requests are open! just read this before requesting!
characters i write for (currently):
- carmen berzatto from the bear
- lip gallagher from shameless
- shane mccutcheon from the L word
others interests:
- boygenius but especially julien baker
- films (especially horror, greta gerwig, david lynch or oldies)
- fashion and books and really anything art related
important info regarding smut
- iâm completely fine with writing smut just some limits, also i write for fem!reader
- things iâm okay with writing : dom/sub dynamics, age gaps (legal ofc), bondage, somno, pet play, spanking and types of hitting like that, airplay, and honestly most things unless noted below
- not okay with: anything non consensual or abusive, really just anything odd or illegal
yea thatâs itâs! iâm just here to write and be horny and yearning over fictional characters so i hope we can have fun! love ya!
theyâre making a gene wilder biopic and lowkeyâŚi hope JAW doesnât go for itâŚ.maybe itâs because im personally so sick of biopics and hes done a lot but i just wanna see him do something different idk
major TW; disordered eating | minors dni. dni. dni.
pairing: anorexic!reader x chef!Carmy
blurb: you were hired to photograph Chef Berzattoâs dishes. you didnât expect him to notice you never ate it. between late nights at his restaurant, his attentive nature, and a growing attraction neither of you could ignore, Carmen slowly teaches you that food isnât the enemy. unfortunately for your sanity, he was also infuriatingly handsome.
warnings: 18+ NSFW, eating disorder themes/recovery, but surprisingly body neutral, no use of y/n, slow burn, coworkers to lovers, mutual pining, feelings realisation, hurt/comfort, eating encouragment, body image issues, food intimacy, smut w a plot, body worship, praise kink, very subtle size difference, a little primal play if you squint, dirty talk, emotional sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v sex, possessive!Carmy, protective!Carmy, reader-insert
a/n: full transparency. i have never watched the bear, so please excuse me if it might be a little ooc. i was inspired by a twitter post suggesting an anorexic x chef dynamic, and just thought a fic would be more fun to read.
word count: 5.8K
*read part two: sustenance here
part one: hunger
food. food. food.
a necessity for all living beings. something that we, as a consequence, all grow to form strong opinions on. we develop likes and dislikes, we engage in long debates over which cuisine tops the other, but what may be a love language to some may simply be a routine to others.
for you, food was a touchy subject. you loved it growing up, but through repressed and half forgotten experiences, you came to find that the only guarantee of control you could have, was over what you ate. over time, this need for control became compulsive.
your google history revealed late night searches for âhow to make myself throw upâ, wasting hours scrolling mindlessly through sketchy forums for an answer. to say you tracked calories to the exact decimal, was an embarrassing understatement; every grain of rice on your spoon was accounted for, you compared nutrition charts at the grocery store the same way people compared prices, and you obsessed over staying within a calorie range dangerously low for a twenty-four year old woman.
calorie restriction consumes your entire being. most days, you could only think about your next meal, or lack thereof rather. you thought about eating the same way a drowning man thinks about breathing: constantly but never quite in reach of it.
your obsessive tendencies started around the ripe age of fourteen, and it naturally led you to fall into photography. because at first, it was practical.
photographing your meals became another way to document what you ate, to reassure yourself that every calorie was justified. before you knew it, what started as a ritual of control evolved and soon you became fascinated by the way food transformed under a lens. the gloss of olive oil on fresh pasta, or the curl of steam rising from a bowl of soup. behind the camera, food felt safe; you could study it, admire it, perfect it, without ever having to taste it.
by the time you were graduating high school, you felt as though you were just aimlessly drifting through. truthfully, calorie restriction had taken up so much of your energy that by the time you had to make a decision about the direction of your life, you had long forgotten what you actually liked to do, talk about, or even spend time on. it seemed like everyone in your social circle knew exactly who they were and what they wanted to be. everyone except for you.
a yellow box room tucked in the far corner of the school, hidden behind the senior staff offices, was where it began. you sat there in a rickety wooden chair opposite the guidance counsellorâs desk, a bulky computer atop it acted as a dividing screen. the only sounds that filled the room were the creaks of the chair as you nervously bounced your feet, and the clacking of the counsellorâs keyboard as she aggressively typed away. your palms started to sweat and you desperately rubbed them on your jeans as you awaited the dreaded question:
ââŚso, have you thought about what you want to do after high school?â a run-of-the-mill question, one that she had to ask everyone called into the office, but one that still had your heart dropping in sheer panic.
âummmâŚâ you began trying to fill the uncomfortable silence after her pointed question, but your mind went blank. she pulled her glasses down to the tip of her nose and tilted her head to peer down at you. you felt so small and soo helpless. your head sank, averting your gaze to your feet, and you started to wonder. what do I care about? the question reverberated through your mind repeatedly. what do I actually care about? before you were aware of it, you had unconsciously mumbled, âfood.â your voice meek and hoarse from your increasingly drying mouth.
her eyes lit up after coaxing a response out of you that she thought she would have to wait all day for. âgreat! pho..tog..ra..phy.â she enunciates, while resuming to type in the form she had open for you. you picked your head back up sharply and stared at her with furrowed eyebrows, utterly confused.
âphotographyâŚ?â
she grinned, a weak attempt to comfort you. she knew that sometimes the best way to deal with directionless adolescents was to nudge them toward one, this was her bread and butter after all. âfood photography. restaurants, magazines, cookbooks. itâs a serious career.â she explained and before you could even respond, she clapped âokay! this all looks great. iâll write up a student recommendation letter for you and weâll liaise later about which photography programs youâd like to apply to. that will all be done by email.â she threw a quick smile at you before standing up from her chair. âcould you please call in the next student?â with the patience of an extremely busy woman clearly running thin, she hurriedly ushered you out the door.
you closed it behind you and left the box room with an unexplainable sense of relief. you donât have to think about your future anymore; it was decided for you. you didnât know what it held, but at least you could make sense of it now.
by your twenty fourth summer, you had completed university with a degree in photography passing with the highest grades in your class. it was immensely helpful that you had turned quite competitive during your time there. your need for control of calorie intake evolved into a need to perfect every image. you would photograph the same dish over and over and over again, until you found a picture that could finally meet your impossibly high standards. the only problem came with tasting the dishes you shot. sure, as a trained photographer you could adjust the lighting to make a sauce look silkier, or rearrange garnishes until a plate looked effortless. but because your brain had spent so long constructing food as the enemy, tasting did not come easy.
that same year you began the rat race. replying to any job that required an entry-level food photographer. endlessly emailing restaurants back and forth in the hope of securing a position. rejection after rejection after rejection. all up until, you received an email from an establishment you forgot applying to:
âDear Madam, we are pleased to inform you that your application has been successful. please report to the restaurant on Monday at 8:00 AM to begin your first shift. ask for Chef Berzatto upon arrival.â
you squealed clutching your laptop after reading the email, mixed emotions of excitement and apprehension brewing for this new phase of your life.
come monday morning, you arrive promptly, at 7:40, giving you just enough time to prepare. you make your way through a narrow alley that leads to the back door of the restaurant. at the end of the alleyway, lined by dumpsters and its walls with graffiti, are a couple of steps that lead to the exit of the restaurant. the heavy door left ajar behind him, you see the shape of a manâs silhouette as he stands on the steps, leaning against its metal railing with a cigarette hanging from his lips.
with each step closer, you could make him out clearer. his posture rigid, every muscle in his body seemed to lock as he watched you approach, momentarily caught off guard. his wide blue eyes fixed on you with an indecipherable expression; somewhere between caution and curiosity. heâs handsome. there was something rugged about him. a white t shirt clung to his broad shoulders and his muscular arms were scattered with tattoos, each one disappearing beneath the sleeves like pieces of stories you couldnât yet read. a navy apron hung low on his hips, emphasising his frame. his hair was a beautiful chaos of unruly golden curls, tousled as if heâd been running his hands through it all night. loose strands fell over his forehead, framing his face in a way that softened the sharp angles of his cheekbones. for a moment he said nothing, just watched you. as though he too was trying to piece together your story. he was every bit as handsome as he was intimidating.
once you finally get to the bottom of the steps, you tilt your head up to look at him and clear your throat. âChef Berzatto?â your voice trembles, an octave higher than your usual tone, as you notice his ocean blue stare burning holes through your skin. but of course you fucking knew who he was. at one point, his dishes were featured in every major food magazine you studied in your class. he was the youngest chef de cuisine to ever front a three michelin starred kitchen, now head chef of his familyâs restaurant. you loved this though, sexy and a family man? count me in, you thought.
he waits a moment and takes a final pull of his cigarette, extinguishing it by letting it drop, to then crush it beneath his shoes. he takes a deep breath before turning back to you. âthe one and only.â his gaze slowly drags down your figure, as if he were studying you. âCarmen.â he stretches his hand to help you up the steps, and although you didnât need it, you found your hand falling on his, absentmindedly.
soon enough he was giving you a full tour of the restaurant; from the prep station to the grills, from the bar to the cramped staff room; there wasnât an inch of the place you weren't familiar with by the time he was done. he concludes the tour at the bar, which overlooked the kitchen through a large server window.
âthatâs everything for now.â he says, glancing at the clock mounted above the pass. âweâll need your help with photos for the updated menu iâm working on, and while youâre here, could you also get some shots for press and promotional stuff? lunch hourâs approaching so i donât got much time but weâll start working on it right after.â he adjusts the towel thrown over his shoulder before looking back at you.
âif you need anything, ask me first.â he leaves you with a quick nod and the faintest hint of a smile before disappearing back into the kitchen.
you remain at the bar, camera bag hanging from your shoulder, and watch as the atmosphere around him shifts as he moves through the kitchen. it was subtle at first; a straightening of his shoulders, a steadying breath. the kitchen moved quickly, and Carmen moved with precision within it.
âbehind.â
âsalt.â
âtwo minutes on the beef.â
his voice carried clearly over the clatter of pans and the sounds of conversation, firm and assertive, but never cruel. he didnât waste words and he didnât raise his voice unless he absolutely had to. when a young line cook oversalted a sauce, Carmenâs jaw tightened.
âstart over.â he says, while sliding a fresh pan onto the burner. his tone stern but even. âtaste as you go. youâre better than that.â no humiliation, no shouting, just the silent knowledge of everyoneâs capacity for improvement. and somehow that made them want to prove him right. he was a walking contradiction. a little gruff, yes. intense. restless. but, there was something deeply attentive in the way he worked; he noticed everything. a slightly off centre garnish, a cook whose hands had begun to shake. at one point, he paused beside a visibly flustered prep cook.
âhey,â he whispered so that only the two of them could hear. âtake a breath. you got thisâ. then he was moving again. back to the pass, calling times and checking plates with the focus of a man balancing an entire world through sheer willpower. you watched as he plated a dish, his large hands unexpectedly gentle as he arranged microgreens around the plate. like an artist in the final moments of signing his work. completely in his element.
you came to understand that cooking, to Carmen, was more than just a job. it was a language, a discipline. and as you stood there, watching him command the kitchen with both the tenderness of a nurse and the discipline of a soldier, you found yourself unable to look away.
after coming in early and working late consistently for a couple of weeks to get shots of his dishes in the short, quieter periods after peak hours, you started building a routine around Carmenâs. youâd work on promotional content when heâd be busy. and slowly made your way down the menu, capturing his dishes in the little time you had when he was free. you worked around him and avoided interfering with him, knowing how much his craft meant to him. and in noticing him, he noticed you too.
he noticed that you lived off coffee for the entirety of your shifts. he noticed that it would make your hands tremble relentlessly. he noticed he never saw you eat, youâd choke out an âi already ateâ at the mere whiff of a lunch offer everytime. but he never pressured you. and you never expected him to notice, you hadnât even the faintest idea he did. until one particular day.
this night you stayed late at the restaurant, taking shots of a few pastry options Carmen had thought up. he slid over his final creation, a pecan and poached pear tart, watching you scramble to find the right angle and lighting to serve it justice. he stood at the far corner of the kitchen, his eyes dragged over your frame as you bent over the counter, briefly catching a glimpse of the curve of your ass, all while he fought the increasingly difficult task of keeping his composure. he clears his throat, and exhales sharply, stepping closer to you as he does.
after selecting your best shot, you find yourself lost in thought, admiring the tart. the way its caramelised top glistened under the clinical lights of the kitchen. the way the golden brown crust was virtually untouched by the fruitâs juices seeping into it. even the way the pears blanket over the pecans, seeming to hold each other in a tight hug. thatâs when Carmen recognised it. you admired food. maybe even as deeply as he might.
âthink it looks good?â he finally croaks out. snapped out of your trance, a hot wave of shame floods your chest. you were staring with pure, unadulterated gluttony. and he had seen right through you.
âahââ you fluster, a nervous smile creeping up your face as you turn your head away from the tart. âumm⌠yup. looks good.â he scoffs in amusement before sliding a spoon over to you.
âtaste it.â he suggests in a low tone. his eyes meet yours and held eye contact with an intensity that laced an edge of dominance, erupting a sudden flutter in your stomach and a hitch of your breath. you softly shake your head, hesitant as every bone in your body screams at you to submit. he catches a glimpse of the internal battle youâre grappling with, through just a look in your eyes. and he takes another step closer, keeping behind you, now inches apart as he gently tilts your chin up to look at him.
âhow could you expect others to fall in love with something you wonât let yourself touch?â he questions pragmatically, before draping an arm around your shoulder. he dips his head to whisper in your ear and his warm breath grazes against your skin, causing every fibre on the nape of your neck to bristle and a fire between your legs to ignite. a soft gasp escapes you.
âjust one bite. you donât have to like it.â he says, his voice now deeper and his gaze hungrier, but for a different kind of sweetness. he guides a bite upward, brushing the bite softly against your lips while you find yourself almost hypnotised by stare.
cowering against the absolute authority in his unwavering gaze, you part your lips. and he gently presses the spoon into your mouth.
âgood girl.â he whispers, warm against your ears.
hot, so hot. please say iâm your good girl again, your head screams. you surrender to the wetness pooling between your thighs for the desperate, pulsing need to be praised again, and chew slowly. holding his gaze with a doe eyed look of obedience. then you swallow.
âthere you go.â he purrs, bringing his thick fingers up to stroke your cheek gently. you catch a glimmer in his eye and a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, before your eyes fall shut, letting yourself melt in his touch.
a single teardrop slips down your cheek at the realisation that, for a moment, your disordered brain went silent. no nagging fear in the back of your mind about the calories in your bite, just silence. but he catches the tear before you even knew it, and wipes it away with his thumb. âiâm proud of you.â he reassures, caressing the side of your face.
after that night, something between you and Carmen shifted. so subtle at first, that you could almost convince yourself it hadnât happened at all.
neither of you mentioned the tart. nor did he bring up the tears he wiped away. and you certainly didnât acknowledge the way your pulse had pounded so hard that evening, you had felt it in your throat. but ignoring it didnât erase what happened, if anything, the tension between you grew steadily.
in the days that followed, Carmenâs lingering attentiveness became impossible to overlook. it was never overt, never teetering on the edge of the boundaries between chef and colleague. but, during brief moments, a growing need of intimacy hung over between you.
through the espresso cup that would appear next to your camera when you werenât looking, prepared exactly the way you like it. through the way his hands would settle briefly at the small of your back as he squeezed past you in the narrow kitchen. even through the low, absentminded âgood jobâ heâd murmur in your ear when reviewing your latest shots. his voice alone could warm you enough to send heat rushing to your cheeks.
and then there was the food. it began innocently though.
a single spoon of mushroom risotto set beside your laptop, âtell me if the parmesan is too aggressive.â
a small portion of french onion soup dropped in front of you, still hot. âneeds more gruyère.â
a blood orange galette during your break, with a note on its plate âtoo bitter?â
he framed it as just a professional courtesy, as if your opinion was essential to the success of the dish. maybe it was, or maybe he simply liked watching you taste. either way, he never left until you took the first bite. sometimes he pretended to wipe down the station. other times he reorganised prep lists. and once he just stood there, arms folded across his chest, steel blue eyes fixed on your face, waiting for a reaction that mattered more to him than anything else in the world. and each time you swallowed, the same look crossed his features; a quiet, almost imperceptible satisfaction. as if he had been holding his breath, and only exhaled once he knew you were okay.
soon your breaks began to revolve around him. around whatever heâd slide across the counter with a casual, âtry this.â around the way his shoulders softened when you moaned at the first bite. around the praise he dispensed so sparingly, and thus devastatingly.
âthere she is.â
âyou did such a good job.â
soon you started to crave those words with an intensity that you feared, and trying to earn them felt eerily similar to the all-devouring obsession you had for starving yourself. but nothing had quite unravelled you like the one time, his lips brushed against the tip of your ear while the rough edge of his thumb grazed your jaw, his voice dropping to a register laced with an undercurrent of unattainable yet carnal desire, as he whispered:
âyou look beautiful when you enjoy yourself.â
you were shaken. not just because it sent a sharp thrill through your chest, but because you felt yourself believing him. for a few fleeting moments under his steady gaze, food stopped feeling like an enemy. and your body stopped feeling like one too.
what began as a strictly professional arrangement had snowballed into something intoxicatingly dangerous, because you werenât just tasting his food anymore, but waiting for it, hungry for it. hungry for him.
you stayed late once again, this time under the pretence of lending a hand with closing duties. the kitchen was much quieter now, stripped of the frantic energy that buzzed around during service. stainless steel counters gleamed beneath the harsh overhead lights, and the lingering scent of butter and garlic hung in the air like a second skin.
you push through the swinging doors and come to an abrupt halt. spread across the prep counter was a carefully arranged selection of small plates, each one placed intentionally. a shallow bowl held the plumpest strawberries you had ever seen, their flesh glistening beneath a drizzle of balsamic glaze. beside it sat a warm loaf of a sourdough baguette, its crust cracking softly while it cooled. and three dainty plates arranged alongside it: one with a pat of softened butter, another with a cloud of whipped cream with a tiny pot of jam, and the last held shards of dark chocolate dusted with flakes of sea salt. your camera bag slips from your shoulder and lands against your hip with a dull thud.
âwhatâs all this?â you gasp softly. Carmen emerges from the walk-in fridge, wiping his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder and, for a moment, he looks strangely uncertain. as though he couldnât possibly rationalise what he aimed to achieve through this display, without admitting his feelings toward you. he stays silent a moment, thinking over his reply, before his eyes meet yours.
âa tasting.â he finally retorts.
âa tasting?â you blinked.
he shrugs, though the slight tension in his jaw gave away how carefully heâd planned this. âyou spend all day making my food look beautiful,â his gaze drifted over the spread before returning to you. âfigured it was about time you let me show you what it tastes like.â
Carmen then guides you through the tasting with the same attentive patience he brought to any of his culinary masterpieces. he stands close enough that the warmth of his body radiates onto yours, one hand braced against the counter beside your waist while the other reaches for a pip of dark chocolate.
âopen up.â his voice low and steady, impossible to refuse. you part your lips, and he places the chocolate onto your tongue. his breath ever so slightly hitches at the sight of you obediently opening up your mouth for him. his reverent blue eyes held your gaze unwaveringly. ânow pay attention,â he murmurs. âfeel how the salt cuts through the bitterness.â your lashes flutter shut as you felt the chocolate melt, coating your tongue in a rich silk, that sharpens at a bitter corner before abruptly softening against the flakes of sea salt, blossoming at last into a creamy finish.
âthere you go.â he says hushed, almost offhand, but the sensation of receiving his praise, alongside his fingers stroking your head like an owner rewarding his pet for learning a new trick, sends electric shocks down your spine landing straight between your legs.
he then selects the ripest strawberry from the bowl, with a stripe of pomegranate balsamic reduction running atop the fruit. âtry this.â he coaxes low and steadily, the glimpse of gratitude in his tone bordering on a plea. his focus remains entirely on you, watching with a soft, captivated expression as you accept. the look in his eyes send a fresh rush of heat through you, your lips pucker around the berry, and his fingers linger for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
the strawberry bursts in your mouth; the initial flavour bright and juicy, before the glaze develops a second layer of a tart complexity that enhances its subtle sweetness. a hint at the velvety, floral notes of the pomegranate land as a final goodbye kiss. the combination dances in your mouth, igniting light tingles on the buds of your tongue. Carmenâs gaze darkens ever so slightly. âa touch of acidity brings out the sweetness,â he grins hungrily, eyes fixed on your mouth as he licks his lips. âmakes you notice flavours you wouldâve missed otherwise.â a quiet, gracious smile adorns his face as he watches you chew.
âthatâs my good girl.â he groans. the words wrap around you like warm honey, thick and agonisingly slow, filling the hollow spaces of your chest you had spent your whole life guarding.
next, he tears off a piece of the baguette and spreads it with butter so soft it melts on contact. he follows it with a small spoonful of blueberry jam, the violet fruit glistening under the kitchen light. as he holds it to lips, your breath falters at the realisation, i am right in the palm of this manâs hand.
âopen up for me.â and you do so anyway. the sourdough crust softly cracks between your teeth before the saltiness of the butter and the sweetness of the jam dissolve into an exquisite crescendo, two luscious sensations marrying perfectly on your tongue. a small, involuntary moan escapes your throat, to which Carmen exhales deeply. his jaw tightens, and you catch the subtle twitch in his crotch as he shifts his weight to conceal it. âfeel that?â he croaks, his voice rougher now. âhow the salt interacts with sweetness.â you nod, unable to talk as his fingers brush against your cheek and, tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
âyou look beautiful when you enjoy yourself.â he admits softly. your chest tightens so painfully that for a moment you thought you might cry. because he wasnât admiring your restraint as many others foolishly did, but praising you for wanting. for receiving, and for allowing yourself to be cared for.
each time you opened your mouth for him, his expression grew heavier, like every bite you accepted was an act of devotion through trust. you spent years keeping food at a distance, but now you were letting him place it on your tongue, one bite at a time. he prepares one last piece of bread, this time spreading a generous layer of whipped cream with a streak of jam. his fingers brush against your lips as a signal to open, and you accept the bite, savouring the creamy sweetness as it dissolves on your tongue. when you opened your eyes, Carmen was staring at you; his pupils blown wide, his breathing shallow.
âthe colourâs coming back to your cheeks,â he murmurs, his thumb gently brushing against your skin. you notice a small smear of cream left on your bottom lip, but before you could wipe it away, his hand slides down your jaw and tilts your face toward him. he hesitates for a moment, giving you every opportunity to pull away but you donât.
his mouth meets yours in a kiss so soft it feels almost consecrational, eliciting fireworks between you. he brushes his tongue against your lower lip and laps up the remaining cream, before returning to the delicate waltz of your tongues in unison to deepen it. he leads the kiss with as much authority as he exerts over his kitchen, and you feel yourself melting into him. intoxicated by his sweet flavour, your knees begin to buckle and weaken. he finally draws back, his forehead resting against yours, and whispers between gasps for air, âyouâre breathtaking.â
your mind, once riddled with a chaos you could not escape, was calm again. it feels just as zen as the rainbow at the end of a storm. there was no fear left, no guilt nor shame. no more intrusive thoughts of the silent competitions youâd indulge yourself in with any woman you met, plaguing your mind. only the taste of sweetness on your tongue, the warmth of his breath against your skin and the nauseating realisation that wanting something had never felt so safe.
for a long moment, neither of you dared to move. the kitchen around you went completely still. familiar sounds of the low static hum of the refrigerators and the distant pitter patter of a dripping tap were drowned out by the deafening thumps of your heartbeat.
Carmen remained close enough that every shallow breath from his chest brushed against yours, and all you could think about was how you could still taste the sweetness of the cream from his tongue. his hand lingered at your jaw, his calloused fingertips absentmindedly stroking your soft skin, as though he was grounding himself through you.
then reality seemed to crash back into him all at once. his gaze flickered down at you, toward your swollen lips. your flushed cheeks. and then at the half finished tasting spread between you.
a quiet curse escapes him under his breath. âshit.â
but the word sounded less irritated and more overwhelmed, almost like he had crossed a line heâd spent weeks trying desperately not to cross. because he did. you readied yourself, expecting him to pull away completely after that. you awaited the awkwardness that would follow. the distance and regret.
instead, his forehead falls to rest against yours, a shaky exhale slipping past his lips. âyou okay?â he asks softly. his brows furrowed, eyes locking onto yours with a glimmer of worry. the question alone nearly shattered you. because he wasnât trying to dissect the kiss or rationalising his actions as a mistake. he was simply checking on you, confirming he meant every second of it, but needing to know you were okay with it, too
you nod, looking up at him with a doe eyed look and a corner of your lip caught between teeth as you steady your pounding heart.
âyeah,â you whisper, grinning sweetly. âiâm okay.â
his thumb brushes over your cheekbone once more, lingering there with unbearable tenderness. âgood.â
another silence settles between you, heavy and intimate. his eyes drift toward the remaining food spread across the counter. and something in his expression shifts, not lust. not exactly. but a raw, protective hunger, a struggle for devotion against restraint. he reaches for the last piece of bread still sitting untouched on the cutting board, and breaks the bread apart carefully in his hands before offering you the softer half.
âone more bite for me?â his voice affects you more than you know it should have, but the slight beg hidden beneath the authority in his tone sends warmth flooding through your chest. because suddenly it no longer feels like heâs feeding you out of curiosity for playing with a new toy. heâs feeding you because seeing you nourish yourself deeply matters to him.
you open your mouth obediently, allowing him to guide the bread between your lips and his eyes darken instantly. a slow exhale leaves his nose.
âthere she is,â he coos, and somehow it feels more intimate than the kiss itself. like you were a skittish bunny hiding deep in a thicket, deaf to the rest of the world, but willing to step right into his palm at the sound of his voice.
the weeks that followed slipped by in a blur of mundane rituals. sometimes it was subtle; an extra container tucked in your bag before you left the restaurant, or the way his hand would steady yours when you trembled from overdosing caffeine. other times it felt sacred, because feeding you had become something holy to him. not out of obligation and not pity either. but devotion.
enough time had passed for your healing to feel almost achievable, for your body to soften beneath Carmenâs adoration, for the hollows beneath your sunken eyes to fill, and for your lips to stop quivering around your fork. long enough for eating to become something less terrifying and more intimate. and slowly the restaurant had begun to feel like home, not just because of the warmth of the kitchen or the constant symphony of sizzling pans and the clatter of hot plates, but because Carmen existed within it.
and without you realising it, he slowly wove himself into the very fabric of your being. he never forced you though, never counted your bites, never watched you with the scrutiny you had grown all too familiar with from doctors and prying relatives. instead he guided you patiently. like he was trying to coax you back into your body one mouthful at a time, and somewhere along the way, the cruel voice in your head began to lose its volume.
until one afternoon shattered everything. you remember exactly how lunch service had just ended, the fading chaotic chatter of chefs and diners leaving a heavy quiet in its wake. that silence only magnified the blow when it came, echoing as if it was the only sound left in the world:
âyou look healthier lately.â
a harmless comment, perhaps a bit careless but unknowingly so. the kind that people deliver with a smile, unaware of how words like âhealthierâ mutate in a brain like yours into something monstrous: iâm bigger, iâm too perceivable, iâm occupying too much space. you couldnât slink into the background any longer. in an attempt to not sour the mood you manage a weak smile for the hostess, pretending that you hadnât been hurled over the edge of a cliff. pretending the thin air wasnât crushed from your lungs by the sheer velocity of the fall, that your ears werenât roaring with the rushing wind, and your stomach hadn't tightly knotted awaiting the inevitable impact.
but Carmen noticed the shift almost immediately. he noticed when you stopped accepting bites when he asked you to check for salt, when he found the container he slipped into your bag sitting on the counter after you left, when you began volunteering for every physically demanding task at the restaurant just to keep moving. he noticed your coffee intake doubling. then tripling. noticed the tremble had returned to your hands along with the shadows beneath your eyes. the way you body-checked your reflection in the glass freezer doors, sucking your stomach in and assessing every angle.
then came the distance. you stopped lingering around late after the restaurant closed, stopped spending time with him as he concocted new recipes. but the one thing that Carmen, already so prone to carrying anxiety like a heavyweight on his back, began to fall apart over was that you stopped letting him touch you for too longâ you saw it in the way his jaw stayed clenched through service. the way he watched you constantly from across the kitchen. in the way his tone sharpened when he caught you throwing away half of your staff meal: not angry at all. just scaredâ but every graze of his fingers felt as though they were exposing you, like he might finally realise that there was nothing worth saving beneath your skin after all.
your breaking point came that following week, on a friday night.
If someone doesnât like x fem!reader thatâs completely fine, but saying how no one should be making fem!reader x dennis bc you specifically donât desire dennis in that type of way is wild.
Especially when you say
âthe only time I've ever experienced desire towards Dennis Whitaker is mayhaps I would like to fuck the shit out of him. as in my strap in his ass. as in making him take it like a fag.â
Is it just me or is this not only fetishization of gay men, but also homophobic??? Idk my apologies if Iâm wrong but this just doesnât sit right with me
iâve been in the bear fandom since the beginning, through all the drama and relationships and criticisms and bullshitâŚ.but i think the pitt fandom has now taken the crown of most insufferable fandom
can i break my silence and say that the way parts of the pitt fandom particularly hucklerobbys talk about gerran like isâŚ.odd! like heâs not a fictional character guys stop being weird about it
authors note: this is SMUT so hold those horses đđ˝ also this is smth i wrote a month ago lowkey js kinda random. did not proof read donât shoot me now đ
warnings: p in v, established relationship, slightly mean carmy, sub!reader, degrading (slightly), edging, oral (m receiving), creampies, breeding kink! use of the d word, nudes. AFAB!reader, slight phone sex. plz lmk what i missed <3 have fun reading chefs âËâšŕą¨ŕ§ âËâš
(Also this takes place after the first one shot i took! nd if we want me to keep building this i will <3)
You had been away for a little while, at some nursing program in Seattle. Too far for Carmys liking, but you were happy and hey- he loved seeing his sweet girl happy. But you were just so so so far. He couldnât STAND it at all. But he made himself busy with The Bear. Cooking, cleaning up the apartment and making sure everything was just how you liked it for when you came home. He checked any social media accounts you had for pictures and he looked forward for nightly phone calls spent talking of the day. But he was needy. So very needy. Normally he just has you and youâd take care of him anytime- but with you away? Shit itâs different now.
âMm⌠mhm miss youâ He mumbled into the phone running hands thru his curls hopping and praying maybe youâd magically appear next to him in bed.
âI know I know.. I miss you too iâm so sorry- But Seattle is amazing- youâd love it here! Or hate it I dunno! Maybe we could go on vacation here?â You babbled on, if you were here babbling he knew a way to shut that mouth UP. And hey it worked pretty damn well- shit he canât think about that right now. He could NOT get hard while talking to you on the phone.
âMhm whatever you want prettyâŚâ *he sighed out trailing his hand down his stomach until he reached the edge of his boxers. Carmen shuddered the slight tent forming. He lets out a little gasp that you can obviously hear.
âOh? Come on pay attention I know you can donât do that right now. Stay with me.. But listen Iâll be back in two days okay? Two days of just me and you doing god knows-â
âMm shut up- keep talking like that and iâll fuckin fly out right now.. need you.. my hand canât replicate you babyâ
âOh yeah? Need me that bad? I-â You cut off from talking, all he can hear is someone elseâs voice and then you letting out a sigh. âSorry.. I gotta go- me and some friends are gonna do something okay? Love you. Goodnight CarmenâŚâ
âMhm Goodnight.. Miss you..â
âËâšŕą¨ŕ§ âËâš
The next day Carmen wakes up with photos from you. Thinking maybe itâs just something normal like food- oh no no NO. He was in for a surprise.. you sent him nudes. Nothing to raunchy just breast photos but boy that set him off- and fuck; at 5:36 am? This man is gonna struggle FOREVER today.
Carmen texts back:
âwhyâd you do this to me baby. but shit you look good.â
âplease fuck i need you baby come home quickerâ
âshit i canât go to work like this, richie is gonna fucking pull my shit baby.â
âdamn pretty girl fuck. my dick needs you. you know that right? all for you my loveâ
He knew he was being needy, desperate, and maybe a little bit of a man-whore for wanting you this bad but who could blame him? A hot person sent him nudes and he was expected to NOT react? No sir thatâs NOT the Carmen we know. He finally gets a text back
âiâm sorry pretty boy just a little treat for you, super soon youâll get it baby. and i know i need it too <3â
Damn how you know him inside out (literally..) But he couldnât let this ruin his day of him not having you here. He has to suck it up (despite him wanting you sucking him) and just go to work wait a day and youâll be here in HIS bed.
âËâšŕą¨ŕ§ âËâš
The minute you stepped thru that door dropping the bags you had you noticed something strange: Carmen wasnât home. Weird? But itâs was still kinda early so he was probably at The Bear. So you waited until he stepped thru that door. Eyes WIDE.
âShit shit baby fuckin needed you-â He grabbed you off the couch dragging you into the bedroom pushing you against the door
âMhm i know I know I needed- FUCK- you-â He leaves soft kisses all over that beautiful body you have slowly taking off any clothes you had on in the process. He could feel himself getting painfully hard and he needed you to help him.
âShit baby such a fucking pretty body you have.. you need me to worship it? Fucking please it in the way only I can? Damn fuckin right you do..â He says his voice dropping as he undresses himself until he sits on the edge of the bed. His cock hitting his stomach, leaking, fully hard with an angry red tip. âGo on please me.. fuck look at you.â You dropped to your knees, kissing the tip.
âCarm- so big..â you whined out until he grabs your face.
âWhat you call me? You know what the fuck that word is.â
âMâsorry daddyâŚâ You mumbled out
âWhat you say? Couldnât fucking hear you.â
âI-I said iâm sorry daddy..â
âGood girl now fucking suck.â You take his full length into your mouth, hollowing cheeks so you can attempt to take it fully. Eyes starting to water, it feels like so much. But a good so much.
âFuck thatâs so good- oh-oh shit right there FUCK-â he arches his back hips bucking forward drying to go deeper âShit baby iâm gonna cum that mouth is so good.. fuck-â He cums right in that mouth until he pulls out smiling at you. âSo perfect you know fhat?â You smiled back at him nodding finally finished swallowing all of his cum. You kiss him on his lips straddling him.
âDaddy.. love youâŚâ You mumbled between kisses, his hand slowly moves down to play with his favorite thing ever: The clit. He feels you arch against him still kissing all over his face.
âThatâs it.. ima put it in now baby mâkay? Youâve taken it before I know you can take this cock again babyâ he slowly slips into that insanely wet pussy you have âDamn so ready.. so happy to see me- fuck so fuckin tightâŚâ
You slowly started to ride him nothing to rough because this was yâallâs first time back together in months. But fuck it felt so good and familiar. Moans fill the room slowly along with his bed creeking.
âDaddy fuck you feel so good⌠mm-â
âI know I know shit baby you take me so well- Fucking milking me dry damn- You want me to fucking cum in you? Get you pregnant baby? Missed you so badly I may..â
âFuck Carmen please- Daddy- Daddy i mean fuck daddy please. God I need you so badly shit shit-â
âMm baby iâm gonna cum fuck just a little faster for me- just a little bit fast- OH fuck baby right there right thereâ Until he grabs you by the hips feeling you pulse around him with a orgasm while he buries himself deep inside of you cumming.
Moments pass by of saying in that position, just close. Like before you left for that nursing program.
âI love you bear.â
âI love you too babydoll..â
âBest boyfriend ever.â You giggled out at him still a little hazy
a/n: also this was written in like january, idk i didnât realize ppl were as thirsty for the bear things like i am. but Iâll be posting any other little one shots or blurbs ive made if ppl freak w that cuz yk
summary: dennis stops running from love when he meets you. not immediately, and not without pain, but pain is something he knows well.
content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, protected (PIV) sex, religious themes, familial & religious trauma, parent death, pet death, minor season two spoilers, dennis POV (he hogs a lot of the narrative), despite the angst, dennis gets a happy ending with reader, canon-typical gore & medical descriptions
authorâs note: this is my first time writing for dennis, so sorry if his characterization is off. this is just my take on him. i tried a different writing style/structure here. anything that gets revealed in future episodes that contradicts whatâs written here is none of my business. iâm a bit nervous about this one. please be kind, lol.
Dennisâ theology professor once told him and the rest of his class that hell, as a concept, was Godâs way of upholding his promise.
Without a hell to punish the bad, how can we be sure thereâs a heaven to reward the good? One canât exist without the other.
This was one lesson Dennis didnât need to be taught. His mother said things in a similar vein to him when he was but a mere gap-toothed child attending the religious school down the road from the family farm, though in a more understated way.
As long as youâre good, Dennis, youâll go to heaven.
From a young age, Dennis learned that he had to be good. What his mother didnât say was implied, but the message was clear: if he were bad, heâd go somewhere other than heaven.
He had to respect his mother. Be nice to his brothers. Want for nothing, and even when bad things would happen to him, as long as he was good, he would go to heaven.
When he was older, about the age of fifteenâwhen his face erupted with acne and his body was mature enough to defend from his brothersâ roughhousing without his mother interveningâhis mother explicitly said to him, follow the word of God, Dennis, or youâll go to hell.
He had already known about fire and brimstone; he was no longer a child but a young man who understood the meanings of words, but nonetheless, it was a scary thing for his mother to instill in himâthe belief of an eternal, agonizing punishment awaiting him if he didnât follow scripture, that is. He had first heard about hell during church sermons while sitting on rotted oak-grain pews, his shoulders squeezed between his two eldest brothers. They would punch his sides and pull on the shaggy hair on the back of his head so that when they forced him to look up at the ceiling instead of down in prayer, his mother, who sat at the far edge of the bench and would peek her eye at her sons, would scold him for not bowing to God.
Dennis, his mother, and his brothers would go to church in their Sunday bestâthrift finds from the Goodwill in townâand the pastor would call upon them, as part of his congregationâthe lack of central air in the chapel beading sweat along his receding hairline and prickly, poorly shaven upper lipâto pray.
Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved, but whoever does not believe will be condemned.
And throw them into the fiery furnace. In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Dennisâ upbringing wasnât without its trials and tribulations. He might be a little bit⌠broken because of it.
When he met you, a med student, no less, on the first day of your E.D. rotation, itâs not like he was planning on things to unfold in the way that they have.
Dennis is of the belief that life happens to him as it does, and he has little say in it. He happened to be born into a humble farm family in Broken Bow, Nebraska. His father happened to die when he was just a boy. He happened to major in theology to become a pastor, which, in hindsight, was an obvious choice.
Tab-collar clergy shirt. Black, pressed slacks. A sheen of sweat. A dry throat. A shaky hand reaching for the water bottle placed on the pulpit to wet it. The plastic would crinkle. The congregation would judge the callowness of a baby-faced pastor. He would speak again, resume his sermon. His voice would waver.
But pastorhood didnât end up happening for him. It was destined for him until it wasnât.
A single semester into university, his major in theology turned into a minor in theology and a phone call back home to his mother, who burst into tears that her brightest prospect wasnât going to become a pastor but, rather, a physician.
He explained his decisionâone of few he can count on a single hand that heâs made for himself and that has significantly shaped his lifeâto her in the only way he knew how.
He recited Luke 5:31: those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. And brought up his father, who had been stricken with the incurable illness that led to his demise. And the fact that he would still be doing a good thing: healing. And then she understood.
His argument still holds water, though.
Dennis knows it firsthandâroofs leak, cows get sick, crops die, the owner of the farm, his father, diesâlife isnât in his control. What can he do but do his best to avoid the pain, patch up what he can if need beâa leaky roof or his broken heartâand trek on until the next hurdle comes into view?
As long as heâs good, at least heâll be rewarded. But thatâs just the thing. He hasnât been. Good.
Heâs been angry and jealous and self-loathing and sick in love, and youâre at the center of it all. Hell is coming for him the longer his dead and buried ugliness shows its face, but the fear of doing anything about his feelings for you far outweighs the bravery. He had his chance, once upon a time, and he took it, but then he blew it.
The point is, reiterating, heâs a little broken.
Dennis had this barn cat back when he was in kindergarten.
To his family, she was a chunky, lazy, and useless creature. But to him, she was his friend. His brothers spent time with the dog, and he spent time with her. She waited for him at the bus stop after school and walked him a mile back home day after day. She slept in his lap as he ate homemade ice cream on the porch on summer nights, vanilla cream dripping down his chin, fireflies flickering and dancing their mating dance all around them. She caught the occasional rodent and kept their population down just enough to keep them from ruining the crops and making nests inside the barn, and she would bring the dead thing to him as a gift.
He got close to her against his motherâs wishes. Sheâs not a pet, Dennis. But he loved cats. He loved this cat. He named her Wheat for her sandy coat and the bed of wheat he had made for her to roll around in. His brothers disagreed with his opinion. Dogs are better than cats. Better than some people too. His father, who was still alive at the time, called him a sensitive soul. Life will force you to toughen up soonânuff, son.
When Wheat was killed in an apparent accident, he cried for days and nights and days and nights. He accused his brother of running her over, of having done so knowing that she had been sleeping at the far edge of the gravel pad near where the truck was parked, knowing that was something that she did when the sun was out and wanted to feel its warmth. He claimed ignorance. Jacob, the eldest of his brothers and whom Dennis had pointed blame at, said it was just a stupid cat. Stop cryinâ like a baby.
âDennis the Crybaby,â his brothers called him. The nickname stuck like a fish caught on a barbed hook, and it hurt, though it was fitting. He wanted to bury it beside Wheat; in her shallow grave a few feet from the bus stop he laid her to rest in. He hadnât had the time to think. He put her in an old shoebox and ran for it. It was well after dark when he got back home. His fingernails were caked with blood and dirt and mud that was half made of blood and half made of tears. He got a good lecturing after that.
Later, his family got another cat. A better one because he could catch rats and mice with the best of them, and they wouldnât have to worry about him getting pregnant with a litter. He didnât let himself get too attached to it this time.
When Dennisâ father died, the tears came back, fresh tracks of salt on his face and peppered over stark white sheets. His father came homeâIâll die in my own damn bedâwhen the doctors said there was nothing else they could do for him. Dennis held onto his hand until it was cold. He couldnât be replaced.
When Dennisâ uncle passed a few years after his father did, he didnât cry. Maybe he was used to the death, to the heartbreak, but truthfully, he just didnât want to. But heâd always be âDennis the Crybaby.â
You two had sex several weeks after that July Fourth shift during which he had met you.
Handovers of patients from the night shift, morning rounds, incoming patients from the nursing home, the rest of a given shiftâs patientsâit was natural that Dennis would develop a rapport with the med students that he was overseeing and teaching with the amount of work that got thrown at you all each shift. But between Ogilvieâs obnoxiousness and Joyâs overall disinterest in emergency medicine, it was no surprise that he would take to you a little more than them.
It started big and small. Macro shots of miniature moments with you that he captured in his head. A snapshot here, click. A snapshot there, his interest growing with every shutter click of the camera.
He noticed your smile more. Wider in the mornings before rounds and narrower in the evenings after shift change. Whether you ate lunch so he could throw youâand Joy and not Ogilvieâa chocolate peanut butter granola bar if you hadnât. Your hands while you dug into open bodies and held their organs in place with a light in your eyes that he thought made your entire being glow; you were your own golden hour. He wished he had his camera on hand to capture your image.
It didnât stay big and small. He zoomed out. Wide shot. Thought about the big pictureâ
(the first girlfriend Dennis had in high school tossed him aside in an instant when a new kid had enrolled. He was shinier and more interesting than Dennis was, and Dennis was dull and boring. That was just the way, as he understood it at the time, relationships worked. Regardless, he couldnât pinpoint why it bothered him so much. He could get over it. But his mother told him, after he had come home from the bus stop to her with chest pain, that the loss of his friend and first love was manifesting itself as an ache. Love? he thought. He hadnât even known that he had loved her. He went back to school with the chest pain for the next week. He and his former girlfriend shared the same circle of friends, so he distanced himself from them just to keep from seeing her face. It helped; the pain subsided as it always did when he backed away.)
âhe had never been good with romantic relationships. It was best to avoid them altogether.
But after an awful shift, when you invited him back to your apartment after having had a beer in the park, it felt like the natural thing to do to follow you home. Like a gentleman would, he carried your backpack on one shoulder and his on the other, walked on the outer side of the sidewalk, and held your hand as you two crossed the street.
When one thing led to the next, when you two went from the living room to the bedroom, that felt natural too; he had an instinct to follow you for a reason he didnât want to name. All it was and would ever be was sex, and yet, when you took off your clothes, nervousness overtook him.
âAre you sure about this? Youâre a med student. Iâm an intern. And what if your roommate comes back?â Dennis shakes his head like a pathetic, wet dog. Heâs going to talk himself out of this, isnât he? Here you are, down to nothing, asking him to take his clothes off, and here he is, getting in his head about it.
Though youâre lying flat on your back and staring up at the ceiling in boredom as you wait for him to make up his mind, he can see your mouth twisting down into a frown. It hurts him that heâs the reason for it.
âI already told you. She wonât care that youâre here. She brings people back all the time. If youâre so uncomfortable with this, you shouldâve left before I got naked. Are you trying to embarrass me?â you ask, insecurity, a feeling Dennis knows all too well, thinning your tone.
âWhat?â He waves his hands wildly in front of him. âNoâneverâIâd never do that.â He inhales, squeezing his eyes shut, and opens them again on the exhale. âI just donât wantââ pointing his finger between you two in a back-and-forth motion, he continues, ââwhatever this is making things awkward at work.â
You sit up in the bed, leaning back on your elbows to look at him directly. Dennis averts his eyes so heâs not staring at your breasts. âThis doesnât have to be anything. This can be a one-time thing. If thatâs what you want," you pause and then follow up with, âis that what you want?â
âI dunno, maybe?â he responds, unsure and unfocused, counting each of the fibers of the shaggy carpet in your bedroom. The question strikes him as odd. Heâs not used to considering what he wants. âOr maybe this was a bad idea, and I should go home.â
You heave a sigh. âI wonât force you to do anything you donât want to do, obviously. I just thoughtâŚâ you trail off, then pick back up with, âthis is just a little fun. To blow off some steam, you know? We were both willing to come this far, so I just thought youâd be more up for it.â
Your disappointment is palpable. He can see it on your face, hear it in your voice. Why would Dennis follow you into your bedroom and watch you undress if he would just back out of this out of fear for nothing? This doesnât have to mean anything, as you said. Youâll go back to being friends and colleagues, and things donât have to get more complicated than that.
He deserves a little bit of fun, doesnât he? Indulgence feels foreign to him, like a second skin that wears him instead of him wearing it, but itâs not as if heâs doing anything wrong.
In spite of Trin not believing soâ
(is Dennis, you know, like, waiting until marriage? He overhears Victoria asking Trin as he approaches the lockers at the end of a shift. He freezes by the ScrubEX. He never talks about his love life or has even mentioned having a crush on anyone or anything.
Well, not everyone is as obvious as you, Crash. But, no, Huckleberryâs not waiting until marriage because heâs apparently not a virgin. Iâll believe it when I see it, though. Or hear it, I guess, Trin replies with a shrug of her shoulders before slamming her locker door shut.
Ew, Victoria responds with a shake of her head. Iâm glad I donât have to worry about that.
Are you telling me you donât overhear Dr. Shamsi and Dr. Javadi getting it on at home? Trin snickers.
Oh my God. Please stop talking.)
âheâs had sex. Waiting until marriage isnât something that he ever felt in his heart was an absolute stricture to abide by; a bending of the rules, maybe, to do so, to give in to lust, but then so did his parents bend them when they had his three older brothers before they were married.
Dennis surprises you when he suddenly strips himself, and his clothes fall to the wayside, swallowed up by the dark of the room, forgotten. He nears the foot of the bed and hovers over you, his bare cock inches from your bare pussy, staring down at you. Your eyes widen as you take him in. He does the same. In all his worry, he didnât get the chance to really look at you. His fingers press lightly into the line of your shoulders, collarbone, the curve of your breasts, tentative, as if youâre made of glass. His thumbs brush over your nipples, hardening them into stiff little peaks. Your skin is warm to the touch, but you shiver, your flesh sensitive, goosebumps rising along the length of your arms.
âKiss me,â you whisper, snaking your arms around his neck and pulling him down on top of you.
He does, and he forgets what reservations he had about this entirely.
Your lips slot against his, and itâs as if all the life heâs lived, all his memories, future and past, compact into this single moment in time, pinpointed like a constricted pupil, and give him tunnel vision. A vignette; thereâs nothing but you.
His heart is beating out of his chest, and his voice is stuck in his throat. This is different with you, somehow. Better. He doesnât know why.
Or more truthfully, he doesnât want to admit why.
But maybe itâs as simple as human biology. The reward system in his brain is firing off stimuli because he sees you as a potential partner. You cling to him, arms wrapped around his neck, legs hiked around his waist. Endorphins. Your lips feel soft, featherlight against his. Dopamine. When Dennisâ hands continue to map the terrain of your body, lower and lower until he reaches the curve of your lower belly and brushes your mound and the outer folds of your cunt, the noises you make make a blush rise on his cheeks and his cock swell and bob between his thighs, his pre-come leaking onto the soft skin of your lower belly. Oxytocin.
He wedges his thumb between your sticky lower lips to rub circles into the apex of your cunt, out of curiosity more than anything, to see what kind of noise you will make, your clit jumping at the contact.
ââDennis. Oh my God. Dennis!â
It takes a few minutesâhas it been a few minutes already?âand a few yelps of his name in between your high-pitched moans for him to realize how close he had almost gotten you. He shakes his head. âSorry, sorry. I got distracted. Donât you want me to continue?â
âYeah, I do,â you pant, giggling at his reaction. âbut I want to come on your cock.â His ears go bright pink at your straightforwardness. You point to your nightstand, your pebbled clit twitching against his paused thumb. âCondoms are in the drawer.â
When he steps away to open your nightstand drawer for a condom, you make a small noise in the back of your throat, a little whine, because heâs not touching you anymore. An intimacy heâs never known with other partners, and heâs having that with you, just for one night.
He rips open the foil and rolls the condom onto his hardened cock, eyes darting between you and his hands to make sure youâre still comfortable, still wanting to do this. He leans over you, a forearm braced beside your head, his cock gripped in his other hand, and asks, âis this okay?â to which you respond, âyes, please, I need you inside me.â
Using his thumb and forefinger as a guide, he pushes his cockhead in, breaching the tight rim of your wet hole inch by inch. He chokes back on his spit as he watches your cunt swallow him until heâs bottomed out. His eyes meet your eyelids. He says your name, his voice firm yet soft at the same time. âLook at me. Can you look at me, please?â
You open your eyes to his expectant ones. âOh, sorry, itâyou just feel good. Youâre a lot bigger than I was expecting. Not that I was expectingâyou know what I mean.â
His face reddens impossibly more. Have you thought about this, being here with him, before tonight? He hasnât. He couldnât. If someone had told him this morning that by the end of the day heâd be in your bed, he wouldnât have believed them.
âIâm going to start moving,â he says.
âOkay,â you respond with a nod.
His thrusts are gentle at first. Shallow pulls out and shallow pushes in. Testing the waters. Your nails claw down his back, your legs tighten around the bulk of him. One of his hands moves from the side of your head to trace your kiss-bitten lips. You kiss the pads of his fingers. âHarder,â you whisper. âI can take it.â You suck his thumb into your mouth, and his breath hitches. Then his thrusts get a little more careless, a little more rough, as he fucks deeper. You take him to the root again and again, and you do it so well and with a greed that rocks the foundations of who he is.
âYouâreâyouâre perfect,â Dennis rasps. âYou feel so good.â
You feel much too good. Like heaven, he thinks distantly, so much so that the thought doesnât feel like his own. Paradise is right here in this room tonight: the warm, molten slice of cunt right between your legs.
âFuck,â you gasp. âThatââ
âWhat,â he grunts, a choked, strangled sound. He clears his throat. âWhat is it? Are you okay?â
You nod furiously. âYeah, Iâm good. Iâm getting close. Could you touch my clit again?â
The crampedness of your room coupled with the hot, muggy Pittsburgh July as well as the shared body heat between you two makes sweat gather on both of your bodies. Chest to chest. Slick skin sliding against slick skin.
His fingers reach between your bodies to find that little bundle of nerves. His strokes are harried, with little finesse, but they seem to do the job. Your pussy locks up around his cock with your orgasm, and it pushes him closer to that sweet, sweet edge.
Your body shakes like a leaf as the pleasure continues to pour through you. He abandons his strokes at your clit once it ebbs, aware of your oversensitivity, and wraps his arms around your middle, angling you slightly off the bed to work his cock further inside you. He ruts into you as you come back to yourself, running your fingers through his hair and encouraging him with your syrupy words. âCâmon, DennisâcomeânghâI want you to come for me.â
You nip at a sensitive spot on his neck, and he spills his seed into the condom with a humiliating groan. You donât seem to mind it, though. In fact, you seem spurred on by his noises. Your teeth sink into the same spot, your canines breaking capillaries and purpling his fair skin. You apologize with wet kisses down the side of his neck and across his clavicle, a messy mash of lips, tongue, and teeth. His cock softens inside of you, and it is only when he starts to feel the condom slip and the tactileness of his release within it that he pulls out from you. Youâre just so warm; itâs hard to resist being buried in your heat.
He disposes of the condom in the trash can in your en suite and returns to you with a warm, damp towel, wiping you of all the sweat that has gathered. Youâre glistening. Heâs starstruck. He almost canât believe you showed any interest in him beyond that of a colleague, let alone brought him back here and allowed him to touch you. He presses the towel into all your dips and divots and rolls where sweat has pooled on your skin, thinking to himself he wouldnât mind licking it up instead.
Heâs not himself tonight. He blames it on the half can of beer he had earlier and not on what you do to him.
When all is said and done, after checking in with you and making sure youâre okay, Dennis redresses and makes to leave.
âYou can stay the night,â you offer, now dressed in your sleepwear and beneath the covers. You look adorable. Not that you arenât normally, but he hasnât had the opportunity to see you like this, per se: satiated and sleepy and not in scrubs but in a skimpy sleep set. âWe can cuddle. Platonically, of course,â you tack on, likely to ease his worry.
Dennis recognizes your invitation for what it is, though. Nothing about staying the night would be platonic, he is sure. He has the familiar urge to retreat, and it informs what he says next.
âOh, uh, I think itâs best I go, actually. Trin might⌠you know, ask questions tomorrow if I donât make it back soon.â
âOh, okay. Suit yourself,â you reply, a little forlorn. âSee you tomorrow then?â
He nods. âYeah. Weâre good⌠right?â
Please, please, please say weâre good, he thinks. He couldnât bear it if you hated him. Worse, if you hated yourself for having done this with him.
âOf course. Why wouldnât we be?â
His shoulders droop as he breathes out a small sigh of relief, wishing you a âgoodnightâ before seeing himself out.
Dennis doesnât like to regret, but that doesnât mean he doesnât have any.
His uncle came to live with him and his family after his father had passed. Partly to help his mother out with some of his fatherâs remaining affairs, but also because his uncle now had no other family.
The drinking became a problem that his mother refused to do anything about.
Hush now, Dennis, she scolded him after he complained to her about it. His uncle had slept in a hay bale overnight after getting black-out drunk. Dennis was the one to stumble upon him in the morning while retrieving some tools for a house repair. The kitchen sink was clogging up again, and it was up to Dennisâyouâre better than anyone at usinâ your brain, baby. I leave these things to you because I trust you with âem. But donât tell your brothers I told you thatâto fix it. He had to help him back to his room; one of his uncleâs arms was hooked over his shoulders, leaning on him, as they walked the property back to the house. Not even his two older brothers, the ones who hadnât moved out yet, seemed to care about losing their uncle, the last living tether to their father, to the drink.
Your paâs passing was hard on all of us, but remember that he was in your uncleâs life longer than he was in yours. After losing him and your aunt⌠heâs coping the best way he can.
His mother brought up a good point. He hadnât thought of it like that. So, like with most issues, he let this one go until his uncle wasted away a few years later. He had no tears. Just the sinking regret of not doing more for him than, as his mother said, let âim be.
Dennis couldnât fall asleep after he had gotten home from your apartment.
He tossed and turned for a while, rubbed at his sternum when it felt like he couldnât breathe. He thought about what his mother told him all those years ago when he first got his heart brokenâlove is an ache, she had called itâand he knew then that he had made a mistake. He thought he could ignore it, what the twist of the knife in his gut meant, but he couldnât.
He was already in knee-deep from the moment he had met you.
The thing about Dennis is he avoids and avoids. The thing about regret is it festers.
One morning, Dennis spots you with a patient from chairs. Youâre doing a simple debriding and suturing job, nothing he needs to hover over you for. Itâs obvious the patient has an interest in you, though. If his charming, crooked grin and intense eye contact mean anything. But youâre not entertaining him. Youâre just doing your job with the bare minimum etiquette typically expected from a doctor. Half smiles and half laughs. Regardless, Dennis can sense the green-eyed monster rearing its head within him. He tells himself that he has no right to be jealous, and it shouldnât matter to him who you talk to, but the devil on his shoulder overpowers the angel on the other, and in an act of desperation unbecoming of him, he walks over to interrupt you two.
He has no plan. He doesnât even know what heâs going to say.
But unfortunately, or fortunately, he doesnât get very far. Donnie steps up to him and asks him about something he can barely register as important as he casts a glance to the side of Donnieâs head to watch you finish up with the patient and return to the waiting room to call in the next one.
Dennis knows how good you are with your hands and with your patients. He had known it in the first few weeks he had known you. He was impressed by you and could see himself learning from you instead of the other way around. The confidence with which you applied what you learned, the humility you showed when you made a mistake, the kindness you showed patientsâhe appreciated it all.
âWhitaker, are you paying attention, man?â Donnie asks with a snap of his fingers.
Dennis snaps back into focus, shaking his head clear of his thoughts. âSorry, Donnie. Um, could you repeat that?â
Another morning, a patient grabbed your bicep as you and Dennis and a few others pushed his stretcher and headed into South 15 to stabilize the rib and pelvis fractures heâd gotten in a car accident. He wasnât trying to harm you, but rather reach for something, someone to hold onto, as he fought for his life to bear the pain. But regardless of his intent, Dennis had never wanted to hurt anyone more in his life than he did the patient in that moment.
It scares Dennis how easily the thought of wrestling him to the floor came to him at the mere sight of him reaching for you. How could he have thought something like that?
This is bad. Badbadbadbadbad, Dennis thinks. Brimstone and hellfire bad. Heâs not sure how much longer he can go on like this. He canât affect the treatment of patients just because⌠just because heâs an absolute idiot when it comes to you.
His bad day goes from bad to worse when Langdon pulls him aside after the patient is sent up to surgery and tells him to cool off, something he doesnât ever need to do. Not with Dennis.
âHey, man. Think you might need to take a break? You seemed⌠tense in there.â
âIâm fine, itâs nothing, I justââ
Langdon awkwardly pats Dennisâ shoulder. ââwhatever hangups you have, you need to leave at the door. Go get a drink of water or something and come back when youâre ready.â
Dennis sighs, nodding. âOkay, I will. Sorry, Dr. Langdon. I just didnât get enough sleep last night.â
A lie. Heâs lying now. But he supposes itâs simpler than telling Langdon the truth.
Langdon scoffs. âWait until you have kids and then come back to me about getting no sleep.â
During a shift about a month since your hookup, near seven p.m., Dennis catches you heading into the stairwell. He knows that you sometimes join Mel there as a shoulder to lean on, but sheâs not on shift tonight. He follows you through the double doors, sensing that something is wrong.
Heâs developed somewhat of a sixth sense when it comes to you.
You look up at him as he opens the doors. âDennis?â
âHey, are you okay?â he asks tentatively. Heâs not sure when the last time was when he spoke to you alone without anyone around. He doesnât want to overstep.
But you give him no reason to think that he is. You are as you always are with himââOh, this?â you laugh breathlessly, pointing at yourself and then wiping a tear. âJust another perk of the job. Iâm fine, I swear. Thank you for checking up on me, thoughâcasual. Comfortable. Comforting. Even when youâre the one shedding tears.
âTell me what happened,â he says softly, though he can guess what happened is what always happens.
A sigh escapes your lips. âThe burn patient I was working on with Dr. Mohan didnât make it. It wasnât anyoneâs fault or anything. We just couldnât⌠I didnât expect the waterworks to come. Guess Iâm just having a bad day.â
He nods. He saw the poor woman with the third-degree burns being rolled in just a few hours ago. Heâs more surprised that she lasted as long as she did. âHer injuries were pretty severe. Iâm sorry you lost her. You and Dr. Mohan did the best you could, and Iâm sure she was grateful for it.â The door closes, shutting you both off from the noise of the E.D., as he steps forward and takes a seat on the step beside you. âI had a burn patient like that about a year ago. On my first day here, actually. Iâve been helping his wife out on their farm here and there since he passed.â
âTrinity told me about that.â You look up from your unlaced shoe and at him, with a pinch in your brows. âWhy are you going out of your way for someone whoâs practically a stranger? You donât owe her anything.â
Dennis opens and closes his mouth, like a fish out of water, unsure of how to respond. He looks down and ties your shoe instead. An Ian knot. Itâs tied within a second. His hands return to his jittering knees.
Immediately, with a huff, you apologize, brows furrowing deeper, âSorry, you must think Iâm a horrible person for saying that. Ignore me.â
Dennis shakes his head, meets your eyes again. âI donât. I justâI like to help people. Even if I have to go out of my way to do it, I will.â
Your lips curl inward as you think of what to say. You place a warm hand over his to stop him from bouncing his knee. Itâs as close to holding your hand as heâs gotten since he walked you home that one night.
âYouâre a really charitable person, Dennis. Itâs not my place to judge what you do in your free time, but I just hope youâre not being taken advantage of.â You let your words settle over him for a beat, then you sniffle, wipe at a remnant tear, and glance down at your watch. âWe should get back out there before Robby tears us a new one.â
In that beat of silence, Dennis reflects and realizes that he is likely being taken advantage of by Amy. It is weird that he, the student doctor who told her her husband would be alright, felt such immense guilt for his death and has lived on a farm almost his whole life, is the only person who can help her out. But heâs doing the same to her, isnât he? Going away on his days off to a familiar place without the familiar faces of his family feels⌠it feels like home without it being home. A photograph with a filter, a sepia-toned veneer obscuring the smears of bad memories that darken its edges. Itâs nice. And working there helps keep his mind off you.
âYeah. We should,â is all he says in response. But he makes no effort to move.
Before you have the chance to get up, he surges forward and kisses you. A light press of his lips to yours. Soft and sweet. So brief he wonders if you comprehended what he did. He doesnât know himself: what is he doing?
He creates some distance between you two, scooting toward the edge of the step in horror. Though, he licks his lipsâit tastes like honey lip balm and that scent that is so unique to youâand his cock jumps in his briefs.
He is so fucked.
âThat wasâshitâIâm so sorry. I shouldnât have done that.â
A smile tugs at your lips. His eyes flicker to them and back up to your eyes.
âDonât apologize,â you whisper. You reach for him; he doesnât know what for, to pull him in for another kiss or to pull him up from the step to get back to work, but he grips the railing and stands before you can do either.
âIt wonât happen again,â he says, looking down at you. âIâve got toââ he points a thumb to the door. âTalk to Kiara before shift is over or first thing with Dylan tomorrow morning, okay? They can help you to process the case if you need.â
âDennis, waitââ but heâs already walked through the doors and back into the throes of the Pitt.
He fucked up. Again.
Why couldnât he just let himself have that moment with you? Why is he such a damn coward?
He did do one thing right, though. He comforted you. Or at least tried to. And he tied your shoe. Itâs a small consolation, but he can get through the last half hour of the shift knowing you wonât trip on your feet.
Summer has long gone, and fall has since made her return. Just a few months ago, Dennis got his doctorâs badge and his first paycheck. Heâs able to spend his earnings without worrying about how many ramen packets he has left or can stomach for the rest of the week, and it is some form of bliss.
The Pittlings, and you and Joy and⌠Ogilvie, for some reason, decide on drinks at a newly opened bar after shift. Dennis arrives there a bit late along with Trin, whom he stayed back with as she caught up on charts. The first thing he notices when he walks through the door is you hanging off someoneâs arm. Heâs not sure if heâs someone employed at PTMC or if heâs a stranger. Heâs not sure which is worse.
After ordering himself a beer, he sits at one end of the big rounded booth where Mel, Joy, Ogilvie, and Victoria are already seated, right next to Trin and across the table from you and⌠him.
He joins in on conversation.
Dr. Robby and Dr. Al-Hashimi got into an argument today. Itâs a lot better between them now, but they still have their moments.
When are they going to fuck already?
Oh, my God, Joy!
What?
He laughs. He smiles. He avoids eye contact with you and knows itâs stupid because you donât pay attention to him in the slightest. The man beside you introduces himself to Dennis and Trin as Trevor, and Dennis shakes his hand. You make the briefest eye contact with him after telling the group how you two metâTrevorâs just some guy that lives in your building that you bonded with while doing laundry and invited on a whimâand he ducks his eyes. Dennis drinks. More than he should. His uncleâs words ring in his head: alcohol may be manâs worst enemy, but the Bible says love your enemyâwhich he is pretty sure is a quote from Frank Sinatra, but after a few more rounds he is too drunk now to rememberâand despite hating alcohol, he continues to drink.
His ugliness rises to the top like the creamy foam floating in his beer tonight, making him seethe and stew and click his jaw as he hears you laugh and giggle with Trevor as you two have a side conversation. But in truth, it has been lying just beneath his skin, ready to show itself in moments like these. As it has in the months since he slept with you. And itâs ridiculous because Dennis knows he has no reason to be upset. He has fucked up with you more times than he can count; this is all his own fault.
Heâs been living a lot in the gray as of late. Somewhere between what his mother would consider thereâs right and thereâs wrong, Dennis. Desperate for you and yet avoidant of you. In love with you but in hate with himself. Itâs not an easy cross to bear when his mother taught him about binaries. Either heaven or hell, reward or punishment, and thereâs no in-between, and you want to go to heaven, and so you have to be good.
The evening grows late, and he reaches a boiling point. Fever pitch. Dennis watches you walk away as Trevor excuses you two and takes you to a separate, smaller booth in the corner of the bar and from there proceeds to watch him suck on your neck. Ogilvie makes some smart remark to Dennis about being distracted tonight, like you were today when you mixed up a subdural hematoma with an epidural on a CT scanâa common mistake and one you coughed up to with grace and learned from and correctedâand Dennis thinks he can feel a vein jutting from his forehead. He will punch him.
But heâll save that for another time, because he has made a decision, and he will make it count because he knows theyâre a rarity for him. With the alcohol, his restraint is lowered, and so when the time is right, he saunters from the booth and follows you down the dim, narrow hallway leading to the restrooms.
He calls your name, and he finally says it: âI know I fucked up.â
You turn around upon hearing his voice, your hand back down at your side instead of wrapped around the restroom doorknob. Your eyes widen as you watch him step closer into your personal bubble. âWhat? Dennis, what are youââ
ââI shouldnât⌠I shouldnât have left that night. I knowâor at least I think I knowâthat you offered me to stay because you wanted me there. Not just because we had sex but because... and whenâwhen I got home, I immediately regretted leaving. And when I kissed you in the stairwell⌠I shouldnât have run then, either. If itâs not obvious already⌠I like you. A lot. Iâm justâitâs hard for me to get close, but I got close. And⌠well, I do want that. With you.â
You blink at him. Once. Twice. Three times. A flutter of your pretty, mascaraed lashes, and he blushes. As if he werenât red-in-the-face humiliated from his rant and alcohol-flushed enough already.
âOf course I wanted you to stay,â you finally say like itâs obvious. He supposes it is.
âIâm an idiot, and Iâm sorry. And you donât have to return my feelings, but I just thought you should know.â
Dennis isnât sure what heâll do with himself if you donât happen to feel the same way as he does, but he could at least try to move on now that everything is out in the open.
But he hopes he wonât have to. Heâs tired of it.
âDennis, all this timeâŚâ you sigh. âI thought you werenât ready or maybe unwilling to explore⌠us further. So I didnât push. But I never stopped liking you. I have since the moment I met you.â
He has to take a deep breath in around the hand youâre squeezing his heart with. Your confession unravels him, leaving him an unspooled mess on the sticky bar floor. âAnd how about your⌠friend?â he asks, voice pitched a little high. Heâs deflecting, sure, but he also has to know.
âHeâs no one.â
A quiet âohâ is all he can voice. Relief blooms in his chest.
You roll your eyes but grin, stepping closer to him so that youâre chest to chest. You hold his face in both of your hands, the scent of your perfume pooling heat in his gut and scrambling his brain, and kiss him.
And the world shrinks again. The bar is gone. Your colleagues are gone. The guy youâre with is gone. Itâs just you two.
âLetâs go back to mine,â he offers once you two part. Youâre taken aback by his initiative. Honestly, he is too. But he doesnât have it in him to care about taking things slow right now. âTrin wonât be there. Sheâs going back to Garciaâs after.â
You nod. He takes your hand. He doesnât ask about the man youâre leaving behind, and you donât offer an excuse.
He doesnât notice Trin watching the both of you leave in a rush.
This lovemaking isnât so much lovemaking as it is, well, a nasty fuck.
Dennis ate you out until you cried, kneeling by the foot of his bed with your legs thrown over his shoulders. Finger-fucked you. One finger to start, slowly working up to three. You were so wet with slick that it was so easy to slide inside of you. The scent of you remains on his tongue, lingers on the tip of his nose, intoxicating and maddening and overwhelming all at once, and he loves it.
He hasnât had such passionate sex before. But it figures, considering heâs never felt this way about anyone before you.
He takes you from behind, watching the flesh of your ass jiggle with every thrust of his hips. Youâre moaning into the sheets as he feeds you his cock, and heâs grunting as you clench down on him. This isnât gentlemanly of him. Heâs digging himself inside of you, staking a claim to the empty space in your heart and cunt. He will be the only one to ever do this, have you, as long as he has a say in it. As long as he doesnât fuck up like heâs prone to do.
All the ugliness he has felt sitting inside of him, building and building over the past few months, dissipates, and he feels like himself again. He shouldâve just been honest with himself and you sooner.
Heâs always been a glutton for pain, though. You get beaten down so many times, you start to look forward to the next time it happens just so you can get it over with.
He knows he has a lot to unlearn. The heavy burden of expectation and the fear of being human and fucking up like humans do. The fear of closeness.
He tries not to worry himself about that right now, though. You donât seem the type to be discouraged about his ineptitude or his clumsy way of going about life, and heâs grateful for it.
As much as he wants to, it doesnât seem appropriate now to pour his heart out to you. Itâs too soon. But he can wait. The important thing, he thinks, is knowing it for himself, how he feels about you. Choosing it for himself.
When you two are done, sprawled out on his bed, wrapped up in each otherâs arms and glowing from the sex and sweat and sin, he asks to take both of your pictures on his digital camera.
âYouâre into photography?â you ask.
âI dabble.â He shrugs. âI got into it during undergrad.â
âWhat, no cameras growing up on the farm?â you ask, a smirk playing on your lips.
He chuckles. âWe had a camera. Just never used it.â He wishes that werenât the case. âYou tend to see a lot of the same day after day.â It would have been nice to see his father in the roll of film sitting in that old camera. He supposes it would make for a good reason to visit home, to check if maybe there are some photos of him around the house he could take back to Pittsburgh with him, but he dismisses the idea. Heâd just be looking for a ghost.
You hum. âLetâs take one then.â
Dennis untangles himself from you and hops off the bed, grabbing his digital camera, an expensive, vintage one, one of his first gifts to himself after getting his first paycheck. He rejoins you on the bed and pulls you into his chest. Cheek to sticky cheek. Tacky with sweat. Two sets of toothy smiles. A click and a bright flash.
He turns the camera around, and you both take a look at the photo.
Picture perfect.
The next day, you two hover at central after rounds to get a quick word in with each other before the day pulls you apart.
âArenât you glad weâre sneaking around now?â you tease.
âNo, not really,â he says truthfully. For both of your sakes, you thought it might be best to wait until you were both completely secure in your relationship before going to H.R. and telling the others, but Dennis is certain heâs not going anywhere. Still, itâs early. You both have time. âBut Iâm really glad weâre together.â
âMe too.â
Trin suddenly calls both of your names, and you and Dennis look up in her direction. âHey, lovebirds, got a case I want you to work with me on.â
You and Dennis share a look.
Trin approaches the counter and slaps him on the back, then wraps an arm around his shoulder, pulling him along. âCâmon. Follow me,â she says back to you with a gesturing hand motion. As she leads you both to⌠somewhere, she asks him, âso, you either werenât a virgin as you claimed not to be or you just happened to know what you were doing the first time, huh?â
Dennisâ brows furrow. âWhat are you talkingââ
âI came home last night because I saw you two leaving the bar together. I was curious. Sheâs a bit of a screamer, isnât she?â she asks, looking back at you.
You flash her an innocent smile, and Dennis blushes, stammering something incoherent. Trin cackles.
Hi, Ma.
Baby, itâs been too long since you last called. How are you?
Iâm good. Sorry itâs been a while. How are things with you?
Good, good. Jacob⌠Well, his wife kicked him out of the house. But heâs home now, and itâs been nice to have someone around.
Oh⌠thatâsâthatâs too bad.
Well, anyway. Iâm assuming you called for a reason?
Uh, yeah. I just wanted to tell you that I met someone. I think youâd like her.
You did?
I did.
Wow. Thatâs amazing. Iâm so proud of you, baby. I never thought this day would come. Youâll have to bring her home sometime.
Thanks, Ma. And Iâm sorry for cutting it short, but, uh, I got to go. I just wanted to say hi and let you know. It was nice to hear your voice.
Okay, then. Iâll let Jacob know you called. You sound good, baby. Happy.
I think I am.
Okay, Iâll let you go now. Be good, Dennis. I love you.
Always. I love you too.
He hangs up the phone. Itâll be a while until he calls home again. Familyâs family, but thereâs always a little bit of pain there. The distance is a good thing, he thinks. He has some healing to do on his own.
He hasnât even spoken to his brothers sinceâŚ
He wonât dwell on it, though. He has tomorrow and beyond to look forward to with you.
ur account is so AGH anyway carmen berzatto x reader 𼚠you can literally make it whatever you want i just yearn for this man
hehe thank you!! youâre account is so cute too!!
anyway i had such a shitty day and i canât stop thinking about how sweet carmy would be if his girl had a bad day. youâre his beautiful angel and he canât stand to see you cry! wether you need a home cooked meal, heâll do it. even if you tell him he doesnât have to. he cooks all day. heâll just shake his head and goes âitâs not work for you, baby. now sit and relax please.â and when you do you get a kiss on the forehead and a muttered âatta girl.â
or my personal favorite: carmy just holds you in those strong, tattooed sexy arms. pulls you into his lap and lets you cry into his shoulder. kissing you hair and wiping your tears. âitâs okay, pretty girl. let it out for me. youâre okay.â idk heâs just a soft, dominating yet caring presence i need it so bad :(
also iâm officially going to start writing dennis whitaker x fem!reader! so send in request please that mouse boy with great arms is taking over my brain
sorry but for me itâs whitsantos best friendism > everything else cause like what do you mean whitaker might not live with santos anymore what are we doing
