rayhalloffame

[rayhalloffame]

Not now kitten daddy's googling his symptoms

[rayhalloffame]

sorry i never replied. everyday is blending together and im losing sense of time

[rayhalloffame]

I know most people don't care about anything unless it has to do with the U.S. but can we please start talking about the Canadian election.

Please don't vote for Poilievre. He's basically the Canadian Trump and plans to put in place laws that harm trans youth, and lots of other shit.

Please vote istg this is the only way anything will get better. Poilievre has been kissing millionaires and billionaires asses. He'll make life even harder, and he loves Trump.

Reblogs are appreciated, especially if you aren't Canadian.

This post is about Canada, do not derail or say that "it's worse in America." Canadians are very scared, we deserve to talk about our issues without Americans talking over us.

[rayhalloffame]

Silent Apologies

I think it would be cute if Carmy and reader had their own "I'm sorry" gesture like he does with Syd. I saw a couple on TikTok have a slow dance as a way to break the ice and thought it was so sweet, so here's a little something about nonverbal apologies with Carmen.

I personally have been in love with The Few Things by JP Saxe and listened while writing. Comment some of your favorite slow songs so I can add it to my “Slow Dancing and Sautéing” album :)

The fight had been silly, really. You’re not even sure why it’s gone on as long as it has. Maybe because you’re equally as stubborn as Carmen. You both walk around the apartment as if the other doesn’t exist, passing each other in the living room and barely sparing a glance. It’s a game of chicken at this point; someone has to break first. This time, Carmen does.

You’re sitting on the couch after dinner, in your pajamas and scrolling your phone before bed. You can hear Carmy clinking dishes around in the kitchen in the background. Suddenly the kitchen goes silent, and a moment later, the beginning cords of a song you know all too well filter through the apartment. You heave a sigh, pull yourself to your feet, and follow the music.

Carmen is waiting for you. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed and head bowed until he hears the creak of the floorboard that announces your presence. Your gaze meets his when he lifts his head. A tattooed hand reaches toward you, palm up: a peace offering. I’m sorry.

You can’t help the grin that twitches at the corners of your mouth. Without another moment’s hesitation, you slide your smooth palm over his calloused one and Carmy feels like he can breathe again. He pushes himself from the counter at the same time he reels you against his chest, other hand settling warmly over your waist. You rest your free hand on the back of his shoulder and begin to sway.

The music fills the silence before he breeches it, nose rubbing along yours. “M’sorry” he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper. “Shouldn’t’ve snapped at you.” You hum in acknowledgement, enjoying the warmth seeping from his chest to yours. The kitchen light is dimmed from the dinner you both begrudgingly ate together, window ajar because you nearly set the kitchen on fire while cooking. It’s a quiet night in the city, as if it knew you and Carmy needed to hear each other.

You inhale a deep breath, smelling the residual scent of the meal and Carmen’s cologne. He’s already looking at you when your eyes dance over his face. “I shouldn’t have gotten so defensive,” you finally respond, “I’m sorry, too.” He hums, releasing your hand which you drop to rest on his side. His hand, big and strong, strokes down the side of your face, tucking stray hairs away. His eyes flit over the contours of your eyebrows, nose, mouth, like he’s missed looking at you. It makes your cheeks warm from his attention.

Carmen settles his hand on your jaw, traces his thumb along your bottom lip, kisses you sweetly, tries not to lose pace with the music. When he pulls away, he doesn’t go far, just rests his forehead on yours. “You know I love you, right?”

Your heart swells. Of course you know. “Yeah,” you whisper in the small space between you, “you know I love you, right?” His chuckle vibrates through him, goes right to your fingertips along his ribs. Carmy creates space to kiss your forehead, your cheek, your jaw. He knows.

[rayhalloffame]

Hi, Cal! Do you still write for Carmy?

Hi! I do still write for Carmy and still fulfill requests! :)

[rayhalloffame]

Ohhhhhhgggggghhg

[rayhalloffame]

Mike Faist as Art Donaldson CHALLENGERS (2024), dir. Luca Guadagnino

[rayhalloffame]

Honeymooning

Patrick Zweig x f!reader (A/N: had to get this out of my head but if we’re wanting the explicit end, let me know, I am more than happy to provide🤤)

Relaxed Patrick, tan Patrick, happy Patrick. Honeymooning in a tropical place. You both only wear white bathing suits, at your request, because you want the whole island to know you’re married. Private beach off of the hotel.

You lay out on your belly on a beach towel as the sun sets, exhausted from your most recent swim in the ocean. Your head rests comfortably atop your arms that you have crossed in a makeshift pillow. When a shadow blocks the light from your face, you squint in its direction. Patrick is stood, hands on his hips, staring adoringly down at you. “You need some more sunscreen,” you say, noticing the redness that is spreading over his shoulders. You’re sure the area is warm to the touch. Despite the small burn, he is gloriously tanned, freckles becoming more prominent due to his time in the sun. His posture is relaxed, he looks calm, at ease. The white swim trunks contrast nicely against his browned and muscular thighs. You want to see him like this forever.

“You could use some, too,” he says. Patrick kneels down in the sand and grabs the sunscreen from the bag beside your towel. He swings a leg over your waist to straddle your back. His lips are warm where they press to the back of your neck and across your shoulders. “Mm, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs into your skin. Patrick makes quick work of the straps on your swimsuit, taking a moment to trace the pads of his fingers across the tan lines underneath. You can hear him pop open the sunscreen in the next moment and squirt some lotion into his palm. Despite rubbing his hands together, you still press your body away from him when the chilled content makes contact with your back. He mumbles an apology before smoothing his hands up the expanse of your torso.

Patrick is diligent, massaging his strong hands up your waist, your sides, over your shoulders. You moan at the feeling. You’d be embarrassed except there’s no one on the beach other than the two of you. Patrick’s dick jumps in his shorts, you can feel it against the fat of your ass. It becomes a game for you then. You groan, open mouthed, “feels so good, Pat.” You arch your body into his hands.

Patrick applies pressure up the length of your spine with his hands until he blankets himself over your back. He kisses the shell of your ear. “Being a tease, baby.” His hips rut once into your plush flesh, a shaky sigh leaving his lips. “Let’s go back to the room.”

The whine that leaves your mouth is sinful. He grabs your cheeks with one of his oily hands to force you to meet his mouth in a hot kiss over your shoulder. Your tongue chases his, teeth biting his lower lip to keep him close. “Not here,” Patrick tuts, though his resolve is crumbling.

Your eyes are half lidded when you blink them open at him. “Yes, here,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. Patrick visibly gulps, then kisses you some more while he ponders.

The sun is slipping below the horizon, the both of you less exposed by the withdrawing light. Your body is so pliant and warm under him, the cheeky white bottoms you’re wearing riding up under his weight and exposing more of your skin. It would be easy to just slide in, pacify you, give you what you need. He’s never been able to deny you, not easily at least.

He holds your face gently, heart swelling when you nuzzle his palm, presses a chaste kiss to your lips then to your cheek. “Husband duties,” Patrick says, “whatever you want, Mrs. Zweig.”

[rayhalloffame]

No it doesn't, shut up and stop trying to start problems.

[rayhalloffame]

Flashback Friday

They don’t even know how iconic this was for me. My fanfic game was ON FIRE.

[rayhalloffame]

I’m sat

you’re writing for carmy now omg i’m frothing at the mouth 😭 i love the trope where reader is quiet in bed and needs to be coaxed a bit but… i feel like it would be kind of hot if reader was the one coaxing carmy? 👀 no worries if you’re not feeling this one!

ty for requesting! — you teach the bear how to use his voice in the bedroom (new relationship, inexperienced!carmy, experienced!reader-ish, smut 18+)

bug's summer fic fest (⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

Carmy never notices when he’s quiet. His head is always so loud in comparison — it’s easy to forget he isn’t saying anything out loud when his mind’s constantly racing. He doesn’t mean anything by it, though. He’s just chronically observant. And painfully silent with it.

He lays on his back, pressed between unmade sheets and your warm body. The covers bunch at your bare hips as you roll in languid thrusts over his lap. A satiny summer breeze smooths over your burning skin from a cracked-open window. Every time the curtains billow, more of the moonlight peeks in. It drips in silver shades over your naked skin and your pretty face, now twisted in a look of undeniable pleasure — brows scrunched, eyes closed, mouth wide open.

Carmy’s tattooed hands rest impatiently on your hips. His fingers dig into the plush of them as he rocks you back and forth over his cock. You make pretty noises for him every time your clit brushes his coarse thatch of pubic hair, so he angles his hips just right to make sure you keep hitting that spot. 

“Carmy,” you moan in a whimsical sigh that makes his chest swell. “Just like that. ’S so good like that. Please don’t stop—”

His face, made of dark shadows and sharpened edges, is pinched in a look of acute concentration. A distant feeling of deja veux swims in his stomach. It makes him wonder if he’s seen this in a painting before. One of those Renaissance types. The kinds that are harrowingly realistic and always heart-wrenchingly beautiful in a way. 

It makes him want to draw you. Just as you are now. Head tossed back, mouth gently agape, lashes fluttering over glowing cheeks. He wouldn’t be able to do any of it justice, but he tries to memorize the soft lines of your face, anyway. 

Your hips slow to a stop. Reality hits him hard.

“Woah, woah— Hey,” Carmy mumbles in protest, brows pinched in confusion when he comes down from the clouds. Through labored breaths that make his sweaty chest rise and fall, he wonders, “What happened? Why’d you stop?”

His icy blue eyes dart over your face, searching for any sign of harm. In true Carmen Berzatto fashion, he immediately thinks he’s done something wrong — that he got too far in his own head and hurt you in some way without realizing. The anxiety is fleeting, but he feels the pinch of it anyway — right where your palm rests flat on his chest, just over his pounding heart.

“Are you okay?” you ask him, similarly panicked. Your bare chest sparkles with a thin layer of sweat and catches the moonlight with every uneven inhale.

Carmy nods rapidly, chestnut curls brushing the pillow. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m— I’m great. Why?”

You exhale a small sigh of relief, growing sheepish under his unwavering gaze. You feel a bit silly for stopping now. “You just aren’t… You aren’t really, you know… saying anything,” you answer shyly.

“Am I supposed to be saying something?”

You giggle quietly to yourself until you realize he’s being genuine. Your smile ebbs as you stammer, “Well, no, it’s just— Some people usually moan, I guess— When they feel good.”

Carmy nods firmly in reassurance. “I feel good.”

“Okay…” you nod back, slower and more unsure. 

“I promise,” he tells you, tattooed hands squeezing your sides. He shifts nervously on the mattress, similarly victimized by your adoring stare. “I just… I just like watchin’ you, I guess…”

A shy smile quirks the edges of your mouth as you peer down at the boy beneath you. “You’re sweet, bear,” you coo in a honeyed murmur.

“You’re sweeter,” Carmy insists. You think you see the faintest hint of a grin on his lips, but it’s hard to tell in the low light. “Wanna taste?” he teases a second later.

Wordlessly, you bend down for another kiss, far too chaste for his liking. He almost says something about it until you roll your hips again. The words of protest disappear when he inhales sharply through his teeth.

“Does that feel good?” you ask him.

He nods silently, squeezing your sides in a feeble attempt to move you faster on top of him.

“Tell me.”

“Feels good,” Carmy obeys through gritted teeth.

The subtle assurance makes you moan — a pretty, breathy thing that spills accidentally from your opened mouth. All he can think about is getting you to make that sound again. 

“Do you like it when I talk to you?” he wonders aloud, very innocuously curious.

You nod, brows furrowed as you grind over his lap. The bed frame squeaks quietly when you roll your hips forward. When you roll them back again, he can hear the faint sounds of your wet pussy — the quiet schlick-ing of his cock fucking into you. The two noises play one after the other in rhythmic tandem. The sinful sounds of sex.

Carmy racks his head for something to say in the not-so-silent meanwhile. You watch him get lost in his mind and cup his cheeks between gentle palms. “Don’t think so hard about it, bear,” you say with a wavering smile. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s okay.”

You duck down to kiss him again. The angle shifts. Carmy bends his knees and fucks up into you, mercilessly and without warning. Your mouth hangs open in another weak moan that fans across his chin. 

“That good?” he pants.

“Yes,” you whine. “Carmy— fuck— You’re so deep…”

Babbles spill from your mouth in thinkless slurs. They tumble from your swollen lips with an admirable effortlessness, which Carmy has never thought himself to possess. He tries, anyway, to talk to you with such sinful ease. 

“You’re huggin’ me so tight,” he mutters through a clenched jaw. The very first thought to come to mind as the velvet confines of your cunt pulsate around him, squelching quietly in time with his thrusts. “Can feel you throbbin’ around me, babe— Shit— It’s like a fuckin’ heartbeat.”

Your whine fills the quiet bedroom, adding to the symphony of bed squeaking and skin slapping. 

Carmy shifts his hips upward. The new angle allows his cock to reach a spongy depth inside you and pins your swollen clit against his happy trail, which now glimmers with a layer of your honey.

“Right there?” he pants.

You nod wordlessly until the words catch up to you. The tip of your nose brushes the bridge of his. “Yes,” you whimper. 

His brutal thrusts pick up pace a second later, never wavering in their wicked pursuit. “Let me hit that spot,” Carmy mumbles to himself like a man crazed. “Let me hit that spot, let me hit that spot.”

Pleasure swells within you, overwhelmingly so. It’s a warm and sparkling feeling in the pit of your stomach — a tightening coil, a fraying rope, a dam about to burst. The intensity of your inevitable orgasm frightens you.

“Carmy…” you whimper.

“I know,” he nods sympathetically, right before he plants his feet on the mattress. He strengthens his thrusts, which have slowly started to lose their rhythm. “It’s okay. C’mon. Cum for me— I can feel you fuckin’ drippin’ on me, baby— C’mon.”

Your jaw clenches to fight back the scream clawing at your throat. It comes out in a pitiful whimper instead when you tense over his lap. Your orgasm washes over you in waves that leave you shaking, thighs trembling on either side of his hips.

Carmy goes accidentally silent once more as he watches you, swelling with pride as you reach the height of your pleasure. His light eyes flit over your features in a feeble attempt to memorize them — the furrow between your brows, the wrinkles beside your shut eyes, the spit-slicked sheen to your kissed lips.

You’re painting brought to life. A heavenly thing he can’t believe he gets to touch with unworthy hands.

“That’s it…” Carmy murmurs lowly. The words bubble in his throat and fall from his mouth mindlessly. He doesn’t even have to think about them now. It just feels right to praise you like this. “That’s it. There you go. So pretty… Always so pretty for me.”

As your body racks with aftershocks, you seek refuge in his arms. Your weight rests entirely upon him as your tense limbs slowly relax, but Carmy doesn’t mind. He just wraps his tattooed arms around you and holds your trembling body closer.

“I got you,” he promises through labored breaths, chapped lips brushing your temple with every word. “I got you. ’S okay. You did so good for me, baby. Thank you.”

You don’t have the words to tell him that you should be the one thanking him.

[rayhalloffame]

five more minutes

a/n: idk i just woke up thinking about nuzzling against patrick’s thigh like a cat

(there's no smut just some suggestion; also i wrote this super quickly after an embarrassing amount of time of not writing so thank you for your attention!)

You half-breathe out something that could be Patrick's name as you stir slightly at the momentary din of his alarm cutting through your bedroom before he silences it. You’re vaguely aware enough of him to nuzzle against his face when he kisses your cheek, clinging to him – and to sleep – a little tighter. He buries himself against you, his arms wrapping around you, his long legs tangling with yours. He's still barely awake as he holds you against him, his heart warm at the way your body instinctively curls into his, like two puzzle pieces fitting perfectly together. He sighs in contentment, his eyes closing again as he holds you against him for a long moment.

It takes every single ounce of willpower he has in him to pull himself from the softness of your embrace but he’s supposed to be meeting his trainer for a run. He reluctantly untangles himself from you, even as he aches at the loss of your soft skin and the curves of your body as you seemed to melt over him. 

You make a noise of protest as he pulls away, disrupting the perfect cocoon the two of you had created together in the blankets. Even half-asleep your body registers his absence with keen clarity as you're shifted by his moving and left with an empty place where he had been. You wake more fully a moment later, blinking sleepily, mouth down turned when you realize that he’s pulled on a pair of trackpants and is currently in the middle of pulling on a t-shirt. "Come back to bed," you whine, your voice hoarse with sleep. You fold yourself forward to lay in the space where his body had been as you lazily clutch the sheet to yourself.

His resolve nearly breaks. He’s hardly known for his self-restraint and he has been embarrassed to realize that he’s particularly weak-willed when it comes to you. "I can’t, baby."

Though he’s already crossing back to you.

You may be drowsy but you manage to look rather pleased with yourself as he sits next to you on the bed and kisses the crescent shape of your bent body left uncovered by the sheet – your side, the faint ridge of your ribs, your back, your shoulder, your neck.

You murmur out a contented sound and shift, curling further to lay your head on his thigh, the muscle firm and yet soft under your head – the perfect pillow. He strokes a hand through your dark curls and you think you’d purr if he asked you to.

"You're making this difficult," he complains without malice or annoyance.

"Just kiss me good morning," you say in the sweetest voice you can manage and you know that you’ve got him on a leash right now. He shouldn't. He shouldn't just give in this easily. But how can he deny you anything?

“Okay,” he tries to grumble but then you shift up onto your knees and let the sheet slip away from your bare body as you lean up, your arms wrapping around Patrick's neck as you pull him in closer. And then he’s helpless at the feel of you, soft and warm under his hands, the softness of your breasts against his chest. 

He knew this was a trap.

"Five more minutes?" You negotiate, your lips against his as you refuse to completely break the kiss.

His eyes close in resignation. "Fine," he groans, his voice low and husky, "Five more minutes."

[rayhalloffame]

Carmen Berzatto x reader

Carmy gives you some help when hosting a dinner party

The phone is propped up on the kitchen counter, Carmen’s calm voice coming through the speakers. It’s a recording of him preparing a dish that you’re replicating for some friends who will be joining you at your apartment tonight. It’s not that you can’t cook, you just need very specific instructions, and visual aids always help. Carmen prepared this dish at The Bear last week for family, just so he could make the tutorial for you. He even stocked your pantry with the proper ingredients.

You’re stirring the pot on the stove, and you swear you only glanced away for 2 seconds but when you look up, Carmen is dicing an onion and the pot has a lid on it. “There’s onions in this?” you wonder aloud. You remove the sauce to a cool burner so you can catch up. You send a picture of the diced onions to Carm when you’re done. The vegetable is just shy of a dice but you’re not as swift with the knife as Carmy is.

To: Bear

are these small enough that anne won’t notice? she hates onions

You return to the video to address the contents in the pot. On screen, Carmen collects the onion on his knife, removes the lid of the pot, and dumps the dice in. You’re ready to follow suit but when you glance inside the stainless steel, what was once smooth and buttery looks chunky with split oil and water. You take a picture and send it just as Carmen responds to your initial text.

From: Bear

should be ok

Then a FaceTime call comes through from him. His brow is creased so deep it might leave a permanent indent. “What’d ya do?” He’s looking very closely at his screen though you haven’t flipped the camera yet. You huff, sitting the phone back on the counter while you try to will the mixture into coming together. “Lemme see,” Carmen interrupts your vigorous mixing.

Reluctantly, you pick the phone up and reverse the camera to show the traitorous sauce. “I left it for like 3 minutes max, Carm,” you whine.

“Oh, baby,” he sighs, scrubs at his forehead with his hand. He looks over his shoulder at what you remember is an engagement party that booked out the restaurant into the early evening. “I’ll cook,” he says when he looks back at the screen.

You flip the camera back to yourself and give him a puzzled look. “You’re there until at least 7. I know you’re making a late appearance but I don’t want you to have to cook after your long day.” You set the phone on the spice rack that hangs near the stove so he can see you and the food. “Just tell me how to fix it.”

Carmen laughs through his nose. “There’s no fixing that.” He chuckles again at the glare you send him through the screen. “I would love nothing more than to make dinner for our friends. Just put out a charcuterie board or somethin’ until I get there.” He watches you tilt your head in contemplation, still mixing the sauce futilely. When you relent with a sigh he gives you a lopsided grin. “Did well, baby. See ya in a bit.”

Hours later you’re sat with your friends in the living room, chatting and laughing over meats and cheese. Despite the very welcomed presence of your loved ones, you can’t help but focus on Carmen, towel thrown over his shoulder and arms flexing while he works in the kitchen. He contributes to conversations every now and again, laughing to himself when someone says anything particularly funny. You gravitate towards him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind where he stands at the stove. “Food’s almost done,” he comments.

You hum, press a kiss to his shoulder. “Thanks for this.”

Carmen dips a spoon in the pot and blows on it before bringing it to your mouth to taste. You hum in satisfaction. “Course, angel.” He moves his body sideways and breaks the circle of your arms to wrap a bicep over your shoulder and tug you into him. He kisses the crown of your head then shoos you from the kitchen. The food is done soon, and you let Carmy pretend the flush in his cheeks is from the wine, rather than the shy pride from everyone singing his praises.

[rayhalloffame]

This would have been the hottest thing he did in the entire show if he hadn’t started a whole ass fire.

[rayhalloffame]

can someone explain bots to me, generally? Like there’s a storyline and you message and you get a response related to your message? Or are you prompted to say something to keep the story going? I’ve just started to see them on my dash and I’m intrigued

[rayhalloffame]

fake idgafer. i saw tht haunted look in ur eyes

[rayhalloffame]

kitten I’ll be honest the finality of everything in this world haunts daddy like a second shadow