how can carmy possibly come up with that many elaborate beautiful ways to convey i love you without actually saying the words and then scream âim your friendâ into sydneyâs face
CONGRATS ON 300!! for the songfic challenge: hope by blood orange (i would pick a line or two but the whole song is perfectâŠ) for carmy or richie from the bear? đđ§ž
oh my god!!!! iâve been wanting to write for richie and this is the perfect opportunity, thank u anon đ„čđ„č (p.s. i love blood orange so much amazing song choice)
HOPE | richie jerimovich
it was never clean, never easy. richie jerimovich didnât know how to hold onto good things without shredding them first. you werenât trying to fix him. you just kept showing up.
cw: alcohol, emotionally stunted men, mutual pining, situationship angst, suggestive themes, smoking, coarse language, emotional vulnerability, food service industry chaos, soft smut-adjacent tension, messy feelings, slow burn with no neat resolution, richie being richie
The first time you meet Richie Jerimovich, heâs halfway through a loud, crass story about a buddy of his taking a shit in a Jewel-Osco parking lot. Youâre elbow-deep in prep, eyes stinging from onions, and his voice cuts through the kitchen like a busted neon sign â too bright, too insistent to ignore. He talks with his whole body, hands slicing the air, laugh sharp and borderline obnoxious. Every sentence punctuated with a âyou fuckinâ believe that?â like the roomâs just lucky to witness his genius. You keep your head down, but your mouth quirks, because heâs an asshole, but heâs a funny asshole. And somehow, already, you can tell he knows it.
You donât talk to him much that first week. Heâs older, rooted in this place like a splinter under the skin, and youâre the new kid with too much to prove and no idea how to soften your edges. Richie smells like cologne thatâs too sweet, cigarettes, and kitchen grease. He makes these offhand comments, lobbing them across the line like grenades, watching to see what explodes. You clock the way he needles the other guys, how he puffs up when Carmyâs around, like some half-feral stray desperate to stay in the room. You donât rise to it. Not yet. Youâve got your own shit to survive.
But the kitchenâs a pressure cooker. Long hours, burned palms, the constant hiss of ticket machines like a pulse you canât escape. It does something to people. Rips away the polite parts, leaves you raw and too awake at midnight. You start catching Richieâs eye in the chaos, some dumb, crooked grin aimed your way when you nail a pickup. An elbow brushing yours in the cramped walk-in. Private jokes layered with something heavier underneath. It isnât sweet. Itâs desperate, unpolished. It tastes like exhaustion and nicotine and wanting.
The first time it happens, it isnât planned. Itâs a shitty bar after close, the kind of place with sticky floors and well whiskey that burns going down. Richie buys you a shot, calls you âhotshotâ with this smirk that dares you to swing. You should walk away. You donât. Thereâs too much noise in your head, in your chest, and heâs loud enough to drown it out. One minute youâre arguing about some song on the jukebox, and the next his mouthâs on yours, rough, needy. Itâs clumsy, teeth knocking, a mess of heat and frustration youâve both been choking on for months.
After, neither of you talk about it. He ghosts for a couple days, then shows up at work acting like nothing happened. Throws a paper cup at your head, calls you a fuckinâ rookie, dares you to keep up. You match it with distance, ice in your veins, and that shouldâve been it. But it isnât. Because you start noticing the quiet moments â how he lingers when you laugh, how his gaze sticks to you a beat too long when he thinks you arenât looking. Heâll say something shitty, then watch you like heâs hoping youâll punch him just to keep him tethered.
Richieâs not soft. Not even close. He doesnât know how to handle things that feel good without ruining them first. Every time it edges too close to real, he retreats into ego, into that cocky, abrasive armor. And you, stubborn asshole that you are, keep showing up anyway. On the line. In the alley behind the restaurant, sharing smokes in the dead hours before dawn. At the bar, half-drunk, daring him to be a person for five fucking minutes.
Thereâs a night â brutal double shift, one fryer down, tickets piling up like bad karma â where the whole kitchenâs about to snap. Youâre sweating, fingers burned, hair sticking to your neck, and Richieâs barking at everyone like a man possessed. But then, in the lull between orders, his eyes find yours across the line. And thereâs something in them. Not soft, not sweet. Just⊠stripped bare. Like youâre the only thing in the room not asking him to be anything else.
You toss him a towel. He grins. Itâs nothing. Itâs everything.
After that, it gets worse before it gets better. You fuck, sometimes. Quick, messy, a hand fisted in your hair, his stubble scraping your throat. The kind of thing you promise yourself youâll stop doing, but never do. Heâll murmur shit against your skin â âfuck, youâre killinâ me, hotshotâ â and youâll pretend it doesnât mean anything. Because you both know neither of youâs good at meaning.
But then thereâs a night you find him alone in the kitchen after close, hands braced on the counter, staring down at nothing. The roomâs quiet, lights dim, the hum of the fridge like white noise. You donât say anything, just step in close, your hand brushing his. He flinches, like heâs about to bolt, but you donât pull away. Neither does he.
âHey,â you say, voice low, careful like the walls might cave if youâre too loud.
He laughs, this wrecked little sound, scrubbing a hand over his face. âChrist, you always do that shit, huh?â
âWhat shit?â
âJust⊠show up.â
You shrug, a ghost of a smile. âSomeoneâs gotta keep you in line.â
And maybe it shouldnât be enough. Maybe itâs pathetic, how you keep making space for him in a life thatâs already too crowded. But it is. Itâs enough. Because you see it â the way he starts seeking you out, how his jokes soften around the edges, how his hands linger longer when he thinks you wonât notice. He wonât say it. He canât. Not yet. But itâs there in the way his voice dips when he says your name. In how he calls you on his breaks, claiming he needs to bitch about Carmy, then sitting in silence with you on the other end of the line.
And you realize, somewhere between the rushes and the drinks and the bruised nights, that youâve become the place he runs to when the noise gets too loud. Not to fix him. Just to exist. To be the steady thing in a life he keeps trying to wreck.
You donât ask him to be anything else. And for a guy like Richie, thatâs hope.
Itâs fucked up, clumsy, built on bad habits and worse decisions.
hi arms i mean arms fuck sorry arms FUCK what i meant to say what hi nose i mean nose holy FUCK sorry im so sorry nose big arms around my neck i mean hi cigarette im sorry i meant hi jeremy allen white
idk how you manage to make porn sound beautiful your writing is sooo good,, could i request D from the nsfw alphabet for carmy??đđđž please and thank you
đđ thank you so much, this is seriously such high praise! iâve definitely spent a lot of time honing my craft, so iâm happy that itâs paying off! now, enjoy getting let in on carmyâs dirty little secretâŠ
d is for dirty secret | carmen berzatto
warnings: explicit sex, degradation (consensual), emotional vulnerability, power dynamics, aftercare, past trauma mention (work-related stress), crying, dom/sub elements
It doesnât come out easily. Nothing ever does with Carmyânot the good things, not the soft things, and definitely not this. Heâs too guarded, too clenched behind the ribcage he built out of guilt and grief and sharp-edged expectations. Sex, for him, was always something that existed in theory. Heâd had it, sure. Here and there, quick and forgettable. Mostly desperate. Never deep. Never slow. Never safe. And never like thisâwith someone patient enough to wait for the real him to come out, for the parts he doesnât understand, the ones heâs afraid to want.
It starts one night with him restless beneath you, half-sweaty, half-high from the way your mouth had ruined him earlier, his chest rising sharp and fast like it always does when his brainâs spinning. Youâre curled over him, sticky from his come, his hands still trembling a little on your waist. And you whisper it againâwhat youâve been asking for days now, soft and coaxing at the seam of his ear.
âTell me what you want.â
Heâd brushed it off every time. With a shrug. A scoff. A smile so fake it couldâve been carved out of soap. But now, with his body unraveled under you and his walls cracked just wide enough to bleed, he gives you something real.
Itâs barely a whisper.
The kind of truth that feels like it might fall apart if he says it any louder.
âI want you to⊠talk down to me,â he breathes, like he hates himself for saying it. Like the words are burning their way up his throat.
You donât react at first. You donât laugh, or blink, or flinchâand thatâs what keeps him from shutting down. Just you, breathing steady, still wrapped around him like warmth itself. Your hand rests flat over his ribs, right where his heart stutters like a wounded animal. You feel it when he says the next part, even softer.
âLike, really mean. Tell me Iâm fucking lucky. That I donât deserve it.â He closes his eyes, shame flickering behind his lashes. âTell me Iâm not good at it. That my dickâs big but I donât know how to use it. Justâfuck with me. I want that. I think.â
Thereâs silence between you for a beat. A long one. Weighted like a decision.
You kiss the underside of his jaw, gentle, slow. Your voice stays low, careful, reverent in a way that makes him shiver.
âOkay,â you murmur. âWhy?â
He turns his head, eyes still shut. His breath catches. Like heâs scared youâll ask, and even more scared you wonât.
âI used to get screamed at every day,â he says. âNew York kitchens. Every service. Every fucking hour. About things I couldnât fix. About things that werenât my fault. Iâd throw up before shifts sometimes. Wake up with my heart pounding so hard I couldnât breathe. And no one gave a shit. You just kept your head down. You took it. Or you left.â
He swallows.
âBut when you do itâwhen you say those thingsâIâm not alone in it. Iâm not scared. You still want me. Youâre still inside me, on me, with me⊠whatever. I can take it. It makes it feel like⊠power, I guess. Like I get to choose it, this time.â
The words bleed into the dark between you, soft and aching. Heâs not looking at you, not even now. Heâs never looked so open and so closed at onceâshoulders tense, jaw sharp, but his chest⊠wide open. Exposed. Like a wound that stopped bleeding and never learned to scar.
You take your time before responding. You run your thumb over the ridge of his hip, feel the tremor in his leg as your palm drags down the muscle of his thigh. Heâs still half-hard. The confession didnât scare his body like it scared his voice.
âOkay,â you say again, slow and deliberate. âIâll say whatever you want. Iâll be so fucking mean.â
He groans at that, almost involuntarily. His cock twitches between you, already starting to swell.
âBut I want you to listen, too,â you add, leaning in, brushing your mouth over the corner of his. âWhen itâs over. When I say the other stuff. The real stuff. You gonna be able to do that, Carmen?â
His eyes open finally. Wide. Blue. Fragile.
âYeah,â he whispers. âI want that, too.â
So you rise to your knees over him, slow and deliberate, watching the way his gaze trails up the length of your body like itâs a prayer he doesnât know the words to. Heâs beautiful in this lightâhair a mess of curls, collarbones sharp and flushed, chest still marked where you bit him earlier. He doesnât look away when you reach down and wrap your hand around him again.
Heâs thick in your palm. Heavy, flushed pink with arousal, veins standing out with the blood rushing under his skin. His head tips back again as you stroke him, your thumb grazing the slitâwet, slick, leaking already like the need never really left him.
âFuck,â he gasps. âPlease.â
âYou are lucky,â you say, your voice sharpening just a little, steel under silk. âYou donât even know how fucking lucky you are, do you?â
His eyes flutter. He pants.
âYou get to fuck me, Berzatto. And you donât even know what youâre doing. All this dick and no clue how to use it.â
He moans. Loud. Desperate. You climb over him again, press the thick head of him against your entrance and watch him come undone.
âGod, look at you,â you murmur as you sink down onto himâinch by inch, slow and merciless. âAlready losing it. Havenât even started.â
And he hasnât. His hands clutch your hips like youâre a lifeline, his chest arched up into yours, breath wild and broken as you bottom out.
You see it in his faceâthis release of something deeper than lust. Like shame being peeled off layer by layer. Like trauma being rewired by pleasure so sharp it makes him cry out. You ride him slow at first, but the way he bucks up into you, the helpless noisesâheâs not going to last. Heâs not meant to.
You lean in, fingers gripping his jaw. Your mouth close to his ear.
âBet they made you feel small, didnât they?â you hiss. âMade you feel like you werenât worth shit.â He nods, choked, undone.
âWell now Iâm making you feel like that. And youâre fucking hard for it.â
He shouts, hips jerking helplessly under you, his whole body convulsing with the force of it.
âThatâs it, baby. Fucking take it.â
And he does. With everything heâs got.
You donât slow down. You donât stopânot when heâs this far gone. Not when his eyes are rolling back, not when his jawâs gone slack and his hands are pawing blindly at your hips like heâs afraid youâll disappear. His cock is twitching deep inside you, thick and swollen, pulsing like itâs too much for him to hold in. Like heâs going to break apart and youâre the only thing keeping him from floating off the bed entirely.
âYou feel that?â you whisper, dragging your hips up and slamming back downâhard enough to knock a sharp gasp out of him. âThatâs me doing the work. Not you. You just get to lie there like a good little fucktoy and take it.â
His breath shudders. You can see the way the words hit himâlow and deep and hot, turning something in his chest inside out.
His mouth opens, tries to form a sound, but nothing comes out. Just a gasp, a moan, something wrecked. You lean down, mouth against the sweat-damp skin of his neck.
âI could get off on this cock without you even doing a single thing,â you murmur, voice sharp as teeth and sweet as poison. âAll that talk about how good you are with your hands, how precise you are in the kitchenâbut in bed? Youâre fucking useless.â
He groansâfull-bodied and helpless. His hands clench on your thighs like heâs in pain, like the pleasure is boiling over and heâs barely holding it in. His face is flushed to his ears, hair stuck to his forehead in damp curls, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitching.
You grinâslow, dangerous, almost fond.
âPathetic,â you hiss. âYouâre so goddamn pathetic like this, Carmen. You like that, huh? Being used like this? Being told what a worthless little thing you are?â
His whole body jerks. His back arches off the mattress. âYesâfuck, yesâdonât stop, please donâtââ
You donât. You fuck him harder. Faster. The wet sounds of your bodies colliding fill the room, slick and obscene. His cock slips so deep inside you it punches little cries out of your throat, but you donât stopânot when heâs so close, not when you feel his stomach start to tighten and his legs begin to tremble under you.
You bring your hand to his throatâgentle at first, just resting there, just enough pressure to feel his pulse hammering. His eyes flutter open, dazed and desperate. You donât squeezeâyou donât have to. The look in your eyes alone has him panting like heâs about to die from it.
âYouâre gonna come for me again,â you say, low and firm and mean. âYouâre gonna come like a desperate little bitch because I said so. Because youâre mine. You hear me?â
âYes,â he gasps. âPlease, Iâfuck, Iâmââ
You slam down on him one more time, and thatâs it. His mouth falls open around a silent cry and he comesâhard. Harder than before. Harder than heâs ever come in his life. His whole body seizes beneath you, thighs clenching, spine bowing, his cock kicking deep inside you as he fills you with itâhot and pulsing and endless.
He doesnât make a sound at first. Just trembles. Just holds on like heâll die if he lets go. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, wet at the corners like heâs short-circuited, like whatever he just felt was too much to process in real time.
When it finally passesâwhen the shock stops rolling through his nerves and his body goes soft beneath youâhe blinks up at you like he forgot how to speak.
You pull off him slowly, carefully, your thighs trembling as you settle next to him. Heâs a messâchest heaving, sweat gleaming on his skin, hair ruined, come smeared across both your thighs. You reach for a towel and gently wipe him clean, pressing kisses to his jaw, his temple, the corners of his mouth.
He swallows hard. Blinks. Still not quite there yet. You drag your fingers through his curls and wait.
âYou okay?â you whisper, soft again. Stripped of cruelty. Honest.
He nods, dazed. âYeah. Fuck. Yeah, I justââ He lets out a long breath, like something thatâs been stuck in him for years finally dislodged. âThat was⊠insane. I didnât even know I could feel that much.â
You stroke a thumb under his eye, wipe away the tear you hadnât pointed out.
âI meant what I said earlier,â you whisper. âYouâre not useless. Not even close. Youâre so fucking good, Carmen. And I love you.â
His eyes cut to yours then, sharp and clear, and he smilesâsmall and warm and real.
âI know,â he murmurs. âYouâre sweet.â He leans in, kisses you lazy and slow, tongue dragging against yours like a man drunk on want. Then he laughs, rough and low. âBut goddamn, you look so hot when youâre mean.â
You grin against his mouth.
âLucky for you,â you whisper, âI love being mean to you.â
And from the look in his eyesâhungry, wide, reverentâhe knows you mean it.
i see zendaya hat theory currently trending on tiktok, i feel like we need to talk about jeremy allen white hat theory. the man cannot go anywhere with that hat and itâs slowly falling apart
But had I not eventually learned about the ways of physical love through gossip, hearsay, and foul words, God only knows what I would have invented once seized by the urge to touch another human being.
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