Espressheauxs - Say You Can’t Sleep

Me after putting on my mascara

Pedro has arrived in Cannes!!

He’s always so stunning and perfect. This man is the death of me.

backseat

Summary: Carmy can’t wait until he gets home to have you

Warnings: general filth. Semi public sex? piv with no protection

Word count: 1.6k

A/N this is all inspired by this lovely ask that I’ll link here. Not proof read at all if you’re reading this the day of posting 💀

Carmy is the definition of a pent up ball of frustration as he scrubs the floor of the kitchen.

It's practically spotless in the first place, but he's determined to wipe down every square inch of the room. He's already taken off his chef whites, wearing his white shirt underneath. The one that hugs his muscles with his every moment.

Service was an absolute mess, and his tedious cleaning of the kitchen is evidence of it. He always stays late after a shift like that, needing some way to release all of his energy so he stands a chance sleeping when finally gets home.

You're leaning on the counter watching Carmy clean. You've already cleaned the stoves twice, and checked all the dates on the food in the walk-in—twice. Carmy finally rises to his feet, but not to leave.

It seems he somehow spots something worthy of wiping down the countertops yet again. That's your last straw.

"Carmy—look at the clock,” you say, pointing to the digital clock on the wall. “It's already midnight. Everything in this kitchen has been cleaned a dozen times. Can we go home, now?"

His arms flex as he takes a rag and begins to wipe the surface. " it’s not good enough," he mumbles, not taking the time to look up at you.

You resort to the only thing you can do that'll distract him immediately. Your hand reaches to squeeze his arm, making him face you. His eyebrows are already scrunched up in a frown like he was about to protest. Your other hand goes up to his cheek as you lean in to kiss him, and every ounce of protest he has in him melts away. He drops the rag on the counter and grabs your waist. You deepen the kiss—or at least try to before Carmy pulls away.

He’s beginning to walk towards the back door before you can even react. “C’mon,”

He says quickly, nodding his head towards the door. “Not going to make out with you here—just cleaned the whole place.” Carmy’s already pulled his keys out of his pocket, ready to lock up as soon as you’re out the door.

You think he’s about to start the car and drive you both home, so you head towards the passenger side door while Carmy locks up. “No. Backseat.” He mumbles, walking up behind you and opening the door for you to get in first. He follows, hopping in and closing the door.

He’s the one to act first this time. His hand grabs you by the jaw and pulls you to his lips. You moan into the kiss, grabbing onto his arms for support. His muscles flex underneath your palms, a subtle reminder of just how strong he is compared to you.

The way Carmy kisses you is intoxicating, licking into your mouth like he’s trying to devour you.

His free hand tugs at your waist, urging you to get on top of him.

You straddle his hips as you fall deeper into the kiss. Your hands touch him everywhere. You squeeze at the muscles of his arms, thread your fingers through his hair, and push down against the tense muscles of his stomach.

You cradle his face in your hands and pull back for a moment. His pupils are blown wide, and his mouth is shiny with a mix of your saliva and his. Your eyes trail down to his lips, focusing on them. They’re flushed and swollen from the kisses.

Your thumb reaches out to trace his bottom lip, pressing lightly on the skin. “You’re so pretty, Carm,” you whisper gaze transfixed on his mouth. He groans the second the words leave your lips.

“Fuckin’ hell—you know you can’t just say things like that, baby.

“But it’s true, and I don’t say it enough.” You finally remove your hand from his face, moving it to his arm instead. Your finger traces the lines of his tattoos. “Every part of you is pretty.”

His hands trace up your spine at that, pushing your shirt up. His fingers are gentle against your skin, but push the fabric up hastily.

“Want this off—wanna see you.” You giggle at Carmy’s eagerness, but nod quickly at his statement. You help him take your shirt off, trying not to hit your head on the roof of the car in the process.

His bright blue eyes take in the newly exposed skin. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but he always traces his eyes over your body like he’s seeing it for the first time.

Naturally, your hands reach back to unclasp your bra, but Carmy stops you before you can undo the clasp. “No, no—keep it on. I love this one on you,” he mutters. The bra you have on is his favorite; he picked it out himself a few months ago.

Carmy leans in to start pressing kisses onto your neck. His hands multitask while he sucks at your pulse, first getting your pants button undone before tackling his belt. You already know at this point that you’ll have quite a few marks above your shirt collar to conceal in the morning.

You crawl off of him to pull down your pants and underwear, discarding them on the car floor before he tugs you by the arm to straddle him again.

Carmy can’t help his wandering hands. The second your back on top of him, his hand travels up your thigh to your center. He lets out a rough groan at the feeling of your wetness on his fingertips.

“Holy shit you’re wet—thinking about me all service?” Yeah? That why you were so eager to leave the kitchen?”When you don’t reply immediately, two of his fingers press against your clit, making you gasp.

He lifts up his hips to push his jeans and underwear down far enough to free his cock. He doesn’t care enough to remove anymore clothing.

Carmy holds his length, and traces the head through your folds, thoroughly slicking up his dick. You whine at the sensation of him at your entrance, so close to where you need him.

“Please. Don’t wanna be teased—need you Carm,” you beg.

“Go ahead then, baby. Sit on my cock.”

Wasting no time, you sink down onto his length slowly, burying your face into his shoulder as you whimper at the stretch. He grabs your hips more firmly than before, not letting you take too much at once.

“Shh—I know, baby. Feels really deep like this, yeah?”

“Mm—“

“Doing so good. Just keep taking it nice and easy—almost there.” He gives your hips a squeeze of assurance as he guides you to sink down further onto him.

You both moan loudly when you finally bottom out on his cock. Your hips are completely flush with his as you take a moment to catch your breath. Carmy removes one of his hands from your waist to tug your head out of the crook of his neck.

“There, now I can see my pretty girl,” he whispers.

You move your hips in slow deep grinds first, stimulating your clit at the same time. Carmy’s looking up at you like you’re an angel in his presence. His mouth is dropped open trying to take a breath while he watches you ride him. Carmy let’s you go at your own pace for awhile, but he grows restless.

His hands grasp onto your hips and push them down on him, nudging his cock even deeper inside of you. His moves a hand to the small of your back and urges you to rock against him. “That’s it—J’st like that—good girl.”

“Carmy—Carmy, Carmy, Carmy,” you whimper, voice full of need. “Please, I can’t—“

“Need me to help?”

Your legs have grown tired, the leather of the seat digging into your knees. “Mhm, please.”

In the next moment, he’s wrapping both of his arms tightly around your body. With his strong arms, he lifts you up and starts slamming his hips into yours.

You hide your face in his neck again, clinging to his body as he thrusts into you at a rapid pace. The angle makes his cock hit right up against that spongy spot deep inside you.

You can’t hold back the whines you’re releasing; Carmy knows every spot to hit to bring you to orgasm.

“Fuck—“ he groans. “Look, look at the windows,” he says. His voice is rough, like he’s barely holding on from falling over the edge. You lift your head to listen to him. The windows are covered in a dense layer of fog from all the heavy breathing.

“See that? Look at what we did—just couldn’t wait to have me could you?” He’s not expecting an answer. He knows you’re too close to form a coherent sentence, so he keeps up the pace of his hips.

He continues to hold you up with his right arm, but lets his left hand slide between your bodies so he can circle your clit with this thumb. That’s all it takes for your peak to wash over you as your legs shake from the high.

The pulsing of your cunt around his dick brings Carmy quickly to orgasm, spilling deep inside of you.

You rest in Carmy’s arms, trying to finally catch your breath. His head leans back against the headrest as he groans. “Fuck—now I really don’t feel like driving home.”

“Well maybe next time we can try to leave the restaurant at a normal time and this wouldn’t happen.”

You don’t miss the look in Carmy’s eye before he speaks. “What if I want it to happen again,” he says with a boyish grin.

PEDRO PASCAL on Jimmy Kimmel Live | March 2025

'The Pitt' star Shawn Hatosy loves 'ER cowboy' Dr. Abbot as much as you do

jack seems to be so composed in your writing, especially during sex. is there ever a scenario you could see him maybe losing control/composure during?

Oh, definitely—Jack’s composure isn’t just habit, it’s armor. But under the right pressure? He’ll break. And when he does, it won’t be loud or reckless—it’ll be raw. Quiet.

Here’s where I think he’d lose control—physically, emotionally, or both. 18+ ONLY. Do not interact if you’re a minor.

warnings/content: rough sex, deep emotional repression, emotionally charged confessions, unprotected sex, dom/sub energy without labels, messy pacing, loss of control, clingy post-sex silence

1. When He Thinks He’s Losing You

You shouldn’t be here.

Not after what you said. Not after the door slammed. Not after you’d spent the past few nights curled under someone else’s blanket on someone else’s couch, trying to forget how his voice sounded when he didn’t ask you to stay.

But it’s raining, and you’re here. And Jack opens the door like he knew you’d be on the other side.

Still, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares.

His gray curls were tousled, flattened at the sides like he’d been dragging a hand through them too many times. The shirt he’s wearing is soft, white, the collar stretched, the hem sitting uneven over a pair of sweats. He stood still, but not at ease—his weight angled slightly, one leg bearing just a little more than the other. The prosthetic stayed grounded, subtle in its silence, like something his body adjusted to without thinking—something you’d learned to notice only when he was this still.

He looks tired.

He looks like he hasn’t been able to stop thinking.

You speak first. Quiet. “Can I come in?”

He nods, barely. His jaw twitches like it pains him not to reach for you.

You toe off your shoes in the entryway. The house smells like coffee, antiseptic, and whatever candle you left half-burned in the kitchen—still faint in the air, like the memory of your warmth hasn’t fully left.

He closes the door behind you. Doesn’t move.

The silence between you presses down—thick and unfinished.

“I wasn’t sure you’d open the door,” you say first. Voice quiet. Uncertain.

Jack huffs through his nose. Not a laugh. Not quite. “I wasn’t sure I should.”

Your voice drops. “I didn’t come to keep fighting.”

“I didn’t think you did,” he says. Then, after a pause: “But you did leave.”

You nod, once. “I left. You shut down. Not that different.”

It lands. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just stands there, still, eyes locked on yours like there’s more he wants to say but no good way to say it. He breathes out, sharp at the edges, and you know—it got through.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he says.

You nod again. “Neither did I.”

It hangs there for a moment—we hurt each other. We didn’t mean to. But we did.

Then finally, you say it. Not softly, not dramatically. Just truthfully.

“I missed you.”

And that—that—is what breaks him.

His hand’s in your hair before you can breathe. His mouth finds yours—desperate, uneven, like the words he didn’t say are still stuck in his throat and this is the only way to let them out. Not polished. Not careful. Starving.

He's everywhere—your jaw, your waist, the small of your back—like he doesn’t know what to hold onto first. His body crowds into yours, chest to chest, thigh slipping between yours without finesse, without warning. It isn’t about sex. It’s about contact. Closeness. Like he’s trying to fit both of you back into the same breath.

“Jack,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “Hey—”

He kisses you harder.

“I can’t—” His voice breaks at your throat. “I can’t do that again. I can’t watch you leave and pretend it didn’t fucking gut me.”

Your hands find his chest first—flat against the worn fabric, fingers curling into it like you’re trying to steady both of you. He’s burning beneath it. You slip your palms beneath the hem, not tugging, just touching, just wanting—a wordless way to say me neither.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you breathe.

That’s when something in him gives.

He grabs the back of your shirt and pulls it off, fast and clumsy. His own shirt’s gone next—tossed to the floor. You catch a glimpse of the scar trailing along his ribs, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t slow.

His hands move to your waistband, not asking. Just moving. Just needing. He drags your pants down with both hands, catching your underwear with them, tugging hard until they’re off and forgotten on the floor. Then his hands are back on you—raking up your thighs, gripping the curve of your hips.

You start to reach for him, but he’s already gathering you into his arms—like instinct took over before thought could catch up. You cling to him without hesitation, arms winding around his shoulders, legs locking at his waist. He carries you down the hall without a word, without pause, like getting you to the bed is the only thing anchoring him now.

He lays you back on the bed and follows you down.

No teasing. No pause.

Just Jack—pressing into you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding himself between your legs. You’re already wet. Already open. And when he pushes in—deep, slow, all at once—his breath leaves him in a broken exhale.

He stills.

Not to tease. Not to hold back.

Because it wrecks him.

He lowers his head, jaw clenched tight, arms shaking with restraint. You feel him tremble above you—one, sharp tremor—and then he starts to move.

Not rhythmically.

Not smoothly.

Just fucking desperate.

Every thrust is erratic, forceful, like he’s been holding this back for days, weeks. He can’t find a pace. He can’t breathe through it. He’s rutting into you like it’s the only way to stay grounded. Like it’s the only place he knows how to be.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders and he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t slow down. He presses his forehead into your neck—sweat damp, teeth clenched. He makes no sound. But you feel it.

The unraveling. The shudder in his hips. The way he drives deeper, harder, chasing something even he doesn’t have words for.

And when he comes—he doesn’t curse. Doesn’t groan.

He just breaks.

Whole body locking up. A silent, shuddering gasp against your skin. Hands gripping too tight. Hips stuttering through the aftershock.

And then stillness.

He stays inside you.

Doesn’t move.

Just breathes—shallow and wrecked—his weight braced against your chest like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling further.

2. When You’re in Control—And He Didn't See It Coming

He’s lying on the bed, propped against the headboard. Bare chest rising slow and steady like he’s trying not to let the day get to him.

And then you crawl into his lap.

No warning. No words. Just your body over his, thighs straddling his hips, your skin barely covered by the oversized shirt he left folded on your side of the bed. His shirt. Still carrying his scent.

His hands move automatically—to your waist, to the back of your thigh—but you push them back. Gently. Firmly.

“Let me,” you whisper.

His brow lifts—only a little. The only sign of tension is the flicker in his jaw, the way his thigh shifts beneath you. But he doesn’t stop you.

You lean in, kiss his collarbone, run your hands over his chest, the scars and the muscle and the years of wear he never talks about. You don’t rush. You don’t ask. You just slide your hand lower—over his stomach, beneath the waistband of his sweats—and wrap your fingers around him.

That’s the moment he falters.

His head drops back against the headboard. His mouth falls open. One of his hands fists the sheet beside him, the other grips your hip—tight, like he needs something to hold onto. He bucks up into your hand once, twice, breath caught in his throat.

“Don’t—” he rasps. “Don’t tease.”

You do.

You stroke him slow, deliberate, watching the tension build in every part of him—his abs flexing, his breath shortening, the way his eyes shut like he’s fighting not to give in. You feel him throb against your palm, hot and heavy and helpless in your grip. He’s panting now, voice shredded when he tries to speak.

And when you finally slide down onto him?

He gasps—sharp and strangled. His hips jerk upward and he catches himself on instinct, trying not to lose it too fast. But you ride him with control, your hands braced on his chest, grinding down slow and deep until he’s twitching inside you, his voice stuck in his throat.

His hands fly to your hips again, gripping hard, trying to hold you still. You lean down, brush your mouth against his ear.

“Let go.”

And he does.

He flips you onto your back, his mouth crashing into yours, and drives into you with everything he’s been trying not to feel. No rhythm—just need. His voice is raw when he breaks, forehead pressed to yours, thrusting so deep you swear you’re going to come undone from the inside out.

“You wanted to see me lose it,” he growls, breathless. “Here.”

And he fucks you like it’s not just sex—it’s relinquishing. It’s him, undone.

3. After a Day That Nearly Broke Him

He doesn’t say a word when he comes in. Just shuts the door, tosses his keys somewhere near the counter, and disappears down the hallway like the house is too loud, even in silence. You hear the shower.

By the time the mattress dips behind you, you’re barely awake.

But then you feel it—his hand. Heavy. Flat against your thigh beneath the sheets. He doesn’t trail it up, doesn’t ask, just presses. Like he needs to know you’re warm. Real.

You shift toward him, barely murmuring his name—and he’s already on top of you. No words. No preamble. Just his body moving over yours like a weight he can’t hold anymore. His mouth finds your shoulder first—open, hot. Not a kiss. Just breath and teeth. Desperation.

His hands work fast. Pulling your sleep shorts down, dragging your legs apart with his palms wide on the inside of your thighs. Breath stuttering as he fits the head of his cock between your folds.

And then he pushes in.

Deep. All the way. In one solid thrust that stretches you wide and makes your whole body jolt. You gasp, clutching his forearms—but he doesn’t move. Not yet.

He just stays. Buried to the base, forehead resting against yours, his body trembling with restraint.

“Jack…” you whisper.

His jaw is clenched tight. Breath shaking. His hands grip your hips hard—too hard—but you don’t stop him. You don’t want to. You know this isn’t about rhythm or foreplay. This is him trying not to break.

And then he starts to move.

It’s not fast. Not sloppy. It’s intentional. Each thrust deep and full, grinding into you like he’s trying to anchor himself inside your body. You feel every inch of him dragging slow and thick through your cunt, your breath catching every time his hips meet yours.

His arms cage you in. His mouth is at your throat, hot and wet and lost. Not saying anything—just making small, broken sounds against your skin.

You moan his name again, and that’s what shatters him.

He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, the sound obscene, wet, raw. You cry out. He doesn’t pause.

Again. Harder.

He’s shaking now—his abs tensing under your hands, his breath rasping in short, uneven bursts as he fucks you harder, deeper, wrecklessly, like something gave out inside him and there’s no pulling it back.

You feel him pulse inside you before you hear the sound he makes—low, guttural, broken. His whole body tightens, chest pressed to yours as he comes hard, buried deep, cock throbbing with each wave as he empties into you, mouth open against your collarbone, completely silent now.

He stays inside you. Breathing. Not moving. One hand slides up your side and stays there.

You don’t ask what happened at the hospital.

You just hold him like he’s still unraveling.

Because he is.

4. When You Break Him With Words

He’s already fucking you when it happens—slow, deep, focused. Jack above you, heavy with control, arms braced tight on either side of your head. His chest brushes yours with every roll of his hips, thick and steady, cock sliding in slow and hot with the kind of precision that only comes from someone who never lets himself get carried away.

He doesn’t talk much during sex. Just the occasional sharp breath, a low curse when you clench around him. Mostly silence. Measured. Like everything else he does.

His body covers yours completely—his weight, his warmth, the subtle difference in how he shifts to keep balance—but there’s nothing hesitant about the way he moves. He knows your body, knows how to make you fall apart. He just rarely lets himself need it.

Tonight’s no different.

Until you say it.

“I love the way you fuck me,” you breathe—first, casual. And he grunts, lips brushing your jaw, pace unchanging.

But then: “I love you.” “I mean it.” “I want all of you.”

That stops him.

Not entirely. His hips stall mid-thrust, chest tight against yours, his jaw locked so hard you feel it in the weight of his breath. His cock throbs inside you, thick and full and unmoving.

You cup the side of his face—fingers slow, tender—and say it again.

“I mean it, Jack. I want you. All of you. Not just this.”

He exhales through his nose—sharp. Controlled. Like he’s trying to fight the way that lands. You feel it in the way his arm flexes. In the way his cock twitches inside you, untouched and aching.

Then suddenly—he moves.

Faster. Rougher.

He drives into you like something cracked, like if he keeps fucking you hard enough, he can shake the words out of his head.

But it’s too late.

They’re already inside him.

He fucks you with his whole body—thrusts rough and deep, every stroke dragging moans from your throat as he hits you just right. Your thighs are hooked around his waist, back arching into him, nails raking down his shoulders as he starts to unravel.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he mutters, voice hoarse and close to ruined.

“I do,” you gasp, holding onto him tighter. “Jack, look at me.”

He does.

And his rhythm falters the second your eyes meet.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His whole body stutters.

He growls—actually growls, low and guttural—as he drives into you harder than before, pace snapping, control slipping completely. You feel him start to lose it—his hips jerking, cock throbbing so deep inside you it makes your vision go white. He’s there, on the edge, and trying not to be.

You dig your heels into his back and pull him closer. “Don’t hold it in.”

His eyes flutter shut. His mouth crushes to yours, desperate, brutal, all tongue and teeth. His thrusts go ragged—sloppy and devastated—until he buries himself fully and groans, deep and wrecked, as he comes inside you.

You feel every pulse, hot and thick, his cock twitching deep inside your cunt as his whole body jerks. His arms are shaking. His breath is gone.

And still—he doesn't move.

Just stays there, pressed full length against you, forehead buried in your neck like if he lifts his head, he’ll say something he can’t take back.

saying “i know baby” while she’s having an orgasm

still thinking about this.