it's sophie's idea, which means it happens whether anyone agrees to it or not.
she's two and a half and she has natalie's eyes and her patience, which is to say she has no patience, and she'd announced hide and seek in the middle of a quiet afternoon by planting herself in the center of the living room and pointing at each adult in turn.
“hide,” she'd said. her cute face extremely serious. “now!”
pete had said okay, bug before anyone else had a chance to weigh in, which is how pete operates. richie had looked around for someone to back him up and found no one, because natalie was already covering her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing, and carmen had looked at the floor in the way he does when he's pretending not to find something funny, and you'd said yeah, okay, soph because you'd do pretty much anything that small person asked you to do and everyone in the room knows it.
so now sophie is standing with her hands over her eyes making sounds that are roughly one, two, four, two, seven in the confident tone of someone who has mastered counting, and five adults are scrambling.
richie goes for the bathroom. pete heads toward the bedroom. natalie mouths good luck at you from the hallway before slipping around the corner.
carmen grabs your wrist.
the touch is nothing. it's just his hand around your wrist, it's practical, it means this way and nothing else, and yet your pulse responds to it before your brain does, the way it always does, the way it has never once stopped doing since the first time he touched you.
he jerks his head toward the hallway cupboard — the deep one, sugar and pete's catch-all, full of coats and spare blankets — and his eyes have the specific urgency of a man who is taking this completely seriously.
you want to tell him it's too small. but you don't, because sophie has gotten to ten, ten, ten in a row and that seems like it might be her version of ready or not.
he opens the cupboard and you go in first and he follows and pulls the door shut and the dark closes around you both and then you are—
small. it's so small. coats pressing in from both sides and a shelf above and two grown people standing close enough that you can feel the heat of him before he's even touched you, that particular warmth that carmen runs at, slightly higher than a normal person, something you noticed a long time ago and have never stopped being aware of.
"carmy," you whisper.
he shifts, trying to make geometry work, and the shift brings him closer instead of further, and then he stops trying because there's nowhere to go.
you shift too, to avoid the corner of something on the shelf behind you, and the shift brings you into him. chest to chest. fully, unavoidably, completely.
the breath goes out of you.
not because it's unexpected — you’ve been pressed against carmen berzatto before, more times than you could count. you know this territory, you know the exact width of his chest and the way he holds himself and the particular solid warmth of him — but because knowing doesn't seem to make any difference. it never has. your body responds to his the way it always does, immediate and certain, like something in you simply orients toward him without asking for permission.
his hands find your waist.
slow. deliberate. not urgent — worse than urgent, actually, because it's considered, because he knows exactly where he's putting them and why, and when his palms press flat against you through your shirt you feel it everywhere.
you look up at him.
he's already looking at you.
the dark of the cupboard has made everything closer, quieter, more. his face is angled down toward yours and his eyes — even here, even in the low light — are that particular blue that does something to you, that has always done something to you, and right now they're moving over your face with an attention that makes your skin feel warm.
"yeah?" he says. lower.
from the living room: ready not! — sophie, delighted. then the small thundering of toddler feet.
neither of you moves.
his thumbs trace a slow arc against your waist and you feel your breath catch on it, feel your hands curl further into the front of his shirt, and there's a moment — a long, suspended, entirely inconvenient moment — where the hide and seek and sophie and the rest of nat and pete's hallway simply do not exist and it's just this. just the dark and the warmth and carmen's hands and the few inches of charged air between your mouth and his.
he feels it too. you know because you know him, know the specific quality of his stillness when he's holding something back, the way his jaw shifts, the way his eyes drop just briefly to your mouth before coming back up.
i know, his expression says. i know. i feel it.
"we should—" you start.
"yeah." he doesn't move.
his hand slides, almost imperceptibly, further around your waist. pulling you in by a fraction. just a fraction. just enough that the last of the distance between you disappears and you're fully against him now, and his exhale comes out slow and deliberate like he's managing something.
"bear." a whisper. his sweet nickname in your mouth in the dark.
"i know," he says, out loud this time, rough at the edges. "i know, we're—" a breath. "we're playing hide and seek."
"we're playing hide and seek," you confirm.
"with a toddler."
"with your niece."
"right." his forehead drops to yours. his nose bumps against yours in the dark and stays there, and you close your eyes and feel the warmth of him everywhere, the breadth of him, the steady, contained want of him — held back, measured — in the way his hands hover for a second before settling, careful even now. carmen, who is always careful. "we're not doing anything."
"we're not doing anything," you agree. your hands have moved up his chest without you making any decision about it and are resting against his collarbone now and you can feel his heartbeat and it is not slow.
"after," he says. low and close and directly against your cheek. "when she's asleep and richie's gone and nat and pete are—"
"yeah," you say. you don't need him to finish it.
"yeah," he says.
a beat. neither of you moves. the small warm dark of the cupboard. his hands, his heartbeat, his forehead against yours and his breath warm and close and careful.
and then daaaaddy! — sophie triumphant, somewhere down the hall — and pete's caught-and-good-natured response, and footsteps coming closer, and the two of you exhale at the same time like a held note finally released.
carmen pulls back. just enough. his hands stay on your waist one moment longer than necessary — deliberate, a punctuation mark, a later written plainly in his palms — and then he lets go.
the door swings open.
sophie looks at you both.
you look at sophie.
she has the profound satisfaction of a child who has found exactly what she was looking for.
“found ya!” she announces, radiant smile on her little face.
“yeah, soph,” carmy says. his voice is gentle and almost completely normal. almost. “you got us.”
pete is grinning behind her in the entirely sincere way pete grins at things.
“good hiding spot,” he says, and means it without irony, and carmen takes the out gratefully.
sophie has already grabbed his hand and is pulling him toward the living room and carmen lets himself be pulled, he always lets sophie pull him wherever she wants — but he looks back at you over his shoulder.
the blue eyes. warm and direct and full of a very specific, entirely unambiguous later.
you feel it in your sternum.
you follow them out.
in the hallway natalie falls into step beside you with the expression of someone who has seen everything and filed it thoroughly.
"the cupboard," she says.
"nat—"
"my hallway cupboard," she says pleasantly.
"we needed somewhere to hide—"
"uh huh." not even trying to suppress the smile now. she looks at you sideways, unhurried, with the particular knowing quality of someone who loves you and has eyes. "you okay there?"
"fine," you say.
"you look a little—"
"i'm fine, nat."
she hums, mocking you, and says nothing else, which is somehow louder than anything she could have said. you wish the ground would swallow you whole.
later, when sophie has been put to bed — carmen had done it, actually, sat on the edge of the small bed in the small room while she demanded the same book twice and fell asleep holding his finger, and you'd watched from the doorway and done nothing about what that did to you — richie had grabbed his jacket and said he had to go get eva from tiff and frank's, already halfway out the door, already calling back something at natalie that got lost in the sound of it closing behind him.
and then it's just natalie and pete doing dishes in the kitchen, their voices low, comfortable, the specific sound of two people at the end of a day they've shared for years. you can hear the water running. the clink of glasses.
the living room is dim. the television is on and neither of you is watching it.
you're on the couch. his arm around you, your legs across his lap, the familiar architecture of the two of you at rest. his hand is on your leg. it had been still for a while, easy and warm and absent, and then at some point it had stopped being absent.
his thumb moves. slow. the inside of your knee, barely. just the pad of his thumb, tracing something that isn't quite a shape.
you keep your eyes on the television.
his thumb moves again.
"carm," you say, quiet. a warning.
you look at him.
he's already looking at you — he's been looking at you, you realize, for a while, in that way he has where he's patient about it, where he doesn't look away when you catch him because he was never trying to hide it. the blue eyes in the low light of the room. the line of his jaw. the particular set of his mouth that you know, that you have learned, that means he is very still on the outside and not still at all on the inside.
his thumb stills on your leg but his hand presses, slightly. warmly.
later, his eyes had said, in the cupboard.
they're not saying later anymore.
they're saying soon. they're saying now. they're saying it plainly, the way carmen says everything that actually matters — without performance, without noise, just the full weight of it sitting right there on the surface of him where you can see it.
your pulse does something unhelpful.
"they're still in the kitchen," you say.
"i know," he says. he hasn't moved.
"we should—"
"i know." a beat. his hand moves on your leg. not the thumb this time, the whole hand, slow. "we should."
neither of you moves.
the water in the kitchen shuts off. nat's voice, pete's answer, the soft sound of them moving around each other in the easy way they do. you are very aware of them and very aware of carmen and very aware of the fact that his hand is warm through your jeans and his eyes haven't left your face.
"we could say goodnight," you say.
"yeah," he says.
"head out."
"yeah." the hand on your leg. his eyes. "let’s do that."
you look at him for a moment longer — the blond hair gone soft at the end of the day, the broad line of his shoulders, the careful wanting in him that he's not bothering to put away — and something in your chest pulls tight and sweet and certain.
"okay," you say.
you uncurl from the couch. he stands with you, close, and his hand finds the small of your back before you've even fully straightened, like it was already on its way there. like it knew.
sugar looks up when you appear in the kitchen doorway. takes in whatever is on your faces — whatever the two of you are wearing right now, which you suspect is not subtle — and the corner of her mouth moves.
"heading out?" she says.
"yeah," carmen says. easy. normal. the hand at your back not moving. "thanks for today."
"sophie loved it," pete says warmly. “she’s going to want to play again.”
"next time i'm hiding somewhere better," carmen says, and natalie makes a sound that is threaded through with laughter she's politely swallowing.
you kiss her cheek. she squeezes your hand, quick and warm, and says nothing, which is its own kind of saying everything.
the door closes behind you.
the night air is cool on your face after the warmth of the house. the quiet of it, just the two of you, the particular stillness after a full day, and—
carmen is looking at you and you are looking at him and the later from the cupboard is right here. it's right now. it’s been building all afternoon — his thumb on your knee in the dark of the living room and his hand at your back all evening and the whole long slow build of an afternoon that was never really about hide and seek.
his eyes move over your face. unhurried. like he has all the time in the world and has already decided exactly how he wants to use it.
your stomach pulls tight and low.
you know exactly what happens when you get home. you've known since later, since his eyes looked back and locked onto yours. you know and he knows and the quiet street between here and home feels suddenly very short and not short enough.
he offers you his hand.
you take it.
and you go home.
₊˚⊹♡
thank you for reading.
please reblog or comment. or both ☻
nutrition facts: 18+ themes, fem!reader, strippers, cursing, drinking, lingerie, male orgasm, pt. 1/2
Carmen could feel the place before he saw it. This part of town felt different from the rest; the air was thicker and warmer, thousands of perfumes overlapping and mixing with the smell of the sea air. Streetlights seemingly dimmer and farther between. The sidewalks thumped under their feet with the bass of 3 dozen bars and clubs in the surrounding 3 miles.
You wouldn't think Middle-to-Northern East Coast towns would be good party spots, but Richie swore by this town.
“I'm telling you, it's the perfect spot for your 27th!” Richie insisted. It took some convincing to visit this “hidden gem” of a sea-side city, but when Syd and Fak joined in with Richie's praises of the town, they managed to collectively break his walls down with only minimal threatening.
Richie strolls up to the bouncer, throwing an arm around Carmy's shoulders to keep him from running away. “It's my cousin's birthday,” he declares proudly. “Congratulations,” the bouncer says stoically. “ID and entry?”
“Entry?” Carmy glances at Richie, who was fishing in his wallet. The older man doesn't answer him at first, muttering to himself as he searches, so Carmy repeats his question, confused. “Richie, entry?”
“Twenty to get in, but I got it bro, it's your birthday. You're getting your own drinks, though,” Richie tells him, smacking his back.
They hand over their IDs for inspection which are accepted and returned. Richie pays the fine gentleman with the taser in his belt and they are ushered in.
The interior of the building is even darker than it is outside. Every booth and curved couch is sunken into the ground Conversation-Pit Style in a U-shape around the main stage. Curtains flanked the walls, most of them closed, all though some were open, revealing smaller rooms. Low lights made it hard to see, but that sort of felt like the point. It was easier to be unashamed of your actions when no one could see your face clearly.
As they sat, a girl soon approached, as if waiting just out of their original line of sight.
You crouch down beside the couch pit, smiling at the two men brightly. Carmen quickly looks away, embarrassed by your outfit, or lack thereof. “Good evening, gentlemen, is this your first time at Lucky's?” You ask them. “Not mine,” Richie speaks up. “But my cousin, yes. It's his birthday.” You gasp, turning to Carmen. “Oh, a birthday we say? How wonderful. And how old are you, sweetheart?” You coo, sitting with your feet hanging into the pit.
You cross your legs and he glances up at you, seemingly uncomfortable or maybe nervous. His eyes dart to your bare thighs, glittering with a body shimmer in the low lights.
“Um… 27,” he mutters.
You lean a little bit closer and your perfume washes over him in waves. “My my, not such a ‘sweetheart’ then are we?” You murmur, your voice low and warm. “Would you prefer a ‘sir’ as I serve you drinks and ass?” He hesitates, his tongue tying itself in knots in his mouth. His coherence lowers rapidly and a blush begins to spread across his face.
Richie laughs, clapping him on the back. “You can call him anything you want, darlin’,” he tells you, handing you a twenty already. “He's just a little shy. Would you mind loosening him up?”
You tuck the bill in your bra, raising an eyebrow. “Just a Jackson? C'mon, baby, you can do better.” Richie hands you more money from Carmy's pocket, against the blonde's protests. You see a flash of three more twenties and you slide into the pit, pushing Richie aside.
Instead of being offended, Richie just leaves, understanding that this was something only for Carmen.
“So, birthday boy, do you have a name?” You ask him, crossing your legs. He tries not to look at you, feeling a sense of guilt, like he was already objectifying you. As if the lingerie and poles didn't tip him off that that was the point of this place. “I um… Carmen,” he tells you. “Carmen,” you murmur. “Never heard that name on a guy before.” “Well, my mom was a character.” “I'm not saying I don't like it,” you assure him. He flashes a half-hearted smile and looks away again.
Damn. This might be the hardest 80 bucks you ever had to earn.
You catch the attention of the bartender, making a vague gesture and he pours two drinks. One of your coworkers brings them over to you. “Thank you, Katie,” you say, handing one of the drinks to Carmen. “What is it?" “Just a little whiskey. Don't worry, its house, not premium,” you say, sipping your own drink. He takes a small sip, then sets it aside. You prop your chin on your fist, watching him fidget.
“Is this your first time in a strip club ever?” You ask him softly. Carm goes tense, glancing at you with a slight worry, like you just found out a horrible secret of his. Instead of laughing or making fun, you just smile.
“I'm not really… that kind of guy,” he tells you. “This kind of place isn't really my scene.” “Well, what is your scene?” He sighs, scratching his neck almost anxiously. “Um… a kitchen.” “A kitchen? You cook?” “I'm a chef,” he confirms. “Oh, what kind?” He hesitates. “...Like what kind of food do you make?” You clarify.
“Oh, uh… Well, I own a place. In Chicago. A sandwich shop right now. But I'm hoping to turn it around, make it a bit more gourmet.” You lean in, tilting your head. “Oh? Where in Chicago?” “River North,” he tells you. “Oh, cool! I got family in West Town! What kind of gourmet are we talking?” He hesitates again.
Carmen hadn't expected you to be so curious about his personal life. Was this a Stripper Thing or just a You Thing?
“Y-y'know, just… pasta, steak… things,” he tells you, all his previous thoughts of a menu embarrassingly gone from his head.
You laugh, your head tipping back. “Pasta and steak and things. I'll have to stop by sometime when I'm in the area then.” He glances at you again, taking in your at-ease posture. You were so relaxed in this atmosphere. Was spending your nights in lingerie talking to nervous guys something you had needed to grow accustomed to or were you always so easy going? Would it be rude to ask you how you got into this line of work?
While you're looking away, he finally allows himself to really look at you. He insists to himself that it's simply curiosity and he's not objectifying you at all.
The way you were dressed seemed intentional, hinting at an innocence that was out of place in an establishment such as this. A black babydoll piece, fluffy and silken and see through, tied ribbons holding it up on your shoulders. Little black kitten heels adorned your feet. You seemed almost out of place. Almost. It was still lingerie, so you obviously were one of the workers here, but you just seemed… different.
“I uh… Never got your name,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. You supply it, the sounds rolling off your tongue in a manner that shouldn't have made him feel the way it did. “That's… a nice name,” he tells you, finally, for the first time in this interaction, meeting your eyes.
At the sight of his eyes, your face lights up. “Oh, your eyes are so beautiful,” you whisper, leaning in. He quickly looks away. “Thanks,” he mumbles. “No, I wanna- lemme see them again.” You move to look at his face again. For a moment he considers being childish and closing his eyes or covering his face, but that would be stupid. Despite his anxiety, he lets you catch his eye again and your smile so often. “They're so blue,” you murmur. He hesitates, but thanks you softly.
“You have wonderful eyelashes for a guy. And your skin is so clear. Do you have a routine or is it just genetics?”
This was certainly not what he pictured his first interaction with a stripper to be. You could be doing this simply to put him at ease since he was very obviously nervous. But this could also be your true personality and you genuinely wanted to know. He didn’t know which was better.
“Uh, just… wash my face in the morning,” he murmurs. “Ugh, lucky,” you sigh. “I wish that was all I needed.” “I’m sure you’re very beautiful without all of this.” Carmen reaches for your face, his knuckles just barely grazing your cheek before he quickly pulls his hand away, realizing that might be inappropriate. Your eyes widen, but you don’t pull away. Instead of being upset, you offer a smile. “Isn’t that supposed to be my job?” You tease softly. He looks away, stammering some form of apology that you don’t care to listen to. “Sweetheart, I’m messing with you,” you tell him.
“I’m still sorry. I know you’re not supposed to touch the…” “The strippers?” A blush touches his cheeks. He gives no form of an answer, too embarrassed to use that term out loud to describe such a beautiful and kind woman he was with.
“It’s alright if they give you permission and… I think I might do just that,” you tell him, scooting a little closer. The air between the two of you seems thicker. Whether it was a romantic tension or just his own anxiety, Carmen couldn’t tell.
You reach over, gently placing your hand on his knee. “Carmen…” His name sounds heavenly falling from your glossed lips. “Please don’t ignore me… I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” You didn’t mean to sound so sultry, but your tone made Carmy go red. Slowly, your hand moves a bit higher on his thigh. A tension fills him, his body going rigid as your touch nears his growing problem. He prays you don’t notice it, but it was impossible for you not to. Your eyes never left him. Your touch was inching right for it.
You had indeed noticed the tent in his pants, choosing not to verbally acknowledge it, but instead using touch and implication to show your awareness. It was a bit flattering. It meant you were earning those $80 his cousin gave you to “loosen him up”.
Suddenly, the wall seemed very important, because that was all Carmen would look at. “Carmen,” you purr, gently turning his face back to you. A small, strangled sound comes from his throat and he goes tense, well tense-er. “I-I'm not ignoring you,” he breathes. “Good… Because it's very rude, don't you know?” You whisper, rubbing his thigh. “I-I know,” he says, his voice shaking. “You look like a boy with good manners,” you murmur. “So why don't you… use them?”
He chokes on a gasp, his body going tense again as your fingers finally brush his growing erection. Just as you think you might finally be getting somewhere, a warmth spreads under your fingertips and the bulge begins to go down. You glance, surprised to see a wet mark covering his lap. Carmen is bright red, stammering and cursing and stuttering over apologies and such. He was positively humiliated. How the fuck did his birthday go from morning coffee overlooking the beach to cumming in his pants, practically untouched, in front of the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
You silence his apologies by kneeling in front of him, trailing a teasing lick up the front of his pants before standing again. “You're really cute,” you murmur, wetting your lips. “I hate to go, but… I gotta be onstage. I hope you'll forgive me.” Before he could respond, you tuck a card between his lips; a business card for the establishment but with the building phone number crossed out and yours scribbled below.
“Thanks…,” he breathes around the card, his eyes full of warmth and an emotion you didn't really have the name for. Whatever it was, it made your stomach turn. “Keep in touch, Carmen?” He nods quickly and you smile. “That's a good boy… Happy birthday.”
a/n: I have a confession to make- I never finished watching the Bear. the Fight or Flight it gives me is unparalleled and I genuinely had to stop partly through Fishes because I was so tense my Ceramics teacher actually came over to check on me l
like this one? well, I got plenty more where that came from! I even made a Masterlist
you’re sitting at the small table by the window, laptop open, half a cup of coffee gone cold beside you. something for work, something that needs your full attention — and you’re giving it. brows slightly furrowed, fingers moving steadily across the keyboard.
carmy’s been moving around the apartment for the past half hour. not loud. never loud. just… there.
drawer opens. closes. the fridge hums. a cabinet door taps shut a little too carefully.
he glances at you. once. twice.
you feel it, but you don’t look up.
he leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like he’s trying to decide something.
you still don’t look up.
he exhales, quiet, and pushes off the counter.
“hey,” he says.
“hm?” you answer, distracted, eyes still on the screen.
he hovers for a second, then steps closer. “what’re you working on?”
“just something i need to finish,” you mumble. “give me like ten minutes?”
he nods. “yeah. yeah, okay.”
he doesn’t move.
you type a few more lines before it registers — his presence, right there, just slightly too close.
you glance up.
he’s standing beside your chair, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweats, looking at you in that soft, unsure way he gets when he wants something but doesn’t know how to ask for it.
“what?” you ask, a smile tugging at your mouth.
he shrugs. “nothing.”
you raise an eyebrow. “carmy.”
a beat.
“…can i sit?” he asks, like it’s not his own apartment.
you laugh under your breath. “yeah, come here.”
that’s all the permission he needs.
he slides into the chair beside you, close enough that his knee presses against yours. then closer. until his shoulder is brushing your arm, warm and steady.
you try to keep working.
you really do.
but then his hand finds your thigh, absentminded, thumb tracing slow, idle patterns like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. his head tilts slightly, resting just barely against yours for a second before he pulls back, like he’s testing the boundary.
you don’t pull away.
so he does it again. this time staying there.
“you said ten minutes,” he murmurs.
“i know, i’m sorry,” you say, softer now.
“it’s been like… eight.”
you huff a quiet laugh. “you’re actually counting?”
“no,” he says immediately. then, after a second, “maybe.”
you finally close the laptop halfway, turning toward him. “you’re being clingy.”
he freezes.
“…’m not.”
you smile, reaching up to push a curl off his forehead. “you are.”
he looks at you, caught, but he doesn’t deny it this time. just shrugs, a little helpless.
“just wanna be close to you,” he admits, voice low.
that does it.
you soften completely, hand sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him in. he goes easily, like he was already halfway there, forehead bumping yours before his lips find yours.
the kiss is warm, a little desperate in that quiet way. like he’s been holding it in, like this is what he needed all along. his hand tightens on your thigh, the other coming up to cradle your jaw, grounding, anchoring.
you hum softly against his mouth, and he melts into it, tension draining out of him all at once.
when you pull back, he stays close, nose brushing yours.
“hi,” you whisper.
he smiles, small and soft and completely gone for you. “hi, baby.”
you close the laptop fully this time, setting it aside.
“ten minutes can wait,” you say.
he nods, drawn back to you by a pull he clearly can’t fight.
he catches your mouth with his again, before you can even say anything else. like the space between you is suddenly unacceptable.
your laugh gets swallowed by his mouth, soft and surprised, and his hand tightens on your thigh, pulling you closer — closer than you already are, like he’s trying to erase whatever distance was there before.
“carmy—” you murmur, smiling against his lips.
“yeah,” he breathes, not stopping.
he shifts in his chair, angling himself toward you fully now, one arm sliding around your waist. and then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he tugs you — gently but insistently — until you’re halfway in his lap.
you blink. “what are you—”
“stay,” he says, quiet, almost shy, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
you huff a soft laugh. “i am staying.”
“no, like—” he exhales, forehead pressing into your shoulder for a second. “like this.”
and there it is again. that honesty he only gives you.
you soften instantly, shifting properly this time, settling into his lap. his arms wrap around you like he’s been waiting to do that all day, holding you close, one hand splayed warm against your back.
he lets out a breath you feel more than hear.
“better,” he mumbles.
you run your fingers through his hair, slow, soothing. “you’re really not letting me go, huh?”
“no,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, steady vow. it isn’t just about this moment. it’s a claim on every second you’re willing to give him.
you smile against the sharp line of his jaw. “clingy.”
“…yeah,” he admits, after a second.
there’s no embarrassment in it now. just truth.
he nuzzles closer, face tucked into your neck, and for a moment he just stays there — breathing you in, grounding himself, like this is the only place he wants to be.
you tilt your head, pressing a kiss into his hair.
“what brought this on?” you ask softly.
he shrugs, but his arms tighten. “you were busy.”
“for ten minutes, babe.”
“yeah,” he says, like that explains everything.
you laugh quietly, but your grip on him tightens too, fingers tracing slow patterns along his strong back.
“you could’ve just said you missed me.”
he huffs, pulling back just enough to look at you. “i did.”
“no, you hovered,” you tease.
he narrows his eyes a little, but there’s no heat in it. “same thing.”
“not even close.”
he leans in again, stealing another kiss, slower this time, like he’s proving a point. his thumb brushes along your side, absentminded, grounding, like he needs to keep feeling you there.
when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.
“i missed you,” he says properly this time.
your expression softens, completely undone by how sincere he sounds.
“i was right here,” you whisper.
“yeah,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “i know. still.”
you don’t argue with that.
you just wrap your arms around him, settle deeper into his hold, and let him keep you there — as long as he wants.
your laptop sits forgotten while you kiss for what feels like hours. and carmen berzatto doesn’t loosen his grip once.
The thought of giving Carmy a handjob in the car on your way to a dinner date 😵💫😵💫
He looks too good not to. Out of his normal garb, donning instead a pair of slacks that hugged his thighs just right, and a baby blue button up rolled to his elbows, he has you drooling. Toughened forearms on display, shiny wristwatch bringing attention back to his veiny hands—those hands that make you so soft, so pliant for him, those hands that do everything for you. And the way he drives you wherever you please, with one hand gripping the wheel and the other squeezing your thigh, or toying with your hair, or held in your hands.
He couldn’t be sexier if he tried.
You first strike at a red light. You take his free arm into your grasp, thumbing at the sinew the way he likes, and purr as you kiss the back of his hand. “Carmy?”
“What’s up, baby?” He stays facing forward, illuminated by a red glow, yet brings your hand to his lips so you get a kiss of your own.
Leaning in a bit closer across the console, you graze your hand up his neck and by his jaw. “Can I have a kiss?”
His eyes flit your way, shooting back to the traffic light. Still red. Smiling, he urges you his way. “Gotta make it quick, alright? Light’s gonna—”
But you kiss him before he can say too much, humming an Mhmmm to say you understand, deep and sensual and definitely leaving behind a stain of lipstick he’ll have to scrub off before entering the restaurant.
Just in time, he pulls away to check the light ahead as it turns green. He’s too sweet not to apologize for the inconvenience, so he brings your knuckles to his lips—even though you’re fucking insatiable, and your hand slips to his chest, then sternum, then stomach, then his belt—
“Baby,” he warns, “You’re distractin’ me.”
But you kiss his jaw, fresh with aftershave, and kiss his pulse even harder. “You just look so handsome, honey,” you whine, palming over the front of his slacks, “Don’t wanna wait till after dinner to have you.”
He groans, then, white knuckles the wheel, hisses with an intake of breath. He’s hard already, you can feel it, throbbing beneath your hand, arousal swirling in your gut and making you press your thighs together.
“Please, Carmy, jus’ lemme help you…”
Yeah…help. As if you didn’t get him wound up in the first place.
“Y’know…” He pauses, weighing what he wants versus what he knows he should do. “It’s not safe to drive like that.”
A kiss to his cheek, then his jaw, your voice purring in his ear: “I’m not the one driving.”
“Baby—”
See, now, you know that tone—it’s firm, and it’s demanding, with next to nothing behind it. Flush runs up past the collar of his shirt, and he takes one hand off the wheel to grab that pesky hand of yours, bringing it to his lips again like it’ll turn you off course.
You send him those babydoll eyes. “Just lemme see it, please?” Then a hand on his lap, another kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be good for you…”
Before the syllable can trail off to completion the car jerks to the right with a mumbled Sorry, baby slipping past his lips as he peels onto a side street.
The car stops.
Your lips curl into a smile.
A deep sigh leaves his chest, his hands go for his belt, his head rears back. “You’re fuckin’ insane, y’know that?”
“Maybe.”
There’s little else for him to do other than give you what you want. Well, there’s that, and then cleaning the lipstick off his face, and wiping the mascara from under your eyes once he’s done with you.
And, hey, only five minutes late for the reservation? No harm, no foul.
a/n: carmen berzatto is more than smut i promise lol
it happens in line at the bakery.
you don’t even realize you’ve done it until carmy goes very still beside you, like someone just pulled the emergency brake on his nervous system.
“yeah,” you’re saying to the girl behind the counter, pointing vaguely at him, “my boyfriend wants the sourdough, but i’m getting the pain au chocolat.”
boyfriend.
the word barely finishes leaving your mouth when you feel it — the shift. the silence. the stare.
you turn your head: his jaw is tight. eyes narrowed. offended. genuinely offended.
“boyfriend?” he repeats.
you blink. once. twice. “yeah?”
a sharp, frustrated breath leaves him, and for a moment, he looks truly stung. you’re used to his irritation; you’ve watched him weather his sister, richie, and the endless chaos of the faks. but this time, the annoyance doesn't quite hide the fact that he looks actually, deeply hurt.
“i’m not your boyfriend.”
the girl behind the counter freezes, pastry halfway into a bag. you immediately panic.
“oh my god — no, sorry — he is — i-i mean—”
“i’m not,” he says under his breath.
you stare at him.
“carm,” you say, lowering your voice. “are you serious right now?”
he looks at you, incredulous. “yeah. yeah, i’m serious. that’s not… accurate anymore.”
the girl behind the counter is very invested now.
you grin, reaching up to hook your fingers into the heavy wool of his collar. your thumb finds a sliver of warm skin at the nape of his neck as you pull him slightly closer. “i didn’t think you’d mind.”
he shrugs, but there’s something soft under it. “i don’t. i just—” another pause. “i like the other word.”
a snort escapes you. he’s being so absurdly sincere that you don’t know whether to poke fun at him or pull him into a kiss regardless of the strangers watching.
he won't let it go, doubling down. “we did a whole thing. w-we slow danced. there was a ring.”
you lift your hand between you, wiggle your fingers so the light hits the ring. “this ring?”
“yeah,” he says, satisfied. then, quieter, “that ring.”
you lean in, pressing a feather-light kiss to his cheek, lingering just long enough for him to feel the warmth of your breath. the noise of the crowd fades as you whisper the word directly into the space between you: “sorry, fiancé.”
that hits him different. you can tell. his shoulders relax. his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
“thank you,” he mutters.
the girl behind the counter clears her throat. “so… two sourdoughs?”
carmy pauses. looks at you. then says, “yeah. for my fiancée.”
you laugh so hard you almost miss the pain au chocolat.
outside, walking down the street, he laces his fingers with yours, grip warm and solid.
“you can call me whatever you want,” he says, like he’s thought about it. “just… not boyfriend.”
you squeeze his hand. “heard, chef.”
he side-eyes you.
you grin. “i’m just kidding, baby.”
this time, he smiles. it’s a soft, prideful look that reaches his eyes. he knows it’s almost irrational, the way he’s making such a production out of this, but he can't pass up the chance to hear you claim him. loving you has made him realize he’s allowed to be a little greedy for once. and he isn’t about to stop now. not when he’s this far gone. not when he’s so irrevocably all in.
creating a new menu for the bear with carmy that turns into sucking oil off his tattooed fingers or dragging a piece of lamb down the ridges of his abs… licking a wet trail down his hips… cockdrunk on his shitty kitchen counter while he goes in detail about the meticulous process of the puréeing the orange that his tongue laps off your sensitive nipples… food play!
turnnoffyourmind
jbbartram-illu
baratheonpilled
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
snowghoul
kianamaiart
stormborns
dededos
