#carmy drabble

[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.

[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. 

[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.”

[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.

[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.

[fbfh]

Do you still write for Dave Lizewski? I loved what you've written for him so far!

FUCK yes I do. Listen there's a lot I could say about Dave, but one thing that is NEVER addressed is how deeply rooted and repressed his mommy issues are. I'm sorry, your mom dies in front of you and you're just... not affected by it??? bullshit!!!!!!! Dave CRAVES a soft gentle touch, a divine feminine aura. Even if you're not a girl, if you just take care of him gently and look at him with a soft fondness he will fold SO fast. and yes having a nice rack (while not necessary) will help with this a lot. and by a nice rack I mean literally just having anything on your chest. flat tits, huge tits, lopsided tits, fake tits, real tits, literally ANYTHING. even if your tits are practically nonexistent he WILL still be trying to grope and suck on them. and he WILL succeed. nothing in this world can stop this boy from drooling over you.

after a particularly long night full of stopping some muggers, making sure the town drunk doesn't fight anyone, and helping some college girls get home safe, he shows up at your place, a little bumped and bruised but not majorly injured. you greet him with this soft, understanding smile and bring him up to your bathroom. It's all clean and soapy and smells like you, and he immediately starts to relax. you help him take off his suit and he tries not to get hard from the feeling of your warm hands getting him out of his suit and exposing his skin to the cool air. you start inspecting him to see how bad he's hurt - because of all his nerve damage he doesn't always notice how bad his injuries are.

you smooth his hair and praise him, listen to him talk about his night patrolling the neighborhood. worry flashes across across your face as you see the scratches all over his face and arms.

"Oh, uh, Mrs. Landsberg's cat got stuck..." He trails off sheepishly while you smile and put disinfectant on his nicks and scrapes.

"Look at you, helping little old ladies and rescuing cats from trees." you coo playfully.

"Well, she got stuck in the attic crawl space, but..." he shrugs with another blush, feeling all proud and sheepish from your praise.

"Close enough."

you press a kiss to his nose.

"now all you need is a job at the daily planet."

Dave was so sore and tired after tonight that he felt like he'd need days to recover. but after 10 minutes with you, you already have him laughing and feeling like himself again. Dave doesn't know what he did to luck out and have you in his life, but he thinks about you all the time. If he's not physically with you (or texting you or calling you or snapping you or lurking on your social media accounts or reading through your old texts or looking through the folder of pictures and videos he has of you saved in his phone or-) he's thinking about you all the time. he even dreams about you every night. no matter how much time he spends with you, he always wants more. Dave is definitely in the sex isn't enough I need to crawl inside your skin club.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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. 

[bonesmithsstuff]

Carmen Berzatto - Unspoken

Warnings: End of season 2, swearing - let me know if I forgot something ;). Angst.

Masterlist |

── .✦

" Let it rip. "

No one in the family would have expected it, yet no one was dreaming it. The figure that had just entered the restaurant had drawn eyes like a magnet. They hadn’t seen her in months —not since “The Beef” had closed for good and she had left without a word, without saying goodbye. Only informing them when the transfer was already complete, once her new job was accepted, ensuring they’d never be able to convince her to stay.

That night, it was Nat who welcomed her, greeting her with a huge smile and a warm embrace. Finally, she could see the girl again —her friend, the woman she’d grown up with and learned to love like the sister she never had. Richie soon followed, enveloping her in an embrace that lifted her a few inches off of the ground. Seeing them again had brought T/n one of those smiles she could only share with the family. Meanwhile the cousin watched her, happiness squeezed his heart and he thought of Carmy. Bear hadn’t been himself since T/n left, and even the blonde hadn’t noticed —though Richie had.

«Richie. I leave you alone for just a few weeks and look at you: all polished up in an elegant suit? I’ve got to say it: you’re looking damn fine.» A smug expression flashed across the man’s face as he straightened the collar of his jacket with his hands. The woman took the opportunity to glance around. The dining room seemed calm, yet she could perfectly imagine the extremely tense, focused, and worried look Carmy must have had in the kitchen. «How’s the evening going, folks?»

Nat ran a hand over her face and the other over her pregnant belly, Richie moved away after grabbing a little note passed to him by Fak. «I think it’s a fucking mess —we’re behind schedule and we almost had the bathroom flooded. I don’t know how much time we have left before we’re in complete chaos.»

The newly arrived woman took a deep breath, then looked around to study the expressions of the diners. No one seemed particularly irritated at the moment, assuming it was an evening meant for friends and family. Richie called her attention from the kitchen, and T/n excused herself from the blonde before joining him. Goodbyes were exchanged in the room above the commotion; Tina, Marcus, and the other guys quickly hugged the woman before returning to their stations.

Chaos reigned supreme —dirty pots, cold dishes, confusion at every station. As the arguments resumed and voices were raised, Sydney tried to quiet everyone down in vain.

T/n stepped in with a raised eyebrow and arms crossed over her chest. It came naturally, as if muscle memory had prompted her before she even had a chance to think. «What the fuck is going on here?»

«Carmy got stuck in the fridge and the dishes are taking too long. We’re fucking behind, damn it —we need to work faster.»

In an instant, everyone started arguing again; Carmen began pounding on the cell door, and Sydney started yelling at Marcus over some personal matter.

«Hey!» T/n called for attention, clapping her hands. «First off, let’s lower our voices —we don’t want to put on a show, do we? Everyone, get back to your stations, immediately. Richie, go to the dining room and do your job; I’ll take the damn orders, and you damn cooks, do your damn jobs, alright? I don’t want to hear anything other than ‘Okay’ and ‘Chef.’ In five minutes, we need to have most of these dishes out. Thanks, Chefs.»

Her tone was decisive and precise, calculated, as sharp as the knives on the counters, as if she’d done that a thousand times before. She left no room for arguments and, for some reason, even though some of them didn’t even know her, they all obeyed, and everyone resumed their tasks. «Chef Tina, would you kindly tell Carmy that if he doesn’t stop punching on that fucking door I’m gonna kick his ass? Thanks.»

Within ten minutes, the situation finally cooled down, and the air in the room became noticeably more relaxed and breathable. For the rest of the service, everything went smoothly, until none other than Claire Bear entered the kitchen: the tables were probably emptying out. She leaned in on to the fridge, and T/n watched her intently. Claire had been Carmy’s crush for as long as she’d known him, ever since she had her earliest memories of the man. She couldn’t even recall how many times her and Michael had teased him about it, how many quips they’d thrown his way over the years. And yet, knowing that he and Claire had grown close again hadn’t stirred any joy in her. She couldn’t be happy for him; she couldn’t stop feeling jealous.

Claire left in tears, fleeing the restaurant without looking at anyone. T/n and Richie exchanged confused looks and shrugged at one another. It wasn’t long before the man began arguing with the cousin through the fridge.

── ── ──

The door creaked open, its shrill sound shattering the silence of the kitchen. Perhaps the man fiddling with the door had finally decided to get moving just as T/n poured herself the third glass of wine. It wasn’t dawn yet, but the night was steadily drawing on. The clock read two in the morning, and the restaurant was now empty. Sydney had gone off to see her father, and Nat had gone home with the rest of the staff —exhausted after a long evening and ready to enjoy a well-deserved rest.

T/n remained, all alone. Certainly not by accident. She had returned to Chicago only for him, and she wouldn’t leave without seeing him.

When she finally saw him emerge from the walk-in freezer, her breath caught in her lungs for a moment: he looked exhausted. His blond hair was disheveled, his features etched with tension, and his blue eyes —which usually shone with determination—appeared dull, distant, lost in an undefined gaze. The chef’s body seemed to bear the weight of a day too long, of months that had dragged on for too long.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. T/n stared at him in silence, trying to gauge just how much he had let himself go. On the other hand, he could hardly believe that she was there —but slowly, a fleeting shadow of a smile crossed his face.

«Hey» A murmur, almost a whisper. His voice was low and husky.

T/n felt something tighten in her chest. He had always been skilled at hiding behind that calm tone, behind the silence, behind those hands that always moved frantically to avoid stopping to think. But she knew him all too well, and she didn’t give him time to say anything more or to think.

She took a step forward, then another. In an instant, she was right there with him, wrapping him in an embrace without hesitation. Her arms encircled his torso, and her face sank into his chest. She felt him tense for a second, as if he weren’t used to that contact anymore, but soon he relaxed. Carmy took a deep breath, his hands, tentative at first, brushed over her back before tightening their hold.

The Chef lost himself in that familiar scent and embrace. It was just as he remembered —perhaps even better. He couldn’t recall when he had started living for moments like that, when his every breath was measured between one greeting and the next, between one hug and the one that followed. How could so many days have passed without seeing her and without driving him mad?

She was his sharp needle, the one that brought him back to reality when he was lost. She had always done that. Her and Michael.

On the other hand, to T/n, his scent was equally familiar —a blend of spices, of exertion, and of something that smelled inexplicably hers.

«What are you doing, Carm?» The young woman whispered against the fabric of his T-shirt. He closed his eyes, and after a moment, slowly moved away.

He took a step back, letting her go. «I don’t know.» Leaning against one of the kitchen shelves, he ran a hand over his face. The dim light illuminated only half of his expression, leaving the other half in shadow.

He had always been like that —divided between two opposing aspects: the need to have someone by his side and the fear of truly letting them close. «You don’t have to do everything yourself.» She said firmly. «And neither does Nat. If you need help, delegate. You’re the boss, Carm, but you’re wearing yourself out like this.»

He lowered his head, running his hands through his hair as if trying to tear something out of his mind.

«I know.»

«Then do as I said.»

Silence fell.

She looked at him, arms crossed, face serious.

Carmen knew all too well that the woman wouldn’t let him off with a mere reprimand. She always wanted all the answers.

«And what about Claire?» She asked, looking up sharply as if struck by something. A confused expression flitted across his face, and the young woman sighed in exasperation. «Claire Bear, wake up. Come back to reality. She left in tears. What’s her deal? Is she your girlfriend or what?» A flash of irritation crossed her gaze, and her tone came out more annoyed than necessary. If he noticed, he didn’t say it.

«Fuck, I’ve made a mess.» He detached himself from the counter with a jerk, beginning to pace back and forth in the kitchen, restless. «It was the opening of my restaurant, and I ended up locked in that fucking freezer because I couldn’t hear the damn phone in the kitchen to call the repairman. Fuck, what else do you want me to say?» He suddenly stopped and looked at her. «And no, Claire is not my girlfriend.»

T/n took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving him. Moments of silence passed. «Carm?»

«What now?»

She took a step forward. «I missed you.»

Carmen shivered. Her tone was soft and velvety. He felt the weight of those words passing through him, melting along his skin. His gaze slowly lowered, moving up from the hem of her dress to meet her eyes. That dress —she had worn it for his night. For him. She had returned to Chicago for him. The mere thought awakened all those emotions he had desperately tried to erase, in vain. His eyes grew darker, as if those three words had stirred something too deep and too buried to be brought back to the surface.

She never looked away. «Mickey would be fucking proud of you.» She whispered, taking another step forward. «I am so fucking proud of you.»

He shook his head. «Don’t do this to me.»

«Do… what?»

Carmy’s breathing became erratic, and his heart pounded like a drum against his chest. «Don’t be here for me.» This time, the young Berzatto stepped toward the woman —a precise, calculated stride. «You can’t.» Another step. «I don’t deserve it.»

Then he took her. His hands closed around her waist with a force that made her flinch. He pushed her against the kitchen counter, their bodies clinging together, drawn like a magnet. T/n’s heart raced as she gripped the counter, trying to anchor herself to something.

Their eyes met, and in that instant, Carmy —who never had been much for words— spoke volumes with the way he held her. The way his eyes devoured her, as if he could no longer hold back. And he no longer wanted to. «You look fucking beautiful in this dress.»

His fingers tightened on her waist. «I can’t think of anything but you ever since you left.» His lips brushed her neck, and T/n closed her eyes. The warmth of his breath against her skin made her shiver. «And fuck, everyone knows —except you.»

His fingers trailed up her back, sinking into her hair. «Michael knew it.» A kiss, just below her ear, made her stifle a moan. «Now Claire knows it too.» Another kiss, slower, more intense. He tasted her as if she were the most exquisite of his dishes, leaving nothing for anyone else.

T/n pulled back imperceptibly; shaken, confused, troubled. Carmy raised his head and fixed his gaze on her, waiting. «Michael was my best friend. He would have told me.» She looked away, but the man was quick to grasp her chin, forcing their eyes to meet. He wanted her to see the passion burning within him, to feel it. «It was always Claire. We’ve always teased you about how much you liked her.»

Carmy’s fingers caressed her jaw, and a slight smile curved his lips. When their hips met while he pressed on her, T/n could feel the truth of those words against her leg. She held her breath. «And without you, Michael always teased me about how much I fucking adore you.» His tone was low and husky.

A second later, his lips found hers.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss but one born of desperation and fury, born within everything they’d kept inside for far too long. T/n’s hands clutched his T-shirt, gripping the fabric as if she wanted to pull him even closer, as if she wanted to imprint him onto her skin. Carmy groaned against her warm lips, the taste of wine lingering on his tongue as he overwhelmed her, his fingers gliding over her body while their breaths mingled.

Carmy could only imagine what his brother’s face would have been if he’d known, if he’d seen them at that moment.

Michael had caught him staring at her ass so many times he’d lost count. He’d witnessed Carm’s expression harden every time he heard her mention men other than the Berzattos. He hadn’t known at the time, but Mickey did. He had told him years later —about how he noticed Carmy’s eyes following her every move, about how he sought physical contact with her and only her, about how T/n always asked him about the blond one and how red her cheeks got the few times she’d seen him shirtless.

After those words from his brother —before he left to chase his dream of becoming a chef— Carmy never got her out of his head, never. How could he? She was Michael’s best friend and had always been part of his family; He probably knew her before he even learned to walk. He had memorised the foods she loved —making them the firsts he ever tried to cook. He knew by heart the tone of her voice when she was angry, the way she frowned, and he remembered perfectly the sound of her laughter.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads brushed. He was breathless. His voice was low, almost broken. «Stay. Stay in Chicago.»

T/n looked at him, helpless. No more words were needed —she was there for that. For him to ask her to stay.

Their lips met again.

And that time, they didn’t stop.

── .✦

Let me know what do you think!

[wildfloweretbarley]

thinking about how carmen berzatto would be relish being your boyfriend.

leading you around by the small of your back, cooking your favourite meals. he’d absolutely learn to make your comfort foods for bad days or when you’re on your period. he’d love every part of you. if you ask if what you’re wearing is too revealing all he says is that you can wear whatever cuz he can break someone’s jaw. he’d pinch your hips or smack your ass as he passes you.

always a gentleman, but also your biggest supporter and companion; he’d grab your weights for you in the gym, but also make you do another set even when your arms feel like noodles. then he’d begrudgingly go for a run with you and get winded after a kilometre. (if you did martial arts he’d practice drills with you and hold shields and pads for you)

of course, at the end of any long day he’d rub away your aches and kiss your bruises, heating up your rice bag for any problem spots while you changed into one of his sweaters or t shirts. you’d fall asleep not always on top of eachother, but always holding hands.

ugh, carmy bf

[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]

Hi! I loved you Carmy work. Can I do a birthday think if it's not too late? With mess, desperate and kiss? ♥♥

🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ 💜 ​🇧​​🇮​​🇷​​🇹​​🇭​​🇩​​🇦​​🇾​ ​🇵​​🇷​​🇴​​🇲​​🇵​​🇹​ ​🇷​​🇪​​🇶​​🇺​​🇪​​🇸​​🇹​​🇸​

The kitchen’s chaos had fizzled out, leaving just you and Carmy, the air thick with the scent of garlic and unspoken words. His hands gripped the counter, knuckles white, blue eyes darting to you—sharp, unguarded.

You’d been arguing about the menu, voices raised over risotto versus polenta, but now the silence burned hotter than the stove.

“Say it,” he muttered, voice low, rough like he’d smoked a pack in an hour. “Whatever you’re holding back, just fuckin’ say it.”

You stepped closer, heat radiating off him, his chef’s coat unbuttoned just enough to see the sweat glistening on his collarbone. “You’re a mess, Carmy,” you whispered, your breath catching as his gaze dropped to your lips. “But I can’t stop watching you.”

His hand shot out, fingers curling around your wrist—not gentle, but desperate. “You shouldn’t,” he said, pulling you in until your chest brushed his. “I’ll ruin you.”

“Maybe I want you to,” you challenged, voice barely audible.

He groaned a sound that vibrated through you, and then his mouth was on yours—urgent, tasting like salt and need, the kind of kiss that could unravel everything.