[reidsmemory]

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about me!

hi im quinn! in school right now, so i might not be super active. was first active around 2020 in the criminal minds fandom. exploring new things now! thanks for supporting me and my work!

[reidsmemory]

just saw the odyssey and omg!!! literally every other min was another niche actor coming up on the screen, it was so funny! literally will (jj’s husband from criminal minds) popped up and i was like 😮🫵

but other notes, everyone did soooo good. like zendaya, gagged always with her, she’s so good and she just keeps getting better. and matt damon oml! i was not aware of his game ngl 🙌 and ofc anne hathaway and tom holland, such a good dynamic and such good characters to see grow and develop as the story went on.

i was also geeking out abt the use of music, specifically the constant rhythm of a heartbeat, throughout the film. such a good idea and added so much to the experience 🙂‍↕️

so good! i recommend watching it! lmk if u do and what u think!

[reidsmemory]

thank you anon for the carmy request! i love the idea and i'll get to work on it later this week! working on a bradley piece right now, but that'll be next up!

[reidsmemory]

puppy love

bradley bradshaw x fem!reader

summary: adopting a retired police dog from the local station seemed like a good idea. late night cuddles on the couch, early morning barks to start the day, and long runs in the park are now a normal part of bradley's routine. but what happens when his furry friend takes off one morning, leash slipping through his hand, and instead barreling towards someone new?

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, semi-public sex (not really but kinda), dry humping (i'm a freak), hand job, fingering, reader is shorter/smaller than bradley (he looks down at reader and picks reader up), strangers to lovers (guys don't fall for the cute guy with a dog ruse unless it's bradley), no use of y/n

word count: 11.1k

a/n: been a fiend for bradley ever since watching topgun again in theaters. that mustache does things to me... also this a very bradley centered fic! loved exploring him as a character in this! enjoy! :)

masterlist

Bradley doesn't know what stopped him on his way off base. Usually, he's barreling towards the exit, can't wait to get home and start his weekend, even if that means reruns of old sitcoms and quiet nights on his back patio alone. Maybe it was the bright pink of the poster, contrasting against the dark navy blue, kaki tan, and army green of the base. Or maybe it was the fact that the piece of paper was dead center on the communal bulletin board. But, ultimately, Bradley's pace slows as he gets closer to the board and catches sight of a picture of a group of German shepherds, all lined up in perfect order, but still somehow looking so happy.

Adopt me! Come by the Coronado Police Station this weekend to meet your new best friend!

Bradley pauses as he reads over the text, taking in the place, date, and time. Tomorrow morning, a fifteen-minute drive from his small two-bedroom house. He doesn't know why, but he reaches into his back pocket to take out his phone, snapping a quick picture. Bradley looks over his shoulder, seeing if anyone has caught him in the act. And just as quickly as he had stopped, he was off again.

The drive home should feel like any other; wind in his hair, aviators over his eyes blocking the rays of the setting sun, and soft classic rock from the radio. But Bradley couldn't help but feel like something was missing.

Phoenix went on and on today about how her family is visiting her for the weekend, saying how excited she is to see her parents again. Bradley smiled at her, genuinely happy at the news.

Bob had talked about staying in with his girlfriend this weekend, saying they were going to try out a new recipe of banana bread they saw on the Food Network earlier this week. Bradley had hummed, telling Bob to save him a slice and to bring it in on Monday.

Jake had even told Bradley about the long run he was going on with a few of the newest TOPGUN class recruits, saying he was going to put them through hell this weekend. Bradley just laughed and grimaced at this, thankful his time in the program hadn't been led by someone as ruthless as one of his best friends.

But as the keys hit the small dish on his counter, Bradley couldn't help but tune into the creaks and groans of his house. Nothing else, just the small and quiet sounds. Even as he cooked dinner that night, the boiling of the pasta seemed drowned out by the stillness of the kitchen, of everything that surrounded Bradley. The episode he had seen at least three times now seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Bradley only heard his breathing and the occasional dripping of the faucet.

The hot summer nights were grueling. Not only due to the heat of his sticky skin against the now warm sheet, but also because Bradley could hear every little bug from the window above his bed. Cicadas seemed to chirp, grasshoppers seemed to sing, and if he listened closely, he could even sometimes hear the buzzing of the fireflies. Too quiet, but so loud. Loudness from the wrong sounds, the ones nobody noticed. Loudness from the beating of his heart from underneath his skin. Loudness of the crinkling sheets beneath his grasp. Loudness from the unsteady breath that escaped his lips.

Reaching for his phone, Bradley looked at the most recent picture in his camera roll. Swiping out and clicking the clock icon, he set an alarm for 8 AM sharp.

જ⁀➴

Bradley pulls into the parking lot and takes in the sight around him. Cars are already packed in the lot, despite it only being 5 minutes since the adoption event started. Minivans and SUVs are taking up most of the spots; his Bronco seems out of place among the other cars. The California sun is barely starting to warm up the air, but Bradley knows in an hour he'll be thankful for the loose Hawaiian shirt he wears.

Off to the right side of the building, he can hear children laughing and dogs barking. Tucking his keys in his back pocket, he makes his way towards the noise.

Like he suspected, families are standing around chatting with volunteers in bright pink shirts, the same pink on the poster from the base. Kids are wide-eyed and fascinated with all of the dogs they see. It's not just German shepherds, but smaller dogs too, and all types of breeds. He wonders why his poster only had the proud-looking line-up when there were so many other options.

But like a man on a mission, Bradley peers over the crowd of people and spots K-9 in big black letters near the middle of the scene. Sending small smiles and tapping his left hand anxiously on the side of his thigh, Bradley weaves through the crowd. Taking in the well-behaved group of dogs before him, he settles down a bit. There's only one volunteer over in this area, a woman with her back turned away from him. It only settles him more, giving him the space to really look over the animals. Some of the dogs are panting, as if being out on the grass has somehow exhausted them. Others are playing with each other, rolling around, and showing their bellies. But one dog sits near the woman, curled in on itself, head tucked into her side.

Without meaning to, Bradley watches this dog, missing the way the woman looks at him fondly.

"He's just a little shy, but I promise he's a good boy," your voice snaps him out of his trance.

Bradley doesn't think he's ever thought so hard about what to say next. You have a soft look on your face, eyes darting back and forth between him and the dog that sits so close to you. The morning light is peeking out from beneath the tree branches, golden rays dancing across your skin. Bradley is glad he doesn't have his sunglasses on right now.

"What's his name?" Bradley walks closer to you, and you turn your body towards him. The dog next to you perks up a bit at the movement.

You smile a little before saying it, "Ducky." Seeing the way his brows raise, you laugh a bit. "He's just a bit of an odd pup out, thought the name suited him."

Bradley couldn't help but feel like it was fate. Ducky and Rooster. It was almost laughable.

"You said he's shy," Bradley led on, looking up to you as he sat on his haunches next to the dog.

"Yeah," you hummed. "Definitely my sensitive boy out of the group. These guys are retiring K-9, but Ducky has a bit of a soft side, wasn't trained properly as a puppy." Your voice seemed to waver a bit at the end of your sentence.

Bradley watched as your throat bobbed before you spoke again. He could tell where this conversation was going, but didn't want to interrupt. The look in your eyes was fiercely protective.

"He was abused by his first owner. So he has some PTSD tendencies. Hyper vigilant, can get really avoidant and shy, whines a lot when he's feeling anxious," you tell Bradley, petting the dog softly.

But nothing in your expression tells him that you don't care for this dog, that you think he's broken because of all of these things. It makes his heart beat a little quicker.

"But Ducky's a good boy. You just have to put some work in to see that." As you say his name again, Ducky peeks out from where he's hiding in your side. You smile a bit at this, ruffling his ears. "You wanna say hi to the sweet man?" you ask in a soft voice, like you're talking just to the dog, like Bradley's not right next to you, hearing every word.

He holds his hand out slowly, knowing not to move too fast. "Hey, Ducky. I'm Bradley." As soon as he says it, he feels a bit silly. But the way your smile deepens makes him continue. "Looking for a home, buddy? I got a nice backyard."

"Oh, he'll love that. Runs around like a bunny when he's all riled up," you told him with a smile on your face, now looking only at Bradley.

Bradley smiles at that, only imagining the life this dog could bring to his quiet house.

Finally, Ducky nudges his outstretched hand, sniffing it first, then licking it softly. He hears you gasp lightly at the action, nothing big though, trying not to disrupt the moment.

"He never does that," you offer. Bradley can see your head shaking slowly as Ducky continues to push into the man in front of you.

Bradley feels his heartbeat steady. It's quiet around him. Even with the squealings of the children around him and the barking of the other dogs, Bradley only hears the little laps of Ducky's tongue against the skin on his hand. But this quiet is something he can get used to, something that grounds him.

"It's a 150 dollar adoption fee, right?" Bradley asks, not tearing his eyes away from the dog in front of him. Ducky's big brown eyes seem to bore into his soul, making him ask the question before even thinking about what he's saying.

You bite your lip before speaking, trying to hide the big grin on your face, even though you know Bradley can't see it. "Um, no fee for him. I already took care of it."

Your words confuse Bradley. He looks over to you for an answer but sees clearly why you had paid the fee yourself.

Quickly, a hand comes up to your cheek as you wipe the stray tear away from your face. "I just didn't want anything to deter someone from taking him home." Bradley's heart clenches at this as you offer him a smile and you fan your eyes.

"Well, what do you say, Ducky? Wanna come home with me?" Bradley finds himself talking to the dog again, not feeling as silly this time around.

જ⁀➴

Bradley looks at the large, fluffy cream colored dog bed lying next to his and the brown wicker box overflowing with colorful chew toys with a small smile. Ducky had been a little hesitant to leave your side at first when he realized what was happening, but with some whispered assurance and a kiss on the tip of his wet nose from you, he jumped into Bradley's Bronco, settling in the passenger seat.

Ducky had whined when Bradley peeled out of the parking lot. The man had glanced over at Ducky as he stuck his head out of the window and looked in your direction. His eyes found your figure in the mirror, blue denim, and a sweet pink-colored top catching his eye. He saw the way you brought one hand up to your heart, and as the other wiped at your cheeks. You loved this dog, every bit of your being told him that.

Bradley couldn't help but feel bad as the dog's whines continued throughout shopping for essentials, the drive home, and the arrival at his house.

Ducky had opted to lie in Bradley's brown leather chair as soon as they got into the house, and he decided to take it as a good sign. But as the day continued, Ducky had barely left the spot, and small cries were coming every few minutes.

Opening up the sliding glass door to his backyard, Bradley called Ducky over, beckoning him to come out and play. But the swings of the bright blue and purple rope and the energetic movements from Bradley weren't doing anything to move Ducky from his spot.

Even when making dinner, Ducky had barely budged from his spot on the recliner. With the wafting scent of the food on the stovetop, Bradley was sure that Ducky would appear by his side sooner rather than later. But nothing came of it, even with the temptation of a seared ribeye with Ducky's name on it.

He had tried speaking softly like he had seen you do earlier that day, but Bradley didn't want to push the poor dog more than it seemed like he already did. Instead, he turned on the television and sat in the company of the shy dog.

It wasn't until Bradley was tucked under his sheets that he heard the faint noise of shuffling paws on his hardwood floors. Ducky sat next to the side of the bed, noticeably avoiding lying on the dog bed next to him. Bradley laughed quietly at this, furrowing his brows a bit.

He wasn't quite sure what to do, to be honest. Growing up, he never had dogs or cats or anything of that sort in the house. He figured it was hard enough being a single mother of a toddler; the added stress of an animal just wasn't feasible in his situation.

Sure, his friends growing up had dogs. He recalled throwing around a tennis ball with one of his friends and their black lab in their backyard almost every day during the summer before 7th grade. But Bradley had never lived with a dog. Never had to deal with big brown eyes looking at him as he lay underneath the sheets.

"You okay, buddy?" he asked in the otherwise quiet room.

To this, Ducky started whining.

"Oh, come on. I thought we got over that a few hours ago," Bradley groans, rolling up to sit in his bed now.

Bradley was man enough to admit it was hard to drag Ducky away from you during the adoption this morning. Ducky's whines as you gave him a few last pets and spoke gently to him, did tug on Bradley's heartstrings. Bradley was sure the dog next to him couldn't stop thinking about your kind eyes and sweet disposition; he certainly couldn't.

Bradley's hands were rougher than yours. He felt the softness as you handed the leash to him this morning. You had explained to him a routine that Ducky usually had with the unit, your hands animated as you looked between the pair in front of you with a smile. Occasionally, one would come down to rub the top of his head. Ducky was probably missing that, missing you.

On top of that, when Bradley smiled at the dog next to him, he couldn't help but think of how goofy he looked compared to you. Your smiles were gentle, drawing him and Ducky in from a few feet away. He could tell you had that kind of magnetism, that kind of energy that just took hold of people and didn't let go. Bradley struggled to think of what the dog in front of him thought as he shot him another small smile.

And Bradley couldn't let go of the way you switched from talking to him to Ducky. How you had described Bradley with a soft tone and warm look in your eyes. You didn't even know him. How did you settle on "sweet man" from what Bradley was giving you this morning? It was a little too mind-boggling to think about for too long.

Shaking away the memories of this morning, Bradley was brought back to the dog that sat at his side. With a small sigh, he pointed to the bed next to him. "That's your bed, Ducky. It's time to go to sleep."

This only got him louder whines.

Bradley sighed and shook his head. He felt clueless.

"Do you want to come up here?" he tried, patting the comforter near his feet.

Within seconds, Ducky was jumping onto the bed and taking claim to the opposite side of the bed.

"Unbelievable. I try to get you to listen all day, and this is what you respond to," Bradley laughed as he looked at Ducky with a smile, not able to get mad at the dog as he cuddled up similarly to this morning with you.

The whines had stopped now, replaced with steady breathing and a small huff. The buzzing of the bugs outside his window that seemed so loud yesterday was now quiet. Bradley was only keying in on the ups and downs of Ducky's chest, something more grounding than he realized.

"Alright, Ducky. Time for bed," Bradley spoke again to the dog, stroking the fur on his back gently. Lying his head back down on his pillow and continuing his movements, Bradley was asleep within minutes. Soft snores from both him and Ducky fill the house with a comfortable, peaceful energy.

જ⁀➴

It was a bit daunting at first. That first week with Ducky was definitely a learning curve. Trying to adjust his routine to best suit the dog's needs hadn't been quick or easy.

The first morning, Bradley woke up to licks on his face and playful growling. At first, Bradley thought Ducky wanted attention, some pets, and cuddles. But as soon as he sat up in bed, Ducky was bolting to the front door.

Sitting in front of the door with the green leash in his mouth, Ducky whined as Bradley slowly made his way down the hallway.

Still adorned in his slippers and ratty college football shorts, Bradley closed the front door and took off with Ducky as the sun rose in the distance. After a few minutes of tugging Bradley down the block, Ducky broke out into a trot, urging Bradley to keep up with him.

That's how Bradley ended up running barefoot in his neighborhood at 5 in the morning, slippers in one hand and leash in the other. He had passed Mrs. Greene, Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Nguyen on their morning aerobic walk with a small nod and smile. The older ladies had laughed at the scene, something Bradley couldn't help but join in on.

An hour later, they ended up back at Bradley's house. This time, Ducky barked happily as he opened the sliding glass door out to his backyard, running circles in the yard much like you had said he would. Bradley found himself watching with a disbelieving smile on his face, wishing he could somehow tell you that you were right.

A few weeks later, Bradley runs shirtless, tennis shoes on his feet now, with Ducky on an early May morning. The sun is just starting to peak out from the greenery lining the trail they take every morning. Bradley's grateful for the cool morning air as sweat wicks at his lower back and hairline. A combination of the morning dew and perspiration rolls down the muscles of Bradley's body as he jogs.

Suddenly, Ducky pauses once they reach the familiar park. Bradley looks down at his dog and then up to see what he could possibly be stopping for.

Seeing nothing but the group of older women with small hand weights and crows in the trees, Bradley bends down to Ducky's level. "What's up, buddy? What do you see?"

But as soon as Bradley settles down next to the dog, Ducky's leash is slipping through his fingers. He reaches out to grab onto anything, his dog, his collar, his leash, but ends up grasping at the air instead. Ducky is taking off in a sprint before him.

Rising to his feet and going after him. Bradley swears under his breath and calls out loudly, "Ducky!"

He finds himself weaving through the playground, wood chips kicking up in his wake. But his eyes widen as Ducky zeroes in on a group of women at the edge of the park.

He sees them all stretched down in downward dog as Ducky gets closer and closer. Again, Bradley calls out, "Ducky!"

At this, he sees a few heads turn towards the sound of his voice. But only one woman looks in the direction of the blur of fur coming straight for her. A yelp is heard as Ducky barrels into her, knocking her from her place on the mat. Gasps are heard from the surrounding women, and Bradley's chest heaves as he sprints to catch up to his dog and pull him off the stranger.

But as he gets closer, his heart calms at the sound of laughter. Ducky is lying on top of this poor woman, but at least he's not attacking or barking or anything of that sort. No, he's just licking and nuzzling into the figure on the ground.

"I am so sorry. I don't," Bradley gets out quickly, stuttering a bit as he looks around at the group with an apologetic smile. "He never runs away like that, I'm sorry. Ducky, get over here!"

But the dog stays put, and the laughter doesn't stop. But finally, Ducky is pushed up from the figure on the ground, and Bradley's heart races once more when he sees your face peeking out from behind the ball of fur.

"Oh, it's you." He doesn't know why he says it, but it comes from him like a breath of relief.

You laugh at this, not even taking in the way Bradley scolds himself at the odd behavior.

"And it's you and Ducky!" Your attention is on the dog in front of you, petting him and smiling brightly, only glancing up at Bradley once before returning to the panting dog rather than the panting man.

Bradley kneels down next to you, sweat still rolling down his skin. He doesn't catch the way your cheeks flush as you take in his build. Muscles are a mix of the perfect summer tan and red rosy dusting, no doubt from the sprint he took off on to get here. His arms strain as they go behind him, veins jumping out from his skin. From this position, his tight stomach is also on full display, ridges and divots begging for your attention.

What you don't realize is that Bradley is doing the exact same thing to you, drinking you in fully. You're in flow yoga pants, calves peeking out from the wide-legged flare of the pants. And your top half is barely hidden, only wearing a sports bra, pretty and pink like the top he had seen you in a month ago. The straps dig into your shoulders, and Bradley takes in the swell of your breasts as he follows the scoop of the top.

A bark from Ducky snaps you both back into reality. Some of the women around you laugh.

"You guys seem to be doing well," you spoke softly, voice just as sweet as Bradley remembered.

"Mm, yeah. We've got our routine now, he's been great," Bradley tells you, reaching to pet his dog.

You watch the action fondly, seeing the way Ducky leans into his touch now. The moment is sweet and completely yours, at least that's what it feels like as you and Bradley make eye contact and share small smiles. But a voice clearing is heard as you and Bradley remember where you are.

You turn to a young woman next to you, speaking quicker than Bradley has ever heard before from you. "I'm gonna go with them, I'll be back soon." She nodded at you with a gleaming look in her eye that Bradley didn't quite understand. But you turned quickly towards him, grabbing Ducky's leash and apologizing to the other women around you.

As soon as you had walked away from the group, they resumed their positions, some of them craning their necks to watch the scene a few feet away from them unfold.

"I'm so sorry about that, again," Bradley told you, grimace on his face as you handed him the leash.

But you just shook your head and smiled. "No, no. It was nice seeing you guys again. I was wondering how he was doing with you," you told him. Bradley hoped you didn't catch the way he swallowed hard at your words. Leaning down a bit, your hand came down to Ducky's face. "But you like the sweet man, huh? I knew you would."

Bradley's cheeks flush at the repetition of your description of him, yet again.

The sun paints everything a nice golden color, pinks in the sky still dancing a bit in the distance. But Bradley can't peel his eyes away from you, and it seems like you are having the same problem.

"I should probably get back." Your head is pointing in the direction of the class, now moving through another pose.

"Yes, yeah. Sorry," he doesn't know why he apologizes, but the smile on your face doesn't make him think about it for long.

"Well, bye, Ducky. And bye..." you lead off, looking for him to pick up the end of your sentence.

"Bradley," he says, hoping you say it back to him.

"Bye, Bradley," you tell him, turning away from the pair, but not before sending them one last glance over your shoulder. And Bradley doesn't realize how long he stands there and hangs onto your words, only focusing on the way his name sounded coming out of your mouth. It had never sounded better, sounded sweeter from you.

Begrudgingly, he turns, ushering Ducky to follow him.

"I know, Ducky. Come on," he says, starting off in a slow jog as his dog turns back and begins to follow him. But as the day continues, Ducky's whining starts up again, and Bradley can't help but think of you.

જ⁀➴

Pool balls clack up against each other as Bradley misses yet another wide-open shot.

"Jesus, Rooster," Jake laughs loudly. "Missing your dog so much you can't even focus on one little game of pool?"

It was partly true. It was Bradley's first night out since getting Ducky; he had been opting to spend the nights and weekends at home with the dog rather than out drinking with the squad.

But before Bradley could defend himself, mouth already opening to fire back, Bob had cut in, "No, he's definitely distracted because of the girl."

Bob sipped his soda innocently as the group of pilots turned in his direction with peaked interest.

Looking at Bradley, Bob grimaced; he was always a little loose-lipped after his 3rd soda of the night. "Shoot. Sorry, Bradley."

This set off a chain of questions from the group as Bradley's head hung low, hand coming up to the back of his neck to rub harshly at the skin.

Bradley had confessed his feelings to the WSO earlier this week, not being able to get the image of you out of his brain the entire weekend after Ducky had run you down in the park. He just had to tell someone, and Bob seemed like the logical choice. Smart, level-headed, in a stable relationship. But the words from the WSO only sent him into a spiral as he had finished describing you.

"Sounds like your perfect woman."

Bob's voice seemed to be on repeat the entire week. And God, he was right. You were perfect. More importantly, Bradley felt like he was going through withdrawal. Every time he looked at Ducky, he thought of you. He reasoned that getting out of the house and spending some time with his friends would be good for him.

Evidently, his secret being outed wasn't what he had in mind for tonight.

"Idiots, shut it!" Phoenix's voice rang out above the others. The group was now silent, all looking to the woman. "What girl?" she asked hesitantly.

With a sigh, Bradley's shoulders slumped. "The woman who I got Ducky from. I ran into her again last week, doing yoga at the park on one of our morning runs. And I don't know," he says, face twisting, not even sure why he's volunteering this information to his friends. "I just... I can't stop thinking about her."

The group is silent, understanding and hearing the sincerity in Bradley's voice.

Jake lets out a whistle at this. "Let's get you another drink, lover-boy." And at this, the group seems to hum in agreement.

The blonde clamps a hand down on his shoulder, guiding him to the bar.

"And you don't have her number?" Jake asks as they weave through the crowds of people.

"No, man. I mean, I don't even know her name. The adoption paperwork happened quicker than I expected, and I was just standing there like a dumbass the second time," Bradley grumbles, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"Yikes. Any chance she's gonna do yoga again this week?" Jake asked as they sat at two open seats.

"I looked, it said the yoga happens the first Saturday of every month. So, I just have to wait," Bradley explained, feeling a little embarrassed at the admission.

"A month?! Good luck, my friend. You've gone crazy after only a week," Jake laughed. Bradley rolled his eyes at this and groaned, knowing Jake's words held some truth to them.

"Hello, gentlemen. I've got a drink here for you, Lieutenant Bradshaw," Penny's voice makes Bradley's head snap up. Her hand is pointing in across the bar, and when he follows it, he can't help but swear.

"Holy shit," Bradley laughs, turning to Jake with a smile and wide eyes.

"Holy shit, that's her?" Jake asked, looking at you and your friend at the opposite side of the bar, taking in the way she poked your sides and laughed.

"That's her," he spoke breathlessly. Penny grinned at the scene unfolding in front of her.

"Go, dumbass. Go!" Jake pushed him off the barstool, both hands guiding him in your direction.

Bradley recognized the girl sitting next to you, the same one at the yoga class the other day; she was probably your best friend if he was guessing. The way you smiled at her, cheeks flushing as she spoke, and sent you a wink made Bradley giddy. She grabbed her purse and hopped off the stool, gesturing for him to come take her spot before squeezing your hand and leaving.

"Hey," he says, sitting next to you, disbelief on his features.

"Hey, you," you tease back. "Are you in the Navy?"

Bradley takes in the way your eyes narrow at him, like you're trying to put pieces together. He nods and smiles, "I am, TOPGUN graduate."

"So you saw the poster I put up? For the K-9 unit?" You were smiling brightly now, like you had guessed correctly.

"I did. The pink's what got me." Bradley's eyes met yours. This conversation seemed different than all the other you had in the past. Before, you were calm and collected, but here you were excitable and giggly.

"I totally thought you were a firefighter," you spoke honestly. "I put the K-9 posters up at the base, the fire station, and places like this," your finger wagged as you spoke, gesturing to the bar.

"Disappointed?" he asked, a teasing smile on his face.

You held your hands up in faux surrender. "No! Not at all. Impressed actually."

He grinned at this, settling into the conversation more and more. "And what do you do? Not a police officer, right?"

"No, vet actually. I just work pro bono with the police department, specifically for the K-9 unit. Those guys are hard workers, and usually get roughed up after big jobs," you told him with a small smile.

Bradley put together some pieces of his own. How you knew so much about Ducky, why you had gotten so close to him. You had probably gotten to see the pup at his lowest.

Bradley nodded, "Now I'm impressed." You smiled wider at this, laughing at his words.

For the first time since sitting with you, Bradley fully took you in. Your denim shorts that rode up just a bit and your white tank top, the V-neck framing your collarbones and chest perfectly. Your cheeks had a slight blush to them; he couldn't tell whether it was from him or from the fruity drink you seemed to be working on.

Again, you did the same thing. This time, though, Bradley was in a tight white T-shirt and jeans that seemed to strain against his thick biceps and thighs. His hair wasn't as windswept as it had been that day in the park; now it was pushed back slightly, a single curl coming down on the left side of his face.

The squad watched as the two of you talked, Jake practically skipping back to the group to tell them the good news. Every time they glanced over, you and Bradley had gotten closer and closer, fully leaning into each other.

You both sported matching smiles and flushed cheeks the entire night, despite letting both of your drinks sit and become lukewarm. The alcohol couldn't be to blame for the way you were acting.

They saw how Bradley's eyes softened as they met yours. How his shoulders relaxed after each laughing fit. How he opened himself completely in front of you.

You had talked about everything. It seemed to flow so easily out of Bradley, even the hard things. When you asked about his family, you must have noticed the way his face dropped slightly, instantly placing a supportive hand on his thigh. He had told you about his family, the squad, about Maverick. It was nice. You asked questions, not the kind that he had an automatic response for, but ones that made him think.

"Who on the squad is most like a sibling to you?"

"What dish instantly brings you back to childhood?"

And his favorite, "What's your favorite story about your dad?"

He asked you about school, and you indulged him in crazy stories from your early days in the profession. How you had worked out on a farm in Wyoming one summer and helped with the births of calves. It had been a lot more physically exhausting than you would've imagined. How you had studied in Australia for an exchange year, learning all about marine wildlife and how to care for them. The way your eyes lit up when you told him about a baby turtle hatching you had witnessed had him giddy.

You had told him about all the adventures you had gone on and all the ones you wanted to do in the future. Swimming in Baja, Mexico, with the Whale Sharks was at the top of your bucket list, and while Bradley was a bit scared of deep waters like that, he had to admit it didn't sound as scary if you were going to be by his side.

In exchange, he told you a few things about his time in the academy. The risks he had to take on missions, the close calls that happened more often than he would like. He saw the pain this job caused his mom, and he didn't want you to go into this without knowing the risks. But the way you bit your lip and told him that you thought what he was doing was so brave made his heart race and a wide grin break out on his face. You had hit his shoulder lightly at this, saying you were serious, but Bradley just smiled wider.

"Is there anything else I can grab you two tonight?" Penny asked, wiping down a glass as she looked at the pair, effectively popping their bubble.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry. We stayed way too late," you spoke, digging into your wallet to pull out some bills to give the kind woman.

"Sorry, Penny," Bradley chuckled, handing her a handful of cash before you could even finish fumbling with you wallet. Your eyes met him, mouth about to open to argue, but he just offered you a hand as he hopped off the barstool.

"Goodnight, you two," she called as you both walked out with sheepish smiles.

You hadn't dropped Bradley's hand as you led him through the parking lot to your car. He relished in the warmth and softness; the feeling was vaguely familiar as he recalled the earlier touches from when you had first met.

"This is me," you told him, as moonlight danced across your features. Bradley couldn't help but run his eyes over your face, thinking to himself how beautiful you looked.

"Can I get your number?" he asked brazenly, a tad louder than he needed to. You giggled at this but nodded regardless, hands reaching for his phone as he stared at you.

Despite the cold breeze that came from the ocean just a few meters away from you both, Bradley felt a deep warmth spread in his chest. He opened your car door, closing it softly as you waved through the window. And once you backed out of your spot, Bradley found himself smiling all over again at the paw print stickers on your back window.

જ⁀➴

3 months later...

You and Bradley sprawled out on his couch as the movie finished up in front of you, Ducky sitting by your feet. Lying on Bradley's chest, you couldn't help but listen to his heartbeat beneath you.

These past few months with Bradley had been nothing short of perfect. He had texted you the morning after you had sat at the Hard Deck for hours, asking if you were free for dinner that same night. You remember laughing at his eagerness to yourself, but agreeing nonetheless.

He appeared at your door at 6:30 PM sharp, taking you out to a nice dinner on a beach patio. You teased him about not bringing Ducky, saying you thought they were a package deal, but you quickly paused the teasing after seeing how nervous he was by the way his cheeks flushed brightly.

He asked you about your career out here, only really talking about school last night with you. He said he wanted to learn more about you now. It was more thoughtful than you had expected.

Halfway through the dinner, you moved your chair over to Bradley's side of the table, something that caught a glare from the hostess. But you had to, as you scrolled through pictures and pictures of animals on your phone. You told him each of their names and all the little quirks they had, told him about the family you had worked with, and how much each of these animals meant to people. You hadn't noticed, but he smiled the entire time, not really looking at your phone but instead at the way you lit up when you spoke about the animal you've worked with.

When the date wrapped up, you told him that you'll just have to see his dog another time, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before you closed the door to your apartment. He hadn't seen you peek through the curtains, but you saw the way he pumped his fists like a dork while walking to his car. You couldn't help but fall even harder for the man.

Two days after your first date, Bradley had asked you to meet him in a little coffee shop near your apartment. He had apologized countlessly for the timing, seeing as he had requested 6 AM as the time, saying it was okay if you wanted to wait for the weekend, but his training schedule was just a little hectic at the moment. But you insisted it was okay, saying you had your own share of early mornings too and that you wanted to see him.

As he walked you to your car after a quick coffee and pastry, you smiled at him. Leaning against your car, you tugged him down by the collar of the familiar plain white tee he wore, pulling him in for a kiss. Bradley's hands found purchase on your hips, fingers giddy against your scrubs.

It was the fifth date, and both of you opted for a night in, where he promised to cook for you. It had also been the first time you had been in his apartment, Ducky clinging to your side the entire night.

Bradley had asked you to be his girlfriend before dinner was even finished, too distracted by the way you sat on the countertop to focus on the food simmering around him. You laughed as he flushed from the question and the sound of the smoke alarm going off, but ultimately said yes with a smile as he leaned down, caging you against his firm chest and the cabinets, to capture your lips in a deep kiss before waving a towel in front of the alarm. You couldn't help but laugh as you moved to open the sliding glass door to let the smoke out of the little house and to get some fresh air for yourself, too, after feeling how Bradley's hands rested on your thighs.

Recently, though, you had been having your fair share of sleepovers with the tall aviator. The first time he had slept over, you had shared one too many glasses of wine over sushi takeout from your favorite place downtown. After glancing at the clock and the empty bottle between you, you asked quietly if he wanted to spend the night.

Bradley hadn't ever seen you so shy before, but he figured the rosiness of your cheeks definitely matched his own and said nothing. Instead, he nodded, kissing your forehead sweetly as you further pushed into his hold.

He remembers feeling your soft face up against his bare chest as you dozed off, not being afraid to lean into his side once you had settled under the covers. The smell of your shampoo and lotion was strong, wafting off of you after your shower. Bradley lay there for a few minutes. Not daring to close his eyes, he instead wanted to take you in as you slept on top of him. The combination of your sweet smell and soft skin had the man reeling.

Now you lie on the couch at his apartment, and Bradley sees your eyes blinking away sleep as you curl up to his side. With a kiss pressed to your hair, your eyes widened as Bradley ushered you to the bedroom. Big hands coming up to your sides to support you, strong chest pushed against your back to guide you.

It was the first time you had slept over at his. But after grabbing a quick shower, inspecting all of the hair and body care products he had available, you took your place in bed. Bradley's sheets were softer than yours, and you wondered why it had taken so long to sleep over at his.

But before you were about to call out and ask him, the answer came jumping onto the bed next to you, taking Bradley's spot. You laughed softly as Ducky turned on his back, urging you to rub his tummy.

Getting out of the bathroom, with nothing but a tight towel around his waist, Bradley groaned. You giggled at this, but Bradley shook his head you and Ducky all cuddled up already.

Walking into the small closet on the other side of the room, your eyes tracked Bradley. The way the small towel around his hips was working to show off his deep V-line had you squirming in your spot on the bed. You watched his back muscles push and pull as he rolled his neck and stretched a bit while walking. Maybe you could offer to work out the knots; it'd be a win-win situation for you and your boyfriend.

As he emerged from the closet in nothing but a pair of boxers, you urged yourself to calm down. It wasn't like it was your first time seeing him in this state; you did have sleepovers at your apartment quite often. But it was the first time that you could actually do something about it.

There had been countless times when you and Bradley had been pretty handsy, but all of them seemed to be interrupted. Whether it was an emergency call from the clinic or an alert on Bradley's phone that Ducky had knocked over another vase in the house, something always tore you away in those moments.

You had felt Bradley's frustration, seen it firsthand. The way his jaw ticked each time, and his hands got all grabby before either of you had to leave. You didn't blame him, often finding yourself rubbing your thighs together after your time together was interrupted. Maybe even having a wandering hand shoot down your panties if he was the one who had to go.

But tonight you might have him all to yourself, whether that means deep kisses or holding each other tightly and finding sleep. That was until Ducky refused to move.

"Come on, Ducky, off the bed tonight," Bradley told the dog, standing over him.

"You let him sleep on the bed regularly?" you asked with a playful look on your face. Bradley caught your tone quickly, sending you a lighthearted eye roll.

"Yes, because I love my dog," he spoke, ruffling Ducky's ears.

"But what's the big bed for then?" you questioned again, smile growing bigger with every second.

Bradley wanted to lean over and kiss it off your face. But with the big dog in his way, he just shrugged. "He didn't like it."

You giggled at this, Ducky turning to you at the sound. "Gosh, he's a big softy, huh?" you told Ducky in a sweet tone, something that made Bradley suck his teeth and grin.

But with Ducky's attention elsewhere, Bradley was able to shift the dog to the end of the bed. Getting under the covers, Bradley reached for you automatically. Instead of feeling the cotton of your pajama pants that you usually wear, he instead felt your warm skin.

Seemingly watching the confusion spread across his face, you offered an explanation, "Your sheets are nice. And it's a little hot out."

If nice sheets and 90-degree weather were what it took to get you in the little lacy pink underwear your wore now, Bradley would buy a set in every color and run his heating system even on hot nights like tonight.

But instead, he just hummed, fingers tracing over the lacy trimming of your panties.

On top of this, you wore one of his old Navy shirts. Not expecting to sleep over, you had limited options available. Bradley had never been more thankful.

"Let's go to bed, pretty girl," Bradley told you as he saw the way your eyes started to blink closed again. You nodded sweetly at this and settled under the covers as he turned off the lamp on his nightstand.

Settling under the covers, Bradley's big hands found your stomach, pulling your back into his chest. From this position, sure, his hands could roam all over you, and he could touch anything that begged for his attention. But what stopped him in his tracks was the smell of his body wash on your skin.

It made logical sense. You had showered before getting in bed while he washed up the dishes and straightened the living room, but it didn't hit him until this very moment that you were fully his. The woman he had pined over for a month, not even knowing your name, only remembering your kind eyes and soft touch. Now, you were in his bed, falling asleep next to him in his shirt after washing yourself with his body wash.

What did he do to deserve you? You who cared for animals so much that you made a career out of it. You who held his hand and kissed away his tears when he finally told you about what happened to his father. You, who at every chance were unapologetically yourself, either dancing in the kitchen while making dinner or sobbing your eyes out while watching Marley & Me for the hundredth time.

He loved you. Bradley realized in that moment that he loved you. More than he had ever loved anyone like this before.

At the thought, his hands had squeezed your waist tightly, and you stirred next to him.

"Baby, are you okay?" you asked, voice laced with sleep.

Letting his grip on you loosen, he was quick to come down and kiss your neck in an apology. "Sorry, just thinking about you. Didn't mean to wake you up."

You hum, shifting against him slightly. Your neck is now on full display, and Bradley just couldn't help himself.

Feeling his warm mouth work against your sensitive neck made you squirm against him. Bradley's mouth was relentless, biting and licking underneath your jaw and down the side of your throat. Your breath hitched as he moved a spot near your pulse point, chest rising and falling dramatically.

Bradley's hands wrapped around your stomach once more, but this time, one of his hands snaked underneath your shirt. "Can I touch you like this?" his voice was deep, breath hot against your ear.

"Yes, please," you whispered.

Suddenly, his mouth was back on your throat, and your hips pushed back further into his now hard length. His hand came up to grab your tits. They were in the perfect position for Bradley, who was able to pinch and roll your nipples in between his big fingers.

"Oh gosh, Bradley," you huffed, eyes fully rolled back into your skull as his hand worked against your puffy nipples and he ground his length into your ass.

"Yeah, baby, feels good?" he asked in a cocky coo, watching the way you bit down on your bottom lip and nodded up and down at his words.

Your mouth opened, not quite knowing exactly if you could speak with the way his touch seemed to intensify in mere seconds. But still, you tried, aching for him now, "Touch me, please. Down-"

A loud bark had you jumping out of your skin. Ducky growled at Bradley, starting to shield you protectively.

You laughed at his dog's actions, and Bradley looked at you in disbelief.

"Ducky, down! Off the bed!" Bradley's voice was loud, but it carried no real weight to scare the dog. Ducky instead settled down in between you two, almost pushing Bradley off the bed.

You laughed again.

"This is unbelievable," Bradley scoffed as he threw the covers off his body and got out of bed. From here, you could see the way his length strained under his boxers.

But it wasn't long before Bradley was over at your side of the bed and scooping you up into his arms.

"What are you doing?" you asked, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

"Trying to give my girl what she wants. This time uninterrupted," Bradley huffed, sending a glare at Ducky on the bed as he carried you outside the bedroom.

But when Bradley closed the door, Ducky only started scratching and barking even louder. You looked at him with a small smile, pressing a kiss to his temple to calm him.

"I've got an idea," he spoke, something dancing in his eyes. "Go open the door to the patio."

"Bradley, no! You can't leave him out there!" you chastised with a small frown on your face.

He hummed, head falling into your shoulder. But just as quick as it fell, it came back up again.

"Okay, you go outside then. Wait for me," he told you, planting a searing kiss on your lips that made you forget any questions you had. Bradley placed you down softly and watched as you padded over to the back patio, underwear now clinging to your skin in a way that almost looked uncomfortable.

But as soon as he heard the click of the sliding glass door shutting. He opened the bedroom door and let Ducky inspect the living room.

"I don't know where she is, buddy," he told the dog, shoulders shrugging, really trying to sell the bit. Ducky sighed and made his way back into the bedroom after a few sniffs and laps around the couch.

After seeing him settle back into the bed and toss and turn for a few minutes, Bradley crept out the back door, swiping the big, soft blanket you liked so much, on his way.

"What'd you do?" you asked the man as he came up to you and draped the blanket around your shoulders.

"He's sleeping. Do you really think so poorly of me?" he teased, hands once again coming to your waist.

"I never said anything," you shot back, failing to hide the small smile on your face.

Bradley walked backwards until he reached the little love seat on his back patio, pulling you down so you were sitting on his lap. You smiled at the eager look on Bradley's face, giggling to yourself.

"Hi," he said, leaning in to press his lips against yours.

"Hi," you teased back, meeting his lips halfway.

Bradley's mouth moved in a delicate, yet passionate way. His hands were planted firmly on your hips; you could feel his thumbs pressing into your skin as the kisses turned more intense. You gasped as Bradley dragged your core across his hard length, cotton rubbing together to create a dizzying friction.

Taking advantage of your open mouth, Bradley pushed his tongue into your mouth, licking into it with urgency. The noise that came out of your throat at his movements was quiet, but Bradley heard it nonetheless. Groaning into your mouth, Bradley moved your hips once more, going a bit crazy at the feeling of your heat against him.

"Come on, baby. Show me how much you need me, huh?" he broke the kiss to speak, eyes searching yours. But all he saw was the gloss already over them as you nodded quickly and threw your arms over his shoulders.

Bradley kissed down your neck as your hips started to move back and forth against his length. Your pace was slow, but he heard the hitches of your breath and decided not to push you just yet. His hands instead crawled up underneath your shirts and began to toy with your nipples again. At this, you captured your bottom lip between your teeth and nuzzled your head into the crook of Bradley's neck.

"So sensitive for me. Doing so good. You like it when I touch you like this?" he asked, nudging your head out from its hiding place.

With another nod of your head, Bradley grabbed your chin, quickly swiping your bottom lip out of its hold.

"Wanna hear you, please, baby," he begged, kissing your face sweetly. It was the exact opposite of how his other hand moved under your shirt, twisting and rubbing your pebbled nipples like they were his own special toys.

"Feels so good, Bradley," you said breathlessly. At the sound of his name falling from your lips, Bradley's hips jumped to meet the steady rhythm of yours. You yelped as he did so, but he was quick to capture your lips in another deep kiss, keeping his hips pressing harshly into your heat through the cotton of both your underwear.

"You're driving me crazy," he confessed, hand coming up to the hem of the old Navy shirt you were wearing. Looking to you for permission, you nodded wordlessly and felt the shirt being taken off your body.

Bradley threw the shirt across the patio and drove straight into your chest, taking one of your nipples between his lips. He lapped and sucked, feeling your hips roll with more urgency across his length at his ministrations.

"So beautiful, baby," he spoke in a low tone before switching to your other breast. One hand snaked around to hold onto your lower back, helping you with the drag. The other pinched at your now wet nipple softly.

"Bradley," you warned, eyes rolling to the back of your head at the combined feeling of his mouth, hands, and hips. The new pressure from the hand on your back was now pushing your hips in the perfect position, feeling his tip make contact with your clit through the cotton.

The man watched as you became consumed with pleasure, lip wobbling as your hips moved back and forth. He felt your fingernails dig into his shoulder blades, surely leaving marks.

His mouth popped off your nipple and made its way up to your open mouth, licking into it once again.

"Gonna come for me, baby? It's okay, I wanna feel you come. I'm right here," he spoke softly to you, watching your brows furrow and face twist.

The words and the intense look in Bradley's eyes made the tension in your tummy snap, hips moving fast to chase your high. You tried collapsing into your boyfriend, but with a firm hand that stayed on your jaw, you were forced upright, looking straight at Bradley as you came on his lap.

Your bare chest heaved as you came down from your high, pressing into Bradley's warm figure. His hand traveled from your lower back up to your hair, stroking it sweetly while placing soft kisses on your hairline.

"Can I feel you?" Bradley asked, fingers now toying with the lace on your underwear again.

"Yeah, but I wanna feel you too," you told him with a small smile on your face, bringing your fingers down to the waistband of his boxers. He chuckled at your actions, but still brought you into a sweet kiss.

Your hands pushed down his waistband and grasped his length in your hands. He was heavy in your hold, twitching as you rubbed a finger down the side of his member, tracing a prominent vein.

"So big," you whispered, more so to yourself, but the way Bradley's fingers moved to push into the front of your underwear made you think he must have heard you, too.

You felt one hand plant firmly on your waist while the other cupped your heat softly. His middle finger circled your entrance, rubbing little circles and spreading the wetness around, something that had you squirming in his hold. Bradley's thumb rubbed similar circles on your clit as you hunched over into his hold.

Your hands worked to rub at his tip, one hand coming up to your mouth to collect some spit, making the movements more fluid. Bradley shuddered as you found a steady pace, feeling your fingers continuously working over his sensitive head.

A finger pressed into your entrance, stretching you in an unfamiliar way. You whined into Bradley's neck at the feeling, tensing up for a moment. But he was quick to keep rubbing little circles against your nub, relaxing your muscles.

The finger pumped in and out of you at the same pace as your hand. Bradley's lips find your neck once more, now breathing heavier and lapping at more of your skin. As you ground down on him further, he moved to push another finger inside your wet entrance.

"Jesus, baby. Feel so fucking good around my fingers. Can't wait to have you on my dick," he groaned, feeling you clench and squeeze around his fingers. You moaned at his words, pushing further into him to rub your breasts against the hard muscles of his chest. Your nipples rubbed harshly against him as you moved your hand more quickly to keep up with the rhythm of his fingers.

"Need you, please, Bradley. Now," you gasped, feeling your stomach wind up again. He nodded at your words, pulling his fingers from your entrance and instead picking you up off his hips, pushing you up against the wood railing of the patio.

"This okay, baby? You okay with me taking you like this?" Bradley asked, referring to your back meeting his chest, taking you from behind. Your stomach jumped at his words as you braced your hands against the railing.

"Yes, please, Bradley." The words were barely off the tip of your tongue when you felt Bradley tug down your underwear, leaving you completely bare in the warm summer breeze. He quickly did the same with his own underwear, fully allowing his member to spring free and rub on your ass.

One of his large hands came to wrap around your hips while the other guided his cock into your entrance. Feeling your breathing pick up, Bradley placed sweet kisses on your neck before whispering, "Breathe for me, baby. I got you."

Taking a deep breath, you exhaled as Bradley pushed into you. It was only his tip at first, but the way you pushed your hips back at the feeling of him drove his hips further, pushing in fully.

Gasping at the stretch, your head lay back on Bradley's broad chest as he snuck his other hand around to toy with your tits. Your nipples were still sensitive from his actions earlier, so this only caused you to push further into his hold.

"Can I move? Are you okay? Need to hear you, talk to me, baby," Bradley told you, kissing the top of your head softly.

"Feels really good, please, Bradley. Need you to move," you complied, as he nodded, pressing his hips into you before drawing out and pushing in again.

You whine as he sets a steady pace. His hands roam all over your body, trying to grab onto every part of you. Your tits, your thighs, your throat. You feel your eyes cross once his thumb lands on your clit once more, squirming and crying out in a nonsensical plea.

Bradley watches as you start to fall apart on him. His hips are moving to piston his hard length into your warm heat, finding it hard not to fully bend you over the railing and have his way with you. Instead, setting a pace that had you crying out every few seconds, mouth open, and eyes closing at his deep movements.

The crude sounds of his hips meeting your ass were filthy and the loudest thing in contrast to the otherwise quiet night. The extra squelching sounds surely come from the previous orgasm you had. Bradley wondered what you tasted like, but he'd have to save it for next time.

"So good, feels so good. My pretty girl," Bradley groaned, head dropping to kiss along your exposed jaw line, hand pushing your tummy to arch you even further into his hold.

You moaned in response, feeling him deeper, feeling more pressure. "For you, only you, Bradley," you told him, head turning to capture his lips in a kiss.

Bradley felt a surge of energy at your words. His thumb worked in tighter circles against your clit, the kind that had you shaking earlier on the loveseat.

"Yeah? This is my pussy, baby? Gonna let me fill you up?" he asked, spit mixing with yours as he bit harshly on your bottom lip.

"Mhm, please. All yours," you cried out as his other hand came to hold across your hips, helping him push you to the edge by bending your frame even more than it already was. Your back arched away from Bradley as your hips and head pushed back to meet his solid body.

"Fuck, baby. Can't say shit like that," he scolded, but his hips kept pounding into you.

Bradley's filthy mouth was somewhat shocking to you. The only other time he had cursed around you was when he had stubbed his toes on the corner of your bed 3 weeks ago. So his words sent a chill down your spine despite the heat of the summer air.

Bradley's thumb stayed in its spot, working your clit and making you twitch and begin to thrash in his hold. But his other arm thrown around your hips made sure that you still felt his deep thrusts.

"Bradley," you breathed out, head tilting back to look at the man. Sweat dripped from his hairline, but he still moved to swoop down and catch you in a searing kiss.

"I got you, I got you. Come for me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my dick." His words pushed you over the edge as he licked into your mouth once more after speaking. The constant rub from his thumb and deep thrusts had you shaking as you worked through your high with him.

Seeing the way your body tensed, your tits bouncing with every movement, and your thighs shaking, had Bradley releasing in you with a low groan. His hips canted into you, slowing down slightly with each thrust, only moving to help you both work through your respective highs.

He had neglected to turn on any porch lights to not alert any neighbors or even Ducky, but the way the moonlight streamed through the trees and painted your features was something Bradley wished he could remember forever. Your lips were still parted, taking labored breaths. Your eyes were glossy, like you were trying to focus and come back into your body. Your cheeks flushed a deeper shade of rosy pink than he had ever seen on you before.

You were beautiful.

Bradley leaned down to kiss your cheek, and he felt you smile against his lips.

"Feeling okay, that wasn't too much, pretty baby?" he asked, genuine concern making his brows furrow.

You moved a thumb up to smooth the creases, kissing him softly on the nose with a small giggle. "Felt really good, Bradley. Gonna need some help walking, for sure though."

He chuckled at this, kissing your lips this time, deep and slow.

"I can help with that," he told you as he pulled out, both of you wincing at the loss. He quickly picked you up bridal style and carried you into the house, only letting your feet touch the ground as he set you down on the edge of the guest room bathtub.

Bradley moved to start the water, running his fingers under it to make sure it wasn't too warm or too cold before plugging the tub.

His big hands came down to frame your face, fingers a little wet, but you leaned into his touch regardless. "Gonna go grab our stuff outside and start a pot of tea and come back, okay?" he asked, searching your eyes. You smiled at him, and he leaned down once more to capture your soft lips between his own, the brush of his mustache making you giggle into the kiss.

"I love you, Bradley," you told him, lip now pulled between your teeth as you looked sheepishly at him.

But the man smiled wider than you had ever seen as he began to pepper kisses all over your face and head. You giggled at this, hands coming up to hold his which still framed your face.

"I love you so much," he told you, coming down to peck your lips once more, but the sound of the whine made you and Bradley turn towards the entrance of the bathroom.

Ducky huffed, lying on the cool hardwood, making you and Bradley laugh.

"We love you too, Ducky," the man teased, sending you a wink as you bit back a grin at the sight in front of you.

[reidsmemory]

yay!! thank you for 1k notes! so happy to have met this milestone w u all! 😇 working on a fake dating piece for bradley so stay tuned! 😋🙌

[scribeherself]

seeing people say "this trope has been done to death" as if that's ever stopped anyone from eating bread. BREAD HAS BEEN DONE TO DEATH FOR LITERALLY THOUSANDS OF YEARS AND WE STILL WANT MORE BREAD. write your chosen one AU. write your coffee shop meet-cute. write your 47th iteration of "there was only one bed" because guess what??? we're still hungry.

[deerfawnn]

a warm home

pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you and pope don't have a real home, so you create one together, perhaps even without realizing it. content warnings: mention of smurf ( yes she needs a warning ), reader is lonely and so is pope, they're in love they just don't know it yet, this also turned into a pope cody character study #sorry a/n: i hit 5k!!!!!!!! i love you allll so so so so much seriously i'm so so so so endlessly grateful too all of you. writing makes me so happy and i have no idea what i would do without this blog!! gif credits to @abbotstudy !! <3 credit to @cursed-carmine for the divider <3 wc: 3.1k

Pope's never been trusted with good things. 

Something bad happened to his brothers? Get Pope. Smurf needed someone to disappear? Get Pope. Only bad things were entrusted to Pope's violent hands.

He'd be handed them with begging eyes and desperate voices. Please, Pope, do this for me. And he would do it. Of course, he would do it. He was born to do this.

Bloodied hands were a part of his life. There hadn't been a day when his hands weren't dirtied from the harm he'd done to others. Violence was all he was known for, and he wished he wasn't.

He wanted, like Deran, to be the careful guy, the guy with a plan, the guy with a future, the guy Craig would invite to hang out with, not simply the guy who would help him clean up his mess. He'd even rather be like Craig, the man who was always ready to party and try every drug on the planet. 

He'd rather be like anyone else.

He felt bitter when he remembered that it was all his role as the oldest brother that had assigned him this hell of a life. If he'd just been born last, he could have been different, felt different. Wouldn't have to taste the guilt on his tongue every day. Swallow the grief with every bite of Smurf's food. Didn't have to sleep with this ache in his chest, and didn't have to wake up with a hole in his heart.

Perhaps he could have raised a family, or established something for himself. He might have just fixed cars in his spare time, maybe even be graced with a smile from others around him. He could have walked through town, and not been stared at left and right. No one would have needed to know him. He could've simply been invisible.

Maybe that's why he liked you so much, liked to be around you all the time, because people didn't stare at you strangely or murmur around you. You were merely the pretty girl with the big heart and even bigger smile who enjoyed going for walks on the beach.

It was strange how different you were from each other.

He'd notice how you had to say a quiet 'excuse me' at every opportunity since people wouldn't pay attention to you. Even when you announced yourself, they would barely move for you, as if you were meant to be content with the minimal space they had left available for you. Despite everything, you'd continue to smile and express gratitude.

Unlike Pope, who people purposefully tried to avoid, trying not to touch him at any cost. They'd move away even if they didn't have to, just so they'd show him their hatred, remind him that he wasn't welcome. He knew that later on they'd gossip, talk in whispers about how Pope Cody walked by them today, how they feared for their life.

Invisibility seemed to be a curse for you, while it remained a wish for him. 

He watched your face fall whenever people ignored you. You hated people not acknowledging you. You hated recognizing people from high school and seeing them glance at you in passing like you were a stranger, unable to assign you a name, because they'd never cared enough to find out. You despised the fact that even if they did remember you, all they'd recall was you being the quiet girl in the back, that they'd cheat off and use for assignments, because she was too scared to say no.

It was so different from the image that Pope had, that sometimes he felt like the devil simply for keeping you company. Because despite it all, he knew how much you hated attention. 

All you wanted was to be acknowledged, not to be stared at.

He felt guilty when he'd help you get groceries and watch your eyes dart to the men staring at Pope with both angry and fearful expressions. You'd eye them cautiously, before glancing back at Pope, who would stare back to see how you would react. And all you would do was ask him if he thought this brand of cookies was nice. And he could feel his shoulder relax somewhat in relief. Relief he wasn't supposed to feel because there was nothing to be relieved about.

You were being put in an uncomfortable position because of him, yet you persevered because you were too kind for your own good. He could see your eyes dart back to the men, nervous, like you were afraid they'd start something, like you were afraid he'd start something. 

He couldn't possibly know that you were staring at them wishing they would stop, that for once in his life they'd let Pope have an outing with no stares. That, of course, you were uncomfortable, but all you wanted was for them to quit making Pope uncomfortable first.

It sat on your chest heavily, the knowing that this is what Pope's life was. At home, he could hardly take two steps without Smurf's piercing stare and outside, her influence remained, the poison she'd fed to everyone residing in every oceanside local.

Pope didn't have a home.

At least that's how you saw it. His home wasn't a real home, a home was supposed to be a place of warmth, one where you could go if you were restless, if you were feeling uneasy, to let your emotions out. Smurf's house, instead, was one where his emotions would pile up, where Pope was put through a ringer of emotions: anger, sadness, frustration, depression. 

It seemed like everyone else had an escape. Craig had his friends, Renn, parties. He had an active social life, he was liked and people looked at him with delight, asking him if he wanted to surf, if he was planning to throw a party later this week, if they could show up. Deran's bar had a life of its own. Not just socially, but also financially. And his own place. 

They both had places to go back to.

Pope had nothing and no one seemed to care about it.

So you tried to make your place as homely as you could. Every chance you got, you'd invite him over.

You'd never considered your home to be a home. It was too big and too empty. No one came and no one left. The kitchen only had your finger trips all over it, and so did every other inch of the place. You thought about getting a cat, but you figured you weren't good enough to take care of it. You were all over the place most of the time, had too much on your mind. 

So, instead, you kept cat food at your place. If a stray cat showed up you'd feed it, but that was it. No other heart was beating in your bed. No other living being breathed the same air as you. Everything was one. One frozen pizza. One toothbrush. One pile of laundry.

Neither you nor Pope realized how slowly it happened.

You'd been at the beach, sitting on a bench, thinking about putting your feet in the water, when you'd heard Pope talking on the phone. Ears perking up like a cat, you'd turned and spotted him immediately, leaning against his car, phone against his ear.

You didn't announce yourself, instead turning your body back to the beach, fingers restlessly tapping against your thigh as you watched a little girl be swept up by her feet by her dad and dragged to the water, where she screeched loudly and happily.

You felt a smile form on your face as you watched her and her father get drenched in the water. So distracted you didn't notice Pope approach you, able to recognize you merely from the back of your head. He stepped closer until he was standing right next to your bench.

You glanced to the side, already seemingly having expected him to notice you. Because he just always did.

You greeted him with a soft smile. "Hi Andrew."

"Hey," he glanced at the beach, eyes immediately locking onto the same father daughter duo you'd had been watching. His face didn't form a smile like yours had earlier. No, you saw something almost sad creep into his expression. And you hated to think that this reminded him of Lena.

You spoke up quickly. "What are you doing at the beach?" patting the bench next to you.

"Work," was all he said as he settled down next to you.

You'd been always content enough with that response. You didn't want to know the details, didn't care to know the specifics. You had a vague understanding that the Codys did things that did not strictly abide by the law, but you had no interest in finding out what exactly.

"You?" he asked, remembering his manners that he was so hard trying to work on when it came to you. 

He might've spent one night skipping one of his nature documentaries and instead looked for a channel with a romantic comedy playing. He'd figured he'd learn a thing or two from it, considering you were so very fond of theses movies. 

You always rented them at the library, and he remembered the first time you'd told him about it. He'd furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "People still use DVDs?" You'd been gravely offended.

He didn't learn anything from the movie, except that he was nothing like those men and that the happy endings just left him feeling hollow. 

"Work was tiring. Just needed to relax for a bit." You smiled at him, finally lifting your eyes from the girl who was still giggling around with her father.

Pope hummed. He would have loved to offer you money to help you out, he'd even tried to get you to move into one of his buildings. But you loved your apartment too much, telling him it wasn't much, but it was close to the beach and the ice cream stand you liked so much. So, instead, he resorted to helping you in small ways. Groceries, ice cream, your books, even paying for your library card.

He tried his hardest to be the gentleman he wished to be. 

No one in his life would describe him as a gentleman, he was sure he'd be laughed at if he ever even attempted to pretend like he was in front of his brothers, but he liked to be imagine that he was for you. He liked to pretend that maybe you looked at him and thought, oh he's chivalrous and generous, that he took care of you, that he was capable of it.

You looked back at the father daughter duo when you spoke. "Might make some pasta at home, you wanna join me?"

Pope turned his head to you, watching your profile, lit up by the sun setting behind you. "Yeah." he said, after taking some time to admire you.

You weren't amazing at cooking, but your food was, as cheesy at it sounded, cooked with love. And that was much better than whatever Smurf put on the table. Smurf's food was filling, but it never lived up to what your food did to him. 

The warmth he'd feel, the solace. He'd understood what comfort food was, the first time you'd made pasta. And it hadn't been amazing. Just normal pasta cooked by the young girl, who'd barely ever had to cook for more than herself.

But it had made him feel better than anything Smurf had ever forced him to stuff his mouth with.

The drive wasn't long. You'd walked to the beach, but Pope insisted on driving you home. So, you slid into the passenger seat, and he'd turned down the music he had been playing before. He'd noticed your tense expression, every time you stepped out of the car with Craig, as if he'd practically blasted your eardrums and made them bleed.

You shot him a grateful look, one he didn't meet because it would be too much for something so small. You always seemed to be grateful for little things. Little things that were just as simple as accommodating you or remembering something about you. Like you were hard to remember.

Pope couldn't remember a single minute since he first laid eyes on you where he hadn't thought of you. You had created a garden in his brain. Filled with flowers, blooming everywhere, while everyone else was growing poisonous vines that stretched throughout his body, killing him with every second. But not you; never you.

When you arrived, Pope turned off the car and quickly muttered. "Wait here."

You looked at him, confused, but you waited, and when you realized what he was doing, you let out a happy breath in the empty car.

Pope opened the door for you, and you smiled so wide at him, he almost believed the sun was rising instead of setting.

"Thank you," you jumped out the car, waiting for him to shut the door behind you.

An hour later, Pope was helping you with the pasta. You'd been worried about your cooking skills, so you'd asked him, and he'd been truthful. 

"It tastes good," he'd said, and you'd said his name in a slow voice. And he glanced behind you at the boiling pot. "I think it's just—needs a bit more… work." He'd tried to phrase it as nicely as he could, and it seemed to work because you'd giggled embarrassed.

"That bad, huh?"

"No—no, not that bad," he'd lifted his hand like pushing the thought away. "Good. Just—it could be better." He almost winced.

But you were still smiling, so he figured he hadn't hurt your feelings yet. "Go ahead then, Gordon Ramsay," you turned your body and pointed with your hand at the pot.

So here he was, stirring the pasta as you sat on the counter, already having given up on being useful. "Is it looking good?" you asked, your legs moving, achilles heel hitting the cabinet below you over and over again. Pope threw you his tenth concerned look this evening, not liking the way you kept hurting yourself. 

"Better than yours," he mumbled, and you let out a laugh of disbelief.

"Andrew!"

And he looked at you, first to see if you were actually offended, but you were smiling and his lips quirked up. "It's the truth," he mumbled, and you giggled, and he wanted to hear it forever.

You jumped off the counter, still shaking your head with a smile. You opened the cabinets, grabbing two plates as you went to set the table. 

You didn't give it much thought as you picked out the plate Pope preferred, or the juice he liked most. He'd always appreciated that your fridge wasn't stocked with beer and drugs like his at home. You didn't think anything of it either, when you asked him if he was okay with using one of the smaller forks, because his fa orite was still in the dishwasher. Neither did he.

Neither of you thought about how you'd made yourself a routine. One in which he became frustrated with Smurf, and went to the beach, somehow knowing that you'd be there. Even if some days you weren't, he knew eventually you would be. The same way, you knew what part of the beach he liked most, where he liked to park his car most. The way coincidentally but also not, you both would meet up without officially planning on it.

You didn't notice how your apartment seemed to transform into a home by the second.

That the things in your cupboard were piling up, that everything had doubled. That the elderly cashier at your usual grocery store had stopped hesitating before reaching for the bill Pope was holding out, but instead watched the two of you with almost an almost nostalgic gleam in her eyes. She'd watch Pope quarrel with you over placing items in the grocery bag because that was his job, taking the bag out of your hands with a disappointing huff. She'd watch you bite your lip shyly, as you handed him the bag, purposefully letting your hand brush his. The cashier's eyes would soften as she'd watch the oldest Cody brother take care of you so gently, almost making her regret the looks she'd given him over the years.

Pope had found himself a home and your home had gotten less empty.

Even if at night, Pope never stayed.

You were happy enough with what you got, like when Pope washed the dishes, not allowing you to move a finger.

Once he was done, he dried his hands and headed for the door. "Thank you—for dinner," he said, almost forgetting to add the last two words. He was thankful for more than just the food.

"Don't have to thank me," you smiled. "You did all the cooking." 

He shook his head. "I just helped," he said, and you wanted to disagree, but he shot you a look.

You bit your lip. "See you around?" 

Pope nodded, and he waited for a second, watching you lean against your door. And you watched him. He looked so pretty, relaxed and content if you even dared to say. Happiness suited him. 

With a racing heart and on the verge of passing out from fear, you stepped closer, placing a hand on the side of his neck before gently kissing his cheek. "Thank you," you whispered. Thank you for spending time with me. Thank you for cooking. Thank you for being so considerate of me. Thank you.

Pope's head nearly tilted towards your palm, wishing for more warmth, more tenderness, more of you. But then you dropped it, too nervous, too scared to ever do anything courageous and stick with it.

He didn't say anything which frightened you. Why did you kiss him? You could still feel his face warm beneath your lips and his pulse quickening under your fingertips, and you almost wanted to do it again, despite Pope's lack of response. 

But then your gaze went to his face, and you noticed the smile there. Barely there, but there was something. And your worried expression faded into a cheerful one.

You took a step back, hand on the door, and he did too. "Bye Andrew." You finally broke the quiet between you, and he managed out a barely audible. "Bye," before turning and leaving

You'd kissed his cheek. You liked him. You were thankful for something he did for you.

He just cooked. He just fed you. All he did was feed you. He didn't even have to put so much effort into it. He didn't have to shed blood, sweat and tears for it.

He merely did what he normal does, and you were grateful. 

[reidsmemory]

gosh this was so sweet! love reading abt these soft moments w andrew :( healing in a way ❤️‍🩹

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

seeing double

summary: when your ex-boyfriend makes a surprise visit to ptmc, your boyfriend and the rest of your co-workers realise you might have a type…

pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader & ex bf!mark sloan x fem!reader

warnings/tags: established relationship, implied age gap between abbot & reader and mark & reader, flirting, fluff, swearing, mark don’t give a fuck that the reader is in a relationship, but reader is respectful of boundaries, defs a bit of jealous and insecure Jack if you squint

notes: hot hot hot hot hot give them both to me now thanks!! also massive shoutout to the anon that requested this 🙂‍↕️

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍

masterlist

“Ew.”

The word left you before you could stop it as you sunk your teeth into a granola bar.

You grimaced as you turned over the wrapper, examining it like it might explain why you felt like you were currently eating a stick of glue.

“Are these expired?” You asked through the mouthful.

McKay barely glanced up from where she had half her body buried in the fridge, rummaging past several abandoned containers and a suspiciously wet paper bag.

“Nope, they’re just a by product of the drywall factory down the road.” She answered.

You stared at the bar for another second, trying to muster up enough willpower to finish it given you hadn’t eaten lunch.

After abandoning that mission in under 10 seconds, you leant over the bin and spat out the mouthful with as much decorum as you could before unceremoniously dumping the rest of the bar after it.

“Those things aren’t that bad.” Whitaker mused as he wandered into the breakroom with Santos hot on his heels.

“That’s because you were raised on hay.” Santos remarked dryly.

“They’re raspberry flavoured.”

“That’s not helping you Huckleberry.”

You huffed a laugh as the two of them started bickering just as your phone buzzed in your pocket. You leant against the wall, only half listening as you pulled it out of your scrubs and saw a notification from Jack.

He must have just woken up from his pre-shift nap. The corner of your mouth lifted as you read his reply.

You: Are you coming in early today?

JA ❤️: Always.

You quickly typed out another message.

You: any chance u could bring in a protein bar for me? the ones at work are inedible

The reply came almost instantly.

JA ❤️: I know. I’ve told Robby they are a serious health hazard.

You smiled at that as you watched the three dots blink back at you.

JA ❤️: I’ll be in soon. I already have some in my bag for you.

You: are you psychic?

JA ❤️: Just good at pattern recognition.

Your smile widened as his reply came through.

You: thank u 🩷

JA ❤️: 👍

“What are you smiling at?”

You looked up to find McKay watching you over the fridge door.

“What?”

“That.” She pointed vaguely at your face. “Whatever that was.”

“Nothing.”

Santos and Whitaker paused their arguing to focus on you.

Santos studied you, her face contorting into a grimace. “Gross.”

“What?”

“I just can’t get over the fact that Abott reduces you to…” She trailed off, waving vaguely at you.

“That?” Whitaker supplied.

“Yeah.” Santos nodded gravely. “That.”

You rolled your eyes, sliding your phone back into your scrub pocket.

“I think the two of you are starting to fuse into one brain cell.”

Santos’ expression went still. “….that was genuinely hurtful.”

You turned to Whitaker. “There’s your new button to press.”

Whitaker’s grin widened as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to Santos. “Oh I cannot wait to bring this up multiple times a day.”

Santos glared at you. "You're a traitor."

You pushed off the wall, shaking your head as you made your way towards the door.

“Never give your triggers away Santos.”

“You’re still a traitor!” She called out.

You waved her off without looking back, escaping before she could start another argument.

You barely made it two steps before nearly colliding with Samira.

“Oh sorry.” She came to an abrupt halt, the usual frazzled expression etched onto her features as she looked up at you.

“You all good?”

“Yeah um- have you seen Joy?”

“Not for a little while.”

“No worries, if you see her can you tell her I need her in Room 3?”

“Sure.” You nodded, tilting your head slightly as you studied her. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah fine.” She brushed you off as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Haven’t had lunch so I’m a bit cranky.”

You nodded in understanding. “Word of warning, don’t eat the protein bars.”

Samira’s nose wrinkled as she stepped around you. “Why on earth would I do that?”

You threw your arms up dramatically. “Am I the only one who didn’t know they were inedible?”

“Apparently so.”

You huffed, pulling your hair out from under your collar as you made your way over to the status board which was currently glowing above the chaos that was the ED like a cruel little scoreboard.

Your hands settled on your stethoscope as you scanned the board. Less than an hour till your shift was over, at least officially. Which given your track record of overtime, meant close to nothing.

“Hey.”

You glanced over to see Perlah leaning against one of the desks.

“What?” You asked warily.

Her smirk widened. “Have you seen the hot visitor?”

“The what?”

Princess appeared beside her, equally delighted.

“Absolute smoke show.”

Princess nodded towards the far end of the station. “Follow the sounds of Joy giggling.”

Your brows knitted together.

“Joy? As in our intern, Joy? As in the complete antithesis of her name, Joy?” You queried.

“See for yourself.” Perlah grinned.

You followed their line of sight to the other end of the nurses station where a tall figure stood, leaning an arm on one of the benches.

At first, all you saw was the back of a leather jacket, familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your brain had fully caught up. The man shifted slightly, turning just enough for a familiar profile to come into view. The same hair coifed to perfection, the same self-satisfied slant of his mouth.

And sure enough standing beside him, blushing furiously as she giggled, actually giggled, at whatever he had just said, was Joy.

“I didn’t even know she was capable of laughter.” Princess remarked.

You closed your eyes for one brief, pained second. “You have got to be kidding me.” You grumbled.

Before either Princess or Perlah could ask what was wrong, you were already moving, making a beeline towards them.

Princess and Perlah exchanged a look behind your back. “What just happened?” Princess asked in Tagalog.

“I don’t know." Perlah muttered. "But I think it’s going to be good.”

By the time you were close enough to hear the familiar deep drawl of his voice, Mark Sloan had inched in just enough to make Joy look like she might pass out.

“So, is that the only piercing you have or...?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Still shamelessly hitting on interns I see.”

Mark turned at the sound of your voice. For half a second, there was nothing but surprise. And then his eyes lit up in recognition.

“Well I’ll be.”

That familiar grin spread slowly across his face as his eyes travelled down your body with the same shameless appreciation he’d had years ago, like he was undressing you from memory.

“Cupid.” He said the nickname lowly, like he’d never stopped saying it. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You shot him a fake smile. “Wish I could say the same.”

Joy looked between the two of you, blinking rapidly, as if she was trying to decipher a complex math problem. You turned your attention to her, offering her a polite smile.

“Dr Mohan's looking for you, something to do with your patient in room 3.”

“Oh right.” Joy nodded, adjusting her glasses as she glanced at Mark. “On it.”

“Bye Joy.” Mark called out lazily, watching her blush as she scurried away, nearly walking into a wall in the process.

He turned to you, looking pleased with himself as he leant forward. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?” He pouted once she was out of earshot.

"Someone has to."

Meanwhile, McKay, Whitaker and Santos had exited the breakroom, not even bothering to conceal their ogling as they clustered around a monitor.

“Ok who on earth is that?” Santos queried.

"And why does he look like he just walked off a photoshoot?" McKay muttered.

“And how do they know eachother?” Whitaker added.

“He called her Cupid.” Joy casually commented as she walked past them.

Whitaker’s brow furrowed. "....Cupid?"

Santos froze. The faint amusement dropped away, replaced by the sharp, dawning horror of someone remembering a detail they were never supposed to need.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” McKay and Whitaker asked simultaneously.

"Do you guys remember that time at karaoke?"

"....the one where she sang No Scrubs at Abbot?"

"No. The one when she accidentally admitted she had an ex at Seattle Grace that used to call her Cupid."

McKay and Whitaker both slowly turned to stare at Mark, then at you, then back at Mark.

"No." McKay shook her head.

"Yes."

“You don’t seriously think….” Whitaker trailed off.

“Oh I do” Santos nodded. “I really do.”

Back at the nurses’ station, you folded your arms, ignoring Mark's attempts at getting under your skin.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh some conference.” He waived his hand dismissively. “Thought I’d take the opportunity to come see Robinavitch.”

You blinked. “You know Dr Robby.” You said slowly.

“Since med school.” He answered smoothly. “Why? Hoping I was here to see you?”

You snorted. “Please.”

“Oh c’mon Cupid don’t act like you don’t miss me.” He smirked as he stepped closer. “You wouldn’t have moved across the other side of the country to forget about me if you didn’t.”

You leant in slightly, shooting him a dry smile. “I wouldn’t touch you again even if my life depended on it Sloan.”

He let out a genuine chuckle. “I’ve missed this.” He gestured between the two of you. “Us."

He placed his chin in the palm of his hand, leaning even closer. "Why did it ever end?”

You pretended to think for a moment. "Maybe because you’re physiologically incapable of staying monogamous?”

“Oh yeah right that.” He nodded. “Speaking of monogamous..."

"No."

"... I’ve heard you’ve got a new boy toy right here at PTMC.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Jesus Christ Meredith needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”

“Well in her defence she told Derek who then told me so….” Mark trailed off, turning his body around to survey the room. “Which one is he?”

"I'm not playing this game." You answered, folding your arms over your chest.

“Wait let me guess.”

Before you could stop him, Mark placed both hands on your shoulders and gently turned you so you were both facing the floor of the pitt.

His eyes landed on Frank first. “Too pretty boy.”

He guided your shoulders slightly towards Whitaker. “Too scrawny.”

From across the room, Whitaker stiffened. “…Why is he looking at me?”

Santos didn’t look away. “Don’t wave.” She murmured.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

Then the ambulance bay doors opened. Jack walked in with a thermos in one hand, his bicep bulging as he shifted the backpack slung over his other shoulder on full display under his dark fitted shirt.

Your stomach dropped as his eyes scanned the room, no doubt looking for you. It didn't take long for his eyes to find yours. You watched as they shifted to Mark, then dropped to Mark's hands resting on your shoulders.

For a moment, his expression barely changed, only the faintest tightening around his jaw gave him away. Then he kept walking.

Mark smiled slowly. “….bingo.”

Your body stiffened as Mark glanced sideways at you.

“I’m right."

You didn't answer.

"I am."

“I’m not talking about my love life with you of all people.”

“Cupid, don’t be like that.” He nudged your shoulder. "Come on, what’s he like?”

“Well for starters, he volunteers as a medic for the SWAT team.” You said sweetly. “So he’s got at least one gun on him at all times.”

Mark nodded slowly, dropping his hands from your shoulders. "Noted."

"He also has excellent aim."

"Message received." Mark held his hands up. "I'll behave."

And then, for the first time since he had appeared, the teasing faded.

"But seriously..." His face softened slightly as his eyes settled on your face properly, no longer performing for the room.

“You’re happy?”

You exhaled slowly, your defences lowering slightly by the unexpected tone of his voice.

“I am.”

“He good to you?"

You smiled softly despite yourself. “He is.”

Something flickered across Mark’s face then, softening the usual sharp lines of his smirk, scarily close to being something sincere. “Good.”

For a moment, the years between you settled there. It didn’t feel painful or bitter or even sad. In fact, it seemed absurd to think that you'd cried over him once upon a time. Now he was just a story you told after one too many drinks, something you reflected on and shook your head, chalking it up to the foolishness of youth.

You cleared your throat, looking away first. “How’s work?”

“Busy, chaotic, dramatic.” Mark shrugged.

"So the usual then?"

“The usual.”

He glanced around the emergency department, frowing slightly as he took in the noise, the movement, the organised disaster of it all. “How’s the ED?”

“Busy, chaotic.” You echoed. “Somehow still much less dramatic than Seattle Grace."

Mark barked out a laugh. “Yeah that checks out.”

“Sloan.”

The two of you turned to see Robby making his way towards you, Jack beside him.

Mark's grin returned instantly.

“Robinavitch.” He broke away from you and pulled Robby into a hug with the force of someone who had never respected personal space in his life.

"A lot less hair since I last saw you."

Robby snorted, clapping him on the back. "The Pitt will do that to you.”

Jack caught your eye over Robby’s shoulder, his expression running a fine line between faint amusement and annoyance.

Robby stepped back, shaking his head before gesturing to Jack.

“This is Jack Abbot, night attending.”

“Nice to meet you. Mark Sloan.” Mark stuck his hand out. “Head of Plastic Surgery at Seattle Grace.”

“Plastic surgery?” Jack's brow lifted slightly as he shook Mark’s hand. “Explains the soft hands.”

Mark laughed loudly enough that several people looked over.

“Oh my god.” Whitaker mumbled as he watched Jack and Mark shake hands. “It’s like I’m seeing double.”

Santos shook her head. “She’s got some serious issues.”

McKay folded her arms over her chest as she studied the two men. “Or just good taste.”

“I second the good taste thing.” Princess murmured as she appeared beside McKay.

Perlah took a sip of her drink and nodded. “I third that.”

The handshake lasted just a fraction longer than necessary as Mark glanced over at you. “I get it."

Robby’s eyes narrowed as he gestured between you and Mark.

“You two know eachother?”

“I was an intern at Seattle Grace." You supplied quickly.

“Oh yes, Cupid and I go wayyy back.” Mark smirked.

Robby's confusion only deepened. “Cupid…?”

You shot Mark a warning glare, which he very intentionally ignored.

“Yeah Cupid.” He answered smoothly. “'cause you know she’s got these little angel wings tattooed right above her-“

“Okayyy you know what.” Robby clapped his hands letting out a bark of awkward laughter. “I think a hospital tour sounds like a great idea right about now."

Mark's eyes gleamed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was going to say shoulder blade."

“You are going to walk with me." Robby said, already steering him away, “And tell me absolutely none of the rest of that story.”

Mark let himself be guided down the hall, still grinning smugly as he glanced back over his shoulder at you and winked, making you roll your eyes once more.

You dragged your eyes away from him to look at Jack who was yet to move. He watched Mark disappear down the corridor, then looked back at you.

He slowly stepped forward, eyes scanning your figure as he placed his hands casually behind his back.

"Ex?"

You sighed. "...Ex."

Jack nodded curtly. “Got it.”

“Abbot.” You looked over to see Dana studying both of you. “Dr King needs an attending in Room 8.”

Jack's eyes never left you. You watched him intently, waiting to see if he would say anything further. Instead he simply reached into his pocket and produced a protein bar.

You swallowed as he slid it into the front pocket of your scrub top, his fingers lightly against your side subtly.

“Eat.” Was all he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.

Your throat tightened around a smile as you nodded. He held your gaze for one more second, then turned and headed in the direction of Room 8.

You watched him go, your hand subconsciously brushing over the side that he’d just touched.

When you looked back, Dana was still standing there, one hand on her hip as she watched you over her glasses with an expression far too knowing for your liking.

“Don’t you dare say a word.”

She raised her hands up in mock surrender. “Wasn’t gonna.”

You huffed as you turned, suddenly desperate to busy yourself in order to keep your mind off the cluster fuck that was your two worlds colliding.

For the next twenty minutes, you threw yourself back into work. Every few minutes though, your gaze betrayed you, either drifting towards the corridor where Robby had taken Mark or towards Room 8, where Jack had disappeared. The protein bar sat heavily in your pocket, your appetite now completely non-existent.

By the time you ended up at a computer to finish off your charting, your shift was close enough to ending that you had started to believe you might actually survive it.

“Oh damn, the patient in room 7 died.”

You glanced up to see Whitaker staring at a chart from the workstation beside you.

“The old lady with the chest pain?”

“Yeah.” Whitaker sighed.

You frowned. "That sucks."

“She had a husband right?” Santos chimed in from across from you, not bothering to look up from her own computer.

“Yeah she did, married nearly fifty years."

Without missing a beat, Santos glanced up at you. “Abbot better watch out.”

Your eyes narrowed.

"Nice. Very respectful." Whitaker shook his head, although you could see he was trying not to laugh.

"What?" Santos shrugged. "Our girl clearly has a type."

"Silver foxes?" McKay suggested as she walked past grinning like a cheshire cat.

"I hate all of you."

Whitaker looked over at you like he was genuinely offended. "What did I do?!"

Across the hallway, Jack had just emerged from Room 8. Your eyes met his. He didn’t react beyond the faintest lift of one eyebrow, but you could tell he'd heard every word.

You tipped your head slightly towards the supply closet. Jack looked at you for half a beat, then gave the smallest nod.

You waited a couple minutes before moving.

The supply closet was narrow, overstocked, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and cardboard. You shut the door behind you and leaned against a shelf, exhaling slowly for what felt like the first time in an hour.

A few minutes later, the handle turned. Jack stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against the opposite shelf, folding his arms loosely across his chest as the two of you studied eachother.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“So… that’s your ex.”

“That’s my ex.”

He nodded. "You left out a few details."

"Such as?"

His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to your face.

“Well first of all I wasn’t expecting Mark Sloan.”

Your brows lifted in surprise. “You know who he is?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Of course you have.” You paused for a moment before your voice dropped slightly, unable to hide the insecurity in your tone. "Do you think less of me because I dated someone like him?"

Jack's brows knitted together. "Absolutely not." He said immediately. "It's just that I wasn't expecting your ex to be..."

Your brow furrowed. “Be what?”

“…old.” Was what Jack settled on.

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “He’s not old, he’s like your age.”

“Exactly.” Jack nodded. “I'm practically from the stone age compared to you.”

“You’re not.” You insisted.

Jack’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite hold as he looked down at the floor.

You studied him for a moment, admiring the lines etched deep into his face that you’d had memorised for as long as you’d known him. “Does it bother you that he’s older?”

“No it doesn’t bother me it’s just...” He sighed. “I thought I was the exception.” He confessed.

Your face softened instantly as you pushed off the wall and took a step towards him.

"Jack."

"I know it’s irrational.” He said, giving a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I just thought I was the first older doctor you’d made questionable life choices over.”

You huffed a small laugh as you closed the gap between the two of you, reaching up to cradle his jaw.

“Hey.” You said gently, guiding his eyes up to meet yours.

“When I met Mark I was young and overwhelmed and had just moved to a new city and he was…” You trailed off, glancing at the door like Mark might somehow materialise on cue.

“…well you’ve seen what he’s like.”

You brushed a thumb over his stubble that lined his jaw. “It barely even qualified as a relationship. And then it ended and we worked together for months. And then I moved.”

Jack leant into your touch slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as you spoke, attentive in the way that always made your heart ache a little.

“And then on my first day here I met a grumpy doctor up on the roof while I was mid meltdown.”

His brows drew together in feigned disbelief. “I don’t think he was grumpy.”

“He told me if I was thinking of jumping I shouldn’t because it’d be a shame to ruin a face like mine.”

The frown that had a hold on his face loosened just a fraction. “Why on earth would he think that line would work.”

“In his defence, I think he was a little out of practice.”

His hands settled at your waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your scrubs. “Or his brain short circuited when he saw you.”

Your smile widened as you slid your arms around the back of his neck, entwining your fingers absentmindedly around the silver curls at the nape of his neck.

“Well, lucky for him it worked.”

The reluctant smile finally reached his eyes. “Very lucky.” He corrected.

He glanced down, playing with the tie of your scrub pants.

“I just can’t believe you dated a plastic surgeon.”

You snorted softly. “Is that seriously what’s bothering you the most?”

“Yes.” He answered plainly.

You shook your head, a wry smile on your lips. “Not the stupid nickname?”

Jack glanced down at you, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.

“If he calls you that again I may have no choice but to punch him.” He conceded casually as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a moment. “But at least he can fix his own nose up after.”

You let out a laugh, running a hand over his chest. “Don’t worry.” You soothed. “I already told him you volunteer with the SWAT team.”

Jack smirked down at you proudly. “Atta girl.”

Then he leant down and finally pressed his lips to yours in a slow, reverent kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed immediately.

“Did you eat?”

You winced slightly. “Not yet.” You patted the pocket that contained the protein bar. “I’ll eat this and then go.”

Jack frowned, clearly unsatisfied with your solution. “Go home and eat something more substantial.”

“I will.”

“There’s pasta in the fridge for you, all you have to do is chuck it in the microwave.”

Your interest piqued immediately. “The pesto one I love?”

“Of course.”

You grinned, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re very good to me Dr Abbot.”

His smile softened into something private, something reserved just for you. “Anything for my girl.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time, enjoying the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.

“Alright.” He muttered reluctantly against your lips as he pulled away. “Get going before I end up locking you in here.”

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He shot you a warning glare with absolutely no bite to it.

You huffed dramatically, “alright alright.”

You reached for the door, then paused, glancing back at him.

“And for the record, if you’re worried about feeling old…”

Jack raised a brow.

“You should meet my other ex, he checked into the nursing home down the road last week.”

“Very funny.” He muttered, trying but failing to look unamused.

“I know I am.”

“Go.” He urged as he tapped your backside affectionately.

You raised your hands in mock defeat, slipping back into the pitt without another word.

Jack shook his head as the door shut softly behind you, a lovesick smile spreading across his face.

As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍

[reidsmemory]

so freaking cute! literally grinning like an idiot the whole time reading this lol! love!

[reidsmemory]

law & order up

carmen berzatto x fem!reader

summary: taking on the legal work for the bear was supposed to be temporary. falling for the chef who keeps feeding you definitely wasn't part of the contract.

warnings: 18+, mdni, strangers to co-workers to lovers, reader is smaller/short than carmen, reader has hair long enough for a ponytail and claw clip, carmen is so soft and doesn't know what to do with himself half the time, obvious richie favoritism (fav character sue me), reader CANNOT cook (lol me fr), no use of y/n

word count: 11.8k (dear lord)

a/n: trying out something new! i've been looking to branch out from topgun fics, so im dipping my toe in by writing for carmy! loved this show since the first season! also, this is so self-indulgent as a bad cook and polisci student lol! hope you all enjoy!

masterlist

On Saturdays, you stayed in your apartment. Especially this time of year, when the leaves start to change color, and the wind picks up and bites just a bit harsher. But today, you venture from your apartment, your sanctuary, your recharge from forms and requests, to instead visit a restaurant on the north side of Chicago.

You weren't quite sure what to expect. Pete had come to your office late yesterday afternoon, asking if you could do him a favor. You had agreed, thinking it had to do something with the latest case you were working on or the new client that dropped by. What you didn't expect was for him to show you the mountains of manila folders with only one word etched on the front of them, Bear.

Ever since moving to Chicago, Pete had been a mentor of sorts. At first, it was firm assigned. He always had his door open when you had questions about the workings of the company or the complexities of a case. You found yourself sending him about 15 emails a day, and they were always followed up with a smiley face emoji and way too many exclamation points for a grown man to use.

But beyond that, he had welcomed you into his home and made an effort to really welcome you to Chicago. After mentioning to him one day during lunch that you still hadn't been able to cook something for yourself, despite being in the city for three weeks already, he had insisted that you join him and his wife for dinner that weekend.

You had shown up with a bottle of wine and were met with a round stomach. Nevertheless, Natalie had laughed and hugged you tightly as you apologized profusely for the bad gift choice.

"I wouldn't ask if I knew you couldn't handle it. It's just that Natalie's about to pop, and I need to devote my energy towards caring for her," he explained as you sifted through the miscellaneous documents.

So now, you stood outside the establishment, double-checking the address, then triple-checking, before opening the door.

"I swear to everything holy, Cousin! Hold the fucking table straight!"

"I am, jagoff! Fix your fucking eyes!"

"Dumbass, it's crooked! Look!"

"It's not! Your fucking head is crooked, screwed it on the wrong way this morning."

"Oh, fuck you!"

"Fuck you!"

Just as you were about to sneak back out the way you came, you saw Natalie's familiar face.

"Idiots! You're gonna scare her off."

Both men whip around to face you. You held out a hand and waved, sending them both a small smile.

The older man grins back at you, "Oh shit, sweetheart, didn't even hear you. Quiet as a mouse coming in."

The younger one just scoffs at the older man, but his eyes don't leave your form. You feel your tummy jump as his electric blue eyes drag over your body and land on your face. You think he might say something. But as Natalie comes to gather you in her arms, he doesn't say a word.

The older man's gaze flickers over to the younger one, and it seems like the smile on his face widens tenfold, from what you can't quite put your finger on yet.

"Richard Jerimovich, but everyone just calls me Richie," he tells you, sticking out a hand. His grip is surprisingly gentle and firm, all in the same breath. Still, you give him a small smile and offer your name.

Expectantly, you look towards the curly-haired brunette, but he just looks at you blankly.

As Richie barks out a laugh, again, at something you don't quite know, but Natalie cuts in swiftly.

"I gave everyone a brief introduction as to who you are and what you'll be helping with, so no need for niceties just yet. I want to show you the belly of the beast," she tells you as you just nod and let her guide you through the mess of a restaurant.

As she pushes open the swinging doors to the back of the building, you swear you catch the two men going at it again.

"Holy fuck!"

"Shut the fuck up, Cousin."

"Holy fuck! Are you a fucking teenage boy, Bear?"

"Shut up!"

"Got something staining on the front of your pants, y'know."

But a huff from Natalie brings you back into reality. With a creak, the door to a back office opens up, and you almost gasp at the condition of the place.

"I know, but everything has its place. Mikey had his system, and we all work around it," she says, almost sensing the anxious thoughts circling your head.

After hearing her reasoning, though, your heart pulls, and you hum. Pete had told you about his passing. It wasn't exactly office talk, but he said he needed to give you a crash course before today. Michael was the first thing he told you about.

Pulling out a chair, she beckons you to sit. Once you do, she plops a stack of papers in your lap.

"Petey is working on I.R.95 forms for The Bear now, and told me he's almost finished. But we need to have these," she says, finger coming down to point at the title of the paper, "I.R. 114 forms done by the end of next week."

You nod, he had told you most of this already, and you had made a color-coded list of what to tackle with corresponding due date, but you sat and let her explain it to you a second time.

"And the city keeps giving us the run around with these," Natalie continues, placing another stack of paper in your lap. The chair squeaks under the weight.

You thumb through the pages, mostly to confirm what you're looking at, but the action makes the woman across from you twitch.

"I know it's a lot," she says, almost like she's sorry for you, like you hadn't already agreed.

"No, it's okay, Natalie," you say, trying to ease some stress. Still, her shoulders almost reach her ears as you read along the pages of documents.

After giving you a few minutes, she moves. Getting up from her seat, Natalie's hand braces on the wall, stomach sticking out like a reminder. "I'll go get Carmen and Richie. They said they wanted to be here when we talked about hours."

With that, she leaves you in the office. It's quiet once she shuts the door, but you can feel the buzz of the building regardless. The kind of place with an energy that tells others it never sleeps.

Looking around, you see bits and pieces of the Berzatto's life. Mismatched pens in a glass cup. Thumb-tacked pictures hang from shelves. Colorful sticky notes cover one wall while the other is completely bare. It's scatterbrained, but still makes you smile.

Carmen must be the younger man from when you came in earlier. He looked a bit like Natalie, you think. Has the same rosy cheeks and pink lips. But just as soon as the thought of his soft-looking lips arrives, you push it away. The swing of the door aids this.

Sure enough, the young man and Richie come in tow with Natalie. Richie braces against the lip of the desk while Carmen leans up against the doorway so as not to crowd you in the small office. When you look at him, he's already watching you. Your eyes dart back towards your lap, pretending to read over the documents once more.

"We can't afford more than 3 hours a week. Pete told me your rate, but I just want to make sure that $500 an hour is still okay?" she asks you, handing you another document, this time with a pen for a signature.

"And we want to say thank you," Richie says, a genuine smile on his face.

You look between the family in front of you and then back at the loose contract, brows pitched in focus at the words.

"Did Pete not tell you?" you question, voice small, this time looking solely at Natalie.

"Did you up your rate? Oh, God. I guess we did have that conversation a few weeks ago. I shouldn't have assumed, I'm sorry," she apologizes, already grabbing the form out of your hand as you just look at her open-mouthed.

"No, no, Natalie. I told him I'd work pro bono. And I thought we could set a base of ten hours a week? I mean, sometimes I might get busier, but I can make up for it later. As long as that's okay for you guys?"

The office is silent for a minute. You worry that you overstepped, suggesting more hours than they came to you with.

"You're serious?" This time it's Carmy who speaks.

You just nod, not able to find the words as you look at him.

"You're an angel. Like an actual angel sent down from heaven," Natalie breathes out as you laugh a bit at her dramatics. "But, sweetheart, I can't take advantage of you like that."

"No, I want to. You and Pete have been so welcoming to me. Please let me do this for you guys," you tell her.

"You're sure?" she asks hesitantly, but you can see the small smile on her face at the thought.

You smile and hum, happy to take something off her and Pete's plate as they get ready for their daughter's birth.

"I fucking love this girl!" Richie whoops, hands clapping together as Natalie laughs at his antics.

"Thank you," Carmen follows. If you hadn't already been looking at him, you would've missed it. But instead, you just smile at him, your eyes unable to maintain contact for long.

જ⁀➴

Your Saturday mornings were now spent at The Bear. After settling the most urgent concerns and going over some brief paperwork questions you had, the four of you landed on Saturday mornings being the day you came into the office to work. It was only a few hours; the rest of your work would be done throughout the week, but still, it was nice to run things by the family before moving forward.

It was early, but Natalie assured you that Carmen was going to be here to help you get settled. Balancing your keys, phone, and drink carrier, you pushed open the back door of the restaurant.

Sure enough, the kitchen was quiet, no clanging of tools heard at this hour, only the typing of keys and thwacking of stacks of paper being shuffled around.

"Hi, Carmen," you say quietly while standing at the outskirts of the office. Immediately, he rises to his feet, chair kicking out behind him.

"Hey, hi. Good morning," he replies, going to help you with your bag and the drinks in your hand.

"Oh, thanks." You smile at him as he just nods.

As you sit, you slide a coffee his way. When he gives you an inquisitive look, you laugh a bit.

"Natalie says you never sleep, figured you might want one. It's from my favorite cafe in the city," you explain, fiddling with your fingers. When he just stares at you, like he did last week, you continue, "Honey Lavender, it's supposed to be relaxing."

"Honey lavender," he repeats, turning the cup in his hands like he's trying to figure out if you've handed him coffee or perfume.

"It tastes better than it sounds," you defend with a laugh. "Promise."

He peels back the lid carefully, steam curling up into his face. You can smell the mix of coffee and sweetness from across from him.

You watch him as he dips into the drink to take his first sip, eyes tracking his lips as they wrap around the white rim of the cup and then to his throat as he swallows.

"It's good," he affirms, but still sounds surprised by what he's saying.

Your shoulders immediately relax.

"It's…sweet."

"It is," you reply, laughing a bit at the observation.

"I don't usually drink sweet coffee."

"I know."

His eyebrows lift at this. "You know?"

"You look like someone who drinks coffee just for the caffeine."

He stares at you another second before rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"You really are a lawyer, huh?"

You laugh loud enough that it echoes around the empty kitchen.

For a split second, he just watches you.

It's a nice laugh, he thinks. Easy and light. The kind that fills a room instead of demanding attention from it. Carmen realizes he's staring when you clear your throat.

"So…" you gesture toward the mountain of folders. "Forms?"

He exhales dramatically. "Forms."

Opening the first folder, you immediately organize the papers into neat little stacks. Within minutes, sticky notes begin appearing everywhere. He watches as you pull stack after stack from your bag, almost like a never-ending clown scarf.

"You color-code everything?" he asks, hands rubbing the waxy paper of the cup as he watches you.

"Hm?" You look up at him briefly, hands thumbing different documents at lightning speed.

"The sticky notes."

"Oh." You glance down like you hadn't even realized you were doing it.

"You remember what every color means?" he asks, eyes dancing around the desk as he takes everything in.

"Blue is city permits."

He nods. "Yellow?"

"Insurance."

"Green?" he tests, smile now creeping up on his face.

"Anything Pete forgot to tell me," you tell him, bringing up the thin stack of sticky notes, laughing. "He forgets a lot."

"He really does," Carmen chuckles as you smile at him once more.

You continue like this for a while more, silence falling over you both again. But it isn't awkward. If anything it's comfortable, different.

Carmen watches as you bend over a packet of licensing paperwork, lips moving ever so slightly while you read. The gloss is still there, but slightly smudged. He can see the remnants on your coffee cup, the plum color intrigues him more than it should.

He notices you tuck your hair behind your ear every few minutes. It keeps falling out of the pearly-looking claw clip that's holding your hair in its place. He thinks it's the same one you sported last week.

You chew the inside of your cheek whenever something doesn't make sense. The way your brows fold over on themselves and you huff a bit is one of the cutest things Carmen has ever seen.

You scribble tiny stars next to things you need to revisit. Along with green stick notes. Every time you place one down, he laughs a bit to himself.

He doesn't know why he notices any of it. He just does. It's like he can't tear his eyes away from you. Your fingers, your lips, your hair.

"You've got nice handwriting." The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

You look up, almost like you don't believe him. "Thanks."

He immediately regrets speaking, Richie was right, he was acting like a teenager. "I just mean—"

"No," you smile, hands waving away his explanation. "I've just…never been complimented on my handwriting before."

"It's organized," he offers and you laugh again. Carmen wants to make you laugh over and over again.

"My professors used to call it aggressive."

"Aggressive handwriting?" he raises his brows and you nod.

"I press too hard."

When he glances down at the paper, sure enough, the words look as if they are bound to the page. Every letter looks deliberate. Like it belongs exactly where it is. It's nothing like the scribbles in his notebook or the reminders he leaves himself.

"Professors? From law school?"

You hum without looking up. "NYU. Good program, good professors, just a little judgy."

That gets his attention. New York. "You move here recently?"

You spit out your grad date and shrug absentmindedly.

He nods slowly. "I, uh, lived in New York, too. Around the same time actually."

At this, you stop working, hands pausing and furrow on your brow disappearing as you look at the man. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"What part?"

"Manhattan."

Your eyes widen. "No way."

"What?" he asks, smile on his face, like he can't wait to find out what you're going to say next.

"I lived in Midtown," you explain, hands now fully dropping the documents and coming to tuck your hair behind both of your ears again.

Carmen watches your movements, mirroring you as he places the now empty coffee cup down on the table. "I was living downtown."

You both sit there for a second, letting the information brew.

"So we probably crossed paths."

"Probably," he hums.

"Same city."

"Same months."

"And we both ended up in Chicago. How funny," you say, scrunching your nose a bit, a movement that Carmen files away immediately.

"That is kind of funny." That's all he says for the moment, but he can feel himself twitch as memories start coursing back.

The memories of New York always felt too loud. Too many people counting on him, too many waiting for him to fail. Not enough time to really perfect his craft, not enough time to settle into the way of the city. Never enough patience for those around him, patience wasn't something Carmen even knew for himself.

The feeling of Chicago, his home, was so unfamiliar and new in this light. The new challenges every week at The Bear keep him on his toes. Remnants of Mikey around every corner. New people in his life he never would've reached for.

But somehow that stream of conciousness pauses as you sit across from him. Something inside him calms as you go back to flicking through the forms, pressing your pen too hard against the paper, and sticky noting everything within sight.

He notices you've been working for almost three hours without touching anything besides coffee. Carmen wonders if it's a habit. Something built into you from long hours studying for law school or just a quirk you picked up recently.

Without saying a word, he disappears into the kitchen.

You barely notice he's left your side, too entrenched in the mountains of questions you now have for Pete and Carmen, until the smell reaches you.

Butter.

Pepper.

Something warm and familiar.

Carmen is carrying two plates as he enters your space again.

"What's this?" you ask, perking up to look at what he's prepared.

"Breakfast."

"Oh. Carmen, you didn't have to—"

He waves you off, placing the food in front of you. "You forgot to eat."

You blink. First looking at him and then the food.

"You've been here since seven."

You look down at your watch and sure enough it's almost ten. "Oh gosh, I didn't even notice."

"I know." He hands you a fork and gestures for you to dig in.

The omelet looks impossibly soft, folded around herbs and cheeses you're sure you can't pronounce. The smell is unlike anything you've been around in months, take-out and frozen meals that would surely earn you a scolding if the chef next to you knew.

Oh, and the taste. The taste.

When you go to take the first bite, you eyes shut. The flavors hit you almost instantaneously, some a bit subtle and some punching forward.

"Oh."

He studies your reaction, food on his plate untouched. "Good?"

You laugh quietly as you nod, chewing and swallowing so you can talk to Carmen. "I don't think I can ever eat my own cooking again."

Something in his chest loosens at this. You've settled into the seat now, spine not as rigidly straight and shoulder dropping. Carmen notices it all.

Good, he thinks. He wonders if you'd like a Croque Madame or Eggs Benedict next week.

જ⁀➴

Carmen is sitting in the office skimming over some notes you left. Mostly it's just arrows asking for his signature, the occasional exclamation point or question mark. But still, he finds himself rubbing a thumb over the lettering, lingering on pages a little too long.

"No, we submitted those," Natalie says from his side.

He perks up a bit at this, turning to face her with a puzzled look on his face as she just shrugs and listens to the voice on the other end of the call.

Quickly, she grabs a legal pad, one that you had left in the office "just in case". Hands scramble for a pen, and she begins writing furiously.

Now Carmen drops the forms he was looking at and focuses solely on her.

What the fuck? He mouths at his sister as she shoots him a glare.

"Can you tell me what section again?" Natalie asks as Carmen's anxiety begins to heighten.

She hums at another thing the voice says and immediately drops the pen. Her hand flies towards her forehead, smacking it before it makes its way down the side of her jaw.

Carmen stands now, bending down to look at his sister closer and try to catch what the man on the phone is saying.

"Okay. Yes, I understand," she finalizes, lowering the phone and dropping it back into the receiver.

"What? What was that?" Carmen twitches. When she gives him a pitiful look, his heart sinks.

"They're saying the occupancy amendment wasn't attached."

"The fuck does that mean?" he asks, a permanent scowl now on his face.

"I don't know, I don't know. But it's not good," she replies, hands coming to slam down on the desk as she pushes her chair back and away from the desk.

The ruckus gets the attention of Richie and Neil, both of them popping their heads into the small space.

"Whoa, what's going on?" Richie laughs out.

"Fucking occupancy amendment! Fuck!" Natalie groans as the three men share a worried look.

"What's that mean? Is it bad?" Neil questions innocently as Natalie just nods.

"The guy, he said it could affect the opening. Says that the paperwork we submitted last week is invalid. We'll have to get another inspection." Her head is now in her hands, fingers digging in the blonde locks.

"What? The inspection place schedules 2 months out," Carmen barks out, almost laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

"Sugar is Bear being for real? 2 months?" Richie asks, amusement gone from his face now.

"At minimum. Maybe 4 months," she replies, head still dropped.

"4 months?" Carmen almost yells, voice booming in the small office.

"And he said it invalidates our liquor license," she drops on them, sending another wave of panic through the men.

"No fucking alcohol?" Again, Carmen urges as he looks at his sister.

"No alcohol," she repeats.

"No one's going to want to eat with no wine," Neil observes out loud as everyone deadpans at him.

"No shit. Holy fuck, we're screwed. Uncle's gonna fucking kill me." Carmen chokes out, hand coming to brace on his chest.

The four of them sit in silence for a minute. Then another. It feels like this is the end. The end of the dream. The end of this place. The end of whatever Mikey might've wanted or hoped for.

"Call her," Carmen finally speaks. He doesn't even say your name, but Natalie's already searching for your contact in her phone.

When you don't pick up the first time, Carmen sighs. The next time, he bites his lip hard. The fifth time, he almost cries.

"She's probably with a client," Natalie offers, but it does nothing to stop the energy they all seem to be sharing.

"It's only three," Richie says and it feels like a bomb goes off in the office.

"Try again," Carmen urges.

"What if she's in court?" Neil argues back.

"Fuck," Carmen yells out, pushing his hands into his eyes.

"It's two fucking hours. We can do two hours."

Around 30 minutes into their waiting game, people start to filter into The Bear for the weekly dinner.

It only takes Sydney asking why Neil looks like he's about to cry to push Natalie into an over-detailed and overly dramatic rant about the douche bag she talked to on the phone.

Around the 50-minute mark, Richie is hunched over the laptop in the office. Carmen at his side, reading over his shoulder.

"What the fuck is estoppel?"

Nobody answers.

He keeps reading, hoping that something will jump out and spark some recognition. "Pursuant?"

Again, the kitchen is silent.

"Who writes like this?" he huffs, hands coming out to flip off the laptop.

"Lawyers," Carmen responds dryly. "I hate lawyers."

Sydney laughs at this. "I don't."

Richie squints over at her. "You don't know any lawyers."

She just raises her brows, giving the men a knowing stare.

Carmen nods, not quite willing to give in to what she's implying just yet. Still, he grumbles, "I like one lawyer."

જ⁀➴

The sound of clicking gets Carmen's attention.

"Hi," you say, rounding the corner, meeting everyone as they all work on their latest creation.

Like Natalie said, you look like you were coming straight from the office. Something about it has Carmen taking a deep breath.

On Saturdays, you came into The Bear wearing beat-up sneakers, jeans, and old sweaters. It wasn't like you weren't putting effort into what you wore or how you looked, but Carmen could tell you opted to be in comfier attire when you worked here.

Now, you were standing in front of him, charcoal pencil skirt, white button-down blouse, and black heels. Your hair was pulled away from your face in a tight ponytail, something that was also different from Saturdays when you let it fall freely from your claw clip.

You looked like a lawyer.

"Sorry, we just finished up at court, or else I would've gotten here earlier," you apologize.

Natalie moves to hug you, and you let out an 'umph' as she does so. "Thank God."

"I got six missed calls," you laugh as she just squeezes you tighter. Your eyes meet Carmen's, and you share a look that would normally make him smile, but he can't right now. His eyes are still trained on you. The slightly worn look of your lipstick and the softness of your exposed legs making him freeze.

"Sorry," she says, finally letting you go.

"No, no, what's wrong?" you say, smiling still.

As Natalie starts explaining, occasionally looking to Carmen, he can't bring himself to move.

Richie notices and leans over. "You okay there, Cousin?"

The men share a look. Richie's is considerably lighter. Brows dancing and grin spreading across his face. Carmen is noticeably pissed. Eyes intense, and lips pursed.

"Did you forget how blinking works?"

Carmen glares harder, if it's even possible.

Richie grins wider, if it's even possible.

"Having a little wet—"

"Shut the fuck up." Carmen snaps, hand coming to slap Richie on the chest, but the action just makes the man laugh.

You and Natalie move to the office, both going back and forth about what the man said exactly to her earlier on the phone.

Carmen follows, hot on your heels.

Soon, though, you're settled in the office, and Natalie is dialing the number. Just as he thinks you're about to put it up to your ear, you press a button, a green light illuminating on the old phone, now on speakerphone.

Carmen's never heard you like this. Usually, your voice is dipped in honey, never sharp and tactful like it is now. Even when you introduce yourself, the words are like spitfire from your tongue.

He feels Richie's elbow nudge him and fights the urge to roll his eyes at the attention.

First, you talk with the man about the missing forms.

"It was submitted on September fourteenth," you say definitively.

"We have no record of that submission, ma'am," the man spits back, like it's a game. You smile at that.

"I have confirmation."

The line is silent for a bit before you continue.

"Would you like the confirmation number?" you ask, sickly sweet.

After the man confirms that he has the form, he continues, "This still complicates things with you alochol permit. We won't be able to issue you the permit until a month after asked date. It's a city ordinance."

"Could you point me toward the ordinance you're referring to?" you ask, like you already know the answer.

Clicking on the other line is heard, and you're scarily steady.

"Just takes a minute," the voice comes through.

"No, that's alright," you cut in immediately. "I'll wait."

By now, everyone has abandoned their stations and is camped outside the doorway. Carmen can't blame them.

"I actually can't seem to—"

"Oh, that's okay. I have it here," you speak. "It should be page thirty-seven, second paragraph."

The line is quiet again. It's a minute too long for anyone's liking but you just sit and smile.

Again, you speak into the receiver. "I can read it if that's easier."

Carmen's brows shoot up at this. His hand comes up to cover his mouth, a smile forming.

Carmen's heard you laugh. You've been at The Bear enough Saturdays now that he knows how to get you to smile and double over from just his words.

He's heard you ramble about permits. He remembers the day he set down a T.G. 15 form in front of you, and you practically vibrated with excitement, telling him it was your favorite due to how the subsections and clauses were organized.

He's heard you apologize when you interrupt someone. Too many times, he's told you to stop saying sorry, especially around him. "You got nothing to be sorry about, sweet girl." You barely spoke a word to him for five minutes after that, blush raging on your face.

But he's never heard this.

Every sentence lands exactly where you intend it to. No hesitation. No second-guessing. No nervous laugh. No fiddling with your rings. You don't rush to fill the silence. Instead, you wait. Patient and knowing.

It's incredible.

"I understand," you follow as the man on the line recalls the information. "But, respectfully, that's not what subsection C says."

Richie and Neil high-five at this. Carmen shakes his head, doesn't hide his small smile.

"Yeah, bitch. Subsection C," Richie whispers, mic-dropping, making Sydney and Marcus laugh quietly.

"Yes, I'm looking at the municipal code right now." Your voice is steady. It's the first time Carmen looks at you and really fears being on the receiving end of a lecture from you. He's sure your curt words would be much more effective than his temper tantrums.

"Get his ass," Richie speaks lowly again.

"Ma'am, I just don't think you understand how this applies in this situation." The man on the phone sounds utterly miserable, but still determined to make everyone's life a living hell.

Carmen sees you straighten up at this, your jaw ticks once, and he sucks in a breath at the sight.

"Could you hold while I read it aloud? Just so we both understand how it applies here."

Everyone around the office just stares.

Richie mouths, holy shit, and Carmen just huffs and laughs, like he can't believe you.

"Read him the whole book," the man says, just a bit too loud this time, though, earning a glare from Natalie.

"Richie," Sydney whispers.

He shrugs, "I'm supporting Counsel."

Carmen almost laughs at that.

"My mistake, I'll get that filed right away for you. There shouldn't be any delays."

"Oh."

You pause and smile.

"Wonderful. So we're all set?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Thank you so much! Have a great day." You place the phone back in the receiver.

Carmen watches as your shoulders drop, and you smile at everyone. Not the fake smile you were giving the city guy, but a Saturday smile. The one he knows.

And the office space explodes.

"I knew it! Those dicks didn't fucking file shit right. Fuck yeah!" Richie yells out.

Sugar practically weeps, eyes closing and back finally sinking into the chair.

Sydney high-fives Marcus, both of them starting to recall moments of the conversation like a live play-by-play.

Carmen just looks at you. His entire nervous system has finally unclenched. Your eyes meet his, and you smile; this time he smiles back. "Thank you," he says simply.

"So… can you yell at my landlord?" Marcus asks, a smile on his face as he crosses his fingers.

You laugh at this, "I can't yell at everybody."

"You should, sweetheart. Fuck that was great." Richie pumps his fists in the air, earning another laugh from you.

"I got three parking tickets."

"Neil," Sydney scoffs, a smile on her face as she looks at the man.

"What? I'm just saying."

You look at Carmen again and just smile brightly, like you can't hide how you're feeling.

You begin to grab your phone off the desk and pluck your bag off the floor.

"Where are you going?" Natalie asks, her hand coming to still your movements.

"…Home?" you say, whispering like it's the wrong answer.

"It's family," Richie tells you, like it's obvious.

You blink. "What?"

"Dinner. Family dinner. You gotta stay," the man explains as you nod. "Right, cousin?"

"Yeah," Carmen breathes, not taking another second to think about what he's saying. "Stay, please,"

As you all move into the dining room, something shifts. Richie already has a chair pulled out for you, the one on Carmen's right-hand side. Marcus sets down your plate, tilting it just the right way for presentation. Tina slides silverware in front of you, undoing the napkin herself and helping you drape it across your lap. Ebra grabs you a soda, cracking open the seal for you.

They make room.

And somehow that realization makes something in Carmen's chest settle.

જ⁀➴

You got the call early this morning about the first round of permits. Everything had been submitted perfectly, allowing you to move on to the next round of paperwork. It was a long time coming, with Pete being the one to start everything 3 months back.

Now you balanced a box of assorted pastries from Frost, a cafe Carmen had offhandedly mentioned last week, ready to share them and celebrate.

Gosh, Carmen was going to be so happy. He'd been so stressed recently. You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed while cutting miscellaneous vegetables or how he stared down at the workshopped menu, face twisting and setting in a grimace. You wonder if he'll send you a smile when you break the news or say something in that sweet, soft voice again. You hope that he relaxes a bit after this, lets go of this piece of the puzzle.

Pushing open the backdoor, you bite your lip in excitement. But quickly, your face drops.

"Come on, Marcus!"

You freeze at Carmen's voice. His hands are raised and you can see a vein straining on the back of his neck.

"You have to taste it!" Carmen yells. He slides the dish across the workstation. It would've slammed and shattered onto the floor if Marcus hadn't caught it.

"I did," the man insists.

Carmen groans at this. "No, taste it!"

"I did!" he fights back.

"Then what? You'd send that shit out?"

"Chef—"

"No. No excuses!"

Silence falls over the kitchen. It's not the usual response to Carmen's yelling. Usually, Sydney will step in and defend whoever's being chewed out. Tina will tell him to breathe, to take a step back. Richie might be yelling back.

But now, it's quiet. And no one is looking at him.

He tracks their eyes and sees them go over his figure, behind him.

Carmen doesn't let up at this, though. "Chef, answer me."

"Cousin..." Richie breathes out.

"What?" Carmen barks.

Now it's Sydney's turn to cringe. "Turn around."

He does.

And you're standing there, pink box cradled against your body and big eyes looking right at him.

But still, you smile at him. "Hi."

And Carmen feels sick. A wave of nausea and shame rolls through him at record time.

"I—I got the permits," you speak again.

The kitchen is still silent. Carmen swears he hears his heartbeat in his ears, the thumping making him want to clutch a hand to his chest.

"They got approved, just this morning," you continue like nothing. But Carmen sees the way your fingers strain against the box and the way you rock forward on your heels.

You saw him. The real him. The version of himself he tried so hard to keep away from you. Loud, impatient, temperamental. Fuck.

Sydney breaks the standstill energy in the room, dropping her knife and wiping her hands on her apron. She grabs your arm and leads you to the office.

Carmen hears you both as you go, the words distant even in the small kitchen.

"That's great," Sydney tells you.

"I know! Just this morning, too. Perfect news to start the day," your warm voice says. But Carmen just looks in the direction of where you had gone, not able to enjoy the news as much as you had hoped.

"She thinks I'm a psycho," he says as Richie comes up beside him, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.

"She didn't look scared," Richie tells him, but it only makes the ache in his chest grow wider.

"Cousin. I scared her."

"No. You just embarrassed yourself."

He looks at the older man, dread evident on his features. "Thanks," he deadpans as Richie just claps him on the back once more.

Natalie appears a few minutes after you settle into the office, Sydney still sitting with you as you talk about next steps.

"I can't believe they finally passed everything through," Natalie grins as she leans back in her chair, tummy sticking out.

You hum, but look out into the hallway, hoping that maybe Carmen will come to celebrate with you.

"He'll be okay," Sydney says, snapping you out of your trance.

"Carmen?" you question dumbly as the two women share a look.

Natalie nods. "He just gets... passionate."

Sydney laughs at that. "One way to describe it."

"Like a wet cat," Natalie adds.

The comparison of a cat clawing its way out of a tub to the image of Carmen in the kitchen earlier makes you all laugh.

You had grown accustomed to people yelling in your line of work. Partners, bosses, clients. You were beginning to understand what it was really like to work in a kitchen though.

While Saturdays were usually full of paperwork, breakfast served by Carmen, and honey lavender coffee, you were starting to see the other side of things as The Bear got closer and closer to opening.

No wonder Carmen was so stressed all the time.

You had caught yourself sneaking glances at him too often these past few weeks. The bags under his eyes and the way he rolled his neck every half-hour didn't go unnoticed. Still, he was here. Working hard for everyone around him. You admired that.

On the other side of the restaurant, Carmen's hands shake. He tries applying the glaze, but keeps getting the portioning wrong, silverware clinking on the porcelain alerting everyone.

He huffs, placing the utensils down and planting them flat on the station in front of him.

"Chef?" he says to the man in front of him, and Marcus immediately looks towards him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled."

Marcus blinks, then grins.

"Don't worry about it. Can't believe I forgot the peach glaze," he laughs.

Carmen sighs, but doesn't feel any lighter.

"Go," Marcus urges, voice quiet, like their teenagers talking in the back of the classroom.

"Nah," Carmen says, going to pick up the brush once more and trying to ignore the ache in his chest.

"Come on, man. She was so excited."

They share a look, and Carmen can't help but laugh at the goofy face Marcus is giving him.

"Yeah, okay."

Carmen makes his way back to the office, knuckle wrapping on the door frame as she looks up from the laptop.

"Hey," he tests, and you smile immediately, like nothing had even happened.

"Hi," you say again, lightness still in your voice, but you're a bit quieter now.

"Congrats," Carmen states simply.

You laugh at that, gesturing for him to come sit with you. "Thank you."

He does, but can't quite look at you.

"Are you okay, Carmy?" you ask, and Carmen almost loses it. He knew you heard Richie call him Bear and Natalie call him Carmy, but you had never tried anything other than Carmen. The sound of the nickname coming from you made his cheeks flush.

But it wasn't just that. The three words that came before also had his mind reeling. Are you okay. Fuck, it kills him. You caught him yelling, losing it on Marcus, and now you were asking if he was okay?

He clears his throat. "Yes, sorry."

You tilt your head at this, and Carmen has half the mind to take your cheeks in between his palms just to feel the softness, the sweetness that you exude.

"For what?"

"The yelling. My yelling." He feels his chest tighten all over again at the recollection.

"You're working," you say simply, and before Carmen can open his mouth, you continue. "You should see me during cross-examinations."

You giggle a bit at this, and Carmen looks at you like a dog that was just given a bone.

"Really?" he asks, a smile playing on his features now. He can't imagine you losing it on someone, but he'd paid to see you lay into someone like they do in those old-timey court drama movies.

"Oh yeah," you tell him, biting your lip as he laughs.

You look at each other for a minute. Carmen feels the weight in his chest leave when he sees the smile on your features. He can't believe this. Can't believe you.

He's about to apologize again, you can tell by the way his hands fidget.

Gently, you cut him off. "I just... I don't like seeing you stressed."

Carmen's eyes bore into you at this. He feels something crawl up his throat.

Before he can let it take control, he hums and sucks his teeth.

"Thank you again. And good work," he states, gathering himself from the office chair, getting ready to head out to the kitchen again.

Your heart skips a beat at the praise, and you just nod as he leaves.

You watch him disappear back into the kitchen before finally looking down at the permits again. The words blur for a second. You smile despite yourself.

જ⁀➴

You decide around lunchtime to stay late and work on organizing yourself for the next few weeks. With the permits submitted and accepted, you were moving on to stage two, acquiring all the contracts needed for the menu and daily operations.

You had sat with Carmen for a large chunk of time, going over potential vendors who could give you the best quality and best price. With the few names he gave, you made sure to draft a few key points for the upcoming contracts.

But when the lights in the kitchen cut in half, you look up from your laptop for the first time in what seems like hours.

Packing everything up into your bag and rubbing your eyes, you can feel the exhaustion setting in. By the time you step into the hallway, everyone's stations are clean, and the only sound that can be heard is drilling with the occasional 'fuck!' from Neil.

Carmen rounds the corner and takes you in. You're noticeably softer than you were this morning, makeup a little worn and smudged, and more strands of hair frame your face than usual. Still, he pauses and takes a breath when he sees you.

You look tired. And somehow, you look even prettier than you did this morning.

"You heading out?" he asks, and you nod immediately.

Still, you supply him with a small, "yeah." Carmen can see the sleep dipping into your features from the long day.

He gestures for you to follow him out the back, and you do. He can hear you padding behind him, and it brings a small smile to his face.

As soon as he pushes open the door, the winter wind of Chicago greets you. Carmen watches as you shiver, and before you can protest, he's shrugging off his jacket.

"Oh, Carmen—" you start, but he just drapes the thick material over your shoulders.

"Take it," he says simply, tugging the collar up to your neck to protect you from the breeze. His fingers graze your cheek, and Carmen can't help but think about how soft you feel.

And it's hard to say no. The jacket is warm, and it smells just like him. Smoke, generic laundry detergent, and surprisingly cardamom. The blend makes you relax as you inhale it.

Carmen watches as you settle into the fabric. It swallows you, and he can admit that the sight does something to his stomach.

He scratches the back of his neck before speaking, arms bare now, only the tight white T-shirt against his figure. "About today. I didn't… I didn't want you to see that. But thank you for what you said."

Softening at his words, you can see the lingering stress in his figure, the day having took it's toll on him. "I have tough days too," you tell him, completely honest.

He nods at this, but you see the way his fingers flex against his thighs.

"I don't think any less of you, Carmen," you continue, hands itching to reach out from the confines of the big pockets to take his in your grasp.

The man looks at you once more, but this time, it's like he's been destroyed by your words. Carmen's eyes are a bit glassy, and his hands are shaking now. But instead of sadness, you find relief in his expression. Like something had been settled within him.

A car hisses through wet streets, momentarily bringing you out of the moment. The dewy and cold air amplifies the noise in the otherwise silent moment.

But neither of you moves. Instead, you just watch the other.

Your nose is pink from the cold. Carmen sees the way it scrunches every few seconds, like you did in the office a few weeks ago. He had been waiting to see it again.

His jacket hangs off your shoulders. The piece of clothing looks good on you, looks like it belongs. He can't even fathom ever wearing it again.

And, God, the way you look at him with those impossibly soft eyes. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks. Carmen can see their fullness under the harsh lights of the parking lot lampposts.

He's leaning forward before he realizes he's decided to.

And you don't move away.

Your eyes flicker down to his lips. A bit chapped, but still a pretty pink. It's enough for him bend down, to meet you halfway.

You can feel his hot breath on your cheeks, and you let your eyes begin to flutter shut.

"Carmy!"

The back door flies open.

"Carmy!" Neil's voice practically echoes into the space between you as you jump apart.

Your heart races at the sudden intrusion, like you had been caught doing something you weren't supposed to do.

Besides you, Carmen sighs before answering. "…Yeah?" Carmen's voice cracks as he peels his eyes away from you and to interruption in front of the doorway.

Before Neil can answer, you're handing Carmen back his jacket and turning on your heels.

"Goodnight!" you call out, waving at the pair, not quite able to face Carmen as he sends you a devastating look.

"Night, Counsel!" Neil cheers back.

But Carmen can't get himself to say anything back. The jacket, even though only been in your possession for less than 10 minutes, smells like you.

Lavender.

The scent makes him reel. He closes his eyes for just a second.

"You coming?" Neil asks.

Carmen opens them again and nods, watching as you pull out of the lot, taillights disappearing down the street. "Yeah."

જ⁀➴

By now, arriving at The Bear had become routine. You'd push through the back door. Marcus would wave without looking up. Tina would already be sliding your coffee across the counter. Neil would yell hello from somewhere you couldn't see. Ebra would quietly ask if you had time for "one legal question."

And Carmen.

Carmen was almost always waiting with a plate.

"Try this."

Every Saturday. Without fail.

When you dug into the dish and tasted whatever he had given you, you'd always hum. Carmen seemed to enjoy this, a half smile on his face as you chewed.

So when he isn't there, you notice immediately. You glance around the kitchen, expecting him to appear from the walk-in. Venturing farther into the restaurant, you reach the front. Maybe he was here, helping with whatever furniture had arrived.

"Where's Carmen?" you ask Richie, who'd been rearranging chairs with all the grace of a forklift.

A grin spreads across his face as he pauses to face you. "Oh, sweetheart."

You blink. "What?" At this, he comes closer to you, like he's about to share a secret.

He laughs to himself, shaking his head. "Just…"

Another laugh comes out of the man. Less contained this time.

"He's fixing his hair."

You stare. "What?"

Richie's grin somehow grows at your expression.

"Been in and outta the bathroom for fifteen fuckin' minutes," he half-whispers.

"Carmen?" you ask with a furrowed brow.

"Mhm," he hums, as if he's proud to share this tidbit with you. "You called Sugar sayin' you were five minutes away."

You feel warmth creep into your cheeks at the recollection. "I did."

"And suddenly this asshole discovers mirrors."

"Richie."

"Oh, yeah." Richie leans closer like he's sharing classified information. "Been wetting it down."

You try, really try, not to smile. "He what?"

"Wetting it down. Shakin' it out. Lookin' at himself." Richie mimes fluffing curls in front of an imaginary mirror. "'Does this look okay?'" He switches into a surprisingly accurate Carmy impression.

Your jaw drops at this, unable to imagine this version of Carmen.

Another fake mirror check. "'Maybe if I—nah.'"

You bite your lip so hard it almost hurts. "Richie."

"I'm tellin' you." He throws both hands into the air. "Fifteen minutes."

"Cousin!" The shout echoes through the restaurant, and you find yourself bringing a hand to cover your grin.

Richie doesn't even flinch. "What?" he yells back.

"Shut the fuck up!"

"I ain't say nothin'!"

"You literally are!"

You laugh, facing away from Carmen enters the space. Richie joins you, laughing into his elbow, disguising it as a cough.

When you look up, you can't help but notice how Carmen's curls sit suspiciously well today.

He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly as Richie keeps giggling to himself. You've opted to just smile at the man.

"You ready?" he asks.

"Yeah."

He turns in the direction of the office. As you walk next to him, your shoulder brushes his.

Quietly, you murmur, "I like your hair."

Carmen stops walking for half a second. His ears turn bright red.

Behind him, Richie catches your eye. He points triumphantly at Carmen, then at his own hair. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing again.

જ⁀➴

The text you sent Carmen last night, telling him you wouldn't be in until noon, had him a bit worried. Usually, whenever you texted, you left little emojis or smiley faces at the end of every sentence. But this text had come in at 1:48 AM and was unaccompanied by any yellow faces.

Maybe you went out last night, Carmen tries to reason. Although that thought doesn't send him much comfort. The idea of you drinking and swapping stories with someone at a bar until 1 in the morning didn't sit well with him, especially since he had never seen you like that.

You'd never mentioned a partner. And you had talked about your friends quite a bit. So maybe you were out with them, let time run away from you. But Carmen remembers you saying that most of them were still out in New York. His friend's theory came to a crumbling halt.

Maybe you were sick. Caught something at work earlier that week and just needed a bit of extra rest this morning. 7 AM was a brutal wake-up time even without a runny nose and pounding headache. Maybe you were curled up in your apartment, chills running through your body as you curled up in that patchwork hoodie you had sported a few weeks ago.

But this also makes him frown. The thought of you suffering alone in the snowy Chicago winter with a sore throat and no one to help you warm up with some blankets.

"Jeff, you good?" Tina asks from beside him, effectively snapping Carmen out of his trance.

"Yeah, sorry. Thanks, Chef," Carmen says with a small voice as he gets back to whisking the mixture in front of him.

Well, whether it was a cold or a hangover, Carmen would have something prepared for you as soon as you walked in the door. Maybe chicken noodle soup, although that seemed a little on the nose. Something like a wrap could be good, full of superfoods and veggies to help you recharge. But who wants kale when they feel like they're about to throw up?

"Chef, can you take over?" he asks Tina, abandoning his station and moving through the kitchen to collect items for your meal.

She just nods and sends Sydney a look, both women easily catching on to what was making Carmen so distracted today.

જ⁀➴

Trying to be quiet as you enter the building, you pad into the office, not bothering to make your rounds and say hello to everyone.

But as soon as you settle into the squeaky office chair, there's a knock on the door.

"Come in," you call, voice a little hoarse.

Just as you suspected, Carmen comes into the space. He holds a bowl in one hand, big palm underneath it, making the dish look minuscule. And in the other is a plate, fingers gently holding the porcelain.

"Hey," he says simply, placing the food down in front of you.

"Hey," you parrot, hoping to fall back into your easy routine.

You take a minute to look at it and sigh deeply. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. A childhood favorite you mentioned to the man offhandedly more than a month ago.

"Figure you might be under the weather. Just making sure you get something to eat," Carmen explains when you don't speak. His actions meant to comfort you, ease some part of your body.

But his words seem to have the opposite effect as he watches your eyes get teary. When the first tear slips down your cheek and the pout in your lips starts to tremble, Carmen freezes.

It takes him a few seconds to catch up and see what's happening.

"You okay?"

The question only makes the tears fall faster as your body starts to shake.

"Sorry," you manage to get out. "I'm sorry." Wiping furiously at your cheeks.

Wide eyed, Carmen sucks in a breath. He knows he should comfort you, be fucking normal. But he just stands there, not wanting to crowd you.

When your breathing becomes clipped, all the thoughts of awkwardness leave his brain.

Carmen wraps his arms around your shoulders, bringing you close to his body. He feels your hands grasp at his white T-shirt as they find their way around his waist. The position is a bit awkward, but Carmen wouldn't dare move from his spot until you let go.

He feels his neck begin to get wet as your body wracks against him. The sounds that slip through your lips, little whimpers and harsh sighs, nearly make him cry. At a particularly heartbreaking noise, his hand comes up to the back of your head, cradling it and stroking your hair lightly.

You stay like that for what must be 10 minutes. Carmen doesn't try talking again, just lets you hang off of him and bury yourself further into his chest. He feels your hands start to loosen their grip and your breathing return to normal, and it's only then that he pulls back a little bit to take a look at you.

Your eyes are red-rimmed, and your lips are still a little wobbly. He ticks his jaw at the sight of your wet cheeks, his thumb coming up to wipe them gently. It had been weeks since he felt their softness.

"What's going on, sweet girl?" he tries again.

When you sigh again, Carmen thinks he might've made the wrong choice by asking another question. But instead, you look at him for the first time that day, and Carmen's heart breaks all over again.

"I lost." Your voice is raw, and if he wasn't so close, nearly pressed up against you, he would've missed it.

"Your case? McDowell?" He recalls the name from a few weeks ago, but he almost wishes he didn't, as it sends another set of tears down your face. This time, his thumb is there to catch them before they drip down your cheek.

"Mhm," you tremble in his hold.

"I'm sorry," he says, eyes never leaving yours. "I know you worked really hard on that."

This makes you laugh, but Carmen can tell it's bitter.

"He yelled at me after. Told me I was incompetent. Not cut out for this."

Your words make Carmen's hands tighten their hold on you.

Your breath hitches as you continue, "I keep thinking he's right."

"No," he says immediately.

"Carmy," you start, but a squeeze to your shoulder, you quiet again.

"They're wrong," Carmen speaks definitively. "I've seen you work."

"That's easy stuff," you mumble, leaning into his touch more and more.

"You come in here every Saturday with, like…" He gestures vaguely toward the stacks of folders on your desk. "A million forms."

Now your head rests on his chest again, and you can hear his heart thump wildly as he talks.

"You know every deadline. Every permit. Every whatever the fuck those city codes are."

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitches.

"You argue with people on the phone, and they apologize to you."

Another tiny laugh escapes you.

He chuckles at that. "Nothing about anything you do is easy. He's wrong."

You nod at his words, but a few tears still slip past.

"C'mere," he says softer. You melt into his hold as the last few tears soak his shirt, hands coming back around you.

As soon as the sobs subside, Carmen pulls your chair with one strong arm up to the desk again.

"Eat," he tells you. The bowl of tomato soup and grilled cheese is considerably colder now, but you can still smell the butter on the bread and the fresh pepper garnishing the soup.

Picking up the sandwich, you take a bite and smile for the first time today.

"You always feed me," you tell him, teasing lit in your voice that makes Carmen happy.

"You're always hungry," Carmen responds without thinking. When you send him an amused look, he immediately backtracks. "No, that's— that's not what I meant. You just, you're just always ready to eat."

"Wow," you smile as Carmen's face turns beet red.

"No, no," he waves his hands, laughing a bit. "That came out wrong."

"Yeah, thanks, Carmen," you laugh openly now.

"I just— Sugar told me, after the first few weeks, you can't cook," he offers, but you just send him another look.

"Now you're insulting my cooking," you deadpan, but Carmen can see a faint smile on your lips.

"That's not what I mean." Carmen can't help but laugh as you shake your head and take another bite. "I just want you to eat. Want you to take care of yourself."

"Are you keeping tabs on me?" you ask and Carmen just shrugs.

"No," he says too quickly. But it wasn't true.

The entire time Carmen had known you, he had been noticing. He notices how, after you drink coffee in the morning, you get a little jittery and can't stop tapping your feet for at least an hour. He notices when you're about to run out of sticky notes, finding himself browsing on Amazon for the particular kind you like, having them ready for the next time you come in. He notices how you always pause before eating whatever he sets in front of you. Your eyes bounce all over the plate, taking everything in before you take a bite.

It was only after the third week of honey lavender lattes that Carmen realized, you don't eat much.

"They're all like that," Natalie told him one night as they cleaned up the office. "Pete barely remembered to drink water when he was in the running for partner."

"Jesus," Carmen sighed. He didn't like the idea of you running on fumes alone.

"Yeah, but she's especially bad. Pete and I try to have her over every other week for dinner when she told him she only buys frozen meals."

"You're joking," Carmen cringes at the thought.

But his sister just shakes her head. "Nope. Just doesn't really have the time or energy to cook."

"Maybe," he tells you, scratching awkwardly at his neck.

"Thank you." Your voice is small, but Carmen nods at the words, staying at your side until you finish eating.

જ⁀➴

It's Sunday. After yesterday's late lunch at The Bear and crying into Carmen's chest, he had sent you home without a second thought. Today, though, you spent the day cleaning around your apartment, something that was always soothing and let you feel like you were in control again.

Toweling off from a much-deserved shower, you heard a knock at your door.

Barefoot and still wrapped in your worn but soft towel, you pad down the hallway to look out the peephole of your apartment. Maybe it was Mrs. Crawford needing to borrow some sugar, or maybe it was a delivery man.

What you didn't expect to see was Carmen standing in the hallway of your building, grocery bags at his side.

Carmen hears the clicking of a chain, and a few seconds later, your door opens.

"Hi," you say with a smile. But Carmen can only focus on the way your hair drips down your shoulder and your pretty bare face. It's the most skin he's ever seen from you, the towel not doing much to cover your dewy skin.

He sees the small scar across your left knee and is curious about how you got it. Then his eyes find the small freckles and beauty marks littered up from your arms to your shoulders and chest. He wants to count all of them. And your hair, it's always so put together, but now the ends are curled a bit from the water, and Carmen wonders how you wear it outside of work.

"Hey," he finally manages. "I was at the farmers market… bought too much."

You look at the six completely full grocery bags in his hands and just smile. "Right," you say, beckoning him inside your place.

As Carmen slips off his shoes, he takes in the simplicity yet warmth of the apartment. Little candles everywhere, too many lamps to count, fun patterned carpets. It's so you in the best way.

You try to reach for some of the bags, but Carmen dodges you and plants them on your kitchen island in one go. You try not to look at his muscles straining, but you can't help it. The navy blue tee around his figure is new for you, as you've only ever seen him in white.

"So, what'd you get me, Chef?" you tease.

Carmen blushes at the name, never having heard it from your mouth but liking it instantly.

"Some fruits and vegetables, sourdough bread, local honey and jam, and some pasta," he tells you as you sift through the canvas bags.

As you reach to grab the honey, your towel begins to slip down your frame. Quickly, your hand comes up to catch it.

"Oh—"

You look to Carmen, smiling at the moment, but immediately his eyes shoot straight to the ceiling.

"Sorry," he spits out.

"Why are you apologizing?"

His ears turn bright red. "I don't know."

He can hear you chuckle lightly, but it only increases the blush that's spreading across his face.

"I'm gonna go change, be right back." And with that, you're padding down the hallway as Carmen tries to regain some sense of properness.

He begins to unpack all of the goods, laying them out around the kitchen. As he sets down the fresh basil plant near the sink, he feels your touch on his arm. Turning, he faces you and drinks you in. You're in a pajama set now. A blue tank top and capri pants decorated with white flowers and strawberries. It's adorable. You're adorable.

"Carmen, this is..." You look around the kitchen at everything he's brought over.

Tomatoes. Garlic. Fresh basil. Pasta. Olive oil. Parmesan. Lemons. Eggs. Butter.

"Yeah?" he asks, reveling in your touch, at being so close to you.

"This isn't groceries. This is meal planning," you laugh out.

"Maybe," he says, just like he had yesterday. "But you said you eat frozen dinners."

His face twists as the words come out, like the thought of it personally offends him.

You laugh. A real Saturday laugh. Something that Carmen was missing yesterday.

"That doesn't mean I'm going to know what to do with all this."

"Well, what are you doing now? I could teach you a dish," he suggests and you find yourself nodding instantly.

"Yes, yeah. I just," you pause and close your eyes for a minute. "I'm really bad."

"I doubt it."

But Carmen is eating his words no less than 15 minutes into this endeavor. First, he tasks you with cutting up half an onion. When you begin dicing, the knife slips from your hand and lands on the floor, an inch away from his foot.

He moves you over to the pasta instead. Just stirring occasionally. But when he turns his back for two seconds, the water is boiling over and he's manhandling you out of the way to turn down the stove.

Carmen thinks you can handle the bread. All you have to do is watch the toaster. The bread gets a bit stuck, and just as he's about to jostle the machine, you reach to get it out with a fork. A metal fork. Carmen grasps your wrist firmly before you can even get the prongs near it.

"Jesus Christ," he breathes out.

"It would've been fine," you argue.

"No. No, you would've been electrocuted."

Finally, he sets you down in front of the sauce. Everything is already done, and the pot is just a low simmer, still he tells you to stir.

"You're so different here."

You look over at him as he begins to plate the now finished pasta. "What?"

"At work, you're so sure. You walk into a room, and everybody listens."

You shrug. "I know what I'm doing there. This," you gesture to the kitchen around you, "is terrifying."

Carmen laughs at that, and you share a smile with him.

"It's weird," you start, looking back down at the saucepan.

"What?" he hums, full attention on you.

"I don't really know how to stop," you admit. Suddenly, the music from your old radio and the open window ushering in the sounds of the city fall away. "I wake up thinking about work. I go to sleep thinking about work. Sometimes I don't even realize I've skipped dinner until I'm brushing my teeth."

You laugh at that last part, but Carmen just purses his lips.

"It's exhausting," you sigh. "But it's also the only thing I'm really good at."

The words feel too familiar for Carmen. He sees the way your shoulders roll, and your posture straightens as the words sink in. "Yeah."

He doesn't know what to say, how to tell you that he understands. He doesn't want to think about it too hard.

"Me too," is what he finally settles on after a few seconds of silence. "I don't really know who I am if I'm not cooking." The confession hangs in the air, and you're back to looking at him, even if it's for a brief second, recognition flashing across your face.

The sauce spits and you yelp.

Sauce lands on your shirt, your cheeks, your nose. And you can't help but start laughing. Even as it still bubbles up from beside you.

Carmen is quick to move across the kitchen and turn off the stove. You attempt to wipe away what's reached your face, but your hands are also compromised, only making the redness smear more across your features.

Carmen watches you for a second, just smiling. Really smiling.

Reaching for a towel, he wipes your hands firmly, but gently. Stepping closer, he focuses on your face now.

"Hold on."

You freeze at his voice; it's low and steady as he take you face into his grasp.

His thumb brushes your cheek first. Then the bridge of your nose. All the sauce is wiped off now. But Carmen doesn't let go of your face, fingers lingering on your features.

You watch his blue eyes become consumed by his dark pupils. And again, your eyes dart down to his lips.

The air around you is heavy, charged. But when his lips part to suck in a quick breath, you lean forward, closing the distance.

His lips are soft, just like you thought they would be. But you don't linger when you feel him still against you.

Pulling away, you laugh nervously.

Carmen looks at you, and you can't quite tell what he's thinking.

"I think..." he starts, hand coming up to cup your cheek, settling you a bit. "You taste like tomatoes."

You laugh, really laugh at this. Carmen laughs with you and you can't help but admire the way his eyes crinkle shut when he throws his head back a bit.

"Yeah?" you tease.

"Mhm," he smiles, thumb stroking your cheek gently. And you can't stop looking at him. The way his curls fall, the intensity of his stare, the faint blush on his cheeks. It draws you in.

Carmen almost moves to pinch himself. He can't believe he's standing in your kitchen, holding you so close. He's thought about what it would feel like to kiss you, but once you had moved to press your lips against his own, he froze.

Now he wants more.

"Come 'ere," he says softly.

For a second time, your lips lock, and this time he's pressing into you. It's longer. More certain. Like he's found something in you that he doesn't want to let go of.

When you finally pull apart, the pasta has gone cold, but neither of you seems to mind.

"Guess we're eating lukewarm pasta," you murmur, smiling a bit, still feeling the lingering heat of his kiss.

"Yeah," he says softly, smiling back at you. "We'll warm it back up."

[reidsmemory]

carmen berzatto fic out later today! so excited to share it with you guys! just finished up season 5 and it brought back all the feels 💓🫂

[b6rntosdiee]

[reidsmemory]

I agree with other anon about missed connections! I’ve reread it like 3 times now, you did such a good job ❤️ I’m sure you put a lot of time into it & we appreciate that more than you know! 🫶🏻 I really thought you crushed it on capturing a sweet side of Jake and showing some of his personality. 1000/10 👏🏻 I’m excited to see more work from you in the future! ❤️

aw thank you so much! this is too sweet 😣❤️ so happy to hear this and have support from u!!!

looking to branch out from topgun as well! working on smthing for carmen (the bear), but always open to requests! 🙈

[reidsmemory]

hey just wante to say i loved missed connections! it was very sweet very romcom coded. thank you for sharing it with us!

aw omg thank you! this is so sweet! honestly kinda sad that it hasn’t done better bc i really tried to tap into jake’s sweeter side, but this made me feel a lot better ❤️‍🩹 thank you so much love, i appreciate it more than you know ❤️

[tdeardztown]

TAYLOR DEARDEN as MEL KING

THE PITT ∙ 1 x 14

[bodeckerhedron]

PATRICK BALL as FRANK LANGDON

➤• THE PITT (2025)

[reidsmemory]

can't help myself

bob floyd x fem!reader

summary: days at the beach are common for the squad, but what happens when you reveal something underneath your cover-up that not even your boyfriend expects to see?

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, doggie (yum), fingering, thigh riding (double yum), semi-public sex (on da beach in his truck), hair pulling (fem receiving), reader is shorter/smaller than bob, (new) established relationship, reader has a tattoo, drinking contest mention, reader gets a little tipsy..., kinda shy!reader, no use of y/n

word count: 6.9k

a/n: i don't have tattoos but if i did, i would want my pilot bf to react like this. bob is soooo yum in this, i just love bf!bob so much. thank u for reading!!

masterlist

your call sign: lucky

The TOPGUN squad was an intimidating bunch. You had come into the group with wide eyes and clenched fists; it wasn't exactly the first thing you wanted to see from a renowned naval aviator.

Sure, you had graduated first in your class and picked up respect wherever you went, but nothing ever helped with the feeling of anxiety and dread that would fill your body during unknown social situations.

You remember the first day of training with Maverick. You had sat in the back, no one joining your table. You watched as the other pilots talked and shared looks with each other, like they had all known each other for years.

Coming into the military as a woman was hard enough, but by the end of your time at TOPGUN, you had soared above your commanding officer's expectations. During the last week of training, you got the order to become a reserve pilot for an upcoming mission. While you shook as you held the paper, your mentor patted you on the back and assured you that he had made the right recommendation and you would do just fine.

What no one had expected were the three enemy aircrafts that trailed after the team of aviators. You remember the buzz over your headset; you can still recall the words and how your heart jumped at the command.

"Reserve one, report to hanger one. Requesting immediate backup."

You remember how you flexed your fingers before steering in the direction of the take-off strip. How you breathed deeply as you pulled up into the air. How you didn't dare blink as you spotted the enemy aircrafts ahead of you.

You did your job right; it was evident in the way that two of the planes peeled off to come after you.

It truly was a dogfight once they circled around to surround your jet, but somehow you had managed to outmaneuver them, forcing them to eject.

Touching down on the tarmac, you were surrounded by cheers and hands grabbing at you. It was only natural that you landed the name Lucky from the senior pilots on the squad.

Still, now you were here. Surrounded by older pilots once again. No one from your class. No one you recognized.

It was the last round of training before the end of the day. You still hadn't flown yet. Instead, you watched as different teams walked to and from the tarmac, each coming back rubbing their arms and shoulders.

You had sat near a man with glasses, who had sent you a kind smile when you had first walked in. It seemed like the most logical choice to stay by his side for the majority of the day.

While you hadn't spoken to him, Bob watched you closely. You seemed nervous, but not unprepared. Your fingers bunched on your flight suit every few minutes, and you closed your eyes every time Maverick's voice rang out over the radio, announcing a kill.

Bob watched as you bit your bottom lip raw, the skin splitting in the middle by the afternoon. He told himself to look away, but couldn't help but be drawn back to the sight as you licked the now raw skin.

When Maverick called your name, along with Reuben "Payback" Fitch and Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia, you shot straight up from your seat. You shook both the men's hands as they smiled at you, but you didn't miss the look of disbelief they flashed each other when they thought you weren't looking.

"Alright, let's see what you got!" Maverick's voice crackled through the comms as you took a soothing breath in.

You cleared your throat before talking. "Um, Payback, Fanboy, stay at my six until we find Maverick. I'll watch north and east for the time being. Over."

"Copy that," a voice sounded as you began to circle the area.

This was good. This was great. You were doing well so far. You had a great team, and you trusted them. Well, you didn't know them, but still, you trusted them. That thought alone helped quell your nerves just a bit.

Down at the base, Jake laughed as your voice rang through the radio.

"Jesus, she sounds like a frightened baby deer. We should call her Bambi, not Lucky," he joked, earning a few hums and laughs from the other men in the room.

"Shut up, Bagman. She's been in the air all of five seconds," Phoenix defended.

This just made the man laugh harder. Nat shook her head and looked to her new WSO with a frown. But when she did, she spotted a scowl on the kind man's face.

"She'll be fine," Nat spoke quietly to him, but Bob just nodded as his face hardened further.

"I really don't like that guy," he confessed to Phoenix, earning a chuckle.

From your peripheral vision, you spotted a black blur. Something that sends full-body chills down your spine.

"Maverick spotted, four o'clock. Breaking into Delta Whisky formation. Over," your voice called out.

"Good catch, falling into formation now," Payback replied, following your jet closely.

Just a Maverick sped up to your right side, you and Payback fell back, cutting your engines, giving you a full view of Maverick's jet in front of your noses.

"Engage, engage," you ordered. Soon Payback's jet was breaking left while you curved right, surrounding Maverick.

But the older aviator pulled up before you could get a clean shot.

"Come on!" you groaned, wracking your brain for ways to catch Maverick off guard.

Suddenly, he was pulling the same maneuver on you, falling freely in the air and painting a target on your backs.

Without thinking, you pulled up into the air. The bright California sun in front of you, blinding you a bit.

"Whoa, Lucky, what the hell are you doing?" Fanboy called out as you continued to pull up.

"Drop back, don't lose sight of Maverick," you ordered, ignoring the tone of his voice.

Sure enough, Maverick took the bait, chasing after you. "Scared, Lucky? Didn't take you as someone who ran from danger."

His voice made you huff. The pressure made your skull sink further into the back of your seat and your breathing became more labored.

But just as quickly as Maverick had caught up to you, he had lost you all the same. The sun now glaring through his windshield.

The beeping of a tone sounded through his jet as he laughed.

"Clever, nice work," he told you, spotting your jet in his rearview.

Bob smiled brightly at you when you had touched back down on the tarmac. You hadn't quite met his eyes, but the little glances you sent his way were more than enough.

"Time to celebrate!" Payback called out, hands coming down to shake your shoulders. "Guess you are lucky after all."

જ⁀➴

You sit with Bob on a sandy blanket, watching the rest of the squad run around the beach and swim in the ocean. Leaning into his shoulder, Bob runs a soothing hand up and down your thigh.

"Having a good day?" he asks, sunglasses dipping as he looks at your flushed face. You weren't usually one to drink, but the watermelon margarita mix that Penny offered today made your eyes light up.

Bob laughs as you nod, sipping on your drink, eyes blinking lazily. It had to be your third drink of the day, something that made you pliable to his touch.

As his fingers comb through your hair, you hum, leaning closer into his touch.

When Maverick announced that you would be staying as a permanent fixture in San Diego, Bob had taken the opportunity to finally ask you out. He knew military relationships were hard, especially if you weren't stationed together. But this news, combined with the growing swell of emotions he had for you, pushed him to confess his feelings.

He had been a perfect gentleman since. Always opening the door for you and driving you both everywhere. As your relationship progressed, he started to break the physical barrier by guiding you through crowded areas with a warm hand on your back or pressing sweet kisses on your hairline when he saw you in the morning before training. It was new, but not unwelcome.

You had first bonded, truly bonded, when Maverick had taken the squad out to the beach to play football. When everyone around you began stripping their shirts off, your hands stayed glued to your sides.

"Not ready to get your first California sunburn?" a voice sounded next to you.

Whipping around, you saw Bob applying sunscreen across his arms, his fingers rubbing the white cream into the firm muscles.

"Something like that, yeah," you told him sheepishly, trying to look anywhere but his hands.

"Yeah, it's a bit intense. Here," he said, holding out the bottle, "I have more than enough to share."

Your fingers brushed his as you grabbed the bottle. "Thanks." You gave him a small smile as you began applying the creamy mixture to your arms and legs.

From there on, it seemed like Bob was always looking out for you.

You felt a little sluggish during training? He was by your side with a granola bar and a sports drink from the vending machine.

You ran out of your drink at the Hard Deck? He was handing you another without you having to ask.

You were anxious after a particularly hard day? He stood outside the locker rooms and walked you to your car, only letting you go home after you assured him you were okay.

But all these small moments spiraled into something more just a mere week after the uranium mission had ended.

Maverick and Penny hosted the squad for a celebratory barbecue, everyone bringing drinks and dishes to contribute to the large spread. Bob found you in the kitchen prepping with Penny, helping her plate things that were coming out of the oven and chop garnishes, even as she tried to shoo you away.

You had been laughing at something she said when the knife in your grasp slipped, coming down to draw blood from your finger.

He registered the look on your face before you could even wince, standing up from his place on the couch to make his way over to you.

Bob cradled your hand near his chest, inspecting it thoroughly before guiding you towards the guest bathroom. His large hand held yours as you ran it under the sink, warm water soothing the cut and washing away the blood.

"Will you sit?" he gestured towards the lip of the tub as he dug through Penny's cabinet for a first aid kit.

It wasn't until he settled between your legs, dropping to his knees so you wouldn't have to crane your neck to look at him, that you realized the position the both of you were in. His face was so close to yours, you could almost feel his breath fanning across your cheeks. One hand found your calf, fingers pressing lightly into the muscle to steady himself, while the other dug through the first aid kit to grab the right supplies. And his chest was pressed up against your knees, almost crowding you, but instead it felt like he was just trying to assure you that he was right there for you.

Like he sensed you looking at him, his eyes found you. You hadn't meant to, but your eyes dropped down to his lips for less than a second.

But it had been enough for Bob, who moved to hold your jaw in his strong hand. When you fluttered your eyes shut and began to lean into his touch, he pressed his lips against yours.

He felt you smile a few seconds into the kiss, something that made his heart beat wildly. With a squeeze to your waist, he pulled away reluctantly. When he saw the confused look on your face, he moved to stroke your cheek.

"Gotta clean this up first, okay? Then I'll give you another kiss."

His words made your cheeks flush, but you just nodded and let him work.

"Earth to Lucky, you okay, baby?" Bob's words snap you out of your memories.

"Yeah, sorry. Just thinking," you say, smile on your face as he nods and kisses your forehead lightly.

The day was like any other. Jake and Bradley are running circles around themselves, entertaining everyone on the squad. Phoenix and Javy are dipping their toes in the ocean while sipping on beers. Mickey and Reuben are tossing a football up and down the beach. And you and Bob are sitting and enjoying the sun and the slight breeze of salty ocean air.

"Alright, lovebirds, up and at 'em. Shirts and skins," Maverick calls from the water.

Bob grumbles at this. After telling you about the horrible burn he got his week stationed out in California, you haven't blamed him for not taking his shirt off, even if it did mean you missed out on seeing his toned body. You never took yours off either, but Bob had never pushed for the reason, instead always offering to double-check your sunscreen application. You always giggled at this, knowing it was an excuse for him to run his fingers up and down your body.

"Split up, you two. I don't want a repeat of last week," Maverick says as you approach the group.

"You should've instated a no-dating policy, Mav," Rooster teases, shit-eating grin on his face. The others laugh at the thought of last week's game when you and Bob had become too distracted with each other, leading to him being laid out on the sand as Javy plowed into him.

"Come over here, Lucky. Never lost a game with you on our team," Jake calls, wagging a finger in your direction, beckoning you over. You nod, not thinking much of it, tugging off your T-shirt to join the skins, leaving you in your denim shorts and bikini top.

As you line up, mentally preparing yourself for a game of football after three drinks, you meet Bob's eyes and smile immediately. Just as Jake is about to hike the ball, a voice calls out from behind you.

"Whoa, Lucky! I didn't know that was why you had your call sign."

Reuben's teasing didn't go unnoticed by the group, all of them sharing confused looks.

For a brief moment, blood rushes to your head as the comment sobers you up. Your hands slap to cover your lower back as you yelp and look in the man's direction.

"Lucky, what's wrong?" Bob calls out from across you. When you send him a panicked look, he immediately rushes over to your side.

"Wait a minute, Bob hasn't seen this either?" Reuben asks, almost doubling over in laughter now.

You snap over to look at him as Bob's hands find your hips. "No, Reuben! No one knows except my old squad. It was a dumb, drunk mistake. Just like this," you groan, hands still not moving from their position.

"Baby?" Bob asks in a low voice so only you could hear, genuine worry on his face as he looks to you for answers.

You look around and see the rest of the squad looking at you, too. It makes you want to crawl up into a ball right on the beach.

Meeting Bob's gaze again, he thinks you almost look scared. It's only further confirmed when you speak again, "Don't be mad, okay?"

He nods his head vigorously as you bite hard at your bottom lip. Finally, your hands drop, and you turn around to show him your now exposed back.

What he sees makes a furious blush spread up from his throat to his cheeks, painting him in a shade very close to cherry red.

A four-leaf clover surrounded with small ribbons and other smaller clovers covers a sliver of your lower back, right in between where your dimples rest. The ink in perfect contrast with your otherwise blank skin, grabbing his attention immediately.

You look over your shoulder to see his reaction and swallow when you see the open-mouthed look he's giving you, not even tearing his eyes away for a moment to meet your gaze.

Bob swallows hard.

The tattoo wasn't what shocked him.

Well, it was. A little.

But mostly it was the fact that after a few months of dating, countless mornings, movie nights, beach trips, and stolen kisses, he'd somehow never seen it.

"You have a tattoo?" he finally manages. His voice coming out much higher than intended.

The squad erupts.

"A tattoo?" Fanboy shouts.

"On Lucky?" Phoenix laughs, like she can't believe it's true.

"No way." Jake looks at you, downright delighted. "Oh, this is the best day of my life."

You groan at them, your stomach sinking further at their jests. "I hate all of you."

"No, no, no," Hangman says, pointing dramatically. "You don't get to drop a surprise lower-back tattoo into the middle of football and then act like we're the problem."

"Agreed," Rooster chimes in.

Before you can speak again, you're drawn to your boyfriend, who looks personally betrayed, not hiding his puppy dog eyes very well. "You didn't tell me."

You turn toward him with a nervous look. "It never came up."

His brows furrow at this, eyes immediately dropping back to the tattoo. "It definitely should've come up."

The redness spreading across his face only makes everyone laugh harder.

"Bob is malfunctioning," Phoenix announces, hand coming up to her eyes to wipe away the tears.

"I am not," he defends, still not looking anywhere but your skin.

"You've been staring at her back for thirty seconds," Bradley teases as the squad laughs in agreement.

"I have not," he mumbles quieter this time.

"Thirty-five now," Fanboy adds.

You bury your face in your hands. "Can someone please kill me?"

"Nope," Maverick says from the middle of the group. "This is too entertaining." The older pilot folds his arms and grins as you send him a look of disdain.

"So what's the story?" Jake asks, football now tucked neatly under his arm. The rest of the squad looks to you expectantly as you just shake your head.

"No."

"No? You can't say no! You've derailed our whole afternoon," Jake argues back.

"Or you could just act like it's any old tattoo. Is it really that big of a deal?" you sass back, eyes rolling at his ask.

"Is Lucky with a four-leaf clover tattoo on her lower back a big deal? Uh, yeah, I think so," Jake says, gesturing for everyone to agree with him.

When they do, you look to your boyfriend once more. His eyes find yours, and you silently plead for him to save you. Instead, he sends you a small look, shock still on his face.

"I'd like to hear this, too," he says as the squad whoops triumphantly. You narrow your eyes at the man, silently mouthing traitor as he looks as innocent as ever.

"Fine!"

The beach falls silent instantly at your voice.

You cross your arms, already bracing for more ridicule. "I was twenty-one."

Jake immediately doubles over laughing, "I already know this is going to be good."

"Shut it, Seresin!" you snap as he just laughs harder. "It was the night of my TOPGUN graduation. The squad I flew with earlier that week came out to celebrate me, and we may or may not have gotten a little tipsy."

"You mean drunk?" Bradley teases as you send him a death glare.

"Okay, yes, drunk." You put your hands up like you're being interrogated. "And we might have started a competition about who could drink the most in one sitting."

"But you're a lightweight," Bob says next to you as the squad laughs.

"Hey," you pout, not really defending yourself but still a little offended by his observation.

You huff before continuing.

"The loser had to get a tattoo chosen by everyone else."

The beach exploded.

"No!"

"Absolutely not."

"You lost?"

"I lost."

Jake nearly falls over, hands reaching out for support. "You're telling me Lucky got a lucky tattoo because she lost a competition?"

You cover your face, feeling your cheeks burn as you recall the night. "Yes."

The laughter becomes deafening at this. Maverick's laughing. Phoenix. Everyone. Even Bob.

Especially Bob.

"Oh my God," Bob wheezes.

"I hate you," you grumble as he tries to reach for your hand. Despite how you pull away from him, he refuses to let go.

"Baby," he calls, eyes pleading for you to look at him.

"No."

His grin softens at your stubbornness. "I think it's cute."

You narrow your eyes at the man. "You're lying."

"I'm really not." His ears immediately turn red again upon looking at the ink on your skin.

The squad notices, because of course they do.

"Oh, there it is," Fanboy shouts.

"Look at him go."

"He's red!"

"Leave him alone," you mutter, but finally laugh despite yourself. The tension slowly melting from your shoulders.

Bob squeezes your hand. Then he leans closer, close enough that only you can hear him. "I still can't believe you've been hiding that from me."

Your stomach flutters, eyes finding his. His stare is intense; it's akin to the same look he gave you last Wednesday night after you got done making out on his couch while trying to watch a movie. The memory and intention of his gaze make you nervous.

"It wasn't exactly important," you mumble, hands twitching in his hold.

His eyes drift briefly toward your lower back again before snapping upward. The movement is subtle.

Unfortunately not subtle enough, as Hangman catches it instantly. "Oh, he's looking again."

The squad erupts for a second time, whistling and calling out this time.

Bob groans, fingers squeezing yours as you giggle lightly. "Can you people not?"

"Nope," Hangman replies.

"Absolutely not," Rooster agrees.

Fortunately for you and Bob, Maverick chimes in again.

"Alright," he calls. "Now that we've all learned something new about Lucky today, can we finally play football?"

"Please," you beg as the squad laughs, but reassumes their formation.

But Bob looks at you for just a few moments longer.

For months, he'd been quietly taking care of you, bringing you drinks, walking you to your car, making sure you ate after long flights.

But somehow the thing that finally broke him wasn't a dangerous mission. It wasn't Maverick. It wasn't combat.

It was a tiny four-leaf clover tattoo.

When Bob searches for your eyes again, he finds you already looking at him.

Your smile is soft, and his expression immediately melts. The teasing around you fades into background noise.

"Still think it's cute?" you ask quietly.

His eyes flicker to the tattoo one last time. Then back to you. "Yeah."

The answer comes without hesitation, and your chest squeezes at the realization. "Even knowing I got it because I lost a drinking contest?" you test with a nervous look on your face.

A laugh escapes him, smile lines and crow's feet crinkling. "Especially because of that."

You roll your eyes, but still smile.

Bob leans close once more, "I think I'll have to take a closer look when we get home."

Heat floods your face instantly as he just watches you. "Oh my God," you squeak out.

His smile widens at this, like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

Across the beach, Hangman points.

"There! Now she's red."

જ⁀➴

You go to grab the cooler sitting by the bed of Bob's truck, but before your hand can graze the handle, you feel your boyfriend's firm grasp on your lower tummy, tugging you in the opposite direction.

"Go sit in the car, I got it," he tells you, pressing a short kiss to the top of your head.

"Thank you, Bobby," you say, a small smile on your face as you move to climb into the passenger seat of his truck.

Despite the earlier teasing at the exposure of your tattoo, you settle into the stillness of the truck easily. It isn't until Bob joins you that you fully allow yourself to sink into the seat.

"Come 'ere, pretty," he says, opening his right arm as he starts the car. You slide over the open bench of the truck and tuck yourself into his hold.

Now leaning up against him, you close your eyes as his thumb rubs soothing circles into your shoulder. You hear the steady beating of his heart as you sit in the idling truck, the thumps calming you into a trance.

"Tired?" he asks as you nod your head, relaxing in his hold. "Let's just sit then. We can watch the sunset, then go home, how's that sound?"

"Perfect, Bobby," you mumble, hands going to wrap around his waist.

A cool chill had overcome the beach as the hours passed. Bob sees goosebumps creep up on your skin, from your arms to your tummy, the skin still exposed ever since this afternoon.

"Baby?" he asks, voice rising like it had earlier that day. The sound of it makes you sit up.

"Are you okay?" Your hand comes up to his face, holding it softly.

He nods, turning his head so he can kiss the inside of your palm. "Can I see it? Now that it's just us?"

Sure enough, the rest of the squad had pulled out of the parking lot, leaving you and Bob to watch the sunset in peace.

You blush at your boyfriend's request, but still pull away from him and turn your back towards him.

His hands find your lower back quickly, fingers tracing the delicate lines of your tattoo. One hand settles on your waist while the other continues to lightly rub your skin. You hear his breathing hitch slightly as he moves the denim fabric of your shorts down a little to get a better look.

Your fingers move towards the buttons at your front and you shimmy off the denim, dragging the fabric down your legs.

"Better?" you ask innocently. Bob's glad you don't look back at him now; surely you would see the goofy look on his face and laugh a bit.

For now, all he wanted was to take you all in, uninterrupted. No Jake or Bradley in his ear, teasing him, no Phoenix sending him looks, and no you, with your pretty gaze and soft smile. He couldn't take it.

Now he sees the swell of your ass from your bikini bottoms, your cheeks pressed up against the leather of his truck, criminal. The flimsy ties on your hips sit pretty, like they're waiting for someone to undo them. Suddenly, his eyes are tracking over your backside too, not just your once-hidden tattoo.

"Jesus, baby," he says, hands traveling further down to play with the shiny fabric of your bottoms. Bob feels himself strain a bit in his swim trunks.

As his fingers travel lower and lower, you can't help but arch away from his touch, pushing your hips back into the man's touch.

Now you look over your shoulder and see his mouth open, and his eyes blink quickly.

"Bobby," you call his name, and his eyes find you, gaze lazy but alert all at once.

"Come 'ere," he says once again, this time patting his thigh. Just as you're about to straddle his lap, his hands correct your hips, turning you so you're facing the sunset and leaning over the steering wheel.

You look back in confusion, but Bob just moves in to kiss you sweetly, stealing all the words from your throat.

"You said you wanted to watch the sunset, so watch," his voice is low now, like it was earlier on the beach. "Need a closer look, is that okay?"

Your tummy turns at his question, and you find yourself pressing into the firm muscle of his thigh, hips coming down to roll on the ridges.

Bob huffs at this and reaches for the strings of your bottoms, pulling the fabric out of the way completely, leaving you bare on his thigh. His hands find your ass, fully palming you now, squeezing the fat there.

"So pretty, you know that, Lucky?" he asks, one hand now traveling across your soft, warm skin to rest on the top of your inner thigh. Fingers are dangerously close to where you need them.

Just as you're about to answer, you feel his lips descending on your neck, pressing hot, wet kisses across the skin. You squirm even more at this, hands gripping the wheel until your knuckles go white.

"So wet against me, haven't even touched you," he teases, breath hot by your ear, as you whine.

"Need your touch, please," you beg, hips canting against his thigh once more until his hands still you into place.

"Want my fingers?" he asks as his left hand goes to slip further down from your thigh to your heat.

"Yes, yes," you plead, throwing your head back against him, leaving your throat completely exposed for him as you arch once more in his hold.

Bob dips his mouth to the front of your neck now, nipping rather than just sucking and kissing. At the same time, his thumb finds your bundle of nerves within seconds, pressing little circles of pressure against it.

"Keep moving against me, baby, I'll help you," he tells you, right hand coming to help your hips move back and forth against his thigh.

Your now pebbled nipples rub against the thin fabric of your bikini, making you whine at the feeling of the sensitive skin bouncing up and down a bit. Seeming to have no trouble moving your hips onto your boyfriend's muscle, his hand comes up your front and begins to play with the strained nipples over your top.

"Bobby, please," you cry out. Immediately, he takes one of your tits into his large palm and squeezes the fat. The rough moment makes your hips jerk, but they don't stop moving.

You yelp as he sucks at an especially sensitive part of your neck, eyes rolling back and closing as you let yourself become consumed by him.

The circles on your clit become tighter, and you can feel your boyfriend flex the muscles in his thigh with your movements. The string in your tummy begins to wind tighter and tighter.

One particular firm press at your core makes you tense up and fall apart on Bob's lap as he continues to suck at your neck and pinch at your tits.

As soon as the shakes in your thighs begin to settle, Bob moves his hand from your wet core to splay it across your tummy, tugging you back into him. As you settle on his lap, you feel the large bulge digging into your back, something that makes you whine in his hold.

Your hands leave the steering wheel, fingers are a bit cramped, but you still go to reach behind you and fiddle with the string of his swim trunks.

"Need more," you say breathlessly as he huffs into your neck.

"Yeah, yeah, you sure?" His hand come up to your jaw, turning it so he'll be able to see your face. When he does, he sees a fucked out look on your face, eyes batting sweetly and tongue coming out to wet at your lips. The sight makes him groan as he grips your face tighter and bring you into a heated kiss.

His tongue works to push into your mouth, and once you part your lips, he licks into your mouth like it's his first time tasting someone else's spit.

Your hands don't stop moving, though, and finally, you free him from his shorts, pushing the fabric down his hips as much as you can.

From here, Bob lifts your hips up and settles you on all fours on the bench of his truck. By now, the sun is long gone, and he can only see the ink of your tattoo when the moonlight catches on your body.

The sight of your dripping cunt, hanging out in the air for him, makes him all but rip the shorts off his legs as he moves to come up behind you. He can see your core swell and push against nothing, the slickness collecting on your inner thighs painting a pretty picture for him.

"Sorry, baby, I just can't help myself," he says as he dips a finger in your entrance, making your back arch and ass press into him even further. As you do so, you can feel his throbbing length against your ass cheek, jumping and rubbing into you as he stretches you out on his fingers.

Soon enough, he pushes in another finger, curling them into you at a slow pace that makes you crave more.

Sensing your dwindling patience, he bends over your frame until his mouth is by your ear. "Just getting you ready for me, okay?"

You nod at this, not trusting your voice anymore. Before he pulls up again, he brushes your hair and tucks it behind your ear, placing a sweet kiss on the crown of your head.

The kiss is sweet, but the way his fingers pump in and out of your heat is anything but. Your muscles squeeze against him, and each time it happens, you feel his hips grind into you. His member now flush with your body as he rubs himself against you at the same rhythm of his fingers.

"Please," you whine out again, and you feel his fingers leave your entrance. Now, you feel a firm hand on your lower back, thumb rubbing where your tattoo is. The other hand guides his member towards your entrance, pushing in slowly.

Bob feels your warm heat envelope him, the ridges and veins on his dick being pressed perfectly against your walls. "Oh, fuck, baby," he says as you pulse around him, not even halfway in yet.

"Feels good," you whine, pushing your hips back against him, swallowing more of him.

"Gonna hurt yourself, baby. Slow down," he groans, no real push back in his voice as he bottoms out, hips now pressed against the globes of your ass.

"Please, Bobby," you plead again, head moving to look back at the man.

He whines, seeing the look on your face. To think you were such a shy, meek thing around everyone, and now you're pushing back on his dick, begging him to fuck you into the seat of his truck.

Bob tears the T-shirt off his body before moving. On hand coming to the hem and raising it above his body, giving you a view of his abs and biceps all in one go.

His other hand roams down your back to the pretty little bow of your bikini top. You feel him fiddle with it for a minute, almost like he's contemplating whether or not he should untie them. But ultimately, he pulls the strings and lets the top fall onto the seat beneath you.

Within seconds, his hand attaches itself to your tit, rolling your nipple in his hand. The other goes back to its place on your lower back, thumb pressing into your ink. And finally, he reels his hips back and pushes into you.

You both moan at the feeling, his tip finding a deep part of you as you arch further into his hold. Soon he finds a steady rhythm, pushing his length in and out of you as you squirm underneath him.

There are so many things to look at, from the way your face presses into the leather to the way your ass bounces against his hips as he thrusts into you. But again and again, he finds himself looking at the little clover on your backside. The ink is something so foreign on your otherwise unmarked skin.

If you had asked him a few hours ago, Bob would have never expected you to have a tattoo, let alone one in this spot. But then again, he wouldn't have expected you to lull your tongue out and push your hips into his as he fucked you for the first time.

Both things were exhilarating, making his heart race and his thrusts pick up in pace, something you seemed to be a fan of as you whine underneath him.

He knows he should've laid you out on his bed, taken care of you, really taken care of you, not just let you grind against his thigh and finger you until you were whimpering under him. He should've kissed all over your body, let his mouth find your core, tasted you.

But every time he caught a glimpse of the delicate tracing of your tattoo, he felt himself reel all over again.

Bob had to have you like this, bent over and pressed into the seat of his truck. Back on full display to him, muscle and sweet skin exposed.

Still, he felt a little guilty that he let it happen like this. Couldn't even get home before he started reaching for you and thinking about your tattoo.

Instead of dwelling on the fact for any longer, he allowed himself to feel your wet heat, feel how it squeezed against him. His hand left your now raw, sensitive nipples in search of your clit, thumb wanting to find it once more to make you come again.

"So fucking good, so good, Lucky," he groans, hips slapping harsher against you as he finds your sweet spot once again.

You try to keep your eyes open, try to look at him and the blissed out expression on his face, but as soon as his thumb makes contact with your bud again, your eyes roll back into your head, and you sink into the leather underneath you.

"Warm and pretty, all for me, huh?" he asks, thumb pressing firmer, tighter circles into your clit.

Nodding, all you can do is whine at his words. The way his hand pushes on your lower back, arching you further into his hold, makes his length find a home in your heat in the best way possible.

His body comes down to yours like earlier; now you feel his rigid muscles moving against your back. The hand that was on your back gathers your hair into a sloppy ponytail as he tugs you up to his face.

"Need a kiss, please, baby," he whines, hips snapping into you at a brutal pace. Still, you can tell he's close, his body covers yours, humping into you like he has something to prove.

You nudge his nose and pucker your lips. Suddenly, he's diving in, sucking at your lips, firm and searing kisses pressed into your mouth. At the feeling of his thumb tapping against your clit, your mouth opens, giving him the perfect opportunity to capture your tongue and suck. Spit mixes and drips down your chin as you begin to shake in his hold.

Again, the thread snaps in your tummy. His length moves in you, not letting up, helping you through your climax. Bob's mouth kisses around your face, hand still gripping your hair so he can reach your cheeks, forehead, and chin with his mouth.

Soon, you feel him spill into you, groaning against your mouth. The warmth seeps into your tummy, and you find yourself wanting to curl further into his hold.

Bob heaves against your back as he works to the end of his climax. Snaking a hand around your waist, he takes you from your spot on the bench and instead plants you on his lap upright.

His arms squeeze around you as his head dips in between the softness of your neck, laying sweet kisses there.

"Are you okay? It wasn't too rough, right?" he asks, hands tracing your skin in a way that makes you shiver.

"Felt so good, I promise," you say, nudging his nose once more and leaning in for a soft kiss.

"Good, good." Bob wraps around, warm body cradling yours.

"Maybe I should get another tattoo and not tell you. I think I could relive that over and over again," you tease as he laughs into your skin, both of you still feeling a bit loopy from your pleasure.

"One surprise tattoo is enough for a lifetime," he says, tightening his arms around you.

You smile against him as the faint light from the moon dances across his features; even now, you see the teasing look he gives you.

"I was really convinced you'd be upset," you confess, the quietness of the car almost swallowing your words.

But instead, Bob pulls back to look at you. "Upset?"

"About the tattoo."

A look of genuine confusion crosses his face. "Why would I be upset?"

You shrug. "It was a stupid drunk choice, doesn't exactly scream responsible naval aviator."

Bob stares at you for a moment, like he can't believe the words coming out of your mouth.

Then he reaches forward and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You flew into a combat zone to back up a team that was outnumbered."

Your eyes drop.

He continues anyway.

"You graduated at the top of your class. You're the best pilot I know."

A small smile pulls at his lips.

"I think you're allowed one stupid tattoo."

A laugh escapes you. "Just one?"

"One," he confirms, nodding his head, but the smile on his face says otherwise.

"You're very generous," you tease, leaning in to kiss his lips again.

He groans into the kiss, pressing deeper, like he can't get enough of you. "I know," he whispers as you laugh.

Suddenly, your tattoo doesn't feel so stupid anymore.

[lovebugism]

PEAR MILLE-FEUILLE ─── carmy berzatto

summary: the evolution of you and carmy's relationship, as told by the layers of the dessert that brought you together in the first place, and almost ruined your life. or: the four times carmy caught himself falling in love with you, and the one time he actually let himself. (10k)

characters: carmy berzatto / fem!reader, mentions of claire / carmy, luca, richie jerimovich, sydney adamu, chef terry

contents: slow burn, strangers to friends to lovers, idiots in love, angst (hurt/comfort), jealousy, so much yearning, reheating sydcarmy nachos, canon divergent (i kinda mish-mash the events of season 2 and 3 together here for funsies), cw for mentions of grief, talks of depression and anxiety, smut 18+ (carmy's touch-starved and cries during sex, you heard it here first guys!)

( NAVIGATION ) | ( AO3 )

pear mille-feuille, a classic parisian dessert, meaning "a thousand layers" in french, pronounced: pair-meel-fwee.

—

I. BURNT CARAMEL

Carmy rushed out of the restaurant with his pulse thrumming in his throat and the word of David Fields bouncing around in his pounding skull. “I don’t think about you at all,” he’d said. “I don’t think about you at all. I don’t think about you at all—” Carmy shoved the metal door open with a too-aggressive hand, so hard it hit the brick wall on the other side with a resounding bang.

He waited for the cool Chicago night air to smack him in the face, to remind him how to breathe again. He got a heavy whiff of warm caramel and sweet pear instead. 

With his tattooed knuckles running hard along his tight chest, he turned his head to find a strange woman he only vaguely recognized sitting on the curb a few feet away — dressed for a funeral, wearing a wrinkled black dress and a run in her tights along the knee. A plate of something sweet rested in her lap.

“Uh… Hi,” Carmy greeted shakily, half-strangled from the leftover panic still clutching him hard by the throat.

“Hi,” you responded quietly, as if choked by some strange emotion of your own.

The man’s wet, ocean eyes flit between your face and the food in your lap. A rogue brown curl fell over his forehead as he nodded down towards you. “What’s, uh… What’s that?”

“My mortal enemy,” you answered gravelly, before turning away. “It’s a Pear Mille-Feuille… I thought maybe I could finally get it right before we closed…”

Carmy blinked owlishly at your profile. “…Well, did you?”

“Nope…” you answered through a heavy sigh, popping your lips together. “The pastry’s too soft. But somehow the pears are still overdone, so… I can’t win.”

Carmy looked it over with an inquisitive eye — the thin gold layers of puff pastry, all stacked neatly atop one another; pears poached to the perfect amber color; thick cream piped with a near impossible precision. It looked like something straight out of a magazine. And, if Carmy had to guess by how hard you were on yourself about the whole thing, it’s entirely likely you’d been published in one before.

“Well, it looks good, at least.”

“That’s only ‘cause you’re standing six feet away.”

Carmy scoffed a quiet laugh and found his breath coming more easily to him. “Here,” he offered, shoes scraping the worn pavement as he approached you. “Let me try it.”

Your head snapped in his direction. Your wide eyes raised to follow his form as he loomed suddenly over you, black blazer rippling in the cool, late-summer breeze. The night air filled suddenly with the scent of him — deep cologne, cigarette smoke, and nicotine gum.

“Wh…What?” you stammered.

“Sometimes you just need a fresh perspective, is all. Like, uh… A new pallet, you know?”

Carmy reached a tattooed hand in your direction, leaving little room for argument. You got the feeling that he must run a restaurant of his own as you passed him the ceramic plate, fingers trembling. You watched anxiously as he took the fork in his large hand and cut himself a slice of the pastry.

He shoveled it into his mouth — an explosion of butter, vanilla, pear, and caramel — the near-perfect balance of elegant and comforting. Just refined enough not to impose too much on itself. 

His cheek jut softly out as he chewed. He nodded to himself until the words caught up to him. “Yeah, this is… incredible, Chef,” he said through the mouthful, laughing slightly through his nose. The sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

You didn’t believe him, not entirely, but the line in your taut shoulders relaxed slightly at his praise anyway. Sometimes, feeding others felt like a leap of faith. Sometimes, feeding someone felt like handing over a piece of yourself to them, and hoping they found something worth keeping.

—

Months later, Carmy realizes that there are only two kinds of things a person holds onto in this world — things they can’t bear to lose, and things they never meant to keep.

Mikey belongs perpetually in the first category. And, ever since you started working here, he’s begun to realize that you belong in the second. Maybe that’s why he felt himself on the verge of a panic attack for the third time today, ‘cause he was spending his evening excavating his brother’s office like an archeological dig, and found himself surrounded by both at once.

This office had belonged to Mikey, and would be the last thing that ever truly did.

Carmy thinks, knows, that’s why he put off cleaning it out for so long — like keeping it exactly the way his brother left it would preserve his ghost there in some way. This place was practically his tomb, made of four concrete walls faded to the color of old dishwater, an ancient desk so cluttered you can barely see its surface, and a bunch of dented filing cabinets that haven’t been organized in at least three presidential administrations.

They’re all half empty now, organized in boxes with Mikey’s frantic scrawl left on every crumpled receipt, invoice, and payroll record. Soon this office would match the rest of the place — clean, sleek, erased — and what’s left of his brother would be gone.

Carmy slouches against the cool brick with his arms propped on his bent knees, holding the last of Mikey’s things in a tattooed hand. A prescription pill bottle with the label scratched off, which he found while grave-digging through the cabinet drawers. He clutches it tight in his fist, holding the remnants of addiction as if it were his brother’s hand.

The grey, mildew-and-coffee-scented abyss of his grief is abated only by the sound of your laughter, which bounces off the concrete walls and finds him like the rays of milky-orange sunlight filtering through the stained window above his head, which turns his wild curls a more golden shade of brown.

His heavy ocean eyes lift and find you instantly — the way they always seemed to do — and his features flood with horror when he finds you with his sketchbook in your hands.

“What’s all this?” you wonder with a quiet laugh, beneath the subtle thwipping of the pages as you flick through them with your thumb.

Inside are random lists, phone numbers, and mock-ups for the restaurant, all in Carmy’s scrawled handwriting. Then you stumble upon a series of sloppy portraits — some of them of the others in the kitchen; most of them of you, like he was trying to capture you just right.

They feel like memories in some way, moments stolen when no one else was looking. They’re slightly messy, as if drawn by a loose and absentminded hand. It’s quite strange, looking at yourself from another person’s perspective. But even still, you don’t think you’ve ever looked so pretty, so alive, than on these pages of smudged ink.

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

Carmy shrugs lazily with his pink mouth softly jutted, feigning an air of indifference despite the red tint speckling across his cheeks.

“I can’t,” he mumbles through a huff as he stands to full height again, bracing himself on the cleared-out desk beside him. He tucks the pill bottle into the front pocket of his slacks and clears his throat when he feels his pulse skipping there. “N-Not really.”

“Well, I beg to differ,” you scoff and turn another page.

Another scribbled portrait of you sits in the center, drawn in blue ink this time. You’ve got the eraser end of a pencil in your mouth and another sitting behind your ear, concentrating on coming up with a new dessert menu. You were captured quite beautifully, even in your subtle frustration. “I didn’t think I was capable of looking this good until now.”

“You look good all the time,” he dismisses quietly, curls swaying when he shakes his head at you.

He grimaces at himself right after the words spill from his lips, face flaring hotter when the expression on your face shifts slightly in response to them. He lacks the courage to meet your eyes as he looms before you, smelling of stale cologne and sweat from days of renovation.

“What do you, uh— What do you usually draw?” you stammer and pass the sketchbook back to him.

“I don’t know…” Carmy mutters. “Whatever’s, you know, on my mind, I guess—”

Your heart lurches in your chest, both at his words and at the office door slamming suddenly open across the room. Your heads snap to the side in tandem to find Richie towering in the narrow doorway. “Cousin, I swear to god, I’m about to fuckin’ lose it, man—”

“You’re so dramatic, Richie, jeez…” Sydney sighs as she walks past him and further into the newly renovated kitchen, to busy herself with actual work.

Carmy hangs his head and closes his eyes, digging his thumb and forefinger into the sockets in a quiet frustration. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t come to me with any problems while I was in here—”

“I know that,” Richie shrugs. “It’s not a problem.

“—I don’t have time for this shit right now, Rich.”

“Well, it’s not a fuckin’ problem, Carm! What do you want me to say?” the older man repeats, louder now.

“It’s literally a problem,” Syd monotones from somewhere further inside the kitchen.

“Well, Ms. Know-It-All over here wants less tables in the dining room— says it’ll fuckin’… make it more systematic or whatever, I don’t know,” Richie rambles, gesturing wildly with his hands. “But I told her we’re opening a restaurant here. Not a library. More seats means more customers, which means more money— Which we’re slowly running out of, might I add!”

He turns over his shoulder to yell into the kitchen. You wince when his voice bounces off the bare concrete walls.

“Yeah, Syd’s right,” Carmy nods.

“Thank you!” the girl calls distantly.

Richie blinks slowly in offense. “…What?”

“Syd’s right—”

“No, I heard you—”

“Then why’d you say what—?”

“‘Cause you’re fucking with me,” Richie scoffs an emotionless, half-delirious laugh.

“I’m trying to be efficient here, Rich—”

“You’re all fucking with me—”

“We can turn over tables quicker if there’s less of them,” Carmy explains, much more calmly in response, though there’s a sudden bite behind his words that you don’t miss. He keeps one hand propped on his waist while his other gestures with the sketchbook between his fingers. “Which means more customers, which means more money, which… we are running out of…”

Richie laughs like it’s funny. “Well, that’s real funny, Carm, ‘cause I bet if I brought Claire-Bear in here, and she agreed with me — which she would, by the way — you’d change your mind like that—”

Carmy flinches when the man lifts his hand to snap in his face. He swats him away with a little more aggression than probably necessary. “Get your hand out of my face— What are you twelve?”

“Yeah, you’re mad ‘cause you know I’m right.”

Your head tilts to the side like an intrigued puppy at the foreign name, which you haven’t yet become acquainted with in your weeks working here. Your wide eyes dart between the two men in front of you. Your smile trembles slightly at the edges.

“Who’s… Who’s Claire-Bear?”

Carmy’s head snaps in your direction. His mouth parts, but nothing comes out for an embarrassing fraction of a second, as if he wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. Bringing her up in front of you feels wrong in a way he can’t explain.

“She’s uh… She’s— She’s no one,” Carmy stammers.

“Oh, please,” Richie scoffs, dark blue eyes flitting in your direction. “She’s his girlfriend.”

Your stomach sinks, even despite Carmy’s arguing.

“For the last time, she’s not my fucking girlfriend. Richie—”

“Well, not for lack of tryin’, cousin—”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Carmy repeats, this time only to you. There’s a solemn look in his light eyes, like he’s trying to make sure you really hear him. “She’s, you know, an old friend. A family friend. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Richie laughs. “I bet Claire-Bear would love to hear that.”

“Fuck off, Richie,” Carmy spits.

“Oh, there you are.” A softer, deeper, more foreign voice breaks through the boyish bickering in an instant. Luca appears in the doorway behind Richie — golden locks pushed over his forehead, physically built beneath his white undershirt, looking a lot less plagued by the chaos of the kitchen than the rest of them. His pink lips quirk into a smile at the sight of you. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you— I need an expert opinion on this lemon-blueberry trifle I’m trying out.”

“Yeah, put this girl out of her misery. Please,” Richie scoffs drily, then turns back to you with a warm, sympathetic hand on your shoulder. “I apologize for my cousin, Sunshine. I did warn you he could be a bit of an asshole—”

“Richie.”

“It’s… okay,” you murmur with a sheepish laugh, before glancing over at Carmy beneath your lashes in a sheepish look. “Are you… okay in here?”

Carmy’s expression shifts slightly, like he’s about to say the exact opposite of what he really means. He feels his chest stinging with a pinch of misplaced jealousy — because he knows you spent time in Copenhagen with Luca some years back, and the idea of someone knowing parts of you that he doesn’t feels a little like a punch to the stomach.

“Yeah,” he nods anyway, slightly strangled, like his body’s trying to keep him from saying the words. “Yeah, I got the rest of it. Go ahead.”

You flash the boy a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes as you go. Carmy watches you trail behind Luca out of the office and back towards the dessert station. Richie watches Carmy watch you.

“So about the tables—”

“Enough about the fucking tables, Richie!”

II. ORANGE BLOSSOM HONEY.

There were only two times in your entire life that you swore you’d never bake again: first, when you got your first scathing review that sent you on a downward spiral for longer than you’d like to admit, and second, when Ever closed down for good.

There was still joy in it, somewhere deep down, you just couldn’t find it anymore. Honestly, you had trouble finding it most days in most anything. Which is probably why Luca told you to give The Bear a shot in the first place.

“I’ll tell him you’re stopping by, alright?” he’d told you over the phone that evening. “Just talk to Carmy. See the place out. And if you hate it, I will personally fly myself across the Atlantic so you can say ‘I told you so’ to my face.”

“That sounds very expensive, Lu.”

“Well, it’d be worth every penny.”

So there you were, weaving through a restaurant that seemed more abandoned than not — as though someone had taken a perfectly good kitchen and detonated a small explosive in the center of it. Walls had been torn down. Floors were covered in sawdust. Extension cords snaked across the room like vines. The smell of drywall and fresh paint grew stronger the further you went.

For a moment, you worried that no one was inside waiting for you, and that you had accidentally committed a breaking and entering — until you spotted a curly-haired stranger hunched over a metal counter in the not-quite kitchen, scribbling at a notepad with his pen.

He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, dark curls hanging over his eyes. A mixture of surprise and confusion flashed in his gaze, brows raising and lowering again.

You lifted a hand in an awkward wave. “Hi…”

“Hey…”

“I’m sorry. I let myself in— I… I tried to knock, but I guess you couldn’t… hear me…” You trailed off with a wavering smile, scratching anxiously at the back of your neck. “Uh, Luca was supposed to call you, I think...”

Realization flooded the sharp edges of Carmy’s face.

“Oh. Right,” he nodded. “Yeah, for the, uh...”

“Yeah…”

Carmy swallowed hard, tapping his pen along his palm, no more anxious than you are now. “Well, uh, I— I hope he warned you that we don’t have much of a kitchen yet...”

“Yeah…” you answered with a breathless laugh, eyes wandering across the spray-painted tarps hanging as makeshift walls as you strolled further inside. “I just… I thought he was exaggerating a little bit.”

A short laugh escaped him then as he rounded the counter in front of him. “Yeah, this is— basically a construction zone more than a kitchen at this point, so… Sorry in advance.”

“Well, if we’re sharing apologies, I’m sorry for not bringing a résumé,” you confessed sheepishly, struggling to meet the man’s gaze when he stood before you. The scent of paint and sawdust clung heavily to his navy sweatshirt. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want me working here.”

“C’mon. I know your résumé,” Carmy scoffed. “I’ve actually eaten your food before, remember?”

“The desert I was crying over at Ever, you mean?”

His lip twitched into a soft smile before he turned away, too shy to say this to your face:“Well, in my opinion, something that perfect is worth crying over.”

You grinned at the back of him, wider than you realized. “You’re still sparing my feelings after all this time…”

Carmy planted himself on the right wing end of the soon-to-be kitchen and turned to face you again. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but… This is gonna be our dessert station. Hopefully. If this entire place doesn’t cave in—”

‘Ours,’ he said, as if it were already yours in some way, too.

“—That’s a joke. Sorta,” he said, scratching at the back of his wild curls. He glanced up at you once more. “Have you tried making it again since we met?” he wondered suddenly. “You know that… pear… mill-fill thing?”

A giggle sputtered from your lips before you could stop it. Your hand flew to your mouth, as if you were trying to put it inside.

Carmy grinned shyly at having earned the pretty sound, despite his mild embarrassment. He fidgeted with the pen in his tattooed hands and gave you a sheepish look in response. “Help me out here…”

“It’s French,” you told him. “It’s mee-fwee.”

His brows lowered with a visible hesitation. “Mee… foy…”

“Close enough,” you laughed with a shake of your head. “And, to answer your question, no. I haven’t made it again. And I probably never will— I’m too fragile for another defeat.”

The grin that tugged at the corner of Carmy’s mouth then was brief, but no less genuine. “You will,” he said, like some kind of an oath, with so much conviction you couldn’t help but believe him.

—

“You seem happier here.”

Luca’s observation comes suddenly. His English-deep voice cuts through the soft quiet of the empty restaurant, renovated to near completion now. The two of you lie supine on the cool hardwood, the tops of your heads nearly brushing, as you put together Carmy’s newest splurge — which his uncle called “expensive, ergonomic, fuckin’ hippie tables.” You screw each bolt in by hand. You can feel your fingers threatening to cramp around the screwdriver clutched between them.

“Happier than Copenhagen, I mean,” he continues.

You scoff. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure any version of me is happier than I was in Copenhagen…”

“Oh, c’mon…” Luca lilts lowly. “I wasn’t that bad company, was I?”

“You know it wasn’t about you…” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I know…”

It was the fault of that goddamn critic, and the devastating review he left that seemed to compliment everything but your work alone.“The pear mille-feuille reads less like a dessert and more like a young chef begging for validation,” the publication read. “For all its technical accomplishment, the pastry never once feels human. It is difficult to imagine, dear reader, a pastry with so much insecurity baked into each of its layers.”

Your world seemed to shrink after that. The singular paragraph of disapproval lodged itself somewhere deep within your psyche, along with all the cynicism and sorrow that built a home inside you, too. Every other failed recipe somehow led back to it, and every success thereafter felt purely accidental — until, eventually, baking stopped being fun and started being the one thing most capable of hurting you.

It hollowed you from the inside out. You worked the kitchen like a ghost returning to its haunt. You wanted to quit, in virtually every sense of the word, and it was Chef Andrea who convinced you to stay — by sending you four thousand miles away to Copenhagen, that is, to remember a world without critics and service and non-stop perfection; to remember what it felt like to exist without constantly needing to prove yourself.

It was there that you met Luca, who taught you what it meant to approach food with curiosity again. And it was here now, in the bones of The Bear, that reminded you how to love the work again — the simple joy of making something with your bare hands and sharing it with the people who mattered most.

“I’m just glad you didn’t stop cooking…” Luca continues with a quiet grunt in the back of his throat as he slides out from under the table. “And I’m glad Chef Andrea sent you over to my neck of the woods.”

“Let me?” you scoff, tilting your head back against the floor to look at the boy upside down. “She practically forced me on that plane.”

“Best thing she ever did,” the boy croons with an air of sarcasm to mask his sincerity. He rises to full height and dusts his palms off on his slacks. “I’m headed out for the night… Need a ride?”

“I think I’m gonna stay here for a while…” you sigh.

“Suit yourself,” he huffs and walks away. “Just don’t overdo it.”

“Or what?”

“Or I will be very upset with you,” he deadpans with faux-solemnity.

“Oh, the horror!” you call to his disappearing figure, right before the door shuts behind him.

Silence returns when he’s gone. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh, a held breath you didn’t know you were keeping, as you return to your work — twisting the screwdriver in your fist and reveling in the burn in your wrist, the only thing keeping you from thinking.

About that critic. About Copenhagen. About Carmy’s sketchbook, about Carmy and the girl called Claire-Bear.

You rise onto your elbows with a huff when you’re done, stretching out the aching tendons in your neck. You vaguely hear the kitchen door swishing open and shut again before a sudden voice calls out. “Oh, hey—”

The sound of Carmy’s voice startles you for a reason you can’t name. You sit further up on instinct and slam your head against the table with a whack that jostles one of the screws.

“Ow...” you whimper.

“Shit—” Carmy rushes to your side, catching the wooden top when it wavers. His long, tattooed fingers curl around the edge of it to keep its weight from falling back on you. He ducks his head to look at you, features twisting with a sympathetic grimace as you rub at your aching forehead. “Sorry… Didn’t mean to scare you…”

“You didn’t scare me…” you assure him weakly.

His mouth lifts into an amused half-smile. “No?”

You shrug, lips jutted in feigned apathy despite the newfound pounding in your skull. “Not even a little bit...”

Carmy’s grin widens, but he makes no further argument. He just crouches down in front of you and keeps the tabletop steady while you lie back to realign its leg. You spend the next minute or so screwing the loose bolts back into the blanched oak, hands going clammy around the screwdriver at the proximity between you now. The air grows considerably warmer accordingly, filled with the familiar scent of him — of cologne, garlic, and cigarette smoke. You have to keep reminding yourself to breathe.

“You, uh— You never told me,” Carmy starts suddenly, as if he’d been sitting on the words for some time and only now got the courage to say them. He swipes at his nose with the back of his free hand and mumbles shyly behind his fingers.“About, you know, why you almost didn’t come here… Why you went to Copenhagen...”

Your breath hitches faintly in throat. You hope he doesn’t notice. The screw twisting itself back into the pale wood above you becomes the most interesting thing in the room. “It never came up…” you answer quietly. “It was stupid anyway…”

“No, what the asshole critic said was stupid.”

You turn your head against the floor to flash him a playful look, hiding behind the veil of your sarcasm. “There you go again…”

“There I go again?” he echoes.

“Sparing my feelings.”

“No, I— I’m serious.” Carmy stammers with a breathless laugh. “And I know I’m right because I’ve had your stuff before.”

“Yeah,” you scoff and turn away again. “That stupid fucking pear dish that I still can’t get right.”

“No, it was, uh…” Carmy trails off and shakes his head, going distant with recollection. He rests the elbow of his free arm on his bent knee and drops his wild head into his palm. He digs his thumb and forefinger into his eyes as he struggles to recall the name. “It was, uh… It was the— the Bordeaux, I think?”

He lifts his head to glance down at you once more. Your arms fall to your lap, eyes narrowing in confusion as your lip twitches into a shock half-smile. “The Canalé de Bordeaux?” you repeat with much more ease.

“Yeah,” Carmy nods, brown curls swaying. “It was right before I took over here— when I was, you know, eating everywhere I could, trying to learn as much as I could, and I…” His mouth lifts into a distant smile; his eyes glaze over at the memory. “I didn’t even place it until you made it for the kitchen the other day… Don’t think I would’ve noticed otherwise…”

“That was… God, that was forever ago,” you say with a laugh of disbelief, rising back up onto your eblows. “I’m surprised you remember it now.”

“I remember everything,” Carmy shrugs.

“That sounds… terrifying,” you scoff.

“It is. Sometimes,” he jokes with a breathy chuckle. “But, I don’t know… Now I’m starting to think it’s not so bad…”

His light eyes lock with yours. You lose your breath almost instantly, chest aching as your lungs struggle to find it again. You feel like the distance between you has vanished in a blink; each of your breaths feels like inhaling him in some way. You feel like you can taste him, almost, and your mouth waters at the thought alone, parting for his on instinct.

With your heavy eyes settled on his glassy ones, you catch the soft blue of his irises flick down to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You want so desperately for him to kiss you. And you hate how badly you need it.

“I-I don’t think this is a good idea,” you hear yourself blurt.

Carmy’s brows lower in confusion as you scramble suddenly out from under the table. You rise to full height on shaky legs and place several feet of distance between the two of you, crossing your arms over your chest in a feeble attempt to soothe your racing heart.

Carmy rises slowly from his crouched position, blinking the lingering haze from his eyes. “Wha… What are you talking about?” he stammers with his hands splayed in front of him, approaching you again the way someone would a stray puppy.

“Because of, you know… Because of… Claire.” You whisper the name like it’s a curse of some kind.

The confusion etched on his features only deepens further. “Claire?” he echoes, face screwed. “Wh—What does Claire have to do with this? Claire is— Claire is nobody—”

“Does she know that?” you press, brows raised.

“Yes!” he answers without missing a beat. “Because nothing ever happened between us! Because nothing will ever happen between us! Because I— I’m not into her that way!”

“That… way?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, tattooed biceps straining against the sleeves of his undershirt as he rests his hands on his hips. “You know, the— The way I’m into…”

He trails off when he catches himself. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. His unwavering stare bores into yours as he weighs the words in his head, wondering briefly if he should say them aloud. His wild curls sway as he shakes his head to himself. “You know what. Fuck it. The way I’m— The way I’m into you.”

Your chest warms at his words. So furiously, it feels someone has taken a white-hot blade and pierced your sternum with it. You can feel the heart flaring in your face, too, as your mouth curls into a wide, slightly apprehensive smile.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Carmy nods firmly, though something in his gaze seems distantly surprised by his own forwardness. He scratches at the back of his curls and looks down at the table just beside you. “Are you, uh— Are we you good here?”

You nod rapidly until the words to speak catch up to you. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Good,” he hums. “Do you… Do you need a ride, or…?”

You hesitate on instinct, nose scrunching sheepishly. “If it’s not too far out of your way…”

Carmy scoffs like it’s funny. “You’re never too far out of my way,” he says and turns on the heel of his sneaker to walk away, as if he hadn’t just taken all the breath from your lungs right with him.

III. ALMOND PRALINE.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You pressed your back hard into the rough brick behind you, letting it snag against your chef whites in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. You tipped your head back for further assistance, and fought every instinct that told you to beat your skull against the concrete as your heart thrummed wildly in your throat — as though it were trying to burst through the delicate tendon there altogether.

Adrenaline soared through your veins. The starry night air refused to pierce through your burning skin, face burning red-hot while your fingers turned to ice.

You had survived a million dinner services much harder than this one, The Bear’s very first. You had survived Carmy’s anger, Richie’s shouting, and the entire kitchen learning how to operate itself. But it was the food critic that nearly killed you — the man who came in older than you remembered, greyer, and a little skinnier than you recall.

It took you a long moment to remember to breathe as you watched Fak seat him through the kitchen window. “I need you back at your station, Chef,” you heard Carmy telling you from the expo, though his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. “Back at your station, Chef! Now!”

You listened, but your body seemed to work on autopilot. You broke out the baking sheet, the jelly roll pan, and the perforated pastry tray without thinking. You patted out the puff pastry and fired the pears like it was muscle memory to you. You had Richie deliver it to the man, on the house, and tried to expel the rest of it from your mind.

You forgot how to be human thereafter, hardly more useful than a fumbling ball of panic. Carmy told you to get out of the kitchen when you dropped a bowl of sourdough starter you’d been tending to for nearly two months. And now there you were, post-shift, with all the anxiety of a prey animal being hunted for sport.

And the worst part was, you couldn’t tell if you were terrified or exhilarated. Or both.

The heavy metal door beside you squeaked slowly open. A familiar voice broke through the memory. “There you are…” Carmy hummed as he walked out, chef coat hanging open, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tattooed arms.

His wild curls were still damp from sweat and steam, glowing a more golden shade beneath the amber streetlights. The exhaustion of the shift seemed to carve into all the chiseled edges of his face. But his eyes were heavy with relief at finally being alone with you all the same.

You grew sheepish as he stood before you, struggling to meet his gaze like a scolded child. “I’m sorry, by the way. For… all that.”

Carmy shrugged and cupped his palm around the cigarette he pinched into his mouth. His lighter clicked a few times before it lit, basking his features in a flicker orange hue. “It happens,” he mumbled before inhaling the nicotine into his lungs. The grey smoke left through his nostrils a few seconds later as he flashed you a sterner look. “Just don’t let it happen again, Chef.”

You nodded once. “Heard, Chef…”

Carmy flicked the orange filter with his thumb. His eyes fell to your lap, where you wrung your hands together in a feeble attempt to keep them from trembling. Concern surged through his chest instantly.

“Jeez,” he mumbled.

Your eyes followed his form as he crouched to set the newly-lit cig to the sidewalk, leaving it burning there as he rose to full height again.

“What?”

“Your hands… You’re shaking…” He closed the brief distance between you and took your hands in his warmer, larger ones. The contact stole the breath from your lungs. You’re still getting used to touching him so freely. “God, you’re ice cold.”

You laughed breathlessly. “Because my nervous system is shot.”

Carmy began to rub the warmth back into your fingertips. His palms felt like velvet, calloused from years of burns and knives and hard labor. The gesture was so gentle that it made you feel the crying. Again.

“He liked it, you know,” he told you. “The critic, I mean.”

Your stomach fell as anxiety flooded your veins once more. “I appreciate the sentiment, Carm, but… You can’t know that…”

“No, he said it. Cousin cornered him on the way out— asked him about it,” Carmy confessed. “And after he answered, Richie defended you. Said the guy was an asshole, and that he was a pretty shit critic if he didn’t know what good food tasted like.”

Another startled laugh sputtered from your lips. “That means we’re definitely getting a bad review outta him, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “But it’ll be worth it.”

Quiet settled between you. The city grew louder on either side of you in its wake — wind whipping warmly down the alley, cars passing distantly, a train rattling against the tracks somewhere further away. Carmy still hadn’t let go of your hands; he just kept holding you there as his eyes flicked down to your mouth.

He spent a long moment just staring, as if silently trying to will some courage into his body.

Your lips curled slowly into a sheepish smile. “You gonna kiss me, Bear?” you wondered lowly, almost inaudibly.

He nodded for a moment, then pinched his brows to ask. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

“I always want you to kiss me,” you laughed.

His mouth twitched shyly. “Then get over here then.”

Your chest swelled when he urged you forward with a gentle tug at your hands. You pressed yourself to his chest as his mouth ducked down to yours, tasting of nicotine and garlic and boy. You moaned at the feeling of him against you, fingers twisting in his silky brown curls. His larger, tattooed hands splayed along your waist, a little less confident in comparison.

The metal door shrieked open once more with little warning. The droning of ten different conversations filled the air as the rest of the kitchen staff spilled out all at once. You and Carmy sprang apart quickly, losing any and all ability to play it off.

The conversation quietened in an instant. You turned away, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand and refusing to meet their eyes. The three or more seconds of silence that went by felt like a lifetime, until—

“Pay up, assholes!” Richie shouted, fist pumping triumphantly in the air. He continued gloating through the chorus of laughter and groans of failure. “I knew you idiots were dating, and everyone acted like I was losing my mind! But the house always wins, baby!”

—

Carmy sat along the top of the booth with a plate of Canalé de Bordeaux in his lap. Family was your turn tonight, and you’d opted to make the first dish of yours that Carmy had ever tried for the rest of the kitchen. No one knows just how much tenderness is cooked into the caramelized crust and soft custard. No one, perhaps, other than Carmy.

His sneakers dig into the smooth pleather booth below as he props his back against the wall behind him. The rum-vanilla dish melts in his mouth as he surveys the bustling dining area, filled with his family and friends, some of whom were halfway strangers to him a few years ago. His eyes fall to you without trying as you deliver an alcohol-free dessert to a heavily pregnant Sugar. A distant smile tugs at his mouth as he watches your lips move with a conversation he can’t hear from here.

The soul music playing on the radio drowns out your conversation, but not the sound of Richie’s voice as he slides into the booth next to Carmy. His long, graceless limbs bump against the table as he goes, trying to cut a bite of dessert to shovel into his mouth at the same time.

Annoyance twists in the younger boy’s features on instinct. “I’m not cleaning that up if you spill it—”

“I’m not gonna spill it!” Richie argues boyishly, with his mouth full of food, as he settles into the booth a few inches from Carmy’s sneakers. He nudges the boy’s leg with his elbow. “And get your feet off my booth, you fuckin’ animal... Jeez, I don’t know what that girl sees in you…”

“You’re a fuckin’ asshole…”

“No, I’m serious!” the older man laughs with amusement glittering in his dark blue eyes. He shovels another too-big bite into his cheek and talks through the yellow custard clinging to the sides of his mouth. “I don’t know how you managed to pull that off, cousin— There’s no way you even know what to do with all that.”

Richie turns away, still laughing through his nose at his own stupid joke. He cuts himself another bite, already calculating a retort to Carmy’s inevitable argument on the matter — only one never comes.

The younger boy just stabs absentmindedly at his plate, distracting himself from the topic under the guise of forming the perfect bite.

Richie pauses with his own fork to his mouth. He turns slowly over his shoulder, brows raising to his hairline until four wrinkles line his forehead. “Oh, shit,” he scoffs after a few moments. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

“Shut up…” Carmy murmurs under his breath, taking another aggressive bite.

“Oh, c’mon! Don’t tell me you’re not gettin’ your dick wet, Carm—”

“Keep your voice down, fuck-o!” he spits through his mouthful, eyes darting anxiously to make sure no one else had heard him — that you hadn’t somehow heard him, from your spot all the way across the room, laughing with Sugar and Tina. Carmy turns away with a lazy shrug. “We’re just… We’re taking things slow. Not that it concerns you, FYI.”

“Well, FYI, you guys have been dating for months—”

“Oh, thanks for keeping track. I had no idea.”

“—And if she isn’t getting it with you, she’s gotta be getting it from someone else,” Richie rambles absentmindedly as he turns back to his plate. “I mean, I don’t even swing this way, obviously, but if I were a chick, I’d be all over that Luca guy—”

Carmy’s chest stings with a misplaced jealousy. He shouldn’t listen to Richie; he trusts you far too much for any of that. But maybe it’s his own lingering insecurity coming through — the cynicism that always lingers in the back of his head like a shadow, telling him that he’s unworthy of touching you, and then berating him for not being man enough to try.

He huffs. “Well, this is making me feel a whole lot better, cousin. Thank you.”

“I’m just sayin’!” Richie says, muffled through the dessert wadded in his cheek. “She’s obviously crazy about you, man— She looks at you like you hung the fuckin’ moon! I’m just sayin’, you know, trust your instincts. That’s all.”

“…Trust my instincts?” Carmy monotones.

“Yeah,” the older man shrugs. “You’re a chef. Isn’t that supposed to be, like, your whole thing?”

Carmy just blinks at him. “Your point?”

“My point is… She likes you. And you like her— I’m pretty sure half of Chicago knows that by now. So just… Stop getting in your own damn way before you ruin somethin’ good, alright? She picked you, cousin—”

Carmy leans back when Richie gestures too closely with his fork.

“So if you can’t trust your own judgment, at least trust hers.”

Richie’s words pierce him almost physically, giving him that surge of courage he’d been lacking these past few months with you. It makes him want to stop dissecting each of his feelings, for once, until they’re just lying there ahead of him, dead and useless.

Carmy’s light eyes narrow suspiciously. “You know… You’ve gotten, like, really good at giving advice since becoming house manager. You know that?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s freaking me out, too,” Richie deadpans, stabbing at his plate. “Sometimes I hear myself talk and I’m like, who the fuck said that?”

IV. PUFF PASTRY.

The first time you spent the night at his place, Carmy had a panic attack.

It started as a dream, or a nightmare, or maybe a memory. It played through static like an old film — Christmas Eve at the Berzatto house, beneath glowing Christmas lights and smoke from his mother’s cigarettes and something she burnt on the stove. He could smell the nicotine hanging in the hair, and the thick smell of tomato sauce, and Cicero’s expensive nose-stinging cologne.

Carmy was sitting at the head of the table, unable to move from his chair. The rest around him were empty, save for the one at the opposite end. Mikey’s seat. The ghost of his brother was laughing one moment, then screaming at him, then crying the next. Carmy was terrified — the kind of terrified he got as a kid when his mother got in another one of her moods — but he was comforted, at the very least, that his brother was here.

Alive.

Then the lights went out, for only a fraction of a second. And the Christmas lights were glowing again, but his brother’s seat was empty. And the silence was worse than the screaming.

Carmy woke with a sharp breath to a bedroom filled with a navy blue darkness. He rose to his elbows, chest aching as he waited, for a fleeting moment, for the Christmas lights to come back on. Then he realized that he was back in his bedroom, and his brother’s still dead; but you were beside him now, and that was enough.

As his eyes adjusted, he found you lying beside him, bathed in the dim glow of the muted streetlamp outside his window. You’d kicked off the sheets, revealing the expanse of your bare legs and the softness of your stomach from where your shirt had ridden up — one of his, which you wore with a plain pair of cotton underwear. Your mouth was softly parted; your breathing was even and slow.

He tried to match each of your exhales, but the panic dug deeper into his chest. His lungs refused to fill properly. His skin felt too tight. The air was too hot, but his teeth were still chattering. He couldn’t ask you for help if he tried.

The walls spun around him as he rushed immediately to the kitchen. He bent over the sink, gripping the counter hard enough to blanch his knuckles with one hand, while his other scooped handfuls of freezing water into his mouth. He was not sure how much it was helping.

The muscles in his back tensed when a warm hand settled suddenly between his shoulder blades. Carmy didn’t realize you’d followed him out until then; until he heard your voice in his ear, cutting through the wild pounding of his heartbeat.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “Just keep breathing. You’re okay. It’ll pass.”

His breath came easier to him after that. The kitchen soon filled with the sound of his trembling pants and the loud hissing of the kitchen sink. Carmy’s shoulders loosened slowly under your hand.

“Do you need me to do something?” you wondered quietly.

He shook his head, curls hanging over his eyes from where he was still hunched over. “No, I— I got it— I’m… I’m good now.”

He waved you off with a trembling hand. You couldn’t help but notice the way he avoided your gaze; the way he fought every instinct to tense again when you rubbed along his spine. You wondered if you were only making it worse.

“Do you want me to go—?”

“No,” Carmy blurted instantly. His head snapped in your direction. He blinked back at you with wet ocean eyes. “Please. D-Don’t go. I just— I had a bad dream. I’m okay, I swear.”

You didn’t look convinced, and, honestly, neither did he.

“No, you’re not, Bear…” you murmured gently, with a sleepy smile that bordered on sympathetic. But you didn’t ask him to explain the feelings he didn’t have the words for. You just stood beside him and asked if he wanted breakfast.

—

Carmy’s apartment always smelled different when you were in it. Less like an ashtray and more like warm sugar, and your fruit-sweet perfume, and whatever sweet treat you’d spent the service dreaming about. Tonight, it was homemade churros.

Carmy can smell it down the hall when he exits the bathroom. The shower steam mixes with that sweet cinnamon wafting from the kitchen — where he finds you standing at the stove, tapping a socked foot to the synth pop on the radio, and stirring a pot of glossy chocolate syrup with a wooden spoon.

“Only a psychopath spends all night cooking just to come home and cook some more,” he says to announce his presence as he leans against the doorway, replacing his uniform with a sweatshirt and a pair of plaid boxers. “You know that, right?”

“What can I say?” you grin as you glance over your shoulder at him. “You’re rubbing off on me, Bear.”

Carmy exhales a quiet laugh and spends a long moment just watching you, with all the attentiveness of someone who watched sunsets come or go or mapped constellations in the starry sky. You occupied his kitchen as if you’d been there this whole time, in a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed to your elbows, big enough to hide the less-than-flattering underwear you’re wearing beneath it. You look like home, in every sense of the word.

“You know…” Carmy starts lowly, swiping at the tip of his nose with his thumb. “For a while there… I kinda thought I was done with all this…”

Your spoon slows as it slides along the bottom of the pan. “…What do you mean?”

“Cooking,” he answers. “There was a stretch where I couldn’t even look at a stove without… hoping it would blow up.”

He laughs at himself, though, admittedly, the words sound slightly more concerning leaving his lips than they did in his head. He swallows hard, grateful when you don’t press him on the matter. You just eye him with a carefulness that makes him shift his weight on his bare feet — uncomfortable at being so foreignly vulnerable.

He crosses his arms over his chest in a childlike attempt to hide, scratching along the expanse of his bicep. “Yeah, I, uh… I just— didn’t enjoy it anymore. I didn’t enjoy anything anymore.”

“What changed?” you press gently.

“You came around,” he confesses. “And I watched you learn to love it again— have fun again, and it made… realize why I loved doing what I do.”

Your mouth lifts in a sheepish half-smile. You turn away, grinning wide at the pot of dark chocolate below as it ripples beneath the spoon.

“Well, I probably wouldn’t have learned to have fun again if I didn’t start working at The Bear…” you tell him. “It’s very likely I would’ve stopped baking altogether. I mean, Copenhagen was great and all, but… you, and Syd, and Richie— watching all of you work… I feel like I could do this forever…”

Carmy’s eyes soften as he watches you. A strange emotion surges warmly through his chest and up into his throat. He feels like he could cry.

“Yeah,” he hums, half-strangled. “Me too…”

Your smile turns shy when you look back at him, nodding your head to beckon him over. “C’mere. Come try this.”

Carmy obeys instantly, as if every muscle and bone in his body was made to be under your command. You twist the spoon to gather the liquid chocolate and hold it out toward him, cupping your free hand beneath it to catch any rogue drizzles. Carmy’s pink mouth parts for a taste — the syrup is warm on his tongue, silky and rich as it coats his mouth.

A low sound of approval sounds in the back of his throat. His damp curls sway as he nods.

Your smile widens instantly, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Yeah?”

“Mm,” he hums. “Hell yeah.”

His smile falters slightly when your free hand reaches suddenly towards him. Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, gathering the bit of chocolate lingering on the corner there. You press the pad of it to his lips without thinking, and Carmy drags his tongue against it just the same.

The motion was more instinctive than not. He didn’t realize how charged the moment was until your eyes flickered with it — going glassy and heavy in an instant. Even still, you don’t part from his stare as you bring your hand to your mouth, licking the remnants of chocolate on your thumb that was more of Carmy’s spit than anything.

Carmy’s ocean eyes darken in a flash. The cynical, uncertain thing that lingered in him like a shadow seemed to vanish, as his racing heart lurched with an emotion that bordered on primitive. He decides not to think — to follow his instinct, as it were.

He ducks down to kiss you, hard, with the bridge of his nose smushing against the side of yours and his tongue licking into your mouth.The spoon in your hand clatters hopelessly to the tile floor when he urges you back against the counter with a pair of wide hands splayed along your waist.

Behind you, the chocolate continues to simmer.

V. SPICED PEARS.

The first time Carmy had tasted any part of you was at Ever.

It wasn’t long after Mikey died, and he was making his tour around the city to try new food — seeing what changed and what hadn’t — and trying to take his mind off all the rest. He sat alone at a small square table, finishing up his lemon chicken piccata, when another plate was slid suddenly in front of him.

“Oh, I— I didn’t order this,” he stammered.

Then his eyes lifted to find Chef Terry standing before him, with a smile much gentler than he remembered.

“This one’s on the house,” she’d told him. She did not mention the death of his brother, but Carmy knew that was likely why she came over. “Figured you might appreciate something with a wee bit of alcohol in it. I had our pastry chef whip it up for you—” Her eyes flickered with warmth at the mention of you, who Carmy had not yet met. “I’m quite proud of that one.”

She left him with a pat on the back and nothing more. Carmy eyed the dessert before him, studying it.

The burnished bronze pastry sat on the small plate ahead of him like a tiny piece of architecture. The caramel on the ridged exterior gleamed in the candlelight. The shell cracked audibly beneath his fork, a delicate snap that most chefs spend weeks trying to perfect. The inside yielded immediately — golden custard oozing from its center.

Carmy scooped a bite into his mouth, and his world stopped for a fraction of a moment.

The deeply caramelized sugar hit his palate like a memory; a taste of nostalgia accompanied by a satisfying crunch. The silken custard melted on his tongue, rich with vanilla and warm with dark rum. A brittle shell followed by an impossibly soft heart.

Carmy thought, at the time, that it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

But it wasn’t.

—

You were.

His face burns hot between your thighs, which tremble on either side of his flushed cheeks from your previous orgasm (that he gave you with two of his fingers, a lot quicker than you’re willing to admit to.)

“Can you take another?” he’d asked, right after pulling his hand out of your underwear and licking your cum off his fingers, which glistened down the knuckle. You whined at the sight of it, half-scared at the warmth still lingering in the pit of your stomach. “C’mon. Let me taste it, yeah?”

You lift your head from the pillows to watch the boy slink down your body, still wearing all of his clothes despite you lying half-naked in the center of his unmade bed. He slides your panties to the side with a pair of tattooed fingers and licks a fat stripe up your pussy, from your pulsing hole to your already sensitive clit.

Your whine fills the lamplit bedroom as your hips buck to follow him.

Carmy pulls off wearing a barely-there half-smile. “Good?” he asks, for the hundredth time or so since you started.

“Yes…” you moan, head tipped back.

And then he starts eating you. Like eats you, eats you — with his mouth wide and his broad nose smushed into your clit. He’s led by nothing more than primal emotion and pure instinct as he laps all the honey you leak for him. The lewd wet noises of his mouth are only slightly muffled by your contented sighs and his own moans, as he rocks his hips against the mattress in a feeble attempt to relieve the ache in his boxers.

Your fingers tighten in his wild curls, as though you mean to pull him off of you, though your hips chase his tongue all the same. His lips latch on your clit, sucking the delicate button, and you cum with a drawn-out sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. He pushes your knees to your chest with a pair of wide hands to milk the orgasm from your pulsing confines.

“No— No more,” you whine feebly, watching with a pained sort of look as he continues licking at you. “It’s too much, Carm—”

“Just let me taste it, baby,” he says, half-muffled against you.

He’s wearing your glittering cum down to his chin when he crawls back up your body. It’s a mess of awkward, tangled limbs as you drag his sweatshirt up his torso from the hem while he reaches into his nightstand for a condom (a feat made more difficult by the fact that the box is still wrapped in its plastic). He kneels between your thighs, open and wet, and tucks his heavy balls under the hem of his plaid boxers.

You watch him as he rips the foil open with his teeth and rolls the latex on. Your eyes trail down his tattooed torso — over the sparse brown hair along his sternum and down to where it trails along his stomach in a thin line. His cock is heavy in his fist, glowing crimson with desire at the tip and leaking drops of pearly-white.

You should tell him that it’s been a while for you — long enough that you’re not sure if you can take something so thick — but you don’t want to stop the momentum you have going, not even for a second. You just curl your arms down and over his shoulders, palms splayed along his sweat-slick back, and fall back with him when he leans down over you.

His gold chain brushes your chest as he ducks down to open his mouth against yours. He rolls his hips forward and back, gliding his cock through your velvety folds, before piercing you fully.

There’s a fleeting, burning sensation as your cunt stretches around him — which quickly floods into a warmer, fuller feeling when he’s seated fully inside you, with his tuft of coarse hair pressed mercilessly against your throbbing clit.

“Oh, fuck—”

Carmy’s words sound less pleasured and more terrified.

Your eyes snap open. You catch a mere glimpse of his profile as his lips smudge along your burning cheek. “You okay?” you ask through panted breaths.

“Y-Yeah. I just—” The words come out strangled and half-muffled against your neck. “It’s just… been a while for me. I can’t— I can’t move.”

A delirious grin tugs at your mouth. You rake your nails gently along the expanse of his spine, until he shivers on top of you. “You can move, Carm,” you tell him.

He laughs breathlessly, though it comes out more like a punched-out breath. “I can’t, babe. I— I really can’t.”

“It’s okay if you’re close,” you murmur gently, smearing your lips along his flushed cheek. “You already made me cum— twice. This is about you feeling good, too, you know?”

Carmy makes a strangled noise, as if your words had hit him physically somehow. He lets himself go at your permission to feel good and rolls his hips against you. There is little rhythm or precision to his thrusts. They’re shallow and quick and a little sloppy, never pulling all the way out, as he buries his moans into your neck. The bed creaks below you like it might break.

“Fuck,” he groans like it hurts him, like he’s half-scared of his own orgasm.

“That’s it...” you coo in his ear. “I know you’re close, Carm. It’s okay. Just cum for me—”

“Fuck!” It comes out like more of a whimper this time, because he’s trying to calculate how long it’s been — two minutes, if that — but his brain’s too fogged and his stomach is starting to cramp from how hard he’s tensing to keep the feeling going a little longer.

Carmy doesn’t warn you when he cums. Not that you need him to. His heavy body just tenses on top of you, forearms shaking beside your head. You exhale a contented sigh when you feel him pulsing inside of you. “There it is…” you whisper in his ear. “Give me all of it, bear. C’mon. Doing so good for me…”

As your hands rub soothingly along his spine, you feel his bare shoulders shaking a little harder than before. It’s like he’s laughing to himself, or crying maybe. Then you feel something warm and wet drip along your neck.

“Bear?”

“Fuck—” He clears his throat when his voice breaks, lifting one hand to wipe at the tear running down the bridge of his nose. He laughs wetly at himself. “Fuck, I’m so lame. I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you whisper, as if anything too loud might break him.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he assures you, sniffling as he pulls slightly off of you. “It was just— a lot, you know?”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“I wasn’t lying when I said it’s been a while for me.”

“Wow,” you hum sarcastically. “You’re telling me the anxious-avoidant chef who keeps his jeans in his oven isn’t absolutely drowning in ass? In this… very illustrious bachelor pad?”

His laugh is more humorous this time. “Fuck you.”

“You already did,” you remind him with a cheeky grin. “Unless you’re askin’ for round two— which I’m not opposed to.”

His mouth twitches into a more sincere grin. His glassy eyes soften further as they dart across your features, memorizing the wrinkles beside your squinted eyes and how your smile sits a little crooked to the left.

He shakes his head, ocean eyes still a little wet, as he smooths his fingers over your temple to brush away an invisible strand of hair there. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

“Oh, but what a sweet, sweet way to go,” you croon as he ducks down over you again.

But if loving you is a slow death, why does kissing you taste like salvation?

if you made it this far, thank u so much! pls let me know what you think and reblogs are always appreciated! here's a virtual forehead kiss for me to you *mwah*!!!

[reidsmemory]

so perfect!!! captured carmy perfectly and ofc richie (secretly my fav)

and omg the taste thing… ur so right for that 🙂‍↕️ loved this!

[ceriseangels]

𝗠𝘆 𝗠𝗮𝗻'𝘀 𝗙𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝗛𝗶𝘀 𝗗𝗲𝘃𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗛𝗲'𝘀 𝗚𝗼𝗻𝗲? 𝗚𝗼𝗱 𝗢𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄𝘀…- 𝗠.𝗥.

Pairing- Michael Robinavitch x Pedes Specialist!Reader (PART TWO)

WC- 5.8k

Summary- Robby's let the first two months of your relationship pass by in a blink. When this realization dawns on him, he runs. (PART ONE)

Contains- 18+ SMUT MDNI, angst to smut to fluff, unprotected p in v, r hits robby's chest in frustration (he loves it), lowkey toxic but they're fine, oral (m and f receiving), grinding on robby's nose supremacy, unrealistic refractory period for our peepaw here <3 he just loves u so much and immediately got hard again <3, lowkey the switchiest couple i've written

A/N- this was not originally supposed to be a two parter. c'est la vie. divider from @cillmequick!

A harsh ray of sunlight wakes you from your stupor. You squeeze your eyes tight, blindly flailing your hand around for your phone. You knock over approximately three things on your night stand in your pursuit, but come up successful, the blue light burning into your tired gaze.

You sift through your morning notifications, your heart sinking the further you go. You see a horde from Trinity, Dennis, and Victoria- recaps and photos of the night prior, spent at the bar, indulging in less than wise choices.

They make you smile, despite your pounding hangover, and the sinking of your heart the further you go. As much as you love to hear from your friends, you still haven't heard from the one person you want to talk to the most.

You want to whine and pout about your hangover and have him make you tea. You want to tell him about the man that wouldn't leave you and Trinity alone, want to hear him growl and feel him tighten his arm around your waist.

But, Robby left. He left you.

You remind yourself of this awful fate, managing to swing your legs down the side of your bed. You throw your arms over your face, letting out a long groan, desperate to muster the strength to sit all the way up.

Your stomach lurches when you do, and you have to will yourself to hold down the contents of last night. Gripping your middle, you squeeze your eyes shut for a second time, swallowing thickly.

Rubbing the sleep out of your eye, you pad into the bathroom. You're groggy as you move through your morning routine, though the cold water cleansing your face is more than welcome.

You're patting your face dry when your phone buzzes. Your heart drops, hesitant to look. You can't conceptualize it not being Robby, but then again, you can't wrap your brain around it actually being him. Though he's all you can think about, you have no idea what you'd even say.

Your fingers shake as you reach for the device, mouth dry as the screen lights up.

Robby: Are you okay?

Your head jerks back, not sure what you'd expected from this message. It wasn't this, that's all you know.

Your brain whirs, spotty memories of the night before filling in the puzzle pieces of this message.

You go back to the Uber, the sinking of your heart as the night dwindled to a close. To stumbling through the door last night, to crying with yet another bottle of tequila.

Your eyes go wide when you remember what came after that. You're a fool, if only for a brief moment, and hope you're just misremembering. Thumb shaking, you pull up your call log, and your fears are confirmed.

Robby (19 outgoing calls)

Your heart sinks. 19 times. You're drunk dialed him 19 times. Embarrassment is a spider creeping up your spine, sinking its legs in deep, poisoning your veins.

Shaky fingers try desperately to type up…something. Your mind goes blank as you stare at the blinking cursor. Instead, your thumb hovers over his contact, pulling up his location.

The cabin, of course. You roll your eyes as you lock your screen, placing it back down on the counter.

You leave it there, padding out into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. An old t-shirt of Robby's hangs loose off your shoulders, a baggy pair of sleep shorts hugging your hips.

A familiar impulse brews deep in your belly, one that's screaming at you to make it right. It wars with your raging anger, the part of you that knows you have nothing to fix, that this is all on him.

Still, your teeth nibble away at your thumbnail, the urge to hop in your car and drive the 45 minutes to his secluded mid-life-crisis cabin a dull ache in your tummy.

If you strip away your hurt, your pride, you just want to see him. As embarrassing as it feels, not seeing his face first thing this morning hurt more than you care to admit.

So, you swipe your keys off the table by the door, and go.

- The drive out of the city was chaotic at best, Pittsburgh drivers encouraging an endless spew of expletives from your lips. The insanity of the urban road still does not deter you from a drive-thru coffee.

Your hungover self justifies a big, greasy bagel sandwich, too. It's like something from a shitty rom-com, the way you one-handedly steer, sunglasses resting on your nose, hair up in a messy bun.

Once you're out of the city, on the open road, you begin to practice. It feels a bit corny- you, a fully grown adult, rehearsing an improvised script in order to talk to your situationship. It feels like high school all over again.

Except in high school, you were at least begging for common decency from idiot teenage boys. Not a middle aged man with double the relationship experience.

Various scenarios play out in your mind as you maneuver the winding roads. Many of them involve you getting the last word, ending with him in tears and on his knees, begging you to forgive him.

The reality-based part of your brain, though, is a bit more goal oriented. You rack over all the possible choices you have based on how he's made you feel- talk, scream, cry, throw. Only one of those feels rational, and you force the mature answer upon yourself.

"Communication is the cornerstone of a relationship," you whisper to yourself.

It's a quote from your therapist, who'd dropped this nugget of wisdom as you'd been sprawled out on her couch, unstoppable tears streaming as you'd recounted all you knew about Robby. The pain, grief, and trauma, but also the love, joy, and whimsy.

You'd struggled to reconcile both men, and just as you'd gotten used to it, he'd ripped it out from underneath you like you were nothing more than cheap silverware.

Nevertheless, you're going to talk to him, because whether you like it or not, you're pretty sure you've fallen in love with him. Or maybe you have been the whole time.

Applauding yourself on the growth, you list different points in the empty car. You rattle off how hurt you are, how he needs to talk to you instead of running away. How he needs to bridge the old Michael into this new one, how he needs to let you dance with him in the darkness.

It's only when you pull up to his long, winding driveway, that it dawns on you. What if he doesn't want to see you? Embarrassment burns in your stomach at the idea, bubbling like hot oil. You feel selfish, foolish, imposing.

Though you tease him, you know how important this place is to him. It's a safe haven for him, the quaint little cottage on the water. What if he wants some distance from you, and that's why he's here? He did, essentially, break up with you, of course.

What if you're taking up space that he didn't offer?

Just as you're about to shift the gear into reverse, his front door opens. Slamming on the brakes, the car jerks forward, your head cartoonish as it bobs with it.

You catch a small smile spread on his lips, and you take a moment to soak in the sight of him.

It's still technically morning, around 11, so it's not unfeasible for him to still be in his sleepwear.

Thank God he is, you think, as you trail down the worn-in, ratty band t-shirt you love to steal, the boxers hanging loose on his hips. Teeth sinking into your lower lip, your hand finds the door handle, swinging it open before you can talk yourself out of it.

The walk from your car to his porch steps was quiet, a bit awkward, save for the clack of your shoes against the cobblestone.

"What did I say about driving with those things on?" He asks, and you're thankful for the icebreaker. It takes you out of your previous panic. It's just Robby, you remind yourself. Dr. Robby. Your Robby.

"That the amount of flip flop related car crashes you see each year can't and shouldn't outweigh the convenience of not having to tie shoe laces," you deadpan, staring right at him, finally at eye level.

"Wow, so you do listen to me," he quips back.

You roll your eyes, despite the butterflies threatening your stomach.

"Only sometimes," you whisper, sneaking past him into the house.

He shuts the door behind you, and you kick your shoes off, sending them flying across the hardwood. You practically feel his eye roll, and you turn back to him with your hand propped on your hip.

Neither of you know what to say quite yet, your teeth once again seeking your lip. The longer the silence lets on, the thicker the tension gets. It's dense, practically swimmable. But you refuse to crack first. Not when he was the one who left.

"How was your night?" He starts.

All you can do is shrug, heart beating at a rapid pace. The resounding headache you thought you'd fought off with caffeine reappears, throbbing against your skull.

Pressing your fingertips into your temples, you massage the skin there until your eyes drift closed, an exasperated sigh falling from your lips.

"That good, huh?" He teases, and something in you snaps.

"Don't joke around with me like nothing's happened," you retort.

His reaction to your words is physical, a recoil that sends him even further away from you.

"I'm sorry," he replies. And then it's silent again.

"For what?" You ask. The question hangs heavy between you two.

He throws out a hand, as if to say, 'what do you think?'

Arms crossed over your chest, you quirk a brow, prompting him further.

"I'm sorry I ran, okay?" He barks, and you flinch. "Is that what you want to hear?"

Your bottom lip trembles, the familiar sting of tears burning. Shaking your head, a sardonic scoff escapes your lips.

"Not like that, asshole," you mutter, rolling your eyes. "God," you groan out in frustration. "I'm so sick of crying over you, Michael."

It comes out as a whisper, the shameful words toppling from your mouth.

He shifts at this, his brows furrowing.

"You've been crying?" He asks, and you want to slap him.

"Well!" You start, throwing your hands up in frustration. "You left me. You left before we were even dating. Hell, you're not even my boyfriend"

"You wanted me to be your boyfriend?" He asks, and his use of past tense is a pang that pushes past your irritation.

"What do you think, Michael, really?" Your voice is controlled as you breathe through your nose, exhaling out your mouth.

He says nothing, and the tears finally push over, streaking down your cheeks.

"Robby," you sigh, thumb and forefinger finding the bridge of your nose. He flinches at the use of his nickname, and you don't have it in you to feel bad. "I had this entire speech planned, too. Practiced in the car and everything."

He emits a sad laugh at this, and the sound is enough to make you crumble.

"But now that I'm here, that I'm looking at you…" you trail off, really taking him in. You're not sure when you'll see him like this next. If.

"It's all out the window," you croak. "I just-" you drop your purse on the ground, the tinfoil from your breakfast sandwich rolling across the ground.

"I don't know what to do, Michael. You're the only person I want to talk to," you lament, tears flowing at a steady pace, now. "Like yesterday, Trin said something so funny, and all I wanted to do was run and tell you."

He softens at this confession, his brows creasing, brown eyes shining. Your mouth keeps running.

"I cried into a goddamn bottle of tequila when I got home!" You throw your hands up at the ridiculousness of it all. "Like, what's wrong with me!"

"I love you," he whispers.

The world stops on its axis as you take in his words, his Adam's apple bobbing with a thick swallow. Mirroring his actions, your mouth is dry and there's a faint ringing in your ears.

Your heart sits at the bottom of your stomach, vision going spotty.

"What?" You breathe out, brows knitting together.

"I love you," he repeats, more sure of himself this time. "I know saying this makes me a dick, but-"

He doesn't make it much further, as you're striding across the room, no game plan in sight. You stop shortly before him, looking up at his large, looming frame. Both your chests heave, your lips pursed in annoyance.

A hand comes up, swatting his pec. He just smiles, silent permission for you to let it all out. A few more hits fly from your hands, slapping against his shoulders, his chest, his collarbone.

He's sturdy, taking what you give him. Deep down, you know he's thankful you're giving him anything at all.

This reminder allows you to relent, tears still spilling as your arms slow. His fingers circle your wrists, pulling you close to him as you cry into his chest.

"Why did you do that to me, Michael?" You ask. "Why did you run away?"

He sighs, your body caving with his. He buries his nose into your temple, a deep breath inflating his belly.

"I was scared," he starts, and you try desperately to stave off disappointment. "It's a shit excuse, I know. It's actually not an excuse, at all."

You feel his own chest shake, and you tighten your grip around him.

"I can't remember the last time I felt this way about someone. I was scared you'd get hurt in the long run, so I decided to rip the band-aid off," he explains.

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears falling onto his shirt.

"That's so fucking stupid, Michael," you whine into the fabric of his shirt. " I know you. D'you know that? I've been there on your worst days- on the Fourth, when Adamson died," he tenses at your words, but you keep going.

"I'm a big girl, I can make my own choices" you mutter, the pet name prompting him to rake his fingers up and down your back. You shiver, and keep going. "I know who you are, and I still want you, do you hear me?"

Delicate fingers cup his jaw, forcing his eyes to meet yours. Sad shadows dance in his irises, your heart churning.

He nods, glassy brown irises steely.

"You really want me?" He asks, and the uncertainty in his voice makes you shiver.

"Of course. Do you want me? Because. last I checked, you totally dumped me," there's a sad lilt to your voice, and you feel him exhale against you.

"Of course I do," he mutters, pressing your face back into his chest, punctuating it with a kiss to the top of your head. "I love you, honey."

"You didn't really do a great job at showing it," you mumble, a sniffle itching your nose.

He melts at this, squeezing you tighter, whispering and shushing and cooing.

"I'm sorry, my sweet girl," he breathes, and you shake with a sweet cry. "Ohhh, you poor thing."

He presses another kiss to your head, then another, and another, and you can't help but revel in his touch.

"Michael, in order for this to work, you can't do that again. Do you understand?" You pull your head off his chest, looking deep into his eyes.

They're sad, scared, but honest. He nods, his own tears falling.

"Say it," you whisper, his face achingly close.

Your lips graze over each other's, soft sniffles echoing between you.

"I won't leave. Ever again. I promise, baby," he whispers, and closes the gap between you.

Draping your arms over his neck, you allow yourself to succumb to his touch. His hands run down your back, a cheeky grasp pinching your backside.

He melts into you immediately, bringing his arms around you to pull you even closer. Reaching under your thighs, he lifts you up, legs wrapping around his waist.

"I love you," you whisper, kissing all around his face. "Even when you are a huge dick."

He laughs at this, your own lips peppering down his neck. His groan vibrates through his throat, and it's a bit ticklish.

"'m gonna do better, I promise," he whispers against your mouth, hands massaging at the plush skin of your thighs.

"Prove it, Mikey," you moan. "Make it up to me, baby."

He flops you down onto the couch, a squeal escaping you as he rounds the corner.

He pulls his t-shirt off, and you arch your back off the couch. Lifting your arms up, you reach for him, pinching your fingers together to summon him quicker.

He smiles. It's familiar- loving, but condescending in the way his eyes darken at your need.

"Y'missed me, baby?" He asks, and you melt at his soft tone.

A ferocious nod shakes your head, and he chuckles. Grabbing your ankles, he slides you closer to him, lifting your legs as far apart as you'll let him.

"Missed you so much," you mumble, too turned on by the hair dusting his round tummy to feel embarrassed by how quickly you folded.

He brings your ankle up to his shoulder, pressing sweet kisses there, moving his open mouth up your calf, to your thigh. The closer he gets to your center, the hotter the pit in your belly burns.

Your leg dangles over his shoulder as he continues his work, slowing down considerably as he approaches the spot you both need him most.

"I'm gonna make it up to you properly, baby," he whispers, sinking his teeth into your soft skin. You squeal, and he places an apologetic kiss to the impacted skin.

"Promise I'm gonna treat you so good," he continues, inching up closer and closer. "Just gotta let me do this first, yeah? Gotta say sorry the best way I know how."

The confession hurts your heart, and you reach up to grab his hand. Interlacing your fingers with his, you bring his gaze down to yours for a moment.

"Hey," you mutter. "You need to give yourself more credit," you tell him. The tone shifts, and uncertainty flashes through his gaze.

"Sure, I'll tell Jefferson," he tries to laugh it off, but you give him a small swat on the ass. "Hey!" He quips, and you roll your eyes.

"Baby, 'm serious. As good as you are at this," you nod your head towards your conjoined bodies. "You're good with your words, too. You need to use them for the better more often."

He presses his lips together at this, his big brown eyes suddenly glossy. You smirk, lifting your leg closer to him again.

"But, for now…" you drag, looking up at him through your lashes. "Are you going to eat my pussy, or what?"

This springs him into action, his large hands lifting your butt off the couch, your shorts sliding off soon after. He's on his stomach, next, lifting your legs over his shoulders as he settles between you.

His breath fans over your core, and you let out a sweet whine. He presses a loving kiss overtop your panties, your hips involuntarily grinding up toward him.

A brattier whimper falls out of your mouth when he presses down on your pelvis, making sure your body stays still on the couch.

His big fingers maneuver your panties aside, an elongated groan leaving him.

"Baby," he grumbles, brows furrowed. "Babybabybabybaby," he coos, sliding your panties the full way down.

He presses a sweet kiss to your clit, a soft 'ah!' escaping you You feel him smile against you, and you wiggle your hips ever so slightly.

He presses down once again, a quiet, 'be good,' leaving his lips. You oblige, and he dives in.

He drags your wetness from your hole to your clit, flicking his tongue against your most sensitive spot. Head falling back onto the couch, you tangle your fingers in his hair.

He groans as you give a light tug, delving his tongue into your hole. A gasp spills from you, hips grinding up to meet his face. This time he's a bit harsher, flat palms now pressing you down hard, legs flying over his shoulders.

"I said," he starts, lifting up your backside and swatting you between words, "stop," smack, "moving," smack, smack, smack.

A pathetic squeal flies out of you, a sweet "Michael," accompanying your whines.

"I know, honey, I know," he coos, lapping at your center, fingers keeping a relentless pace on your clit. "How you feelin', hm?"

"Close," you gasp, and the tip of his nose nudges your button. "Michael!" You gasp out, grabbing his hair to keep him there, rubbing his nose right into your most sensitive spot.

"Ooooh, baby, that's it, yeah?" he murmurs, wiggling his nose further into you, two fingers diving in to stretch you out.

You gasp, legs beginning to shake around him.

"Yes," you gasp, "fuck your nose feels so good."

"Y'gonna use my nose to get you off, baby? You love me that much?" He asks, the sharp point of his nose creating a delicious friction that has your insides tightening.

"I love you, Michael, oh God, please make me cum," you rasp out, and he chuckles.

"You got it, angel, let go," his permission snaps the coil in your belly.

A fiery orgasm rips through you, your veins aflame with pleasure. Arching your back off the couch, Michael's name spills from your lips like a prayer, sweet, sultry, and desperate.

Robby works you through your orgasm until you're clenching around his head, your telltale sign that it's becoming too much. He pulls off of your pussy with sweet, quiet, 'okay, okay, okay's, sitting up on his knees.

He's hard. It's the first thing you see when your vision clears. Mouth watering, you reach up for his boxers before he puts his hands atop yours.

"Ah, ah, ah," he tuts, and you look up at him with wide, sad eyes.

"Mikey…" you whine, lip jutting out in a sweet pout.

He leans down and kisses it off, but it still doesn't improve your mood.

"Want your cock, Mikey," you moan, tugging his boxers lower and lower.

"Y'gonna get it, don't worry, angel. 's just, if you suck me off I'm gonna cum, and I want to wait until I get inside you," he tells you.

You don't care.

Continuing to pull his waistband down lower, he springs out, and you nearly drool. He's thick, heavy, tip red and leaking. Sitting up, you're eye level with his pretty cock.

You tell him so, hand coming up to wrap around him. He twitches in your hand at the compliment, and you coo, pressing a sweet kiss to his tip.

"Oooh, I forgot how much you like being called pretty, huh Mikey?" You tease, your hand speeding up just a touch.

"Baby, 'm gonna cum," he whines, and you smile.

"Do you want me to stop? Because I'll wait for you. Maybe I'll just have to ride your nose this time to get you hard agai- mmph!"

Your words are muffled, his large hand cupping the back of your head, shoving his cock in your mouth.

You swallow him in with ease, his tip hitting your throat in record time. Hollowing your cheeks around him, his head falls back with a throaty groan. Hands reaching up, you scrape your nails lightly against his balls, causing him to stutter.

"Holy fuuuuuck," he growls, hips thrusting into your mouth.

Pulling off of him, there's a string of spit connecting your mouth with his cock. The sight is nearly obscene, and you can feel yourself practically soaking his expensive couch beneath you.

You look up at him through your lashes, your hand still working his considerable length. Spreading your legs slightly, your fingers find your clit with rehearsed ease.

"Babyyyy," he whines. "Fuck, I love you. Thank you so much for being here with me, oh God, oh God," his groans are shaky, voice cracking.

"Gonna make yourself cum again?" He asks, and you nod, picking up the speed.

"Fuuck, you're so fucking perfect. My big dick on this tongue makes you so wet you gotta rub your pussy?" He spells it out, and you know he loves this. The validation it gives him, the praise.

You tap his cock against your tongue, a sweet, 'yes sir,' falling out of your lips before taking his tip back into your mouth. His hips stutter, but your gaze tell him to stay put. He listens, because of course he does, and you give him sweet little kitten licks along his head as a reward.

Dipping your tongue into his slit, his salty precum coats your tongue. You close your eyes, a depraved hum rumbling low in your throat.

"God, you're fuckin' nasty," he groans, hands now on the back of your head.

Taking him further, you feel your saliva pool around him, dripping below you both. It falls onto your pussy, and you use the extra lubricant to get you closer to your own edge.

Robby twitches on your tongue, and you know he's close. His tip in your mouth, you bob your head as you move your hand up and down his shaft. A loud groan spills from his lips, and he catches his breath as he spills his load.

You stick your tongue out, letting him see how you collect his seed. The weight of his cum on your tongue mixed with his heated gaze is enough for you to find your own release.

Your fingers speed up through your orgasm as you close your mouth and swallow. He kisses you through it, and you love how little he cares about tasting himself.

You dart your tongue into his mouth, and they dance together as you come down. He pulls away to let you find your breath, chests heaving against each other's.

"Jesus fucking Christ, baby," he groans, placing a sweet kiss to your forehead. Nevermind that you're both sitting in the aftermath of your two orgasms.

It's not long before his hands are scooping you up, and you let out a surprised squeal. Your body's limp as he carries you, and he shows no signs of struggle carrying your dead weight.

"Mikey," you whimper, your sensitivity at an all time high.

"I know honey, I'm gonna fuck you. I told you," he murmurs. "Wasn't gonna do it on my couch. Need you comfy."

Your heart swells at his words, and you let him carry you. He places you gently on the bed, his hands lifting your shirt over your head.

His hands spread your knees apart as he kneels between them. A gentle hand strokes up and down your inner thigh, and you shiver each time he gets close to where you want him most.

"'m still gonna need a minute, baby," he whispers.

"That's okay," you smile sweetly. "Remember, I know you. Don't gotta explain yourself to me."

He nods his head, eyes glossing over once more. He bites his lip, but the tears come anyway.

You shush him, opening up your arms for him to come join you. He relents, lowering his body onto you as you wrap yourself around him. He loves his koala time, even if he'd never admit it.

His softening length slots against your folds, nudging your clit just a little. You shake. still sensitive from the orgasms already ripped from you today.

He brushes his hand down the back of your hair, smoothing it down and pressing sweet kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your nose.

You pull him in with a long, sensual kiss that has him groaning against you. His tongue slides in to taste yours, and you use his relaxed state to get him on his back.

Your nails lightly graze the hair on his tummy as you settle over his lap. He lets you maneuver him, head flopping back on the pillow. Reaching down to his sweet face, you peel his glasses off.

His hands grip your hips as you lean over, putting them on the night stand. He lets a hand crack on your ass as you lean, and though you squeak, you knew it was coming.

Once you rest back onto his thighs, he's fully hard again. You're impressed, the lift in your brows telling him such. He blushes as your nails scrape down his chest.

"You're just that pretty," he murmurs, and you press a finger to his mouth.

"Thank you, baby," you coo, "but again, no explaining. I love you just the same."

You punctuate this by sinking down onto him, his face going from lovesick to pleasured. His mouth and eyes pinch together as he tenses up, just his head stretching you thus far.

"God, already so much, Mikey. What am I gonna do?" You ask, sinking lower.

He groans at the praise as you continue your descent towards his lap. Fingers tangle in his chest hair as you prop yourself up for leverage, sinking the rest of the way down.

Plopping yourself onto his lap, his hands clasp at your waist, pinching and squeezing your plush skin. Giving yourselves time to adjust, you wiggle your hips slightly before lifting your hips up.

Robby's eyes are trained on yours as you sink back down, his mouth forming a sweet 'o'. You pinch his cheeks in your hand, puckering his lips for you.

"Feel good, Mikey?" You ask, and he nods ferociously. Gripping his jaw, you bring his pouty face to yours, kissing and licking into him. "Good," you whisper, lifting yourself up once more.

He grips your hips, slamming you down onto him harder. He continues to manipulate your movements, bouncing you up and down his cock. Soon after he finds a rhythm, he plants his feet on the bed, thrusting up into you.

Robby's eyes are trained on your tits, their jiggle as he pounds you, occasionally flitting down to watch the way your pussy swallows his cock. You're dizzy, breathless under his gaze.

"That's it, baby, taking me so fucking good," he groans, the wet plap of your ass meeting his thighs echoing through the room.

"So biiig, Mikey, God," you cry, squeezing your eyes shut.

Your body goes limp, allowing Robby to dig his fingers in as hard as he needs, as hard as it takes to work you up and down his cock.

"Yeah? Y'so full? So full, I know, baby," He coos as you nod. "I know, it's so good, so good, baby."

You whimper at his words, pressing your fingertips into his chest so you can control your movements. His hands come up behind his head with a groan, happily letting you take over.

You're hazy as your orgasm approaches, legs shaking once again as your stomach winds tighter and tighter. You clench down on him, blood roaring in your ears as your heart skips.

"'m gonna cum, Mikey, please," you whine, rhythm going sloppy as you near your high.

"Me too, baby, you can do it," he encourages, and you whine.

"I love you, oh God, I love you so much," you whimper, going still as you reach your peak.

He brings you to him for a kiss as he fucks up into you through your orgasm. Clenching down hard on him, he's joining you soon after, spilling his release into your leaking pussy.

Time slows as he works you through it, shock waves racking your sensitive body. His hands find the small of your back, jiggling you on him slightly as you ride out the remainder of your high.

Your pussy pulses around him as you find your breath, his heavy ones echoing off yours. Resting your head on his shoulder, he rubs his palms up and down your back.

"So good, sweetheart, thank you for being so good to me," he punctuates this with a kiss on your shoulder. "For giving me a second chance."

"I love you, Mikey," you whisper, lifting your head up so you can look at him. "But I'm serious about what I said before. You can't leave again. Even when it gets scary, even when it gets hard."

He nods, eyes darting behind you. You grip his jaw, forcing him to look back at you.

"Hey," your voice is stern, and he obeys. "You wanna make this real?" He nods. "Show me, then. We got off to a…fairly good start today," you both chuckle at the insinuation of your words. "But if you want to make this real, this needs to be the norm. Make sense?"

He nods, placing a tentative kiss on your lips. You melt into his touch, pressing your mouth harder onto his.

"Love you," he murmurs against you. "'m sorry, always gonna be so sorry."

"I like the sound of that," you tease, and he snickers.

He pulls you down on top of him, his arms holding you close, his dick still inside you.

It's quiet for a moment, the stillness almost eerie. Robby rakes his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp as your eyes flutter.

Your heart is still beating at an outlandish pace, the giddiness of having Robby near never fully subsiding.

"We can't fall asleep like this," you eventually mutter, and he lets out a soft chuckle.

"Yeah, you're probably right," he replies, a gentle hand pulling him out of you.

You whimper at the loss, placing a sweet kiss to his lips before swinging your leg off his lap.

You cringe at the mix of fluids leaking down your thigh, though Robby doesn't let you stay embarrassed for long.

"You're okay, babe," he quips, following you into the bathroom.

Switching on the shower, the steam fills up the bathroom, allowing your still-slightly hungover head some reprieve.

His gentle hands clean you up, massaging shampoo into your hair, running a soap bar over your skin. It does wonders for you, not only for your post-coital, sweat-ridden body, but to wash the rest of last night off.

"So," Robby starts, moving under the stream to wash his own body. You're not as much help, slinking over to the other side of the shower for your favorite show. "You really cried into a bottle of tequila last night?"

A laugh bursts from your chest, hands reaching up to cup his soapy tummy.

"Yeah, I did," you admit, grazing his hairy, coarse skin. "Alone, too. It was I'd gotten dropped off, and I just wanted you. Tequila was all I had."

He laughs, though it's sad, and pulls you back into him, soap bar be damned.

"'m sorry, baby," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head. "Never gonna leave again, I mean it. I promise."

[reidsmemory]

what doja cat said… 🙈 this was soooo good!