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Many, many, many, many years ago when Carmy was born, he was sent home from the hospital with a stuffed teddy bear, fuzzy-brown, button-eyed and wearing a pair of bright blue corduroy overalls—and Donna would say: just like those eyes, those blue eyes you get from your father, that piece of shit.
Bernie—the bear’s name was Bernie because it was the name that sounded closest to bear and Carmy slept with it tucked into the crook of his arm until he was fifteen.
It was so battered down, frayed and worn with excessive use that it couldn’t be recognizable in its stringy, threadbare state by the time it came to pack Bernie up into the attic and there’s something so beautiful about that, isn’t there?
To love something to pieces, to fragile shreds, love enough to tear it apart and ruin it.
Love enough to hurt it even more by loving—that thin, barely-there line between love and hurt.
Like on the rare occasions their father would materialize back into their lives and Sugar would hold him closely, tucked into the corner of her room while glass broke and furniture tumbled downstairs—whispering whimsy stories into his ear to drown out the yelling that got louder and louder and louder until one year it stopped completely.
Like when Mikey would take him out to the park behind their house when Donna’s tears would trickle down into her glass. He’d push him on the swings and teach him how to climb the trees, splinter by splinter, scrape by scrape, tell him—that’s it little guy, there you go, I gotcha. Always there to catch him when Carmy shakily swung off a branch and into his arms. I gotcha, pal, just let go, let it rip, I’ll catch you.
Like the nights Richie would come over, a pre-packaged bundle of raw energy and misplaced anger, he’d get on Sugar’s nerves and pull out their old records from the basement and make them dance in the living room, spinning Carmy around until he was dizzy enough to throw up onto the carpet.
Like when Donna would have her rare moments of clarity and tenderness, baking cookies with Carmy in the kitchen. She’d teach him how to measure flour and crack eggs, her hands steady for once, her voice soft and warm and nurturing like Carmy went to bed every night praying it would be the next morning.
“You know I love you, right? Right Carmen?” Donna would tell him, pinching his cheek with those long, long wrinkled and manicured fingers covered in flour. “I love you so much, you know, you’re the only thing that keeps me sane in this fucking household.”
And in that tiny voice of his, legs quivering on the step stool because he was too short to reach the counter, Carmy would say—“Yes Ma. I love you too.”
Sometimes Sydney comes off as so young and untainted—free from the slivers of scars Carmy carries from years and years of self-loathing and doing what he alleges to everyone that he loves.
There’s a purity to her passion and there are times where he’s naive enough to want to teach her how to efficiently reduce a sauce, or put his hands atop hers and show her how to properly knead dough so the pasta doesn’t come out gluey and starchy when it's boiled, or or demonstrate the perfect way to julienne a stalk of celery without losing a fingertip.
Like she doesn’t know how to do all of that, and beyond.
As if she isn’t better than him.
So—Carmy calls Claire a week after Friends and Family because according to everyone around him it’s the right thing to do. So he calls her and he apologizes and tells her he’s at fault, that he wasn’t thinking straight, all the things she wants to hear—I was so stressed out, I swear, it was a stressful night and I shouldn’t taken it out on you, yeah, I’m so sorry, Claire, that was such a dick move, I hope you can forgive me, I’m really sorry, I love you too.
And it’s a bit pathetic how quickly she takes him back.
But obviously he doesn’t tell her that.
Because it’s Claire and Carmy, Carmy and Claire, back together , like they were always meant to be because everyone has been rooting for them since they were kids. Childhood sweethearts, those two.
In the end, love always prevails.
There’s a loose braid falling out from the back of Sydney’s scarf—she’s got her hair in a neat top bun and a singular braid hangs free from the rest, swish-swaying against her back as she whips around the kitchen during prep, blonde and curly.
An hour before service, Carmy points it out, says, “There’s a, uh,” he gestures vaguely to the back of his head.
Sydney squints. “What?”
“Your hair, it’s—there’s—”
“ My hair ? What about my hair?” she says, brows arched, justifiably defensive.
“No sorry, I meant—there’s just a braid . A loose one. That’s not in the bun..” Carmy says, skin prickling, and Sydney starts patting at her head with the hand that isn’t holding her knife. “At the back of your head,”
She exhales, “Oh,” and wraps her fingers around the braid, clumsily attempts to squeeze it into her bun and Carmy ignorantly wonders if it would be bad to offer to do it for her but she tucks it in successfully and the case is closed.
“Thanks, Chef,” she tells him, before asking if he can get her a quart of heavy cream from the walk-in.
The thing about Carmy is he’s always been obsessive.
When he was eight he refused to eat anything other than plain spaghetti for dinner for six months straight. It pissed Donna off so much that she eventually stopped making dinner for him altogether, leaving sticky-fingered Carmy to boil his own pasta every night, which resulted in a nasty burn scar on the back of his hand.
He slept with the same fuzzy-brown teddy bear that was given to him the day he was born up until his fifteenth birthday. It was so battered down, frayed and worn with use that it couldn’t be recognizable in its stringy, threadbare state. He still has it, to this day, in one of the unpacked boxes somewhere in his apartment.
In New York he became wrapped up in perfection, like any other Chef, driven by the flawlessness of every dish, the round perfection of a plate, a pressure so sharp and so hot it had him bellowing the contents of his stomach out every morning, every night.
Then—there’s Sydney and the moment she walked into The Beef.
The moment she walked into his life , with her shirt ironed crisp, eyes bright, and tote bag hanging off her shoulder all hey world it’s your girl with a certain edge of hope he felt he'd lost somewhere along the way all those years ago.
And what are the ethics behind that?
The ethics of being obsessed with someone?
Sometimes Carmy wants to tear her open, carefully pick her pieces apart one by one and learn how she works, how she’s built and how she’s wired. A tiny part of his brain warns him about how genuinely psychotic of a thing that is to think about someone—you’re such a freak, that’s so creepy, she’s your fucking coworker who is a human fucking being and you wanna slice her in half like some sort of fucking psycho killer.
But it’s Sydney .
Everyone loves Sydney.
Sydney is curious, always eager to learn and try something new.
She’s quick to defend herself, but just as quick to laugh, even at herself.
She’s confident, but not arrogant, and there’s a genuine warmth in her interactions with everyone, even when they’re in the weeds during service—
How does that work ? How can someone be all those things at the same time?
Right now, she’s tasting a sauce Connor’s been reducing for an hour, a small furrow in her brow as she considers the flavor.
Carmy looks at her from the adjacent counter, a pile of minced mushrooms forgotten on his cutting board.
It’s very elementary—what does she think about when she’s alone? Does she have any scars? Any tattoos? What does she wear to go to bed? How does her body move when she’s dancing? What’s her favorite flavor of ice cream?
She looks up, catches him staring. “You need something, Carm?” she asks, eyes flickering with a too-familiar spark.
“No, Chef,” he says, shaking his head, cheeks heated and surely flushed.
She narrows her eyes at him, but doesn’t say anything, turns back around and starts telling Connor what he could do better.
A few days later Sydney is watching the Faks dramatically act out a cat fight they saw on their way in earlier that morning and Carmy is watching her watch them.
Tina whisks past him, scoffs, “Vas a matar a esa pobre chica con esos ojos radiactivos que tienes!”
Whatever she said barely registers and his reaction is immensely delayed—a simple, “Huh?” on his part as he regains full consciousness.
Claire is warm, soft, and insistent, her touch soothing in a way that, in theory, should be comforting. Because it is comforting. He should want this—and he does . Want her. Claire.
He loves her so much.
Claire doesn’t like it when he goes down on her so he fingers her instead, presses a calloused thumb hard against her clit and fits two curved fingers inside her as she whimpers and shakes beneath him, tangled in the throes of his bedsheets.
Friday nights are The Bear’s busiest nights and he came home, dragged himself through his front door with an itch only passing out on his couch could fix—only to see Claire patiently washing the dishes that have been in his ink for the past week because he gave her a key to the place a few days ago.
And so he smiled, kissed her cheek and asked her how her shift was.
Now, her palms are coiled tightly around his arms, blunty-edged nails digging deep into the skin of his arm. She gasps, “ Carmy —”, hips jolting and back curving off the bed.
Plain-eyed, he statically watches her face contort with pleasure in the same way it always does when she’s like this, her eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent cry.
"Carmy, oh my God , don't stop," Claire breathes out, her voice shaking.
"I won't," he murmurs, focusing on the rhythm of his hand, the way her body responds.
Carmy flicks at her clit, slick and wet as his other hand crawls up her body, grazing her stomach and cupping her breast, pinching harshly at her nipple between his thumb and pointer.
A gasp, a whimper, a moan.
She hooks her leg around his middle.
His jeans are still on.
He watches her closely, noting every reaction, every tremor that runs through her. His movements are precise, almost mechanical, a well-practiced routine.
" Fuck —right there, yes ," Claire gasps, her hips trembling. " please ,"
Carmy draws his hand back, fingers sheeny and pruny, nudges them back in and repeats that motion again and again and again until her body tenses one last time, and she lets out a final, shuddering gasp as she comes apart around his fingers.
She’s a mess—her chest heaving, her skin sweaty and flushed bright, a satisfied smile spreading across her face.
Claire pulls him close, kissing him deeply, murmurs a very one-the-nose, “I love you.”
He responds automatically, his lips moving against hers, “Love you too.” his hands smoothing over her back, dragging down to the meat of her waist where he squeezes into her skin, hard. “Love you.”
“Do you want me to blow you?” she asks him, winces slightly.
“Mhm?” Carmy contemplates distantly. “Nah, I’m good. It’s okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m kinda tired anyway.”
Claire settles against him, her head resting on his chest, her breathing slowing. “Okay,”
He holds her close.
She’s content, happy, and he’s glad he could give that to her.
“Yo, so is she, like, your girlfriend now, or what?” Sydney asks him, swerving around him to get her knife from her bag on the floor.
Carmy’s whipping cream into soft peaks—he glances up. “Who?”
“Man, don’t play dumb. Who do you think?”
“Oh—Claire?”
“Yeah, Claire ,”
Carmy feels a slight flush rise to his cheeks. He tries to focus on the bowl in front of him, the rhythmic motion of the whisk. “I mean, we’re…you know. Figuring things out, or whatever.”
Sydney raises a bushy eyebrow, her hands deftly chopping spinach. “ Figuring things out ? That’s not vague at all. Like, are you guys together or not? Or is it, like, a situationship kinda deal cause that’s kinda fucked,”
“ Situationship —what, no—at least, I don’t think so. I mean, I called her and apologized and now we’re…back together, I guess.”
“Back together?” she whistles. “Wow, Chef, that’s big news. Who would’ve thunk it.”
Carmy sighs, places the whisk down, and he’s a little, just a little bit annoyed. “Is this—is this about last time? C-cause it’s not the same. I’m not gonna run off and forget about… everything .”
She turns to look at him with those eyes, all brown and shiny, her pink wool cardigan hanging delicately off the curve of her shoulder—somehow the brightest, most colorful thing in this apartment. She has a habit of doing that: being the brightest thing in his life. He wonders if she knows how much it means to him.
“I didn’t say it was gonna be like that, Carm.” she tells him quietly. “I—I’m not holding that against you. It’s just...make sure you know what you want. For your sake. And for hers.”
She raises a fist to her chest and rubs a tight circle into her t-shirt.
“I’m happy for you, dude. And I trust that it’s not gonna be like last time.”
He brings his hands up to his hips and looks at the floor, counts to ten and mirrors the gesture.
“Thanks, Syd,” he says, meaning it more than he can express.
She smiles, a small, knowing smile, and goes back to chopping.
It’s in moments like these, Carmy realizes, that she’s his anchor, even if she doesn’t know it.
Or maybe she does.
Whatever.
There’s a recipe Mikey taught him once—the Berzatto family Osso Buco, a rite of passage.
“This is some top secret shit, little guy,” Mikey told him. “can’t go around running your mouth about it.”
4 pieces of veal shank, each piece should be about 2 inches thick.
Salt, pepper.
½ cup of all purpose flour, for dredging.
4 tablespoons of olive oil.
Season the veal shanks generously with salt and pepper. Dredge the shanks in flour, shaking off any excess.
“See that? You really gotta get in there with the seasoning—only salt and pepper though, none of that spice mix shit. Wanna try? There you go, use the tips of your fingers. Hell yeah, buddy,”
1 onion, diced
1 carrot, diced
1 celery stalk, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
In a large, heavy-bottomed pot, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Brown the veal shanks on all sides, about 3-4 minutes per side. Remove and set aside.
“Watch how I’m holding the spatula, okay? Can’t be limp-wristed with it—yeah? And it’s gotta be quick and fast, one and done. Once that’s done you let that side simmer for a bit, ‘til you start to get that nutty smell, right? C’mon, your turn. Just gotta be confident about it.”
1 cup white wine
1 can (14 oz) diced tomatoes
2 cups beef (preferably) chicken broth
1 orange, zest and juice
In the same pot, add the diced onion, carrot, celery, and garlic. Sauté until the vegetables are soft and translucent, about 5-7 minutes. Pour in the white wine, scraping the bottom of the pot to loosen any browned bits. Allow the wine to reduce by half, about 5 minutes.
“What? No, it’s only a little bit of wine. Plus, the alcohol evaporates with the heat, or however it works—barely enough to leave a dent. What? Like Ma? Nah, Carm, buddy, that’s not how wine works. You’re not gonna turn into her by eating this, dumbass.”
1 lemon, zest and juice
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon dried thyme
Gremolata for garnish (optional)
Stir in the diced tomatoes, beef or chicken broth, orange zest and juice, lemon zest and juice, bay leaves, and thyme. Return the veal shanks to the pot, nestling them into the liquid. Bring the mixture to a simmer, then reduce the heat to low. Cover and simmer gently for 2-2.5 hours, or until the veal is tender and falling off the bone. Remove the bay leaves from the pot. Serve the Osso Buco hot, garnished with gremolata if desired.
“You know what Ma used to say when she taught me this recipe? When I was your age? That you had to put a crap ton of heart into, or some shit like that. Because if you’re taught the recipe—holy shit that tastes fuckin’ amazing—if you’re taught the recipe, if it gets passed down to you then you gotta know you’re loved. ‘Cause this recipe, this dish, the flavor —it’s all a part of who we are, where we come from, y’know? And that’s the most fucking important thing of it all.”
Secret ingredient: an overzealous amount of love.
One the train back from a meeting with one of their suppliers, Carmy falls asleep with his head on Sydney’s shoulder. He’s not sure if he imagines it but—Sydney uses one hand to gently comb her fingers through his hair while she scrolls through her phone with the other, Chicago’s skyline rolling by through the window.
He brings Claire around for Family because she’s been asking him for weeks, weeks, weeks—let me properly meet the team, Carm. I wanna know the people you work with.
Connor made his grandma’s Souvlaki with a side of lemon steamed rice and Claire's hand in his feels foreign, out of place.
But she’s smiling—even as she gets accosted by Richie and both Faks and Dani who tells her she loves her hair color and is that natural or box dyed? And that gives Carmy the perfect window to slither away from her.
Carmy steps outside the building, the big chill of the evening air hitting him as he lit up a cigarette. The sun is setting in wispy colorful stripes of pink and orange and yellow and gives everything a fiery tint.
He takes a long drag, exhaling slowly as he leans against the wall, letting the nicotine soothe his nerves.
Claire doesn’t like it when he smokes.
The backdoor opens, then closes loudly. Carmy hears footsteps approaching and turns to see Richie stepping out, hands shoved in his pockets.
Richie leans against the wall beside him, looking out at the city skyline.
"You mind if I join you?" Richie asks, already pulling out his own pack of cigarettes.
Carmy shrugs. "Go ahead."
They stand in silence for a moment, smoking, before Richie speaks up.
“That girl really loves you, huh?”
Carmy takes a moment to respond, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Yeah, she does,"
Richie nods. “And you love her back?”
Heart pounding the fuck out of his chest, like a child that’s been caught with his hand in teh cookie jar, he says—“‘Course I do. I’m not a fuckin’ asshole.”
“Calm your tits man, I’m just asking.” he raises his hands in surrender. “She’s a good one. Ole’ Claire Bear.”
“I know.”
“Good. You gonna keep her?”
Carmy scoffs. “Yeah, whatever.”
Richie puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes—“Don’t be a dick.” he drops his cigarette into a nearby puddle and stamps it out with his shoe before shuffling back inside.
Some talk, Carmy thinks.
He shot himself in the head.
I love you dude.
Let it rip.
I love you dude .
In the end, that hurts more than anything.
“If you could go anywhere in the world right now with anyone you wanted, where would it be and who would it be with?”
It’s just the two of them—him and Sydney, Sydney and him—in the kitchen hours and hours past closing. They’re sharing Marcus’ leftover sea salt olive oil ice cream. Same bowl, same spoon.
Carmy draws a blank, passes the spoon to Sydney. “Huh. I’m honestly not sure.”
“ Really ?” she makes a face.
“Don’t make that face at me,”
“What face?” her nose scrunches and her eyebrows inch together, a ghost of a judgemental smile on her lips. “This is just my face, Carm.”
He laughs, shakes his head. “Fuck you, Syd.”
She spoons some ice cream into her mouth, licks the residue off the spoon and hands it back to him.
Eventually, he says—“I think I’d go back to Copenhagen.”
“Noma?”
He nods. “Yeah—but also just the city, I guess. Some of the less… tumultuous times of my life were back there.”
“Huh. That’s nice.” she looks at the counter. “I’ve never been—to Copenhagen, I mean.”
“That’s why I’d take you. Y’know . You’re the person I would take.”
“Really?” and she says it like it’s a surprise. “Not even Cl— me ?”
“You’re my partner, Sydney. And you’d kill it in Copenhagen.” Carmy’s eyes lock onto hers, the honesty in his words hanging between them.
Sydney yanks the spoon from him and looks down at the bowl of melting ice cream, stirring it slowly.
“That’s... really sweet, Carmy,” she says softly. “I’d like that. I’d like to see Copenhagen with you.”
He watches her, the way her eyes light up at the thought, and for a moment, he lets himself imagine it too. The lights, the people, the food, the calm amidst the chaos—sharing it all with her.
It’s almost midnight and they lock up together and walk the few blocks that it takes to get to Carmy’s because lets her in on the fact that he has rolling paper and weed that was crassly gifted to him for his birthday by Richie.
So, she rolls and he puts on a Bonnie Tyler record and watches the way her fingers move deftly and expertly.
The room is dimly lit by a single lamp in the corner, casting a warm, soft glow over them. Carmy can’t help but admire her focus and precision, a small smile tugging at his lips.
She glances up at him, catching his gaze. "What?" she asks with a slight, airy laugh.
"Nothing," he replies, shaking his head. "Just...you're really good at that."
Like most things.
She’s good at most things.
Sydney chuckles, finishing up the joint and handing it to him. "You learn a lot in culinary school," she jokes.
He laughs, a genuine, easy sound that fills the room.
They move to the couch and he lights the joint, takes a hit, and then passes it to her. As the smoke curls around them, the atmosphere becomes more relaxed, almost intimate.
"I need to talk to you about something," Carmy says, his tone growing serious.
She takes a drag, coughs, then exhales slowly. "What's up?" she asks, looking at him with concern.
He hesitates. "It's about Claire," he finally says, his voice quiet.
"What about her?" Sydney's eyes widen slightly.
Carmy takes another hit, buying himself a few more seconds. "I think—I'm going to break up with her."
The statement hangs in the air between them, heavy and loaded. Sydney looks at him, searching his face for answers. "Why?" she asks softly.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Because...because it's not fair to her. Or to me. I thought being with her would be good, would make everything easier, but—it doesn't. It just feels wrong."
Sydney nods slowly, processing his words. Her knees are drawn up to her chest and she’s wearing mismatched striped socks. "Does she know?"
"Not yet," he admits, searching for an ounce of guilt he can latch onto and feel "I wanted to talk to you first. Get your opinion."
She takes another hit, then hands the joint back to him. "It's your life, Carmy," she says gently. "But if you feel like it's the right thing to do, then you have to do it."
“I really did love her,” he says.
“Sometimes love does more bad than it does good.” she shrugs. “Like—you gotta ask yourself: is it worth loving someone if the only thing you’re getting out of it is pain, shit like that.”
He looks at her, taking her words into account. "Huh. I guess so."
She smiles, a small, reassuring gesture, then—she reaches over and knits their fingers together so that they’re holding hands and it feels so good it almost hurts. "Just, like, be honest with her, okay? She deserves that."
He nods. "I will. I promise."
One time, when he was five, he fell off his bike and skinned his knee into a bloody, mangled pulp.
When he came home, Donna got on his case about ruining the pair of shorts she had just bought him the week before because—“do you know how expensive those were, Carmen? Do you? Do you know how hard I work for you kids, and you go off an act all careless and ungrateful. God, you’re gonna kill me one of these days. You’re gonna fucking kill me.”
And she poured a fourth of rubbing alcohol onto his knee, rubbing it down with a piece of cotton, so harshly that the tips of his fingers turned white as he gripped the edge of the sink.
“I love you so much and you’re gonna kill me. You’re gonna kill me, Carmen, you’re gonna kill me dead.”
One moment, they’re incredibly, very, impossibly baked and drowsily laughing at each other’s stupid jokes. Her hand is somehow still on his, her palm burning and scorching where their skin meets, so hot Carmy tells himself they’re melting and melting and melting together into one.
The next moment—she’s climbed on top of him and he has his lips on her neck, licking and biting and sucking at sweat-muggy and salty-sweet skin, hints of shea butter and vanilla perfume pricking the inside of his nostrils as he breathes her in, breathes in her little cutesy half-gasps half-moans.
It’s sobering .
Sydney grabs a fist of his hair and pulls , from the roots, and Carmy kisses the spot behind her ear, groaning all loud and gravely.
His hands travel to her arms, stroking smooth skin and squeezing hard, firm muscles.
“ Fuck ,” he murmurs, revels in the tremble in his voice as he draws himself away from her so he can take her in—braids still neat in a ponytail, pupils blown and eyes dark, the curve of her neck slick and sheeny where its coated with a thin layer of his saliva.
She’s all jelly in his arms. “The couch is so small,” she says, eyelashes batting and fluttering because she—they both know what she’s doing, what she’s saying.
Carmy cannot deny her of anything, no , instead he counts in his head the amount of steps it takes for them to get from the couch to his bedroom—twenty-eight, because they keep bumping and knocking into walls and corners trying to pull clothes off, undo buttons, unzipping zippers, licking aggressively into each other’s mouths.
It takes another ten for him to lay her down onto his bed, on her back.
Carmy pushes her legs open, crawls between them and thumbs at the seam of her panties—pink and sheer, ruffled at the seams, a wet splotch dampening the middle.
He pulls them down her thighs, feels the material between his fingers. “These are so cute,” and kisses the inside of her thigh.
“ Shut the fuck up ,” Sydney laughs, arm over her eyes.
This time, Carmy counts ten seconds before he’s licking into Sydney’s cunt, grappling ruthlessly at the cheeks of her ass as she pulls and pulls and pulls at his hair.
“ Jesus , Syd—you taste so fuckin’ good,” he moans, briefly pulling away before dipping back in.
Carmy nudges his nose against her clit while tonguing noisily and sloppily at her labia, tangy-bitter saltiness seeping onto his taste buds.
Sydney’s thighs are shaking violently around him, having been reduced to a whining puddle of trembling, short breaths. He looks up at her—beautiful and stunning, head digging into his pile of pillows, body vibrating.
Carmy sighs, “There you go,” brings a hand up to spread her, lets all that musky sticky wetness dribble into his mouth, onto his face. He smacks a kiss to her clit, slurps. “So good for me, so, so good. Pussy so good, absolutely wet just for me,”
He fits a finger into her and Sydney mewls, broken and lovely. “F-fuck, Carm ,” she sputters. “get up here.”
And Carmy shimmies up to her, where they meet face to face as he works another finger into her, leaning down and harshly pressing their lips together and creeping his tongue into her mouth so she can taste herself.
“Such a fuckin’ good girl, Syd,” he pants into her mouth, jacks his fingers in and out of her, thumb teasing her clit. “I want you like this all the time.”
“ Please ,” Sydney babbles, at an apparent loss for words, and Carmy can only laugh, a little mean, and glides back down to get his mouth on her again.
Carmy spits onto her cunt, spreads the saliva around with his tongue, lapping, licking and swallowing.
His free hand goes to paw at her breast, pinching her nipple between his thumb and pointer, smiling when her back arches angelically off the bed.
“Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” Carmy praises, and it’s true—dark and dusky-brown, the inside a squishy dusty pink pink, short hairs growing soft and wiry on her mons. “so perfect, just for me. Need you like this all the time.”
Sydney cants her hips, starts to grind in time with his fingers thrusting into her, skin so luminous and shiny with beads and drops of sweat.
Carmy tells her—“You feel so good around my fingers, Syd,” his eyes are determined and dark as he looks up at her. “wanna make you feel good.”
Sydney lets out a sharp gasp.
Quickly, he leans in to give Sydney a quick kiss into the inner crease of her thigh before restraining himself and pulling his fingers away. Carmy groans as he brings his hand up to his lips, sucks on his fingers just because he can’t get enough of her.
His dick twitches. “ Fuck , Syd—I’m so obsessed,”
Her hands come up to cover her face, her groan muffled. “ Shut up , Carmy. You’re so fucking corny,” she whimpers, but he can hear the slight smile in her voice.
“I could stay here for hours,” Carmy dribbles against her cunt. “you probably wouldn’t complain, would you?”
She shakes her head, braids snaking around the pillows, sweeps a hand back into his hair.
“Yeah, you’re such a slut for it, aren’t you baby?”
A strangled wail, “ Carmy —”
“You like me here between your legs just as much as I do, yeah?” Sydney yanks tightly at his hair and Carmy grins slowly, eyes rolling into the back of his head as his dick throbs and throbs and throbs where it's pressed hard and heavy and hot against the seam of his boxers.
“I’m a slut for it too,” Carmy tells her, licking a line across her pussy. “an absolute whore for you, Syd.”
Sydney's eyes twitch lightly, closing as she gets closer and closer to climax.
Carmy can feel it building up, starts fingering her at a quicker pace, pulling his thumb away from her clit.
“Come on, baby, I know you’re getting close. Wanna hear you tell me what you want,”
“Carmy, please .” Sydney clenches harshly around his fingers.
“You sound so pretty, Syd. Wish I could hear you like this all the time, everywhere I go. So sweet, and gorgeous—please let me hear you, I wanna hear your pretty voice.”
With an aggressive cant of her hips, Sydney garbles something almost unintelligible. “Please, Carmy—wanna come so bad, please ,”
Carmy slips a free hand into the waistband of his boxers, palms at the head of his dick and squeezes. He laps at Sydney like a thirsty dog coming down from a heatstroke, loudly slurps her cunt, fucking her relentlessly with his fingers.
Sydney shrikes and her back peels off the bed once again as he licks her clit. She heaves out, “Wanna ride your face, please ? Let me ride your face,”
“ Fuck —yeah, of course, of course,” Carmy says, voice ecstatic and gooey as his heart thrums furiously in his chest. “Whatever you want Syd,”
In one swift-quick motion, they switch spots—Carmy falls onto his back, finally shoving his underwear off, and Sydney shakily crawls over, swings her thighs over his chest and sits. She’s beautiful up there—braids askew from their ponytail and framing her face as they fall loose over her breasts, eyes glazed and glossed over.
She moves to hover over his face, and grazes her delicate fingertips over the exposed flesh of his arms. Carmy stares up at her, shivering with eagerness.
His hands find her ass and he digs his fingers into the soft flesh there.
“Please, Syd,” he croaks, almost reverently.
“ Oh my God .” she gently lowers herself with a soft cry and Carmy almost comes right then, right there when he finally gets the sweet taste of her on his tongue again.
He flicks his tongue through her folds, teasing her, searching for her clit and aggressively circling it with the tip of his tongue—and he can feel the precum oozing and trickling down the side of his dick, harder than it has ever been as it strains to be touched.
“You feel so good,” she praises in a half-moan. “you eat it so well— fuck ,”
Carmy nudges his nose against her mons, inhaling that dewey-musky scent, splays his hands across her back as her hips start swirling.
“Oh, fuck,” Sydney shivers, and he can tell she’s so, so, so close. “What a good boy. You love eating me out don’t you? You’re gonna make me come so hard, Carm,” she gasps.
Her thighs tremble and then she makes the most beautiful, bewitching sound as she comes on his tongue in wet streams that spritz into his mouth—and Carmy eagerly swallows it all down, eyes pricking with tears while she rocks back and forth, riding it out.
“ Sydney ,” he whimpers.
And she quickly climbs off of him and then there’s a hand wrapping around his dick, stroking slowly, palms warm and sticky with his precum—and embarrassingly enough, it only takes a few seconds of this for Carmy to tip over the edge, coming into her hand, hissing through his teeth when she doesn’t stop.
It slips out so easily—
“I love you,” he babbles. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” and sees stars, and the way Sydney’s face looks when she comes, and the crease between her brow, and hoe her stomach sucks in when she’s gasping.
It’s so good and overwhelming and palatable and when it finally sizzles down, they fall tiredly into each other, his head on her chest, legs tangled while she rakes her fingers through his hair, air clammy and fermented with sex.
Carmy kisses the swell of her breast, bites her nipple, and sighs when her nails graze against his scalp.
There—Sydney says it, quietly into the stillness of the room: “I love you too.”
And it doesn’t hurt to hear.
Afterwards, Carmy runs a towel under warm water and puts her leg over his shoulder as he gently cleans her up.
She tells him she’s cold and he gives her a sweater to wear, asks her to stay—and she says yes.
So they sit in the living room, shoulder to shoulder, on the floor, eating the box of stale fruit loops that have been in his cupboards for two and a half weeks.
He tells her: “I was thinking—for the new menu,”
“Yeah?”
“My family has this really good Osso Buco recipe that I think we can work off of.”
Sydney smiles. “Say more?”
And he does.