Bear?” you wonder lowly, legs spread slightly to welcome his thigh between them.

Carmy bounces his shoulder in a lazy shrug. His tattooed hands creep up the hem of your dress to urge you down onto his lap — the proper way. “You’re the one always sayin’ I’m too busy for you, right?” he responds, hardly expecting a real answer, as he helps you straddle one of his thighs.

The angle is awkward. The old chair leaves little room for the both of you. You’re forced to keep one leg on the ground while the other bends at the knee between his legs. You hold tight to his shoulders, trusting him to keep you steady. Your dress bunches at your hips in the meanwhile. Carmy raises his thigh until it’s flush against your clothed cunt. 

Your breath catches, and he smirks.

“So… You’re gonna cum on my thigh,” he continues casually. “…And after that, we’ll go home, I’ll fuck you like you need, and then I’ll run you a bath… How’s that sound?”

Your stomach swirls with a familiar warmth — which you can feel pooling in your panties now. “What about the PB&J?” you joke in a quiet voice that trembles only slightly.

Carmy scoffs a faint laugh. “After the bath.”

“What about in the bath?”

“Whatever you want,” he assures with a smile. “You just gotta ride me first.”

The lighthearted air turns bone-crushingly sensual in a flicker of a moment. His light eyes pierce you mercilessly, peering into the depths of your soul. You melt for him, going uncharacteristically soft and subservient, just how he likes.

Carmy helps you with a few passes over his thigh. You’re obviously unsure, and he can tell by your hesitant movements. His free hand squeezes your hip, urging you up his leg and down again, until you find your own rhythm. Then he turns back to his work and tries to focus. The soft sound of your breathy moans entwines with the scribbling of his pen.

You rock your hips in measured thrusts, trying to find the proper pace. The delicate fabric of your panties ruts along the rough denim of his jeans — catching your clit perfectly when you buck your hips just right. Lightning strikes down your spine, then. Both alleviating the ache between your thighs and creating a new one all at once. 

Your breath hitches. Pitiful whimpers sound in your throat instead. You bury them all in Carmy’s neck as you hide your face in his shoulder, with your warm cheek pressed to his ear and your fingers balling his shirt in your fists.

There was something foreignly erotic about all this. Being in Carmy’s office, the door unlocked, with Syd and Richie meandering elsewhere in the kitchen. The fear of being caught made your movements quick. Careless. Wild. 

And there was something about Carmy, too. The way he’s got you getting yourself off, with little help from the boy himself, while he busies himself with paperwork. You can hear him scribbling away still, flitting through papers with the hand not holding you. All while you hump his thigh, so desperate for attention. It’s pathetic. And something about it made you feel good.

Your pretty whimpers turn into deeper, breathier moans. Carmy smiles to himself. He can feel the warmth of your cunt despite the layers between you. It makes him wonder if you’ve left a stain on the denim. He prays you’ve left a stain on the denim — wants the mark of your honey stamped there forever.

“You close?” he murmurs when he notices your legs starting to tremble.

You bury a whine in his neck. “Fuck, Bear—”

“Hey,” he hums, pulling away from his paperwork for the first time in several minutes to look at you. 

His long fingers rise from your hip and curl into your hair. He tugs softly at the strands to urge your head back so he can admire his work. Your eyes are lidded and glassy, your lips swollen and parted — already fucked-out, and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

“I asked if you were close,” he repeats, unsmiling.

“Yes,” you manage through a whimper.

His grip on your hair slackens. His touch returns to your hip, encouraging your rapid movements. His pink lips quirk in the faintest hint of a smile. “Good,” he praises. “Good girl. Keep going.”

You bury your face in his neck again, lips curling around your teeth to stifle the moans swelling there. Your hips lose their rhythm as the threat of your orgasm grows. Your clit pounds like a second heartbeat. You briefly wonder if Carmy can feel it, and the thought alone sends you reeling.

“Carmy,” you keen, voice wavering. “I’m gonna cum.”

You feel him nod against you. He licks his lips and turns his head. His nose squishes your temple; his wet mouth brushes your ear. 

“Do it, then. C’mon,” he mumbles against you, coaxing you closer towards your pleasure — not because he’s a pro at the whole dirty-talking thing, but because he knows how much you like it. “Be a good girl and cum on my thigh. Come on.”

You last two more passes up and down his lap before you tense on top of him. Your hips still as you whimper into his shoulder, shuddering hard when your orgasm washes over you.

“Atta girl,” Carmy praises. “Keep cumming for me.”

He drops his pen and finally turns away from his work. He grips your hips with both hands and works you the rest of the way through your orgasm. You let him, for a few agonizing moments, until your high fades and leaves you achingly sensitive.

You inhale sharply through your nose and reach suddenly for his wrists. “No more,” you plead, then exhale a breathy chuckle.

When you part from his neck, Carmy ducks his head to catch your averted gaze. His wide eyes dart over your pleasure-stricken features. “You good?” he wonders. His words have lost any hint of sensuality. He’s always serious about checking in on you.

You nod and swallow hard. “’M good,” you promise, then freeze when your knee nudges his half-hard cock. “Are you good?” you parrot.

Carmy scoffs a breathy chuckle. “I’m almost done here— go bum a smoke from Richie, alright? I’ll out in a second.” 

He kisses you softly. A chaste kiss that’s perhaps too innocuous for such a honeyed moment. You rise on tired legs, and he swats playfully at your side. “How’s that for spending time together, huh?” he calls over his shoulder as you wrench open the office door.

“You’re an idiot, Bear.”

[ohcaptains]

So like the video of Gordon Ramsay when the girl burns her hand, all the “that’s it- deep breath- calm down- good girl- goooood girlllll” but like…it’s Carmy and you’ve burnt your hand and he’s screaming at Richie to get some ice but he’s speaking to you so gently but so in control and you almost forget your hand is still sizzling

he moves fast. pulls you to the sink, yelling, “richie get out of the fucking way,” and you can feel your heart beat in your hand. it’s pulsating, swear you can smell your flesh burning, and carmen is frantic. that man has never known peace, but this is raw kind of rush — panic a literal, physical thing.

“fuck, cousin, what’s the rush for—“ he starts, ready to fight, but he must see carmen holding your sizzling hand, and your pained, tense face, because he puts his hands up.

“whoa, man—what happened?”

carmen ignores him, and guides your hand under the tap, holding your wrist gently in his tatted palm. you hiss as soon as it touches the luckwarm water, and carmen nods his head, and gently says, “shh, i know.”

you hide your face with your elbow, but peak over and watch as water runs over your charred hand. duck fat will do that. you must make a sound, as carmen nods, and calmly orders, “relax your hand for me. come on, unclench. thereee we go, sweetheart. that’s it.”

richie pipes up, “i’m literally first aid trained, let me see,” and carmen’s face scrunches up, “can you shut the fuck up for a second?” he spits over his shoulder. you whine into your elbow, and carmen’s demeanor switches. he rubs your wrist, his voice soft and sweet as he coos, “just breathe, take a deep breath. you’re good, that’s it. unclench your hand for me again, i know it hurts but relax—thaaat’s it, goood. good girl, good.”

[sunflowersteves]

can you write about carmy getting his first blowjob????

the way I crave this man is insane 😩 of course I can, hun

pairing || carmen berzatto x fem!reader

warnings || fluff, established relationship, reader has manicured nails, SMUT, blowjob, mention of eating out, praise kink, 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI

masterlist

It was way past closing time at the restaurant. All of the other employees had left, finishing their duties, while Richie was furiously cleaning the floors. His arm felt like it was about to fall off as he scrubbed the dirty tile.

Carmen, on the other hand, was chopping vegetables. His hand moved fast across the cutting board, making thumping sounds as the knife sliced each carrot.

Richie scoffed. “Do you seriously need to do this right now, cousin?”

Carmen didn’t even blink. He just continued to chop up the remaining vegetables, with all of his focus on cooking. After putting the carrots into the pot, he starts to finely dice a red onion.

“Yes, cousin. I just—I just need to perfect this recipe, and then we’re good.” 

Richie rolled his eyes but still scrubbed. “You’re such a jagoff.”

Carmen had a habit of trying to perfect every single recipe thrown his way. When he tasted the soup earlier, his nose scrunched up. Something about it just felt off—and it was driving him insane. It tasted too salty and too acidic. He needed to figure out how to make it better.

He turned to the boiling pot of chicken stock and gently placed the onion slices into the stew. “Yo, cousin. I got it. Go home.” He didn’t even wait for an answer as he expertly sliced into a tomato.

Richie stood up from the ground. “Sure. Just don’t make your girl wait too long.”

For the first time in their conversation, Carmen looked over at him. There was even a small smile on his lips. “Never. Not to her.”

Richie half-smiled. “Alright, you fuckin’ sap. I’m leaving.” On the inside, Richie was beaming. He couldn’t get over how happy you make Carmen—hell, how happy you make the whole kitchen. Your presence was entirely needed in a place like this.

He knocked twice on the office door and announced his leave to you. You opened the door with a wide grin and bid him goodnight. “Don’t forget to tell Eva about the tickets!” You called out as Richie walked out the door.

Richie was practically glowing at the mention of his daughter. “Thank you for finding amazing seats, by the way, sweetheart! You’re a fucking lifesaver!” With that, Richie was out of sight as the door closed on him.

Carmen’s eyes flickered up at the sound of your voice. His head swiveled around to see you already staring at him. Your body leaned over the office door frame—pretty manicured nails sparkling against the contrasted white of the walls.

“Hi, baby.” He says. 

“Hi, Carm.” You say back, smiling. 

He puts the sharp knife down and wipes his hand on the towel that was over his shoulder. You walk over to him in the kitchen, and he relishes the proximity of your presence. Your fingers trace the outline of his bicep, and a shiver crawls up his spine. Your hand settles onto his shoulder, and you give a small squeeze.

Your relationship was fairly new. It would officially be three months tomorrow, to be exact. It had gone by pretty fast if he was being honest, but it just felt so good being with you. Despite the newly founded relationship, Carmen couldn’t get over how much you truly mean to him.

You were everything from the late Sunday mornings of snuggling under the sheets to the crazy late nights of telling stories out in the front house of the restaurant. To make matters worse, you got along so well with all of the staff at The Bear. You calmed him down when everything seemed to be directly opposing him. You were always there to press a finger to his chin and a kiss on his cheek. He swore his heart palpitated against his chest every time he thought about you.

“Can I taste?”

He nodded, grabbing a small spoon and dipping it into the soup. His hand hovered under the bottom so it wouldn’t spill. “Open your mouth, baby.”

You did as he said and let your jaw slack open. He places the spoon into your mouth, and you let the delicious, salty soup slide down your throat.

You moan against the spoon. “Holy fuck, Carm.” His eyes never left your face in an attempt to understand your reaction. “That was the best thing I have ever tasted.”

He finally smiles. He felt like he was glowing. “You say that every time I ask you to try something.”

You slid your hand down his chest, feeling the imprint of the chain that rests under his uniform. “And I mean it every fucking time.” His heart buzzed against his chest. His mind felt hazy. He wrapped an arm around your waist and squeezed the soft, plush flesh. His bright eyes were so intense—so full of affection—that it was starting to make you feel hot.

“You wanna taste it too?” You asked innocently.

He nodded and reached for another clean spoon. You smiled wide at the idea of him getting a sparkling clean spoon. He was quickly derailed by the way your lips crashed onto his. He let out a surprised groan, his eyes fluttering close.

You moved in sync until you pushed your tongue into his mouth and tasted the sweet essence of him. He tasted the chicken and onions from the delectable, tasty soup. It was much better than what he had tasted earlier. “Fuck—” He murmured in between the deep kisses. You bubbled out a laugh, but his hand stayed firm on your waist. He didn't want to end the way he felt when your lips graced his own.

You pull apart after the desperation of air becomes too much. You almost laugh again at the sight of his swollen lips and pretty pink cheeks. “See? Taste’s good, doesn’t it?”

A small smirk caressed his lips, but the flustered look was still there. “It tastes very good, sweet girl.”

The nickname prickled goosebumps onto your arms. He has called you that since your third date, but it never ceases to make your heart flutter. He knows it too.

You both start to gravitate toward each other once more. This time the kiss was more intense, with more teeth clashing and attempting to bruise each other’s lips.

“Carmy.” You whine. He growled into you in response and pressed another searing kiss onto your mouth. His hands grip your waist even tighter as if to pull you in even more. A moan slipped from the back of your throat.

Your hands move to the plains of his chest before pushing the two of you apart. His eyebrows furrow as you completely pull away from his embrace. Did he hurt you? It was all he could think. He didn’t want to fuck this up. No, he can’t fuck this up.

“Baby?” He whispers, sounding uncertain.

You don’t say a thing as you sink your knees to the ground, causing Carmen to gasp. His eyes were wide as his stare intensified. “F-Fuck.” His mouth bobs open and closed, trying to find some other words, but all he does is whisper your name.

Your hands moved up and down his thighs. The fabric of his chef uniform was soft against your palms. “Can I take care of you, Carmy?”

Oh, fuck. Your voice sounded so sweet—so thick and kind against his ears. He could feel his cock throb at the anticipation of your touch.

You wait for his answer, still gently rubbing his thighs back and forth. He felt like he was on fire. Nerves crash over him, though. His heart starts to speed up at the anxiety that prickles his skin. He had never done this before.

It wasn’t that the opportunity didn’t arise because it did. You asked many times if he wanted a blowjob, but all he wanted was to lick into your folds again. It was like his mind was drunk off of the sweet, tangy nectar, and he wasn't about to let go. He needed you more and more. He discovered he was much more of a giver.

Normally, he takes his sweet time with you. The first time he had ever tasted anyone was you. He always asks—that desperation in his voice. “Can I taste you? Please? F-Fuck, I see you dripping. Oh—Please?” Once he got confirmation, he would spread your legs and dip his tongue into your sweet folds. He could eat you out for hours—and he has.

He would groan against you as his tongue pushed through your folds. You tasted tangy and sour—so sweet to his taste buds, making his hands grip an indent into your flesh. The whimpers and whines that you let out are music to his ears, and he wishes the sounds were burned onto his soul. His eyes would always be latched onto yours, refusing to break the intense contact. He could fucking live in your pussy.

He couldn’t say no to you, though, could he? His cock was about ready to start leaking pre-cum. Your eyes looked so dilated and large with lust that he couldn't resist. 

“F-fuck, okay. Yeah, baby. J-just—” He breaks out into a moan from your eager hands. They pushed down his pants, pooling around his ankles almost in an instant.

“Wait-wait—”

You stop immediately and let go of his thighs. Some concern is etched across your face, and it makes his heart skip a beat.

“I just—I just want you to know that I’ve never done this before. I don’t—” He gulps. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

You almost let out a gasp. It was his first blowjob that you were going to give him, and he was worried about you. His eyebrows are furrowed and he's huffing out a breath. He just didn't want you to feel like you have to do something like this.

“Oh, Carmy, baby, I’m not uncomfortable at all. I’ve been wanting to do this to you for so long, but you kind of get distracted.” There was that implication that he knew about so well. A blush kissed the tip of his ears.

“You sure, baby? I’m not-I’m not forcing you?”

You wanted to know who hurt this man. His anxiety about making you feel comfortable was always through the roof. You grabbed his clenched hand and opened his palm. You pressed a sweet kiss. “No, baby. You’re not forcing me.”

He visibly relaxes his shoulders. “Okay.” He breathes out. “Okay.”

You avert your attention back to his thighs—and what’s between them. He could practically see your mouth water at the bulge that protruded out from his boxers. Carmen had always been big. No one had ever told him that before, in the late kind-of drunken night stands that he had. When you first had sex at his apartment and could really take a peek at his weeping cock, your eyes widened drastically.

You knew he was big, but goddamn, he is big.

“Can I, handsome?”

You looked up at him with a cute smile. The nickname caused his heart to stutter—his cheeks deepening the shade of red. "Yeah, baby." He says. Then he whispers, “Please.”

You dragged his boxers down his thighs, and they pooled right on top of his slacks. His cock sprung up from the force—already more than half hard and aching. His eyes can’t seem to stare at anything else but you. You looked so eager—so excited—to have his dick right in front of your face. It made his stomach flip. 

Your hand curls around the base, and he sucks in a breath. Your fingers just barely wrapped around the entirety of his length. Your manicured nails dug slightly into the large vein on the side—it made him choke on his own spit. 

“So fuckin’ big, Carmy.” You whined. You started to pump, it was a small motion, but it still made him moan. It sounded so desperate, making your ears ring. You couldn’t wait any longer, mouth watering at the sight of pre-cum already sprouting from his tip. 

You kissed the tip of his cock, and he shivered. “F-Fuck, baby—” He moans. He could feel his whole body throbbing—aching at the way you made him feel. 

You swirl your tongue around the ruddy tip and continue to tease him, wrapping your lips around the sensitive area. His hand immediately goes to the back of your head, unable to help himself. “Oh, fuck, holy shit—your fucking mouth, shit—”

His knees wobbled, the other hand steadying himself on the kitchen counter. “Y’taste so good, Carmy.” Your words were slurred with lust, making his own eyes dilate. His heart palpitated at you loving this—the insecurities from earlier disappearing like water down a drain. 

You start to take him even further. Your lips slowly ease down his cock, and one of your hands, still wrapped around the shaft, gave a squeeze. He choked on nothing and watched how you hollow your cheeks. You’re only halfway, but he swears he is seeing stars. “Feels so good, baby—so fucking good.” He squeezes his hand. 

Pride blooms within you, as well as the praises from him making you clench around nothing. You wanted to start touching yourself, but the intense desperation to keep a hand on his cock was greater. You choked a little as his hips unconsciously gave a small thrust. It made him let out a loud moan. 

He’s not sure where the confidence came from, but it’s spewing out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Fucking—shit—can you take all of it, sweet girl? Hmm?” 

He licks his lips. “Can you t-take my whole cock in your mouth?” He lets out a huff of air as you moan around his cock. “Be–be my good girl, yeah?”

The only confirmation you can give is the way your eyes gloss over. Tears threaten to poke out from your eyes, and the sight makes Carmen let out a curse. You slowly, yet again, take more of him in your mouth. 

“F-fuck,” he drags out. “Good girl—good fuckin’ girl. That’s it.” His knees wobble again, but he stays steady. Pure bliss sprouts in his stomach as he can feel the hot, searing pleasure from your wet mouth. 

You were able to fully take him—nose brushing up against the hair on his pubic bone. He groans and whimpers at the sight of you breathing deeply with his cock shoved down your throat. “Shit–shit–fuck, baby. That’s my pretty girl. Look–look at you choking on my cock. Holy shit—” He whined out. 

Warmth spreads through your chest at the adoration and lust that flows through his eyes. He can’t stop staring at the way you are just barely able to take him whole. His eyes widened even more as he watched you shove your hand down your shorts. 

“Oh, baby—” he says in a coo. “Look so good like that, huh? Fuckin’ touching yourself.” You could feel the way his cock twitches in his mouth. God, where was this coming from? He thought. Something about how your eyes sprung with more tears and you desperately humping your hand for some release was making him insane. 

He thrusts in and out of you, fucking up into your throat. You gagged around the girth of his cock and garbled out a cry. He moaned and whined at the feeling of your throat constricting against his cock and listened to the wet sounds of it all.

“Gonna–gonna cum, baby.” He swore that he saw your eyes sparkle—as if you wanted it all down your throat. He could feel that familiar swirl of an organism puncturing his chest. He panted as he watched the way his cock disappeared into your throat—it was a fucking sight. 

His eyes suddenly turn nervous. “Can-can I cum down your throat? Please?” He sees the way you nod with your mouth full, but he sees it. He sees the raw want and needs that fills your eyes. Yeah, you wanted his cum. You needed his cum. 

“Shitshitshit—” He stammers, thrusting into you two, three times. He groans out, low and guttural, as his seed spills into the back of your throat. He moans out your name in between shaken breaths from the ropes flowing through your mouth—salty and sour. He continues to pump into you, and you swallow every single drop—the added friction of your throat making him whimper. 

His hips still, but his cock stays inside of your mouth, twitching in pleasure. You hum around the base and watch as his body almost writhes. He looks down at you with the most content and relaxed smile you had seen.

You slowly pulled your mouth off of him; the pop noise was small. You started to press sweet kisses to his thighs, his hand going back to rest on your head. “Feel good, bear?”

His eyes were shining. “Felt so good, baby. Y’did so well.” Now his words were slurred with lust. He just couldn’t help but let his whole world revolve around you for a moment. 

You gently put on his boxers and do the same to his chef slacks. He offers you his hand, and he helps you pull yourself up. You wince at the sting in your knees, but in a way, it felt good. 

He immediately takes you into an embrace, not uttering a word. You gladly let him and rest your arms over his shoulder. He grabs your waist tightly and lets his head fall on your shoulder. He breathes in deeply, letting the scent that he knows so well flow into his nose.

He was completely and utterly relaxed—it was a sensation he didn’t feel all that often. You press a gentle kiss to his hair and then to his temple. The two of you just stood like that for some time, saying nothing and enjoying one’s company. 

Both of your attention to each other had ceased as the pot that was on the stove had boiled over. A lot of the soup had crashed onto the burning stove. "Fuck!"

Carmen immediately turned the stove off and let out a relieved sigh that nothing had burned. It would just be a bitch to clean up. You hand him a clean washcloth with a slightly guilty look on your face. He took the cloth from you with an annoyed (it was minorly annoyed) glare before wiping down the area.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, Carm." You say, watching his arms flex. "I don't regret a thing."

He rolled his eyes but chuckled under his breath. "Yeah, yeah. Fuck you." The cursing was lighthearted because he knew it too. He didn't regret anything either. In fact, he encouraged something like this again, maybe just without being in the middle of cooking.

He tried the soup again with the dirty spoon—he had a suspicion that it was going to be thrown out anyway. "Shit—Fuck—it's overcooked."

You laughed, one hand resting on your chest. He glared again. "Hey, you can't—seriously, we burned the soup. It's shit."

He still might not admit it, but you could see the way his eyes were still glossed over from the earth-shattering orgasm. He could even feel his cock jump from the way that he watched you bite your lip.

You pressed a finger onto his chin, thumb resting on his jaw. "It'll be okay, Carm." You squeezed his jaw. "You can make some more tomorrow. I’ll help."

Finally, he smiled. Yeah, tomorrow, he thought. His eyes still looked glossy, and his loopy smile was bright. "Let's clean up and go home.”

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

TOMATO LINGUINE.

carmen “carmy” berzatto x fem!reader — fluff

summary. you surprise carmy with a homemade meal to welcome him home after a long, tiring day at he restaurant. you’re nervous. he’s pleased. you’re tired, and so is he. luckily the couch is calling your names

word count. 834

never wrote him before so im shitting my pants. but he’s been on my mind and needed an outlet. also no s3 spoilers

⎯ ☆ ⎯

Being Carmy's girlfriend isn't always so straightforward. It's great, but it isn't easy. He dislikes the help and aid of others, not because he doesn't like the care or the way it feels, rather, he believes he doesn't deserve it.

So over the past couple of months, you had been subtly increasing the ways you look after him - doing little things to show your love. First, you started small, preparing a water bottle in the fridge overnight, attaching a cute post-it note for him to read as a pick-me-up during service the next day. Then, you moved onto organising his stuff by the front door - lining his clogs and his commuting shoes beside his backpack, placing his coat next to it as an attempt to make his morning easier. You just wanted to help lighten his load, even if that means organising things for him that he’s bound to never forget.

You had been working up to making him dinner. It was an awfully scary thing, not because you were uncertain with your way around the kitchen, but worried in the chance Carmy were to hate it - or make a critique you couldn’t stomach.

You knew he would be tired coming home tonight, a critic in the restaurant will do that to him. You wanted to make him something to eat for when he returns, something homely and welcoming, just something comforting to make up for all of the stresses from today.

You decided on pasta, an all round dish with very little room for error. A jar of sauce would be blasphemy in his apartment, an insult almost, so you made your own simple sauce - placing tomatoes and garlic in a dish, coating it with one of Carmy’s fancy olive oils before throwing it in the oven to roast. It was one you had made a bunch of times for yourself before, so you were fairly confident with it. Sort of.

Remembering little tips he had taught you, you implemented them with everything you cooked - like right now, saving the water from the linguine to incorporate later. And to season throughout, not just at the start or end. You wanted to impress him. You always wanted to impress him.

The key in the door jingles and you rush to add the finishing touches - sprinkling on some chopped herbs, and placing a piece of homemade garlic bread on the side. 

“Hi,” you softly call out, hearing his shoes hit the skirting board - no doubt after he had just kicked them off.

He paces over to you, moving sluggishly as he wraps his arms loosely around your waist, chin hooking over your shoulder. “Hi,” he says back, voice tired against your ear. “Smells great in here.”

“Good. I’m glad you think so,” you smile, pressing a kiss into his temple. “I made you dinner.”

“You uh, you did?” he pulls back, a sheepish smile on his face.

You hum, moving aside to pick up the bowl. “But I can put it in the fridge if you’ve already eaten…”

“No no no,” he shakes his head, reaching to take the bowl from your grasp. “I– I haven’t all day, so uh, so this is perfect,” he nods faintly, reaffirming his words.

Your gaze flickers from the bowl to his eyes, growing antsy. “Please just try it, this is killing me,” you say, scrunching your face from the anticipation. 

He twirls the pasta on his fork and takes a bite, humming in a pleasant tune as he chews.

“Is it good? Is it bad? Too much garlic?” you ramble, nervous from his lack of verbal response. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “It’s uh, it’s tremendous,” he smiles, 

“You’re not just saying that?” you joke. “Not trying to spare my feelings, are you?”

“No,” he chuckles earnestly, shaking his head. “I mean it… it’s almost perfect,” his smile softens as he twirls his fork for another bite. “Did uhm, you use my olive oil?”

“Only a little bit– hope that’s okay.”

“Of course,” he nods once more, chewing his mouthful. “It’s great, I love it,” he grins faintly, leaning in to kiss you. “Thank you.”

–

With full, happy bellies, each of you lay on your sides on the sofa - snug to one another to share the small space. Carmen props the side of his head in his fist, elbow bent beside your head. 

“How are you feeling?” you ask, referring to the  moment of comfortable almost silence.

You notice him hesitate, and to assure him, you copy his movement - propping your head in your hand, your other reaching to the side of his face. You stroke over his sideburn, fingers grazing back into his messy, unkempt curls.

“Tired,” he exhales, eyes closing from your touch. 

“Me too,” you murmur. You adjust, eyes silently asking him to do the same. Moving forward and twisting, you lay your head on his chest - your arm wrapping around his waist tightly. “Get some sleep, Bear. Busy day tomorrow, you need the rest.”

this is probs a one time thing btw x

[carmenized-onions]

Zero Pulse. | Oven Hotfix

logline; It's Friday.

[!!!] series history, this is the tenth; You're gonna need to check to make sure you're caught up babe because there's a LOT of context behind this one.

Spotify Playlist, if you like to listen while you read. I listen to it when I write :) Constantly gettin’ added to. Wish you could sort by emotions, on playlists, but this is really a very good playlist i think.

portion; 12.5k Jesus Christ, new record.

possible allergies; Incredibly excessive hateful self-image, very frivolous way of talking about mental illness/death/Mikey, I'd say just like ? stress? BLOOD ALSO !! minor cut dw

pairing; Carmen ‘Carmy’ Berzatto & Fem Reader (gets she/her'd into oblivion this round, mb)

said it before i'll say it again, this is the new best and longest chapter i've written-- of all time now. and im being so fr if i don't get actually like harassed in my inbox with the amount of people chattering about this i will WALK INTO THE PIER BITCH

It’s Friday morning, and today is the first day in possibly years that Carmen has actually snoozed his alarm. Opting to sleep in for an extra hour, despite how uncomfortable his whole body is where it lays. He’s trying to avoid waking up today— Because he knows, he can tell: Today is just not going to be his day, today. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, today— Not even—

He fell asleep on his couch, last night. His TV is still on and when he turns it off, it sizzles from being on the stupid Cooking Channel for so long. He’s covered in crumbs, hands coated in chip dust— Chin and neck sticky with spilled Diet Coke. Just don’t wake up and you won’t have to clean it. The day can’t get him, if it never starts.

But then his alarm rings again, for maybe the hundredth time, and there’s no real reason as to why this time is different from the other times, but he suddenly remembers why he fell asleep on his couch, last night. Why he had such a difficult time crawling just fifteen feet further when he got home last night. His face grows hot and red with shame and embarrassment, like a child.

A plate was sent back. A plate he made, was sent back.

Most would find it too dramatic, but he really did almost throw up. Syd gave him an antacid— From a pocket pack that you gave her. Did it help all that much? No. But at least he kept everything down. He just heaved a lot, in the walk-in. Probably good that he didn’t eat much of anything, yesterday.

He’d been thinking far too much. Spent way too long thinking about what to make for you, tonight— Which is fine, you’re inspiring— But he should’ve been keeping those thoughts to pen and paper. But he was making the stupid fucking roux for the stupid fucking order and his autopilot system got all mixed up and suddenly he was making a fantastic Montmorency, but an awful roux. Fucking brain dead, Berzatto. Talentless. Can you not handle this?

How is it possible, to fuck up that bad? You’re terrible at this. His instinct— Everyone’s instinct was to tell the patron to get off their fucking high horse. There’s always that one guest, that thinks they own the goddamn place. But then the dish came back to the kitchen, and everyone just stared. Silent. He was mortified. Is it too much for you? Practically unrecognizable, from what was ordered. It was entirely his fault. Dumb fuck. So fucking slow.

What happened to him? Seriously, what the fuck happened, to him? How could he possibly forget what’s important here? What’s at stake? He can’t look himself in the eyes when he brushes his teeth. Why are you so fucking slow? You are bullshit.

Regrettably, you happened to him; in a good and bad way.

He sighs, washing your conditioner out of his hair in the shower. Scrunching it, as you’d directed. He listens, he does. He takes direction well. Go faster, motherfucker. And he likes you, Carmen does. You are not tough. And he doesn’t fault you for being a good person, no, he faults himself.

He’s not meant to be a good person, he’s meant to be a good chef.

He’s not meant to be a good work partner, with Syd— That doesn’t get results. Everyone thinks they’re happier when he’s happier, sure, but they’re in the red. They’re not gonna be so fucking happy when their cheques start bouncing. It doesn’t matter how good a person he is— What matters is what he’s actually capable of providing— And it’s not amusement or enjoyment— It’s fucking talent. But he sought out your affections, your approval, in a key moment, in every moment— In place of who he should’ve— A Michelin Inspector.

He's let himself forget, what it meant, what it takes, to get a star.

And that made him fuck up a dish— A simple fucking dish. Again, not your fault, his. But God, he wants both. Carmen needs both. He can have both. You should be dead. He just needs to lock it in, keep it tight, push it down, comb it back, you should be dead—

He needs to spray his hair with rosemary, it’s looking thin. The basil on his balcony is coming in nicely, though.

It’s just hit four o’clock when you’re mostly finished getting ready— Well, you are ready, but, y’know, final checks and all that. You smooth out your palazzo pants. Gotta look presentable. Or at the very least, normal.

The Bear is high-class, you’re not going there as a repairman, tonight, for once. Plus, Richie wears suits twenty-four fucking seven now— So you need to dress accordingly, or he and every other guest there are going to look at you like you’re some broke freak. Which, like, not inaccurate, but still hurtful. You’ve broken out the good but not too good jewelry. Money talks, wealth whispers, or some shit. Black turtleneck, blue pants— To match the stupid fucking Executive Chef’s eyes, or whatever, shut up! The pants are not actually that bright, but you think they’d still pair well with Carmen. And even if they didn’t, they match The Bear’s aesthetic, and you like to remain on theme, even when there isn’t really at all a required theme.

Not like you’re going to be seeing much of Carmen tonight, anyway. As much as you’d like to see him, he didn’t send you his Connections, this morning, not even after you sent yours, and you’re taking that as a sign that today is probably rough. And not in the way that can be helped by talking to a person, either, in fact, probably the exact opposite.

You debate whether or not to wear Carmen’s jean jacket. This is a thin turtleneck, and it’d go really well with the whole outfit, and like, Sydney already caught on— It’s only a matter of time before the whole kitchen clocks it.

Yeah, fuck it, hard launch this situationship. You toss it over your shoulders. Okay, okay, one last last final fit check. Hm. Yeah, you’ve definitely gotta put the necklace away. You kiss the plastic pendant for good luck, before tucking it under your shirt. Not ready for that story, just yet. You will be, eventually. But you certainly don’t want Carmen to notice and ask about it. Soon, though. You will, soon.

You grab your purse, your keys, your finished art piece— Wrapped, neatly, in brown paper, with a little card taped to it. Okay, that’s everything. One last last last final review. Makeup? Great. Hair? Perfect. Outfit? Stunning— Fuck, what shoes are you going to wear? Fuck fuck fuck—

Alright, you know it’s not the shoes you’re worried about. Just get out the door, Chip. It’s gonna be fine, Chip. Dinner’s gonna be good, and normal, actually, because two people having their first real one-on-one conversation after their mutual best friend killed himself just under a year ago is historically always super calm and chill and normal, actually. That’s how that works. It’s not gonna be tense, at all.

This is immediately so tense. “Hey. Good to— Good to see you.”

You go in for the hug, so does Richie, only then do you both realize how full your hands are. And then it becomes a weird side hug from you combined with a full hug from him. It’s terrible, this is terrible, this is so tense. Maybe you can still run and have it not be weird, somehow.

“You— Too.” Richie clears his throat, “Cousin.”

It’s not like this is the first time you’ve seen each other since, no, you’ve seen each other thrice now, but it was different all those times. You were helping Carmen escape a freezer, or having an episode over a broken toilet, or delivering a baby— It wasn’t awkward all those times because it couldn’t be. You didn’t have time to be awkward, they were always emergencies.

“So uh, Fak’s gonna be our, our server?”

“Yessir.”

“He any good?”

“No-sir.”

But this meet up is intentional, booked. It’s got a point to it, and both of you know what it is. You’re just anxiously waiting for the other person to be brave enough to bring it up. Thankfully, neither of you have to, just yet, as Fak sidles up to the host stand.

He’s pushing so many buttons on the P.O.S. before even speaking to either of you that you’re starting to believe he doesn’t know what the fuck the buttons he’s pushing are doing. Based on the way Richie starts to lean over the stand to see what he’s doing, you’re pretty sure you’re right.

“I— I got it, man.” Fak puts a hand up, defensive. Richie backs up, then gestures for Fak to get the fuckin’ show on the road. He does.

“Table for, for uh, how many are you?”

“Oh wow.” It comes out of you instantly, in a true state of shock, at how bad this is already going. You cover your mouth, uh oh, inside thought became outside thought. “Sorry!”

Richie loses it, next to you. You slap his shoulder with your free arm, but you’re laughing too. “Don’t be mean!”

“You’re the one bein’ mean, Chip!”

“I didn’t— He’s trying.” You turn your head back to Fak. “I— Table for two, darling. M’sorry.”

Fak is quick to fold and forgive you, you’ve just called him darling— If a siren ever called to him, he would be dead. “Right, right this way— My name is Neil, I’ll be your server, tonight.”

You follow him to a table that lets you see pretty well into the kitchen. It’s a decent trade-off for not getting a cozy little booth. You look into the window, everyone’s far too focused to know you’re here, right now, but that’s okay— It’s not rushed right now, though, so that is a little… weird.

Richie pulls out your chair, fake Italian chivalry, and what not. When you’re half way through sitting down, a few things are realized instantly, and all three of you speak simultaneously.

“Oh, I should drop this off in the back, first.” Your art piece, you mean.

“Is that Carmy’s?” Your jacket, Fak means.

“You’re fucking Carmen?” What the fuck else could Richie possibly mean.

“I—” You pause, pointing to Fak, first. “Yes, it is.” Then pivot to Richie, “No, I’m not. It’s more like a reservation—”

“Don’t talk about your sex life like it’s a restaurant.” He waves his hand in the air, immediately regretting asking. Listen, it was just the first metaphor on the brain.

“You fuckin’ asked! And we haven’t done shit yet— Not even a fuckin’ date, a’right? Technically not even dating.” It takes maybe, two seconds, in the presence of Richie, for you to go full Chicago accent. It’s unhinged. You have to stand up. “I’m gonna drop this off, in the back.” You lift up the wrapped piece. “I’ll be back, don’t be weird.”

As you walk off, you do your best to pretend you don’t hear Fak mumbling, “Bet it’s one of those sex paintings.”

But it’s very hard to do so when Richie all but booms out a resounding and genuinely baffled, “...What?”

As much as you’d like to continue to hear that insane conversation, you swing through the door, and it’s thankfully a pretty soundproof divider, considering all the yelling you know happens in here.

“Chefs, table twenty-four, two people.” “Yes, Chef.”

Or… Maybe… It’s instead, weirdly subdued? In a tense way, not a calm way. Like when a knife falls off a table, and you’re not sure if it’s going to stab you in the foot and there’s no time to pull back.

“Twenty-one, four people.” “Yes, Chef.”

That kind of quiet. The calm before the storm, maybe. The fall before the blood, you think may be more accurate. God, Syd looks exhausted and it’s only half past four. The rush hasn’t even started yet. Why are they pushing so hard, right now?

Carmen’s on expo. Which, based on the night terrors he told you about, seems like a recipe for fucking disaster. Again, he’s not yelling. His voice is monotone, it sounds dead, frankly, and you’re wondering if you would prefer him screaming, actually.

There’s a mantra, amongst first responders, that it’s better to hear screaming than silence, because then you know they have a pulse, they’re drawing breath, they’re able to feel. You can’t honestly tell, with Carmen.

Syd hands off a plate to expo, to Carmen. He calmly, quickly— And like, really quickly, barely more than a two second glance is given, to the dish, before he says, “Refire, Chef.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. Not your business, not your restaurant, don’t overstep. But God, it hurts to watch the order hit Syd in the face, like a splash of cold water. She repeats, in disbelief. “Refire?” The dish looks fine to her— And it sure as fuck looks fine to you.

“Yes, Chef.”

“Why, exactly? Chef?”

Carmen does not look up from his system, he does not watch what is practically heartbreak, mortification, tempered anger, play out on Syd’s face. “Not perfect. Fire twenty, twenty-five— Two waiting on twenty, Chefs.”

“Heard!”

“Not perfect?”

He looks up, finally, at her. You can only see the back of his head, so you can’t tell the look. “Sauce is broken.” It’s definitely not. Well, at least to your untrained eye, it’s not. “We don’t serve what’s not perfect. Do we, Chef?” He slides the plate aside, deading it.

“Do you want your star, or not?” You don’t think he means to be antagonistic, or at least hope he doesn’t, but it really comes off that way. He rubs his chest, but his tone lack empathy.

Syd closes her eyes, taking a breath. She has so many words, for this man, but she holds her tongue. She does not rub her chest in return, she just restarts the dish. “Yes, Chef.”

“Thank you, Chef.”

There’s a lull in orders, for the moment, so you very gently place your hand on Carmen’s back, to make him aware of your presence. As gentle as you try to be, he still flinches. Anyone over his shoulder would make him flinch right now, but it’s you. “Oh—!”

Now, do you let out a small yelp, inadvertently, when he turns to look at you, and you see him as he is right now? Yeah, yeah you do.

“—Good to— Did you just scream, at the sight of me?”

Syd puts a hand over her mouth, heavy exhale of laughter still escaping through her nose. Schadenfreude.

Your mouth hangs open, for a second, squinting, goddammit, inside thought got outside, “…No?”

“What— What, I look bad?” He’s immediately looking over himself, trying to find the culprit. And though the emotion he’s feeling right now is insecurity, you feel relief that at the very least, the glow of anything is shining through him, right now.

Doesn’t make you a fan of the slicked-back hair look, though. That’s what made you yell— Like when a dog or a baby doesn’t recognize their parent. Like when Mikey shaved for the first time after you met him, and you considered him completely unrecognizable. You practically ignored him until some stubble came in. What did he expect?

You also just don’t like it. Clean-Shaved Mikey nor Hair-Gel Carmen. The pomade is overpowering your shampoo, and now he doesn’t smell like you. Doesn’t smell like him. His curls are all gone— Man, his pattern was just starting to revive, too. He looks just too clean, too cookie-cutter, too… Someone else. He just doesn’t look like— “No, Bear, you look good— I just— You look— Don’t look like the Carmy I’m used to, is all.”

Who are you to tell him what he looks like? You don’t know why, but the energy today is just making you feel like… You’re intruding, you’re stepping in on a space that has nothing to do with you, but that couldn’t be further from the truth, right?

He nods, compartmentalizing, only acknowledging that you’ve said he looks good. “You look nice.”

“I clean up.” You shrug, it gets a nearly imperceptible smile out of him. Hm. Where’d your Carmen go? He’s really making you work for it, tonight. You gesture to your painting, holding it by your knees. “Not here to disrupt, M’just gonna put this in your office, for later.”

“Painting?”

“Incredible guess.” Again, that smile and that exhale of laughter, thin. “Yes, it’s the piece— Wait ‘til close, to open it, please.”

He nods, when you start to walk off, he grabs your arm. “Ah, uh—” He lets go. “Can I, uh— I planned— I planned an off-menu main, for you, is that, that okay—”

“It would always be okay, yeah.” You nod, reassuring. It would be more than okay, if Carmen decided and designed every meal you ever had for the rest of your life, you think. “Trust you— With, with my taste buds.”

You’re not sure if it’s the right move, but you awkwardly step forward and kiss Carmen’s temple anyways— In his hairline. He seems to care a lot about appearances, right now, so you don’t want to get lip gloss on his forehead. Despite your quickness, there is still a very childish ‘ooooh’ reverberating throughout the kitchen. But he’s ignoring it, so you ignore it too. Carmen, more than anything, would like to reciprocate, but he’s running a kitchen, and he cannot let himself nor the crew get distracted. He nods, smile small, and turns back to his station.

“Waiting on twenty, Chefs.”

You don’t take it personally; the guy is busy, what can you do? You drop the painting off in his office, leaning it against the table for Carmen’s perusal after close— It’s not the kind of piece he should look at during his break— Who are you kidding, you saw him, he’s not taking a break tonight. God, he might hate this piece. What if he hates this piece? It’s a risk you have to take, it’s art. Hopefully the card will help smooth any questions over. You’re clearer over text, you think.

On your way out of the kitchen, you nod to Marcus and Tina. A sign of ‘Hey, I’m here, I know we can’t talk, but I’m here.’ They nod back. When you pass Sydney, you take a moment to squeeze her shoulder. That star thing was rough, but you don’t know enough about cooking to intervene— It’s not your place. Still feel for your girl, though. Awe, you’ve only just noticed, she’s wearing your collar pins. She puts her free hand over yours, squeezing it in return, just for a second. She doesn’t turn to face you, but the silent encouragement and sympathy is exchanged. She gets back to work, and you get back out to the front.

If there was time for it, you’d be her designated coach and cheerleader, find a motivational bookshelf to carry somewhere again and give a speech, but there’s not. So, this will have to do, for now.

Fak is absolutely bombing every step of this introduction, when you sit back down. The second-hand embarrassment is truly eating you alive, as he stumbles through today’s specials, which, you’re pretty sure is not the order these things happen in—

“Hey, uh, Neil, wasssit?” Richie scratches his nose, attempting to play the part of blind customer. “How ‘bout drinks first, bud?” He’s trying to keep a sympathetic attitude, which is making all of his pointers come off as extremely passive aggressive.

“Yeah, for sure, right, yeah— What’uh— What can— Drinks? Hey, hey you want? Drink?”

You cup a hand over your mouth, to block your mortified expression. “Yeah, yeah, Neil, I’ll just have a water.”

“Water!” Fak yells back, way too fucking emphatically, “I— I love water, that’s so crazy.”

“Jesus Christ.” Richie holds his face in his hands, elbows on the table. “I’ll get a fuckin’…” He lifts a hand to wave in the air, willy-nilly, still not looking up. “Chippy, name a wine.”

“Red?” Richie usually doesn’t have wine. It’s the rich man’s beer. But when he does, it’s red.

“Mhm.”

He’s probably gonna get steak, just go with a safe bet, “Cab Sav, for the gentleman, please.”

Fak writes it down, but seems bewildered and confused, staring at it. “You want a taxi?”

“Oh my god.” You and Richie are in unison. Two very different tones, though. You sound baffled, he sounds like he’s two seconds from lunging.

Which, isn’t an entirely unfair reaction, Fak has been training for this moment for a month. Rich thought he’d at least be ready to start with you. You’re the least intimidating person he knows, you wouldn’t hurt a fly. Maybe that’s what makes it so difficult? That you’re too nice? Even still, Fak should at least know this, not choke as hard as he is, right now. It’s embarrassing for Richie, when his staff are flailing this bad, especially in front of the people he loves and admires.

Rich wrings his hands together, looking back up to you. “I fucking taught him this, just so y’know.”

You nod, looking to Fak. You’ve just gotta get him out of here, honestly. “Cabernet Sauvignon, baby— Just a glass, not a bottle. We’ll look over our menus, in the meantime, maybe?”

The sleeper agent line has been spoken, and the server autopilot in Fak’s brain finally turns on. “Right. I’ll just give you lovely two a second to look over your menus, alright, haha, be safe— Be back with your drinks, folks.”

The delivery may need a little work. Though you think his edits should probably start with the way he walks backwards, eye-contact unyielding, and almost trips as he pushes backwards into the kitchen door. That might be considered bad, to some.

“Trainwreck.” Richie presses his palms into his eyes. “M’fuckin’ sorry, Chippy, Jesus Christ.”

You shrug, leaning back in your seat. “I don’t see a problem, it’s dinner and a show, baby.”

Richie laughs, at that, after a few seconds of silence, he adds. “He’s not gonna fuckin’ last.”

“Probably not.” You shrug. “But it was worth a shot. N’ he’ll do in a pinch, if you’re ever short-staffed.”

“We are always short-staffed.” Richie grumbles. “Do fuckin’ servers ever actually stage? Need the free labour.”

“What the fuck is stage?”

“I honestly still don’t know.” You both laugh. “I fuckin’ did it and I still don’t know.”

“What have you been up to, besides uh, staging?” You finally open Pandora’s box.

Well, it’ll stay small talk for a little bit, to be fair, gotta warm up to the real stuff—

“Tif’s getting remarried.”

“—Oh, holy shit.”

He nods, looking aimlessly nowhere, certainly not your eyes. “Engaged, at least— Haven’t gotten a fuckin’ invite, or anythin’.”

“You think she’ll invite you?”

“She asked.” He closes his eyes, for a second. This has been hanging over his head, all day. “Called, this uh, this morning, cause of Cousin Vinnie n’ Mira—”

“She comin’ to that?” You’ve never actually met Tif. They were on the rocks when you’d come to The Beef, so it was mostly just waves through car windows, if anything. It might be better if it stays that way, you think.

He shakes his head, “Someone’s gotta take care of Eva, n’ she’s got work. But the invite made her think of my invite, and uh, if I’d want one, come when it may.”

These are the moments you wish you had a glass of water, so you could sip and do something with your mouth and hands, as you think of what to say. He continues, because he knows you’re going to ask, “Said I’d think about it.”

“I think it’s okay, if you don’t want to.” You lean forward, as a show of sympathy. “That’d be a fuckin’ lot, for anyone.”

“Yeah. Yeah, but it’s uh, it’s— I’m good, Chip.” Richie leans back in his seat, swiping at his nose. He’ll talk about it when he’s ready, and you know that. He makes eye-contact, again, finally. “How’ve you been holdin’ up?”

You bite at your lip, alright, its fucking game time, this is what you’ve been prepping for, time to tell him everything you’ve been thinking about, for the past year, time to tell someone other than your former therapist what the fuck is in your head. “I—”

“Drinks! Hyah!” Fak busts through the door, far too boisterous. It scares a few patrons, and honestly you, a little bit. He returns to your table, pitcher and bottle of wine on a tray— Hey, it actually is a Cab Sav, he did it! Gotta celebrate the victories, here.

You can’t help but notice, as Fak pours your glass of water and attempts small talk, that he seems a bit more distressed than he did before he went in the kitchen. You crane your neck to peek through the window. Hm. Syd and Carmy are not where they were before. They’re talking. It doesn’t look like a fight, though. Let it lie. You’ve really got to let it lie, because Fak is in front of you, staring straight forward like he’s in a catatonic liminal state, not acknowledging either you or Richie with his gaze. A touch disconcerting, possibly.

“So, hey, you guys, you guys like food?”

Your lips form a line. “Fak, are you okay?”

“I’m great—” His voice cracks, oh dear. “Am I doing great?”

“You’re certainly trying—” “You’re fucking this up tremendously.” At least Richie is honest, and usually you are too, but, when it comes to a trainwreck, you’ve gotta tell the train they’re doing a great job. You just can’t bear to let it know it’s on fire.

When your glass of water starts to overflow, you take the pitcher from Fak’s hand so he can’t keep overpouring it in his fugue state. Jesus Christ, what happened in the kitchen? Who died? Actually, probably don’t joke about that.

It’s in within this moment that you learn a lot of things very quickly. First thing you learn, Sweeps is a server now, you guess. He’s in the suit, coming out of the kitchen, terrified, serving tray in hand, two champagne flutes wobble upon it. Second thing you learn, Sweeps is not a good server, or at the very least, isn’t right now, he’s too shell-shocked to keep any level of awareness of where he’s going. He bumps into Fak’s back. Third thing you learn, Richie has great reflexes, he catches the wine bottle from Fak’s tray. You have decent reflexes, managing to reach an arm out in time to keep Sweeps from entirely falling over and eating shit.  

You were however, not able to keep the champagne flutes from elegantly flying off of Sweep’s tray, and falling to the ground, shattering. Sonofabitch.

There’s a silence, then an overlapping chorus from the two distressed servers, “I’ve got it, I’ve got it, I’ve got it—” That’s the fourth and last thing you’re able to clock immediately. These two know serving is not for them. They do best sweeping or fixing, not fucking talking to people. Breaking something and needing to clean it up is like a gift from God, to them, they’re genuinely fighting to be the one to clean it up. They end up tag-teaming it, as they feel Richie’s quiet glare burn into them. He’s gotten very good at silently laying down the law. They apologize, scramble to clean, hastily apologize, and rush back into the kitchen as soon as possible.

Fuck. It’s like Richie texted, Fak has shit the bed, and that almost certainly means your dinner is gonna get cut short. You’re not going to get the chance to tell him everything— Let alone anything you wanted to get out. You won’t get to apologize properly, and then he’ll head right back on his shift, and you’ll just be the kitchen’s friend that’s taking up a table. Fuck, you’ve got to try to stumble something of note out.

“I missed you, Rich.”

The man in question turns his head from looking through the kitchen window, back to you, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I was here.” Could’ve visited.

“I know.” No, I couldn’t.

He nods. The unexchanged words are still understood between the both of you, somehow. You fiddle with your fingers, gearing up to just say your big speech, you practiced it in the car ride here, if you just cut it down to the key bullet points, you can probably get it all out.

“Richie, I’m sor—”

Once again, Fak interrupts, door swinging open, he looks extremely panicked this time, tripping over nothing, sweating like it’s a million degrees, looking to both of you, alright the kitchen situation seems to have escalated. It seems like he’s about to scream to you— But then remembers that there are guests other than you and Richie, in the front of house, and so he speed walks to your table.

Richie is the one to ask this time, “Are you fuckin’ good—?”

“Uh-uh.” Fak shakes his head, in repetitive, tight small swivels. His posture militantly straight, taught, eyes darting everywhere, like there’s spies lurking in the booths, watching him. He speaks through tight teeth, to hide his words from onlookers. “Bad. Bad bad.”

“Bad bad?” You repeat after him, waiting for him to lend any explanation to the subject, he doesn’t really.

“Need you.” He nods to Richie. Then nods to you. He looks… Disdainful? Remorseful, maybe. To be doing so. “You too. Bad.”

Richie looks to you, letting you make the call, here. You look at him and sigh, your plan has been utterly ruined, your speech— Dashed. He adds. “Intermission?”

There’s no way this is just going to be an intermission. “Intermission.”

You both stand, he takes his wine glass, then takes the bottle, a bit more realistic. You take your water. Cheers, and into the cesspool you go, abandoning your table, for what Richie hopes is for an interim, for what you both know is for the night.

The first thing you notice, Carmen’s not at expo. No one’s on expo, actually. Which feels like a problem. The second thing you notice is where Carmen actually is— In the walk-in— Not locked in, no, not this time. No, you notice he’s there because he’s yelling, better than zero pulse, but you still wince. All yelling makes you wince.

“Who was on veggie prep today?! What is this dice, Chefs!?” He storms out, large deli container of onions in his hand— He’s bringing it to his station— Which was Syd’s station, but he’s now co-opted it, seemingly, as she’s not there. However, in her stead, are five more containers of pre-diced veggies— You imagine Carmen brought those out, too. “We are not serving fucking sandwiches, anymore, Chefs—”

Carmen stops short of his aggression, when he sees you. You can’t tell if you like that. You’re pretty sure you don’t. What’s that stupid idiom? Mean to the world, good to your girl? Don’t like that. Don’t like two faces. Don’t like the shade on the old sandwiches— Mikey’s sandwiches, either.

Carmen doesn’t move to you, or anything like that though, no, he’s busy— With what exactly, you’re not sure. No fucking way he’s redoing all the prep right now, right? That would be insane. The dices are fine, and they can’t just waste food right now with their budget nor their time— Fucking Christ, he is actually redoing the prep and making Tina use the old for broth— Oh dear God.

The third thing you notice is where Syd really is, in lieu of her station. She’s having what looks like a panic attack with Sweeps by the ovens. Your legs move to her before your brain really registers anything else, and you can hear behind you that Richie has gone to Carmen and is handling expo. Fak did not need to tell either of you what your jobs needed to be back here, you just know.

“This is, this is just fucking great—” Syd heaves, holding onto the handle of the oven. Next to her, Sweeps is still in his hosting attire, but he’s mopping up water by Syd’s feet. There’s a tipped over mop bucket on the ground. He looks significantly more comfortable now, but still equally as distressed as the rest of the kitchen seems to be.

You put a hand on Syd’s shoulder, leaning down to her level. “Bubs, what’s going on? M’here.”

“Fucking everything is going on.” She starts to catch her breath; she brushes your hand away. You know it’s because she has sensory overload, it still kind of hurts, though. “Carmen’s fucking freaking…”

“No shit.” You step aside and lift your left foot, when Sweeps needs to mop by your feet. “Why, though?”

“On our opening night, he had a fuckin’— Episode, I dunno.” She’s still keeled over, hands on her knees, but she’s breathing. “N’ he had this like— Like saw this guy, who wasn’t actually there. Out—” She nods her head to the window to the front of house. She stands up, again. “Out there.”

“His, his old Executive— Chef.”

“Oh.”

The night terrors. The oven. The fire. The wanting it to happen, even just a little bit. The man who’s in his head, talking to Carmen, every night. The man he saw on his opening night, apparently. Your poor Carmen.

“Yeah, yeah he was like— Apparently kind of a dick—” Understatement of the century. “But like, so is he.” Syd nods to Carmen. You can’t completely deny that. You wish you could. “Anyways, he called.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I fucking know.” She nods, emphatic. She then realizes that this story is going to take a second, and gestures to the oven behind her. “This won’t turn on, spilt water on it.”

“Oh.” You take a beat, then remember this is what your job is, “Oh!” You feel around the pockets of your pants. Should’ve expected to bring a screwdriver, at the very least, it’s The Bear. Get with the program. The tools are in your car, to be fair, but for a quick simple check-up—

You call out, “Yo, Fak—” “Yes?”

You jump, he’s standing a mere inch behind and adjacent from you. You hold your heart, stepping back from him, just a touch. “…Do you… Have a screwdriver?”

Neil leans back, like he’s tough, like he’s sizing you up. “Something broken?”

“Tryin’ to figure that out.”

“Cause you’re a repairman.”

“Cause I’m a repairman, yeah.”

“You got a degree?”

“Just give her the fucking screwdriver!” Syd yells before you can answer. Fak begrudgingly and with a lethargic show, hands you the screwdriver from his chest pocket.

Jealous, is he? Oh, that’s cute. That’s very cute. He’s the one that said he wanted to host— Whatever, no time to tease or bicker, you’re pulling the oven out, trying to lift as much as possible with Syd’s help, to keep from scrapping tile, but it’s inevitable.

You kneel down, taking the screws out the back, “So Exec dude, he called?”

“Uh-huh.” Syd focuses on her pan on the oven next to you— Thankfully that one did not get fucked in the crossfire— so they’re short but not fucked, just yet, at least. “Called Carmen, said he’d heard about the opening— That he wants to come try the place.”

“Right, but he’s from New York, isn’t he, you’ve got time—”

“He already took a flight here; he’ll be here in thirty.”

“Oh, my fucking God.”

“I fucking know.” Everything is going on. It’s all starting to make a lot more sense now. The kitchen’s general distress, Fak and Sweeps dropping shit from anxiety but also an inadvertent way to guarantee Richie does not table them with the fucking guy, Carmen’s sudden paranoia over someone noticing a decimal less than perfect dice— Because he would, he will.

The man in Carmen’s head that’s been torturing him has at the very least been confined to his head. And now he will be materializing, before his family, to dress him down at any opportunity, in thirty fucking minutes. Oh, your poor Carmen…

“And this guy—He’s like, like fucking big, if he likes the food— Likes The Bear— We might end up getting an inspector, in here.”

You lean out from the back of the oven, practically being swallowed by it. Confused. “Getting an inspector is a good thing?” To your knowledge, inspectors are what shuts down restaurants.

“A Michelin Guide Inspector.” Oh, fuck.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah, I fucking know!” Syd replies, emphatic, Richie calls out an order to her, from expo. She clears her throat. “Heard, Chef.”

A Michelin Guide Inspector. What’s that mean? Well, if you’re thinking correctly, it means a star. It means accolades. It means recognition. It means money. It means 800k. It means not going under. It means clawing their way back out of the woods. It means everything. Oh, fuck.

“So, anyways—” Syd sautés, violently. “Carmen fuckin’ finishes that call, storms out the office, and like demands shit to be perfect— Which like— Like it should be, I know, but like— Tellin’ me to fuckin’ mop already perfectly clean floors, is like, like fucking stupid— Especially when I’m fucking cooking here, like what?”

It’s amid this retelling, as you stand, that you notice Syd’s hand— The left one, the one on the pan’s handle, is bleeding, two of her fingers, cut. “And I— I fucked up, like, like I know I did. I dropped the mop bucket, n’— n’ now my fucking oven won’t turn on.”

You take her hand, she tries to rip it away, you don’t let her. “I cut it on the edge of the bucket, stupid sharp plastic, I’m good—”

“Lemme just bandage it.” You’re already fishing through your pocket, with your free hand.

She’s quick to shake her head. “You need to figure out how I fucked up the oven.”

“I already know what’s wrong with the oven.” You pull out your wallet, flitting through the bill fold with your fingers— You keep band-aids there, in case of emergency, because of course you do. Syd tries to tug her hand away, again. Her blood is rubbing onto your fingers. It’s not a big cut, but it’s enough. You can’t help remember the ye old days of you as teens, hearing about the concept of blood brothers for the first time, and genuinely considering going through with it. Funny what time does. Funny who it brings back.

“Then fix the oven.”

You mumble, tearing the paper open with your teeth. “This first.”

“I’m fucking good, Tony.”

“Don’t bark at me.”

She grimaces when she notices they’re children’s band-aids, with goofy little cartoon heroes on them. “I don’t fucking need—”

“Sydney, I love you.” There is no subtext, behind it. You look her in the eyes, stern. Tone inarguable. It catches the words in her throat, and keeps them there.

“Will you let me?”

She shuts her eyes, tight, for a second, and just looks away, hand going limp in your grip. Which means okay, I love you, too. She does not need to say it. You wrap two band-aids, one around each finger that got cut, and let her go.

Syd takes a second, to look at it. She looks at you.

“The Miles Morales feels racially targeted.”

“I fuckin’ hate you.” You point at her, you both break into laughter. Richie barks out another slew of numbers and orders, and it’s like getting caught talking in class. She goes back to her cast-iron, you start walking off to Rich. From behind you she mumbles.

“Love you, Inky.” Oh my God. Chippy’s a flashback, Inky is like a history textbook.

“Love ya, Squid.”

At expo, Richie’s sweating, he turns to you, and you speak at once.

“Carmy give you the run down?” — “Syd tell you the bullshit?”

You both nod. You’re first to ask, “Fuck dinner?”

“Raincheck. Let’s say.” He shrugs. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t need to be.” You nod to the oven. “Thermocouple in your oven’s broke. I have backups in my car.”

“You have backups in your fucking car?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Of the one hyper-specific part we need?”

“Yeah, the timing is crazy—” “Ey, when’d you get a fucking car, Cousin?” Richie realizes a discrepancy he simply always forgot to ask about for the past few weeks.

“Early this year. It’s a piece of shit. It works.”

He nods. “Hands!” Fak, swings by you, grabbing the plate from Richie, “Got this!”

Richie nods, smiling, very clearly fake, turning his head to watch Fak walk all the way out and have the door swing shut behind him. When he’s sure Fak can’t hear him, his head snaps right back to you. “We cannot let any of my fuckin’ staff near the fuckin’ big shot.”

It’s honestly nice that dinner is over, despite how bad you wanted to talk because now it’s this. Now it’s nostalgic. Now it’s comfortable— Distressing— But it’s you two, again. You nod. “So you’re gonna run expo and serve him at the same time?”

“What, you think I can’t?”

No, you don’t. “Of course you can, you’re Richie Jero—Uh, whatever the fuck.” You’re already walking to the back door to grab your tools.

“Jerimovich, Chippy! Not that fuckin’ hard!”

You should put oven expert on your business cards, when you eventually get to making new business cards. This is like, the third oven fix you’ve done in two weeks? And you just changed a thermocouple a few days ago! It takes you maybe five minutes tops, to switch the old wire for the good one.

When you push the stove back against the wall and test the burners— It works, thank God. You might’ve hyped yourself up a little too much before even checking that. Once you do, though, before even saying it’s fixed, Syd violently shakes your left shoulder, as a point of approval. Tina, on your right, slaps you on the back several times as her vow of praise, too. This is like riding a roller-coaster, and not in a good way.  

But it ends soon, as they’ve got to get right back to work, since Richie calls out—

“Guys fuckin’ here!” That’s like, ten minutes early, bullshit— “He brought a party of five—” Are you fucking kidding— “Booth Twelve— When I say booth twelve, don’t fuck up booth twelve, a’right, Chefs?”

“Heard!”

Where’s Carmen, right now? You look around— He’s at his station, on the final part of the line. He’s simultaneously making a dish completely on his own and doing the final touches on plates before they get sent out. Alright, okay, so maybe it’s best expo doesn’t get foisted on him, right now. But fuck, how is Richie gonna serve five and run this fucking kitchen?

Tina claps your back again, bringing you out of your state of worry. “Baby.”

“Yeah, T?” She turns your attention to a big pot of stock, on the burners that now work, thanks to you.

“Can you just stir this, f’me, for just a minute? Make sure the—”

“I’ll get the brown off the bottom yeah.”

She slaps your cheek, approving, “That’s my baby.”

And so, you stir. It’s an easy job, it just takes time— Time this kitchen doesn’t have, time you’re happy to give. Tina rushes over and takes over expo, while Richie moves out to take in stupid fucking booth twelve.

This kitchen is dysfunctional, the constant switches of expo require everyone to find a new rhythm, every time, and T needs to play catch up. Tina, Carmen, and Richie run expo just a touch differently from each other, since it’s a pretty cookie cutter job— But those minute differences change a lot. The tempo and tonal switches throw everyone off just slightly. They’re small mistakes, like a poor aesthetic sauce splatter, like Syd cutting her hand, like Marcus fucking up his saffron placement like five times in a row— It takes seconds off, it takes time. Time you do not have.

But what can you do? It’s all hands-on deck. Except for Fak’s hands. Get that man a water and a corner to sit in. He needs a second. So does the rest of this kitchen.

When Richie comes back in, it’s with a whine, he’s already so tired of this stupid fucking Michelin Exec. “—Wants to see a fuckin’ wine menu, do we have a fuckin’ wine menu?”

“No, Chef!” Syd and Carmen both chant out from other sides of the kitchen. Your ears perk up. They could’ve just asked you to make one, you would’ve. But, guess you don’t work here, technically.

Richie grimaces, “I know fuck all, bout wine.” He takes a swig of the red wine he left sitting on the expo podium. “Tastes fuckin’— Red, I dunno.”

Finally, something you can actually help with, in a critical way— Well, you just fixed an oven, but that doesn’t count, in your head. Most things you do don’t count, in your head. “T! Switch!” You whistle to her, and though she doesn’t love being ordered around, you’re already walking away from the pot, so you don’t really give her a choice.

“Rich, let me take it.”

Richie looks at you like you’ve grown two heads, but also, he finds those two heads very amusing. “Chippy...”

“I fucking know wine. I tend. I’m personable, I—”

“You don’t know how to kiss ass.”

“But I could.” You’re already peeling off Carmen’s jacket— Hey, thank God you dressed on theme, right? This could absolutely be a server’s fit. “Under duress.”

If it were up to Richie, you would already be out there. But his name is not on The Bear, as much as he’d like it to be. He looks to Carmen, who’s been staring at the both of you this entire interaction. Which is kind of concerning, he should probably be focusing on his three-quarter dice or he might to chop his fucking fingers off. No, he’s wouldn’t. He could probably do it with his eyes closed.

Carmen looks from Richie, who’s silently asking him for permission, to you. “Y’sure?”

“Yeah.” You nod, tucking his jacket under the expo podium. You don’t catch the way his face hardens, just a bit— Because you turn your gaze to Richie. “I’ll just do the drinks part, like an actual somme— Warm him up, f’you, when he’s ready to order. Let you stay on expo, longer.”

Richie rocks his head back and forth, considering it. You tack on, “I’m stage— What the fuck did you call it?”

“Staging.” Carmen answers.

“That one.”

Carmen stares at his cutting board, thinking and working, working and thinking. He does not look up at you, when he makes his decision. He just nods, “Okay.”

You nod back, happy. You don’t wait for him to change his mind. You take one quick overview of their wine rack, noting what they do and don’t have, and then you’re off, out the door, to the front of house, to a warzone.

The motherfucker at Booth Twelve sticks out like a sore thumb. There’s something about the aura he radiates, that tells you immediately that it’s him, despite not knowing his face or name. Bet it’s fucking Tony, somehow.

He’s doing his best to peer into the kitchen window without being obvious about it, which, he’s currently failing at that. Richie sat his party in a good booth, it’s just the worst booth for a good view of the kitchen. Smart. This guy is an asshole, and it’s clear from his stupid equally punchable looking friends, that he’s doing all of this on purpose.

The big party, unexpected. The him, unexpected. The asking for a wine menu. He wants you all off guard, he wants Carmen off-guard, he wants Carmen’s breath to hitch, he wants Carmen to sweat, and most importantly, he wants to watch.

You stand in front of his view, on purpose. “Hi, pleasure to serve you lovely people tonight, I’m—” No shot you’re giving this guy your real name. “—Jack, I’m your sommelier. I heard you wanted to look over a wine menu?”

“Yes,” His voice is just as stupid as you expected it to be. This is the fucking voice Carmen hears? God, lock it in, bite your tongue. “And I see you are not holding one.”

“Well, actually, we don’t carry a wine menu because we at The Bear believe in a personally curated dining experience.” You don’t miss a beat, you don’t hitch, he hates this and you can tell. “I like to think that I’m your wine menu, flip through me at your leisure.”

Your eyes crinkle, as you do an expert customer service smile. This stupid fucking table laughs at the lukewarm joke, he just smirks, because rich men don’t have time for laughter. So, their cronies do it for them.

“Well then,” He gestures his hand, giving you the floor. “What’s the menu?”

“Ah, well, was there anything on the main menu that caught your eye, so I can best pair you?”

“Hmm…” There’s a glint in his eye, and you know you’ve just expertly set him up to say ‘No.’ And then you’ll have no fucking comeback. You’ll probably throw up on the table, fuck fuck fuck— “Yes, actually.”

Oh, thank God. “The Wagyu steak with wild mushrooms and hazelnut-gruyere croquettes?”

Oh, that’s the one Carmen made for you, weeks back, you know that one. “Ah, one of my personal favourites. I’d recommend a young Pinot Grigio, maybe a 2006 Gravner?” How the fuck did you remember that? Doesn’t matter. What matters is this motherfucker is not getting under your skin.

“And what about the braised oxtail wellington?” The hot pocket, he means. You’ve had that, too.

“We have a fantastic Barolo Brunate to pair with that, Giuseppe Rinaldi 2019.” You have no idea if it’s fantastic. Who fucking cares. It’s expensive, you know that much. You only bothered to review the top rack.

“Lot of Italian vineyards.” A woman next to him comments.

“Well, we are Italian owned, so.”

It does not end there. No, why would it? No, he and his compatriots go about naming every single fucking thing on the menu, asking you to pair it. And not to toot your own horn too much, but this is, really, the one job you feel the most trained to do. All those games with Syd, all those men at Eden’s, all the parts and tools and forty different types of wrenches you have to keep track of and memorized as a repairman— Your brain is trained for this. This isn’t easy for you, sure— But you are maybe more equipped for this than any other person you could possibly think of. Good think you don’t have to think of people, you have to think of wines.

Once you survive the gauntlet, his ‘friends’ order their actual wines— Each by the bottle. Alcoholism in the food world is crazy. Also, how are you going to carry four to five full bottles here? Dear God. Whatever, you’ll live, and make insane bank— Or, The Bear, will, rather. That’s like a thousand on wine alone. When you get to Him, he puts his menu down and sighs, it’s very clearly fake.

“Can I be honest with you?”

“I’d want for nothing more.” You’d want for a lot more; actually, you’d want for him to shut the fuck up. But this is kind of a good thing. They’ve wasted a solid ten minutes just talking wine— Giving the kitchen ample time to catch up. This guy just shot himself in the foot with the sweat plan.

“This is a fine menu, but as you said, The Bear believes in a personally curated experience.” Fuck. “I don’t know if you know this, but I have a very personal relationship with the owner.” Fuck. “Would you hate me, if I asked for you to… Surprise me?”

He doesn’t need to ask for a surprise for you to hate him, is what you want to say, but instead you just smile, appeasing, kissing ass. You hate yourself just a bit for it. “I’ll see what we can do, sir. And so, you’d like a surprise wine, as well then?”

He does a customer service smile right back. You’re both passively cursing the other. “If that’s no trouble. Oh—” He tilts his head, cocky attitude really coming to a head now, “And budget isn’t a problem. Just the best.”

“I couldn’t imagine giving anything less, sir.” Another coy smile from you, before bowing and leaving their table. Your tight shoulders fall as soon as you walk back into the kitchen.

“I want him dead.”

“Agreed. Temp check?” Richie hums flitting through his notes, “We’ve got five steaks all day, Chefs, kill two. Fire now, Chefs.”

“Yes, Chef!”

You sidle up next to Rich, “They’re trying to make us sweat with quizzes. Just know your shit and they won’t be able to touch you.”

“Heard.”

“They ordered like five fucking bottles of wine.”

“Christ.” He turns to you, at that. “You upsell?”

“Didn’t have to. Named the most expensive bottles and they didn’t give it a second thought.”

He daps you up, it is difficult to hide your pride. “That’s my fuckin’ Chippy!”

You quell your smirk to the best of your abilities, especially since it isn’t all good news, “I think they’re ready to order, one problem, though.”

“Problem?” That’s when Carmen tunes in. He hands a finished plate to Richie, who hands it off to Sweeps, who begrudgingly heads out to deliver. “What’s the problem?”

“He says he wants to be surprised.”

“Like fucking Ratatouille?”

Carmen squints at Richie, for this, incredulous. You cannot back up your man, in this case, fully on Richie’s side. “Don’t act like you didn’t fuck with Ratatouille.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“You didn’t see it?!” Carmen’s always liked it, when the two of you speak in unison. Carmen hates it, when you and Richie speak in unison. “You’d love it, Carm.”

Any other time, he’d love to entertain you, on this, but he can’t. It makes you both feel very cold, when he brushes past the idea. “I’ll think’ve something.”

You nod, already moving to the wine cooler, sorting out bottles. “You have time, I’ll stretch out serving them—Richie, help me bring out bottles? Take their orders? Two birds, one stone?”

“It’s bullet.” “It’s not.”

The wine pouring is nothing to write home about.

“Don’t mind us tag-teaming, didn’t want anyone to feel left out for a minute!”

But is definitely a weird vibe, when you and Richie serve this table. You’re both equally personable— Though, going as fast as you can without making them feel rushed. Richie needs to get back on expo A-S-A-P.

Despite the fact that both of you are just as nice as the other… This fucking guy is absolutely giving Richie more attitude, in comparison to you. You have a feeling the only reason he didn’t shut you down earlier with the menu is because you’re a hostess. Yeuch. Gross man senses are tingling, but maybe it’s just you.

Richie whispers to you, when you’re walking back to the kitchen, “He’s a fuckin’ creep, eh?”

Okay, not just you. You know it’s bad when another man notices it. “Yep.”

Whatever. Use it to your advantage, in this case, if possible. Not like you have anything to worry about, just about everyone in the kitchen would jump him for you, upon request.

Would Carmen?

It’s a weird thought to have, but it’s a thought you can’t seem to stop yourself from having. Would Carmen choose your safety and comfort, over the chance to get a chance to get a star? …He would, right? He’d choose you, right?

“M’sorry for derailin’ dinner with our bullshit, Chip.”

The door swings open, Richie lets you in first. “You kidding? No where I’d rather be, than in your bullshit.”

Maybe this is better, than any apology you were planning to give. Better that you show with your actions, that you’re both actually back. That it’s you two, again. That you’re not going anywhere, this time. That even if you did leave, Richie’s gotta know, with a certainty, you’d rather be here.

Richie smiles, and you think you’re right. While he’s shouting out Booth Twelve’s orders, Carmen hands a plate to expo. You tilt your head, curious. He slides a folded-up card, with it. You don’t recognize the plate at all from the menu.

“S’yours.” Is his simple answer, already getting to work on Booth Twelve. He’s scribbling down notes and quick sketches of what surprise dish to make for the Exec. On the front of the card, it says ‘won’t have time to do it myself’, alongside a smiley face, for levity.

You open the card, flitting vision between the dish, the note, and Carmen. Digesting the recipe he’s written for you and your eyes, only. He knew he wouldn’t have time to explain it verbally, so he wrote it down for you. You could throw up, honestly.

This is, the sweetest, most thoughtful, most complex thing, anyone has ever made for you.

You have done your damndest, to almost never be the one to instigate a kiss, not a real one, with Carmen, because he asked for distance, so you try to give it. But right now, more than anything, you’d like to assail this man to the floor right now with your affections.

But you can’t. Because he’s busy, and he needs this, not you. Carmen needs this to go well. He needs this guy to like the food, he needs the inspector to like the food, he needs a star. Fuck, even without the prospect of an inspector looming over him— He needs to prove the man in his head wrong. There is no time for any of the love you have to give.

…Did you just think love?

Gotta table this, for now…

“Thank you, Carmy.” His movements relax, when you say it. He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t slow down, he doesn’t pivot to you and confess some long-standing prose of love, but he nods, and his shoulders untense. That’s practically the same thing.

His phone, laying on the expo podium, rings. Sug. You furrow your brows. “Carmen.”

“Hm?” He’s tense, and still not himself, but he sounds so sweet, when he hums.

“Nat’s calling.”

“Let it go to voicemail.”

“She’d know you’re working, right now.”

“She’s got mom brain.”

“Mom brains’ aren’t dumb.” You frown, a touch worried. Always doting, aren’t you. “Could be an emergency.”

Carmen wants to say it’s not a big deal. That there’s bigger fish to fry. That if he fucks this dinner up, it could mean Nat won’t have a job to come back to. That with all the love in the world, he does not have time for this, right now. And then he thinks of his brother, and suddenly he has time for this, right now. He picks up his notepad and pen, he can work anywhere, it doesn’t need to be at his station. “Give me.”

He takes the phone, shouting to his crew, “Taking two minutes, Chefs!”

There’s a half-second of complaints before a resounding, “Heard!”

Carmy points to you, as he walks to his office, “Eat.”

“I will.” You nod, and lie.

You won’t be eating the most perfect, most complex, most personal, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever made for you.

You already made your decision, when you saw the plate. When you read the note. When you saw the frantic scribbles at Carmen’s station, loose pieces of paper everywhere, all crumpled. He can’t come up with shit for the man in his head. You already made your decision, when the four other plates showed up on expo for his table, and all that’s left is the surprise dish, for The Man.

You will not be eating the most perfect, most complex, most personal, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever made for you. The man out front, the man in Carmen’s head, will.

Carmen needs this.

Your heart just short of breaks, when you put it on the serving tray, handing it off to Richie. “What’s this one?” He asks, not knowing, not having paid attention. He would’ve refused, if he did.

Syd was, though. She looks like a puppy watching another puppy get kicked. You swallow the feeling down, ignoring her stare. You don’t need to reread the card, it’ll stick in your head, for the rest of your life.

“Lamb saddle, roasted, pink. Aigre-doux eggplant, means sour sweet sauce, with lamb confit, fresh spring garlic, Montmorency sauce— It’s a dark red cherry sauce, topped with cherries and baby basil.”

You wouldn’t know any of the French terms, if they weren’t defined for you in the margins. There’s a parenthetical, next to the lamb— Mentioning that it’s roasted, explaining why saddle is a superior cut of lamb, noting why it’s best served pink— Mentioning that it’s similar to pork. Your favourite. There’re exclamation points next to the cherry additions, because it’s your favourite Italian ice flavour. They need to be emphasized, in the recipe. There’s another parenthetical, next to baby basil, ‘(yours)’. It’s your basil, from your balcony to his, now to his kitchen, now to your plate.

In spades, this is the best gift anyone has ever made you, and you watch it leave, through the swinging door. You can’t stop your expression from twitching, falling into a frown. Your heart sits heavy in your throat. When Syd silently stands next to you, taking over for Richie on expo, she returns your tiny container of Tums. You take one, eyes distant, looking at the kitchen, Carmen’s kitchen, biting down on the antacid.

Cherry.

This isn’t sad. It’s just a plate. It’s literally just a plate. Carmen can make it again. Carmen can make it a million times over again. So why does it sting like this? Why does it carve its way into the pit of your stomach? That was yours. Carmen— Carmen’s plate was yours, and you had to give it up. You want nothing more than to rip the dish from the stupid fucking Exec’s greedy fucking hands, take it for yourself, eat it whole, in one bite— Decree that he can’t fuck with Carmen anymore, that he holds no ownership anymore, that he is not the be all end all, that he is not the gavel and the sound block.

But he is. It hurts, because he is. Carmen is still under him, and so, you, being by his side, are under him too. You know you made the right call, giving the plate up, but the meaning behind it all hurts insurmountably.

Syd takes your hand; the wrinkles of her band-aids are a nice texture to return to. You appreciate that she’s comforting you, but you can’t help but notice, “Uh, uhm, let’s fire table twenty-five, twenty-eight, and— And fuck, twelve, Chefs.” She’s not great at the whole expo thing. She’s fast as a cook, she’s slow as a speaker.

You take a look over the book on the table, and bump her aside with your hip.

“Chefs, I’m gonna need ‘ya to fire six fish all day— ‘kay?”

“Heard, Chef?” The crowd is confused but they’re not gonna stop you.

“Good, good.” You note the dead plate by you, “This asparagus is fuckin’ dead can I get hands on flashing it, please, Chefs?”

“Yes, Chef!”

Syd eyes you, on the sidelines, perplexed. You shrug, “You and Carmen are not the first people that tried to get this fuckin’ kitchen in order, check yourself.”

You didn’t do all the French bullshit, but some days at The Beef definitely ran better when they had a former Lead EMT barking at them— With love, though. Always with love. Syd just laughs, shaking her head. It’s a delight, to always be learning new things about you. How overarching your handful of talents are. You really are a Jack of All Trades.

You run things a little differently than a typical actual expo would. But sometimes, that’s kind of a good thing.

“Baby, where are we at with table twenty?!”

“T,” You say names, instead of Chef, more often than not, “If you yell at me like that, I will, what—?” Your call and responses, are a bit different. “Start crying, yes, thank you, Chef. Table twenty’s plated, we’re just waiting on placement from Syd, take your time but not too much, babe.”

“Heard!”

Levity, temperature, ease. It’s what you bring to the table, in everything you do. And sometimes, yeah, that’s not what you need. But right now, that’s everything this kitchen needs.

When Richie eventually comes back, handling front of house almost entirely by himself, he’s relieved to see you on expo, and the kitchen functioning, but he seems a little thrown. Off his rhythm.

You put a hand on his shoulder, as he stands next to you. “You good, Cousin?”

He sighs, he’s not good. “M’good, Chip.”

“Can I get an all-day on pasta, Chef?” Marcus’ voice doesn’t really occur to you, in the background, right now. You’re all about Richie.

“What happened?”

“It’s nothin…” He kisses his teeth, “S’just, man’s a real piece of work— N’ I can’t— Can’t give it back to him.”

“What’d he say?”

“Just, just kinda… Made fun ‘a—” Richie pauses, clearing his throat. “He made fun of my voice. To his fuckin’ friends. Called me unprofessional, said the suit’s prol— Probably a knock-off— Which, it is, but—”

“Chef, pasta?”

“One second, Marcus!” You call out, quick, not taking your eyes off Richie. You hate to hear him attempting to switch, all the syllables fit uncomfortably in his mouth. You frown. “He’s an asshole. Don’t listen to ‘em. You should bite back a little, I think.”

Richie hums, arms crossing, guarding himself. He sighs, finally voicing the worry. Son of a bitch, this guy’s in Richie’s head now, too. “…D’you take me serious, Cousin?”

You soften, while simultaneously growing so angry, at how quickly Richie’s become demoralized, “Richie— Cousin, of course I take you seriously.”

The moment is cut short, however, by a reasonably frustrated Marcus, at his limit. “Tony, all-day pasta, shit, c’mon!”

About a minute or two earlier, Carmen went into his office to take a call. He’s still jotting down notes, trying to come up with a recipe, not knowing the effort is meaningless now.

“Everything alright, Sug?”

“Hm? Yeah, everything’s good, I just wanted to call ‘stead of text ‘cause my hands are full of baby.” He told you so, not an emergency. “You guys busy?”

“Yeah, actually, s’maybe I’ll call you back, after?”

“Sure, sure, yeah, I just wanted to let you know I didn’t get Tony’s invoice.”

He pauses, no longer writing. “What’d’you mean you didn’t get her invoice?”

“She said you took care of it.”

“She told me you took care of it.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, as Natalie thinks, trying to recount. “Well, maybe I’ve just got mom brain, but I swear she told me you covered it, thought I wrote it down…”

“Yeah, you did.” Carmen flits through the folder he was looking at yesterday, finding her sticky note. “You wrote down to ask me for her invoice.”

“Yeah, so I could get a copy for our records. Maybe I just got mixed up and left it somewhere— Just double check before you ask her for it again, I like her, Carmy, I don’t want her to think we’re unprofessional.”

“We are unprofessional.” And you like them anyways. He pops open the desk drawer, flitting through folders, most of them labeled ‘stuff’ ‘shit’ ‘bullshit’ ‘bullshit stuff’. Carmen loves his brother but sometimes he curses the fucking sky. There’s every chance Sug slipped your invoice into one of these by mistake.

“Yeah, but I don’t want her to know that.” Carmen can hear little baby Michaela murmuring on the other end of the phone. “Tell her to come see the baby, by the way.”

“I will. I’m plannin’ on it.” After dinner. Maybe when he opens up your painting and he forces you to tell him ad nauseum what you thought of the cherry and lamb dish. Your dish. That shit is never getting put on the menu, no. It’s a lot easier to think of plates when they’re for you, it’s fucking impossible to come up with a dish for his old Head Chef— He really needs to get back out there, actually, he’s out of thinking time, he just has to throw shit at the wall.

But then he sees a folder he’d never paid attention to, before. ‘ICE Chip’s’. Another one of Mikey’s extremely confusingly titles. Carmen always figured it’d been a weird way of naming a folder meant for bulk orders of ice for drinks or for the walk in— But now, Carmen knows better, Carmen knows you. No harm in looking, right? He’ll take a quick peak, see it’s actually for ice, and then he’ll go back out there, rip his hair out, and put it on a plate for the fucking man out front that talked to him during his entire morning routine, today.

Except there’s not invoices for ice, in this folder.

“I’ve been reading her Frog and Toad, almost every night, by the way, Mickey loves it.”

No, it’s you, in this folder. Carmen wants to throw up. He’s being dramatic, he needs to relax, the blood in his veins is freezing and boiling at the same time.

And maybe if Carmen's day had started off a bit better, if he was acting like himself today, and not the man in his head, in his restaurant— Maybe he'd be a little more reasonable, right now. Maybe if he ate family earlier, instead of skipping it to re-tape all the containers in the walk-in, he'd feel a little more forgiving. If he wasn't so tired, if he wasn't so hungry, if he wasn't shaking off a minute cold he got from walking to your house past midnight, a few days ago, he'd be a bit less inclined to spiral.

But there’s a handful of film photos with the two of you— Just the two of you— Richie’s in one or two, but it’s mostly just you and Michael. His arm, over your shoulder, in again, most of them. Mikey looks non-plussed in half of them. You’re always holding some sort of cupcake or cake, in all of them, and there’s always a numbered candle, being blown out. There’re a couple different times there’s a One candle, a few Twos, only one Three.

You knew Mikey for two to three years, didn’t you? Anniversary photos?

Carmen is going to fucking throw up. Why are there multiple ones? One week-iversary? One month-iversary? He has never imagined his brother to be some fucking sap sentimentalist, and it’s making his skin crawl. You dated his fucking brother? He is just a fucking gap filler, he is.

There has got to be another reasonable explanation, for this. You wouldn’t do this to him— Someone would’ve said something to him— Richie would’ve at the very least made some sort of stupid fucking derogatory comment about him getting sloppy seconds— There is no fucking way you dated his fucking brother—

‘I’m with you Bear!!’

‘Just one more, Mikey’

‘love you’

Sticky notes. Your handwriting. There are sticky notes with your handwriting in this forsaken fucking folder. Telling Mikey you love him, and to keep going— You called him Bear. That makes sense, everyone calls all three of the kids Bear— But that was— You— He needs to throw up. It cannot stay in his throat; he cannot let this stay in his throat— ‘We go under together’ — And yet he cannot stop reading them. ‘Same team.’

Same team. You’re on the same team. With his brother. Isn’t that fucking sweet. Isn’t that just adorable. Isn’t the fucking photo booth strip of you two, clearly taken after seeing a movie, fucking precious?

The last thing in this folder is the nail in the coffin, the knife in the hand. Paperwork. Not an invoice, no. Not the fucking thing he was looking for. No. An old agreement form.

A joint bank account. Wells Fargo. Signed by both of you. Photo IDs photocopied, side by side on a black and white piece of paper, stapled onto the end. This feels more intimate than any piece of paperwork that has ever existed. Even a fucking marriage certificate can’t hold a candle to this. You had a joint bank account with a fucking two-bit junkie—

You fucking trusted him with your credit score— You loved Mikey enough to ruin your life— You wanted to go under together. That’s what you fucking wrote, isn’t it?

Every fear Carmen ever had is more than affirmed. He is here to fill a void, he’s here because his brother isn’t. He is nothing but a series of stories his brother has told you, to you. Nothing but another Berzatto man that you desperately try to rehabilitate and fix and inevitably fail with, because they’re all fucking hopeless, before moving onto the next.

He doesn’t even need to kill himself, this time, no— You’ll realize he’s a lost fucking cause when you realize he’s nothing like his brother, when you find out he’s sharp and rendered, that even if he was a good person, he’s still him, and that’s a rot that not even you can fix— You’ll leave him unfinished like all the projects in the corners of your apartment. Because that’s what he is, to you, a project, something to fix. He’s like all your other jobs. He’s a job. Just another distressed restauranteur. Nothing but a fucking replaceable part, that you’ve got ten more spares for in your car.

Carmen doesn’t need to be fixed— He’s perfectly fine the way he is— He was fucking great before you showed up, actually— No, he wasn’t happy, but he was talented, and he wasn’t so brain-dead that he’d fuck up a basic meal thinking of you, he wasn’t so stupid that he’d speak out of turn and call you pretty, he wouldn’t have gotten a cold walking to your house in the winter, he would’ve just taken a hot shower until it hurt, without you— Carmen was— is— A Two Michelin Star chef, he’s fucking great without his brother— He runs The Bear without him just fine, he did everything without his fucking brother just fine, it didn’t hurt when Mikey stopped picking up the phone, Carmen doesn’t need his fucking brother, so he certainly doesn’t need you.

“Carmen?” His sister is still on the phone. Waiting for him to respond. Waiting for him to entertain the idea of being a good uncle. He doesn’t need his sister, either. He hangs up without as much as a simple ‘bye’.

He hears Marcus, yelling for an all-day, yelling Tony. Even still Carmen’s expecting Richie’s voice to reply, but instead, it’s yours that reverberates in past the office door.

“Aye, Marcus! We’ve got three alfredo, two cannoli, one gnocchi, okay, sweets? Same team, right?”

“Same team, Chef.”

Oh, so it’s a fucking Beef thing, too? That’s so fucking cute. It’s so cute, how you’re everywhere, in everything. It’s so goddamn tender how he finds you carved into tables, finds you in filing cabinets, finds you under his booths, finds you in his walk-in, finds you in his shower caddy each morning, finds you on his balcony in a plant pot, finds you in his fridge in a spray bottle, finds you with Syd, finds you with Richie, finds you with Tina, Marcus, Jimmy, Mikey.

So cute. So fucking cute, that he’s gonna see you out there, running his kitchen, fixing everything you deem wrong with him.

Carmen Berzatto doesn't need anyone to ruin his own life except for him. He'll prove it.

i know i know i know i know--

I said it wouldn't be that much of a cliffhanger but when i got through writing the last fourth of this chapter i was having a lot of trouble because pace wise it just really really needed to be a separate part-- and this way, i get to do a fun format style change that i planned but thought i wouldn't get to do TURNS OUT I DO GET TO!! yeehaw

so much happened this chapter, like while writing it, when i'd go back to edit, i was like oh my god that was this chapter?? jesus christ. I was really waiting for y'alls reaction to this one, so please do harang me wherever you feel comfortable ranting to, i love to see it.

But yeah, really fuckin brutal, eh? And a lot of half lore dumps! You think they dated? You think it's something else? The RichiexTony and SydxTony crowds are eating fucking good tonight, also. Love those cuties and their friendships.

We've got a taglist now, I'm bad at keeping track of it, but remember if u wanna be added to this silly little thing you need to hand in an essay (more like a cute lil paragraph) tellin' me what you thought! And also ask. Duh. BUT YA GOTTA DO BOTH!~

@anytim3youwant @navs-bhat @whoknowswhoiamtoday @gills-lounge @slut4supersoldiers @sinceweremutual @itsallacotar @catsrdabestsocks101 @popcornpoppin @renaissance-painting @lostinwonderland314 @v0ctin

Next Part

[saltnsugarbear]

congrats on 200! love your writing <3

i'd like to request “Oh God, yes, just like that. Keep— keep going.” with carmy pls

im so fucking insane over this

word count: 0.6k

content warnings: MDNI!!! pervy roommate Carmy, stolen underwear, getting off with that underwear, pillow humping, sort of voyeurism?? maybe??, reader is having sex but like across the hall behind closed doors so

side note: this came to me in a flash I wrote this in like an hour holy shit

He didn't mean to get a hold of your underwear. Carmy was doing his laundry, folding clothes and hanging them and it just fall out.

He remembers it very clearly. When he was putting a hoodie on a hangar and a small piece of fabric fell out. Imagine his embarrassment when the fabric was a pair of black panties covered in little cherries. God, he can still feel the warmth from how flushed his face got, cheeks and ears probably bright pink.

And the problem is Carmy can't just sneak into your room to put it back. He can't because whenever he is home, you're home. You're asleep when he's leaving for work and you're up when he's getting back from The Beef, there's never a good time to put it back.

So Carmy just hid it under his bed, letting it sit in the dark where he could forget about it.

And he did forget about it. For a while.

Until tonight.

And it's not your fault, truly not your fault, that the walls are thin. It's not your fault that Carmy can hear you through the walls. And it's certainly not your fault how his body is reacting or the fantasies that are running around his head.

At first he thought he could get away from it, distract himself with dishes and food over the sounds your making across the hall. Keep his mind off the stirring in his boxers by any means.

But it got to be too much at your first cry of frustration. The quiet pleading that came after, your sobbing and begging to come.

Carmy's hand flew to his erection almost immediately, rutting up into his palm when he makes contact. He tries to pace his hand movements in time with your moaning, but it's not enough.

Something in him remembers. He doesn't know what part but Carmy is rolling over quickly, sticking his hand under his bed and patting around until he makes contact with fabric. He wraps his fingers in the material and brings it out from under as he shoves off his boxers.

The idea of wrapping your underwear around his cock isn't enough. He needs something solid, something underneath him.

He's moving automatically as he grabs his pillow and lays your underwear over the side. Carmy lays one arm above his head and one in front of his face, perfect placing just incase he has to quiet himself. Positioning himself is easy, keeping one leg tucked up as he pushes his hips up against the pillow.

The pressure of pushing himself against the fabric is maddening, causing him to grind into it. He slowly finds the rhythm of your moans and applies it to his grinding. He's surprised by how fast it is, whining at the rough and quick drag of the fabric under his cock.

It doesn't even register to him that he's being a little loud, his own quieter moans being masked by yours across the hall. He presses his muttering into the fabric, almost trying to melt into the mattress.

"Oh, yes, just like that," Carmy mutters into the mattress, bucking his hips up against his pillow. "Keep- Keep going.."

His words get more slurred the quicker he grinds his hips. Soon he's nothing but a whining, moaning mess against his sheets. And he's hoping to God that you or the person you've brought over can't hear him.

"Fuck- fuck- shit.." Carmy mutters when he feels the band in his stomach snap. He bites the fabric under him to muffle his whines, stomach clenching at the warm spurts of cum against his skin.

His breathing settles as his hips twitch at the slight overstimulation from him grinding. Carmy huffs as he lets go of the fabric in his mouth, laying back against the bed as he comes down.

He groans when it hits him. The reality of it all. Carmy shoves his pillow off the bed before rolling back don't his stomach, covering his eyes with his arm.

He's going to have to wash his sheets.

[yellowharrington]

all i really want (is you) -- carmy berzatto x reader

pairing + fandom: carmen "carmy" berzatto x reader, the bear fx

word count: 3k

warnings: smut! 18+, minors pls dni. afab!reader with pullable hair, no use of y/n. light daddy kink and dom/sub undertones. spanking, exhibitionism, oral (m + f receiving), unprotected piv + creampie, reader and carmy both drink alcohol. please let me know if i missed anything :)

a/n: this is depraved. thanks @wtfsteveharrington for reigniting my need to write about carmy lmao. title is from "all i really want is you" by the marias. please leave comments or reblogs if you liked it <3

divider by @cafekitsune

summary: carmy secretly books a lake-front hotel room in chicago for your anniversary.

Carmy would be the first to admit he’s not very good at being romantic.

He forgets, lets things slip through the cracks, time and time again. He makes up for it, and you understand of course, but he’s working on it.

When your anniversary is approaching, he knows he has to make a plan. Busy with the restaurant, the menu, the money - all of it was overwhelming, but your not-so-subtle reminder of the date gave him the idea.

“So…” you had joined him in your shared kitchen, hand brushing through his curls as he slaved over a pan sauce he’d been perfecting.

“Yes?” He wasn’t annoyed - never annoyed, by you - but in the thralls of cooking, nonetheless.

“It’s our anniversary next weekend and I was thinking we’d try out that new restaurant you were talking about. You know… the one that’s suuuuuper hard to get a reservation at?” You smiled coyly as he held out the spoon with the hot liquid on it, wordlessly asking you for a taste-test. 

“Sounds good,” he had remarked, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek and returning to the task at hand. “I’ll make a call.”

“Thank you, Carm,” you let your hands roam his clothed back as you feel the sauce between your lips and on your tongue. “That’s delicious.”

He hummed in response, as your hands drifted down to his sides and played at the hem of his t-shirt. “After our anniversary dinner I have a little… present for you.”

Before he could respond, you had slipped away to the bedroom, only flashing him a smirk before closing the door.

The weekend of your anniversary had approached quickly, and Carmy had actually managed to get everything in place. The reservation for dinner was set, his gift burning a hole in his pocket, and thoughts of what your gift to him may entail swirling around in his head. 

You walked out of your shared bedroom, adorning a black dress that hugged your body perfectly. Jewelry to match - done up just right, effortlessly perfect for the occasion. His hand came up to his mouth as he took you in, thanking whatever God above that brought you to him.

“Too much?” You asked, toying with your hair in the mirror and correcting the edge of your lipstick. 

“No,” Carmy answered, coming up behind you in the mirror and admiring your form. “Perfect.”

You felt yourself blush as he took your hand and held it to his lips, kissing your knuckles and pulling you into him. “Ready?” 

~

Dinner came and passed, shared glasses of wine between the two of you as you reminisced about past times together. Carmy had always been shy, but easy to talk to, especially when he had some time to open up. You gave him space to do that - he’d never felt more comfortable with anybody before, somebody he trusted with everything. You listened, told him what he needed to hear when he needed to hear it, and kept him in check all while supporting him from the sidelines and meshing perfectly into his insane life. He was eternally grateful for finding you.

He slides a small box across the table at dinner, and when you open it up, you gasp at what’s inside. A dainty necklace, a glossy “C” hanging on the end of it, where it would sit against your chest. 

You let his deft fingers close the tiny clasp behind your neck, the pendant hanging perfectly, glimmering in the amber candlelight of the restaurant. “You’re gonna make me cry,” you laugh through a watery smile, Carmy’s hand crossing the table to slide into yours. Warm skin against warm skin, you smile at his small display of affection, tilting your glass towards him as he clinked it with yours. 

You notice something might be up when you get back into his car, and he doesn’t take the turn off back to your shared apartment. Instead, he veers off into another lane, holding onto your thigh and giving it a gentle squeeze for encouragement. 

You’re down by the water now, making a confused expression at your surroundings. City lights around you, the bustling of other people on dates or nights out, as Carmy pulls into the parking lot of a hotel. 

“What are we doing here?” You look at the people stepping into the hotel lobby, some dressed in clothing that was probably more than your rent. He wordlessly turns off his car and exits through the driver’s side, saying something to the valet before grabbing a bag out of the back seat and rounding back to your side. He opens the door for you and takes your hand, before leading you through the doors and into the grand front lobby.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling above as he took your hand and lead you to the front desk, a confused scowl still across your features. The person at the front desk waved you two over, typing something into the computer. “Good evening. Checking in?”

Carmy nods, handing over his ID and credit card before smiling down at you.

“We’re checking in?”

“Happy Anniversary.”

You have to make sure your mouth isn’t hanging open, as Carmy’s coy smile plays along his lips. 

“You didn’t have to do all of this,” you whisper to him, feeling heat spread across your cheeks as you take in your surroundings. Your hand slips into his as you press your cheek to his jacketed shoulder. “Let me show you to your room.”

An elevator ride to the top floor has you antsy, as the attendant opens the door for you to your room. She reveals a lake-front room, with views of the harbour, twinkling lights in the distance reflecting onto the massive floor-to-ceiling window. “Is it to your liking, Mr. and Mrs. Berzatto?”

A blush runs up your cheeks as the insinuation. Carmy didn’t correct her, just slipped her a tip and assured her the room was perfect. The door clicked politely behind you as you stepped into the room and kicked off your shoes. You turned around to meet Carmy’s eyes as his expression softened, your hands coming up to cup his face.

“I can’t believe you did this.” You’re breathless, still taking in this grand gesture he’d somehow planned completely behind your back.

“You deserve it,” he said simply, tongue darting between his lips as a strong hand came to overlap yours. 

~

The sun had gone down now, navy sky further illuminating the lights below. Rain slacked against the window, simultaneously hard and soft, the glow of the bedside lamps casting shadows on the walls as you got yourself settled. Carmy had abandoned his jacket and tie, leaving him in a crisp white button-up shirt and black slacks. He was laid back on the bed, one hand behind his head, taking some time to relax.

You dipped into the bathroom, smoothing out your hair and checking your makeup in the mirror. You undid the back of your dress and let it slip down your body into a pool on the tile, revealing the gift you’d picked out for Carmy. A black lace set - cupping your breasts perfectly. Lace panties to match, connected to stockings that came high up on your thighs. 

You stepped out, stocking-clad feet soft against the carpet. Carmy immediately notices, eyes blown wide as he sits up to take you in. 

“Thought you might want your gift now,” you sauntered towards him and met him at the end of the bed, his thighs spread for you to fit between them. His hands immediately came up to touch - to confirm you were real, mostly - because his brain was telling him you weren’t.

You looked down at him, cupping his chin with your hand and the other coming down to his shoulder. Pushing down on him gently, his back hit the mattress, wild eyes not moving off of you for even a second. 

You move to straddle his lap, fingers coming down to start unfurling the buttons on his shirt, revealing the soft skin of his chest. Carmy’s rough, calloused fingertips pressed into the plush skin of your hips, eyes wanting to flutter closed but being too entranced by the sight before him to look away. 

His fiery eyes fell to the swell of your breasts, hands coming up to press and squeeze at the skin there, thumbs ghosting over your hard nipples. You felt your back arch, pressing against his palms, wanting more, as much of him as you could get. 

Carmy’s hands slid down your body to find your clothed core, eliciting a small moan from your lips. You rutted into his hand slightly, feeling his skilful fingers start to work at you over the lace.

You weren’t expecting to give him the upper hand, but it was hard not to submit to his touch - wholly his, looking down at him but still feeling as though he had all the power.

He was sitting up now, pushing your panties to the side and feeling the slick between your folds, maintaining eye contact with you through it all. “Carm,” you panted, strained, embarrassed to be coming apart for him already.

As if he knew, he pulled away, wordlessly bringing his fingers up to your lips. You wrapped your mouth around them, letting your tongue dart between the digits as he wet them with your spit.

“Pretty girl,” he muttered, only loud enough for you to hear, earnest eyes looking up at you, fuzzy around the edges with lust. “My pretty slut, aren’t you?”

“Just for you,” you replied, a smirk on the corner of your lip as he swiftly grabbed your hips and flipped you to have your back on the soft hotel comforter.

He stood before you, giving you a chance to unbutton the rest of his shirt and undo his dress pants, his hand now cradling your chin. You pushed his slacks to the floor, rubbing his thick cock over the fabric of his black boxers. His hand came down to pet your hair, taking a fistful of it at the nape and pulling it back to reveal your shiny lips and eager eyes to him. The pendant he purchased for you glinted in the light.

“Tell me how bad you want it.”

His firm hand on the back of your neck was enough to make your cunt weep, even without his touch. “Please, I need your cock. Please.”

“Good girl. Sit up, all fours.”

You quickly found yourself on your knees on the soft bed, as he let his cock free. He pumped it a few times, angling your mouth with his grip to allow it to drop open. He pressed forward, slipping in between your wet lips and eliciting a carnal groan from his throat. You let yourself submit to his face-fucking, using your mouth to get himself off, leaking tip pressing against the back of your throat. You gagged around him, throat constricting, which only emboldened him to continue. Spit escaped the corners of your lips as you took him in, swallowing him down, all while looking up and batting your long lashes at him. 

“Taking it so good,” he remarked, with a particularly long thrust into your throat. Leaning forward, his broad hand found a fistful of your ass, squeezing it before planting a firm spank. A yelp escaped your lips, as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the force of him in your throat.  

He pulled you off, cock bobbing between his legs before he smeared the spit that had collected all over your plush lips. “So fucking good for me, baby.”

You smiled triumphantly as he leaned down to kiss you sloppily, mixing your spit with his and taking the time to undo your bra and throw it to the ground. 

You didn’t even mind when he pushed you back onto the bed, pulling the stockings and panties off to meet your bra on the floor, surely ripping them. His hands pushed your thighs apart, wet pussy on full display as he dove right in, not giving you even a second to catch your breath.

“Fu-uck,” your voice was hoarse and jagged, his warm tongue feeling like it was everywhere. You squirmed beneath his strong squeeze, forcing your back off the mattress as he licked a broad stripe up your centre and flashed his eyes up at you.

Your eyes were trained on his movements, knowing better than to close them. Your hand came down to his sandy curls, feeling your breath quicken as he suckled on your clit, moving his jaw in such a way that was sending an electrifying pulse up your spine.

He moved one hand from your thigh to circle your entrance with his middle finger, enjoying the way you shuddered at the feeling. “Please,” you begged, watching as he detached his tongue from your clit to simply play with your hole. “Please, I need you inside of me.”

His lips pursed as he waited for you to understand why he wasn’t proceeding. A knowing glance, a sob from you as he teased you. “Are you talking to me? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“Please, daddy. Please fuck me with your fingers.”

“That’s better.” He plunged into you, thick finger curling inside as you let out a choked sob, your cunt pulsing around him as he moved in and out. His lips attached to your clit once again, sucking and grinding his tongue into you, other hand coming up along your stomach to grab your tit and pinch your nipple.

You rasped his name, throat raw from his previous fucking, letting it pour out of your lips over and over. He lapped at you - feeling every quiver from your pussy and shake of your legs as he continued at a bruising pace, not letting up no matter how much you squirmed beneath him. Still pushing you into the mattress, his own cock rutting against the sheets and growing harder every second that his mouth is on you.

A white-hot feeling spread across the back of your thighs, back arched as you tugged on his hair and met his gaze. He rode out your high with you, letting you gush around his fingers and feeling waves of pleasure rise and fall as your breath steadied. Your chest heaving, sticky with sweat, mascara smeared at the edges as you laid back, feeling Carmy’s fingers pull out and his mouth detach from you.

He found himself between your thighs once more, rock-hard cock sliding between your slick folds to tease your overly sensitive clit. He kissed you, a hunger within him, arms coming up under you to hold you as close as possible. Bare skin against bare skin, his mouth sucking in your bottom lip and biting down slightly, eliciting a smile from you and a depraved moan from your lips.

You reached down between your two bodies and slipped his cock into your ready pussy, swallowing him inside of you and hearing his gasp against your lips at the friction. A shameless grunt as his hips drove into you relentlessly, his curls falling into your face as your head tipped back, letting his mouth attach to the side of your throat and suck a bruise into the soft skin beneath your ear. Your hands found the strong muscles of his back, digging them into his skin and finding your legs wrapping around his middle.

An assaulting pace, languidly in and out of you as you met his eyes, pure lust and fire behind them. You could see the idea flash across his eyes.

He pulled out of you gingerly, as you winced at the loss of contact. He pulled you up with him, towards the windows of the hotel room.

He lightly pushed you against the cold glass, earning a sinful moan from your lips as he took your hands hostage behind your back. The rain still pelted down outside, a symphony against your hard and fast breath.

“Why don’t you show all those people how you like to get fucked, huh? Show them what a slut you are?”

A devilish smile on your lips was met with your cheek against the glass, a broad palm on the opposite side of your face, as his cock slid back into your pussy with ease. Your ass was pushed out for him to land a firm slap on it once again, picking up his pace. His hand came around to push your legs apart, playing with your clit and drawing you close once again, as he released your hands to leave prints on the glass.

“Fill me up, please daddy,” you moaned, letting your head fall slack. “I want you to cum so fucking deep inside of me, fuck,” — another spank, paired with jagged thrusts as Carmy got closer to finishing — “fuck me like you own me, baby.”

“I do own you,” he growled, forehead pressed against your shoulder blades as he felt your pussy clench around him. “Cum baby, cum with all those people fucking watching you.” 

“You own me Carmen, I’m yours.” you chanted, turning around to meet his eyes. You watched his eyes glaze over and jaw hang open as his thrusts slowed, making a mess of your pussy as he came deep inside of you.

Your second orgasm followed soon after, cock twitching inside of you as you clenched around him. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder as you stepped away from the glass, legs unstable as a furious warmth came up over your cheeks.

After getting cleaned up together in the bathroom, he flicked off the light as you turned towards the window. His body pressed up against yours, arm secured around your waist as he peppered kisses along your neck and shoulders, musing about how beautiful you are.

“Best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispered, another kiss to the outer shell of your ear that made a shiver go up your spine. “I love you more than anything.”

You curled into him and listened to the relaxing rain, his steadying breath and strong arm lulling you safely to sleep.

[yourknoosh]

Carmy as your boyfriend

- never forgets anything

- sometimes runs late for your dates but NEVER forgets

- never tired to cook you a warm plate of pasta

- always knows a good place to eat around the corner

- soft, patient kisses to savour your lips. butter. cream. frosting.

- smiling like an idiot when you kiss

- the most wholesome vanilla sex

- you tried to dominate him once but he just went soft

- he tried dominating you once but he made you cry with his hotheaded chef voice

- so you fuck in the most tension-free ways

- OH and food play is a very frequent practice

- very curious about your line of work and what goes on in your head

- can switch easily between silences and chaos

- just wants you to be safe and sound

- tiptoes into your room silently after shift to hug you to sleep

- falls asleep easily in your calm

- really just fell in love with you as a person first

- so feeling you up wasn't really a thing at first

- but once he became a Professional Boyfriend, there would always be sneaky touches

- especially when you came around at the restaurant

- frequently compares you to food and grosses you out unknowingly

- can't stop with those though

- had to make major attitude adjustments for holding on to you already

- he's a man at peace now

- thanks you everynight

- "no- thank YOU for letting me cook you dinner"

- subtle ways to say that he loves you

- but has to make sure you got the subtext

- overall, a cutie patootie

- precious

[lovebugism]

you’re writing for carmy now omg i’m frothing at the mouth 😭 i love the trope where reader is quiet in bed and needs to be coaxed a bit but… i feel like it would be kind of hot if reader was the one coaxing carmy? 👀 no worries if you’re not feeling this one!

ty for requesting! — you teach the bear how to use his voice in the bedroom (new relationship, inexperienced!carmy, experienced!reader-ish, smut 18+)

bug's summer fic fest (⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

Carmy never notices when he’s quiet. His head is always so loud in comparison — it’s easy to forget he isn’t saying anything out loud when his mind’s constantly racing. He doesn’t mean anything by it, though. He’s just chronically observant. And painfully silent with it.

He lays on his back, pressed between unmade sheets and your warm body. The covers bunch at your bare hips as you roll in languid thrusts over his lap. A satiny summer breeze smooths over your burning skin from a cracked-open window. Every time the curtains billow, more of the moonlight peeks in. It drips in silver shades over your naked skin and your pretty face, now twisted in a look of undeniable pleasure — brows scrunched, eyes closed, mouth wide open.

Carmy’s tattooed hands rest impatiently on your hips. His fingers dig into the plush of them as he rocks you back and forth over his cock. You make pretty noises for him every time your clit brushes his coarse thatch of pubic hair, so he angles his hips just right to make sure you keep hitting that spot. 

“Carmy,” you moan in a whimsical sigh that makes his chest swell. “Just like that. ’S so good like that. Please don’t stop—”

His face, made of dark shadows and sharpened edges, is pinched in a look of acute concentration. A distant feeling of deja veux swims in his stomach. It makes him wonder if he’s seen this in a painting before. One of those Renaissance types. The kinds that are harrowingly realistic and always heart-wrenchingly beautiful in a way. 

It makes him want to draw you. Just as you are now. Head tossed back, mouth gently agape, lashes fluttering over glowing cheeks. He wouldn’t be able to do any of it justice, but he tries to memorize the soft lines of your face, anyway. 

Your hips slow to a stop. Reality hits him hard.

“Woah, woah— Hey,” Carmy mumbles in protest, brows pinched in confusion when he comes down from the clouds. Through labored breaths that make his sweaty chest rise and fall, he wonders, “What happened? Why’d you stop?”

His icy blue eyes dart over your face, searching for any sign of harm. In true Carmen Berzatto fashion, he immediately thinks he’s done something wrong — that he got too far in his own head and hurt you in some way without realizing. The anxiety is fleeting, but he feels the pinch of it anyway — right where your palm rests flat on his chest, just over his pounding heart.

“Are you okay?” you ask him, similarly panicked. Your bare chest sparkles with a thin layer of sweat and catches the moonlight with every uneven inhale.

Carmy nods rapidly, chestnut curls brushing the pillow. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m— I’m great. Why?”

You exhale a small sigh of relief, growing sheepish under his unwavering gaze. You feel a bit silly for stopping now. “You just aren’t… You aren’t really, you know… saying anything,” you answer shyly.

“Am I supposed to be saying something?”

You giggle quietly to yourself until you realize he’s being genuine. Your smile ebbs as you stammer, “Well, no, it’s just— Some people usually moan, I guess— When they feel good.”

Carmy nods firmly in reassurance. “I feel good.”

“Okay…” you nod back, slower and more unsure. 

“I promise,” he tells you, tattooed hands squeezing your sides. He shifts nervously on the mattress, similarly victimized by your adoring stare. “I just… I just like watchin’ you, I guess…”

A shy smile quirks the edges of your mouth as you peer down at the boy beneath you. “You’re sweet, bear,” you coo in a honeyed murmur.

“You’re sweeter,” Carmy insists. You think you see the faintest hint of a grin on his lips, but it’s hard to tell in the low light. “Wanna taste?” he teases a second later.

Wordlessly, you bend down for another kiss, far too chaste for his liking. He almost says something about it until you roll your hips again. The words of protest disappear when he inhales sharply through his teeth.

“Does that feel good?” you ask him.

He nods silently, squeezing your sides in a feeble attempt to move you faster on top of him.

“Tell me.”

“Feels good,” Carmy obeys through gritted teeth.

The subtle assurance makes you moan — a pretty, breathy thing that spills accidentally from your opened mouth. All he can think about is getting you to make that sound again. 

“Do you like it when I talk to you?” he wonders aloud, very innocuously curious.

You nod, brows furrowed as you grind over his lap. The bed frame squeaks quietly when you roll your hips forward. When you roll them back again, he can hear the faint sounds of your wet pussy — the quiet schlick-ing of his cock fucking into you. The two noises play one after the other in rhythmic tandem. The sinful sounds of sex.

Carmy racks his head for something to say in the not-so-silent meanwhile. You watch him get lost in his mind and cup his cheeks between gentle palms. “Don’t think so hard about it, bear,” you say with a wavering smile. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s okay.”

You duck down to kiss him again. The angle shifts. Carmy bends his knees and fucks up into you, mercilessly and without warning. Your mouth hangs open in another weak moan that fans across his chin. 

“That good?” he pants.

“Yes,” you whine. “Carmy— fuck— You’re so deep…”

Babbles spill from your mouth in thinkless slurs. They tumble from your swollen lips with an admirable effortlessness, which Carmy has never thought himself to possess. He tries, anyway, to talk to you with such sinful ease. 

“You’re huggin’ me so tight,” he mutters through a clenched jaw. The very first thought to come to mind as the velvet confines of your cunt pulsate around him, squelching quietly in time with his thrusts. “Can feel you throbbin’ around me, babe— Shit— It’s like a fuckin’ heartbeat.”

Your whine fills the quiet bedroom, adding to the symphony of bed squeaking and skin slapping. 

Carmy shifts his hips upward. The new angle allows his cock to reach a spongy depth inside you and pins your swollen clit against his happy trail, which now glimmers with a layer of your honey.

“Right there?” he pants.

You nod wordlessly until the words catch up to you. The tip of your nose brushes the bridge of his. “Yes,” you whimper. 

His brutal thrusts pick up pace a second later, never wavering in their wicked pursuit. “Let me hit that spot,” Carmy mumbles to himself like a man crazed. “Let me hit that spot, let me hit that spot.”

Pleasure swells within you, overwhelmingly so. It’s a warm and sparkling feeling in the pit of your stomach — a tightening coil, a fraying rope, a dam about to burst. The intensity of your inevitable orgasm frightens you.

“Carmy…” you whimper.

“I know,” he nods sympathetically, right before he plants his feet on the mattress. He strengthens his thrusts, which have slowly started to lose their rhythm. “It’s okay. C’mon. Cum for me— I can feel you fuckin’ drippin’ on me, baby— C’mon.”

Your jaw clenches to fight back the scream clawing at your throat. It comes out in a pitiful whimper instead when you tense over his lap. Your orgasm washes over you in waves that leave you shaking, thighs trembling on either side of his hips.

Carmy goes accidentally silent once more as he watches you, swelling with pride as you reach the height of your pleasure. His light eyes flit over your features in a feeble attempt to memorize them — the furrow between your brows, the wrinkles beside your shut eyes, the spit-slicked sheen to your kissed lips.

You’re painting brought to life. A heavenly thing he can’t believe he gets to touch with unworthy hands.

“That’s it…” Carmy murmurs lowly. The words bubble in his throat and fall from his mouth mindlessly. He doesn’t even have to think about them now. It just feels right to praise you like this. “That’s it. There you go. So pretty… Always so pretty for me.”

As your body racks with aftershocks, you seek refuge in his arms. Your weight rests entirely upon him as your tense limbs slowly relax, but Carmy doesn’t mind. He just wraps his tattooed arms around you and holds your trembling body closer.

“I got you,” he promises through labored breaths, chapped lips brushing your temple with every word. “I got you. ’S okay. You did so good for me, baby. Thank you.”

You don’t have the words to tell him that you should be the one thanking him.

[writers-hes]

i need you (2 of 2) | c. berzatto x reader

It was good when you started but Carmen Berzatto had the ability to make anyone fall in love with him no matter how much you tried not to...maybe this time he feels the same? (friends with benefits!carmen, smut, mndi!!!, unprotected p in v, smut! smut!, angst!! fluff, maybe some bad words, canon typical themes, unedited)

PART ONE / navigation

Sorry for the things I said. 

I appreciate you. 

He erases the messages that he wanted to send. It was tempting…

The flowers he let die mocks him by the stove. It was a fire hazard he knew; but if this room burned down, would you come over to check if he was doing well? 

His eyes look ahead, empty. Ever since that incident in the kitchen weeks ago, the Chefs have been on edge. Who wouldn’t be? He was cutting away those vegetables like he just didn’t cut his hand. He decided to forget about you…for now. But it was hard, considering the fact that your artwork hung in The Bear like a mantlepiece. A mantlepiece for others but he sees it like a crufix and he, a sinner with no redemption. It mocks him of his mistakes…of what he said. Everything seemd to mock him. 

Ever since that bloody incident in the kitchen a few days ago, Carmy made sure to never commit a mistake again. Every second counts, every second counts…every second he counted was spent on you. 

Were you alright? Were you in Chicago? Did you still need him? Or were you alright since he's finally out of your life?

You’re so fucking miserable. 

It rang in his head because he knew that it was true. He was—is miserable. He made everyone around him just as miserable as he was. He could never grasp the intensity of his feelings; could never seem to grasp anything. He thinks to himself to just fuck it all and go to you and grovel…but he just couldn’t. He knew he wanted more. He was well aware of his feelings for you but to think that he made a mess of everything that he could ever have was hard to swallow. 

Carmy has the habit of hiding from his allies. He can’t control his emotions but sometimes, he bides his time hoping to fix it. He tries to wait for the perfect time to fix what he burned but…it’s been too long since you last saw each other. It’s been too long since he sent you a message.

Would you still love me? 

You weren’t doing any better. Carmen, despite his refusal to love, was warm. He’s the sun shining on a cold winter day; the warmth that spreads all over your body from the kiss that he leaves on your shoulder. You missed him dearly, but you couldn’t have it in you to reach out first when it was him who didn’t love you. 

The realization of Carmen not loving you back was bearable at first but to see it right in front of your eyes…to be on the receiving end of his rejection was more than what you could comprehend. 

In a span of those months without Carmen, you felt…like there was a gaping Carmen Berzatto-shaped hole inside your heart that only he could fix. You’ve been in and out of Chicago to forget about him, but you couldn’t. At the end of the day, you were just as miserable as when you first realized that you'd fallen for him. Was it asking for too much when you asked him to still be your friend? The more he pushed you away, the more you were convinced that you didn’t matter to him at all. 

Is it too late for me to love you? 

You’ve been surrounding yourself with work; painting in your studio for what felt like years until you were sure that your fingers were gonna fall off.

If walls could talk, they’d tell the world of Carmen Berzatto. 

You’ve been purging yourself of anything Carmy and you found yourself painting every single food he’s ever made for you. It was all that you could do to relieve yourself of the sobs that choked you at night; when you didn’t want to acknowledge that the man you loved didn’t love you back. You should have been fine—you were expecting this. You were anticipating this but you still wondered what it would be like to be loved by him. You still wondered what it would feel like to hold his hand in the streets of Chicago. You wondered how his hand would feel on your knee while he drives back home. You wondered what it felt like to be loved by him. 

-

You were meeting some art collector today—he seems to be keen on commissioning you for your work and you accepted. He was supposed to arrive in Chicago to meet you and to try a new restaurant that everyone’s been raving about. He said that he already had a reservation for three but he couldn’t go and told you to meet with his art consultant, Isaac on his stead.  

You should’ve known from the context clues that you’ll be landing in a place you didn’t want to go to. You should’ve been smarter because maybe, if you did, you wouldn’t be sitting at The Bear, waiting for your frozen grapes and bone broth. Surprise was one word to describe Natalie’s face when she saw you. 

“So, how did you realize you wanted to pursue art?” 

“Oh,” you licked your lips. “I guess, I wanted to pursue it all my life. It was something that I was good at and…and I can’t really cook well. I liked how food was presented and how empty dinner plates look sometimes, you know. It didn’t take long for me to collaborate with chefs and restaurants and…”

“Is that your piece?” Isaac asked. “I’m sorry, I just—wow. Do you think the manager will let me come nearer to inspect it?”

You smiled at him. 

“Um, yeah.” you nod. Richie comes by and stops by your table.

“Good evening, guys,” he greets. “Y/N, it’s been a while.”

“Hey, Rich,” you waved.

“We’ll get you started with frozen grapes in a minute,” he says. “How’s your night? Didn’t know I’d find you here.”

“Oh, this is Isaac. Isaac, Richie.”

Isaac stands up to shake Richie’s hand.

“Do you want to go see the painting? It’s even more detailed up close,” Richie said, ushering Isaac to the painting. He throws you a look as if to ask for your permission but you just smiled at him. Your knee was bouncing under the table, trying to calm yourself down. Richie walks back to your table. 

“You know he’s not going to like that,”

“I’m in a business meeting,” you shrugged. “Isaac is an art consultant and his boss told us he couldn’t come. Do you need to see my text messages?”

“I know, I’m not fucking accusing you of anything. Don’t be defensive,” Richie says, putting his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry,” you mumbled. “But had I known that we were going here, I would’ve suggested another place. I don’t want to be here either.” Richie looks for the object of your focus, seeing your eyes zero in on the painting you gave to Carmen.

“We all love the painting. Carmy loves it. He looks at it every day before opening,” he offers but you only shrug. If he loved the painting so much, why didn’t he text you? “You should’ve thrown it at me instead of throwing it at the back. Could’ve earned thousands on that one,” you chuckled, telling him that it probably would. He sees Isaac come back to the table after marvelling at your painting. Richie smiles tightly and tells him that starters will be served shortly. 

-

“Yo, Y/N’s outside. We have to bring our A game!” Richie shouts in the kitchen. “Make her first time here an experience. Fak, make sure that the lamp over Y/N and Isaac isn’t too hot and then, ask if you could serve them some drinks.”

“Okay,” Fak nods, fixing his hair to make sure that he was presentable. It takes a bit for Carmy to register what Richie was saying and he blinks. 

“Wait, hold up. Cousin. Who’s here? Y/N…she’s here?” Carmy asked, taking the teapot of bone broth. “With…with who?”

“Isaac,” Richie replied, he was watching Carmy fix his hair and his uniform. What an asshole. 

“Carmy! Don’t fucking—go,” Sydney whispers the last part, looking pointedly at Richie once Carmy leaves with the fucking teapot. “Really, Richie? Tonight? You want to play fucking games tonight?” she asked. “Need I remind you of the bloody chopping board? Sweeps hasn’t removed the stains out yet,”

“What?” he shrugs. “Everyone’s been on edge since they stopped talking. It’s nice to take a breather,” Richie saw the realization dawn on Sydney’s face and he smirks. “Right, chefs! It will take Carmy two minutes to go do his alpha whatever fucking bullshit outside. That’s two minutes of easy time. I’ll need focaccia for Y/N’s table after the fucking grapes. Make sure that the dishes are warm, chefs! Every second counts,”

-

“Good evening,” he greets, a tight smile on his face. He catches the way your smile falls slowly into a frown. 

“Carmen,” you replied. 

“Finally had the time to visit,” he says. “With a date?”

“Ah, no,” you replied. “Isaac is my customer’s art consultant and he’s uh,”

“Here to make a deal,” Isaac replied. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Berzatto.”

“Here’s your broth with the-the grapes,” he says, shakily pouring it over the frozen grapes. “Hope you, uh, enjoy the evening, Y/N. Isaac,”

He turns to leave but pauses.

“Um, sorry, Y/N can I have a word with you?” he asked. “Please,”

You swallowed. “Um—“ 

Isaac saw your apprehension. “It’s okay. You’re friends…right? I’ll stay here,”

“Sure. I’ll take two minutes. I’m so sorry,” you apologized before letting him lead you to the kitchen. “Hi, guys. Sorry for interrupting,”

“It’s fine,” Richie says, smiling at you sweetly. 

“Carmy, we can talk later, okay? Your kitchen needs you,” you tried. You’ve been saying that to him even before your entrance to the kitchen, but he only shakes his head. 

“Just…two minutes,” he says. “Please,”

“Carmen…”

“Please,” he tried. He didn’t really want his staff to see him grovel even though he knew that this was bringing them some sort of a sadistic joy. 

“Sorry, everyone,” you forced out, but Sydney was actually thankful to get Carmen out of the kitchen for a few minutes. If it was possible, Carmy was even more unreasonable. His standards were tip top. A second too long was a second too much. He and Sydney have been screaming at each other every night; the volume of their voices louder by the second. 

You followed him into the office, being reminded of the hurtful words you’ve said to each other. He locks the door, and runs a hand over his face.

“What…what are you doing here?” he scowls. 

“I’m a paying customer. I can go wherever I want,”

“With him? What are you doing here with him?” he asked, hands on his waist to show his impatience. You decided to make him wait and he does, urging you to answer by raising his eyebrows. 

“I don’t think it matters to you,” you replied. “I can go eat wherever I want. I can afford it,”

“I’m-I’m not saying that you can’t. Just-just tell me why here?”

“Why are you so bothered? You can’t question every guy you see me with, Carm,” you reasoned out. “You told me you didn’t love me. I don’t think it’s necessary for you to still know where I go and who I spend time with.” He flinches at your tone. You’ve never talked to him like that before. You were always so gentle. So, for you to disregard him and not even give a reason why, an icy glare thrown his way…was mean.

“I can kick you out,” he spits. You scowl at him; he’s never been the subject of your anger and right now, you were seething. 

“So, kick me out,” you challenged him, meeting his eyes with the dort of ferocity that he never expected from you. He stays silent, looking at the floor. He didn’t want you to hate him more than you already do. “I thought so,”

-

Urgent and demanding raps on your door broke you from your reviere. You liked painting in silence; it soothes you from the loudness of the world outside. You sighed, knowing immediately who was on the other side. Your breath was shaky, and you tried to walk slowly towards the door. What would you even say to him? 

Carmy was a jittering mess on the other side. He couldn’t get you out of his head ever since you visited The Bear a few days ago. He was watching from the other side after service, seeing you laugh at whatever Isaac said. He was making you laugh when that was reserved to Carmen alone…months ago before he ruined everything he ever wanted. He waits with bated breath as you open the door. He used to be able to just come inside your house whenever he wanted. You used to wait for him with a small smile on your face. It is all gone now. You looked tired; like you didn’t want him there at all. 

“Can I come in?” he asked but he didn’t miss the way you shielded your body with the door. He didn’t miss the way your eyebrows furrowed slightly. 

“Sure.” Sure. Like you didn’t have any other choice but to deal with him right now. Sure. 

“Thanks,” he licks his lips, putting his shoes on the side like he used to. Your home was clean but it was devoid of anything. The lights were barely on and the music that used to play from your vinyl was nowhere to be heard. Carmy used to tease you for being pretentious. It’s too quiet inside your house right now.

“Do you want anything? Water?”

“No, thanks,” he says, and you nod. “I’m…I just—I don’t know why I’m here,”

“I see,” you replied, looking anywhere but at him. “Can I help you?”

“Um—who-who were you with the other day?”

“You can’t just…question or decide to drop by when you see me with someone else, Carm,” you said, voice low and careful. “He was an art consultant,”

“Why?” he asked, his eyes inviting you to look at him but you wouldn’t budge. He knew why. He knew that he was an art consultant but something inside Carmy was telling him that the planning had been deliberate and that you went there with malice. To spite him…make him jealous…it was narcissistic but what if?

“Because…because you don’t love me,” you chuckled. There was something funny about not being loved back by a person who used to come to you at the smallest inconvenience. “You don’t love me but the first thing you do is to freak out. It was a work meeting and you freaked out. You don’t love me, Carmy,”

“How many times will-will you hold that over me?” he asked, frowning. “Why are you acting like-like I did something wrong? You can’t control how I feel, Y/N! Give it up!” 

“Because I can and I want to, Carmen!” you exclaimed, chest heaving. Your throat constricted at his rejection. This was the second time. “I can and I want to hold that over you because I’m hurt. I am hurt. You hurt me. You toss me away to the side and-and you expect me to be forgiving. You expect me to just understand,” 

“You have to accept that I…don’t—that I don’t love you that way,” he whispers, and it just breaks your heart because he still couldn’t get it. 

“I’m not asking you to love me back,” you croak, your eyes brimming with tears. “I don’t want to tell you how to feel—or what to feel but you didn’t even text me. You didn’t ask me how I was doing…or -or said hi to me. You—you…I don’t know. You just stopped.”

“Why didn’t you text me first?”

“Because I told you how much you mattered to me. I told you that I love you. I thought that if I didn’t text you, you'd miss me and…God, Carmen. I would have been fine if you didn’t love me back. It would have been fucking dandy. It would have been great if you could have just…treated me like a—like a friend, you know? I still would’ve been there for you…but you shut me out! You showed me just how little I mattered to you, Carm. Did you know that…? You—you treat me like how you treat everyone else when you’re the one who needs me. ”

“You do—you matter to me…”

“Actions speak louder than words,” you spat, your arms crossed over your chest. “You only text me first when you want a quick fuck. I’m free tonight? Want to go? You can’t even say that you want to have sex with me,”

Carmen was at a loss for words. He was hurt that you’d think that way of him when he thought the world of you. Did you really think that you’d matter to Carmen just because he wanted to fuck you?

“Hey, don’t-don’t do that. That isn’t fair to me. You know that-that you mean more to me than that. You’re being unfair,”

“Unfair,” you chuckled, shaking your head. “I’m being unfair when you’re the one inside my home after seeing me with a guy that I am working with.”

“It’s my fucking restaurant! It’s my goddamn restaurant,” he exclaimed, running his hand over his golden hair that you loved so much. “It’s my fucking goddamn restaurant!”

“And I’m fucking telling you that I can do whatever I want!” you retorted, matching the intensity of his voice. “Why do you care, Carmen?” you spit.

“Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what? Carm? Carmy? Bear? Carmen…Anthony…Berzatto?” you taunt, the same venom dripping from your voice. He just never heard it from you before and it was an unpleasant feeling. “I’m not…I’m not going to let you push me around just because I love you, Carmy,” you shook your head. 

Carmy stares at you, his face pinched in frustration and in sadness. He looks away, swallowing. He presses his hand over his chest to ground him. He didn’t know if he should be mad at you for making him feel this way. Like he needs you all the time to be alright. He didn’t know if he should be angry at himself for letting you lure him into your trap and your promises of warmth and love and…contentment. All this time, he tried to convince himself that he didn’t need anyone much less you for that matter. 

“Say something,” you urged, looking at him desperately but he just shakes his head. You could feel it—feel him detach himself from you. You could feel him cower, hide his feelings…the real reason why he was knocking on your door in the first place.  “Fucking say something, Carm! Tell me why you’re here,” 

He just stands there unmoving, blinking back any emotion. He wanted to store everything in his brain. He didn’t want to feel anymore…he didn’t… 

“Fucking hell,” you whispered shakily. “I don’t know what you want from me…but I can’t go on like-like this! I can’t open the door for you every time you knock. I can’t answer every time you call…just…please, Carmy. Fucking say something.” 

Still, he stays silent. 

A sardonic chuckle escapes your lips. 

“Leave when you want to, I don’t give a shit. Just…just don’t come inside my fucking studio, Carmen. I was expecting you to apologize to tell me that you still want to be friends…I guess I thought I mattered to you more than that,” you told him, walking away. He just watches you go to your studio, hearing the sounds of your materials being thrown in different directions. It doesn’t make him flinch; he just watches the fire burn.

It’s time to go. 

-

Carmen has been living in autopilot since his last visit. It was probably jealousy that prompted him to act like a jagoff but he wasn’t ready to admit that. Instead, he was harder on himself, beating himself up over the smallest things—if a dice wasn’t precise, it wasn’t good enough. Food out for a second too long was cold. It was like reliving New York but he was the perpetrator. He was the one pushing his boundaries until he hated what he was doing and Carmy admits, it was not healthy. 

But what else could he do? Cooking was the only thing he was good at and there was nothing else to do other than work. 

That was a lie. 

He sometimes spent hours rereading the messages you sent him. You’d always text him to have a good day…a funny photo that reminded you of him…

He smiles at some of them, but it’s quickly replaced by the frown that etches on his face because he will never receive these messages from you. Isaac probably fucking does though. He grips his phone tightly in his hands; he hates that thought. He looks at his phone blankly, the message from you illuminating his face blue. 

parm4carm? carmyggiano reggiano? carmensan hahahahahaha i’m at a meeting and i want to laugh because i’m thinking of things to add to your name

He didn’t remember replying but he did remember the small satisfaction that the message brought him all day. You were thinking of him and you were trying to make him laugh; he tried his best to stop himself from smiling but Richie noticed it immediately. 

“What the fuck are you smiling about?” he asked him but Carmy only flipped him off, turning around to stop Richie from seeing him. 

He sighs. It’s not like what you had wasn’t fun. In fact, he was quite sure that it was the somewhat-only healthy relationship that he has. You both gave wach other space, you talked things through. When he started dating Claire, he went to your apartment first to tell you about her. You shrugged it off, not really minding who Carmy dated back then. When he apologized for not inviting you to the opening despite multiple protests from Richie and Sydney, you understood. When he stopped responding for a week, you showed up to his door with a pack of his favorite cigarettes and a box of doughnuts. 

Looking back, did he ever do anything for you?

“Carmy, you good?” Sugar asked. He was more standoffish; he smokes more, and he doesn’t speak much. It’s always only a grunt or a “yeah yeah.”

“Oh,” Carmy says, blinking. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Carmy…” Sugar tries. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“Yeah, I know,” he nods. “I…I’m just thinking, you know? Like-like, I fuck everything up and-and I’m aware of it,” he says. “I know that what I’m doing isn’t right but…you know, I-I always have this dream of a fire…and I just watch it burn…” 

Sugar nods, trying to coax out the lump in Carmy’s throat.

“I wonder if I just don’t speak…will they understand me? I can’t fuck things up again just because I have no cell reception. What if that happens again?” he asked, frowning. “Fuck,”

“Do you think she’s distracting? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,”

“But I…I want to,” he says, his hand pressed on his chest. “I want to, Nat but I can’t,”

“You’re a pain in the ass, Carmy. Go talk to the girl,” she smiles and Carmy could only nod because maybe Nat was right. If he could just…talk to you without jumping on your throat and without blinking, there like a fucking idiot. 

That’s an easy job, right? 

-

“I’ve been thinking about-about us, and I just want to say that I’m sorry and that I…Fuck!” 

He was walking like a madman inside his apartment, on the verge of texting you about how Isaac chewed with his mouth open. You told him you hated people who chewed with their mouths open—loud and wet. He saw your favorite cereal on sale the other day. He almost wanted to ask you if you were aware that it was marked down. Should he get you a few boxes? What about three? He just wanted to know. Would you…would you come over if he let his kitchen burn? Would you come over if you saw the dead flowers that dried up because he couldn’t find it in himself to throw them away. It was the last piece of evidence that he wanted to go. Would you even accept his dead flowers now that your name was on every art forum? You probably like cereal and milk with fucking gold leaves and fig.

He knows that you didn’t like it when he looked sad but when he visited you, did you notice the way his shoulders slumped? Because he noticed the shallowness of your breathing, the taps on the floor, the pause before you opened the door for him. He noticed the way you blinked back the tears that he threatened to spill because he was cruel. He knew…he knew that he was cruel but would you still forgive him if he ran up to you now?

The cereal you like is marked down at the store. Do you want some? 

The vibration in your pocket stops you from talking to the guy who just offered to buy you your coffee. 

“Sorry,” you smiled sheepishly. “Let me just…get this,” 

Your hands slightly trembled when you saw the message that Carmy just sent. It was an odd olive branch but what if you were looking into things again? What if he was just trying to have sex again? 

I’m sorry for the things that I said. 

Can we talk? 

“Hey, hey,” the guy says. You didn’t even know his name. “Are you alright?”

“Uh? Yeah, no-yeah, I am. Sorry,” you replied, locking your phone and putting it in the back pocket. “What was it?”

“Oh, I was wondering if-if you want coffee?”

“I…already ordered, though,” you replied. “Advanced order and I’m just waiting…”

The guy’s face falls, and you smile timidly. 

“Sorry,” you offered. 

“No, that's fine,” he shrugs. “I should’ve known or something,”

“No, thanks. Um, yeah…”

The barista calls for your name on the counter and you smile at him before leaving. You rushed out of the café without another word, coffee in your hand and Carmen’s message in your backpocket. 

The Read label was putting Carmen in a spiral. You read the message twelve fucking minutes ago, why weren’t you replying? He was popping the joints on his knuckles, watching the phone closely until you replied. 

what time do you close? 

can we go to your apartment instead?

He lets go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He texts you to just enter the apartment since you still have the keys, completely forgetting about the flowers near his stove.

-

When you entered his apartment, you were greeted with the bareness of it all, save for the dried flowers on the stove. You frowned, walking towards it. Carmy didn’t need flowers… Besides, this was a fire hazard. Was he okay?

You turned over the card attached and took a sharp breath. 

Let it rip. I’m so proud of you. 

Love, Carm

Was this deliberate? Did he plan this all out to get you to forgive him? You turned away, trying to forget the note that he was meant to give you. You sat on his couch instead, settling on the corner and flipping through the channels on his cable. You wanted something to fill the silence so that when he comes, you wouldn’t have to try to make up for it by saying something stupid like the weather in Chicago. 

You settled on some reality show, looking at the screen with your eyes glazed over when you heard someone mess with the lock. You looked over, watching Carmy in his grey sweater. He tossed the backpack to the side and his shoes were laying somewhere. You saw this scene before—multiple times but the undertone was different. 

“Hi,”

“Hey,”

“Um—“

“I hope you…you don’t mind me watching—“

Carmy’s eyes flicks to the stove and realization dawns on his face. 

“Fuck, fuck. Sorry—you, ah, weren’t supposed to…” he puts the flowers in the cupboard hastily, some leaves falling. “See that,”

“Yeah—“

“Um, I’ll just…”

“Yeah,”

He nods, blinking, before stalking to his bedroom. He locks the door behind him and heaves. Fuck. He shakes his head entering the bathroom to wash the day away. 

You couldn't focus anymore. Why was he so ashamed of the flowers he got you? You swallow the thickness down your throat. Were you intruding if you got yourself a glass of water? Carmy goes out of the bedroom a few minutes later, fresh and clean. He looks at you and heads to the kitchen. You don’t move.

He comes back with a glass of water for you, laying it down on the coffee table and then sitting beside you—as far as he could because he didn’t know where you stood right now. What boundaries can he cross?

“Thanks,” you smiled at him, taking a huge gulp of the cold water. “Um…”

“Shit—I don't know what to say,” he says, folding his hands on his lap.

“We can…we can start with what we said,” you replied slowly. “I…”

“I’m sorry,”

“Carm—“

“I’m sorry. I didn’t take-I didn’t take your feelings into consideration and I…I hurt you,” he says, looking down. You were both sitting straight ahead, the TV illuminating your faces. It felt like a thick wall was between you two and that it was up to you to break it. “I just…I don’t know. I can’t keep on doing shitty things and then-then, feeling bad about myself but I…I spent my life trying to-to understand mom and Mi—key,” he chokes. “I guess I don’t want to understand anyone else anymore because I wouldn’t be able to but I—but you’re not anyone else.” 

“I fucked up,” he says. “When I was with Claire…I was locked in the fucking freezer because I had no cell reception. I don’t want that…but I don’t—“

“What do you want, Carm?” you asked. 

“I want to—I want…I,”

“I’m sorry for calling you miserable and unreliable,” you told him. “I was hurt and I’m sorry for uh, holding things over you. It’s not your fault that I caught feelings. It wasn’t fair to just…expect you to…love me, you know? Wasn’t fair,”

“No, I was a shitty friend. I shouldn’t have let you go like that,”

“Yeah,” you nod. You heard him shift in his seat, legs crossed over each other and facing you. You glanced and did the same. 

“I got you your cereal,” A small smile. 

“Yeah?” A beat.

“Like four boxes.” 

“I’ll be sick of them,” you teased.

“I know but maybe you’d hate that instead,” A confession. 

“I don’t hate you…” 

“You don’t?” he asked. “Why…I’m really sorry. I don’t want to…I’m really fucking sorry,”

“What do you want, Carm?” you asked, a brave hand on his knee. “Tell me what you want,”

“Please,”

“And we’ll make it work,”

“I want everything. But I…I don’t…It’s funny. A fridge started Claire and I’s relationship. A fridge ended it too. I’m sorry for bringing her up…but I never felt like I was deserving of…of happiness and I,” he blinks, eyes pinching at the bitterness of every word that rolled off his tongue. “Who the fuck said I could be in a relationship? I am the best because I was focused and I…I had cell reception and I didn’t have the bullshit of understanding feelings. I don’t need amusement or enjoyment…I…no amount of good was worth it, you know? I thought-thought that it was a complete waste of my fucking time but I crave for it,”

“And…I don’t know. I failed them and I…I don’t—“ he heaves. He has to let it all out if he wanted to make things right. “I’m scared that if I…jump in, you know? I fuck everything up again. My staff hates me, I hate me, and you…you hate me too. I don’t want to lose cell reception and I…I don’t need enjoyment but I need you. I need you with me all the time but what if you get—sick of me and push me away like Mikey did? What if…what if you learn to hate me? I need you and I don’t know if I can handle it if we—if we just stopped talking and I did. I stopped talking to you because it would have hurt me more if you decided to end things like that…I’m sorry,”

“I’m just…I fuck up everything that I touch, and I know that I’m miserable and I’m so fucking sorry that I hurt you. I’ll take that with me to the grave. I’m so fucking sorry,” he says, a hand pressed on his chest, like he was protecting it. The barrier that you had to strike down. A gentle hand takes his, interlacing your fingers with his calloused ones. It makes him flinch, but he accepts the gesture. 

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” you smiled and Carmy could just cry because it was the same thing that Claire had told him. What was the guarantee that it was different this time? “But Carmy, you have to understand that I…I don’t want to hurt you or-or distract you from being the best. I want you to be the best…”

“Is the best…enough?” he asks. “If I lose you?” 

“That’s a question you have to answer for yourself, Carm,” you offered. “I’m selfish. I can’t—I don’t want to be the reason why you learn to hate me just because I told you to choose me and I don’t want you to choose. I want you to…be the best and be—be…”

“I need you,”

“I know but I…” I want you to love me. 

“I touch everything and I burn everything…Richie and I…I feel so bad about the things I said to him and I fucking hate that I can’t control anything. My life is so fucked up and I—“ he stops, looking at you for the first time that night. “I just wish to just let the everything burn and then it will all go away but I need you to watch it burn with me,”

He still hasn’t said what you wanted to hear from him. He still hasn’t said anything. 

“I love you,”

You stop your breathing. 

“Carm—don’t say that just for the sake of saying it,” you begged, pulling him away from him and standing up. “Don’t say that if you don’t-don’t mean it…you're just being mean,”

“I do,”

“Carmy,” you whispered. “You didn’t love me months ago. What made you love me now?” you asked. “I’m not invalidating your feelings or-or whatever but I need you to understand that I’ve been loving you for months. I loved you after you broke up with Claire and we drank wine many months ago, but you didn’t…do you love me because you need me?”

“No!” he says. “I love you and I need you. I’ve been—harboring these feelings but I can’t…I can’t say anything and I’m so, so scared that if I don’t say anything now, then everything will just be a big fucking shit show and then, I’ll lose you forever. I’m so scared because what if we don’t work and-and you decide that I do make you miserable? What then?”

“What if we work out?” 

“That’s worse because then I’d know that I’ve been holding myself back for nothing,”

“I’m confused, Carm. What do you want?” you asked, shaking your head.

“You and I…together,” he replied. “Only if you want to. I don’t want to make you feel like-like I’m,”

“Can you say that again?”

“What?”

“What do you feel for me,” you begged. “I’ve been…I’ve been waiting months for you to tell me those words and I just have to make sure that I—that I’m hearing you correctly,”

“I love you,” he says. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he repeats the same words over and over again and you feel your eyes brim with tears because this is what you wanted—this is what you’ve always wanted to hear. He stands up and walks over to you, covering his arms around your frame. “I’m sorry for making you feel like I didn’t,”

“Carmy…” you trailed off. “I’m sorry for the things that I said,”

“I’m sorry too,” he says. “But it’s okay…consider everything forgotten,” he kisses your temple and checks on you. “We’re okay, baby. We’re okay,”

“I missed you,”

“I missed you too,” he says, ducking his head so his lips could meet yours. “I miss you,” he mumbles, cradling your head with his two hands. He kisses you fervently, like he was thirsty and you were the fountain of life. “Mm,”

“Carm…” you whine when he lets you go. You push him to the couch, his legs open wide as he watches you. “I want to show you how much I missed you,”

“Yeah?” he rasps, tapping his lap. “Come here, baby,”

You nod, watching his chest rise and fall in anticipation. You settle yourself on his lap, legs on either side. His hands immediately find your waist, clutching your body through the soft material of your shirt. You tug on his shirt to bring him closer to you, kissing him slowly. Your hands find themselves tugging on his hair, your hips rocking softly against his clothed crotch. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, hips meeting your subconsciously and you giggle at his anticipation. 

“Carm!” you chuckled, lips trailing down to his jaw. He likes that you never fail to leave love bites where everyone can see. He sighs deeply when you suck on the spot he liked so much. You could feel him harden under his joggers, itching for release. When you are done, you smile at him, pecking him on the lips before removing his shirt completely. He sucks in a breath when your soft hands run over his chest. “I missed you,”

“I missed you too,” he rasps, tugging on your shirt. You oblige, removing the piece of clothing entirely. His mouth waters at the sight of your naked torso. You rub your heat against his cock, the both of you moaning because of the pleasurable friction. It was slow and deliberate at first but you were soon mewling, his mouth on yours. His tongue pushes past against your lips, swirling with one another. “Remove everything, please—“

You nod, standing in front of him to strip yourselves of what remained between the two of you. Carmy, runs his hand on your waist, looking up at you with need. You run your hands through his hair while you let him kiss every part of your body that he could kiss. You sigh at the contact of his warm lips against your body, settling yourself back on his lap but this time, with less restraint. His hand immediately finds your cunt, fingers working to flick your clit. You whimpered when you felt his fingers prod your entrance.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Fuck yourself with my hand,”

“Carm,” you whine, bouncing slightly. Your hand finds the tip of his cock and his hips jerks, at the contact. 

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, looking up at you with his eyes half-lidded. He removes his fingers inside you and sucks on them. “You always taste so sweet,”

You couldn’t choke out any reply. So instead, you put your hands on either of his shoulders, slowly sinking on his cock. 

“Fuuuuck,” he says, his head falling on the sofa. “Fuck,”

“Carmy,” you said, rolling your hips against his own slowly. “You’re so—“

“Good,” he says, watching his member disappear inside you completely. He could feel your wetness on his thighs, and it kills him. “I’m gonna make you mine,” he says, pinching your nipple.

“Carmy!”

“You like it?” he asked, his head inching closer. He flicks his tongue over the sensitive bud while you ride him. He bites on it and you flinch. He feels your walls clench around him when he does that, so he tries it on your other nipple. 

“Carm,” you whined, “Fuck—“

The moans that emitted from his mouth vibrated on your chest. He was continuously sucking and licking your nipple, pinching and twisting it with his rough hands while you gyrated against him. His cock fills you up differently and you let his hips thrust upwards, hitting a certain soot inside of you. 

He gives up the need to control, letting you part away from him. You stand up, repositioning yourself to finally—

“Fuck!” he groans, not expecting the sudden feeling of your tight, wet walls wrapping his girth. The tip was just teasing your wntrance a few second ago. His head falls back, arms wrapped around your waist while you bounce on his cock. “Fuck, fuck,”

“Carmy…” you moan. “Kiss me,”

He does what was told, capturing your lips with his. His tongue parts your already open mouth, his arms snaking around gour waist to keep you closer. You whimper, hands holding either side of his neck and you grip slightly.

“Mm,” he groans, breaking away from you. Your pace was speeding up, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling his apartment. “Fuck,”

You smiled at him, constricting his airways a little tighter. 

“I’m so—fuck—oh,” he chokes out. His hips stutter against you, cock filling you up completely and he feels your walls clench around him. “close.”

“Baby, baby, baby…” he sighs, the pressure too much for him. “I’ll make you mine. I’ll make you mine,” 

“I love you,” you mewled, head falling when he plays with your sensitive buds again. “I want to be yours, Carm,”

He meets your wet pussy with his cock in sloppy thrusts. Your bodies were moving in motion, desperate for that release—that closeness after months of being away from each other. Carmy was holding you so close, grunting and groaning under you. 

“Fuck, I fucking love—oh,” his voice breaks and he comes undone. Your walls clench around his gushing member, thrusting inside to chase your high. Your movements slow down, his head on your shoulder. A beat passes with heavy breathing. He peeks. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod, removing yourself from him. “Are you?”

He nods, pushing your hair away from your face. 

“I love you, you know that?”

“Yeah,”

“Let’s get you cleaned up. What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?”

“I think cereal’s good.”

-

A/N: First and foremost, I’d like to thank you guys for the overwhelming love and support that you showed in chapter one. Your comments and reblogs all motivated me to write chapter 2 the best that I can and I hope that you love this chapter as much as the previous one. As always, don’t forget to comment or reblog your thoughts! I’d love to know what you thought about this one.

TAGLIST: @kpopgirlbtssvt@morgthemagpie@hal3ynicol3@1800-queen-trash @ummvengers @thottywizard

TELL ME YOU NEED ME TAGLIST: @hanula18 @globetrotter28 @trashcanfullofdork @carmens-berzattos @se0kie @saturnheart @akila-twt @mashadanki @ayoedibiris-letterboxd @quicksilversg1rl @docmerlock @notalxx

[catharticconsolation]

childhood bestfriend! carmen berzatto (social media au)

part 1

note: this is the first time i’ve done something like this and i thank @dogstarmoonlover for the ideas!

___

yourusername

liked by carmy.bear , michaelberzatto , natalie_bear and others

yourusername prom was like a movie @carmy.bear

michaelberzatto still a kid

yourusername jagoff 🥰

carmy.bear your heels are still in my room

carmy.bear they smell 😩

yourusername i thought you loved me…

carmy.bear no x

___

yourusername

liked by michaelberzatto, natalie_bear, jerimovich and others

yourusername karma 🥰

carmy.bear die

carmy.bear actually die

carmy.bear i don't love you

carmy.bear you're literally not funny

jerimovich KID I LOVE YOU WITH MY WHOLE HEART, THANKYOU LORD.

jerimovich @carmy.bear you are NEVER going to forget this, I tell you

yourusername it was well deserved!!

___

yourusername

liked by carmy.bear, natalie_bear and others

yourusername having my mamma mia moment rn

carmy.bear miss you

carmy.bear come home

carmy.bear i'm lonely

yourusername so now you love me?

carmy.bear always loved you

natalie_bear CARMY!!!

natalie_bear You look like a princess, remember factor 50!

yourusername i'm already burnt...

carmy.bear i fucking told you before you left

yourusername oops, silly old me!

carmy.bear really do miss you

michaelberzatto I can hear him crying through the wall

yourusername @carmy.bear three more days x

[sunflowersteves]

kinktober day 003 — first bj

pairing || carmen berzatto x f!reader

summary || Carmen knew you were a bit inexperienced, so what better way than to show you how?

author’s note || first day of kinktober for me!! ❥ i hope you all enjoy as much as I did writing for carmen again. I haven't written anything in like,,, three months?? wowwow

warnings || fluff, inexperienced reader, SMUT, oral sex, blowjob, praise kink, [18+ only]

kinktober masterlist

Carmy could tell you were nervous.

There was something about the way that you looked out the window of the car. There was a certain shine in your eyes that didn’t really match the expression on your face.

He looked away from the road in a quick glance. A hand flew through his hair and his fingers only tangled the curls even more. He bites his lip as the endless amount of scenarios crowded into his brain.

What were you thinking? Were you thinking about him? Was it bad? Did he fuck something up at the restaurant?

His mind was only getting louder at the soft quiet sounds of the car continuing to roll onto the asphalt. He couldn’t take it much longer—especially as he took another glance at you.

He pulled the car over and shifted the gear into park.

“Carmy? What are you—”

He turned to stare at you, blue eyes entirely wide.

“Do you not like me?” He huffed out. “B-Because I wouldn’t mind, you know. Like-like I mean, I get it. I know I’m hard to like since I can’t really—”

His mouth snaps shut at the sound of your laughter bubbling up to the surface. You didn’t mean to laugh, but there was something comical about what he thought you were thinking and what you were actually thinking.

By the time you calm down, his cheeks has a tinge of pink. “That’s not what I’m thinking about, bear. Far from it.”

Oh.

Whew.

His right eyebrow furrows, then. “What were you thinking about?”

Now it was your turn to become shy, your mouth was left open in an attempt to explain. A wave of warmth washes over you as you thought of the scenes that played through your head.

“I—” You looked over at him as if to ask if you really had to tell him. With that gleam in his eyes, you knew you had to.

“I was imagining how your dick would taste.” You blurted out.

He stared at you in shock. His brain seemed to freeze in time. The sparkle in your eyes wasn’t that of melancholy, it was arousal.

His silence was starting to make you nervous. He was making you nervous. “B-But if you’re not comfortable with that then I totally understand. I- you know, I haven’t done a blowjob before so I understand and—let’s forget about it, okay? Let’s just—”

Your rambling becomes interrupted when his lips crashed against yours. Your hands tangled themselves into his fluffy hair. His arms pulled you forward to the middle of the console—as close to him as he could.

“Fuck,” he breathes out against your lips. His lips can’t help put follow yours into another searing kiss. He was definitely addicted. “Sweet, sweet girl. You were just desperate, huh?”

You nodded. He couldn’t help but kiss you again and again. He had never felt so loved before. “Pretty girl.” He whispered against your lips.

As he separated the kiss, you stared into his eyes. They were almost black—a stark contrast from the bright blue that you know so well. His pupils were large and the way he licked his lips seemed to acknowledge that he wanted to devour you.

Carmen swiftly unbuckles his belt and shimmies off his restaurant slacks. His cock throbs at the cool air that rushes against him.

You, on the other hand, can’t stop staring. You’ll never stop staring.

You looked at the sheer girth of his cock—the way it swells against his palm. Your mouth watered by the pre-cum that sprouted against the tip. The vein on the side of his cock was prominent, gleaming near the tip.

You never noticed Carmy staring at you in awe. “You’re going to be the death of me, baby. Fucking god—”

Anxiety started to cloud your mind a bit. You wanted so desperately to please your pretty boyfriend. “But, Carmen, what if it doesn’t feel good for you?”

He almost wanted to laugh, but he’s glad he stopped himself. You were it for him. The person that he confides in, that he leans onto, and not to mention that he gets a boner from just by walking by him.

You were the one person in the entire world that he could never get tired of. To him, the idea of your mouth on his cock and it wouldn’t feel good? That’ll be when pigs fly.

“I’ll tell you what to do, okay? I’ve got you, baby.”

You smile at him as the weight on your shoulder lifts. It’s just carmy—your carmy.

You didn’t want to wait anymore precious time, so you rested your elbows against the console, leaning as close to him as possible.

He pressed a few kisses to your cheek and temple, letting you know to take your time. You didn’t want to, though.

“You’re so big, Carmy.” You whined. He could feel his cock jump at the way your mouth seemed to water. He watched you with hazed eyes as you gently licked the tip. He moaned at the warm feeling of your tongue.

“Fuck, please do more, sweet girl.”

His begging had only spurred you on. You could feel the way your underwear became wetter by the second. You take him him fully inside of your mouth, suctioning your mouth on his member.

“Swirl your tongue, baby—yeah, fuck.” You do exactly as he says, all while bobbing your head up and down. “Such a good girl.”

You weren’t even halfway on his cock, but he didn’t care. He’ll eventually train your throat, but for now? For now, he’s relishing in the way your mouth feels and how an inch of your touch is sending him into a spiral.

He moaned and groaned at the feeling of your mouth on his tip. The way your spit gave just enough lubricant to send his eyes rolling back into his head. “You sure you’ve never done this before, baby?” He slurred. “‘Cause fuck me—”

Your eyes flicker to his as you try to take him even further. His hips accidentally stutter into your mouth at the slick, wet feeling of your mouth.

“Holy, fuck—shit—you wanna take my whole cock, huh? You want to fit it all?”

You weren’t able to answer him, so he pushes your head off of cock and makes you look into his eyes.

The desperation leaks from his voice. “I need—I need you to say it, baby. I need you to say how much you want my cock.”

Your messy, swollen lips parted. You’re completely out of breath, but you don’t care—not with that glossy look in your eyes.

“Please, carmy. I wanna suck your cock so bad. I-I want to take all of it, please.”

Carmen could only groan and whimper from the way that you begged. It was sweet and sultry—he thought he might explode. “You make me fucking crazy, sweet girl. I’m already about to fucking cum.” You press slow kisses into his cock, accentuating your lips onto his sensitive areas.

You let out a loud whine as he gently pulls your head away from his cock. You wanted to have your mouth full of him again and to take that from you?

He soothed your desperate cries with a sweet kiss. His gentle lips fell right on top of yours—his mind savoring the moment.

“Want to cum in your mouth, baby. Is that okay?”

Your mouth opens almost automatically from the pure, raw arousal that yourcbody is radiating. “Please, carmy.”

He quickly moves his seat all the way back, making that extra room for you. Your mouth is directly below his cock, waiting for the salty substance.

He wraps his hand around his member, slowly pumping his swollen cock. “You look so fucking gorgeous like that, you know that? Fucking shit, I can’t stop looking at you.”

You smiled brightly up at him. You then started to open your mouth as wide as you could. “Cum in my mouth, Carmy. I need it.”

He continues pumping over and over, the whimpers he lets out are the only sound you seem to hear. You want to hear it more.

“Fuck, baby—shit—” He spills his cum into your mouth, forever and ever it seemed to leak onto your lips.

Some of it had even spurted on the outside of your mouth. His eyes widened as he watched the way you took every drop on your finger and licked it right off.

“Are you real?” He asks, dreamily looking at you.

You laugh. You pressed a gentle hand onto his cheek. “I’m real. Are you?”

He smiles down at you. “Yeah, I’m real.”

He moves his seat up and you both transition back to your seats. You wiped your mouth, just as Carmen finished buttoning up his pants.

“Ready to go home, baby?” His hand finds yours.

You smiled. Home sounded nice. Home sounded nice with him.

“Yeah, bear. Let’s go home.”