to yearn the hunter

major TW; disordered eating | minors dni. dni. dni.

pairing: anorexic!reader x chef!Carmy

blurb: you were hired to photograph Chef Berzatto’s dishes. you didn’t expect him to notice you never ate it. between late nights at his restaurant, his attentive nature, and a growing attraction neither of you could ignore, Carmen slowly teaches you that food isn’t the enemy. unfortunately for your sanity, he was also infuriatingly handsome.

warnings: 18+ NSFW, eating disorder themes/recovery, but surprisingly body neutral, no use of y/n, slow burn, coworkers to lovers, mutual pining, feelings realisation, hurt/comfort, eating encouragment, body image issues, food intimacy, smut w a plot, body worship, praise kink, very subtle size difference, a little primal play if you squint, dirty talk, emotional sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v sex, possessive!Carmy, protective!Carmy, reader-insert

a/n: full transparency. i have never watched the bear, so please excuse me if it might be a little ooc. i was inspired by a twitter post suggesting an anorexic x chef dynamic, and just thought a fic would be more fun to read.

creds to @uzmacchiato for the divider <3

word count: 5.8K

*read part two: sustenance here

part one: hunger

food. food. food.

a necessity for all living beings. something that we, as a consequence, all grow to form strong opinions on. we develop likes and dislikes, we engage in long debates over which cuisine tops the other, but what may be a love language to some may simply be a routine to others.

for you, food was a touchy subject. you loved it growing up, but through repressed and half forgotten experiences, you came to find that the only guarantee of control you could have, was over what you ate. over time, this need for control became compulsive.

your google history revealed late night searches for ‘how to make myself throw up’, wasting hours scrolling mindlessly through sketchy forums for an answer. to say you tracked calories to the exact decimal, was an embarrassing understatement; every grain of rice on your spoon was accounted for, you compared nutrition charts at the grocery store the same way people compared prices, and you obsessed over staying within a calorie range dangerously low for a twenty-four year old woman.

calorie restriction consumes your entire being. most days, you could only think about your next meal, or lack thereof rather. you thought about eating the same way a drowning man thinks about breathing: constantly but never quite in reach of it.

your obsessive tendencies started around the ripe age of fourteen, and it naturally led you to fall into photography. because at first, it was practical.

photographing your meals became another way to document what you ate, to reassure yourself that every calorie was justified. before you knew it, what started as a ritual of control evolved and soon you became fascinated by the way food transformed under a lens. the gloss of olive oil on fresh pasta, or the curl of steam rising from a bowl of soup. behind the camera, food felt safe; you could study it, admire it, perfect it, without ever having to taste it.

by the time you were graduating high school, you felt as though you were just aimlessly drifting through. truthfully, calorie restriction had taken up so much of your energy that by the time you had to make a decision about the direction of your life, you had long forgotten what you actually liked to do, talk about, or even spend time on. it seemed like everyone in your social circle knew exactly who they were and what they wanted to be. everyone except for you.

a yellow box room tucked in the far corner of the school, hidden behind the senior staff offices, was where it began. you sat there in a rickety wooden chair opposite the guidance counsellor’s desk, a bulky computer atop it acted as a dividing screen. the only sounds that filled the room were the creaks of the chair as you nervously bounced your feet, and the clacking of the counsellor’s keyboard as she aggressively typed away. your palms started to sweat and you desperately rubbed them on your jeans as you awaited the dreaded question:

“…so, have you thought about what you want to do after high school?” a run-of-the-mill question, one that she had to ask everyone called into the office, but one that still had your heart dropping in sheer panic.

“ummm…” you began trying to fill the uncomfortable silence after her pointed question, but your mind went blank. she pulled her glasses down to the tip of her nose and tilted her head to peer down at you. you felt so small and soo helpless. your head sank, averting your gaze to your feet, and you started to wonder. what do I care about? the question reverberated through your mind repeatedly. what do I actually care about? before you were aware of it, you had unconsciously mumbled, “food.” your voice meek and hoarse from your increasingly drying mouth.

her eyes lit up after coaxing a response out of you that she thought she would have to wait all day for. “great! pho..tog..ra..phy.” she enunciates, while resuming to type in the form she had open for you. you picked your head back up sharply and stared at her with furrowed eyebrows, utterly confused.

“photography…?”

she grinned, a weak attempt to comfort you. she knew that sometimes the best way to deal with directionless adolescents was to nudge them toward one, this was her bread and butter after all. “food photography. restaurants, magazines, cookbooks. it’s a serious career.” she explained and before you could even respond, she clapped “okay! this all looks great. i’ll write up a student recommendation letter for you and we’ll liaise later about which photography programs you’d like to apply to. that will all be done by email.” she threw a quick smile at you before standing up from her chair. “could you please call in the next student?” with the patience of an extremely busy woman clearly running thin, she hurriedly ushered you out the door.

you closed it behind you and left the box room with an unexplainable sense of relief. you don’t have to think about your future anymore; it was decided for you. you didn’t know what it held, but at least you could make sense of it now.

by your twenty fourth summer, you had completed university with a degree in photography passing with the highest grades in your class. it was immensely helpful that you had turned quite competitive during your time there. your need for control of calorie intake evolved into a need to perfect every image. you would photograph the same dish over and over and over again, until you found a picture that could finally meet your impossibly high standards. the only problem came with tasting the dishes you shot. sure, as a trained photographer you could adjust the lighting to make a sauce look silkier, or rearrange garnishes until a plate looked effortless. but because your brain had spent so long constructing food as the enemy, tasting did not come easy.

that same year you began the rat race. replying to any job that required an entry-level food photographer. endlessly emailing restaurants back and forth in the hope of securing a position. rejection after rejection after rejection. all up until, you received an email from an establishment you forgot applying to:

“Dear Madam, we are pleased to inform you that your application has been successful. please report to the restaurant on Monday at 8:00 AM to begin your first shift. ask for Chef Berzatto upon arrival.”

you squealed clutching your laptop after reading the email, mixed emotions of excitement and apprehension brewing for this new phase of your life.

come monday morning, you arrive promptly, at 7:40, giving you just enough time to prepare. you make your way through a narrow alley that leads to the back door of the restaurant. at the end of the alleyway, lined by dumpsters and its walls with graffiti, are a couple of steps that lead to the exit of the restaurant. the heavy door left ajar behind him, you see the shape of a man’s silhouette as he stands on the steps, leaning against its metal railing with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

with each step closer, you could make him out clearer. his posture rigid, every muscle in his body seemed to lock as he watched you approach, momentarily caught off guard. his wide blue eyes fixed on you with an indecipherable expression; somewhere between caution and curiosity. he’s handsome. there was something rugged about him. a white t shirt clung to his broad shoulders and his muscular arms were scattered with tattoos, each one disappearing beneath the sleeves like pieces of stories you couldn’t yet read. a navy apron hung low on his hips, emphasising his frame. his hair was a beautiful chaos of unruly golden curls, tousled as if he’d been running his hands through it all night. loose strands fell over his forehead, framing his face in a way that softened the sharp angles of his cheekbones. for a moment he said nothing, just watched you. as though he too was trying to piece together your story. he was every bit as handsome as he was intimidating.

once you finally get to the bottom of the steps, you tilt your head up to look at him and clear your throat. “Chef Berzatto?” your voice trembles, an octave higher than your usual tone, as you notice his ocean blue stare burning holes through your skin. but of course you fucking knew who he was. at one point, his dishes were featured in every major food magazine you studied in your class. he was the youngest chef de cuisine to ever front a three michelin starred kitchen, now head chef of his family’s restaurant. you loved this though, sexy and a family man? count me in, you thought.

he waits a moment and takes a final pull of his cigarette, extinguishing it by letting it drop, to then crush it beneath his shoes. he takes a deep breath before turning back to you. “the one and only.” his gaze slowly drags down your figure, as if he were studying you. “Carmen.” he stretches his hand to help you up the steps, and although you didn’t need it, you found your hand falling on his, absentmindedly.

soon enough he was giving you a full tour of the restaurant; from the prep station to the grills, from the bar to the cramped staff room; there wasn’t an inch of the place you weren't familiar with by the time he was done. he concludes the tour at the bar, which overlooked the kitchen through a large server window.

“that’s everything for now.” he says, glancing at the clock mounted above the pass. “we’ll need your help with photos for the updated menu i’m working on, and while you’re here, could you also get some shots for press and promotional stuff? lunch hour’s approaching so i don’t got much time but we’ll start working on it right after.” he adjusts the towel thrown over his shoulder before looking back at you.

“if you need anything, ask me first.” he leaves you with a quick nod and the faintest hint of a smile before disappearing back into the kitchen.

you remain at the bar, camera bag hanging from your shoulder, and watch as the atmosphere around him shifts as he moves through the kitchen. it was subtle at first; a straightening of his shoulders, a steadying breath. the kitchen moved quickly, and Carmen moved with precision within it.

“behind.”

“salt.”

“two minutes on the beef.”

his voice carried clearly over the clatter of pans and the sounds of conversation, firm and assertive, but never cruel. he didn’t waste words and he didn’t raise his voice unless he absolutely had to. when a young line cook oversalted a sauce, Carmen’s jaw tightened.

“start over.” he says, while sliding a fresh pan onto the burner. his tone stern but even. “taste as you go. you’re better than that.” no humiliation, no shouting, just the silent knowledge of everyone’s capacity for improvement. and somehow that made them want to prove him right. he was a walking contradiction. a little gruff, yes. intense. restless. but, there was something deeply attentive in the way he worked; he noticed everything. a slightly off centre garnish, a cook whose hands had begun to shake. at one point, he paused beside a visibly flustered prep cook.

“hey,” he whispered so that only the two of them could hear. “take a breath. you got this”. then he was moving again. back to the pass, calling times and checking plates with the focus of a man balancing an entire world through sheer willpower. you watched as he plated a dish, his large hands unexpectedly gentle as he arranged microgreens around the plate. like an artist in the final moments of signing his work. completely in his element.

you came to understand that cooking, to Carmen, was more than just a job. it was a language, a discipline. and as you stood there, watching him command the kitchen with both the tenderness of a nurse and the discipline of a soldier, you found yourself unable to look away.

after coming in early and working late consistently for a couple of weeks to get shots of his dishes in the short, quieter periods after peak hours, you started building a routine around Carmen’s. you’d work on promotional content when he’d be busy. and slowly made your way down the menu, capturing his dishes in the little time you had when he was free. you worked around him and avoided interfering with him, knowing how much his craft meant to him. and in noticing him, he noticed you too.

he noticed that you lived off coffee for the entirety of your shifts. he noticed that it would make your hands tremble relentlessly. he noticed he never saw you eat, you’d choke out an ‘i already ate’ at the mere whiff of a lunch offer everytime. but he never pressured you. and you never expected him to notice, you hadn’t even the faintest idea he did. until one particular day.

this night you stayed late at the restaurant, taking shots of a few pastry options Carmen had thought up. he slid over his final creation, a pecan and poached pear tart, watching you scramble to find the right angle and lighting to serve it justice. he stood at the far corner of the kitchen, his eyes dragged over your frame as you bent over the counter, briefly catching a glimpse of the curve of your ass, all while he fought the increasingly difficult task of keeping his composure. he clears his throat, and exhales sharply, stepping closer to you as he does.

after selecting your best shot, you find yourself lost in thought, admiring the tart. the way its caramelised top glistened under the clinical lights of the kitchen. the way the golden brown crust was virtually untouched by the fruit’s juices seeping into it. even the way the pears blanket over the pecans, seeming to hold each other in a tight hug. that’s when Carmen recognised it. you admired food. maybe even as deeply as he might.

“think it looks good?” he finally croaks out. snapped out of your trance, a hot wave of shame floods your chest. you were staring with pure, unadulterated gluttony. and he had seen right through you.

“ah—” you fluster, a nervous smile creeping up your face as you turn your head away from the tart. “umm… yup. looks good.” he scoffs in amusement before sliding a spoon over to you.

“taste it.” he suggests in a low tone. his eyes meet yours and held eye contact with an intensity that laced an edge of dominance, erupting a sudden flutter in your stomach and a hitch of your breath. you softly shake your head, hesitant as every bone in your body screams at you to submit. he catches a glimpse of the internal battle you’re grappling with, through just a look in your eyes. and he takes another step closer, keeping behind you, now inches apart as he gently tilts your chin up to look at him.

“how could you expect others to fall in love with something you won’t let yourself touch?” he questions pragmatically, before draping an arm around your shoulder. he dips his head to whisper in your ear and his warm breath grazes against your skin, causing every fibre on the nape of your neck to bristle and a fire between your legs to ignite. a soft gasp escapes you.

“just one bite. you don’t have to like it.” he says, his voice now deeper and his gaze hungrier, but for a different kind of sweetness. he guides a bite upward, brushing the bite softly against your lips while you find yourself almost hypnotised by stare.

cowering against the absolute authority in his unwavering gaze, you part your lips. and he gently presses the spoon into your mouth.

“good girl.” he whispers, warm against your ears.

hot, so hot. please say i’m your good girl again, your head screams. you surrender to the wetness pooling between your thighs for the desperate, pulsing need to be praised again, and chew slowly. holding his gaze with a doe eyed look of obedience. then you swallow.

“there you go.” he purrs, bringing his thick fingers up to stroke your cheek gently. you catch a glimmer in his eye and a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, before your eyes fall shut, letting yourself melt in his touch.

a single teardrop slips down your cheek at the realisation that, for a moment, your disordered brain went silent. no nagging fear in the back of your mind about the calories in your bite, just silence. but he catches the tear before you even knew it, and wipes it away with his thumb. “i’m proud of you.” he reassures, caressing the side of your face.

after that night, something between you and Carmen shifted. so subtle at first, that you could almost convince yourself it hadn’t happened at all.

neither of you mentioned the tart. nor did he bring up the tears he wiped away. and you certainly didn’t acknowledge the way your pulse had pounded so hard that evening, you had felt it in your throat. but ignoring it didn’t erase what happened, if anything, the tension between you grew steadily.

in the days that followed, Carmen’s lingering attentiveness became impossible to overlook. it was never overt, never teetering on the edge of the boundaries between chef and colleague. but, during brief moments, a growing need of intimacy hung over between you.

through the espresso cup that would appear next to your camera when you weren’t looking, prepared exactly the way you like it. through the way his hands would settle briefly at the small of your back as he squeezed past you in the narrow kitchen. even through the low, absentminded “good job” he’d murmur in your ear when reviewing your latest shots. his voice alone could warm you enough to send heat rushing to your cheeks.

and then there was the food. it began innocently though.

a single spoon of mushroom risotto set beside your laptop, “tell me if the parmesan is too aggressive.”

a small portion of french onion soup dropped in front of you, still hot. “needs more gruyère.”

a blood orange galette during your break, with a note on its plate “too bitter?”

he framed it as just a professional courtesy, as if your opinion was essential to the success of the dish. maybe it was, or maybe he simply liked watching you taste. either way, he never left until you took the first bite. sometimes he pretended to wipe down the station. other times he reorganised prep lists. and once he just stood there, arms folded across his chest, steel blue eyes fixed on your face, waiting for a reaction that mattered more to him than anything else in the world. and each time you swallowed, the same look crossed his features; a quiet, almost imperceptible satisfaction. as if he had been holding his breath, and only exhaled once he knew you were okay.

soon your breaks began to revolve around him. around whatever he’d slide across the counter with a casual, “try this.” around the way his shoulders softened when you moaned at the first bite. around the praise he dispensed so sparingly, and thus devastatingly.

“there she is.”

“you did such a good job.”

soon you started to crave those words with an intensity that you feared, and trying to earn them felt eerily similar to the all-devouring obsession you had for starving yourself. but nothing had quite unravelled you like the one time, his lips brushed against the tip of your ear while the rough edge of his thumb grazed your jaw, his voice dropping to a register laced with an undercurrent of unattainable yet carnal desire, as he whispered:

“you look beautiful when you enjoy yourself.”

you were shaken. not just because it sent a sharp thrill through your chest, but because you felt yourself believing him. for a few fleeting moments under his steady gaze, food stopped feeling like an enemy. and your body stopped feeling like one too.

what began as a strictly professional arrangement had snowballed into something intoxicatingly dangerous, because you weren’t just tasting his food anymore, but waiting for it, hungry for it. hungry for him.

you stayed late once again, this time under the pretence of lending a hand with closing duties. the kitchen was much quieter now, stripped of the frantic energy that buzzed around during service. stainless steel counters gleamed beneath the harsh overhead lights, and the lingering scent of butter and garlic hung in the air like a second skin.

you push through the swinging doors and come to an abrupt halt. spread across the prep counter was a carefully arranged selection of small plates, each one placed intentionally. a shallow bowl held the plumpest strawberries you had ever seen, their flesh glistening beneath a drizzle of balsamic glaze. beside it sat a warm loaf of a sourdough baguette, its crust cracking softly while it cooled. and three dainty plates arranged alongside it: one with a pat of softened butter, another with a cloud of whipped cream with a tiny pot of jam, and the last held shards of dark chocolate dusted with flakes of sea salt. your camera bag slips from your shoulder and lands against your hip with a dull thud.

“what’s all this?” you gasp softly. Carmen emerges from the walk-in fridge, wiping his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder and, for a moment, he looks strangely uncertain. as though he couldn’t possibly rationalise what he aimed to achieve through this display, without admitting his feelings toward you. he stays silent a moment, thinking over his reply, before his eyes meet yours.

“a tasting.” he finally retorts.

“a tasting?” you blinked.

he shrugs, though the slight tension in his jaw gave away how carefully he’d planned this. “you spend all day making my food look beautiful,” his gaze drifted over the spread before returning to you. “figured it was about time you let me show you what it tastes like.”

Carmen then guides you through the tasting with the same attentive patience he brought to any of his culinary masterpieces. he stands close enough that the warmth of his body radiates onto yours, one hand braced against the counter beside your waist while the other reaches for a pip of dark chocolate.

“open up.” his voice low and steady, impossible to refuse. you part your lips, and he places the chocolate onto your tongue. his breath ever so slightly hitches at the sight of you obediently opening up your mouth for him. his reverent blue eyes held your gaze unwaveringly. “now pay attention,” he murmurs. “feel how the salt cuts through the bitterness.” your lashes flutter shut as you felt the chocolate melt, coating your tongue in a rich silk, that sharpens at a bitter corner before abruptly softening against the flakes of sea salt, blossoming at last into a creamy finish.

“there you go.” he says hushed, almost offhand, but the sensation of receiving his praise, alongside his fingers stroking your head like an owner rewarding his pet for learning a new trick, sends electric shocks down your spine landing straight between your legs.

he then selects the ripest strawberry from the bowl, with a stripe of pomegranate balsamic reduction running atop the fruit. “try this.” he coaxes low and steadily, the glimpse of gratitude in his tone bordering on a plea. his focus remains entirely on you, watching with a soft, captivated expression as you accept. the look in his eyes send a fresh rush of heat through you, your lips pucker around the berry, and his fingers linger for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

the strawberry bursts in your mouth; the initial flavour bright and juicy, before the glaze develops a second layer of a tart complexity that enhances its subtle sweetness. a hint at the velvety, floral notes of the pomegranate land as a final goodbye kiss. the combination dances in your mouth, igniting light tingles on the buds of your tongue. Carmen’s gaze darkens ever so slightly. “a touch of acidity brings out the sweetness,” he grins hungrily, eyes fixed on your mouth as he licks his lips. “makes you notice flavours you would’ve missed otherwise.” a quiet, gracious smile adorns his face as he watches you chew.

“that’s my good girl.” he groans. the words wrap around you like warm honey, thick and agonisingly slow, filling the hollow spaces of your chest you had spent your whole life guarding.

next, he tears off a piece of the baguette and spreads it with butter so soft it melts on contact. he follows it with a small spoonful of blueberry jam, the violet fruit glistening under the kitchen light. as he holds it to lips, your breath falters at the realisation, i am right in the palm of this man’s hand.

“open up for me.” and you do so anyway. the sourdough crust softly cracks between your teeth before the saltiness of the butter and the sweetness of the jam dissolve into an exquisite crescendo, two luscious sensations marrying perfectly on your tongue. a small, involuntary moan escapes your throat, to which Carmen exhales deeply. his jaw tightens, and you catch the subtle twitch in his crotch as he shifts his weight to conceal it. “feel that?” he croaks, his voice rougher now. “how the salt interacts with sweetness.” you nod, unable to talk as his fingers brush against your cheek and, tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“you look beautiful when you enjoy yourself.” he admits softly. your chest tightens so painfully that for a moment you thought you might cry. because he wasn’t admiring your restraint as many others foolishly did, but praising you for wanting. for receiving, and for allowing yourself to be cared for.

each time you opened your mouth for him, his expression grew heavier, like every bite you accepted was an act of devotion through trust. you spent years keeping food at a distance, but now you were letting him place it on your tongue, one bite at a time. he prepares one last piece of bread, this time spreading a generous layer of whipped cream with a streak of jam. his fingers brush against your lips as a signal to open, and you accept the bite, savouring the creamy sweetness as it dissolves on your tongue. when you opened your eyes, Carmen was staring at you; his pupils blown wide, his breathing shallow.

“the colour’s coming back to your cheeks,” he murmurs, his thumb gently brushing against your skin. you notice a small smear of cream left on your bottom lip, but before you could wipe it away, his hand slides down your jaw and tilts your face toward him. he hesitates for a moment, giving you every opportunity to pull away but you don’t.

his mouth meets yours in a kiss so soft it feels almost consecrational, eliciting fireworks between you. he brushes his tongue against your lower lip and laps up the remaining cream, before returning to the delicate waltz of your tongues in unison to deepen it. he leads the kiss with as much authority as he exerts over his kitchen, and you feel yourself melting into him. intoxicated by his sweet flavour, your knees begin to buckle and weaken. he finally draws back, his forehead resting against yours, and whispers between gasps for air, “you’re breathtaking.”

your mind, once riddled with a chaos you could not escape, was calm again. it feels just as zen as the rainbow at the end of a storm. there was no fear left, no guilt nor shame. no more intrusive thoughts of the silent competitions you’d indulge yourself in with any woman you met, plaguing your mind. only the taste of sweetness on your tongue, the warmth of his breath against your skin and the nauseating realisation that wanting something had never felt so safe.

for a long moment, neither of you dared to move. the kitchen around you went completely still. familiar sounds of the low static hum of the refrigerators and the distant pitter patter of a dripping tap were drowned out by the deafening thumps of your heartbeat.

Carmen remained close enough that every shallow breath from his chest brushed against yours, and all you could think about was how you could still taste the sweetness of the cream from his tongue. his hand lingered at your jaw, his calloused fingertips absentmindedly stroking your soft skin, as though he was grounding himself through you.

then reality seemed to crash back into him all at once. his gaze flickered down at you, toward your swollen lips. your flushed cheeks. and then at the half finished tasting spread between you.

a quiet curse escapes him under his breath. “shit.”

but the word sounded less irritated and more overwhelmed, almost like he had crossed a line he’d spent weeks trying desperately not to cross. because he did. you readied yourself, expecting him to pull away completely after that. you awaited the awkwardness that would follow. the distance and regret.

instead, his forehead falls to rest against yours, a shaky exhale slipping past his lips. “you okay?” he asks softly. his brows furrowed, eyes locking onto yours with a glimmer of worry. the question alone nearly shattered you. because he wasn’t trying to dissect the kiss or rationalising his actions as a mistake. he was simply checking on you, confirming he meant every second of it, but needing to know you were okay with it, too

you nod, looking up at him with a doe eyed look and a corner of your lip caught between teeth as you steady your pounding heart.

“yeah,” you whisper, grinning sweetly. “i’m okay.”

his thumb brushes over your cheekbone once more, lingering there with unbearable tenderness. “good.”

another silence settles between you, heavy and intimate. his eyes drift toward the remaining food spread across the counter. and something in his expression shifts, not lust. not exactly. but a raw, protective hunger, a struggle for devotion against restraint. he reaches for the last piece of bread still sitting untouched on the cutting board, and breaks the bread apart carefully in his hands before offering you the softer half.

“one more bite for me?” his voice affects you more than you know it should have, but the slight beg hidden beneath the authority in his tone sends warmth flooding through your chest. because suddenly it no longer feels like he’s feeding you out of curiosity for playing with a new toy. he’s feeding you because seeing you nourish yourself deeply matters to him.

you open your mouth obediently, allowing him to guide the bread between your lips and his eyes darken instantly. a slow exhale leaves his nose.

“there she is,” he coos, and somehow it feels more intimate than the kiss itself. like you were a skittish bunny hiding deep in a thicket, deaf to the rest of the world, but willing to step right into his palm at the sound of his voice.

the weeks that followed slipped by in a blur of mundane rituals. sometimes it was subtle; an extra container tucked in your bag before you left the restaurant, or the way his hand would steady yours when you trembled from overdosing caffeine. other times it felt sacred, because feeding you had become something holy to him. not out of obligation and not pity either. but devotion.

enough time had passed for your healing to feel almost achievable, for your body to soften beneath Carmen’s adoration, for the hollows beneath your sunken eyes to fill, and for your lips to stop quivering around your fork. long enough for eating to become something less terrifying and more intimate. and slowly the restaurant had begun to feel like home, not just because of the warmth of the kitchen or the constant symphony of sizzling pans and the clatter of hot plates, but because Carmen existed within it.

and without you realising it, he slowly wove himself into the very fabric of your being. he never forced you though, never counted your bites, never watched you with the scrutiny you had grown all too familiar with from doctors and prying relatives. instead he guided you patiently. like he was trying to coax you back into your body one mouthful at a time, and somewhere along the way, the cruel voice in your head began to lose its volume.

until one afternoon shattered everything. you remember exactly how lunch service had just ended, the fading chaotic chatter of chefs and diners leaving a heavy quiet in its wake. that silence only magnified the blow when it came, echoing as if it was the only sound left in the world:

“you look healthier lately.”

a harmless comment, perhaps a bit careless but unknowingly so. the kind that people deliver with a smile, unaware of how words like ‘healthier’ mutate in a brain like yours into something monstrous: i’m bigger, i’m too perceivable, i’m occupying too much space. you couldn’t slink into the background any longer. in an attempt to not sour the mood you manage a weak smile for the hostess, pretending that you hadn’t been hurled over the edge of a cliff. pretending the thin air wasn’t crushed from your lungs by the sheer velocity of the fall, that your ears weren’t roaring with the rushing wind, and your stomach hadn't tightly knotted awaiting the inevitable impact.

but Carmen noticed the shift almost immediately. he noticed when you stopped accepting bites when he asked you to check for salt, when he found the container he slipped into your bag sitting on the counter after you left, when you began volunteering for every physically demanding task at the restaurant just to keep moving. he noticed your coffee intake doubling. then tripling. noticed the tremble had returned to your hands along with the shadows beneath your eyes. the way you body-checked your reflection in the glass freezer doors, sucking your stomach in and assessing every angle.

then came the distance. you stopped lingering around late after the restaurant closed, stopped spending time with him as he concocted new recipes. but the one thing that Carmen, already so prone to carrying anxiety like a heavyweight on his back, began to fall apart over was that you stopped letting him touch you for too long— you saw it in the way his jaw stayed clenched through service. the way he watched you constantly from across the kitchen. in the way his tone sharpened when he caught you throwing away half of your staff meal: not angry at all. just scared— but every graze of his fingers felt as though they were exposing you, like he might finally realise that there was nothing worth saving beneath your skin after all.

your breaking point came that following week, on a friday night.

major TW: disordered eating | minors dni. dni. dni.

pairing: anorexic!reader x chef!Carmy

blurb: you were hired to photograph Chef Berzatto’s dishes. you didn’t expect him to notice you never ate it. between late nights at his restaurant, his attentive nature, and a growing attraction neither of you could ignore, Carmen slowly teaches you that food isn’t the enemy. unfortunately for your sanity, he was also infuriatingly handsome.

warnings: 18+ NSFW, eating disorder themes/recovery, but surprisingly body neutral, no use of y/n, slow burn, coworkers to lovers, mutual pining, feelings realisation, hurt/comfort, eating encouragment, body image issues, food intimacy, smut w a plot, body worship, praise kink, very subtle size difference, a little primal play if you squint, dirty talk, emotional sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v sex, possessive!Carmy, protective!Carmy, reader-insert

creds to @uzmacchiato for the divider <3

word count: 5.6k

*read part one: hunger here

part two: sustenance

the restaurant was slammed, a suffocating heat radiating within the kitchen, while every corner of the restaurant reverberated with noise and movement. you had been running entirely on caffeine for nearly three days now and your stomach burned acidically with every sip. but you ignored it, you always ignored it. you felt yourself observing the room in third person as everything started to blur together in pieces,

“behind.”

“corner.”

“need hands here, now.”

until Carmen’s voice cut sharply through the overwhelming chaos. “hey.” you look up too fast and suddenly you feel the world tilting violently beneath you. your knees buckle, and you remember nothing but darkness.

when consciousness returns in bits and pieces, the first thing you recognise is Carmen, his tone low and tight with panic.

“c’mon, sweetheart. open your eyes for me.” he says, his arms tense as he steers and his fingers nervously tap at the wheel. your lashes flutter open weakly.

the fluorescent overhead lights of the kitchen now replaced by the dim amber glow of passing street lamps outside the car window, Carmen’s hand grips your thigh from across the console hard enough to ground you there beside him.

“you scared the shit outta me.” he confesses, the words riding on a ragged exhale, as his voice cracks slightly on the last syllable.

shame floods you instantly, God i’m so much more trouble than i’m worth. “i’m sorry.”

“no.” his grip tightens. “stop that.” the sheer firmness in his tone silences you. but for the rest of the drive, his eyes dart back to you every few seconds, terrified you might disappear again the moment he looks away.

back at his apartment, Carmen helps you inside with a hand pressed gently against your lower back. you’re greeted by a cozy, open concept loft. the hallway opens into a small living room where large trifold windows frame the late night Chicago skyline, casting a subtle light over blanket draped couches. just behind the living area sits the kitchen, where walnut cabinets and quartz countertops cocoon a central stove and a fridge that sits plastered with sentimental photos and magnets. it isn’t untidy, but lived in and welcoming for certain.

flicking the switch, the space softens under a warm orange glow, as he guides you further in. “sit,” he murmurs softly, gesturing toward the velvet green couch, and you hadn’t the strength to protest. the apartment smelled faintly of garlic and laundry detergent. jazz hums quietly from an old radio near as you watch Carmen pace to the kitchen, moving around the stove with a restless urgency.

you observe him from under heavy eyelids. you see the way he runs his fingers through his hair, pushing golden curls off his forehead. you see the way his shoulders tense as he turns on the hob, hearing the sharp succession of clicks echoing through the room before the gas catches and blooms into a quiet hiss of blue flame. you even see the anger he was desperately trying to keep inward, because that was the thing about Carmen. he never looked at you with disgust, just grief.

soon a bowl of pasta appears in front of you, a small serving of spaghetti aglio e olio, steam curls upward between the two of you as he sits knee to knee with you on the edge of the couch. so close that your legs touch, close enough to feel his warmth.

“you with me?” he asks gently, to which you nod once. Carmen twirls the spaghetti carefully around his fork before holding it towards your lips. “open up for me, doll.” too exhausted to uphold an ounce of resolve, you obey and he watches you chew with an unbearable attentiveness.

“that’s it,” he purrs. “good girl.” but the praise rattles something fragile inside you, and suddenly you feel your throat tightening painfully around the bite. too much, too heavy, too many calories. your breathing sharpens and head spins. in an instant, Carmen’s hand lifts to cradle your jaw.

“hey,” he whispers. “look at me.” and you do, but the raw tenderness in his expression threatens to tear you apart.

“your body doesn’t need punishment.” he says quietly, holding your gaze with an unrelenting certainty. a tear spills down your cheek involuntarily and before you could stop it, his thumb catches it gently. “it deserves kindness.”

another forkful lifts toward your mouth. “open.” you obey. “now repeat after me: i deserve nourishment.”

“i d-deserve nourishment.” your voice wavers. he doesn’t rush you, just guides the bites patiently after each affirmation.

“good,” the word leaves him rougher than before. his gaze drops briefly to your lips as you repeat the phrase back to him, and something dark flickers behind his eyes. every time you obeyed, every time you surrendered another piece of the exhausting burden you carried alone, his expression tightened. as if the trust itself was enough for him, and being allowed to guide you felt intoxicating.

“you deserve softness.”

“i deserve s-softness.” a tender kiss is pressed against your shoulder before your next bite arrives.

“you deserve to take up space.” your chin drops to your chest, the line flaring your defence mechanisms right up. your brain has spent a lifetime convincing you of the exact opposite; trying to voice this claim feels like a pill too massive to swallow. sensing the retreat, Carmen hooks a finger under your chin, lifting your face back to his steady gaze.

“you don’t need to shrink yourself to make others comfortable,” he commands softly, pouring every ounce of his belief into you. “you deserve to be here. you deserve to take up space.” his eyes fall briefly to your lips “say it.”

“i deserve… to take up space.” you croak out, the words tearing at your throat as if they were physically choking you.

Carmen goes still. a slow breath escapes his nose to steady the heat of infatuation crawling up his skin. he’d spent years commanding squadrons of chefs, even you had seen how cooks would intrinsically follow his instructions to the letter with nary a question. but this assertion of authority felt different to him, intimately so.

the realisation settles steadily onto him. this wasn’t obedience for obedience’ sake, it was trust. you were handing him the part of yourself that had spent years at war with its own reflection, trusting him to be gentle with it. and judging by the way his gaze darkened, he felt the privilege of that trust too. the ache in your throat begins to ease right as his head falls to brush his lips against the curve of your collarbone in gratitude.

“you deserve more.” he whispers, reaching for the bowl as he guides the final bite upward. his other arm rests upon your opposite shoulder, hand tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. you feel him completely swallowing you within his arms, and all you want to do is fall in.

“i deserve more.” you comply, finding yourself entranced in his ocean blue stare. each mantra was designed specifically to hypnotise you into believing it, like an affirmation meant to manifest a new reality just by repeating it.

“your body is a temple.”

that is where you collapse. you wince as quiet sobs wrack your chest, the accumulated weight of years of self-inflicted cruelty suddenly collapsing beneath the immense pressure of his tenderness. Carmen sets aside the bowl immediately. he pulls you flush against him while his strong arms wrap around you securely as you weep into the crook of his shoulder.

“it’s okay,” he whispers into your hair, his voice a steady anchor pulling you ashore. “i’ve got you.” his palms slide up your spine in slow, soothing strokes.

“say it for me: my body deserves kindness.” the order settles over you, muffling the noises of your internal war, and for once there is nothing to control. nothing to calculate. no endless negotiation with the screaming voice inside your head. only Carmen, his instructions, the authority in his tone, and the quiet expectation in his eyes

and when you obey, his expression softens but his jaw flexes and his gaze grows heavier. every act of trust you offered him seemed to unravel him further, as though each surrender made it harder to hide what he felt.

“my body deserves kindness.” you hesitate

“again.” he orders.

“my body deserves kindness.” you repeat, this time, with more resolve.

“that’s my good girl.” he coos, holding you there in the quiet room and kissing your forehead between whispered reassurances, until the voice in your head finally begins to sound smaller than the one loving you back to life.

the road to recovery was anything but linear, you still had difficult mornings and moments where old thoughts crept in through the cracks of your developing confidence. but there were good days now too. days where you caught yourself reaching for food without calculating it first, days where you laughed without immediately wondering how you looked while doing it. but one thing was for certain, your appetite had increased. and every time Carmen caught you finishing your meal entirely, that same look crossed his face. a devastating display of pride.

one particular rainy evening, long after the restaurant had closed, you found yourself back at his apartment. though you both played it off as innocent, you simply couldn’t resist gravitating toward him, desperate to steal just a little more time with him. now, leaning against the quartz countertops of his kitchen, you watch him straighten the couch cushions in preparation of a movie.

the faint, peppery sting of garlic and torn basil lingers in the air, a scent that coaxes a low rumble from your stomach. for years that sound had been a source of deep humiliation, a betrayal by the hands of your own body, but tonight you welcome it with a smile.

Carmen’s head snaps up instantly. “hungry?”

the answer surfaces before your doubts could choke it back. “yeah.” you whisper, a genuine grin tugging at your lips. his features soften, not with relief but with that streak of pride you had grown to crave. the kind he exclusively wore when he thought no one was looking.

“what d’ya want?” he asks stepping closer, mentally preparing himself for the familiar request of yet another unadventurously clean meal.

you pause for a moment, letting the silence stretch before shrugging. “i dunno.”

a faint twitch nips at the corner of his mouth, “helpful.” he teases, letting out a soft, defeated huff.

a genuine chuckle escapes you. “how bout you make me something?”

that arrested his movement entirely. his hands went dead still against the cold relief of the counter as his gaze swept over yours, searching for any hint of a joke, any sign of retreat. he quirked a single brow, “anything?”

“anything.” you replied, the absolute certainty in your voice caught him completely off guard. for a long, breathless moment he just stared. because just a short while ago, a question like that would’ve triggered a whole spiral of panic: one that would’ve had you cross examining him about seed oils, calculating portions and meticulously counting calories under the guise of it’ll help me calm down if i know how much it is. but now, you’d find yourself surrendering. trusting him, again.

a slow, breathtaking smile spreads across his face. “okay, sweetheart.”

and so he cooks. you watch him from the bar stool on the opposite end of the island, mesmerised by the familiar, effortless confidence of his movements within the kitchen. no menu, no ticking clock, no demanding customers. just the two of you entwined by a quiet, mutual yearning.

the meal he sets in front of you is a simple cheeseburger, but it feels like a gift. it not only arrives hot, but exudes the most delectable fragrance of the rich, savoury scent of seared beef. the patty, thick and beautifully charred at the edges, gleams with trapped juices that slowly seep into the toasted bottom bun. nestled beneath it was a thick layer of caramelised onion jam; dark, umami and lightly sweet. over the top, a blanket of smoked German cheddar forms a golden skirt around the beef, sealing the burger tightly together. two crisp slices of dill pickle peek out the sides, its sharp acidity cutting right through the decadent richness. as you lift the pillowy soft brioche to your lips, your mouth slick with accumulating drool, you render completely defenceless against how sinfully scrumptious it looks.

you finish every single bite with a quiet victory. he hadn’t needed to bargain with you, and there was no guilt left from the voice in your head trying to steal the moment away. just satisfaction, and warmth. just him.

as you pick your head back up, Carmen was already watching. his eyes carry the same expression they always did whenever you finish a plate: like he was witnessing a divine, sacred act of devotion. you reach across the counter, brushing his hand with the tips of your fingers.

“i’m still hungry.” you say, looking at him with a sickeningly sweet doe eyed expression. his eyebrows lift with slight glimmer of amusement and pure disbelief.

“for food?” a smirk tugs at the corner of your lips, but you bite it back, running the tip of your tongue over your lower lip to soothe the sudden, aching need blooming in your chest.

“for you.”

for the first time since meeting him, chef Berzatto has been utterly, completely stripped of his words. but the speechlessness doesn’t last; it develops, darkening into an expression that makes your heart flutter. it wasn’t anger or impatience, but an agonising display of restraint. as if the very last thread holding him back had finally snapped.

his hand settles against your waist. his palm, warm and heavily calloused, presses into your skin with a tentative pressure, as if he were skeptical that you were even real.

“yeah?” he asks. the question a low, rough murmur, spoken softly. terrified of startling his precious, fragile deer, he is acutely aware of just how easily he could undo you, and exactly how much he could make you feel

you nod, returning to that devastatingly innocent, doe eyed look. “yes chef.”

in one fluid motion, Carmen reaches out and gathers you into his arms, lifting you with an effortless strength that makes the world feel small and safe. with your legs wrapped around either side of him, your breath catches as you find yourself tucked against his muscular chest, you hands naturally finding a perch on his shoulders.

he pauses there looking at you with an intensity that borders on worship, before leaning down to press his lips against you. your tongues twirl in a dangerous dance of desire, with him in lead. the kiss he gives you is deep and lingering, beaming with a reverence that somehow seems to recognise every struggle you have ever faced. in this embrace, your submission feels like a release. a quiet choice to let go of the heavy burdens you’ve been carrying and trust in his care.

as he walks with you in his arms toward the bedroom, he doesn’t break the connection, his steady heartbeat thrumming against your own. upon reaching the bed draped with fresh white sheets, he lowers you onto the covers with such deliberate gentleness that it feels akin to handling something sacred. he remains close, hovering over you with a gaze that searches every inch of your face, determined to banish the lingering presence of any self doubt.

“you are incredible,” he murmurs, his voice low, grounded, and heavy with an authority that makes your core ache. he presses a slow line of kisses against the crook of your neck, right where it meets your ear, igniting little fires in his wake and coaxing the sweetest, involuntary sounds from your throat. his hands drag down your frame, his fingers catching and tugging in sudden frustration at the clothes binding you.

“take it off for me. wanna see all of you.” he pulls back just enough to watch you, anchoring himself at the edge of the bed as you rise to your knees. you make a show of it for him. first, you strip away your sweater, then your trousers, moving agonisingly slowly. when you’re left in nothing but your bra and panties, a sharp, ragged gasp escapes Carmen's lips. the sound is an unspoken confession of his hunger, and it sends an immediate, throbbing wave of heat pooling between your legs.

your mind is stripped entirely empty of the usual shame that plagues it, replaced instead by an all encompassing need to please him. you tease him, inviting him in with a slight, rhythmic twist and dip of your shoulders, cupping an arm beneath your chest to lift your cleavage. you toy with the straps of your bra, threatening to slide them down, pulling them right to the precipice of your nipples before stopping. he lets out a low, desperate whine of aching need. your own hunger grows at the sound of his unraveling, and you finally comply; unclipping the clasp and letting the fabric fall onto your lap.

his eyes darken unbearably, the deep ocean blue blown completely pitch black with lust. he stares at you, utterly entranced, his head spinning as he drinks you in. to him, you are the very definition of perfection; every curve gorgeously shaped, nipples that come to tight, perfect points and look mouth wateringly soft.

slickness pools at your folds under his heavy, unblinking gaze. the sheer pressure of his stare makes a hot flush creep up your chest, and you find that continuing the show is harder than you originally anticipated; the stakes have become too high.

feeling his control begin to boil over, Carmen reaches out, his large hand wrapping around you to pull you flush against him. his head falls to your chest, the tip of his tongue flicking your left nipple while his fingers possess the right. you are softer, sweeter, more so than he could have ever imagined.

you melt under the heavy warmth of his touch, letting yourself sink entirely into his needy embrace and moaning softly against the crown of his head. the sound is light, breathy, and rises instinctively from your chest.

“what pretty little noises,” he murmurs against your skin, cock throbbing painfully at the sound as he feverishly presses hungry kisses back up your neck. “and the most perfect tits.” he hums, traveling back down to switch sides, lapping at you with more fervour than the devotion of a sinner seeking absolution. your skin tastes faintly floral to him, like the bud of a rose.

“give me another show. wanna see that sweet little kitty,” he commands slightly rougher than before, his hot breath tickling your ear. he gently flips you around so your back faces him, stepping off the bed to stand at the edge, forcing you to expose yourself to his gaze once more.

you look back at him over your shoulder, a violent shiver running down your spine as you do. left in nothing but your panties, you feel thrillingly vulnerable under his eyes; but as his gaze drags over every inch of your frame, you see no judgment there, only an all consuming awe that leaves him breathless. bending forward slightly, you arch your spine, offering the gorgeous curves of your hips closer to his face. you hook two fingers on either side of the silk and pull the garment down at an excruciatingly slow pace.

a low, primal growl escapes his lips, heavy with hunger it makes your core ache, and you squeal softly at the sheer weight of his reaction. as you pull the fabric off completely, Carmen's whole body tenses with raw desire.

he stares at the bare, unhidden expanse of your skin as if looking at a masterpiece he has waited a lifetime to touch. your fuller state is an absolute triumph of form he thought, a sanctified and exquisitely soft addition. he drinks in the view of your lower back, the curve of your waist, and the plush contour of your ass with the same consuming focus he dedicates to his finest craft. examining every single inch of you, utterly entranced, and unable to find a single flaw. he drags a heavy thumb right over your folds.

“perfect little pink pussy, soaking just for me. you gonna let me taste it?” he swallows hard, watching your own slick string between his fingers. you nod bashfully, caught in a desperate war between looking back at him and looking away.

his lips curl into a tight smirk before he sinks onto the bed, spreading your thighs apart and pressing his tongue directly on you. he drags a single firm stripe up your folds, and your knees threaten to give out at the mindnumbing pleasure. his arm rests heavy over your lower back, pinning you in place as he relentlessly licks and prods at your clit. he slips a finger inside, curling it deeply to coax a succession of the most melodic little moans he has ever heard. he can feel your walls tightening frantically around him, but he isn’t done yet.

“you taste so good, kitten. so sweet,” he praises, his hand firmly petting the skin of your ass before he flips you back over in an instant. now pressed flush against you, his clothed crotch grinds directly against your bare skin, sending sharp shocks straight to your clit. his eyes and lips drag slowly over your figure: from your shoulders down to your chest, your arms, and your hips, tracing all the way down to your feet, leaving not an inch unkissed.

“you’re so perfect. you have no idea what you do to me.” he growls against your skin, his mouth traveling lower to press heavy kisses and light, teasing nips against your stomach. a quiet, familiar pang of self consciousness tries to flare up inside you. your figure is plumper now, holding onto the weight you’ve gained since starting your recovery. a soft plushness you are still learning to comfort yourself with but to Carmen, it is an intoxicating feast. your softness has him entirely feral, his hands gripping your hips as if anchoring himself to the only thing that matters.

“people spend their whole lives carving marble to make somethin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, lazily tracing his fingers over the full curves of your chest, leaving a trail of electric sparks under your skin. “but then here you come.”

you feel the exhausting burden of constant insecurity slowly begin to wash away, replaced instead by an increasing ache for pure desire.

“spent years starving yourself ‘cause you thought taking up less space would make you easier to love?” he asks, his voice low, in a grounded register that demands candor. but the question rattles you, as if he had seen right through you, down to the last bone. he drags his thick fingers to cup your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. reassuring you.

“every day you get better, I find something entirely new to fall in love with.” the utter reverence in his admission completely obliterates the lingering fears of your past. now overtaken by the ache of desire, so intense that a mindless whimper breaks from your throat, needing the solid feel of him. you restlessly grind your yoni against his clothed crotch, seeking any kind of relief.

his eyes flicker with a dark amusement at your impatience. unable to maintain his own resolve any longer, Carmen pulls back to strip away the barriers between you.

you watch him, breathless, as he pulls his shirt over his head. the fabric hides a beautifully sun kissed, muscular frame, the hard contours of his chest and shoulders shifting under a dim light while pulsating veins adorn his tense biceps. he disposes of his jeans next, exposing the sharp v-line of his pelvis and the happy trail that starts below his navel, leading your eyes down to the boxers that confine him.

when he pushes the cotton down, his throbbing length dripping with arousal, is finally revealed to you. he’s magnificent; thick heavy and deliciously veiny, curving downward slightly with a plush pink tip smeared with the glisten of premature juices. he stands before you completely unburdened, his gaze locking onto yours with an unspoken promise that he is about to worship every single inch of the space you take up.

Carmen’s gaze remains locked on yours as he sinks back onto the mattress, the sheer weight of his frame making the bed dip beneath you. there is no more hesitation, no more slow teasing; the air in the room thick with a lustful hunger, one that had been building since you first stepped through his door. he grabs your hips, his large hands sinking into the plush softness of your skin with a possessive grip, and pulls you flat onto your back. looming over you with a delicate dominance that completely walls out the rest of the world.

“look at me,” he commands, his voice a gravelly rasp against your ear as he knees your thighs wide apart.

you look up, completely entranced by the pitch black intensity of his stare. he lifts your legs, draping your knees over his broad shoulders to display you open for him. he positions his heavy, slick length right against your burning folds, and with one deep, unyielding thrust, he drives all the way inside.

“MMMPHH—” a loud, shattered moan tears from your throat, your fingers instantly clawing into the muscles of his back as your body stretches to accommodate him. he is so thick, so impossibly big, filling the space inside you so entirely that your mind goes blissfully blank. every leftover thread of worry instantly pulverised by the blunt force of his entry.

Carmen lets out a ragged groan, his jaw flexing as your tight, wet walls clamp desperately around him. he gives you little time to adjust before pulling back to the very edge and driving in, establishing a relentless, pounding rhythm that shakes the bed beneath you.

“HMM—soo big!” you moan, the pace fierce and uncompromising. each deep plunge strikes against your cervix, sending sharp shocks of pleasure rippling through your pussy. the raw and carnal slapping sound of his length pounding into you, alongside your melodic pleading moans, echo through the room.

“i know baby, it’s so tight.” he growls, his chest heaving, tight with an aggressive and desperate need. “be a good girl, take it all for me.” he’s unraveling completely, his carefully managed control burning to ash under the heat of your surrender.

he shifts his grip, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other presses firmly against your stomach, feeling the internal stretch of his own length moving inside you. you arch your back, your hips instinctively rising to meet every devastating down stroke, pleading wordlessly for the release that’s spiraling just out of reach.

Carmen watches your face, drinking in the sight of your flushed cheeks, your blown out eyes, and the way your exquisite body trembles beneath his assault. seeing you completely consumed by him only makes him hit you harder, his thrusts become faster, needier, as he chases his own impending peak.

“aahh—“ another delicious moan escapes your lips. the rhythm of his frantic pounding slows just a fraction, a dark shift passing over his features as he catches his breath. drunk on the sound of you, each shattered, breathless cry tearing from your lips only pushes his arousal past the point of no return. it triggers something carnal in him; a predatory instinct that thrives on how completely you have been consumed by his weight. but he wants to see you take it. wants to watch the exact moment you realise this body, the one you spent so much time wishing away, has the power to undo him.

with a guttural low groan, Carmen suddenly pulls out of you entirely, the abrupt loss leaving you gasping and reaching for him. before you could protest though, his large calloused hands wrap around your waist and in one fluid motion, he lifts you off the mattress.

carrying you a few short steps across the room, he backs you flat against the full length mirror that leans against his bedroom wall. the cool glass shocks your bare back as he lets you down, a stark contrast to the boiling heat of his skin.

“turn around,” Carmen rasps, his breath hot against your ear as he positions himself behind you. his heavy cock slides back into you from behind with a slow, devastating thrust that makes you reach back to steady yourself, resting your hands around the nape of his neck.

“look at us. don't look away.” your eyes snap open at his behest, locking onto the mirror. the sight is dizzying.

“good girl.” he growls. you’re completely pinned between the cold glass and his massive, looming frame. Carmen’s dark eyes are already waiting for you in the reflection, blown out and feral, tracking every micro expression on your face.

he locks eyes with you through the glass, refusing to break the connection as he crushes your hips beneath his palms and begins a brutal, driving pace. a stark contrast to the sweet praises he whispers into your ear.

“look at you,” awe and desire tangled together in his voice. “so beautiful it hurts.” thrust. the force of his movement makes your breath catch.

“every curve on your body belongs exactly where it is.” thrust. his gaze drags over your reflection hungrily before returning to your eyes.

“wouldn’t change a damn thing.” thrust. your hands brace against the mirror, but your attention remains completely fixed on him, held there by the unwavering conviction in his blue stare.

seeing yourself completely taken by him, watching the way his large hands dent the plush softness of your hips in the reflection, sends a spike of electric heat straight to your core. the pacing is frantic now. Carmen’s hand slides around to the front, his heavy thumb finding your swollen clit through the slickness, circling it with relentless fervour.

a knot of intense, burning pressure tightens the pit in Carmen’s stomach with every sweet moan you throw back into the room, and soon the sounds begin to shatter the last of his restraint.

your walls begin to twitch and spasm around him. in the mirror, you watch Carmen’s eyes darken to a dangerous, pitch black intensity as he feels you tighten. he doesn’t blink, just drinks in the sight of your flushed cheeks, your gorgeous tits bouncing with every downward plunge of his hips, and the look of sheer ecstasy wracking your features. the dual sensation of his thick length and his circling thumb pushes you right over the precipice.

“Carmy—please!” you cry out, the sound shattering against the glass. you arch your back into him, eyes wide and locked onto his in the reflection as your body violently rattles into a blind, screaming climax. a thick wave of your sweetness squirts over his fingers and his thighs, the sight of your total undoing completely breaks him. holding your desperate gaze through the mirror, Carmen lets out a primal groan. his hips drive upward in one last, deepest possible thrust. trapping you against the glass as he unloads inside you, hot white ropes filling you to the absolute brim.

for a long minute, neither of you move, the loft filled only with the sound of your ragged, synchronised breaths. you tremble against the glass, your eyes still helplessly chained to his in the reflection as the aftershocks ripple through you both.

slowly, the frantic energy breaks into a breathless silence. Carmen lets out a low ragged chuckle, his forehead slumping forward against the back of your shoulder. he gently slides out of you, the sudden absence leaving you weak kneed, but he catches you before you can fall, scooping you up into his massive arms and carrying you back to the tangled sheets.

he lays you down, leaning over you as his glossy eyes shine with a soft warmth, looking down at the remnants of your squirt that coat your inner thighs. with a deliberate gentleness, he leans down and his tongue laps against your sensitive folds, licking up the sweet cream of your meshed climaxes. cleaning you with the meticulous care of a man who worships what he consumes.

he pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a smoldering smirk playing on his lips.

“too good to let a single drop go to waste. a perfect dish.” he murmurs, his voice a low rumbling vibration.

the heavy heat of the room slowly begins to cool, and the raw carnal energy transitions into a comforting stillness. Carmen pulls the heavy duvet over both of your sweaty bodies, immediately wrapping his strong arms around you and pulling you flush against his chest. he tucks your head securely beneath his chin, while his large hand traces soothing circles across the plush curve of your waist. there is no urgency now. just the steady, rhythmic anchor of his heartbeat beneath your ear, grounding you there with him.

“c’mere,” he whispers into your hair, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your crown. he tightens his grip, completely swallowing you within his warmth, holding you as if you’re the most precious, fragile thing in his world. “i’ve got you now, princess. just breathe.”

and as you lie there, tangled in his limbs and wrapped in his scent, the voice in your head stays entirely silent.

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