So ummm... Just an idea (not request) but like, Carlos nearly loses himself in the mission and so he decides to confess to reader that he loves her and needs her and then boom, it can continue with the 'mind blowing' stuff that you so perfectly write🙃
I Think I Do (Carlos Oliveira x F!Reader)
⟡ Notes: 10k words SHEESH, NSFW (MDNI ‼️), slowburn-ish, friends to lovers, reader taking care of carlos post raccoon city, some fluff, tease, slight mentions of carlos's past and tyrell's death, confession, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, squirt, p in v, SOFT DOM CARLOS 😩, no protection, pulling out, dirty talk, praises, multiple orgasms, carlos & reader work for umbrella, carlos almost infected, timeline mostly set after raccoon city chaos in RE3R
⟡ A/N: this is a lengthy one sorry (or not 😋) thanks to this anon for giving me this idea mwah!! i had SO much fun finishing it and honestly half of it is smut LMAO sorry im always down bad for this man. also I took the creative liberty about reader’s job (she’s like a weapon/supply specialist so she works in the armory) cuz i wanted her to have a cute moment with him before he skrrttts off to RC 🥺, also a tiny tiny bit of change in RE3R plot. happy reading you carlos sluts i hope you like it <3
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Gun oil and cold metal – that’s what the armory always smells like. You're used to it by now, that smell, the weight of a rifle in your hands, the pre-mission checks. You got the sleeves of your olive-drab coveralls rolled to the elbow.
A squad ships out to Raccoon City for a mission in less than an hour. Your job is to check everything before these weapons head into whatever hell is waiting for them.
You're halfway through the function check on the assault rifle when you hear it. Boots on the ground, stepping closer. You already know who it is before you even look up, just from the sound of it.
“How's my kit, partner?”
Carlos Oliveira – U.B.C.S. corporal, stupidly handsome, a flirt, and constitutionally incapable of walking past the armory without stopping every time he sees you in there.
Others stop by out of obligation – they hand off their weapons, do a quick check, and get out.
But Carlos… Carlos pulls up a crate and stays. Talks to you about quite literally everything. Asks if you've eaten. Shows you new knife tricks. Cracks dumb jokes. Flirts without ever really committing to it.
He just talks to you like he’s got all the time in the world even when he doesn’t. Like right now.
It should be irritating – having someone in your space, talking your ears off and distracting you from work.
But somehow, it’s really, really not. That's the problem.
You've spent a considerable amount of time thinking about what it would be like if you and Carlos were… something more.
There's something between you two, maybe. It’s been there for a while. But work is demanding and missions don't stop, and wanting things in this line of work feels like a liability. So you decide to leave it where it is.
“Not your partner,” you reply jokingly.
Carlos gives you a playful pout, then puts up a hand on his chest. “Ouch. Bullet right through my heart.”
You chuckle at his antics. “Your kit’s ready. Though I can’t guarantee the gear is smarter than the guy using it,” you mutter, setting his rifle down.
You’ve finished the check. You move to the workbench where his tactical vest and belt are laid out, but instead of grabbing them, Carlos just sits there on his crate, smiling at you.
“What are you smiling about, creepazoid?” you say, “Aren’t you nervous?”
“A little. Watching you work helps, a bit.”
You flush, hoping it’s not evident. “You’re leaving in thirty minutes, Oliveira. Gear up.”
He doesn't move. Instead, he looks at the heavy tactical vest on the workbench and then back at you with a look of feigned helplessness. “You know, these straps are a real pain. Hard to get the alignment right by myself. I wouldn't wanna go into a hot zone with a lopsided vest.”
“Are you serious?” You blink at him, deadpan. “You're a grown-ass man. You’ve been wearing that gear for years.”
“But it’s Raccoon City, big one tonight,” he says, stating the facts. He nudges your side with his elbow, leaning closer to you. “Come on. Be a pal? Last time I checked, making sure our gears are sitting in place properly is literally your job.”
“Fine. Only because you’re in a hurry,” you huff, not arguing more, knowing he’s leaving soon.
As you lift the heavy vest, you step closer to him. “Get up, you big baby.”
He grins and obliges. You lift the vest over his head, letting it settle onto his shoulders, the weight of it dropping into place across his chest.
“Hmm,” he looks down. “I can feel the quality control already.”
“Shut up and hold still,” you say, and you almost manage to sound annoyed about it. You reach for the side buckles at his ribs, fingers working the clips, close enough now to catch the scent of his cologne. You linger a second longer than necessary, wishing you could just wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest, breathing him in.
Your hands run along the front pouches to make sure everything is seated. He’s still looking down at you, now with a goofy smirk.
“Could get used to this view,” he murmurs.
You roll your eyes a bit, mustering the strength not to flush at what he just said. He just always knows the right things to say. “Don't want you coming back with injuries because I missed a buckle,” you reply.
Your hands move to his belt next – holster on the right hip, mag pouches on the left. Then the combat knife, tucked into place on his vest. Finally, you pick up the rifle and hold it out. He takes it and slings it across his chest.
“All set, Corporal.”
“Thanks,” Carlos looks down at himself, then back at you. “Can I… ask you something?”
You look at him, raising your eyebrows in permission. He props his elbow on the workbench, turning to face you, his body angled toward yours. His other hand moves to the back of his neck, scratching the area… Like he’s nervous.
“When I get back,” he says quietly, “can I take you out? You and me, somewhere nice — would you say yes?”
Underneath all the charm, he’s just the smallest bit nervous. You can tell by the way he’s watching you, slightly more still than usual, like he’s actually holding his breath a little.
You stare at him.
“There’s literally a city-wide outbreak in Raccoon City, Carlos,” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, “…and you’re asking me out?”
“Terrible timing,” he agrees, scrunching one eye like he knows exactly how that question landed. “Yes or no?”
Your face is warm. You look back down at his kit, making a show of checking something that doesn’t need checking, buying yourself some time to compose yourself.
Yes, you think. Absolutely yes, obviously yes, fuck yes; I thought you’d never ask.
“Come back alive in one piece,” you say instead. You glance up at him. “Maybe I’d like a proper date.”
The smile that breaks across his face is different from his usual ones, like you just gave him something he wasn’t sure he was gonna get.
“Yeah?” he says excitedly.
“Don’t make it a big deal,” you try to say it nonchalantly.
Suddenly, you hear Tyrell calling out. “Oliveira! Time to go!”
He stands up straight, getting ready and putting on his comms. You both exchange one last look.
“Good luck out there,” you nudge his arm with your elbow. “Stay alive.”
Carlos gives you a two-finger salute before he jogs out to his squad. “Don't miss me too much!”
With him gone, the armory goes unpleasantly silent. You realize you've never wanted a mission to end so quickly in your life.
He better come back. You’d hate to cancel that date.
—
Six days.
That’s how long it’s been since Carlos walked out of the armory with that two-finger salute. Six days of you going through the routine. Six days of feeling like something’s missing.
You know better than to expect updates. Soldiers come in, soldiers come out, and in between there is nothing but the work, the waiting, and the art of not thinking too hard about what’s happening on the other side. You’re usually good at that. Not when it’s Carlos, though.
On the sixth night you're still at it – tired enough to feel it behind your eyes, not tired enough to stop. You're so deep in the work that you almost miss the sound of footsteps coming from outside. His footsteps.
Carlos is walking toward you.
He’s still pretty much armed – like he came straight here. The state of him makes your chest tighten. There’s dried blood matted at his temple, a cut on his lip and cheekbone. A deep bruise is already darkening along the line of his jaw, and a nasty, bloody scratch runs across the bridge of his nose. On his upper arm, a scratch has torn right through the fabric of his shirt, leaving the skin underneath raw and bloody. Even his knuckles are split and bruised.
It’s not just the injuries, though. His face and arms are covered in some spatter of blood and grit. He’s a mess of soot, sweat, and crimson, standing in the armory’s entryway like he’s not quite sure he’s actually made it back.
But he's alive. In one piece.
“Hey,” you set down what’s in your hands. “You’re back.”
He stops his tracks in front of you, close. His expression is tired, in a way you've never seen him before.
“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”
He pulls the rifle off his shoulder and sets it down on the workbench. Then he just stands there, and you reach without thinking and start working the buckles on his vest.
You look at him carefully while your hands move. You lift the vest off and set it aside, then pull up a chair – because it's more comfortable than his usual crate —and sit him down. He leans back, elbows on his knees, eyes down. Quiet in a way that doesn't suit him at all.
Standing in front of him, you ask, “Are you o–“
He looks up at you. “I almost didn't come back.”
The words land flat. He's not looking for a reaction. Just saying it – the way you'd say something you've been turning over for days and finally got tired of carrying alone.
Your body stays still, processing what he just said. You don't say anything and wait.
He reaches up and drags a hand through his hair – that thick hair, damp at the edges, more wrecked than you’ve ever seen it – and exhales slowly through his nose.
“The hospital,” he starts. “Spencer Memorial. We were in there looking for a vaccine – whatever, doesn’t matter right now. But while we were in there, a horde came through. Zombies, going in through the lobby windows, just– wave after wave. Me and T were holding the line.” His jaw tightens. “One got through and I didn’t see it in time. Bit me on my shoulder.”
Your stomach drops.
“I knew immediately,” he says, quieter now. “There’s this burning… like something’s already moving under your skin before you’ve even processed what just happened. I’ve seen what the virus does to people up close. I knew exactly what was coming and how long I probably had.” He pauses. “I kept fighting, because what else was I supposed to fucking do? But the whole time, in the back of my head, I kept thinking – this is it.”
He's holding it together. You can tell it's taking effort.
“I thought about the guys I watched turn,” he continues. “How fast it happens. How there’s a moment where they’re still there, and then something shifts and they’re just… gone. I kept wondering if I’d feel it when it started. If I’d know.”
He looks down at his hands. “Tyrell got to me in time. He had the vaccine, found it while I was on the line. Injected me himself,” a breath leaves his mouth, “But for God knows how long in that lobby I was completely sure I was going to turn. That I’d become one of those things and T would have to be the one to–” He stops, doesn’t finish it. “Yeah.”
You press your fingers to your lips. Your eyes are stinging and you don't trust yourself to say anything.
“He saved my life,” Carlos says, his voice dropping lower, rougher. “T saved my life in that hospital. And then–” he stops. Swallows. “This fucker Nemesis got to him. Impaled him.” He brings his thumb and forefinger to his forehead, rubbing there like he’s trying to think straight. “There was nothing we could do.”
He exhales.
“That was it.”
You don't say anything. There's nothing well-chosen for this, it feels like clever or comforting words aren't gonna land right. So you just step forward, stand between his legs, and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in.
Carlos goes still, like the hug short-circuited his brain. He doesn't quite know what to do with it. You feel the hesitation and start to pull back.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to–“
Before you step back completely, his arms find your waist and take you in.
“Don't,” his voice is quiet, muffled slightly against you. “Don't let go.”
So you don't. You settle back into him, arms around his neck, chin resting on top of his head, his face pressed against your chest. Neither of you moves.
You let yourself feel it. The stupid, overwhelming relief of him being here.
“I’m so sorry about T,” you say it quietly, meaning it. You feel him exhale against you.
“I can’t imagine what it’s like out there,” you pause, “Every time someone walked in here these past few days, I– I hoped it was you. I'm really glad it was this time.”
There’s a slight change in how he’s holding you – tighter.
“I’m here,” he pulls back just enough to look up at you, smiling – first time since he came back. “Sorry it took me a minute.”
You chuckle at him. He rests his forehead against your middle again. You stay like that for a moment.
Then you hear him exhale, “I– I don’t wanna be alone tonight.”
You're quiet for a second. Your hand moves without thinking, resting lightly on the back of his head.
“You can– um, come back to my place, if you want,” you say carefully, still deciding if it’s okay to offer. “It's not much but, I– I could clean you up, if– if you want.”
His exhausted eyes met yours. For a second he just stares into them, making sure if you mean it. You tilt your head slightly. I mean it.
“Yeah,” he says. “I'd like that.”
—
He steps inside and his eyes land on your string of pearls by the window first.
“Cute plant,” he says.
“Thanks. Don't touch it.”
He moves further in, hands in his pockets, just looking, taking it all in quietly. He likes it, the place screams… you. It feels lived-in, warm. The dim lights, the small living room, the bookshelf, the blanket over the arm of the couch.
Then he stops at the shelf.
There's a photo there, of two young girls, shoulder to shoulder, grinning at the camera.
“Who's this?” he asks, picking it up carefully.
“Me. And my sister,” You're in the kitchen now, running your hands under the tap. “I was about twelve and she was… nine.”
He looks at it for a moment longer, then sets it back down gently, exactly where it was.
You dry your hands and pull out a chair at the small dining table, the wood scraping softly against the floor.
“Sit,” you say. “I'll get you some water.”
He sits, and you set a glass of water in front of him. He drinks.
Then he just watches you – filling another glass for yourself at the tap, pushing your hair back, moving between the counter and the cabinet. You’re not even paying attention to him. Just existing in your space, comfortable and easy, completely yourself.
He’s only ever known you as someone at work. He didn’t know about this version of you – at-home, unguarded.
He thinks he likes this one best.
You lean against the counter and look at him properly under the kitchen light. The bruise, the cuts, the dried blood. All that and he still looks handsome as ever.
“Come on,” you push off the counter before he catches you staring. “Bathroom. Let’s clean you up.”
He follows you down the short hallway without argument, then sits on the closed lid of the toilet.
“One sec,” you say, slipping out to your bedroom. You take off your dirty coveralls, leaving you in your fitted black t-shirt and leggings.
You dig through your drawer and pull out your biggest black t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants – they’re massively oversized on you, so you hope they’ll fit him. You bring them back to the bathroom and set them on the counter, then reach under the sink for a clean towel and set it on top of the pile. You grab the first aid kit while you’re down there, and bring it back to where he’s sitting.
“You always this prepared?” he asks.
“I work in an armory, Carlos.”
“Fair enough.”
You fill a small bowl with warm water at the tap, drop a clean cloth in and set it down before pulling up a stool so you’re roughly at his eye level.
Starting with his temple, you carefully wipe it with the damp cloth, working slowly so you don’t reopen anything. He goes very still under your hands, letting himself be taken care of.
You move to the cut on his lip, dabbing antiseptic gently. He winces slightly.
“Sorry,” you murmur.
“S’okay.”
You work carefully across his face – the scratches and the bruising at his cheekbone that you can’t do much about except note how dark it’s gotten.
“Hey.”
“Hm?”
“Thank you,” he says. “For this. For all of it.”
“No worries,” you give him a soft smile. “Almost done.”
You finish up his face with the last of the antiseptic. Then you move to his arm, working through the cut there carefully while he watches you in silence.
You can feel his eyes on you. You keep focusing on his wounds, avoiding eye contact.
When you’re done with his arm you pause, glancing briefly at his shirt.
“Anything under there I should look at?” you ask. “Any open wounds?”
“Probably a bruise or two,” he shrugs. “Better check just to be safe, though.”
You look at him to make sure, then back down at the kit. “Okay, so,” you clear your throat, “c– could you take it off? So we can check.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up. “Yes, ma’am.”
You feel your face heating up. Cheeky bastard. Hope he can’t tell.
He reaches back and pulls his shirt over his head in one motion and sets it aside.
You look up and – okay.
You know abstractly, how Carlos is built. You felt it when you helped him with his vest, and when you hugged him in the armory.
But there’s a huge difference between knowing it abstractly and having it right in your face at 2 AM, under bathroom lighting.
Holy shit. Broad shoulders. Arms. Abs. A chest that– you drag your eyes down to his front and sides to check the bruises. This is completely fine.
You get up to check his back. Oh god, his back.
There doesn’t seem to be any open wounds, so you sit back down on the stool. “Yeah, a few bruises. I’ll give you some salve later.”
He just nods.
“I’m glad I ended up here tonight,” he says.
“Me too,” you mean it more than it sounds. You start putting things back in the first aid kit.
He still doesn’t move. He’s deciding something – working up to it, the same way he did in the armory with the elbow on the workbench and the hand at the back of his neck.
“I’ve been thinking about saying something to you for a while,” he says. “Before all of this even. I don’t wanna… not say it.”
You look up. Anticipation rushes through you.
“And you just–” he starts, then stops. Almost laughs at himself. “I’ve been thinking about us. I don’t really know what to call it.”
He looks down for a moment.
“I don’t really know why I came straight to you tonight. I probably should’ve gone to debrief. Or slept. I haven’t slept properly in six days.” he pauses. “But I just – ended up in the armory. I thought you’d be there.”
He exhales slowly. “When I was in that hospital, waiting to find out if the vaccine was gonna work – my head just started going. When you think you’re done, it’s just– everything sorta came up at once. My family. My childhood. The guys I lost. All of it. And then there’s you.”
He lets out a chuckle. “You kept coming up… out there. Not in some big way. Just… in the middle of things. When it was bad. You’d just show up, uh, in my head,” he’s a little uncomfortable with his own honesty, it’s evident from that slight tension in his jaw. “Kinda weird, I know. But it’s– it happened enough times that I figured it meant something.”
You go still, giving him the space to keep going.
“I’ve always been in fucked up situations. I grew up in the middle of wars that were never really mine to begin with. Lost people young. Was fighting for my life before I was old enough to know better. By the time Umbrella found me, I’d watched everyone around me get killed and… I walked out the only one standing.” His eyes land somewhere on the floor, his head replaying all the things he’s been through. “That was most of my life.”
Your heart breaks hearing this come out of his mouth. You feel your eyes sting a little.
“So I– I don’t really have a reference point for… this,” he gestures slightly at the space between you. “I’m used to people leaving. Or dying. Or me being the one who has to walk away.”
He looks more vulnerable now. “But you just – stay. You put up with me showing up and talking your ear off. You’re so…” he pauses, searching for the word, “…kind. Like genuinely. You talk to me like I’m worth talking to.”
He huffs a small laugh, embarrassed by his own honesty. “Sounds like a low bar, I know. But for me,” he trails off. Shakes his head slightly. “Fuck, it makes– you make everything feel a little more worth it. Being here. Coming back.”
He looks down on the floor. “I’ve never felt this way about anybody. That's… that might be why I keep annoying you while you work. I don’t even fully know what this is. But I should probably just say it.”
His eyes find yours.
“I think I– I love you,” he says it a little helplessly, “at least – I think that’s what it is. That’s what it feels like when people say it, right?”
You blink at him, taken aback, not knowing what to say. He goes silent too.
He holds your gaze for a while, then his expression softens, letting you off the hook before you even respond.
“You don’t… have to say anything back,” he says quietly. “I just needed to get that out.” He exhales. “After I almost di– after Raccoon City, I just feel like, I need you to know. How much you mean to me.”
You’re completely at a loss for words — not because you don’t feel it, but because you do, and you don’t know what to do with that right now. You stay still for a bit.
You clear your throat and swallow before opening your mouth.
“Go shower,” you say softly, then tap on his knee. “W— we can… talk after.”
He lets out an exhale and nods.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
You get up, discarding the water in the bowl, tuck the first aid kit back under the sink, and straighten up.
“Clean clothes and towel are by the sink,” you say.
He stands, glancing over at the pile. He picks up the shirt, holds it out, looks at it. Then looks at you.
“Whose are these?” he pulls that cheeky smirk and squints his eyes. “You bring guys back here often?”
“N-no! They’re mine,” you say immediately. “I like wearing oversized. I hope they fit.”
“Suuure,” he says, drawing the word out to tease you.
“Stop, it’s the tru—”
“I believe you,” he ruffles the hair at the top of your head.
“Wash all that Raccoon City dirt off,” you say. “Stink.”
He laughs – warm and genuine, the realest version of it you’ve heard all night. You pull the bathroom door shut behind you.
—
You lean over the kitchen sink, watching the kettle being filled with water at the tap. You need to do something. Anything. If you stay still, your brain might actually short-circuit. So you decided to make tea.
You move to the stove and turn the heat up, then grab the kettle and put it on the burner – with some of the water inside it spilling out because you’re shaking.
I think I love you.
The words are stuck on a loop in your brain, echoing in Carlos’s voice. You huff a breath that’s half-laugh, half-sob.
This was supposed to be just another regular day.
“I love you”? While he’s shirtless? At 2 AM? The fuck?
He’s in my shower. He’s using my vanilla-scented body wash. And he thinks he loves me.
You reach into the cabinet for a mug, but your brain is so fried that you find yourself holding a cereal bowl instead. You stare at it for a good five seconds before sighing and putting it back.
“Get it together,” you whisper to the empty kitchen. You finally snag a mug and drop a tea bag in.
While the water heats, you lean your behind against the counter, your heart hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears.
Why didn't you just say it back? It was the perfect moment. The ambience was there – dim lights, you were literally in front of him, he was shirtl– he was vulnerable. You could have just leaned in and ended the mystery right there.
But no, your dumbass called him “Stink” and told him to go shower. Now you’re left thinking about how you should bring up the conversation once he comes out.
The kettle whistles, startling a small yelp out of you. You pour the water, watching the tea steep and darken. You take your mug over to the small dining table and sink into the chair. Your right leg is bouncing a mile a minute. You take a sip, nearly scalding your tongue.
You’re happy. Your work crush just confessed that he loves you. God, “happy” is an understatement. But now you’re tangled up with a massive knot of "now what?"
Do you bring it up as soon as he walks out? Or do you wait and just make him tea first? Or coffee? What the fuck does he even drink? Is there a protocol for responding to a confession?
You take another sip, trying to steady your breathing. You want to tell him. You need to tell him. You just have to figure out how to say it without sounding like a total dork. You’re not about to let him think he’s in this alone. Maybe you should make hi–
“Hey, where shou–”
“Christ, Carlos! What the fuck.” You jump at his sudden voice, lucky you aren't holding the hot tea.
“Wow, wow – chill! What are you so tense about?” he’s already laughing, hands up.
The fact that you just told me you love me and I said go shower. And your bare chest was right in front of my face. That’s what.
“You’re so doing that on purpose,” you say instead, pressing a hand to your chest.
“I wasn’t, I swear!” he’s still laughing, leaning against the doorframe in your oversized black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair damp, looking comfortable and clean. “I was just gonna ask where I should put my dirty clothes.”
You exhale. “I’ll get you a bag.”
You find one in the kitchen drawer – you keep them for groceries – and hand it to him. He takes it, tucks it under his arm.
“Thanks.”
You just nod. He disappears into the bathroom again and you hear the rustle of him sorting his clothes. You turn back to your tea. Your heart is still going at a completely unreasonable pace.
He comes back and pulls out the chair across from you at the small dining table and just sits. It’s quiet for a moment.
“D– do you want anything?” you ask. “Tea, coffee?”
“Coffee would be nice. Black is fine.”
You get up, grateful for something to do, and start making it. Behind you you can hear him settle further into the chair and the quiet sounds of your apartment. You don’t even dare to look back and see what he’s doing.
When the coffee’s done, you set the mug in front of him and sit back down with your tea.
Quiet again.
He wraps both hands around the mug. You look at yours. Somewhere a clock is ticking and neither of you is saying anything and the confession is just sitting there – an elephant begging to be addressed in that room.
“I showered,” Carlos breaks the silence.
You look up, confused. “…Okay…?”
“You said we could talk after I washed off the Raccoon City dirt.”
Fuck. “Oh.” You blink. “Right. Yeah.”
He raises his eyebrows slightly.
You look back down at your mug. You turn it slightly in your hands.
“I didn’t know,” you start. “About any of that. Your past, the fighting – all of it. I mean, I still don’t know much,” you pause. “I had a feeling you’d been through tough things. Well, I guess everyone has. But I didn’t know the shape of it – of the things you’d been through.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“And I don’t – ugh, I’m not good at this,” you continue, legs still bouncing up and down. “Saying things like this. Never really have been. So, just… bear with me.”
He nods. “I’m listening.”
“Our jobs… can get pretty lonely,” you say. “Like, for me, people come in, grab their gear, leave. Maybe a little small talk. And I’m not complaining, I know everyone is just doing their job, as I do mine,” you shrug slightly. “That’s just how it is. After a while I stopped expecting anything different.”
He’s watching you. You keep your eyes on your mug.
“And then you started coming in,” you pause. “And I thought – this is just what he does, what guys do. He’s like this with everyone. I thought I was just… convenient. Someone to talk to while he waited.” You almost laugh. “I kept thinking, what’s so interesting about me? Why does he always talk to me?”
He leans back on the chair.
“But you kept coming back. Every single time. And you’d ask if I’d eaten, and you’d just – yap. About everything. Nothing. I barely even had to say anything, you did most of the work,” you smile a little, “Somewhere along the way, I just stopped… minding. It became something I started looking forward to.”
You play with your fingers out of nervousness.
“But it never felt like too much. It felt like you actually wanted to be there.” You look back down. “I mean, I don’t know if you actually did want to be there. And I don’t know if you know what that does to a person when they’re not used to it.”
He does, he does know. He feels the same way about you.
“Every time you shipped out I’d just – wait. And I didn’t even realize I was waiting until you walked back through that door and I could– like, finally breathe again,” you’re even shakier telling him this.
His eyes on you soften.
“With everything, though – BOWs, our jobs – everything feels taxing enough already... So I kept telling myself it was nothing,” you continue. “Routine. Proximity. Stupid crush on someone at work, everyone has it. That’s all. And I really believed that for a while.” You shake your head slightly. “I was so full of it.”
He huffs and looks down at his coffee.
“But the truth is, I don’t want whatever this is to end. I don’t want you to stop coming by,” your voice drops a little. “You make it feel less lonely. All of it. This whole stupid world feels less unbearable when you’re around.”
You feel your eyes well up a little, “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just so used to you. At work. Nobody’s ever just been there like that. Like you.”
You look down at your tea for a second.
“But after what you said earlier–” you pause. “I don’t know. It feels like something I don’t want to walk away from. Like something worth – figuring out… together.”
That gets his attention. He looks up to see your face.
“I– I love you too,” you mutter quietly. But sincere. “I think. I’m–” you have no other words to express it, “yeah. I think I do.”
You let out a heavy sigh, like it had been bubbling up in your chest and was finally breathed out. You take a sip of your tea – an attempt to calm yourself a bit.
Carlos is looking at you with that cheeky expression, smiling like a goof in love. Literally what he is.
“Yeah?” He crosses his arms on the table and smiles.
You meet his eyes and immediately bring your hands up to cover your cheeks, hiding the flush creeping up them. “Stop, don’t give me that look.”
“Nooo, let me see you,” he laughs, “Come here? Sit on my lap.”
You hesitate at first. He reassures you by tapping his thighs lightly. So you stand, and he reaches for you, hands finding your waist, guiding you down until you’re settled sideways across his lap – your legs draped over one side, his arm coming around to keep you there. Your forearms rest on his shoulders.
“Can I ask you something?” Carlos looks up at you.
“You’re going to regardless.” You roll your eyes.
“Can I kiss you?”
Your gaze moves to his lips.
“You have a cut on your lip.”
“Baby, I survived Raccoon City. I think I can handle your lips on the cut.”
He just called you baby.
“Okay,” you say.
So you both lean into each other, you’re slow and careful, mostly because you’re afraid you’re gonna open that cut and hurt him. But he kisses you deeper, like he’s telling you he doesn't give a flying fuck about it.
His hand comes up to your jaw and you lean into it. You stay like that for a long moment, just kissing, until you both naturally slow and pull back just enough to take a breath.
“So,” you say quietly, against his mouth almost. “What now?”
He’s quiet for a second, looking up and down your body, thumbs tracing small circles at your waist.
“Whatever we wanna call it,” he says. “I know what I want,” he kisses you again.
He breathes against your sweet lips, “I’m all yours. If you’ll be all mine.”
You pull back just slightly and nod. “I’ve been yours,” you smile. “You… you got me right in the palm of your hands. You just didn’t know.”
“So all my yapping worked?”
“Ugh, I can’t believe it did.”
He laughs and continues to draw circles on your thigh, “Say it again.”
“Say what?”
“Say you love me again.”
He’s looking up at you with his sweetest pleady eyes now — not child-like, but like the next thing out of your mouth is the only thing that matters to him right now.
You lean down again and smile against his lips, then you say the words, “I love you, Carlos,” you move to his cheeks, his chin, and back to his lips, “I love you.”
His hands find your hips and he shifts you until you’re facing him properly, straddling his lap. You go without resistance, settling there, and he pulls you back into the kiss.
It deepens. His hands move up your back, pressing you closer, and you go – fingers finding the back of his neck, holding there, feeling the warmth of him underneath you, the closeness of it.
His lips move to your cheek, your jaw – he works his way down to your collarbone, and presses his lips there.
“I love you,” he says against your skin.
His hand snakes up to the back of your neck, fingers curling there, and you lean into it without thinking — head tilting slightly, giving him room. He moves to your neck, lips warm against your skin.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs there, “how long I’ve thought about saying it,” more kisses. “About doing this.”
The words do something to you. You let out a quiet whimper – your fingers curling into his hair.
“Yeah?” you whisper.
He presses his lips to the side of your throat, just below your jaw, and you feel him nod against your skin. His hands hold you by your waist, then move to your back, up between your shoulder blades, tracing the line of your spine back down.
“Me too,” you admit quietly, into his hair.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. A chuckle escapes him in disbelief, and he shakes his head.
“All this time?” he asks.
“All this time,” you echo.
He kisses you again, and this time it’s different – deeper, slower, his tongue tracing against yours. His hands find the hem of your shirt, fingers slipping just underneath, warm against the skin of your waist. Just feeling your weight on him.
“Carlos,” you whimper against his lips.
“Hm.” He pulls back just slightly to look at you, eyebrow raised. “So that’s what it takes.”
“What?”
“Didn’t know you made sounds like that,” his lips are back on your collarbone, amused.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you reply.
“Baby, you just moaned my name.” He grins. “I’m 100% flattering myself.”
“Shut uppp,” you breathe.
“No, I like it,” he says simply, and keeps going.
His mouth travels down to your chest – not far, just the upper curve of it, the space just below your collarbone – warm and slow, and your breath catches in a way that has nothing to do with laughing anymore. Your fingers find the back of his neck, holding there.
“Carlos,” you say softly, not stopping him, just saying it.
“Yeah,” he says against your skin.
His hands are still warm under your shirt and you're very aware of how close you are and how late it is and how neither of you is making any move to stop.
You pull back slightly.
“Do you, um–” you start, feeling breathless. “Aren't you tired? Like, do you want to actually sleep? I can – my bedroom has a proper bed, you can–”
He looks at you, smiling but also knitting his brows in confusion.
“I'm saying like,” you continue, losing ground rapidly, “you've had a really long week and if you wanna just– sleep, that’s–”
“Is that what you want?” he asks while putting his lips back on your neck.
“I–” you pause, because the way he’s holding you, there’s no way you’re choosing sleep over this. “No.”
“Okay,” his eyes are on your lips, his thumb caresses your jawline. “Then why are we talking about sleeping?”
Your face is warm. “Just thought you're maybe– tired. I didn't know how to–” you gesture weakly at the two of you, “…say it.”
He looks at you for a moment, then tucks a strand of hair back from your face.
“Hey,”he says. “Do you want this?”
“Yes, Carlos,” you whisper.
“You sure? You can say no,” he caresses your cheek. “Say the word and we can just…” the corner of his mouth pulls up, “…sleep.”
“You piss me off,” a chuckle leaves your mouth, “I– I don't wanna sleep.”
“Okay,” he's smiling now, “Me neither.”
You give him a quick peck on the lips, and nod down the hallway.
“My bedroom,” you say.
Without any warning whatsoever, his hands find the backs of your thighs and he lifts you off his lap.
You grab his shoulders on instinct, legs wrapping around him. “Carlos–“
“Shhh,” he's already walking.
“Am I not– heavy? I can walk, you know–”
“Nope,” he says, completely unbothered. “Stop worrying.”
He nudges your bedroom door open with his foot and sets you down just inside it. You both stand there for a moment in the low lamplight, his hands still at your waist.
“Mmmh,” his lips find yours again, hands landing to cup your cheeks.
He pulls back just to check in with you.
“Still okay?” he asks.
You just look up and nod.
“Use your words,” he commands softly.
You feel wetness pooling in your panties as he says that.
You breathe in and nod again, “Yes, still good, Carlos.”
“That's my girl.”
He pulls his shirt over his head and lets it hit the ground. When his hands find the hem of yours, the heat of his palms against your waist makes you shiver. You lift your arms, letting him draw the shirt up and away until the cool air hits your skin.
His fingers continue to hook into the band of your leggings, and he draws them down slowly, kneeling as he goes. He kisses your thigh on the way down – one side, then the other.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. A kiss higher up. “So fucking perfect.” Another. “You have no idea.”
Your hand finds his hair without thinking, fingers curling there.
He helps the leggings past your ankles and straightens back up. You're already sliding the straps of your bra off your shoulders, and he watches for a second before his hands come up to help – fingers finding the clasp at your back, undoing it slowly until your bra lands on the floor, leaving you bare in just your panties.
He steps back just slightly, getting a good look of your nearly naked body. His chest rises and falls.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You're so beautiful.”
His hands reach for your waist and he turns you gently, positioning you in front of him so his chest is warm against your back, both of you facing the mirror in your bedroom.
His big arms wrap around your waist, head resting on your shoulder, and he looks at your reflection.
“Look at you, baby,” he says in your ear. “All mine.”
Your eyes flicker to the mirror and immediately away. You turn in his arms instead, pulling him into a kiss – easier than looking at yourself like that. He goes willingly, smiling against your mouth.
You pull back from the kiss, fingers finding the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging slightly. He looks down at your hands, takes over – pushing them down and stepping out of them, kicking them aside.
You look down.
Oh. Fuck. You are not fully prepared for that.
For a good few seconds you’re just staring down at his cock. Carlos, of course, notices.
“See something you like?” he asks, clearly enjoying the look on your face.
“N– no, wait no, I– I mean, yes,” you stutter.
“Take your time,” you can hear the smirk in his voice. “I got all night.”
He looks down at himself, then back up at you. “You wanna hold it, baby?”
Instead of answering, you press your hand on his bicep, guiding him towards the bed. He takes the hint, stepping back until the backs of his knees find the bed and sitting down, propping himself up on both hands behind him – looking up at you, waiting.
You lean in and press your lips to his, then trail your open-mouthed kisses down to his neck, shoulder, collarbone, down his chest, feeling his muscles under your mouth.
His breathing changes, like he’s working to keep it steady. “Ahh– baby,” he brings his head back, feeling the pressure of your mouth all over him.
You kneel down, continuing your kisses to his abs, and you feel it tighten under your lips as you work lower.
As you come face to face with his cock, he tips your chin up with his finger and caresses the corner of your lips with his thumb.
“You don't have to,” his eyes meet yours softly.
“I want to. Just–” you pause, “Let me take care of you? Please?”
He exhales slowly, a bit shaky. How could he resist that look on your face right now, kneeling down in front of him?
“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he says under his breath. “Yeah. Okay.”
You take him in your hand first – feeling him, learning the weight of him. He's already hardening fast and you stroke slowly, getting a feel, thumb brushing over the tip, and he exhales through his nose above you.
He's looking down at you with dark but patient eyes.
You lean forward and press a kiss to the tip – sweet, and innocent. That earns a low grunt from his mouth – that’s… none of those things.
Then you slowly take him in.
He brings his hand into your hair immediately – gripping slightly, fingers curling, like he needs something to hold onto. You start slow, working him carefully, learning the sounds he makes and what causes them.
“Babe, fuck…” he moans.
When you take him deeper, angling so the tip of him hits the back of your throat for a second, he gasps.
“God– yeah, right there,” he breathes, grip tightening in your hair.
So you do it again. You feel his thighs tense up.
“Shit, baby, you– ahh,” hollowing your cheeks pulls something out of him that starts as your name and dissolves into something more like a hiss.
You pull back after a moment, a string of saliva breaking, and spit into your palm, working it all over him with your hands.
He looks back down at you, jaw tight. You take his cock all the way in again, knowing by now that his length reaching the back of your throat is what makes him fall apart the most – and his hand tightens in your hair.
You gag on his cock – eyes watering some more.
“Just– just like that,”the words come out rough out of him. “Taking my cock so fucking well.”
You hold his gaze, head bobbing, mouth wet and slobbering, spit trailing down your chin.
“Baby, fuck… look at you,”he takes a good look at your messy face. “You feel s– so good.”
You pull back, catching your breath, blinking the tears back.
His hand loosens in your hair at once. “Hey – you okay?”
You look up at him, eyes wet at the corners, and nod.
His thumb comes up and brushes the tears welling on the corner of your eye.
“Yeah?” he tilts his head slightly, watching you. “Think you can take more, baby?”
You answer by leaning forward and pressing a slow kiss to the tip again, making him gasp. His hard cock is back in your mouth, feeling your cheeks hollowing around it, tongue dragging slow along the underside as you bob down.
“Dios, baby– fuck…”
The way he’s falling apart above you gets you going. You take him all the way in again – tip hitting the back of your throat – and hold. Your throat tightens, eyes watering, and you stay there until you physically can’t anymore before pulling back with a wet popping sound, catching your breath, chin wet, eyes streaming.
“Christ,” he breathes above you. He’s shaking. Actually shaking.
“Shit, babe– ohh, look so fucking good like, this…” he eyes drop down at you. His hips buck slightly and he reins it back immediately, cursing under his breath.
His controlled breathing and smug composure are gone. It’s just him, gripping your hair, making sounds he’s given up trying to muffle.
“You’re s– so good. Your mouth– around my cock like that…” he breathes. “Gonna make me c–” he can’t even finish that sentence.
The praise does something to you. You keep going even though your jaw starts to ache. You don’t wanna stop — not with the sounds he’s making, not with the way his hips keep making those small desperate movements he can barely control.
You feel him getting close. So does he. But he can’t. Not yet.
“Hey,” his voice comes out wrecked. “Hey – hey – come up here,” he exhales hard, “You’ve had your fun. Let me have mine, yeah?”
You pull back slowly, releasing him, catching your breath. You look up at him, your eyes teary, hand wiping your wet and swollen lips. He’s on the verge of cumming just looking at your face, still kneeling like this.
“Fuck,” he breathes, looking down at you. “Where’d all that come from?”
You smile at him, licking your lips. “Was that good?”
He tilts his head, eyebrows raised. “Good?” He chuckles, “Baby, you’ve been holding out on me.”
You tilt your head too, matching his gesture. “You never asked.”
He laughs and leans down, “God, I love you,” a kiss, “so much.” Another peck.
He reaches down and takes your hands, pulling you up from your knees. You push yourself up, legs slightly unsteady, and he steadies you with both hands at your waist for a second to make sure you’re upright – before walking you back toward the bed.
“Lie down for me, baby,” he says, voice still rough.
He draws you up immediately and lays you against the mattress. You scoot back toward the middle of the bed and he follows, settling beside you on his side, propped up on one elbow, looking down at you.
“Hi,” he says. His hand caresses the side of your breast.
“Hey,” you breathe.
His hand moves down your stomach, his eyes stay on your face the whole time – watching – as his fingers find the waistband of your panties and pull it down your legs.
“Okay?”
“Yes,” you say immediately. “Yes, please–”
His hand moves lower until it finally reaches your embarrassingly warm and slick pussy, already aching for his touch.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re soaked, baby.” He strokes again, “That for me? All of this for me?”
“Yes, Carlos…”
“Mmm,” His lips find your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw – trailing down your throat, your collarbone, until his mouth finds your breast. He takes it in his mouth, you feel his tongue circling your nipple, and you arch into him. He moves to the other, giving it the same attention, his fingers never stopping their pace below. “Good girl. So wet for me.”
He circles your entrance once, twice – and then pushes a finger in slowly, and you gasp, head pushing back your pillow.
“Fuck…” he whispers under his breath. “Feel that, baby? So nice and warm for me,” he curls the finger slightly and you cry out his name. “There she is.”
“Please,” you breathe. “Carlos, more – please–”
“Yeah?” He keeps the pace slow, watching your face. “You want more?”
“Yes – please, yes–”
He adds a second finger, slow and careful, and the stretch of it makes you grip the sheets.
“S– shit,” you whimper.
“Too much?” His eyes are on you immediately, pace stilling.
“No, don’t stop – please… Don’t stop–”
He starts moving again, deeper now, and his mouth sucking your breast at the same time, making you whimper helplessly – surrendering entirely to whatever he wants to do to you.
“That feel good, baby?” his voice muffled against your chest. “Look at you falling apart on my fingers.”
“Carlos, I’m – I need–”
“Yeah, tell me what you need, baby,” his pace builds, fingers curling. You grip his wrist down there.
“More,” you gasp. “Please – can you – put in one more–”
He pauses and kisses your cheek, “I’m not hurting you?”
“No – please – I need–”
“Greedy,” he murmurs against your skin, and then he pushes the third finger in. He hears you gasp. “Tell me if it hurts, yeah?”
“It doesn’t– fuck, feels so goo– so good, Carlos,” the stretch of it makes your whole body seize up, thighs snapping together instinctively before his knee nudges your inner thigh.
“Stay open for me,” he says. “That's it. Take it.”
Your hand fists in the sheets, hips rolling desperately against him, completely unable to stay still.
“Look at that,” he breathes, watching you. “Such a greedy little cunt, huh?” His fingers curl and you sob. “That's it. That's my girl.”
“Right there,” you gasp. “Right there, Carlos– please don’t stop…”
“I won’t,” he breathes against your skin.
“Close, aren’t ya?” He feels your pussy clenching around him. “Come on. Give it to me, baby.”
Just a few more thrusts and you do – your pussy tightening its grip around his fingers, his name coming out of your mouth like a prayer.
“Carlos I’m c– hnghhh, Carlos!”
“I’ve got you, baby. Cum now.”
Your body jolts, your back arching off the mattress as your pussy clenches around his fingers. As you hit the peak, a sudden rush of fluid splashes over his fingers and onto the sheets. You let out a high-pitched cry, your head falling back as you ride the wave, stunned by the sensation.
His fingers keep working you through every second of it until you’re loose, shaking, and staring up at the ceiling – trying to steady your breathing.
Carlos doesn't move. You watch him through the fog of your own exhaustion as he stares down at the dark, wet patch blooming on the sheets between your legs. He takes in the sight of the mess you've made.
“Fucking hell, baby,” he breathes, smiling with pride.
“I– I’m sorry,” you stammer, your voice small with embarrassment and worry as you look at the wetness on the bed. “I didn’t... I’ve never done that before.”
His eyes snap up to yours, a mix of shock and hunger. “You kidding me?” He lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. “Don’t you dare apologize for that.”
He brings his dripping fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean while his gaze stays locked on yours, pinning you to the mattress. “Mmm, tastes so good. Fuck, I didn’t know you could do that.”
He doesn't let you look away. His fingers quickly find your waist, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you right where he wants you.
“God, seeing you lose control like that… for me.” He moves on top of you, resting his forehead against yours.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, bringing his lips to yours, just barely grazing them. “Wanna taste yourself on me, baby?”
You nod and lean your head forward to kiss him, but he pulls back just a bit to tease you. He chuckles at your eagerness, “Nasty girl.”
You let out a whimper at that, and he finally cuts you off with a deep, possessive kiss – letting you taste the salt and sweetness of your own release on his tongue.
“Can I taste you some more?” he rasps against your mouth, then trails his lips down to your neck.
You say nothing, body still freezing from the high.
“Please?” he begs, lips moving even lower to your chest, to your stomach.
“Yes,” you whisper, bringing your hands up to his head, tangling your fingers in his hair.
One last kiss to your lower stomach, and he settles firmly between your thighs, the bulk of his shoulders forcing your legs wider. “Mine now.”
He hooks his arms under your knees. He leans down, pressing his mouth directly against your bare, swollen heat. He inhales the scent of you deeply, before letting out a heavy, hot exhale that hits your clit with warmth.
He starts with a slow, flat drag of his tongue, licking from the very bottom of your opening all the way up to your hood, lapping up all that slick he tasted on his fingers.
“Oh… Car– Carlos…”
Your fingers tangle deep into his curls to anchor yourself. He doesn't hold back, using the rough texture of his tongue to tease you, circling your clit until you’re squirming against his mouth. You feel his beard stubble grazing your inner thighs.
“Carlos— ahh,”
“Mmm,” he hums against you, and the vibration makes your hips jerk. You instinctively try to close your thighs around his head, overstimulated – but he forces them back out.
“Stay still. Keep 'em spread f’me,” he grunts, anchoring you down. He buries his face in you, his tongue working you with a deep and steady pressure.
“Carlos, fuck— your mouth…” you moan, your head tossing back against the pillows.
“Yeah? You like my mouth on this tight little pussy, baby?” he muffles against your skin, his voice buzzing directly against your clit.
Carlos’s hand moves up to your lower stomach, pressing down firmly to keep you pinned against the mattress while his thumb finds your clit. He starts circling it relentlessly, pinning the sensitive bud against his thumb while his tongue devours you.
“Tell me how it feels. Talk to me.”
“It feels... ahh... it feels so good,” you sob out, your hips bucking instinctively against his mouth. “Carlos– yes... right there.”
He picks up the pace, his licking becoming more frantic. He’s sucking on you, mouth a hot vacuum-like pressure that has you gripping the sheets.
“Carlos! Oh god, Carlos... I'm– ah! I'm gonna–”
“God, you’re so wet for me,” he grumbles, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your pussy, sending a fresh wave of electricity through your nerves. “You like that? You like when I take care of you like this?”
“Yes, yes—oh god, Carlos,” you gasp out, your head tossing back against the pillows. Your breath is coming in short hitches, and every time you try to speak, it’s broken by a moan.
“So fucking perfect,” he groans against you, muffled and low. “You taste so fucking good. You have no idea – my girl. All mine...”
“Carlos, oh god I’m about to– please…”
“I’ve got you.” His thumb keeps circling, his tongue isn’t stopping, your thighs are shaking against his hands, and you’re gripping his hair hard enough that you’ll apologize later. Right now you can’t think about anything except him and his mouth claiming every inch of you.
“I’m, I can’t– Carlos… I’m gonna–”
“Yeah you are,” he growls against your trembling pussy. “I can feel you, mmmh–- give it to me, baby.”
The orgasm crashes through you harder than the first time. More overwhelming. Your whole body arches off the mattress, his name coming out of your mouth as a desperate sound. His hands hold you down through every shudder until you’re completely spent, legs trembling, fingers loose in his hair.
He slows. Soft kisses to your inner thigh, your hip, easing you back down.
“God, you're fucking perfect,” he rasps, looking up at you. He crawls back up the length of your body, the heat from his skin radiating against yours as he settles on top of you.
He cups your face in his big hands and pulls you into a deep, messy kiss – giving you a taste of yourself on his tongue once again.
As the kiss deepens, you feel his hard cock grazing against your inner thigh, showing you how much he wants you.
He pulls back just an inch, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw as he searches your eyes. “You ready for me, baby?”
Your heart hammers against your ribs, your hands sliding down to grip his arms. “Yes,” you breathe, though a sudden thought makes you hesitate. “But... I don't have, uhh,” you swallow hard, “a condom.”
Carlos lets out a rough, self-deprecating huff of a laugh, his forehead dropping against yours for a second. “Yeah... I’m clearly not prepared for this either,” he breathes. He pulls back to look you in the eye, his expression more serious. “You still okay with this? We can stop. I don't want to push you.”
“I’m okay,” you whisper, sliding your legs up to lock around his waist, pulling him against you. “I want you, Carlos.”
“Want you too, baby. I’ll pull out, yeah?” his voice drops, more protective. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
You nod.
He takes himself in hand and drags the head of his cock slow through your opening, and you inhale sharp.
“Fuck… Feel how wet you are for me,” he murmurs. Then, slowly, he sinks into you.
One long, deep slide that fills you completely, and you both go absolutely still — foreheads together.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck — you feel — god, you're so tight. So warm.” He pulls back and sinks in again, deeper, and you let out a yelp. “Feel that? Feel how good we fit?”
“Yes,” you shudder. “Yes, please – move…”
So he does. Long, slow strokes at first – all the way out and driving back in, and you feel every inch of it once again. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, your hands finding his back, his shoulders, anywhere you can reach.
“That's it,” he breathes out. “Just like that. Stay right there. Let me do the work, baby.”
“Carlos–”
His pace builds gradually. You’re still face to face, breathing each other's air. One of his arms is braced beside your head while his other hand brushes the hair from your forehead, his touch soft even as every thrust drives deep inside you.
“You're so beautiful,” he says, rough and sincere, looking down at you. “You know that? Lying here, taking me so well… So fucking beautiful.”
“Hhhh, Car–los…” his name comes wrecked out of you.
“Yeah,” he breathes. "Feel my cock stretching your tight little pussy, baby." He thrusts in deeper and you cry out and he swallows the sound with his mouth. “Like that? You like it deep?”
“Yes, fuck– yes!”
“Yeah you do,” he says, satisfied. “My greedy girl.”
The rhythm builds, each stroke hits harder now, and you're gripping his back hard enough it’s leaving red marks. His mouth moves to your throat – sucking slightly on the skin – then your jaw, and comes back to your lips.
“I love you,”he says. Mid-thrust, against your mouth. “Fuck, I fucking love you, baby.”
His words warm you from the inside out, leaving you completely soft under him.
“I– I love you too,” you breathe, arms now around his neck.
“I know,” he says, voice rough. “I’m here.”
The closeness of him, the weight of his body against yours, the wet sounds of his thrusts, the way he keeps looking at you like you're everything… It's all too much and not enough at the same time. You feel it coming.
“Carlos — I'm gonna — I'm–”
“I feel you, baby,” he breathes immediately. “Let go. I've got you.”
And you do – clenching tight around him, his name tearing out of your mouth, your whole body shaking through it. He doesn’t stop moving – slower now, groaning low against your throat as he feels you pulse around him.
“Fuck,” he curses. “Squeezing me so tight – yeah, baby, squeeze my cock just like that – you feel so fucking good, ahh,” he exhales, hips still rolling. “So good. You're so good.”
You're still trembling, oversensitive and barely catching your breath, when he pulls back to look at you.
“Can you give me one more, baby?” he says under his breath.
“Carlos, I can't,” you shake your head weakly. “I'm still– I'm still sensitive…”
“I know.” His lips find your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I know. Just one more.” His pace slows, giving you a second. “Please, baby. One more, yeah? I need you with me.”
You look up at him, and you genuinely can’t say no to him.
You just nod, a soft, breathless "okay" leaving your lips.
So his pace shifts again – harder, deeper, the sound of it filling the room. His thrusts feel more desperate as you’re both getting close.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “That's it. Just feel it. Feel all of me.”
“Carlos, Carlos– I can’t… I–“
“I know, me too, baby,” Forehead dropping to yours. “Come with me. Come on, baby.”
His pace builds, both of you chasing that release now, and he groans just barely putting his lips on yours, “I can feel you – shit, baby,”
“I can’t– fuck, I’m cumming!”
“Now, baby,” he grits out. “Right now. Give it to me.”
And then it hits both of you at once, your whole body seizing, his name tearing out of your mouth as he pulls out and spills his hot, sticky cum all over your stomach.
“Fuck… ah–” his groan is low and guttural, shuddering through his whole body, hips still moving slightly through it. “Baby…”
Your bedroom goes quiet except for the two of you breathing – unsteady, slowly coming back down. He drops beside you, chest heaving, his face turning toward yours on the pillow, then rests his forehead on your shoulder. You stay like that for a moment.
His breathing slows first, then yours. He presses a sweet kiss to your shoulder before sitting up.
“Lemme clean you up,” he says softly, reaching over to your nightstand for tissues. He wipes the mess on your stomach up gently and thoroughly.
“There,” he tosses the tissues aside. “All good.”
He settles back next to you. “C’mere, pretty,” he pulls you into his chest, arm wrapping around you. Your head finds the space just below his collarbone.
“You okay?” he says as his hand moves slow and warm up your back.
“Mhmm,” you hum against him, then look up at him. “Are you okay?”
“Never better, baby.”
He kisses the top of your head, breathing in the scent of your hair.
“So,” you mutter, “We just skipped the whole date, huh.”
He lets out a low laugh, chest rumbling under your cheek. “Oh, shit,” he rubs your arm. “Yeah, we did.”
“You owe me a date, Oliveira.”
He chuckles against your hair. “I'll take you on thousands of dates,” he hooks a finger under your chin and tilts your face up. He leans in, pressing his lips onto yours before murmuring, “Wherever, whenever. Just say the word, baby.”
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