#carmy 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. 

[moonstruckme]

Hiya love, I’ve got a little Carmy idea? If it makes it out the gulag, then brilliant. If not, then at least it’s a nice little thought for us, eh? So I was thinking, maybe it’s set in season one and the reader worked at the bear back when it was the beef. So when Carmy joins, the reader could be on holiday leave or time off to grieve Mikey or something, and when Carmy’s changing everything up Richie can be all ‘big dog won’t like this’ and everyone, even Tina keeps making comments about big dog (the reader). Then! Like a week later or something, the reader comes back to work and she’s all meek and mellow and lovely, and Carmy’s just petrified of her because she’s ’the big dog’ but it turns out everyone just calls her that because she quite literally just has a big dog? Feel absolutely free to ignore the ramble, but if it sparks any creative flow at all, I’d be barking like dog for ya (pun intended this time lol). Hope you’re well, love you lots, have a great day :)

Thank you angel, hope you have a great day too! <3

cw: mention of past death, grief kinda skimmed over but there

Carmy Berzatto x fem!reader ♡ 932 words

Carmy is ready for a fight. He’s had to be ready every day since he started running The Beef, really, a fight always crops up whether he’s ready or not, but today he’s extra prepared. He hears the back door open as he’s doing inventory, and he gets all geared up. 

This is his restaurant now. His shitshow. Carmy can run it into the ground if he wants to—and he doesn’t want to, but he could, that’s basically what was happening anyway, and the point is that now it’s his. No matter what anybody fucking says, no matter how the back of the house rags on him, he’s—

“Oh. Hi.” 

You look surprised to see him. And Carmy thought he was ready for you, but he’s surprised too. You don’t…maybe he’s about to eat his words, but you don’t look like a Big Dog. You’re not what he was expecting. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“You must be Carmy.” He can see your eyes roving his face, looking for Mikey. A lot of people have been doing that lately. 

Carmy never thought they looked much like brothers. Some people said it was in their mouths, though Mikey’s smiled more. Some people said they sounded the exact same, but only when they were angry. Whatever you find, you offer a faint smile at the end. It’s confusing. 

“Yeah,” Carmy says awkwardly. “You’re early.” 

“I like to come in a little early,” you say by way of explanation. Feet taking you to your station as if by muscle memory, your eyes still on Carmy’s. “Used to be the only one. Is there anything I can help with?” 

“Uh, sure. Four cups of cheese.” 

“Oh it, chef.” You salute, heading towards the pantry. 

Carmy eyes you as you walk back to your station and start shredding. He was ready for a fight, but he doesn’t know what he’s getting into now. Is this some kind of fucking psychological warfare? 

All week, it’s been ooh, Big Dog won’t like that. Just wait ‘til Big Dog gets back. You really wanna fuck with Big Dog’s system? Digging your own grave, Jeff. Big Dog, Big Dog, Big Dog. Carmy doesn’t know exactly what he was anticipating, but it wasn’t you. He guesses appearances don’t mean everything. Tina can be fucking terrifying when she wants to, too. 

“So,” you say, shredding calmly, “how are you?” 

Carmy frowns. “Huh?” 

You look up. Something in his expression puts a worried pinch between your brows. “Sorry, was that too personal?” you ask, and though Carmy waits for the mocking tone he doesn’t hear it. “I just mean, with everything with your brother, and then taking on this place, and the total restructuring, it has to be a lot. I’m sure…” You look at him again, biting your tongue. “But, sorry, we don’t even know each other. I don’t mean to pry.” 

“It’s fine,” he finds himself saying. Which, it’s not really, but you keep fucking apologizing. It’s making him squirm. “Yeah, it’s…it’s been a fucking trip.” 

You nod compassionately. “I’m sure. Listen, I know it’s not the same, but Mikey was like family to a lot of us.” It’s something Carmy’s heard a lot recently. Sometimes in accusatory tones, usually making jealousy rise like bile in his throat, but something about the way you say it sounds different. It’s sincere, like an offering. Like company. 

“If there’s anything you need,” you go on, “you can let me know. I mean, it seems like you’ve already got this place running better than it ever did.” You look around the room appreciatively. Admiring the clean kitchen, which used to be spotted everywhere with rust stains and globs of old food. “But I’m always happy to take on more if you’ve got stuff.” 

Carmy looks at you. Your lips are curved in a faint smile, eyes soft and warm. He can’t find one thing about you that looks insincere. 

He’s about to say sure, the s a breath on his tongue, when the door bangs open. 

“Big Dog!” Richie shouts. 

“Hey!” Your grin widens. You allow yourself to be pulled roughly into a side hug. “Good to see you, Rich. How’re you holding up?” 

“Eh.” Richie shrugs, false insouciance twisting his expression. But his eyes are tender for you. “You know.” 

“Yeah.” You bump his shoulder lightly, careful to keep your hands clean. “I get it.” 

“Why Big Dog?” Carmy blurts. 

You and Richie both look at him in confusion. 

“What?” Richie asks. 

“Why…” Carmy shakes his head, baffled. “Why does everyone call you Big Dog?” 

“Oh.” You laugh. It’s maybe the best thing Carmy’s heard all week, which is just fucking disorienting. “You mean because of Gladys?” 

“Gladys?” Carmy echoes. 

“Fucking rottweiler, cousin,” says Richie. “Big fucking dog.” 

“I know what a rottweiler is,” Carmy nearly snaps. His gaze whips to you. It’s a common enough tone for him—Richie always brings it out—but he finds he doesn’t want to raise his voice so much with you around to hear. If you notice, though, you don’t seem to think much of it. “You aren’t a rottweiler.” 

“But she has a rottweiler, man.” Richie slaps him on the shoulder, scoffing. “Get over it. It’s a nickname!” 

“It’s a fucking stupid nickname.” Carmy does snap this time, regretting it when your eyebrows raise. 

He’s about to backtrack—you’re not stupid, obviously you’re not stupid, but Richie is the stupidest motherfucker Carmy ever had the misfortune of meeting—when he sees the smile playing on your lips. 

You shrug, light as anything. “Guess you’ll have to give me a new one then.”

[brunettemarionette]

Late Night at The Beef

💜 pairing. Carmy Berzatto x Reader

🔮 summary. you and Carmy share a charged, flirtatious moment during late night kitchen prep. As you banter over cleaning and perfectionism, the tension builds with stolen glances and suggestive remarks.

🌙 tw. suggestive content. workplace dynamics. sexual tension

The Beef was quiet, except for the walk-in fridge's low hum and the occasional clatter of Chicago's nightlife filtering through the cracked back door.

It was past midnight, the kind of hour where the world felt like it belonged only to those too stubborn to sleep.

Carmen was leaning over the stainless-steel counter, his chef's knife gliding through a pile of onions with surgical precision. His curls stuck to his forehead, damp from the heat of the kitchen and the intensity he poured into everything, even prep work no one would see.

You stood at the other end of the counter, wiping down the cutting boards, the faint scent of bleach mingling with the earthiness of the herbs Carmy had been chopping earlier.

You'd started working at The Beef a month ago, and somehow, these late-night shifts with Carmy had become your unspoken routine. He didn't talk much—never did—but the silence between you wasn't empty. It was heavy and charged, like the air before a storm.

"Yo, you missed a spot," Carmy said, his voice low, almost teasing, as he nodded toward a smudge on the counter you'd just cleaned. His blue eyes flicked up to meet yours, lingering a second too long before dropping back to his onions.

You smirked, tossing the rag over your shoulder. "You're gonna micromanage my cleaning now, Chef? Thought you had enough on your plate."

He snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile but close enough to make your pulse kick up. "Just sayin', if it's not perfect, it's not done."

You stepped closer, leaning one hip against the counter, close enough to catch the faint cedar-and-smoke scent of his cologne layered under the kitchen's grit. "Perfect, huh? That why you're still here at one a.m, chopping onions like it's a Michelin-star audition?"

Carmy's hands stilled, the knife hovering mid-slice. He looked at you, really looked, and for a moment, the weight of his stare made the room feel smaller, the air thicker. "Maybe I just like the company," he said, voice quieter now, rough around the edges like he wasn't used to saying things like that.

Your breath caught, but you played it cool, tilting your head. "Careful, Carm. That almost sounded like a compliment."

He huffed, shaking his head, but there was a spark in his eyes, something hungry, not just for food but for something else.

He set the knife down, wiping his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder, and stepped around the counter toward you. The space between you shrank, and suddenly, the kitchen felt too warm, too close.

"You're trouble, you know that?" he murmured, stopping just short of touching you. His voice was low, almost a growl, and the way his gaze dropped to your lips for a split second sent a shiver down your spine. "Makin' it real hard to focus."

You raised an eyebrow, heart pounding but refusing to back down. "And you're not? Standing there all intense, looking like you're about to eat me instead of those onions?"

Carmy's jaw tightened, and for a second, you thought he might close the gap, might let the tension spill over into something reckless. His hand twitched at his side like he was fighting the urge to reach out, to pull you in.

Instead, he leaned in just enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him, his breath brushing your ear as he spoke. "Keep talkin' like that," he said, voice thick with promise, "and I might just take you up on it."

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again, and the look he gave you was pure fire—restrained, but barely.

Then, like he'd caught himself, he stepped away, grabbing his knife again, the moment snapping like a taut wire. But the air still buzzed, and as you went back to cleaning, you could feel his eyes on you, stealing glances between every slice.

The Beef was a mess and probably always would be. But nights like this, with Carmy's quiet intensity and the unspoken things hanging between you? They were damn near perfect.

[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.

[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.

[friendoftashi]

since the bear opened, carmy’s free time has become practically nonexistent. to combat this, you will wake at ungodly hours to be with him. at least once a month, usually on a weekday before you have to head into work, carmy will drag you out of bed and to the farmer’s market to accompany him on a produce run.

the two of you, bundled up to your noses, roam the aisles. carmy takes the time to examine each vegetable as you cling to his arm, happy to rest your head on his shoulder and let him guide you.

on the way out, he always snags a sweet pastry and makes sure to stop at your favorite coffee shop before dropping you off. with his body leaning across the console to reach you on your way out of his car, he presses a slow, sweet kiss to your lips in parting.

[hanasnx]

"scuffling."

MINORS DNI 18+

WC: 0.8k | CHARACTERS: carmy berzatto x gn!reader NOTES: for @mcondance i do not write for carmy, pls do not talk to me about him. i just felt generous enough for a gift and ive seen the first season of the bear and a bit of the second. WARNINGS: sexual content | severe impact play | violence | not proofread | not 100% confident on carmy's characterization | no y/n

CARMY BERZATTO knows he's got a lot of shit going on in his head. Too much to keep track of, stray thoughts that can't be pinned down. When he's overwhelmed, everything's heightened. Like an attack dog, a ringing in his ears calls him back to his trainer. Except he's got no trainer, he's got no one. He's got him. It's not that that ringing makes him aggressive, it's not a Pavlov, that ringing reminds him of how he gets when he's angry. Exasperation layering over itself, building the tsunami. He's been told he's a dick, that he's a real asshole when he gets like this. But no one else is inside his head.

Not like you, anyway. You're about as close as they come, and you don't even know it. He doesn't know how you do it. You absorb that wrath— and you may come out swinging— but you never leave the kitchen. Miraculously, you don't quit. Even when he thinks you should. Even after he's thrown your experimental crème fraîche onto the floor. You hounded after him, but you still got your ass back to work.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, one more time. Just to be sure. Even though he's boiling over, arms pulsing as he forms fists and shakes them out.

You don't give him an answer. Behind the Beef it's dark out, but you've waited all day to give him a piece of your mind. Well, a piece of you at least. The entire power of your body is put behind a punch, but he jerks out of the way. The knuckle of your thumb grazes the skin of his cheek, and now he's in your space. Rough hands shove at your chest, slamming your back into the concrete wall. The bones of your spine rattle against it, and you reorient too late. He grabs your shoulders, bringing you in to connect his knee to your stomach. You double over, clutching it.

Through strain, you manage a chuffed, "Fuck you, Carmy,"

"Fuck me? Fuck me? C'mon," That roar in his ears is unbearable, driving his actions, taunting you with beckoning hands. In his distraction, you throw another punch that he, again, dodges. "Haven't learned—" His own grunt interrupts him as the point of your elbow sling-shots into the back of his head. Falling forward, his eyes squeeze shut, but he runs into you. So his arms wrap around your torso as he goes down, his shoulder sinking into your chest as you land underneath him on the ground. It's cold, it's hard. Your head aches.

He picks himself up, straddling you. Adrenaline imbued within your beings, blood rushing to fill out everything. Every vein itching to be stretched and used. You weakly claw at him that, for the most part, he redirects by slapping your wrists away. When you get a hold of the straps of his apron, you yank him down, and he catches himself over you. The heels of his hands dig into grovel, scratching up his skin. In a last ditch effort, you jerk your head up, forehead-to-forehead, both of you suffer after impact. A joint groan of pain sounds between the two of you, and in his haze you roll him over. You see red, pressing your lips into a thin line, blowing hot air through flared nostrils. A pink mark blooms on his skin where your heads connected, and your fists bang against his chest.

It becomes a game of rolling around in the fucking dirt and grime, filthying yourselves in the scuffle. Until in between hitting each other, you're tearing at clothes. Prying open buckles and buttons. Fingers brace onto your hips, restricting your movements, burning you from his grip as you take it upon yourself to mount him. In the middle of this fucking alley, you're sinking down onto his cock. And when he tells you to quit fucking around, you grace him with a resounding slap.

His large hand plants on your face, shoving you backwards unceremoniously. "Watch it!" he tells you. His teeth bite into the skin past his lower lip as he throws his head back.

"Shut the fuck up." you chide, resuming the rhythm of your hips. Acting like you fucking needed this as you double over, fisting his shirt for purchase, winding your fingers in it tight as you ride him. He palms your tailbone, slamming you down deep onto him.

"I should fucking kill you—" Your hand claps against his mouth to quiet him.

"I don't wanna fucking hear your voice right now, just take it."

[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.

[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.

[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.”

[neonovember]

I just KNOW Carmen would be such a soft and amazing dad. 100% would make sure in between the restaurant to be there for you, and be there for his little cubs (doesn’t want things to go in the same vain it did with his lack of relationship with his dad) Even if working at the restaurant is one of his biggest priorities, you know he is absolutely taking time off in the last few months before your little girl or boy arrives (A strong supporter of Carmy being a girl dad). You’d have to physically and gently pry your baby from his arms because he can’t stop kissing them and pressing his nose against their little cheek 😭

oh my god, all the discourse about girl dad/boy dad on tiktok and i'm just like in the dictionary in MY universe carmen's photos is right under girl dad. carmen would be an amazing father regardless, but when he finds out hes getting a little girl???

He's buying her every single toy that could possible exist. It's just all pressed up against his chest at the checkout line no trolley nothing. Just straight cave man energy must..get..babygirl..things...

He's inconsolable when she comes, just straight up hiccuping and crying as the nurses try to get her out of his goddamn death grip. It's like your baby needs a bath and Carmen is like holding up against his pale ass bare chest like get out of my fucking face with that.

he's probably tricking Richie to come over under the guise of your god tier baked goods that never make it past the first minute of family - JUST to build his in utero baby girl a tree house. for you know, the 6 years that will come up.

"Alright, alright" Richie grins, rubbing his hands together as Carmen pulls into the drive way. He's damn near halfway out the car door before Carmen can kill the engine and if it was anyone but Cousin, Carmen would've attempted to hide his grin.

"Blessed thee, you absolute angel" Richie calls out as he opens the door. You poke your head out from under the load of laundry you've been trying to sort - the aching dullness at your hips preventing you so.

"Rich? What are you doing here?" You say, eyebrows quirking up at his sudden arrival.

"Funny too! You really got yourself a catch" Richie laughs, playfully jabbing at Carmen.

You look towards him, clocking your head at the grin that's begun to take up half of Carmen's face. You knew that look, what did he do?

"You know I didn't even get a piece at family last week? Fuckin' gremlins matter of fact I have to get back to the Bear soon, got a couple catering orders to organise. Least it isn't for Cicero's daughters best friend's dog or some shit" Richie mutters, and you can't help but hie the giggle before you straighten out.

Someone had to be the adult here, right?

"Is it in like a tupperware or..?" Richie replies when the puzzled look on your face remains

"What is?"

"Those cinnamon pastry thingies you always make" Richie replies, slowly turning to Carmen, than back to you

"Carm told me you made a little extra"

"Oh Richie" You sigh

"Don't..no. Cousin." Richie hands raise up to his temples, pinching the line that formed from believing a word out of Carmen's mouth.

"Don't tell me you lied" Richie quickly twists his body to point at Carmen

"I knew it was too good, I should have known.."

"Relax, it's for the greater good"

"What greater good? Do you know you deliberately contributed to a mans starvation?"

"You can't lie to a man that's going through those stages Cousin! No, no you don't get it!"

"Aye relax"

"You..you're a fucking mirage. That's what this is" Richie chuckles, shaking his head.

A silence falls over the three of you, and as your eyes meet Carmen you can't help the smile that creeps onto your face.

"So are you going to tell me why I'm here??" Richie yells suddenly.

"Yeah, I wanna build something for my future child that my wife is going to bring into this world. You know, something that's more important than fucking cinnamon buns

"Cinnamon twists" Richie murmurs softly, eyes glazed over, and if you squint it looks like a tear has actually squeezed out.

"Let him mourn Carm" You reply, gently rubbing Richie crouched figure.

Carmen shakes his head, rolling his eyes as he waits all of 5 seconds before his patience wears into an annoyed grunt.

"Alright what does my future niece need" Richie sighs

"Carmen we've already got the changing table and bassinet ready" You continue, running through the list of baby things that had begun to take up all the 'open space layout' you're house had. How much more things could you need?.

"Was doing some work out the back, and doesn't that tree we have close to the fence have a real good foundation" Carmen murmurs

"What are you saying?" Richie yoans

"My babygirl would want a tree house

"Carm-

"Just listen, I know her, half of her at least. And I wanted one the moment I could climb a tree. So naturally she would want one alright? And, and so it's like I'm just having it ready for when she needs it.

"Oh my god"

"What?"

"She isn't even here yet!"

"Don't remind me" Carmen grunts, genuinely grunts out.

"Carm, she'll be crawling for like so long" Richie interjects

"You don't know her" Carmen replies quickly, throwing accusatory eyes at Richie

"You think my baby girl won't be able to crawl in a tree house? I'm feeling a lot of negative energy I don't like"

"Besides, I already bought the wood. And everything else" Carmen murmurs

"I'm doing this for her Cousin, her!" Richie replies

"What about the catering order Rich?" You quirk, he had just stop rambling about it.

"Ah don't worry about it hun. Anything for my god daughter" Richie grins. Throwing his hand behind him for full effect.

"You can't be her god father and her uncle Cousin" Carmen replies

"Why the hell not-"

Richie is interrupted by the slight wince that leaves your mouth and has you ripping the counter and holding your sides.

Carmen moves towards you in a flash, gripping your sides softly as his eyes furrow in concern.

"You okay baby?"

You breathe out through your nose forcefully

"Just feelin sore, I'm alright"

"You don't want me doing the tree house? Done. It's over. Richie get the fuck out my house" Carmen yells out the last part

"Hey!"

"No, no do it. You're probably right"

"Bout what?"

"Every kid wants a fucking tree house"

Carmen carries you to the bathroom, with direct orders to soak in the tub for at least an hour while your child's metaphorical tree house is built.

You can hear the consistent argue of Richie and Carmen filter through the bathroom window even over the grating sound of sawing wood. You love it every bit, and as you kiss Richie goodbye, you slide a container of your cinnamon twists into his hand.

He turns around, the biggest smile you think you had ever scene on his face as he throws the finger at Carm, and takes off running out the door before he can react.

[luveline]

Hi luveline! I have a request: in a busy night at the restaurant reader cuts or burns herself and gets overwhelmed and carmen patches her up and calms her down 👉🏻👈🏻 pretty please I loveee your hurt/comfort fics <3

—Carmy looks after you and your burned wrist. fem, 1.2k

Carmy thought he had bad nerves. 

You julienne onion at your station, ready to garnish their miniature French onion hot pots, your hand coming down slightly too hard. You’ve positioned the knife wrong in panic, thumb too far down the blade and claw of your other hand loosely tucked. You’re getting too stressed, and you’re going to get hurt. 

He has too much to do, but not too much to call for your attention across the cutting boards. “Hey, hey,” he insists. You look up. “Slowly and surely. Thumb against the line of the blade, like this.” 

He shows you the proper grip. 

“I know how to do it,” you say, frowning. 

“Just calm down.”

“You’re never calm.” 

Carmy can actually be extremely calm, and especially when he cooks, but nobody at The Bear has true reason to believe him. He has yet to prove himself properly after his in-fridge meltdown. Maybe he can’t. 

But tonight is busy, not make or break. 

“Seriously,” he says, smirking because he knows you hate it, “take it slow. Well, slower. Check your grip and keep going.” 

“Carmy, can you fuck off and let me cut these?” you ask. Clearly, your associates are rubbing off on you. 

Richie chimes in, his official, nothing-but-business intonation in play, “Carmy, can you fuck off, please?” 

Carmy doesn’t need to raise his voice. “Fuck you.” 

“Fuck you, Carmen. Twelve, walking in five. Hands? We’ve gotta pick up some bucatini...” 

Richie’s getting pretty confident in the back of house. Carmy’s happy for him, even if they aren’t speaking outside of the kitchen. 

He’s about to swing around Daniela to help her on the stove when you burst forward toward it and take the reins. Your prep station is cleaned and your onions set aside; he can’t believe how quickly you’re moving, and he saw that chef who was taking questionable substances fuck up a carton of carrots in a good two minutes. Dude was fast. 

He wants to say Baby, slow down, and he wants to examine how awkward ‘baby’ might be if he said it. He can’t think of another pet name that could garner success. Honey’s too old (though maybe, said with softness–), sweetheart too sweet. Doll is for uncles and bub sounds like it’s missing a syllable when he says it. Honestly, Carmy’s just desperate to call you something nice and have you listen, for once. 

You grab a pan from Daniela’s hand. “I got it,” you tell her, not without sympathy. “We can do one each.” 

“Thank you, can you–”

“Daniela, I need those lobster claws now. I’m serious,” Sydney interrupts, giving Daniela a rightfully impatient look. “I needed them five minutes ago.” 

Daniela winces. Sydney waits. You, unbeknownst to everybody except Carmy, attempt to clean a smudge from the hot stove top for no good reason —Carmy could scream at you. He nearly does.

“Can you fucking stop?” he bites. 

Sydney looks at him likes he’s grown a third head, but her reaction, while unfortunate and rather important considering their partnership, is the least of his worries. You flinch at his sudden rough tone and pull your hand back from the smudge, sleeves rolled and clean, skin of your wrist naked and waiting to be branded as you catch it on the side of your hot pan. 

Your yelp is immediate. 

“Fucking– Carmy!” Sydney says. 

He’s not sure why he’s being shouted at. Maybe because he abandons the line at a time where doing so guarantees a ripple effect. 

You’re freaking out. Carmy slides in beside you to encourage the pan off of the heat while you’re unable to tend it. “Daniela?” he says, loud and clipped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. You’re wide-eyed and lying, it isn’t okay, the burn mark is a squeamish pink stripe against your skin and you're already crying. 

Carmy takes your elbow. He wants to yank you to the cold faucet, but he’s measured enough. He has an encyclopaedia of kitchen safety. 

He’s burned himself enough times. “Come here,” he says, though you’re coming anyway, wincing as he leads you to the back of the kitchen by the sink. He stoppers it and starts the cold tap, where he pauses. “It’s gonna sting.” 

“It already stings.” 

Carmy guides your arm under the stream. 

He turns the faucet until it’s a fast running spray and encourages you to lean down to submerge the entirety of the burn in cold water. Your sleeve gets wet. He pushes it up. 

“Carm, it’s fine.” 

He shakes his head to readjust your arm. His hand is tender, but his fingers are trembling. 

“Carmen,” you say firmly, quietly, “it’s okay.” 

He realises suddenly that he’s not breathing. He lets out a breath, pulls another fast one in, and snaps the fuck out of it. “It’s okay,” he repeats, “the cold waters gonna draw out the heat. I’m gonna get the first aid kit.” 

“I have to go back–”

“No.” His and Syd’s kitchen will never prioritise the food over injury. “I’m gonna get the first aid kit, I’m gonna dress it. But you have to stay here for thirty minutes with your hand in the water.” 

“A half hour, are you kidding?” 

“Do I sound like I am?” he asks genuinely, not pissed nor bossy, fighting a tendency to be both. 

“We’re right at the crest of the rush–”

“It doesn’t matter. You can’t prioritise the restaurant over yourself. It’ll fuck you up.” He feels the cold on his hand where he holds yours in the water, watches the water rise to the overflow. “Does it hurt?” He turns your hand to see the burn in better detail. “It’ll blister for sure. You’re gonna have to look after it.” 

You wipe the drying tears from your cheek. It was a stupid question. “Yeah, it hurts. Fuck, it was so hot.” 

“That’s why I told you to calm down.” 

“I know that. Thanks.” 

He doesn’t know if you’re sarcastic or genuine, can’t tell if you’re hurting or pissed at his instruction. You shiver when he lets your wrist go, but you keep the burn submerged, the faucet squeaking as he wrestles it off again. 

“Maybe we could both try calming down,” you suggest. 

“Maybe.” He squeezes his eyes shut quickly. When he opens them, you’re still squinting in your own pain. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll be right back.” 

He pats your shoulder gently. His hand gets stuck to you, massaging tenderly at your shoulder and down your upper arm, your faces closer than they reasonably need to be. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

Your cheek tilts down toward his hand where it holds you, but you don’t let it fall. “I’ll be fine. I am fine. It’s just… busy.” 

“I know.” 

“Never burned myself like that.” 

Carmy has, but you could guess that. “It’s fine. I know how to look after it.” Look after you. 

His hand crests your shoulder. You let your cheek touch briefly to the back of it. “Okay,” you murmur. 

Yeah, he’s fucked. The first aid kit can’t fix what’s wrong with him. 

[moonstruckme]

dare i say carmy coming home to ur shared apartment and you’re napping so he starts on dinner for u but you wake up and feel immensely guilty that he’s just come home from hours of cooking only to cook some more…(i want to kiss him so bad it’s embarrassing)

Thank you for requesting lovely!

Carmy Berzatto x fem!reader ♡ 544 words

You wake to the sound of sizzling in the kitchen. 

A groan tears from your throat as you untangle yourself from your blanket, searching for your slippers underneath the couch. Your apartment darkened without you noticing, the only light an orange glow coming from above the stove. 

“Carmy,” you croak, coming up behind him to wrap your arms around his middle. He jolts a little but relaxes once he realizes it's you. He still smells like the restaurant, like focaccia and a dozen herbs you could never identify on your own. 

“Hey.” He settles one hand over where your wrists cross on his abdomen. Calloused and intimate. “You good?” 

You rest your cheek on his shoulder, the ends of his hair tickling your nose. Your head hurts. “I’m sorry.” 

“What?” Whatever’s on the stove sizzles and pops. You hear his wooden spoon scrape through it. “Why, what’re you sorry for?” 

“I was supposed to do dinner.” 

“What?” Carmy asks again. He half turns his head, trying to see you. “Did we say that?” 

“No,” you mope, “but I was gonna. I was just taking a nap after work, and then I was gonna get up and make dinner. I didn’t mean to make you come home and cook after you just left the restaurant.” 

Your boyfriend makes a short, derisive sound. “You’re not making me do shit. It’s fine, I don’t care.” 

You sigh against the back of his shirt, your body heavy with misery. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t—quit saying that.” Carmy flicks down the heat on the stove, turns in the circle of your arms so that he’s facing you. He takes your face in his hands, grip firm. “You’re sick. It’s fine. I don’t expect you to make me dinner even when you’re not sick.” His brow wrinkles. “That’d be kind of fucked up and misogynist, right?” 

You feel a tug on your lips. “Yeah, I guess. But you cook all night anyway. And I’m not that sick anymore.” 

Carmy frowns. “Your face is still hot.” You think it probably goes a tad hotter at his notice, a tickle of shyness skittering across your skin where his thumbs rest on your cheeks. “Anyway, I don’t need you contaminating our food. It’s gross.” 

“Faulty logic,” you say, voice softening, “considering we share a bed and all that.” 

Now Carmy’s face is heating. You can tell from the pink splotches blooming by his nose. “It still feels grosser when it’s food. I don’t want your snot or whatever in there.” His expression softens slightly. “I’m not trying to be mean.” 

“I know.” You wrap your arms around him more tightly, your face to his chest. “Okay. Thank you.” 

He palms the back of your head. “You’re still fucking sick,” he mutters, but keeps you close as he rotates you both back towards the stove, pushing things around in his pan. 

“Yeah, maybe. My head hurts. Thanks for making dinner.” 

“It’s nothing fancy.” 

“What’re we having, Chef?”

“Now I feel like you’re gonna be disappointed.” 

You smile against Carmy’s front. “Never. What is it?” 

He lets his hand slip down from your head, petting down your hair to rest between your shoulder blades. “Uh, tomato soup. From the can.” 

You sigh blissfully. “You read my mind.”

[brunettemarionette]

💜 pairing. Carmy Berzatto x Reader

🔮 summary. Closing up gets a little tense when you Carmy share a moment of teasing. What starts as playful banter turns into something heated and physical, hinting at unspoken desire between you both.

🌙 tw. mature suggestive content. explicit language. sexual tension

The kitchen's closed for the night, but the air still hums with the faint scent of caramelized onions and seared meat. You're leaning against the prep counter, arms crossed, watching Carmy as he scrubs down the stove.

His white t-shirt clings to his back, damp from sweat, sleeves rolled up to show those forearms corded with muscle and ink. He doesn't notice you staring, or maybe he does and just doesn't care. That's the thing with him—too focused, too wound up, until he's not.

"You gonna stand there all night or help me lock up?" Carmy's voice cuts through, low and rough, not even glancing your way. You grin, pushing off the counter, your sneakers squeaking against the tile.

"Didn't know you needed me to hold your hand, Chef." You draw out the title, teasing, and that's when he finally looks up. Blue eyes sharp, pinning you in place. There's a flicker there—something hot, something dangerous—and your stomach flips.

He drops the rag, wipes his hands on his apron, and steps closer. Too close. The kind of close where you can smell the smoke on him, the faint cedar of his cologne under it. "Keep talkin' like that," he mutters, voice dropping an octave, "and I'll find somethin' for that mouth to do."

Your breath catches, and he clocks it. He smirks just a little, that half-cocked thing he does when he knows he's got you.

You tilt your head, daring him. "Promises, promises."

Carmy doesn't bite right away. He's deliberate, always is. He reaches out slowly, fingers brushing your hip, thumb pressing into the skin just above your waistband. It's barely anything, but it lights you up like a live wire. He's watching you, gauging, like he's testing how far you'll let him take it.

You don't back down; you never do with him.

"Careful what you wish for," he says, and his hand slides up under your shirt, calloused palm rough against your ribs. Your lips part, but he's already moving, crowding you back against the counter, the edge biting into your spine.

His other hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up, and for a second, you think he's gonna kiss you. You want him to. But he hovers, breath warm against your mouth, teasing you instead.

"Fuck, you drive me crazy," he whispers, almost to himself, and there's a crack in that controlled exterior—raw, needy. You feel it too, the heat pooling low, the way your thighs press together when he shifts closer. His knee slots between your thighs, and you're done for—grabbing his shirt, pulling him in because you're not waiting anymore.

He groans into your mouth, finally kissing you, all teeth and tongue and pent-up frustration. It's messy, desperate, like he's been starving for this as long as you have. The kitchen fades away—prep lists, late nights, all of it until it's just him, you, and the promise of what's coming next.

[thecapricunt1616]

Gardenia (c.b. one-shot)

𝓢𝓷𝓲𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓽 (𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓑𝓣𝓒): You were a manager at a thrift store on the north side of Chicago. Your job was fairly boring, sorting clothes and pricing them, as well as tagging them and putting them away. Helping train new employees, working opening and closing shifts. That was until the Blondie with the piercing blue eyes and the oh so sexy nose started coming in every Sunday morning, usually right after you opened. 

♡ O/S Inspo: Promoting peace/repelling strife, protection from outside influences. Carry or wear to attract love or friendship. Burn with other healing herbs to bring peace and comfort to one who is ailing. Use dried flowers in healing incenses and mixtures. Scatter around a room to bring peaceful vibrations. ♡ Summary: You & Carmy meet at the thrift store you work, He takes you out for a cute date!! ♡ W/C: 2.0K+ ♡ 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! This request is based on ♡ This ♡ adorable ask from my beautiful little cow, @aestheticaltcow - I love you OOMF! You always are liking / reblogging & supporting my work. I love you to the moon! Thank you for all your support, I hope this is what you were thinking & that you enjoy!!! ♡ Warnings for BTC: None really! Fluff, Fem reader, No use of y/n (Reader goes by 'Bunny'), No use of physical descrip (pics are just vibes!) , Not very edited, Usual TB trigger warnings

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

You were a manager at a thrift store on the north side of Chicago. Your job was fairly boring, sorting clothes and pricing them, as well as tagging them and putting them away. Helping train new employees, working opening and closing shifts. That was until the Blondie with the piercing blue eyes and the oh so sexy nose started coming in every Sunday morning, usually right after you opened. 

He’d be holding a black coffee, from the coffee shop right across the way, and always head over to the men’s denim section. This was the fifth Sunday in a row he’d come in, and you couldn’t help but realize the way he checked you out whenever you checked him out, literally - and he had caught your eye so hard you looked at the credit card receipt to see his name. 

You couldn’t find him on Instagram, or Facebook - so you figured either he was a super sexy serial killer, or goes by something else online - because who the fuck doesn’t have social media even to lurk?! 

But even with his incessant staring he for sure didn’t realize you noticed, and his clockwork of coming in when you specifically were on Sundays - he still hadn’t asked you out. You figured he was shy- well knew it because any time you tried to strike up conversation with him the guy would go pink as a pig and giggle nervously. So you were going to give him an in. 

“Hey there!” You said as you approached the isle, jeans in hand. When these had come in, they immediately caught your eye. 32 34’s. His size, vintage Levi’s - they looked to be about mid to late 80s by the patch and the wear - right up his alley for what he came in for. 

His head popped up, brows raising slightly “morning” he replied, large hand wrapped nearly all the way around his iced coffee. God- he was so pretty up close. 

“Good morning! So- not to be a freak but, these came in a few days ago, and I was thinkin’ T’myself ‘hey! I know a guy who comes in for 32 34 Levi’s every Sunday! I’ll see if he’s interested’ “ you giggle a bit, holding them out. 

“You- wow those actually look sick” he took them, setting his coffee on the top rack and holding them out to see them. “Shit these are perfect. Thank you- really uh…sorry I never asked your name?” His cheeks were on fire. It was really cute though how flustered he got, he folded them, holding them over the inside of his arm and grabbing his cup again. 

“Oh! Everyone calls me Bunny! Childhood thing. Can’t remember last time used my real name” you giggled a bit “and you are?” You extend your hand to him to shake. 

He takes your hand with his tattooed one, shaking it gently. His hands were calloused, scarred, big, could probably reach spots inside of you that you could n- focus! 

“But yeah so that’s uh cool. Never met another animal named person” he chuckled a bit, and you realized that you didn’t hear anything he said. But you couldn’t just say oh! Could you repeat I totally blacked out thinking about your fingers in my pussy! So you settled for a 

“Totally! It’s the cool kids club for real. Anyway, nice to meet you Carmen” you nod 

“Oh- shit sorry I didn’t - you can call me Carmy I - I prefer it actually” he said and you wanted to smack yourself 

“I’m sorry- uh, Carmy. I’ll let you get back to it” you said and he looked like he wanted to say something else so you stayed for a moment, looking at eachother. 

“Ok so - I know you’re working and I- I respect that so tell me to go fuck myself and I will absolutely never come back but uh- would you maybe… like- wanna go out f’coffee? Sometime? Like - like I said I totally get it if-“

“I’d love to. Gimme a time and place and I’m there” you smiled and he looked a little…suprised? 

“Tomorrow? Place cross the street? Is 9:30 too early?” He asked and you shook your head. 

“Sounds perfect, it’s a date” 

9:30 am the following morning couldn’t come fast enough. That shift seemed to draaag after he’d left. As soon as you got up, you jumped in the shower, shaving every bit you had before slathering on your favorite smelling lotion. 

You decided to wear your hair naturally, so you blew it out and didn’t use any other heat on it. Your makeup was light, and you picked a not too dressy but not too casual outfit to go with it. You felt pretty, and you knew for a fact you looked even better. 

You spritz on a bit of your favorite perfume before heading out the door, a happy pep in your step at this mornings activities. You got to the coffee shop right on time, and see Carmy looking at his phone, sunglasses that were usually used as a headband in the store to keep his messy blonde curls from in front of his eyes were perched atop his nose. 

“Feels weird seein’ you on a Monday” you teased, gently touching his muscular arm and giving it a friendly squeeze. He looked up and smiled a bit 

“Right? Feels weird bein here on a Monday. Sundays’re my errand days” he joked back “it’s good t’see you, Bunny.” He said and you nodded 

“You too! I’m ready for my morning caffeine not sure about you” you said and he grabbed the door for you 

“ absolutely, after you” he pushed his sunglasses up how he usually did, following in behind you. 

“Why thank you Carmy, how gentlemanly” you head up to the line with him. 

“Of course- gotta do this thing right eh’?” He looked up at the board with a small smile. 

“Don’t indulge me, Carmy, you’re getting a black coffee” you teased knowing that was all he drank, at least from what you saw at the store when he came in. 

He chuckled, looking over at you “am I? How’d you know I wasn’t feelin’ brave t’day, huh?” He chides with a grin 

“Ohh so brave what a big brave boy mixing up your coffee order huh?” You mused, stepping up to the counter

“Good morning! What can we get started for you today?” The barista asked and Carmy extended his hand to let you know you could go first 

“Oh! Thanks, uhh ok soo- hmmm…” you look at the board for a few moments. “A large lavender iced matcha please and a blueberry scone.” You said and they nodded, 

“And for you sir? Sorry will this be together?” They ask

“Yes- I’ll have what she’s having and that’s it.” Carmy took his card out, holding it over the reader and it beeps, accepting his payment. 

“Alright! Thank you, you can wait at the end there it’ll be right out” they said and you look over, smiling bright. That was especially nice, for you at least. The last time you went out with a guy, he expected you to pay for you both. So, to say the least it felt nice to be taken care of, even if it was just a stupid little coffee. 

You walked to the end of the counter, standing side by side as you wait “thank you. That was very polite of you” you told him, and his cheeks go that delicious adorable shade of pink that trickles down his neck and he shrugs a bit 

“S’nothin. So uh- how long you been workin’ at the thrift?” He asked, grabbing a few napkins and straws for when your drinks came out. You watched his tattooed hands, your stomach doing those flips and rushes of heat flooding your core

“Oh- yeah uh..3 years? Ish? I realized I never asked, what do you do f’r work?” You asked, playing with the sleeve of your shirt with your fingers that never stopped moving. He seemed the same, rolling paper covered straws between his fingers or constantly tapping on his coffee cup in a random rhythm. 

“Oh- shit yeah sorry I’m a chef. Sorry I never said anything but uh- yeah. The beef, well, the bear were kinda in the middle of renovating right now and changing our look.” He said and your mouth falls 

“The beef?! Holy shit! Been goin there f’years!! Since I came back to Chicago!! Fire sandwiches. So you’re sayin’ no more beef sandwiches?! Dude I didn’t even get one before I found out you were closin’!” You said and the barista came over, setting your bags and drinks in front of you 

“Have a great one guys!” They said and headed back to their station. We thanked them and headed back outside where there was little tables and chairs you could sit, and of course his sunglasses were right back over his eyes as soon as we got outside. 

“What if I told you- I could make you one an’ bring it to you whenever you want?” He set down the bags of scones he’d carried for you, one in front of both of you before handing you a straw for your drink. 

“I’d say you’re an angel sent from god, because those sandwiches are somethin else” you took the scone out of the bag and had a bite, moaning softly at the taste and sitting back “ugh fuck I love scones” you said and he chuckled a bit, having a bite of his own. 

“These uh- actually are more muffin by recipe. Scones would be way dryer, but these sell better in the states” he took another bite. You hum, mixing up your drink before having a sip. 

“Oh yeah? Hit me with another chef fact mister brave is this real matcha or whatever or the fake shit?” You hummed. It all tasted the same to you, but you wondered if he’d really have an answer. 

“Mm” he hummed and opened his straw, mixing it before taking a sip. He scrunched his nose a bit “fake, and the lavender is fake which- I mean is kind of pitiful because lavander syrup is easy as fuck to make and not even expensive” he said and mixed it up even more, hoping that helped the flavor and had another hip, shivering slightly at the sugar which made you laugh. 

“You like that?” He asked and you laughed, the kind of laugh that made your eyes crinkle just by the pure look of icky written on his features. 

“You make fun of a girl for her morning beverage choices on a first date?” You asked and he put his hands up in defense 

“Woah. Woah I said hang out i didn’t say date” he teased, causing you to laugh even more 

“Am I seeing right now why you’re single?” You joked and he caught the giggles this time, and you wish you could see the way his eyes crinkled up beneath his sunglasses. 

The rest of the meal was spent laughing, and making pleasant conversation. You spoke about where you were both from, what schools you went to, you’d learned apparently he studied abroad for being a chef which was crazy because you didn’t even know people studied abroad for simply making food but you guessed it was pretty serious by the way that he spoke about it. 

Apparently the beef had been in his family and was handed down to him recently, so he decided to do something different with it and revamp the whole thing into the bear that would be opening in 2 months. You’d say there talking for about 2 hours, until he got a call about said restaurant and had to head out. 

“Really, Bunny. This was…really great. I haven’t been able to like- it doesn’t matter. But…thank you, we should do this again if you’re down” he said and you smiled. 

“How ‘bout next Sunday, but before the store opens - 7:30 too early for you?” you repeated his words playfully from when he asked you out. 

“Nothin w' you is too early f’me, y'got y’self a date”

[newtkive]

sweet tooth | luca drabble

just thinking about luca w a partner who has a crazy sweet tooth (like i do) and you never asking for a sweet treat but mentioning it nonchalantly but still not expecting luca to make you something.

first of all, your nickname would probably be sweet tooth or smth similar, let’s be so real. it would start by luca calling you that affectionately, but then it catches on w friends and family and you’re just dubbed sweet tooth.

in general, if you saw some type of dessert on a commercial or a tiktok that had you going ‘oohhh’ luca would scrunch his brows and almost seem jealous. “they used meringue, they should’ve used icing sugar.” he’d scoff judgingly and just see it as a challenge. after he would deem it doable, he’d store the information in his brain and literally make it better at work the next day.

just say the word and he will make it. telling your friends on the phone that macaroons sound good? cool, he wants to practice his piping technique with the biscuits anyways.

a japanese fruit sando? awesome he can make the sweet bread so fast, and the cream is no big deal. in fact he can just whip it up for lunch.

want a hersheys bar? first, that chocolate is trash don’t ever mention it to a european, especially your european chef boyfriend. second, he’ll make you the best stack of milk chocolate, dark chocolate, white chocolate, and cookies n’ cream bar you’ve ever had (the cookies n cream one is so good, and you’d always say that and it would piss him off). anything to get hershey’s out of your brain.

you see those viral crunchy chocolate and pistachio filled croissants in new york on your phone and groan abt them? he can research the recipe and workshop it for a day or two in the restaurant kitchen, find a cute take out box to present it to you with to give you that full experience you’d get from the real bakery—you just gotta wait. even if it’s a couple days later, it’ll be waiting for you on the table, or pulled out from behind luca’s back as he walks through the door.

to be more specific, maybe at midnight when he doesn’t have work the next day, you guys are up watching a movie or just having pillow talk. saying smth nonchalant abt your cravings like “cookies sound so good right now luca.. don’t they?” your cheek is smushed against his bicep (which you’d much rather eat) so your voice is all cute and mumbled making his heart race.

“mhm.” he’d say. he’s got a lazy smile n a deep chuckle, voice laden w sleep since you’re the night owl and he’s just staying up to spend time with you. “you wan’ me to make some right now? that what you’re saying?” he’s clearly amused, knowing that you don’t expect him to but teasing you nonetheless.

“nono, it’s too late. you’re not allowed to leave anyways.” you would mumble again, arms tightening around his own in a hug. humming happily, a kiss from the chef would land on your head and you kinda forget about the dessert you want but luca doesn’t because he’s a chef and his literal profession is making desserts so why wouldn’t he?? when you want something he can easily make?? like his love language is giving, especially if it’s baking something for someone he loves.

the next day you’d still be asleep and wake up to the smell of cookies. savory was your forte in the morning most times but who could say no to starting their day with a yummy sweet when it’s presented to them, right?

it would take you a second to realize that 1. luca wasn’t wrapped around you like usual, etching a frown into your face, and 2. luca had to be the one making cookies. and he made the best cookies. you’d waste no time in grinning and hopping up to drag yourself to the kitchen. even more of the smell would welcome you, transporting you into some kind of dreamland—and if you really were dreaming you’d be so pissed bc the cookies being pulled out of the oven by your blond messy haired boyfriend look so fucking good right now (aside from the aforementioned boyfriend who is just as, if not more scrumptious than the cookies with only his flannel pants on).

arms would wrap around his waist from behind and luca would laugh muttering “hot pan” but you don’t give a fuck because you want him and those cookies now. if anything your arms tighten and you rub at his stomach sweetly from behind, a sign of affection.

“you made me cookies!” the grin would be so evident in your voice and so infectious that luca beams as he transfers the said cookies onto a pretty dish.

“and who said they were for you?” the tease is obvious and earns an eye roll. you don’t fall for it and he doesn’t expect you to, but you gently nip at his shoulder nonetheless. a dramatic ‘ow!’ comes from the tall man, laced with laughter. you snicker evilly, standing on tip toes to rest your chin on the same shoulder (no matter your height you still gotta do tiptoes bc that man is tall).

soon enough he’d plate the perfect chocolate chip cookies with a dash of sea salt that you spotted, and turn around. it would be your turn to be wrapped in a hug by strong arms, even lifted up a little just to hear your laugh. luca also likes to hear how surprised you get that he can lift you, even though to him you’re weightless.

it wouldn’t be long until you’re begging for a cookie even if he sets you on the counter, stern look as he assures you they’re still cooling off. like hellooo?? who cares?? but he distracts you with soft kisses on your cheeks, leading down to your lips until he pulls away and leaves you wanting more. the mumble from him that, “the cookies are probably cool enough now” has you forgetting your desire for him and replacing it with the golden saucers just waiting for you to demolish them.

hands on his shoulder, you’d firmly push him to the side and hop off the counter. the roll of luca’s eyes would be affectionate and endeared, since you were this excited for his cooking. you were his best customer after all.

your feet would have a mind of their own, floating towards the cookies like a cartoon man levitating towards a pie, lured by the aroma. you start ravaging like a hungry creature. one turns into three as you face your boyfriend, moaning with closed eyes at almost every bite inbetween telling him about what you two did in your dream (he baked you brownies laced with a golden syrup in your dream so you accredit your subconscious to manifesting this).

he would just stand there with a grin, hands on the edge of the sink behind him while leaning on it. usually dreams would be so boring to talk about, but luca swore he could stand there for an eternity just watching you eat his creations and talk about any dream you wanted to share with him.

of course, those cookies would be gone in two days. and in place would be brownies drizzled in a golden syrup that luca took home from work. the surprise would earn him a watery eyed smile, and he’d just shrug and say he had extra time to kill on the evening shift.