#carmen berzatto drabble

[luveline]

Hi Jade ! I loove your sunshine!readers, could I request one for Carmy ? Maybe someone calls her to get to the restaurant when hes feeling anxious to calm him down idk if thats good lol love ya !

ty for requesting <3 fem, 1.4k

Is it The Beef or The Bear? In your head, despite the wishes of everyone who works there (except for Ebra, who seems to have mixed opinions), you always call it The Beef. But the sign brags otherwise, and when you push open the doors, nothing inside is left to remind you of the old restaurant. It was a total gut. 

“Hi, gorgeous,” says a familiar, warm voice. 

You almost walk straight into her table, distracted looking for brown curls through the kitchen door’s little window. “Hey, Tina.” You grin at your second favourite chef. Your most favourite Sous. “You taking a break?” 

She offers you a round butter cookie from a sleeve of them. Her cup of coffee billows with steam. “Uh-huh.” 

“Hiding from a meltdown?” you ask, taking a cookie, fingers oily with butter, sugar grains falling to the floor. 

“It’s not like that,” she says. 

Well, what is it like? you think. 

Richie’s text wasn’t exactly descriptive. Need ur help with the little Bitch, he’d said. Then, when you didn’t answer, ASAP!!!!

You figured it must’ve been another rant. He’s prone to these… episodes of anger where he doesn’t realise he’s spinning out and hurting people who really care about him. You try to bring him out of it, but he’s a Berzatto. They’re all the same, sort of. Everything that’s wrong with them has been stamped into them a long, long time ago. 

He’s been better since Nat steel armed him into AA, but still. You tilt your head to one side, sugar cookie between your fingers, listening for the goings on in the kitchen. “Sydney’s here?” you ask. “I thought she was sick.” 

“Sydney gets sick, but she doesn’t take sick days,” Tina says with a loving shrug. 

You smile at her in brief goodbye for now and make your way to the kitchen, where you push in quietly. All their ‘Behind!’ and ‘Corner!’ and ‘Hands!’ makes you laugh, and you can’t take it seriously so you don’t, but you’re not trying to be dangerous in there either. 

“Hello?” you ask. 

Sydney and Richie look up from a cramped notebook at the table nearest to the door. There are employees you're unsure of prepping vegetables along the wall, but Carmy isn’t anywhere to be seen. 

“Fucking finally,” Richie says, before rubbing his face regretfully. “I’m sorry, it’s just– I texted you an hour ago, babe, you’re letting me down.” 

You laugh. “Sorry, babe,” you tease. “I have a job, just like you.” Your hands are cold where you tuck them under each armpit, crossing your arms. “Hi, Sydney. You feeling okay?” 

“No. He’s stressing me out.” 

“Which one?” 

“Both of them.” She looks like she might rub her face too. “I need him to be in here right now, he should be doing this, but he keeps walking away and– and not saying where he’s going.” 

“He is stressful,” you agree, though usually Carmy’s stress tends to bounce right off of you, “I’m gonna find him and strap him down for you.” 

Sydney just frowns. 

“I’ll see what’s up,” you say more seriously. “In the office?” 

“Out the back,” Richie says. “Smoking like his mother. He’s a fucking steam train lately.” 

It’s like they want to worry you. You give them grateful nods, sorry nods, and start to make your way out of the main kitchen, past the dishwashers and the dessert station to one of the back doors. Carmy isn’t your responsibility. You don’t have to apologise for him, you don’t have to mother him, he should commit to his responsibilities all on his own, but… it’s hard. You like apologising for him because his behaviour isn’t always on purpose, and he struggles with commitment for similar reasons. There’s this aching, stagnated grief in him that’s reawakening, there’s the stress of the restaurant, his business, the scars of the last ten years, and before that. You know it isn’t your job to come here and make him feel better, but isn’t it? When you love someone, it’s half the deal. 

Carmy shouldn’t yell at his friends, or employees. He shouldn’t chain smoke, and he shouldn’t be sitting on the low wall by the dumpsters shaking so hard with his head so low that you can see the first notch of his spine in his shirt. 

“Carmy?” you ask. 

His head ducks further down. You can hear him breathing, not too hard as to alarm you, and yet unrelaxed. 

You smile without thinking. You hate seeing him like this, but looking after him is a pleasure. “Hey, Carmen. Can I sit with you?” 

He forces his face up. “What are you doing here?” he asks. 

Trying to make sure he doesn’t tear another chunk out of Richie. “It’s my lunch break.” 

You perch on the wall beside him and snap your nearly forgotten cookie into two pieces, one side bigger than the other, which you offer him. 

Carmy takes it. Looks at it without expression, though that slowly turns to a dry ire you’ve felt directed your way a hundred times. “What the fuck is this?” 

“Cookie.” 

“I don’t want this.” 

“Could you just eat it?” You put your own half in your mouth in its entirety, all aligned to your teeth. It shatters into sweet, soft crumbs between your teeth. You talk with a hand over your mouth, “It’s not gonna kill you.” 

Carmy looks at it for a long time before he eats it. 

You watch him. He’s more tan than you’d think, that Italian gene kicking in, skin clinging to whatever sunshine it finds. He spends enough time inside that you’re surprised it can muster the energy. He looks better with it though, his curls look gold toned under the sun, and his clenched jaw doesn’t seem so harsh. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask eventually. Almost conversationally. 

“Nothing.” His hand shakes on his thigh. He turns his palm down to clasp his knee. 

“You sure?” 

“No.” 

“That one’s my favourite.” 

“What?” 

You poke toward a tattoo on his hand. It’s a simple flower, same style as most of his tattoos. “I like it ‘cos it’s just a flower.” 

“My least pretentious,” he guesses. 

“Something like that.” 

He tips his head back. 

“Richie texted me. He thinks I’m gonna… like, I’m gonna calm you down, I guess.” 

“You always do,” he says. 

You give him a long, smiley look. “So you’re in love with me?” you ask warmly, pushing up into a knee to wrap your arm behind him, hugging him before he can move away. “You’re totally fucked for me, Berzatto, that’s fucking crazy.” 

“Fuck off,” he laughs. 

You rub his arm, his skin hot in your hold. He touches your waist very, very lightly. “What am I supposed to do, anyway? I can’t cook. You and Syd are on your own.” 

“You already… already did enough.” He grabs your waist where you wobble on the brick wall, grit biting your knees, his hand comparatively soft. 

“Such a crush on me,” you tease in a whisper, his hair crushed under your cheek. 

You’re tempted to kiss his temple, but affection with Carmy is like oil and water sometimes. You give him a last protective squeeze and sit yourself down again. 

“Carm,” you say, “you know you can call me, right? Like, if you don’t feel okay.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” 

“Or text me. If that’s easier. It’s hard to say hard things out loud.” 

He laughs again. “Sorry.” 

“I know, I don’t– I don’t seem like I know what you’re talking about, I get it, but I do understand. N’ even if I didn’t, I don’t mind listening. Or laughing at you.” 

“What’s that about?” 

“The laughing?” you ask. “You tell me.” 

His hand slides behind your back in half a hug. “Guess it’s funny.” 

“Can I change my mind about the tattoo?” 

“The flowers not your favourite?” 

“No. You know which one I like best?” 

His thumb rubs into your back. “The snail.” 

“Absolutely the snail. You’re so fucking silly sometimes, I’m supposed to take you seriously when you’re yelling and red in the face with a snail on your arm?” 

You can’t see his face with your cheek to his shoulder, won’t know that he’s smiling at you with a rare aura of peace. Can’t see the wanting, either. 

[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.”

[folkloresthings]

thinking about carmen berzatto having the fattest crush of his life on the new waitress/hostess at the bear. natalie and richard had interviewed you, raving about your experience and sweet nature, but carmen had only half-paid attention. on your first day, though, as richie was showing you the ropes, he spotted you through the kitchen’s window.

“who’s that?” he asked nat, knife frozen mid—cut while he stared.

“the new waitress, i told you about her last week,” nat sighed, annoyed at her brother’s lack of attention until she catches that look in his eye. then, she just smiles.

he makes sydney swap work stations with him after that, so he doesn’t get distracted every time you walk past the kitchen door. it’s bad enough that he can’t focus on the dish he’s plating when he knows you’ll be so close to him when he calls for hands. once did his hand shake when he passed a plate to you, nearly dropping it if it weren’t for your reflexes. you had worn your hair differently that night, that’s why, stealing his conscience for a moment.

richie, god dammit, had seen it happen. and he took every single opportunity for the rest of the night — no, week, to tease carmy for it. it only riled the chef up more than usual, forcing him deeper into his shyness and silence around you. whenever he did have to speak to you, he falls over his words and loses that strict composure the kitchen taught him.

because, hell, you’re so pretty and you’re so sweet to him and all of the customers. they always leave notes about you in their reviews, so even at home when he’s reading through them he can’t escape you. you’re like an angel, he swears, and far too good for him. he wants you, needs you so close to him — so he can smell your perfume or brush your hand on purpose for once. but he’ll be the ruin of you, this perfect thing, and he can’t be the one to break you.

[thecapricunt1616]

Pls. Dad!Carm would have so much heartache regarding when you stopped breastfeeding your first.

Like imagine him nuzzling into your neck being like “so-she doesn’t ask for milkys anymore?! She’s just a- a big girl now?!” And just sobbing that his babies aren’t breastfeeding after 4+ years of that being his norm. And you’re just like-

“Honey- bear- she’s in preschool now! She doesn’t need mommy’s milk to help her anymore, baby! She’s making friends and she feels so big- shhh baby. She’s a big girl- let her grow, bear. “ and he’s just fucking snot nose sobbing.

[neonovember]

Carmen definitely has black cat energy, maybe more akin to something like a stray cat (saying that lovingly) but definitely is more cat boyfriend than dog boyfriend. Have to leave him alone and gain his trust and then he’ll be curious about you, and then won’t leave you alone 🥰😭

this is completely true, carmen is kinda stand-offish and reserved at first and he is horrible at replying and calling you back because let’s face it he doesn’t really know how to communicate properly. but even after all that, all of that distance and reservations you force him to come out.

you drag him to a nice hole in the wall lunch spot, you take him for drinks, and then something just clicks in Carmen. Once he realises you aren’t going to leave him stranded he completely opens himself to you, and don’t try and tell me he wouldn’t be the most clingy mf after 😭 this man is literally a toddler yall!

So why not a little drabble down below? A sneak peak if you will. it’s likes 200 worth of word vomit and there’s allusion to smut to enjoy ;)

*

The busy streets of the farmers market spilled into the morning traffic, as Carmen rushes between crowds with two cups of coffee grasped against his chest.

They burned, really fucking bad, probably searing a third degree burn right under his pelvis but god did he not care, his legs ran with the wind behind them as he tried making it back to your shared apartment as quick as possible.

He had only left the warm bed where you lay 10 minutes ago, only after you had thought about ‘how good a coffee would be snuggled up here’ and Carmen had shouldered on a flimsy fleece jacket and his house slippers before racing out of the house to fulfill your request.

He didn’t regret it now, but he could practically feel his skin itch with a desire to feel you against him again. There had been a celebratory dinner of sorts for the beef after it got recognised as Chicago’s up and coming restaurant of the decade. Carmen couldn’t wait till you both made it to your apartment and just took your right there in the backseat of his car that now stood stationary in the parking lot.

Carmen can still taste you on his tongue and now he’s grateful he took a much needed day off to spend it with you.

Opening the apartment door, the smell of melted butter and grease washes over Carmen’s senses. Flipping of his slippers, Carmen past the kitchen, where used dishes lay on the stove top and the ingredients for pancakes lay open.

“Baby? I got our coffee?” Carmen yells out, and when there is no answer a sweat begins to break on Carmen’s forehead.

“H-honey? You there!?” Carmen yells louder, looking through the living room before entering the bedroom with haste.

“I’m right here Carmy, it’s alright” The sweet saccharine melody of your voice pulls Carmen from whatever fear inducing nightmare he fell into.

You’re here, back where your supposed to be. Wrapped around the covers that smelled of the both of you.

“Made us pancakes” You smile, the sun streaming in through the linen curtains so they dusted all over your gorgeous face.

If Carmen could shift his eyes away from you (which he can’t) he would see the pretty tower of pancakes dripping with syrup and berries plated on the bedside table. Hell, if he saw how well done they were you feared the coffee might get thrown across the room and Carmen will drag you up to his face.

“Got us coffee” Carmen whispered, placing them to the side, forgotten as his mind was consumed with feeling you against him.

“Just get in here already” You giggle, before the sheets are thrown to the side and the warmth of Carmen’s body encapsulates you once again.

[buzzcutlip]

hiiii, for the prompt thing, could u do carmy + "is this the part where you kick me out" and/or "i can't do this without you"? 🩷

also i am BEGGING for part 2 of the worst day pls i check literally every single day to see if it's up !!!

Hello! Cracks and Gaps is getting longer and longer, bigger and bigger. I don't quite know how to separate the text into chapters. I'm hoping I'll publish chapter 2 by the end of August/beginning of September. Thank you for your interest and support :)

Prompt: "I can't do this without you" Carmen Berzatto x Fem!Reader Explicit 1600 words (warnings for injuries/burns and a bit of mean!Carmy - but also gentle!Carmy so it's fine, Claire is mentioned but note that this is set a couple weeks after the fridge incident)

The loud chime of the downstairs doorbell rings sharply through the quiet apartment. You get up to the intercom and buzz Carmen in.

You’ve only ever had the girls over—Tina, Sydney, and once even Nat. Those were very rare moments spent outside the kitchen, outside The Bear, when you somehow managed to have a day off together. Normally, you’re not very comfortable letting people into your apartment. And having Carmen here—you try not to think about it too much.

The thing is, you had an accident in the kitchen five days ago during one of those crazy afternoons just before lunch opening—full of yelling, collisions, and near-strokes—when you managed to scald your right forearm. Like, properly scald, until the skin was baby pink and raw-looking. The longer you looked at the damaged area, the dizzier you felt.

Richie drove you to the hospital, not caring about his absent driving license, and sat with you in the emergency room while a nurse bandaged the big, painful blisters that had formed where just skin used to be. Only the next day did you learn that it hadn’t been your fault—Marcus had slipped on water that Ebra had spilled, bumping into Carmy, who bumped into you, forcing you to lean against the stove with a huge pot of boiling spaghetti. Due to the shock, you completely forgot. Not that you would ever hold it against any of them.

The moment you hear Carmy’s knock on the door, your heart speeds up. You know it’s stupid and unreasonable, but you look up to the chef very much, admiring what he’s accomplished, and very, very secretly, you do have a little—big—crush on him.

“Thank you for coming, really,” you greet him earnestly as soon as you’re face-to-face with him.

“It’s the least I could do,” Carmy says as you lead him toward the kitchen table where all your medical supplies are laid out. Soon after getting home from the ER, you figured out that you wouldn’t be able to change the bandages on your dominant hand twice a day by yourself—not properly. There are many other things you haven’t been able to do.

“And it makes sense since I live the closest,” Carmy adds as he settles down next to you after washing his hands thoroughly. Leaning in, he starts removing the dressing, as you instructed, holding your hand carefully.

“Have you and Richie talked yet?” you ask to fill the silence with something.

Carmy doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. “You’ve been gone for four days. It’s—it's gonna take longer than that,” he mumbles, peeling off the gauze sponges soaked in antibiotic cream. You hiss, trying to retract your hand instinctively, but Carmy doesn’t relent.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly, giving you a moment to relax again. He reapplies the cream to the skin scarred by the blisters, which have mostly drained by now. It hurts like hell, his touch bringing stinging tears to your eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Carmy says when he peers up at you.

“Not your fault,” you grit your teeth against the burning pain, trying to remember if you’ve taken a painkiller today. His touch is gentle and careful, and the combination of his softness and the contact does strange things to you. It’s turning you on.

“We should’ve done better. To prevent things like this from happening. The kitchen should be a safe work environment,” he adds, glancing at his own scarred hands. “As safe as possible.”

When he finishes wrapping your arm with the gauze dressing, you feel a wave of relief that he’s no longer inspecting your scarred skin.

Carmen leans back in his chair, running a hand through his unruly hair. “What else can I do?”

The possibilities rush through your mind, but you quickly dismiss all inappropriate intrusive thoughts. “Would you help me wash my hair?” you ask, grimacing at your own ineptitude, embarrassed and frustrated. Your scalp has been itching for the second day, driving you absolutely nuts.

Carmen nods without hesitation, understanding the vulnerability behind your request. “Yeah, of course. Whatever you need,” he says gently, standing up and glancing around your apartment to find the bathroom.

You lead him there, feeling a mix of relief and self-consciousness. You’re not used to asking for help, especially not with something so personal. Carmen seems to sense this because as you walk, he doesn’t say anything more, just follows your lead.

The bathroom is small but clean, and you can’t help but notice the way Carmen’s presence fills the space, making it feel even smaller. You pull out a chair and sit with your back to the basin, trying to ignore the awkwardness of the situation. Carmen moves around you, adjusting the water temperature and rolling up his sleeves. When his fingers brush against your neck as he gathers your hair, a shiver runs down your spine.

“Lean back a little,” he says, his voice low, almost hesitant but soothing. You do as he says, closing your eyes as he begins to wet your hair. The warm water runs down your scalp, and for a moment, you can almost forget the pain in your arm and the way your heart races whenever Carmen is near.

He’s gentle, more so than you would have expected from someone who spends his days commanding a chaotic kitchen. His fingers work the shampoo into your hair, massaging your scalp in slow, careful circles. The sensation is almost too much—too intimate, too comforting—and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

“You’re very quiet.”

“So are you. When you’re not shouting,” you don’t miss the opportunity to pick at him. “It’s hard to figure you out.”

Carmen scoffs, but there’s a subtle tension in his voice. “Right back at ya.”

The water in the basin swishes loudly as Carmen rinses the shampoo, combing through your hair with his fingers, careful not to tug too hard, squeezing the excess water ouf from your hair. ““There you go,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “All done.”

You sit up slowly, feeling a bit lighter. “Thank you. Couldn’t do it without you.”

Carmen offers a small, almost shy smile, but there’s something behind his eyes—a flicker of unease, like he’s unsure of how to respond. You wonder, not for the first time, if the tenderness he’s showing isn’t something that comes naturally to him. 

The shift is abrupt. Familiar from how you know him from work. His mood swings and angry outbursts. You don’t know what causes it. Maybe he can finally see it on you. The way you’ve been pressing your thighs together, the redness of your cheeks. Is this his secret superpower -- can he read thoughts?

“What?” you ask with an unease when he stares at you for too long, wiping his wet hands in the pink towel, then putting it neatly on the radiator behind him.

Carmen’s movements are swift and decisive as he kneels in front of you, his rough voice breaking the silence. “I blame myself,” he says, almost desperately. He takes your injured hand, his lips brushing against the bare fingers and knuckles peeking out from beneath the bandages. His other hand disappears between your thighs, and you’re mortified at the thought that he can probably feel how wet you are through the layers of clothing. 

“There are other ways to make you feel better,” he says, his words dripping with a raw, suggestive intensity that leaves you stunned. You blink rapidly, trying to process the unexpected turn in his demeanor.

A wave of emotions crashes over you, paralyzing you with its intensity. “What about Cla -”

“Shut up,” he murmurs quietly, without much heat. “You want this or not?”

You do, you’re nodding. You’ll take anything he’s willing to give you, no matter what. 

Carmen eats you out. He pulls down your leggings along with your panties, eyes fixed between your legs where you’re already - embarrassingly - wet from all of his touches, intentional or not. Carmen only uses his mouth on you - his tongue and lips, keeping his hands where you can’t see or feel them. It reminds you of David Coperfield and his right magic hand never touching Claudia Schiffer. Like if Carmy put his fingers into your pussy it would suck out his mojo, or something.

Usually it’s hard for you to come just from oral sex but Carmen’s different. He uses these long, wide licks on you, literally eating your pussy out, rather than just licking at your clit. That really does the trick for you. 

When you come, hand gripping Carmy’s curls, he’s busy touching himself. You can hear the rustling and the wet noises even through the static in your ears.

You can barely catch your breath when Carmen says: “Pull,” and you do - hard - which leaves him gasping, and even though he doesn’t make any loud noises, it makes your pussy throb. 

He comes with his head between your legs, licking at you weakly without much intent. You know only because his movements come to a stop and for a moment you’re both still. Until Carmen visibly shakes himself and his eyes find yours once again. 

“Say thank you, chef,” he murmurs against your skin, punctuating his words with a sharp smack to your inner thigh. The sting of it makes you jump, gasping at the unexpected pain.

“Thank you,” you manage to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper, shaky from the intensity of it all.

[collecting-stories]

Blueberry BBQ - Carmen Berzatto

Request: no.

Summary: reader works at The Bear balancing their books and has a major crush on Carmy but they never talk aside from business. A dinner party brings them closer together.

A/N: Just some nonsensical drabble cause I love Carmy.

The Bear Masterlist

✳︎ ✳︎ ✳︎ ✳︎

“Are you making that bbq sauce for the burgers this time?” Marcus asked, turning away from his chocolate cake for a split second to look at you.  

Mikey had hired you a week before he died to help balance the books at the Beef. After he was gone Richie stuck you on the counter, waiting on customers like you didn’t have a bachelors in finance, and telling you not to go in the back office. Now that Carmy was around, and attempting to make the Beef float, you were back were you belonged, in the office and away from the hustle and bustle of the kitchen.  

You were no chef…you’d hesitate to even really call yourself a proper cook…but you knew what you liked and you knew how to make it taste good. “I don’t know…last time Angel complained.”  

“That’s because Angel puts ketchup on everything like a five year old,” Tina called from her station, the distinct chop of onions echoing after her comment.  

“What are you making?” Syd asked, adding a quick, “behind” as she passed Tina to grab a pot.  

“It’s Sunday night dinner,” Marcus replied, ignoring the headshake Tina gave him. No real offence to Sydney but you knew she’d tell Carmy and whether or not he actually would come, you kind of didn’t want the pressure of thinking he might show up. Even with your job at The Beef you were far from understanding the “food world” but you’d tried Carmy’s cooking a few times and it was leagues better than anything you attempted on a good day. There was no way you wanted him even thinking you set foot in a kitchen, let alone trying something you made.  

“Sunday night dinner?” Syd echoed.  

And then the cursed, “what’s Sunday night dinner?” Carmy’s voice. He’d come in from a smoke break and you took three large steps back to the office, as if you hadn’t set foot in the kitchen to begin with. Marcus looked at his boss and then at you (wide eyed and trying not to visibly shake your head at him) and then back to Carmy.  

“It’s uh,”  

“Nothing.” Tina cut in. “It’s nothing. Get back to work eh, Jeff?”  

“Yeah,” Carmy looked like he wanted to say something else but instead just nodded, blue eyes a little glazed, “yeah.”  

In the comfort of the office, you get back to work on payroll for the week, slipping your airpods in to drown out the sounds of the kitchen. Just over the softer lull of Evermore you could hear Carmy yell at Richie, his brother’s best friend shouting right back. It wasn’t always (or ever) the best environment for working but you liked it. You liked it when Mike was working there and you somehow managed to like it a little more now that Carmy was running the show, though that could just be that you liked Carmy. Outside of work, you didn’t have too many conversations but he was pretty to look at and you liked the brief interactions the two of you had, even if it was just asking about accounts and other boring stuff he didn’t have the patience for on his own.  

The whole incident (that might be an over exaggeration of the event though you’d honestly be tempted to call it a debacle and it probably wasn’t that either) had been mostly forgotten by the time the dinner rush was rolling around and you were clocking out. More than thrilled to both be home before dark and to continue your mostly Carmy-free shift. He was so busy out in the kitchen and fighting with Richie that you hadn’t seen him. Though by now you were positive he had forgotten the mention of Sunday night dinner.  

You waved to Syd, promised to text Marcus, and slipped out the back door into the alley. If you went out the front Richie would stop you and then you’d be listening to his bullshit for another hour (at least).  

“Sneaking out?” Carmy’s tone was teasing and you spun around to find him sitting on a milk crate, smoking what was probably his sixth or seventh cigarette of the day.  

“Didn’t wanna hear about Richie’s date,” you shrugged, the strap of your backpack digging at your collar momentarily when your shoulder went up and then dropped back into place.  

“It was a bust.” 

You nodded, “kinda feel bad for him,” you mused. You didn’t hate Richie, in fact you found him kind of funny. Even when he’d kicked you out of the office and relegated you to the counter you’d liked him too much to complain.  

“You wanna date him?” Carmy asked, raising a brow as if he was issuing some kind of challenge.  

“Oh, I don’t feel that bad.” You laughed.  

Carmy smiled and you were ready to say goodnight when he opened his mouth again. Maybe you should have gone the front way. “So what’s this Sunday night dinner?”  

You shook your head as if the whole ordeal wasn’t that major to begin with. Maybe if it sounded lame, if you sounded like you weren’t that bothered with it, Carmy wouldn’t want to go. Not that you thought he wanted to spend his time off the clock hanging out with you. “Oh it’s nothing, I’m just…making dinner for like, Marcus and Tina and everybody.” 

He frowned. An actual, eyebrows scrunched, hooded eyes drooped, frown. “You cook?”  

“Not, no, not like…I mean…it’s probably cardboard compared to you.” You laugh, “not that I’m, ya know…comparing myself to you or anything.” You replied, stumbling slightly over your words.  

“Must be pretty good…everybody’s going.”  

“Well, anyone’s invited…I mean, if you wanted to come you could. I think Marcus is bringing some dessert and Tina and Ebraheim usually bring something too.” You shrugged again, an impulsive movement as you tried to make yourself sound cool and collected. It was just Carmy…the guy looked like he was homeless, he shouldn’t be as intimidating as he was.  

“What are you making?”  

“It’s just burgers.” You replied, downplaying the fact that you’d specifically overpaid for waygu beef because Marcus claimed it tasted better. Who were you to know. 

“I’ll bring something.” The offer sounded more like a sure statement. Not only would he be there but he would bring something.  

“Okay…” you trailed off, “well, see you tomorrow.” 

You were pretty sure you’d never left The Beef so quickly in your entire life. Sunday was supposed to be a relaxing day off and an attempt to actually be somewhat sociable because god knows quarantine was rough, even with a steady job.  

But now Sunday was just anxiety bubbling in your stomach while you made the plum bbq glaze that Marcus liked so much. You’d imagined nothing more than calling up your mom to complain about how often you put your foot in your mouth but as you reached for the telephone you realized the only one around to listen to you talk about this weird crush you had on Carmy was your cat. The monster in question was a long haired black cat that the lady on the top floor had adopted before covid. She’d named him Rigoletto after the Italian opera and then decided she didn’t want him anymore.  

“That place down the street is hiring…although I’m not so sure I wanna work at an H&R Block.” You mused, scratching under Rigoletto’s chin before leaving him on the arm of the couch to finish the bbq sauce. “And I do really like the Beef…but what if Carmy hates this? And he fires me or something…is that crazy?”  

The cat didn’t have the chance to answer because the buzzer by your door went off. It was a little too early for anybody who usually showed up to arrive though you suspected it could be Syd (she’d been invited now too, along with Richie who had to decline because it was his Sunday with his daughter).  

You hit the button to unlock the front door without confirming who was there. Not a great habit but you were technically expecting someone and you tended to get a little lax with security every now and then. You propped the door to your apartment so that whoever you’d buzzed (Syd surely, maybe Ebraheim) would be able to just come right in.  

But as luck would have it, it wasn’t Syd that came through the door to your apartment. It was Carmen, holding two foil trays cause he promised he’d bring something (and okay, sure, maybe he over did himself for just a hang out in your apartment but so sue him if he wasn’t trying to impress you).  

“Hey uh…your cat looks like it’s gonna climb me.” He half greeted, half warned, staring down at the cat that had jumped off the couch and come over to greet him. Yellow eyes stared up at his blue ones, back hunched like it was ready to pounce and Carmy briefly imagined the cat jumping right into the trays in his hands.  

Before any worst case scenarios could happen you scooped the cat up in your arms, apologizing and telling Carmy he could lay the trays on the small island in your kitchen. “He’s super friendly,” you promised though you left him in your room and closed the door, “he’s a big fan of Chester.” 

“Marcus’ roommate?” Carmy almost laughed.  

“Yeah he uh, what are you doing?” You speedwalked the short distance back to the kitchen when you realized that Carmy had moved over to inspect the sauce you were making, spooning a tiny bit out and taking a bite.  

“It’s good, maybe a little maple syrup?” He offered, as if this was The Beef’s test kitchen. Without waiting for your okay he went to the fridge, opening it and pulling out a bottle of maple syrup. You wondered briefly if he had some sort of psychic sense that let him know you had maple syrup on hand or if Carmy just expected all the ingredients he needed to be right where he needed them at all times. “What’s this?”  

“It’s salad dressing,” you supplied, shifting awkwardly as he shook the bottle of salad dressing he’d plucked off the shelf. 

You watched him pop the lid and stick a clean butter knife in the jar, pulling it out and taste testing the dressing. This was objectively worse than you imagined inviting Carmy to your house would be. “Shit, that’s fire.”  

You could feel your face heat up at the compliment, though that was immediately out of your mind as Carmy continued his inspection of your fridge. When he started eyeing a tupperware of soup from last night, you reached over and closed the door on him, “okay; let’s be finished going through my fridge?”  

“Sorry,” he held his hands up in surrender, the bottle of dressing still in one hand. “I didn’t know you cooked.” It was the same thing he’d said to you earlier though it didn’t hold the same genuine surprise as it had earlier. Instead, he looked almost contemplative, as if finding something out about you that he hadn’t known before meant something you weren’t aware of.  

“Nothing serious,” you promised, going back to check on the burgers and looking back at Carmy, “would you…check these. I know it sounds dumb but, cooking meat gives me anxiety.”  

“It gives you anxiety?” He said it like he was trying not to laugh, a smile threatening his features as he set the dressing back in the fridge and came over to stand a little too close to you.  

“If you don’t cook it enough you could kill someone and if you cook it too much it’s gross,” you replied, glancing half over your shoulder at him as he leaned in to check the state of the burgers.  

“Alright…if you let me try the soup.”  

You caved, “fine.” Passing the wooden spatula and stepping to the side. “If Marcus asks, I totally cooked them myself.”  

Carmy nodded, grinning, “yeah alright.”  

Cooking with him, without the imminent pressure of a working kitchen, was more fun than you imagined it would be. When you’d wandered into the kitchen area of the Beef back when Mike was still around, he was always joking and talking shit with Richie. Carmy didn’t necessarily run a tighter ship but he was more serious about food and cooking and there was less time for bullshitting. You assumed the quiet intensity was how he always was but you realized that was an unfair judgement. He was relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen him be, that confidence in his food coming through with quiet remarks about this meal or that, shitty food he’d eaten while he was working in New York and stories about the CIA.  

- 

By the time everyone had finished eating and gone home, leaving you with a mess of plates and cutlery, you were a little tipsy but genuinely happy. It hadn’t been as stressful as you were making it out to be in your mind and Carmy relaxed on a Sunday night was completely different from Carmy in the kitchen at work.  

“You have a system or?” His voice broke your train of thought as you wiped the last crumbs off the table and realized that he was standing at your sink, kitchen towel over his shoulder.  

“You don’t have to help me clean up,” you tossed the crumbs and came over to the sink, “I mean you fixed the burgers.”  

“I didn’t ‘fix’ them,” he almost looked like he was gonna laugh. “I just helped them along.”  

“Well either way, you shouldn’t have to clean up too.”  

“I don’t mind.” He promised, “now, you got a system?”  

“Not really,” you shook your head, “but I don’t have a dishwasher so everything’s by hand.”  

“I got time.” Carmy promised and you couldn’t help feeling like your heart was going to thud right out of your chest, “besides you promised me some of that soup.”  

“You just ate like a whole meal Carm, you’re not seriously gonna have soup at midnight are you?” You asked though honestly you didn’t think you would be surprised if the answer was that yes, he would have soup at midnight.  

“Yeah if it’s good,” he joked.  

You shook your head, not answering and instead focusing your attention on drying dishes too large to fit in the rack beside your sink. The frying pan went back on the stove with the pot beside it. While Carmy finished the very last of the dishes you let Rigoletto out of your bedroom, the cat stretching languidly as he appraised the room.  

“My mom had a cat once,” he mentioned, eyeing Rigoletto as he approached the kitchen area, “ended up giving it to the neighbor cause it jumped on the counters all the time. Nothing like cat hair in your chicken picante.”  

“Rigoletto’s too fat to make it to the counter.” You replied, “if he did I’d be too impressed to be upset with him.”  

“What are you doing?” Carmy watched you curiously as you got a bowl out of the cabinet and grabbed a bag of granola.  

“Homemade granola,” you shook the bag, “it’s for the top of the soup.” When he didn’t say anything you added, “just trust me.” 

“It’s your recipe.”  

“I feel like that wasn’t as confident sounding as I wanted it to be,” you laughed, passing the heated up bowl across the counter to him, granola sprinkled over the top, “it’s apple and brie soup.”  

“Apple?” 

“Okay, like you’ve made some weird fucking shit before Carm. Don’t act like this is the craziest thing you’ve ever heard of.”  

He raised his hands in surrender, spoon teetering between his fingers briefly before he was leaning forward to take a bite. “To be fair, I rarely see you even near the kitchen at work.”  

“Well I’m not as good as anyone there, I just like trying different stuff on my own time.”  

“This is really good,” he mentioned, taking another spoonful, “you have a recipe?” 

“Yeah, I have a notebook somewhere.” You weren’t a hundred percent sure where you’d placed your notebook though you knew it was floating around somewhere in the apartment.  

“Show me?” He asked, then, “not right now…just whenever.” The request was vague and you knew that ultimately you could just take it to mean showing him the actual handwritten recipe that you used to make the soup that he was almost finished eating but it could also mean actually cooking with him. Something that, 24 hours ago would have definitely scared the shit out of you. Cooking with someone like Carmy? That was out of the question.  

“When do you ever have free time?” You kept the question light, a joke more than an observation of his life, “I was surprised you came tonight.”  

“I thought about not coming,” he shrugged, “figured if you wanted me to you woulda asked yourself but…” the sentence teetered off and you took a few seconds silence to really weigh how your relationship with Carmen looked from his end.  

“Sorry, it’s not that you aren’t invited or anything…just that you’re kinda intimidating and if you were coming over than I’d wanna impress you and if I didn’t at least make edible food I’d be embarrassed.”  

“It could use a little fine-tuning but it’s not bad by any stretch.”  

“Okay,” you almost laughed at the bluntness of his statement. Ask him anything else and he clammed up but ask him about food and he was direct.  

“Sorry I-” 

“Don’t be sorry,” you shook your head quickly, wanting him to understand that you weren’t at all bothered by the comment. Maybe if you were in an actual professional in a kitchen...you’d heard him and Syd go at it before over a dish and you knew that Carmy could be mean when he was in ‘kitchen-mode’. “I mean, aside from you, the only people who eat what I cook are like...my parents. And what are they gonna say?” 

Carmy didn’t say anything, taking the empty bowl and placing it in the sink. He looked like he wanted to say more but instead he reached for his coat, “thanks for letting me invite myself.”  

“Hey, anytime you wanna come over...” You admitted. Tonight hadn’t been as scary as you thought it was and, in all honesty, you kind of liked having Carmy here. Getting to see him more relaxed was nice and cooking with him was somehow better. “Besides, I promised to show you the soup.” 

“Yeah,” he nodded. Trying to fix the Beef, pay off Jimmy, and generally just exist didn’t leave a whole lot of free time but he didn’t think he would mind making some just so he could stand around in your kitchen with you again. It felt almost the way he used to feel when Mike was still alive and everything still had a layer of candy-coating on it. That sort of simple, ‘if I don’t leave this moment nothing can go wrong’ feeling that tightened his chest and made him feel warm.  

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow?” You phrased it like a question but it was a fact.  

“Tomorrow.” He agreed.  The possibility of it already making him eager for the morning.

[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.

[mouseymilkovich]

I feel like I’m lurking in ur inbox but

I saw this tiktok of this dad letting his baby teething on his arm. I just feel like when Carmy sees his baby fussing he’d stick his arm out for it to teethe on and not even acknowledge it around the others.

please always lurk in my inbox sonia. you always have such wonderful ideas and thoughts and blurbs!!!!

g/n baby cus i said so. no content tags just fluff and sillies

Recently, your little baby had started teething and had been ridiculously fussy. You tried every fucking toy that you could possibly find, but the only thing that ever seemed to work was your husband's arm— for some fucking reason.

It got to the point where the second your baby would start crying, no matter what Carmy was doing, no matter if you had fucking company, he would just stick his arm out the kid would just go to town, chomping on his arm. It baffled you. It also baffled Sugar the first time she saw it.

"Um, Carm?" She asked, cocking her eyebrow at him.

"Hm?" He'd hum in response, not even looking up at his sister while he was reading some review on his phone.

"Is this... normal...?" She tilted her head to the side.

"What?" Carmy muttered back

"The... the baby, Carm. The baby."

"Oh, yeah. They just do this now." He shrugged.

Sugar opened her mouth to speak at first, but she knew first hand that babies were just weird. So, she decided not to question it further.

Could've been worse things for the baby to teethe on, honestly.

[luveline]

Oooooo carmy request: him being jealous of readers friendship w richie cos they re like buddys and he thinks she doesn't like him cos shes not like that w him

—you realise what Carmy wants from you. fem, 1.4k

Richie isn’t technically an upstanding citizen, but he’s a good guy. 

“I’m telling you, sweetheart, you just need to be more aggressive.” 

You’re sitting on a stool behind the counter filling the ketchup and mayonnaise bottles with the huge ones from the walk-in. Richie isn’t doing much of anything, which is fine by you; he’s good entertainment for a shitty job. 

“I don’t want to be more aggressive, I want people to be nicer.” 

“We don’t get what we want,” he mutters. 

You frown expressively. “Aw, baby, we don’t get what we want. You don’t get what you want, huh?” 

“What’s your problem?” he asks, though he laughs brightly. “You’re the fucking baby. You’re not doing that right.” 

You point at your extremely slow drip of ketchup. “No, you think? I know I’m doing it wrong, Richie. Doing it right is a lot of arm effort. Have you seen my arms?” 

“You’ve got muscle.” Richie lifts your arm up by the wrist. “Flex. Flex your arm.” 

“I’m flexing. You can’t see that?” 

“What are you guys doing?” Carmy asks. 

He comes up behind Richie and they’re almost twins. Not in appearance —Carmy’s lighter facially and broader physically— but in stance, their mussed up aprons and the rags on their shoulders a uniform. 

You flex. “Weight training.” 

Richie drops your arm. “I’m showing her how to fill the sauce bottles.” 

“And you didn’t know how to do that?” Carmy asks you. 

“I’m the one that taught Richie.” You absolutely didn’t teach Richie how to do it, that much is obvious. Richie laughs heartily, and Carmy frowns, and you realise that Richie thinks you’re both laughing at Carmy, which isn’t what was happening. Not totally. 

It’s hard to navigate The Beef without Mikey; Carmy is nothing like his brother, and Richie’s an asshole. 

Carmy nods at you. You’re worried his lip is gonna curl like it does when he’s mad and you’re gonna get told to do something you’re uninterested in, but it’s Richie who gets punished. “Can you finish Sydney’s prep?” 

“Why can’t she do it?” 

“Her stomach thing. It’s just onions.” 

Richie wants to argue, but can’t. He’s paid a wage to work. “Fine. But tell Syd I’m not her gopher.” 

Richie saunters away. 

“He’s not her gopher,” you tease when he’s out of earshot, to Carmy’s surprised delight. “God, Carm, don’t you know anything?” 

Your Richie impression isn’t your best. Carmy must enjoy it, still smiling to himself as his attention is turned to the register, where he begins wiping down the keys. 

“Is that really the way to do that?” he asks, gesturing to your sauce bottles. 

You’ve turned the cap upside down, feeding sauce into the bottle one drip at a time. It would be quicker to remove the cap entirely and pour straight from the big bottle, but that sometimes requires three hands, the big jugs are that heavy. 

“Despite what you might think, Carm, I’ve thought it through.” 

“You sure?” 

You could get defensive. When Carmy first took over the restaurant, you thought, What the fuck, Mikey. Leave your shithole restaurant to your world class brother and get your entire roster of staff fired in one fell swoop. But Carmy never fired you, hasn’t cut your hours, doesn’t treat you like an asshole. He is a jerk, that much is certain during busy dinner service, but he has yet to take it too far. (Ish.)

So you won’t defend your laziness, or expect him to like it. You get up from your stool and turn the cap right side up, tapping what’s yet to drip through the spout into the bottle. You set the cap aside, and you uncap the big ketchup to decant sauce until the bottle is full. 

Carmy glances at you from the corner of your eye. He looks at you, looks away again. 

You think he might like you. In the don’t have a choice, grown on him like moss way. He gets cagey when you and Richie are having fun, and he stares altogether too much, but he can be pretty when he’s smiling (or really yelling) and he has nice hands, and nice arms. He has a nice way of saying things. You don’t mind his attention.

There have been worse bosses to want to push you up against a wall. 

Not that you think Carmy could. He whines like a bitch at you for stupid shit, but Carmen Berzatto shoving you into a wall for a rough kiss? That’s never gonna happen. 

And yet… his frown tells a different story. 

“Why do you get so weird about me and Richie?” you ask. 

“I don’t get weird about you and Richie.” 

You open the mayonnaise bottle and set the cap aside. “He’s nicer than you think.” 

“Yeah?” He sounds vaguely depressed, which isn’t uncharacteristic. Seriousness colours his voice with a strange charm. “I’ll take your word for it.” 

“He is, he makes me laugh. He makes sure I eat, he shouts at guys when they’re mean to me.” 

“Who’s mean to you?” 

“Carmy.” You give up on the mayonnaise and wipe your hands down your apron, to his ire. You’d prefer not to smell like egg and oil during this conversation, but it’s better than smelling like burnt chicken, sort of. “Richie’s a nice guy, whether you agree or not.” 

“That’s great, I’m glad he’s so nice to you.” He sounds angry now, but he’s stuck as you are —walking away is losing. 

You really don’t get it. “Is he not supposed to be nice to me?” you ask. 

“He can do what he wants. You can do what you want.”

You laugh, and hope to diffuse the situation with a joke, “Okay, thanks for your permission, Chef.” 

“Fuck off.” 

He sounds less tense, but not fixed. And you might find it harder to keep up with him, constantly wanting to impress him, knowing you can’t, but you’re not out of touch. You aren’t a huge dick. 

Carmy beats you to it. “I was kidding, about the bottles. You can do it how you want.” 

“I wasn’t offended.” 

“But you don’t– with Richie, you– I don’t know what I’m doing wrong with you.” 

You look him up and down, lengths of his arms, tattoos and the cut over his elbow. His clean t-shirt, his neck, the strong line of his nose and his bright eyes. 

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you say, smiling at him, knowing your expression says lots of weird stuff. 

Working here in the kitchen makes a busy atmosphere normal. Richie’s telling a story at the top of his lungs, Angel’s swearing about a dropped plate, knives scratch on boards and ovens hum. Being overwhelmed is something you’re good at, and big feelings don’t scare you. 

“You’re jealous of Richie?” you ask, playfully pitying. “Get it together.” 

“Fuck off,” he says again. 

“Seriously? Richie Jerimovich. He’s telling Tina a story right now about how the last date he went on ended with her asking if he’d ever been abducted by aliens.” 

“I’m not jealous of Richie.” 

“No, I don’t think you are,” you say, taking a step too close, and refusing to take the step back. 

Carmy doesn’t look mad anymore. 

You wonder if anybody’s ever held his hand. You used to think he must’ve had a ton of girlfriends, he got so famous everywhere he went, but… He looks like he’s never been this close to someone before. Like you’re making him nervous. 

“Me and Richie are friends,” you say quietly. “Is that what you want us to be?” 

His hand twitches at his side. 

“There, cousin, I cut the fucking onions. You happy?” Richie asks, and laughs as he steps back out to the front of house, unaware of the tension. “That’d be the day, right?” 

“Yes, Richie, I’m happy you did your job. Thank you.” 

“Was that hard for you, baby?” you ask Richie with a pout. “Here, let me kiss your poor hands.” 

Richie gives you the bird with both of them. 

You look to Carmy. Making fun of Richie together isn’t quite as good as holding hands, but you hope it’s a start. 

Carmy catches on, can’t hide his grin, “There’s tylenol in the office if you need it, cousin.”  

“Are your wrists feeling tender?” you prompt. “Or is that motion one you’re used to?” 

Carmy laughs and the sound takes on the shape of his smile, nearly giddy. 

“Fuck both of you.” 

[ohcaptains]

jfhdhfjf i just can’t stop thinking about him fucking the newest front of house who’s just really good at her job and he appreciates how easy she is for him when everything else is hard especially when she lets him fuck her when he needs to blow off steam SORRYEYY ?????

Carmy doesn’t know when it happened.

Doesn’t know when it started, but he’s starting to think it’ll never stop. You’re just so…helpful. Good at the till, good with the customers, good at the fancy new coffee machine Carmy had bought (just for you) and good at expediting, when shit got busy, and he needed another hand. Good, good, good, good – fucking brilliant, if you ask Carmy, wasted on a place like The Beef, or The Bear, or the shit hole his brother left him, that he’s trying to make good. Good, good, good. Good at other things, too, like keeping quiet when you’re in his office and he’s fucking you from behind. Or, getting loud when you’d managed to get to his apartment, and he’s saying how thankful he is.

He’s spilling the truth into your mouth when you gasp his name, hitching your legs up higher so he can hit that spongey spot that makes your eyes roll back – makes you go quiet. Until you’re sobbing out how thankful you are. Gripping his curls, nose pushed against his, I like making things easier for you, Carmy. You whisper as you grind into him, I like being good for you. That’s how it starts – this whole good thing.

“Good,” he’d comment when you finished a particularly hard lunch rush. “You did good,” and he’d see it. See the way your face relaxed and feel how he’d want to say it again.

He can’t stop saying it. Can’t stop when it’s after closing and everyone’s gone home. When he’s got you against the door to his office, mouth pushed into your ear, and he’s taking his time, making his strokes deep and steady as he says, so good for me. Such a good fucking girl. I’m not letting you leave this goddamn restaurant – and he kisses you between words, between grunts and groans – not letting you leave my goddamn sight.

[moonstruckme]

Omg yay I love that slightly dirty man!! I was wondering if you’d be willing to do something along the lines of a flower shop au situation, where Carmy is obv still a chef but reader works/owns a place nearby and they end up seeing each other a lot and so on and so forth but also I will devour literally anything about that man so wherever your heart takes you I’m 100% on board <3

He is perfectly dirty! Thanks for requesting babe <3

Carmy Berzatto x fem!reader ♡ 831 words

It’s peak hours, and your shop is completely empty. You’re leaning against the counter by the register, mashing your fingers into your temples and praying to whoever will listen for the noise next door to stop. 

It’s some sort of fire alarm, blaring from the shitshow construction zone you’re lucky enough to neighbor. It’s been going since nine this morning. It’s after noon now. No customers will stay long enough to buy anything, not even your regulars who come in looking for a specific book. At this point, you need to either get out of here or get a lobotomy. You head for the side door. 

It’s a bad idea. The noise is worse outside, but you’re committed now. You walk paces up and down the alley, blowing puffs of air that cloud in the cold and rubbing your arms because you left your coat inside. You’ve already walked the alley twice when you see him, bare-armed as you but smoking a cigarette like this temperature is just right. 

“Hey,” you say, too irritated to be embarrassed, “what the hell is going on in there?”

Carmy shrugs, taking the cig from the corner of his mouth. “The fire alarm won’t stop going off.” Smoke rises into the air as he talks. 

“I know. Are you going to do anything about it?” 

“We’ve got people on it.” 

That’ll mean the Faks, you suppose. You wish this was something you could rage about, but Neil’s a nice guy. He came over to help you board up your window when it broke during a hailstorm last year, and when you brought him a coffee he acted like the beans came from the Garden of Eden. 

You take a breath, trying to chill out. “So, are you guys all losing your shit in there?” 

Carmy shrugs again. He never really looks at you, you’ve noticed, just sort of near you as if that’s as close as his eyes can get. “Some more than others,” he says. “I don’t mind it.” 

“You don’t mind?” you laugh, incredulous. “You must be insane.” 

He turns his head to the side, something unidentifiable passing over his expression as he takes a drag. “I know.” 

You get the feeling you’ve taken a misstep. You need to say something nice, remind him you’re on the same team. You kick the overflowing dumpster next to you lamely. “Can you believe this shit? They’ve skipped us for two weeks straight now.” 

Carmy nods, relaxing somewhat. “It’s bullshit.”

“If they miss us again, I’m gonna have to start bringing our trash to other dumpsters or something. I don’t even know.” 

“They won’t miss us again. I’ve got someone making a call.” 

You grin. “What are you, part of the mob or something?” 

Carmy looks almost like he might be thinking about smiling. You have the urge to take a picture. “My family is Italian,” he says. 

“Oh, I know. Richie’s definitely brought it up.” 

Carmy blows smoke out, shaking his head in a way you suspect might be fond. “Richie’s not even Italian.” 

“Seriously?” A laugh stutters out of you. The wailing siren has faded into the background. You feel lighter than you have all day. “He’s the most Italian guy I’ve ever met.” 

“Yeah, he definitely thinks he is.” 

You look at Carmy for a moment. There’s always this tautness about him, like he’s perpetually ready to run or punch someone. Right now he’s as close to casual as he ever gets, hunched against the alley wall, but however he’s acting you can see the raised hairs of goosebumps on his biceps. His tattooed, very large biceps. You look away before you can get swept away by that line of thinking. 

“Well, even though the noise doesn’t bother you, do you wanna get away from it for a sec?” you ask casually. “It’s not so loud in here. You can barely hear it in the back room.” 

“Seriously?” Carmy’s looking at you as though this may be some sort of trap. He’s looking at you, and without explanation the world seems to sharpen into startling clarity. You’re suddenly conscious of your heartbeat. “Uh, yeah.” He glances behind him, seemingly wary of one of his coworkers coming out to stop him. “That’d be cool.” 

“Okay.” You open the door, nodding to his cigarette. “You can’t bring that in here, though. I don’t need it smelling up my books.” 

“Right, yeah.” He snuffs it half-smoked on the alley wall. There’s a slightly awkward moment where it seems like he’s trying to grab the door for you even though you’re already holding it open, but after a second he ducks inside, something that might be embarrassment stiffening his shoulders. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t sweat it.” You let the door swing shut behind you, leading him towards one of the plush couches in the back room. “We’ve got to do what we can to keep each other sane around here, right? A crazy neighbor would be bad for business.”

[thecapricunt1616]

Celandine (c.b. one-shot)

𝓢𝓷𝓲𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓽 (𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓑𝓣𝓒): “Princess” he said his voice cracking a bit and he led you to the bed, sitting and pulling you into his lap “I could never stop loving you. I would have to be warm and dead to stop loving you. Y’hear me? You, and little dude, are the only things in this world that matter t’me…and maybe the restaurant…but-“ he said, just to bring a tiny smile to your lips 

♡ Chapter Inspo: Celandine - Cures depression, brings victory and joy. Serves as a protective ward when worn. Carry to increase self-confidence when facing adversaries. Use in ritual work when you feel trapped in undue negativity. ♡ Summary: You are feeling a bit blue about your body PP, Carmy takes it upon himself to show you just how beautiful you are! :) <3 ♡ W/C: 1.2K+ ♡ Posted Date: 05/27/2024 ♡ A/N: Hello! Happy day 2/7 of the Capri 200 Follower Celebration Extravaganza!!! You can find said extravaganza ♡ Here ♡ this celebration will be going until next Sunday (06/02/24) so get your requests in! Here's another celebration ask on the books! This ask is from lovely @jesscolon529 I hope you enjoy, my darling! ♡ Warnings for BTC: Speaking of pregnancy, Fem/AFAB!reader, No use of y/n, feelings of self hate / insecurity, sad reader, comforting carmy, established relationship, not edited, Pics are just vibes, reader isn't described!! Established relationship

♡ 𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 ♡

➵ 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 ♡ ➵ 𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞 ♡ ➵ 𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 / 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘵 ♡ ➵ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 ♡

It had been 12 weeks since you’d delivered you and Carmy’s first baby, and your postpartum depression was in full effect. It really had not much to do with your baby, and everything to do with you. You felt gross after you delivered, you barely even wanted Carmy to look at you which he took like a stab in the heart. 

When you came home, it wasn’t really different. Even though showering was…very painful, and you could really use the help and would appreciate that help very much - you couldn’t accept it. The idea of your husband seeing your naked body that you considered to be mangled and gross brought tears to your eyes. The idea of him watching blood run down the drain as you carefully rinsed your mangled bits he used to devour nearly every night made you want to throw up. 

There was still a tiny part of you that believed he did this to you, so he shouldn’t be upset with the result - but somehow that just made you more angry because what if he was upset with how your body looked now, and just wasn’t saying anything? And how dare he not like your body after all you’ve done for him, for your family?! 

You were stood in front of the full length mirror in the bedroom after you showered, observing yourself. You could have sex how, if you wanted. But you had convinced yourself you’d never let Carmy see you naked again in fear he would shriek and cover his eyes and run away, a bit dramatic - but still you couldn’t face the idea of your husband not loving you anymore because he saw what left you have to give after 9 months of hell.

You touch your now jiggly, wrinkly belly, pulling the skin back with your hands and sighing a bit, remembering how you used to look. Tears welled in your eyes, “you’re so fucking vain” you whispered in the mirror. 

“Baby?” Carmy nudged the door open and you shout 

“JESUS CHRIST!!! IM CHANGING! Shut the door Carmen!” 

He jumps a bit at your sudden outburst, a frown coming to his features “why?” He asked and shut the door behind him. You quickly grabbed your shirt, sliding it over your head and pulling it out so it wouldn’t rest over your belly. 

“Cause- cause I deserve privacy?” You snap, angry that he wasn’t just running away like you’d expected him - or wanted him to. 

“Privacy? From…y’husband?” He comes over and rubs your arms gently “baby- are you gonna tell me wha’s up?” He asked. 

Your lip wobbled, more tears coming to your eyes. You shook your head quickly and looked at the floor, squeezing your eyes shut and hot, thick, shameful tears roll down your cheeks. “I’m ruined now” you said, your voice watery and defeated. 

“What?” He wiped your tears and hugged you, rubbing your back “baby what’s been goin on? You haven’t let me see you in months. I miss you, y’know that, right?” He kissed the top of your head as you sniffle in to his shirt

“I- I’m ugly now an-and wrinkly and covered in stretch marks and- and all…different down there. What if you stop loving me?” You burst into sobs. He could barely contain the lump growing in his own throat as he hushed you and rubbed soothing circles into your back. 

“Princess” he said his voice cracking a bit and he led you to the bed, sitting and pulling you into his lap “I could never stop loving you. I would have to be warm and dead to stop loving you. Y’hear me? You, and little dude, are the only things in this world that matter t’me…and maybe the restaurant…but-“ he said, just to bring a tiny smile to your lips 

“Mmm? See there’s that smile” he wipes your tears “what’s been bugging you baby, show me. I promise, I love every bit of you, I love you more every day- I still don’t know how that’s possible, but you make it work somehow” he teased and you blush, hiding your teary cheeks in the crook of his neck as he rubbed your back and side soothingly. 

“You say that but what if you see me and you can’t help it” you sniffled a bit. 

“Not possible honey” he countered. “Cmon- tell me. What’s been buggin you?” 

“My belly. And - and my thighs are so big now. My belly is all…ugh. Wrinkly and has all these red marks on it. And my bellybutton looks all weird” you whine 

“This belly?” He rubs his palm over it “the belly that kept our son all warm and happy n’safe till it was time f’him t’come home?” He asked and you huff 

“Yes but..it’s not…normal anymore” you said and he hums in agreement. 

“Y’right, it’s better, it’s new, it’s gonna take you some gettin’ used to- but I love it. Can I tell y’somethin and y’promise not t’be mad?” He asked and cuddled you into him more, kissing your cheek and hairline, wherever he could reach. 

“Mm” you hummed, sniffling softly 

“Your body now is the most beautiful it has ever been. Because it’s yours. It’s my wife’s body, my beautiful Mrs.Berzatto, it’s your belly, and your thighs, and your new different pussy you’re so afraid of” he said playfully in your ear to which you giggle a bit, cupping his cheek and looking at him with tear rimmed eyes. 

“Y’not just lying to make me feel better?” You asked and he shook his head 

“Nope- all the truth babygirl. Why would I lie t’my best girl mm? My only girl” he kissed your lips gently and rubbed your hip over. 

“And - and you really like it?”  You pouted 

He raised his brows in the ‘are you fucking with me’ Carmy way, “want me to show you?” He asked and you felt heat in your cheeks, looking down shyly. “Okay-“ he laid you back on the bed carefully, pushing up your shirt. “I think-“ he starts kissing from your ribs, over your sternum, down, down, over your belly, making it a point to kiss each little dimple and mark 

“I fed you and little boy sooo good while you were pregnant, so these? You can blame me. But I love them as selfish as it makes me” he kissed over your hips. “And these” he squeezed them with his hands “mmm fuck I looove these- I can’t wait to hold these while I’m fuckin’ you mm?” He traveled his hands up your waist, squeezing gently and continuing to ravish you in kisses. 

“And these” he gently squeezed your breasts together in your nursing bra “are fucking amazing. And a literal life source for our boy. An’he’s growin so well. He’s in the 95th percentile, he’s so healthy, and chunky. Y’doin amazing babe.” He cups your cheeks. 

“The most important thing though baby is you. You’re still my beautiful, kind, thoughtful wife. And I wouldn’t change anything about you, not a single fuckin’ thing, hear me?” He kisses you deeply. 

You felt more tears running down your cheeks, but it wasn’t fear or sadness this time that brought them, 

It was gratitude.

[neonovember]

LMAO you know that trend where people put a slice of cheese on a baby’s head? Richie is DEFINITELY the type to do that with yours and Carmen’s new baby, does it when Carmen isn’t looking because “I don’t have a death wish” Too late. Papa Bear’s already seen and now Sugar has the most hilarious video of Richie screaming for his life as Carmy’s running at Mach 5 speed to catch him

this is most definitely going to be a fic from the husband!carmen verse..keep ‘em coming because its about to be WORLDS of universes for Carmen soon 😈

Carmen is sooo protective over you during your pregnancy it borders on possessive till the point sugar tells him to chill out. Now imagine, fucking imagine when your baby is here and Richie throws some horribly processed, mustard orange slice of cheese on his head? I think they will be a warrant out for Carmen’s arrest once he’s done with him 😭😭

“What did he just do?” Carmen zeroes in on the soft skin of his newborn’s head, the square of yellow cheese stuck to her forehead. she isn’t fussed, merely looking up at Richie in curiousness.

You hold back a giggle as you press your girl to your chest, taking the incriminating American delicacy off of her head before she started feeling uncomfortable. You saw this trend circulating around online, and of course it had to be Richie who actually participated in it.

“I’m giving you 10 seconds Richie” Carmen replies in that deadly quiet voice of his, hands gripping the towel on his shoulder. You had invited Richie and some others over for a little lunch, and now you feared it'll take months before Richie to taste anything without a straw.

“Oh c’mon cousin, it’s all a little fun” Richie replies, rolling his eyes, not realising the very real way Carmen’s arm twitches as if a predator getting ready for the chase.

“5..” Carmen begins to count down, his voice sweet and delicate

“Hey! Cousin! That’s cheatin, you said 10!” Richie calls out, backing away from Carmen walking towards him out of the kitchen.

“And you fucking put cheese on my baby!” Carmen screams, before Richie runs around the kitchen island, Carmen hot on his heels as they follow themselves out of the living room and into the front porch, Richie's muffled screams and pleads turning the neighbours heads.

God you hoped Richie had good health insurance.

[buzzcutlip]

What You Can't Bury Give Away - NY!Carmen Carmen x Fem!Reader Explicit! 2257 words

A/N This was supposed to be a drabble - haha! I don't know what is it now. Have some sad NY!Carmy after he finds out Michael's died and how he deals with leaving NY (not in a great way but excuse his broken little soul). I know I said I wanted to write Copenhagen!Carmy, so that one's coming too eventually.

When you open the door for Carmen and see him after, like, three weeks, you almost flinch. He’s always looked tired and worn out—while also attractive and weirdly hot—but today he looks particularly bad. Dreadful. His eyes are red, the bags underneath them grayish. It’s obvious that he hasn’t washed his hair in days. He looks as tragic as you feel.

“Hi,” you say tentatively, unsure if he wants to address the reason why he’s here.

Carmy only nods, eyes trained on you, even as he takes his denim trucker jacket off. You hang it on the only free, wonky peg on the wall, feeling him follow your movements all the while. Undoubtedly, it makes you antsy and uncomfortable. You’re not used to guys’ attention. You’re not used to attention from guys you like at all.

When you turn around and find him staring, you sigh. The jumper he’s wearing hangs loosely on his body, the sleeves too long. The navy blue color highlights the paleness of his face, the hollow cheeks.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Carmy opens his mouth to say something smart, probably, but you’re faster: “Ate a proper meal,” you clarify, propping your hands on your hips. You’re trying to act stern, babying him a little without making him seem like a baby. It’s the last time you’re seeing him, probably.

“I dunno,” he admits quietly, impatiently. He thumbs his bottom lip, scratches his head. He’s all sorts of jittery energy turned into a human being. You don’t know him like this.

“I can cook some pasta,” you offer. The idea is absolutely disproportionate to the situation, you think hysterically, as you turn to walk to the kitchen cabinets. “I’m actually a pretty good cook, you know,” you say just to fill in the space, afraid of the silence that might provoke unwise happenings.

As you reach the pack of fusilli, you feel him stand directly behind you. You exhale sharply. Something unwise is already happening. Settling the pasta on the counter, you turn around.

“I—” but before you manage to get out a single word, Carmy’s mouth is on yours, and he’s kissing you. Of course, it doesn’t take much for you to reciprocate. You kiss him back, hands squeezing his biceps, enjoying the thickness and how strong his arms feel.

“Don’t you think this is a bad idea?” you say as Carmen crowds you against the kitchen counter.

“I don’t—think. I don’t want to think,” he stutters out, grabbing at your waist and squeezing.

“But we’re adults, Berzatto,” you stand your ground even though your hands find their way into Carmy’s hair without much thought, “and thinking about our actions is the annoying part of adulthood,” you explain, and when Carmen kisses your jaw, you feel your determination slipping.

You met Carmen a couple of months ago and saw each other like four times. Apparently, he works in a restaurant, and you know that people in hospitality have crazy work schedules and practically no free time. Or social life. Carmen is proof of all that—he doesn’t talk much, doesn’t ask many questions. There are silly tattoos on his hands and scars—some looking fresh and painful. You never confront him about them, never look too long.

He didn’t have to tell you that he’s leaving, you know. If he didn’t, he would just be another boy who disappeared from your life quietly. And you wouldn’t blame him. You’re not a particularly interesting person. Rather dull, some member of your immediate family would say.

“Have you been drinking?” you check as you dodge another kiss. Carmen doesn’t ask questions, but suddenly you do—way too many, you can see the annoyance on his face, as you shrug him off of you, reluctant.

Carmen looks at you, all serious. “I don’t drink.”

“I know. I’m just asking,” you shrug. “Trying to find out what’s gotten into you.”

Because the second time you were with him, on some well-hidden, tourist-less rooftop bar, you drinking bottled beer and him Coke, laying next to each other on loungers—you touched him casually a couple of times while talking shit about your office work and annoying colleagues and canteen coffee that tastes like burnt water. Those fleeting touches that can be easily excused. You were testing the waters. And Carmy didn’t budge. He even laughed when you told him “your hands are pretty large,” let you press your palms together to see the size difference that lit up a flame in your lower belly. Fuck, the lamest trick, and he ate it all up, clueless. He even walked you home after that. For twenty minutes, your stomach was in twists with anticipation. You even considered fucking without a condom because you knew you had none at home, and Carmy didn’t look like the type who would carry one in his wallet. However, when you arrived at your apartment building, Carmen said “goodnight,” waved at you awkwardly, and left, cigarette in hand. That’s how you know the attraction was one-sided.

It makes the current event even more weird.

“You know, I was trying to let you know I liked you,” you say nonchalantly, biting your lip. “I even did that thing with hands.”

“What thing with hands?”

“Where we measure our hands,” duh.

“Oh. I didn’t know it was a thing.”

You stare at him for a moment.

“It was basically an invitation to fuck me, Carmen.”

He stares, then squeezes your waist. “Oh yeah?”

‘Oh,’ you think. This sounds very much like another invitation, doesn’t it? And Carmy takes it, and this time, you let him.

“Oh my god, Carmy,” you gasp when he gets down on his knees for you, and you don’t have any idea that they only call him Carmy at home, that no one in New York ever calls him that. He freezes for a moment, but you don’t catch that, too lost in the idea of having him for yourself, finally.

He pulls down your baby blue sleeping shorts along with your panties, revealing tan lines—the stark contrast of the untouched, milky skin of your crotch and the darker shade of your legs. You worked hard for that stupid tan, taking a week off in March to go to Hawaii, splashing a disgusting amount of money on the vacation, desperate to get away from New York, from your office, to get some warmth. He should congratulate you on your efforts, really, being the first man to see you like this. You hate baking in the direct sun.

But Carm doesn’t say anything, just lowers down, getting hold of your hips, licking along the crease between your thigh and crotch. You’re not smooth down there. You haven’t shaved in a while, and the growing hairs must prickle his tongue. He doesn’t protest though, only grunts and licks more, then kisses your pussy, sucking the lips into his mouth, making loud, obscene noises. He’s desperate but very strategic.

His hands feel huge, cupping your pelvis, fingers digging into the flesh. You grip the countertop behind you to keep your balance as Carmen sticks two fingers into you unceremoniously. You yelp, shucking off your shorts and underwear jerkily all the way down. He helps you one-handed, looks up to check on you. You bite your lower lip to keep yourself from making more embarrassing noises, while Carmen throws the clothes somewhere behind himself and goes back to eating you out while fingerfucking you.

He is frantic but good, concentrating only on you. He stares up right into your eyes, not even blinking, as he sucks your clit. It should not be allowed, you think briefly, for sad, strange boys to make you feel this good, practically against your own volition. It’s always cold in your apartment, more so in the winter, but you’re on fire now.

Carmen’s still dressed in his clothes, and you’re wearing your t-shirt and an old, faded hoodie, white thick socks on your feet. Neither of you cares too much about it as you focus on each other. You dare to touch one of your hands to Carm’s wild curls, and he hums against you, getting ahold of your ankle without stopping what he’s doing with his clever mouth, propping it against his shoulder. He helps you adjust your stance, and you moan loudly as he reaches deeper into you with the changed position.

“Please,” you whisper, head tipped back in pleasure, holding onto the counter one-handed for dear life.

That’s when Carmen chooses to stop, and you look down at him sharply, half-mad with want, watching his wet mouth kiss your ankle just above where your sock ends, then higher up along the inside of your leg, the side of your knee. His eyes are closed and he seems lost in his head, holding your ankle steady on his shoulder and continuing up, up, up. It makes your chest ache for a fleeting moment. Then, out of nowhere, Carmen bares his teeth and sets them into the meat of your inner thigh. You yelp at the sharp pain, jumping up so your head connects with the cabinet behind you with a loud noise.

“Fuck!” you swear, thinking of literally kicking Carmen as your leg is conveniently positioned near his head.

“Careful,” he says instead of ‘sorry’, and bites you again. You inhale to shout something nastier, but then he presses his thumb to your clit and the pain, added to the pleasure, creates a mixture so delicious that your vision blacks out for a moment. Once it clears, you spot Carmy between your legs, his eyes glazed and fixed on what his thumb is doing to you, all frowny in concentration.

“You alright?” he asks as he feels your gaze on him. As you nod and add a breathless ‘yeah’, he bites you again, this time on your other thigh. You jerk every single time he does that, but not from the pain. No, you seek more friction with your pelvis, hoping to make him press his thumb down harder against you. Of course, Carmen, as smart as he is, catches on soon. The next time you lift your hips up, he simply pushes his fingers back into your dripping cunt again, and from then it’s a quick undoing for you. 

You ride Carmy’s fingers, chasing the pressure both inside and on your clit, enjoying the pleasure-pain his mouth is eliciting. Just before you come, you dare to look down, and the sight of bright bruises blooming red like peonies on your skin is what tips you over the edge.  

You barely manage to kiss him back as he stands up between your legs, disoriented and shaky from just orgasming. You’re clumsy with it—teeth clicking and lips landing off-center. Before you can properly catch your breath, Carmen’s turning you around so you face the tiled wall, pushing you against the counter, and this time you mind the cabinets above your head.  

“You did so good f’me,” Carmy says against your ear, sending violent shivers down your spine. His large hand cradles your jaw, and Carmy kisses behind your ear and down the side of your neck, holding your head tilted to have better access to your burning skin. He’s frantic, breathing raggedly, pulling the neck of your jumper to lick at the vertebrae protruding at your sensitive nape. 

Trying to take your arms out of the sleeves to get rid of the jumper is harder than you thought as you get distracted by Carm absolutely ignoring your efforts when he slips one of his rough palms under the clothes, up your tummy to your chest. 

“Can I—can I touch your tits?” he asks hoarsely while still holding your head in position. You consent and stop trying to help him out, dropping your head back to rest on his shoulder. 

Carmen fucks you like that, from behind, all desperate and urgent. The noises he makes are almost like quiet sobs, which alarm you slightly, but then you forget everything when you start feeling you might come again. You don’t, but as soon as Carmen feels he might, he slips out and you spin around to face him. 

Without any room for making this cute, you spit in your palm and grip his cock, all dark red and throbbing, while Carmen fists your jumper, holding you close and watching open-mouthed as you jerk him off. When he comes you’re almost sure he’s gonna bite through his bottom lip from how hard he’s biting on it. He lets you stroke him for long moments after that, even though he’s shaking all over, overstimulated. You love watching his tummy muscles jump every time you squeeze at the head, dragging more delicious, wrecked sounds out of him. 

Afterward, Carmen’s awfully flushed in the face, eyes glistening. He asks where the bathroom is and stays there for ten long minutes. Or so. You’re not timing it. You cook the stupid pasta, even though you’re lazy, and feed him. The atmosphere’s charged with something unspoken, and as much as you want to ask what his plans are after he leaves New York, you don’t. 

After the meal, Carm doesn’t linger. He puts his jacket on, pecks your cheek, and leaves without looking back.

Oh, so that was a pity fuck, you realize with much disdain when you’re lying in your bed. Only—you’re not sure who pitied whom there.

He will never know how much you cried that night.

[newtkive]

Carm would be so so clueless when you’re flirting with him and would take stuff so literally and you’re just head in hands shaking coz even with your terrible and obvious flirting he isn’t picking up a hint and that means you need to verbalise it even more explicitly and that’s just so embarrassingggggg

this is so cute but sooo REALLL. he has next to no experience w people romantically so he more than likely either doesn't detect it, or can't believe someone like you would even flirt with him.

like after awhile of yall knowing each other and you coming to terms w your feelings for him you finally decide to just be playful and go for it. maybe you start w thoughtful things like you knew he'd been staying up all night at the restaurant so you bring him a yummy coffee homemade in a to-go cup in the morning. you'd set it on his desk in cute, loopy cursive letters and a heart facing him, so the first thing he sees is '𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓶𝔂 ♥'. he literally would get so confused but once he looks up from his pile of paperwork that comes with opening a new place he'd get butterflies at the sight of you standing there, your cheeks cute, red, and round from your big smile, too stunned to say smth.

"for you! i made it." you'd motion to the cup once you realize he isn't going to speak and he almost jumps a bit in surprise. the look on his face unbelieving like, 'for me?? thats for me??'

he would thank you softly, cheeks even redder than yours. but not because he thinks you're flirting with him, no-- it's because he's giddy at the thought that you brought him a coffee and he shouldn't be because you don't mean it as anything more than a friendly offering.

after a little moment of awkward silence, carmy taking the cup and thumb rubbing over his name, you'd clear your throat a bit. "you're welcome.. you know, the barista thought you were pretty cute." the words just tumbled out a bit ungracefully, a little stutter cutting in along the way.

at that carmy looks up at you, brows knitted in total, earnest confusion. "i thought you said you made it yourself?" he'd say and your jaw would literally fall open, because how daft could he be? that was the point of the joke?

a chorus of 'uuhhh's and 'nevermind just enjoy' would come stringing along from your mouth and you turn to exit the office. behind you watching the whole thing is sydney with her jaw on the floor and richie with a smirk, taking a bite of a muffin. you approach them, head shaking and palm hitting your forehead, asking if they saw that.

richie would give it a few minutes to gossip with you two, laugh about how stupid carmy was, before sauntering into the little office. "you, cousin, are a fuckin' idiot. you know that?" richie would say, towering over the man, earning a confused look from carmy just like he gave you before. ignoring carmy (because he definitely isn't gonna tell him since that was much too fun to watch) richie grabs the cup and takes a swig, an appreciative frown growing on his lips as he nodded in appreciation. "good."

"that's mine, freak, give it back." and carmy snatches it because you made it for him and now he cherishes it and yeah it's good as fuck.