#carmy berzatto fanfic

[moonstruckme]

This celebration bake sale is so unbelievably precious omg I’m in love with you

Congrats on 7k!! And wishing you a lovely birthday!!

May I request a little apple pie with Carmy and the prompt a six pack of beer and an apology (#10) (it just seems so him)

I’m overwhelmed with affection for you babe <3

Thank you lovely, I got really excited about the idea haha. And you're right, it is so him <3

cw: alcohol

Carmy Berzatto x fem!reader ♡ 902 words

You’re unsurprised to open your door and find Carmy on the other side. It’s why, while you have changed into your pajamas, you didn’t go for one of the shirts that’s all moth-bitten or the pants with rockstar squirrels printed on them (they’re very comfy, alright?). These are your presentable pajamas, and they allow you to stand tall in your slippers and look at Carmy with some dignity. 

He, of course, in his chef’s coat. It still has some sauce splattered on the fabric partway down his chest. You know he’s trying to look presentable since the restaurant went more upscale, but you miss his tight white t-shirts (for reasons which will remain unspecified, though you’ve hinted to him more than once). 

“Hey,” Carmy says. He looks abashed, which is a nice start. 

You’re not letting him off easy, though. You cross your arms and let your hip jut out a little, regarding him coolly. “Hi.” 

His gaze seems stuck on your chin. “I, uh. I wanted to apologize.” 

Try as you might, you can’t help the little smile that turns your mouth at how awkward he sounds. You lift an eyebrow to try to retain some of your higher ground. “Okay. Wanna come in and have a drink?” you ask him, partly because you know how difficult this is for him and partly because you want him to know you know how difficult this is for him. 

“Sure,” he says, letting you lead the way to the fridge. You grab a couple of beers from a six-pack, setting them down on the kitchen table. 

Your fingers grow slippery with condensation as you crack yours open. Carmy moves to do the same, but his mouth twists. 

“What?” 

His eyes flick up to yours like he’s been caught. You don’t know why he’s surprised; Carmy has never been good at keeping things off his face. He gives a minute shake of his head. 

“Nothing.” 

“No, what?” 

“It’s nothing.” He’s looking at the table, and you get the sense that while he sounds like he’s done talking, he’ll say more if you let him. So you stay quiet. “Just, my mom used to baste turkeys with this stuff.” 

You raise your eyebrows. You and Carmy haven’t been together for long, but you’ve been around his family long enough to know what his mom is like. What holidays mean for them all. “This same brand?” 

“Yeah.” Carmy still looks like he’s about to open it, working a short fingernail under the tab, but you pull it away from him before he can. 

“What do you want instead?” you ask earnestly. 

Again, he looks surprised. You’re reminded of how much tough love he’s around all the time. Maybe you ought to be kinder to him. He chews the inside of his cheek, thoughtful. 

“Do you have any ginger beer? I could make a Moscow mule.” 

And again, your lips betray you. You almost laugh, actually. “God, that is so New York.” You stand, taking your beers back to the fridge. Yours will get flat. You don’t mind. “What would make you think I have ginger beer? In my tiny fridge? Why would I stock that?” 

You can practically feel the waves of Carmy’s awkwardness hitting your back like radiation. “If you don’t have any…” 

“No, I do.” You emerge with two cans of ginger beer. “Weirdly, I bought some months ago and it got shoved back there. Make me one, too, that sounds way better than beer.” 

Carmy stands to take the cans from you, going to the counter. He’s not smiling but looks tantalizingly close to it, the tension in his shoulders relaxing somewhat. “Do you also have a lime, or…”

You roll your eyes. “In the bowl on your left, fancy pants.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Thank you.” You sit back down in your chair, watching him cut your lime into wedges. “As apologies go, you’re off to a great start.” 

“Yeah.” Carmy sounds a tad bashful. “I wasn’t really expecting it to go this well.” 

You take a breath, letting it whoosh out of you, and decide to put him out of his misery. When you speak, your voice is serious, though not unkind. “You can’t just yell at me because you’re stressed, Carm.” 

Carmy’s shoulders string tighter again. “I know. I shouldn’t have lost my cool like that, I’m sorry.” 

“I know you’re used to a lot of yelling, and it’s all you hear in your kitchen and stuff, but not with me. I can’t do it, okay? And you can tell me when you’re having a shit day—I’d love that, actually—but you can’t expect me to tiptoe around you because someone else did something when I wasn’t around.” 

“I know.” Carmy’s eyes close. He looks almost pained. “I know, I know. I really fucked up. It won’t…I won’t let it happen again. Really.” 

“Okay,” you say softly. 

“I’ll keep my shit separate.” 

“Okay. I believe you.” You wait until he opens his eyes, let him see the sincerity in your expression. Among other, softer feelings, probably. “We’re cool. Okay?” 

He nods once. He still looks guilty, ashamed, but that’s okay. You’ll bring him back around. Forgive him forcefully until he gets past it, too. 

“Sick.” You pull your legs up into your chair, crossing them and setting your hands on your knees eagerly. “I still want my apology drink, though. Blow my mind, chef.”

[thecapricunt1616]

💋🐁🍸🪱💖Moot tags; @mouseymilkovich 🐁, @gallaghersgal 💋, @l4long-winded 💖, @carmybrainworms 🪱 , @carmenberzattosgf 🍸, @daysofyellowroses 🌯🌼

[luveline]

Hi Jade ! I loove your sunshine!readers, could I request one for Carmy ? Maybe someone calls her to get to the restaurant when hes feeling anxious to calm him down idk if thats good lol love ya !

ty for requesting <3 fem, 1.4k

Is it The Beef or The Bear? In your head, despite the wishes of everyone who works there (except for Ebra, who seems to have mixed opinions), you always call it The Beef. But the sign brags otherwise, and when you push open the doors, nothing inside is left to remind you of the old restaurant. It was a total gut. 

“Hi, gorgeous,” says a familiar, warm voice. 

You almost walk straight into her table, distracted looking for brown curls through the kitchen door’s little window. “Hey, Tina.” You grin at your second favourite chef. Your most favourite Sous. “You taking a break?” 

She offers you a round butter cookie from a sleeve of them. Her cup of coffee billows with steam. “Uh-huh.” 

“Hiding from a meltdown?” you ask, taking a cookie, fingers oily with butter, sugar grains falling to the floor. 

“It’s not like that,” she says. 

Well, what is it like? you think. 

Richie’s text wasn’t exactly descriptive. Need ur help with the little Bitch, he’d said. Then, when you didn’t answer, ASAP!!!!

You figured it must’ve been another rant. He’s prone to these… episodes of anger where he doesn’t realise he’s spinning out and hurting people who really care about him. You try to bring him out of it, but he’s a Berzatto. They’re all the same, sort of. Everything that’s wrong with them has been stamped into them a long, long time ago. 

He’s been better since Nat steel armed him into AA, but still. You tilt your head to one side, sugar cookie between your fingers, listening for the goings on in the kitchen. “Sydney’s here?” you ask. “I thought she was sick.” 

“Sydney gets sick, but she doesn’t take sick days,” Tina says with a loving shrug. 

You smile at her in brief goodbye for now and make your way to the kitchen, where you push in quietly. All their ‘Behind!’ and ‘Corner!’ and ‘Hands!’ makes you laugh, and you can’t take it seriously so you don’t, but you’re not trying to be dangerous in there either. 

“Hello?” you ask. 

Sydney and Richie look up from a cramped notebook at the table nearest to the door. There are employees you're unsure of prepping vegetables along the wall, but Carmy isn’t anywhere to be seen. 

“Fucking finally,” Richie says, before rubbing his face regretfully. “I’m sorry, it’s just– I texted you an hour ago, babe, you’re letting me down.” 

You laugh. “Sorry, babe,” you tease. “I have a job, just like you.” Your hands are cold where you tuck them under each armpit, crossing your arms. “Hi, Sydney. You feeling okay?” 

“No. He’s stressing me out.” 

“Which one?” 

“Both of them.” She looks like she might rub her face too. “I need him to be in here right now, he should be doing this, but he keeps walking away and– and not saying where he’s going.” 

“He is stressful,” you agree, though usually Carmy’s stress tends to bounce right off of you, “I’m gonna find him and strap him down for you.” 

Sydney just frowns. 

“I’ll see what’s up,” you say more seriously. “In the office?” 

“Out the back,” Richie says. “Smoking like his mother. He’s a fucking steam train lately.” 

It’s like they want to worry you. You give them grateful nods, sorry nods, and start to make your way out of the main kitchen, past the dishwashers and the dessert station to one of the back doors. Carmy isn’t your responsibility. You don’t have to apologise for him, you don’t have to mother him, he should commit to his responsibilities all on his own, but… it’s hard. You like apologising for him because his behaviour isn’t always on purpose, and he struggles with commitment for similar reasons. There’s this aching, stagnated grief in him that’s reawakening, there’s the stress of the restaurant, his business, the scars of the last ten years, and before that. You know it isn’t your job to come here and make him feel better, but isn’t it? When you love someone, it’s half the deal. 

Carmy shouldn’t yell at his friends, or employees. He shouldn’t chain smoke, and he shouldn’t be sitting on the low wall by the dumpsters shaking so hard with his head so low that you can see the first notch of his spine in his shirt. 

“Carmy?” you ask. 

His head ducks further down. You can hear him breathing, not too hard as to alarm you, and yet unrelaxed. 

You smile without thinking. You hate seeing him like this, but looking after him is a pleasure. “Hey, Carmen. Can I sit with you?” 

He forces his face up. “What are you doing here?” he asks. 

Trying to make sure he doesn’t tear another chunk out of Richie. “It’s my lunch break.” 

You perch on the wall beside him and snap your nearly forgotten cookie into two pieces, one side bigger than the other, which you offer him. 

Carmy takes it. Looks at it without expression, though that slowly turns to a dry ire you’ve felt directed your way a hundred times. “What the fuck is this?” 

“Cookie.” 

“I don’t want this.” 

“Could you just eat it?” You put your own half in your mouth in its entirety, all aligned to your teeth. It shatters into sweet, soft crumbs between your teeth. You talk with a hand over your mouth, “It’s not gonna kill you.” 

Carmy looks at it for a long time before he eats it. 

You watch him. He’s more tan than you’d think, that Italian gene kicking in, skin clinging to whatever sunshine it finds. He spends enough time inside that you’re surprised it can muster the energy. He looks better with it though, his curls look gold toned under the sun, and his clenched jaw doesn’t seem so harsh. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask eventually. Almost conversationally. 

“Nothing.” His hand shakes on his thigh. He turns his palm down to clasp his knee. 

“You sure?” 

“No.” 

“That one’s my favourite.” 

“What?” 

You poke toward a tattoo on his hand. It’s a simple flower, same style as most of his tattoos. “I like it ‘cos it’s just a flower.” 

“My least pretentious,” he guesses. 

“Something like that.” 

He tips his head back. 

“Richie texted me. He thinks I’m gonna… like, I’m gonna calm you down, I guess.” 

“You always do,” he says. 

You give him a long, smiley look. “So you’re in love with me?” you ask warmly, pushing up into a knee to wrap your arm behind him, hugging him before he can move away. “You’re totally fucked for me, Berzatto, that’s fucking crazy.” 

“Fuck off,” he laughs. 

You rub his arm, his skin hot in your hold. He touches your waist very, very lightly. “What am I supposed to do, anyway? I can’t cook. You and Syd are on your own.” 

“You already… already did enough.” He grabs your waist where you wobble on the brick wall, grit biting your knees, his hand comparatively soft. 

“Such a crush on me,” you tease in a whisper, his hair crushed under your cheek. 

You’re tempted to kiss his temple, but affection with Carmy is like oil and water sometimes. You give him a last protective squeeze and sit yourself down again. 

“Carm,” you say, “you know you can call me, right? Like, if you don’t feel okay.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” 

“Or text me. If that’s easier. It’s hard to say hard things out loud.” 

He laughs again. “Sorry.” 

“I know, I don’t– I don’t seem like I know what you’re talking about, I get it, but I do understand. N’ even if I didn’t, I don’t mind listening. Or laughing at you.” 

“What’s that about?” 

“The laughing?” you ask. “You tell me.” 

His hand slides behind your back in half a hug. “Guess it’s funny.” 

“Can I change my mind about the tattoo?” 

“The flowers not your favourite?” 

“No. You know which one I like best?” 

His thumb rubs into your back. “The snail.” 

“Absolutely the snail. You’re so fucking silly sometimes, I’m supposed to take you seriously when you’re yelling and red in the face with a snail on your arm?” 

You can’t see his face with your cheek to his shoulder, won’t know that he’s smiling at you with a rare aura of peace. Can’t see the wanting, either. 

[bookshelf-dust]

promise to take care of my heart

carmy berzatto x fem!reader

gif by @emziess

word count: 1,830

warnings: nothing? a little swearing, but this is pure fluff and that’s all

synopsis: carmy wants to cuddle with you for the first time.

a/n: hi! new character, i know. but i’ve become rather attached to carm in the past few months and i had a cute idea for him and here we are. he’s bringing me so much comfort right now and now i’m gonna share that with you <333

————

“Why don’t you pick out a movie or somethin,’ bub?” 

“If I could find your damn remote, Carm, I would.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, eyes on his hands where they sit deep in the dishwater below. Good luck, he thinks. 

You scan the coffee table, the rug below the shabby couch. It’s not like there’s any use checking the tv stand because it’s still a fucking table tray. You know he doesn’t even own the full set of four table trays? He’s just got the one? That knowledge keeps you up at night. Just like how he doesn’t have a ceiling fan pull and has to get tweezers to change the speed.

You find the remote nestled in a stack of freshly organized books. You helped Carmen assemble a very simple bookshelf so that his stash of cookbooks wouldn’t have to live on the floor anymore. 

Just getting to help him turn his apartment into something other than a place to sleep brought you a contagious giddiness. Carmen’s chest aches with how much he’s laughed since he met you. 

Look at all my muscles, Carm. I’m practically ready for my dick now, don’t you think? 

Where’d you even get these? He’d looked down at the little allen wrench in your hand and said I don’t know, they were just here one day. 

Now you have a bookshelf, Bear. What a grown up. 

Carmen wouldn’t let you help him with the dishes after he cooked you dinner. He’d just kissed your shoulder and said, “Let me take care of it, alright?” with that little raise of his brows and quirk of his lips telling you not to argue because you’d never win. 

And when Carmen tells you to let him take care of something, well…you listen. 

You haven’t been dating very long, but it’s been enough that you’ve both developed this rhythm, this way of moving around and with each other and you just…work. 

He doesn’t understand how you can dial his shyness, his hesitance, so quickly, how you can make him feel like a human again so easily. But you do. 

You settle against the back of the couch, flipping through the tv guide (because Carm has never subscribed to any streaming services) until you find something worth listening to. It’s already a few minutes in, but you’ve seen the movie enough times that it doesn’t really matter. 

The overhead light in the kitchen switches off and Carmen pads out to the living room, socked feet dragging on the hardwoods. Your biggest pet peeve is people who don’t pick up their feet, but somehow it’s more tolerable when it’s him. 

He sits down on the edge of the couch. Just sits. On the edge. That means he wants to say something. You give him the time to psych himself up. 

Carmy chews on his thumb nail and rubs his nose before he turns to you, placing his hand on the couch. His blue eyes burn into yours, and the intensity of his gaze, trained on you, makes you feel like the most important person in the world. 

“H-hey, um…can we—could we snuggle, maybe?” He flushes at the fact that he just used the world snuggle. Richie would have his ass so quick if he’d heard him say that. 

Your grin is brilliant. You’ve never cuddled properly with Carmen before. Maybe a head on a shoulder or a leg tossed across another, but never a real cuddle session. “Fuck yeah, we can, Carm.” You giggle and the sound softens that bubble of fear in his chest. 

He bites the inside of his cheek, letting out the barest laugh. 

“How did you want t-to lay, Bear?” You blink at him. “Were you just gonna—” 

He starts to nod. “I was just gonna lay on your chest, honestly.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, that works.”

“Y-yeah.”

You snort. “Lemme’ stretch out for you and then you can be a teddy bear.” 

“Seriously?”

“Yes.” Carmen shakes his head at you. He lets you pull that shit because he likes it. Secretly.

When you have a pillow under your neck and are laid out on your back, Carm slips beside you against the back of the couch and clumsily settles on top of you. He doesn’t want to crush you or anything, so he settles between your legs, only allowing the weight of his torso to envelop you. 

One arm wraps around your back, the other cradling your hip, his curls brushing your chin. He turns his head to face the tv and lets out a satisfied sigh. 

On instinct your hand threads through his tangled hair, scratching at his scalp gently and sorting through any piece that feels knotted. 

“What is this?” Carmy asks, nodding in the direction of the screen. 

“The Wedding Planner. It has Jlo and Matthew McConaughey in it.” 

“Chick flick?”

You hum in agreeance. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t hate it. Jlo’s character is like you but if the restaurant was a wedding planning business and you were, you know, a chick.”

He laughs lightly against your stomach and you can feel the puff of air over your shirt. 

The weight of Carmen’s body on top of yours is easily the most calming feeling you’ve ever experienced. You can’t get enough of him. 

“This okay?” you ask, scratching his scalp a little more for emphasis. This is a new way of showing affection. Uncharted territory. 

“Hm?” He looks up at you briefly, blue eyes fluttering closed. “Oh yeah, feels nice. I like it.”

You grin and continue to play with his hair. He’s right. It does feel nice. It is. 

The next few minutes go by without any conversation, just silence. But it’s so comfortable. Carmen’s tired gaze is on the tv. You can feel him breathing, feel the way he scratches over your back absently. You don’t know if he’s aware he does it, but he nuzzles his nose against the soft of your stomach every now and then like it’s keeping him safe. 

“You know I thought about being a wedding planner?”

Carmy pushes up onto his elbows, looking at you with the smallest smirk playing on his lips. “Really?”

You playfully bat at his shoulder and he moves to lay back down, but not before pressing a kiss to your sternum over your shirt. “Mhm. Still think about it sometimes.” You pause, but Carm doesn’t say anything yet because he knows you aren’t finished with that thought. 

“I guess I just thought it’d be nice to help put things like that together? The organization would make me feel…complete, I guess. And you know I don’t like to help people in such an extroverted way? I like to be behind the scenes.” You laugh, a little self-deprecatingly. “Does that make sense?”

Carmen squeezes your side. “‘Course it does. And then you could come home and tell me stories about all the family drama you eavesdrop on.”

You giggle, and Carmy loves that he can feel it where he lays on your chest. He can feel your joy, and that’s fucking cool. “That I could.”

He rubs your back in small, gentle circles. “And you know, I happen to have some friends who make pretty good food and would be happy to help if you ever needed.”

“Oh, do you? Well, that’s very helpful, Mr. Berzatto. You’ll have to give me their number.”

Carmy laughs into your chest. A pure, genuine laugh. It’s such a beautiful sound, and you truly think you’d have it tattooed all over your body if that was even remotely possible. His glee makes you laugh, and then you’re both snickering like you’re teenagers doing something that’ll get you in big trouble. 

You reach for his hand, the one that’s resting on your hip now, and he lets you lift it towards your face. He bites his cheek, fighting the smile that rises when you press your warm and chapstick covered lips to his knuckles. 

“You have such pretty hands, Carmy.”

He pinches your back. “I still don’t get why you’re so fascinated by them.”

“Because they’re pretty. And, look—” You hold yours up to his. “—they’re so much bigger than mine. And I like your tattoos, obviously. I like that I know how talented you are with your hands and how capable. I’m very lucky to hold such capable hands, Bear.”

“Capable, huh?” He gives you a look, one that makes you want to both tackle him and smack him on the arm. Instead you roll your eyes and he raises up to kiss you. 

“Capable of being the world’s biggest pain in the ass.”

Carmy laughs. It’s that little chuckle, light and airy and like he can’t believe what he’s hearing but he wants to hear more anyway. He flops back down on your chest, making you let out a rather loud oomph. 

You take Carmen’s hand in yours again, rubbing over the dry patches on his knuckles, the scabs on the insides of his fingers, the scar on his palm. His whole life is written in these hands. 

You start massaging the pads of his fingers without even thinking about it. No one’s ever been that gentle with him—definitely not with his hands—and a little part of him melts at the feeling. 

You kiss the tattoo on the back of his hand and just look at his skin. You’re determined to memorize each line and freckle and fucked up cuticle he’s got. 

“At least your nails don’t look like Richie’s, Carm.”

His chest moves with the giggle that travels throughout his body. 

“Trust me, they didn’t look like that when he was still with Tiff.”

You grin, your eyes falling back on the television. Maybe Carm would be open to setting it on the bookshelf? That table tray has put in a lot of work. It deserves a break. 

Carmen can see why you’re so fond of this movie. It’s one of those that doesn’t require much thought, that has humor and feels more human than most. He knows he shouldn’t think it, but you having said what you said before makes him wonder if you’ll plan your own wedding…with him. 

Shut the fuck up, he tells himself. But maybe we’ll get there. 

You catch him smiling when they fuck up the statue in the garden and pretend not to notice. You both keep quiet now, but Carm reaches up and puts your hand back on his head.

Your fingers thread through his curls again, scratching at his scalp gently. Your other hand does the same thing to his back. You know it’s going to lull him to sleep. 

When you say it, he’s already dozed off. But you are so happy that you get to make him feel safe. That he’s comfortable enough to sleep on you like this. Lucky is an understatement. 

“Thank you for letting me in, Bear. I don’t think my life has ever been this beautiful.”

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!

[heartsofminds]

if you could see my thoughts, you would see our faces

“I do a lot of things you don’t do. Doesn’t mean you should be knockin’ yourself out to try ‘em.” or Carmy takes an impromptu smoke break and you're begging him for a drag.

A/N: just a sweet little blurb that's been sitting in my back pocket for a while. hope y'all love it as much as i loved writing it!

Smoke breaks never last forever. 

The cacophonic slam of a door, the pliable edges of a pack of American Spirits, the grooves of a lighter’s spark wheel, the mix of brisk Chicago wind smacking your face, and the heat of a silently shameful cigarette caressing it in a false sleeve of comfort – The world is silent during a smoke break. 

Until the door opens and someone asks to bum a light. Or until you get called back in because everyone and their goddamn mother in River North decides to come in to try the dinner special, yet pretend like they’re actually fucking curious to know what you think the best thing on the menu is. Or until the ignored panic in the back of your mind knocks the wind out of you when taking a particularly long drag that leaves you stifling a deep and hearty cough. 

The small moment of peace before it all still remains good. The moment of peace is fine. The moment of peace is all you can afford to get sometimes. 

A smoke break never lasts forever, but the temporary solace it provides is enough for Carmen, whose brain never seems to stop spinning no matter how fast or slow the world is turning without him. 

He’s gotten better, he thinks, about voicing his discomfort and finding ways to “cope” with his feelings of metaphysical spiraling. He’s still getting the hang of this whole “finding meaning outside of the kitchen” thing, but he figures that twenty-eight years of having your worth summed up in how well something was chopped or seasoned or sautéed or whatever the fuck is ridiculously hard to disengage from. 

His therapist would kill him if she knew that he credited a portion of the advancement of his well-being to you. He can hear Erin tell him that he can’t rely on people to make him feel better; that the only person who can determine Carmen’s worth is Carmen himself, but quite frankly he doesn’t give a fuck. 

And then he remembers that not giving a fuck is him making his own decision about his life (which he was never allowed to do before, which is why he thinks he was damned to hell to pick the profession he has), and his heart swells a bit with pride. He cares about something for once that has all to do with him and the meaning of life and living and being alive and in charge, and that idea is no longer a room with a false ceiling that can cave in at any moment. 

He doesn’t give a fuck because he does give one, and he has never known that something as simple as being loved, fully and authentically, was something that would make all the difference. 

Despite not being stressed out nor having a “real” reason to smoke (except for the fact that he’s a creature of habit, and you seem to love the word “addicted” even though he disagrees), he finds himself lifting the window near the fire escape of his apartment and stepping out onto the rusted steps that are less than functional and whips out his lighter and the red cardboard package harboring his cigarettes. 

The lights are off in the apartment and the soft whistling of the heater helps him make sense of the foggy window glass. Chicago is nightmarishly cold in November, yet his body doesn’t seem to mind the teen-digited temperature that plagues the indigo-hued 1 AM sky. 

Carmy loved in living in the city (and the actual city of Chicago and not Naperville or Joliet or Downers Grove like all the other self-proclaimed “Chicagoan” jagoffs that littered the outskirts of the city for sleep, but polluted it for play). 

He liked living in New York City but he loved living in Chicago. New York was too noisy which, he knows, is so fucking ironic given the fact he lives in the heart of all things bustling and boisterous. 

But New York had the kind of noise at night that was isolating; the sounds of cars honking and the squeal of the subway telling the stories of a million different lives of a million different people that he didn’t know. 

New York City is the largest city in the United fucking States, yet a twenty-two-year-old Carmen could not have felt lonelier while he was there. New York City is the perfect city in the United fucking States to go soul-searching in, and yet a twenty-two-year-old Carmen could not have been more clueless about who he was at the time.  

And he’s still figuring out this “thing” called having an identity and finding peace, and he’ll never feel like he knows a whole lot about anything, but he does know two things for certain. 

He fucking loathes feeling lonely and he fucking despises feeling clueless. 

Chicago is noisy, but the kind of noise that sends an irritated streak of comfort down your spine; the hatred of your twin bed and its mismatched sheets in your childhood bedroom, but the comfort of knowing a refreshing and safe sleep is to follow that night. It was the kind of noise that filled living rooms on Christmas Day or the backyard on the Fourth. It was the sound of a vacuum cleaner running on an early Saturday morning during the first week of summer break and the ticking of kitchen timers and arguments and laughter and tears of all kinds. 

He was always reluctant to come back. His pride is something he holds close to his chest but wears with quiet confidence. He would rather die than it seem as if he ran away from New York back home with his tail between his legs. He would rather die than admit to himself that Chicago is where he was meant to be and where he should have always been. He would rather die than admit that through his fucked childhood and even fuck-ier adulthood (Thank you Mikey and Mom and NOMA and Chef David), the city is his safety blanket. 

Carmen hasn’t been back to the house since the incident five Christmases ago. Everyone mutually (and very silently so as to not piss his mom off even more than she always perpetually seemed to be) decided that Christmas Eve dinner is much better suited for Uncle Jimmy’s house. When Natalie called on the phone to let him know about the change of venue the following year, he had known from her tone that another Richter scale meltdown had occurred once their mother found out. 

From then on he found ways to stay away; to stay put and to put his life on hold and it was the closest thing he could get to not breathing with, you know, still actually fucking breathing. 

And it worked for a while. It worked for one thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days, to be exact. 

But then Mikey died and then there was a restaurant and then there was every relative that had ever known of his existence knocking down his door and begging him to let them in; asking him if he was okay and prodding him with questions about any and everything in between his mom driving her car into the fucking house and his brother deciding croaking was better than sticking around this hell hole. 

And it’s crazy, he thinks, how him simply observing the weather and thinking about possibly smoking a cigarette before bed created this rabbit hole of what would usually be the beginning of an anxious spiral. 

Fucking Christ, I need a cigarette. 

His fingers create an unrecognizable beat on the package of cigarettes in his hand and he takes the first step out onto the fire escape. 

Carmen’s body weight bares down on a piece of the wired metal and it groans in protest. The sounds of tires passing through slush on the road create soothing white noise for his ears. The thin blue henley shirt he has on does little to shield the wind from icing his skin, but he doesn’t mind. 

He can’t chance going back inside to fetch his jacket. The coat rack near the front door lies at the end of a pattern of creaks from your apartment’s shitty floorboards. You’re not a light sleeper in any sense of the word (nor are you entirely sober right now), but he knows that he never places that one particularly decrepit plank of wood right, and the noise will jolt you out of your slumber. 

His nimble fingers swiftly pull a cigarette out of the carton. He cups it with his left and uses his right to cradle the flicker of his lighter. The orange flame disappears as fast as it had been kindled and he inhales deeply and his exhale is shallow. 

Carmen had been smoking since he was fifteen, but he never really had a reason to do it other than Mikey did, and it was a way to spend more time with him. It was their little secret; something that was his and Mike’s and something that seemed like a big deal at the time but would mean jack shit the second he turned eighteen. He never really loved the way cigarettes smelled. He could hardly stand the taste and the constant health class lectures about them being bad for your lungs freaked him out. 

But now that he knows what it feels like to have no thoughts in his head and be left alone in the solace of smoking a cigarette in the dead of night, he thinks he gets it. 

The silence is cut in half by the sound of the rickety floorboard groaning out in a warning. He doesn’t have to peek his head inside and look around to know that it’s you. You never sleep well after a night out and even though he had to carry you up the stairs, drag a damp washcloth over your face to remove your makeup, and bribe you to stand up long enough to take out your own contacts, he should have known better than to be anywhere but in bed next to you. 

Your drunkenness has started to fade and you’ve gone down on the meter from “off your ass” to “slightly tipsy.” Him picking you up from your girls’ night at one of the clubs downtown was more than two hours ago, but he figured you would’ve came and found him by now. 

You have such a fear of missing out and while it’s not Carmen’s favorite thing about you, it does warm his heart to know that you want to spend time with him or that you’re scared he’s doing something interesting without you around. He wishes your ‘fomo’ was based on some issue that he could tangibly fix and not on what he knows is your badly bruised self-esteem. It makes his chest heavy that sometimes you can’t see how great you are; that sometimes you don’t understand why he wants you around and loves you so dearly. 

He can hear your footsteps approach the window ledge and he wordlessly holds his arm out for you to grab onto. Your fingers come out from under the blanket you’ve thrown over yourself like a shawl and grasp his like a lifeline. 

Your body effortlessly molds to him; your front pressed to his back and his unoccupied arm pulling you closer like a seatbelt on your waist. The subtle pressure on your midsection comforts you and your body lodged into his helps alleviate some of the sting he’d been suffering from the cold. 

“You’re mad at me,” you speak. Your voice is small and soft; gentle just in case he really is mad at you and this isn’t something your drunk mind conjured up as you lay in bed alone. 

He sighs and turns his head to take another drag from his cigarette. He makes sure that your hair is out of target of his smoke exhale. A subtle whine leaves your throat as he steps away from you and he grins. Carmen loves when you’re like this; when you’re clingy and being near him is never enough to satiate you. 

“M’not,” he says. You shift from one foot to the other and his eyes momentarily gaze down to make sure you put on socks before you come out here to join him.

 Even though he can’t see your face, he knows that the corners of your mouth are posed in a frown. You hate it when he doesn’t elaborate. It makes you feel shut out. He’s not helping his case of denying your accusation. You may just burst into tears if he doesn’t provide more dialogue. 

Your nasty habit of feeling like everyone is upset with you all the time is swelling. His nasty habit of smoking more cigarettes a day than he knows he needs is bulging. 

Another drag from his cigarette. Another exhale of smoke. Another attempt at trying to be better for you. 

“Can’t ever be mad at you, baby. Not with a face like that,” he croons. The words come out of his mouth so easily; endearment dipped in honey and love warmed by sunshine. Adoration is easy when it comes to you. He’s never known a peace like this. 

“Sly dog,” you mutter. The brain fog from the four tequila lemonades you downed earlier makes you slow in finding a smartass thing to say. Carmen fights the urge to poke fun at you because he knows that you’ll take him seriously. 

“I love you. I love you. I love you,” your words silently praise. 

“You make it easy,” his hold on you acknowledges. 

Your face is numb from the cold and the alcohol making its way through your system. The lips pecking a kiss against your temple can barely be felt, yet you contently hum once the damp seal of them releases the affection you’ve been longing for. He never makes you work hard for his undivided attention when he readily has it. Wordlessness crafts a cradle of comfort for you both. Soulmates in ways that soulmates usually aren’t. 

Another drag from his cigarette. Another exhale of smoke. Another show of actually being better for you. 

A beat of silence passes with the whistling of the wind. 

“Can I try?” your voice is small with unacquired confirmation of what his answer will be. 

He giggles and you’re mesmerized by the way the smoke exhales with each minuscule twitch of his chest. You turn around at the feeling and press your palms to his torso. It’s impossible not to admire him. You’re always starstruck but he makes it easy to be that way when he looks so peaceful and sweet and good. 

Good for you. Good for your heart. Good for each other. 

You make a mental note to tell him that he should wear this shirt more often but know deep down that you’ll forget to do so until it comes back clean in the laundry basket in a week. You need to work on that, you think; telling him that you love him when you feel it. Moments like this don’t last forever, and you fear for the day that the ooey-gooey feelings of love in its purest forms are fleeting. You know that Carmen makes it impossible, but you can never be sure. Much like he, you’re always half expecting the ceiling to cave in. 

“Sweet baby wants to be a smoker?” he chides. He doesn’t feel bad when you flash him a pouty frown. 

“Carm!” you gripe. Your cheek presses to his pec. You hate when he does this; when he can’t give a straight answer. It isn’t something that needs an answer, but the satisfaction of having one, of being connected to him and the inner world of his mind he tries so hard to keep from everyone, would feel nice. 

Carmen’s tattooed hand snubs the cigarette out on the dish left on the ledge of the window. His fingers curl to let his knuckles brush the hair on the top of your head. You try your hardest not to melt into his touch. He’ll have a field day if you let him have the satisfaction of making you visibly weak in the knees. 

“Didn’t even say no yet, sweetheart.” 

“Yeah, but you’re being mean. Just tell me “no” instead of making me suffer.” 

He quirks his eyebrow and brings a gentle hand to guide your chin upwards, forcing you to make eye contact with him.“Well, m’gonna if you don’t lose the ‘tude, baby.” 

The shift in his tone of voice and the forced eye contact sends a beam of warmth down to your stomach. He has a way of leaving little leeway for negotiation and argument. It’s abstract to his everyday life, but that was complicated, you know. When it’s you and him and him and you, there is never a need for a fight for dominance or a clarification of authority. You both understand each other on a level that is molecular. There is never any need for guessing. 

His finger flicks your lip playfully before swiping a calloused thumb gently on the plush of them. You had fought him so hard earlier when he tried to swipe the lipstick and liner you had put on earlier off with a washcloth. He finds it wild that you’re wide awake and coherent after witnessing the mild temper tantrum you had thrown about it not even two hours earlier. 

Carmen spots the gentle gleam in your eyes and his heart instantly softens. He sighs, momentarily taking his hands off of you and reaching back in his pocket for his carton of cigarettes and lighter. 

“Fine, but you gotta light it.” 

The aforementioned cigarette sits unlit between his lips, the end sticking out like an invitation and the filter hid between his teeth like a dirty secret. He half expects you to chicken out when he hands you the lighter. You always freaked out a little about the flame being so close to your fingers. Something about feeling the heat so close to your hand made you insanely nervous and he could never seem to fully understand. 

His expectations are exceeded when your thumbnail crafts friction with the spark wheel and the illuminated peach of his lighter of the month spurs to life. You don’t cup it with your hands to shield it from the wind. You let it grow and shrink as you lift it up to the unlit butt sticking out of his mouth. 

Your eyes watch in childish awe as the wrapped paper gives way and reveals the hearty smell of tobacco and a sunburst of ashes upon making contact with the manufactured heat. You had watched Carmen smoke hundreds of times, but something about seeing it now right in front of you kindles a spark of curiosity deep in your belly. 

“Can’t believe my sweet girl wants to puff on a cancer stick,” he says. You know that he’s joking, but his trying to get you to change your mind strikes a nerve deep within you. 

“You do it so why can’t I?” you huff, agitated with him seemingly withholding the cigarette you so desperately crave. 

“I do a lot of things you don’t do. Doesn’t mean you should be knockin’ yourself out to try ‘em.” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s just one. Don’t be so mean.” 

He pulls the stick from between his lips and creates a perfect “o” ring with the smoke in its wake. A dopey-eyed grin plants a home on his face and his eyes look deep into yours. 

Fucking show-off. 

“All it takes is one to get addicted,” he continues to smoke and the cigarette butt starts to diminish with each puff he takes, “You sure you wanna bite, sweetheart?” 

“One won’t hurt.”

His gaze lowers to your lips and back up to your eyes. “Don’t wanna end up like me. All sad and addicted to cigarettes.” 

“Carmen, please. I just want one,” you huff, lightly pushing his chest away. He moves slightly with your force and has to stifle a laugh. 

“They ever show you Teri the Smoker in health class?” Carmen takes the cigarette out of his mouth and pretends to examine it, faux and forced curiosity at the cylindrical tube sitting between his lithesome fingers. He’s not giving into you on purpose, you know, and he’ll give in eventually, you also know, but him trying to delay the gratification of getting what you want is starting to annoy you more than it usually would. 

“Yes? What does that have to do with anything?” 

He pops it back in his mouth and takes an obnoxiously long drag. “Nothing,” he breathes out the smoke with his statement, “Just funny that you know that and here you are, damn near hands and knees, gagging for a cigarette.” 

“Carmen.” 

He laughs and you can’t help but love the sound. 

“You know, it’s real fucked up of you to ask for a drag from my cigarette that I get with my hard-earned money,” he says and you roll your eyes, “You should know I love you too much to let you stick a cancer stick in your mouth.” 

“It’s just one!” you plead. 

“It’s never just one, sweetheart.” 

“Well, who says’m gonna get addicted like – like you and Teri the Smoker?” 

“The nicotine content on the carton. That’s who.” 

He’s not paying you any attention and it’s starting to ache your heart a little. You know that he’s distracted; that he’s just trying to prevent the ashes from getting on your blanket and from getting the smell of smoke in your hair, but him biting at your insistence a little less than he was previously sends a pang of gloominess through your chest.

“You smoke all the time, and if you get a hole in your throat because of that then you’re so mean.” 

His lips upturn in introspection.“M’mean?” 

“Very,” you answer dryly. 

“Humor me.” 

“Because then I’ll have to live the rest of my life without hearing your voice again and then I’ll be so sad.” 

He shrugs, half knowing that you’re joking but half expecting something more to come out of what you’re getting at. “Ehh, don’t think anyone at the restaurant would miss it.” 

“I would!” 

You smack at his chest again lightly and he remembers how touchy and wild you get after you’ve been drinking. It’s never bad or out of control, but you’re more affectionate than usual and less gentle than you normally are. 

“Yeah, baby? Gonna miss my voice?” 

“Mhm,” you purr, leaning up to get closer to his ear, “Gonna miss how you call me a good girl. And how you whine when I pull your hair and how you tell me that I’m the tightest and wettest little th-” 

“Jesus,” he laughs, playfully pushing the side of your face away as your teeth nibble a tiny bite on the thick of his palm, “Fuck off.” 

You like to play around, too. That’s also something he sees more of after a night out. He never indulges; knows you get too riled up and in your head when it goes somewhere he’s not comfortable with, but he loves it nonetheless. Being together has helped the other not be so scared of permanence. Moments like this confirm what he knows, and he realizes that you’re a saint and he wants to marry you. 

The stuff that comes along with it has been plaguing his mind as of late, but he realizes how little it matters when he sees you all happy and grateful to be around him and doing the most mundane of things. He’ll get you that ring and that house and those babies and the happiest fucking life in a heartbeat, and he’s oddly comforted by the fact that he knows you’ll let him. 

Carmen’s never been the best at not wearing his feelings on his face and you know he’s deep in thought when the banter dies and the whistling of the wind takes its place. You hope he isn’t spiraling. He tends to do that a lot. You tend to feel powerless when it happens. 

Your eyes study his face; the lightness of his irises, the spiral of curls, the slope of his nose. The tequila from earlier remains in your system, but it doesn’t change the fact that you love him so deeply. 

“You know, it’s bullshit that you’re giving me hell about putting a cigarette in my mouth.” Your voice cuts through the quiet and he starts to grin again. 

“Hey, s’only bullshit because you’re sittin’ here beggin’ and then telling me I’m gonna have a fuckin’ hole in my throat from smoking too much.” 

“I never said that it was gonna be bad, Bear. I just said I was gonna miss hearing your voice is all.” 

His free hand comes out to sit on the base of your neck. A calloused thumb draws small semi-circles on the bottom of your hairline. 

“You know, her quality of life was probably amazing,” he speaks, “Like didn’t she have kids and grandkids and friends and shit? Health class is fucked up for making her out to be the ‘throat hole lady’.” 

“You shouldn’t say that,” you grimace and he plants his lips on your forehead. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” 

You make him softer. If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t think twice about how insensitive it had come off. His therapist is always saying people can’t make you better, but she clearly hasn’t met you. 

“But that was kinda the whole point? You shouldn’t want to be like her?” you pause and the frown lines in your eyebrows write “pensive” on your face before you even realize it, “. . .Because she does have a hole in her throat. And her quality of life was just very. . .different?” 

Carmen nods. “They’re fucked up for that.” 

“Jesus, Carm. Do you think smoking is bad or not because you’re giving me soooo many mixed signals here,” you sigh, your forehead moving forward faster than you intended and hitting the bony composition of his collarbones. 

He hums softly; part listening to what you’re saying and part acknowledging that he wants to move on from what you had said. 

“Did you know that your life expectancy goes down by eleven minutes or some shit like that each time you smoke a cigarette?” he swiftly changes the subject. 

You pick your head up and narrow your eyes playfully. “Oh, you don’t even love me enough to let me smoke one so I can be put out of my misery a whole eleven minutes earlier when you die from smoking a gazillion packs a day and leave me all lonely and wrinkly.” 

“I think you’d be hot wrinkly,” he replies matter-of-factly. 

“I think you’d be hot if you let me smoke one.”

“You’re probably not gonna like it.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

He realizes that the cigarette has pretty much burned itself out. There’s possibly one or two more drags left before he has to ash it out completely. He debates on whether he should let you have at it or silently take the last two and usher you back inside. If he chooses the former, he knows that he’ll feel bad if you don’t like it, and he worries that your realization will kickstart the unraveling of something almost perfect he’s found for himself. He can’t bear to take another loss in his life. If he chooses the latter, he knows you wouldn’t even be aware that he had smoked it entirely by himself, and that you’ll gripe and complain for the rest of the night and table the conversation for another time when he’s in a less resistive state. 

“Carm, you have to give me a puff from it,” you complain, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

He’s giving in to you. He always does. He doesn’t know why he pretends like he has free will when it comes to you. 

“C’mere,” he beckons your face closer, “And don’t use your hands. You have that blanket on and I don’t wanna have to call Chicago Fire tonight.” 

Carmen lifts his hand up to your mouth and gently laughs when you go cross-eyed to eye the filter sitting in between his pointer and middle fingers. 

“You just inhale, hold it, and then breathe back out,” he instructs. He feeds the filter to your lips before suddenly pulling it back. “Don’t choke yourself out though. That uh – that won’t be good and then you’re really not gonna like it.” 

Your neck extends to get closer to Carmen’s hand and you do what he says. You inhale, hold it, and exhale. You don’t think you’re doing it right (and he knows that you didn’t, but doesn’t say anything because he knows it’ll make you whiny) but you’re satisfied that he trusts you enough to try. 

“Took it like a champ, baby,” he cheers, “So proud!” 

He pushes the butt of the cigarette into the dish and your blanket-covered hands come up to palm his face gently. The plush of the cover feels soft against his stubble-covered cheeks, and your gazes catch each other’s. 

A moment of tranquility. A moment of peace. A moment of love. 

He so desperately wants to marry you. 

[illusivelle]

chicken scratch

pairing: carmen 'carmy' berzatto x reader rating: t (for now) length: 1,028 words content: mild cursing summary: you've never met your neighbour, but you've received plenty of their mail and now, a large package. of all the stories you made up in your head about who this 'carmen berzatto' could be, the real thing might just be your new favourite. a/n: brain rot means a middle of the night word dump. will likely be the first of many little stories about your next door neighbour, carmen, because that dynamic lives in my mind rent free. fluff for now, but we all know what that means (it means it'll definitely become nsfw later, sooner probably). read part two link to ao3 here!

The first letter was a mistake, the second one was a coincidence. The third one was not a big deal and the fourth was only a little more than a nuisance. But when a much larger package thudded against your front door at the ass crack of dawn, the recipient clearly written across the top of the cardboard box as your neighbour… well, that was just flat out annoying at this point. You hadn't even known deliveries made their rounds so early in the day and as big as the box was, when you lifted it to carry next door, it weighed lighter than a feather.

The pile of letters that accidentally found their way to your apartment were usually slipped through the small mailbox of your neighbour's, sometimes under the door. You'd thought about dropping the package and simply going about your day, but curiosity got the better of you as your knuckles rapped against the door and waited instead.

What could a Carmen Berzatto have possibly required to be delivered at this time?

In the time you've lived in the building, there'd been very few run-ins with other tenants. Not that you'd ever complain, perfectly content with your own company. You made friends with one elderly lady who always offered you some of her freshly baked bread, and in return you picked her up flowers and some extra produce on your farmer's market runs. The landlord wasn't your friend, but he wasn't your enemy either, and somehow you'd convinced him to let you paint your bathroom your favourite colour with little to no resistance. But your next door neighbour remained a mystery, one you've conjured up about a dozen different backstories and personalities for.

Carmen Berzatto, notorious criminal, hiding out in a tiny Chicago apartment. Carmen Berzatto, hundred-year-old vampire, who might either burn in the sun or look like they'd walked through a glitter bomb. Carmen Berzatto, part time Chicagoan, who actually doesn't live here anymore and maybe there's a squatter inside instead. Carmen Berzatto, the tax evader, because why else would they have so much goddamn mail being sent to them?

You'd been lost in the web of made-up histories for your neighbour when the door swung open to reveal said neighbour, and it slowly dawned on you that there wasn't a single story where you imagined Carmen Berzatto to look like that.

Piercing, wide blue eyes and a head of shaggy brown tufts that made you want to tangle your fingers through them, especially that small curl dangling just above his forehead.

"Hi." His greeting was laced with mild confusion that seemed immediately alleviated when his attention dropped to the box in your hands. "Oh."

"Hi," you blurted out, lifting the package, "got another one for you."

"I—I'm sorry about— about, uh, about all of that. It won't happen again."

"Won't it?" You were mostly teasing now. Although you were jolted awake by the sound of it thrashing against your door, and although you were rather peeved about getting up before you wanted to, you couldn't find it in yourself to be irritated anymore.

Carmen reached out to take the box from you, giving it a small shake with what you thought was a ghost of a smile before he set it down to the side somewhere you couldn't see. "It won't. I'm sorry." The flirt of his tongue along his lips brought your gaze toward it before you met his eyes again.

Those stunning icy blues.

"It's okay, nothing to be sorry for."

"I must've really fucked up on the— the uh, apartment number."

"What?"

"The apartment number."

"Yeah," you looked at him a bit dumbfounded, gaze darting to the door where the number and letter were, "what about it?"

"I—"

"You don't know your apartment number?"

"My writing's shit."

Both of you seemed to blink in unison, another lick of Carmen's lips which you mirrored before a stupid smile curled your lips. "Oh."

"Not a good excuse, I know." He nodded, jaw working as he turned his head to the metal on the door, a short and deep chuckle sounding from him. "Again, I—"

"Not sorry," you shook your head, "just chicken scratch."

For a moment, Carmen stared at you, and if it wasn't bad enough to have those too-blue eyes simply looking at you, to find them nearly boring holes as they danced between your eyes and across your face made you want to evaporate. Made you wish the ground would open up and swallow you hole. Made you want to drown in the depths of the ocean blues that were his irises.

"Just chicken scratch," he murmured after a beat of silence and what was once a ghost of a smile was definitely something now, the corner of his mouth lifting enough to wrinkle the corner of his eye. Enough to show you the dimple in his cheek. "Thanks for— for bringing the package."

"Yeah." And the smile unfurling on your lips was nothing short of genuine. "You're welcome, Carmen."

"Just, uh, just Carm is good. Carmy."

"Okay."

Another beat passed where you thought you might have been rendered frozen by one of your favourite shades of blue, glued to the floor through hypnosis, until a sound down the hall caught your ear and you nodded at Carmen. Turning on your heel, you took the first step back to your apartment, then another, and another.

And it wasn't until you had your hand stretched out to grab for your doorknob when you heard his voice echo from where you'd came. "See you around?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

The moment hung in the air on a thin thread, the both of you sharing furtive and hidden smiles before his door closed and yours opened.

Carmen Berzatto, not a notorious criminal (to your knowledge) or a hundred-year-old vampire (yet). Nor was he a part-time Chicagoan (not with that accent) or a tax evader (maybe). None of the ideas you had floating in your mind about your neighbour even came close to the real thing.

Carmen Berzatto, curly-haired blue-eyed boy-next-door with chicken scratch for writing and a fleeting dimple you wanted to see again.

[levanterhaze]

✧ LOVE ME AGAIN WITH CARMY BERZATTO

→ carmy berzatto x reader

→ you and carmy have always had a volatile relationship, and when you decide to break up for good, things seem to take a turn for the worst. carmy misses you and you miss him. everything could change when the bear opens.

→ warning: anxiety, angst, some signs of depression, light smut nothing to worry about

→ 4kish

Your relationship with Carmy was always going to be stormy.

While your friends spent their Valentine's Day in fancy restaurants and luxurious hotels, your Valentine's Day was depressing and lonely with a meaningless box of take-out and too much cheap wine. And then the next day was even worse. The regret and bitterness. The anguish and the fear of losing you, it all came at once, and you could feel Carmy slipping through your fingers like sand, fast and at great cost.

And it wasn't as if he didn't care. You lived in Carmy Berzatto's mind twenty-four hours a day. You'd still be there if the days had more hours. He had too much feeling and not enough showing. And that killed him a bit every day. For it was you. You who comforted him after Mikey's death, you who bandaged all his cut fingers after a grueling day at The Beef. It was you, who watched him take over a new restaurant and start all over again.

You were there and Carmy hated himself for not being able to do the same.

There were times when he was lost in his own head. Fear ate him from within and breathing seemed almost impossible. There were countless times when you received messages from Sydney or even Natalie, when he accepted that he was in need of something, someone. From you. And it was never easy, because he made everything so difficult for himself. He did not want to involve you in the vortex of anxious thoughts that were occupying his mind. He didn't want to drag you into the personal hell that his mind had concocted.

But pushing you away was tantamount to losing you. And for Carmy, it was only a matter of time. Just as the sky is blue and water is liquid and so on, losing you was inescapable. One day it would happen. He didn't know when, but predicting the worst had been a common part of his life.

Then you hoped he would be there on one of the most important nights of your life. You had worked long and hard, and all your family and friends were coming to see the hard work you put into your art. You were happy in spite of everything. It had always been your dream to be recognized for your art, and to see the people you love the most recognizing it, honoring you for it, was priceless.

You kept glancing at the gallery door, waiting for Carmy to appear before you like a perfect dream come true. And with each passing second, it was clear to you that this was not the case. Almost twenty calls and thirty texts and no answer. At this point, you had no interest in the question of where he might be.

And somehow you could understand Carmy's busy and chaotic life. He had too many responsibilities, his mind was like an endless to-do list, and things just kept popping up, even more so after The Bear situation. But the selfish and unselfish part of your twisted mind wanted him to be there, to make time in his evening to be with you. After all, what was important to him was important to you as well. But often it didn't seem that way. And that was hard to deal with.

You heard the door of the small apartment you shared open just after two in the morning. It was dark. Only the lamp was on, which made for a calm atmosphere despite the usual tension in the house. And as soon as he entered the room and saw a suitcase packed at the foot of the bed, you could see the mixture of awe and panic on Carmy's face.

For a few seconds, he just stood there like that. Just standin' there. Blue eyes fading in something you no longer recognized. The distance between the two of you was almost palpable. Your heart crushed in your chest, shattering into a thousand little pieces.

Carmy lowered his head with a sense of defeat. The day he had been dreading had come, and he felt nothing but stupid and incompetent for allowing it to happen, even though he knew it was going to happen. The trembling in his hands was real, and he had to hide them behind the rest of his body so that they wouldn't be noticed.

"I'm sorry." It was the sound of his voice, almost in tatters, that did your heart in.

Carmy looked at you, shaking hands through his disheveled hair. This isn’t something he wanted to say goodbye to. What he had with you was the most beautiful part of his life. To lose you is to lose everything. And he didn't want to lose it all.

One tear ran down your cheek. You wiped it away before a single tear could turn into a few. You wouldn't know how to stop if you dared to cry now.

You said, "There are some leftovers from the dinner in the oven. I've sorted out your last few bills so you can get organized without having to worry, and..."

"I'm so sorry."

"...and the key is where it should be. If there is anything you need, Carmen, you can give me a call and..."

"No. No. I'm sorry."

The realization hit Carmy as hard as rock. He was on his knees in front of you. Feeling his hands around your wrists, you closed your eyes. There was something familiar and cruel about the calluses and the way his thumb brushed the inside of your arm.

You were so much in love with him that it hurt. Loving him like that, it hurt physically.

"I'm sorry. I'm going to be better. I'll get better, I'll focus on the things that matter and... I swear. I promise you, just... Please." His voice was like knives. They cut deeply and hurt.

You gulped, trying to escape the ocean of blue before them. There was so much pain in Carmy's eyes that all you wanted to do was hug him, take care of him and tell him that everything would be okay. But this cycle had to end, and you'd done it countless times. 

You tried to get up from your shared bed, but Carmy stopped you. "Carm." You whispered in an attempt to get him to stop.

"Please." He whispered back.

"It's not working. You know I... I can't."

"I fucking love you. You're... I..." Carmy sighed and moved away, sitting down on the carpet a few steps away.

There were so many things that he wanted to say, but he couldn't. Carmy had the feeling that the floor was opening up and his body was being dragged into this black hole. His heart was beating so fast. He thought it would explode out of his chest. If he was the reason you were leaving, how could he beg you to stay?

And he knew it. He had been reading the signs. All the times he'd been late, even when you'd agreed to go out to eat together. All the dates he didn't show up for. The anniversary that hadn't worked out. That trip to Europe. All the things that piled up. He knew it, and he was there, and he was letting it happen.

But at the same time, he knew that you deserved better than that. You deserve someone who would give you time and love. Who would be there every day. Who would learn to love you the way you deserved. The love he felt for you was far greater than he was able to express, but that would have been egotistical of him.

Sometimes love is not enough. You have been the living proof of that.

"Carm. Look at me."

You knelt before him. He touched your hands once more, which were now touching his damp face. The last thing he would remember, besides your watery eyes, would be the scent of pear and vanilla that permeated your sweater.  

"You'll be fine. I hope you're fucking happy and that all your hard work pays off. I'm your biggest fan. You know that, right?" You tried to put on a smile but failed miserably. "Carmen Berzatto, I will always support you.”

Everything I've achieved is meaningless without you, Carmy wanted to say, but couldn't.

Only your ragged breath broke the cruel, melancholy silence.

You wiped your face and got to your feet, ready to leave. Ready to leave behind all of the memories that you had with the man that you loved the most.

Before you left, Carmy looked at you and said, "All those things, they were true. They were real."

You understood his meaning and agreed with a nod of your head.

And so it was only at 2:47 a.m. when you finally left the apartment, that you allowed yourself a good cry.

It had been two months since you and Carmy had broken up. You hadn't heard from him since.

The only close contact you had with Carmy was Sydney, but you had been clear when you mentioned that she could only talk about him if it was something urgent. And nothing urgent had come up in two months.

You missed him, you couldn't deny it. Life was hell with him gone. Despite all that was bad and rotten, Carmy was kind, gentle, chivalrous, and cared about your feelings. You missed all the mundane things, even the times you ate packs of cheese balls while watching a movie, just waiting for the part where his hand would accidentally slip up your thigh and the movie session would turn into a making out session.

You tried to move on, except for the significant absence of him in your life. Grocery shopping was no longer the same. No cashew juice or fancy, barely pronounceable fruit and spice names. Just the usual bland basics. Maybe that was what it was like to live without Berzatto.

It was a rainy Tuesday, one of those Tuesdays when you just wanted to stay in and not have to deal with any obligations. You were one of the unfortunate ones who had to deal with adult life and buy parmesan cheese because your sister was the only one who could make macaroni and cheese worth eating. There was a place you only knew about thanks to Carmy that sold quality products.

The rain had made your hair wet, and the guard at the small market smiled sympathetically when he saw the miserable situation you found yourself in. You nearly laughed at yourself. Basket in hand, you wandered the aisles singing a pop song from the radio. Your eyes scanned the perimeter of the dairy aisle, and with your finger, you tried to select the best product.

Parmesan, in hand, you froze to the floor. The voice in the back of your head was so familiar, so ghostly, that it made you turn around in a hurry.

And there he stood. In the white shirt and the tattered jeans. His sandy hair so tousled that you felt your hand involuntarily clench in the desire to touch him, to feel his softness. You thought about calling him up, to say hi. The question in your mind was whether it would be too weird. Or perhaps not.

A woman with dark hair and sky blue eyes walked up to him, leaned her chin on his shoulder and whispered into his ear. Both of them laughed. You felt your heart sink.

Carmy turned around, a small smile on his face, and when you least expected it... they were kissing.

You felt as if time stopped running. That millisecond was etched in time. You could hear the gasping breath tearing at your chest, the tears gathering at the waterline, and your heart crashing again, for the same person.

"What are you doing? It's like you went to make that damned Parmesan, and I had to check to see if anything was wrong..." As your vision blurred, your sister's voice echoed in the back of your mind.

"Let's get out of here."

"What happened?" She tried to get you to look at her, but you just kept pushing her toward the marketplace.

"Let's take it somewhere else."

"But you said..."

"I'm aware of my words. Now let's just go."

As you dragged your sister down the aisle, Carmy could have sworn he heard something that sounded like you. But he couldn't really be a judge of his own conscience. Unable to tell what was real and what was not, he had been hallucinating for days. He would hear your voice and swear that he saw you somewhere, only to not be able to see you there.

"Are you okay?" Claire asked with a light squeeze of his hand.

"Yes, of course. Let's get going?" Carmy said, forcing a smile. Claire agreed and gave him a kiss again.

Carmen didn't want to relive ghosts from the past, no matter what had happened.

A week later, Sydney and Sugar had a text message that The Bear was finally open for business. The first night they were only opening for friends and family. They insisted that you should come. That it was important not only to themselves but also to Carmy.

You weren't sure about that. You had no idea what to do when you got there, because your presence could mean so many things. And despite everything, there was the news that still lingered in your mind: Carmy had met somebody.

Selfishness wasn't for you. You didn't want his eternal devotion. After all, you had put an end to the relationship. But when it came to him, that little feeling of envy and jealousy still existed. Because in spite of it all, you never stopped loving him.

"Well, you know what? Fuck it."

You yell at the top of your lungs before you start rummaging through your closet until you find the perfect dress to wear.

You once told Carmy that you would always be his biggest supporter and that you would always be true to your word.

You were greeted by Sugar. She looked gorgeous with her pregnant belly and a radiant smile when she saw you.

She said, "I can't believe you came!" She hugged you in a consoling way that only the Berzatto's could do. "You look so beautiful, honey."

"Nah. This is beautiful." You point to the room. "Look at you, Sug!"

"Come on. I'll show you your table." Sugar made her way among the tables. They were already crowded with familiar faces.

You looked amazed. "I'm seated?"

"Of course, dummy. You're one of us. I hope being away hasn't made you forget that."

You hugged her once more. Then you sat down at a small table with your name on it.

"Make yourself at home. We'll serve you soon."

"Thank you, Sug."

Fak almost kicked in the door, breathless. Sydney gave him an annoyed look as she tried to shake off so many orders in front of her, then whispered, "What the hell, Fak."

"She's here."

"Who's here?" Carmy asked, not even bothering to look at Fakerson.

"Your girl." Fak said smiling. "I mean, your ex-girl...?"

"Claire's here?" Sydney said, confused.

"Claire is here?" Carmy looked at him, completely taken aback.

"Why would Claire be here? I thought you guys broke up." Richie shot back before leaving the kitchen.

"Thanks, cousin." Carmy said, noticeably irritated.

"I thought it was obvious they broke up." Sydney grimaced.

"Guys?" Losing a little patience, Carmy put his hands on his waist.

"Wait. You and Claire broke up? Uh, Jeff..." Tina came over to Carmy's station with a pair of frying pans.

"Chefs! Appreciate the interest in my love life. Now, focus, please!" Carmy shouted. Everyone scattered to their stations. "Fak, who the fuck is out there?"

Fak started to speak, but before he could finish what he wanted to say, Richie appeared, wide-eyed.

"She's here."

And Carmy felt his whole body fall numb before he could even understand. It wasn't Claire. The last time they saw each other, she had made it clear that she didn't want any kind of involvement if he still had someone else on his mind.

And from Richie's smile, that could only mean one thing.

Carmy Berzatto was fucked.

Ten minutes had passed and Carmy had already cut his finger twice and almost burned the salmon. His mind was on the small pane of glass that was the partition between the salon and the kitchen.

You, sitting alone at a table, so beautiful and angelical that he felt his chest ache. And he couldn't tell if it was the black turtleneck dress, or your hair, or the red lipstick that outlined every curve of your mouth.

Carmy was at a loss. To bring him back to reality, Sydney had to yell at him five times. There was a kitchen to run and many dishes to do.

Richie appeared at your table from time to time. First it was with your favorite wine. Then with your main course, because you hated appetizers and you were sure it was a Carmy thing. Pork burger with gravy and tomato salad with red onion and Diet Coke. Carmy's first meal when you started dating, right in The Beef's old kitchen. He fed you. Then you had the most intense sex in his office.

Carmy knew what he was doing when he used food to bring back memories. So do you.

Sugar appeared again after dessert: pineapple ice cream with blackberries and wine. The restaurant was already very empty, only three tables were occupied, one of them being Sydney's relatives and Natalie's husband.

"Hey. So I had a talk with Carmy and he asked me if you could stay a bit longer..."

"I'm not sure."

"He wants to talk to you."

You had no idea what would come out of this conversation. What you had seen weeks ago still hurt. Talking might hurt you both more.

"Sug, I don't know..."

"Look, I get it. I really do. I'm not just saying this because I care about him. I know he has a lot of feelings for you. I saw how bad he was after you broke up, honey. I don't know what came of it, but... If you still care about Carm, please. I beg you. Talk to him, will you?"

It took a couple of seconds and Natalie was starting to think that you were going to get up and walk away.

"All right, then. I'm waiting."

"Good night, Chef!" Sydney was the last one out the backdoor.

Carmy leaned against the counter and ran his hand over his face. What was he thinking when he asked you to stay?

Now he could see the empty lounge. You sitting there, sipping your last glass of wine. Natalie, afraid of something worse, looked at your table and the kitchen every five seconds.

It was after one in the morning. You were impatient. Fear was eating you alive.

You stood up from the table and patiently walked over to Natalie. "May I go now?"

"He's in there. I'm leaving. Pete's waiting for me outside. Honey... Thank you for your patience. If you need anything, call me. Nice seeing you."

You said goodbye in a hug. "So do I, Nat. Thank you so much for everything."

It was only when you turned to the kitchen door and saw his silhouette inside, waiting for you, that you realized you were alone with Carmy. As you walked slowly, you gathered your thoughts.

Just as you opened the door, Carmen turned around. And by God... you couldn't look more beautiful. Your wine red cheeks contrasted with your red lips and it was driving him insane.

"Hey, Carm." Your voice struggled to come out. Carmy almost broke into a smile when he heard it.

"Hey." He whispered. "Thanks for coming."

"You know I wouldn't miss it. I'm happy for you guys. This place... It's beautiful, Carmy. What you've done to this place... It's just incredible."

"I wish I could have shown it to you sooner, but... Yeah." An awkward smile and a scratch at the back of his head. "Thank you."

You bit your lip, worried. "Did you want to... talk?"

"Yes. I, um, do. I don't really know what... I just... I wanted to see you." He agreed, a little awkwardly. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"Everything. I guess."

"Berzatto, history is history."

"No, it isn't." In denial, he took a step closer to you. "If history is history, then why don't I stop thinking about you?"

He had you by surprise. "Carmy."

"I mean it. None of it matters. Why... You're the only person who knows my heart by heart. You're my only true opener. And I know, I know I've failed you a thousand times and you probably deserve a luckier jerk than me."

Carmy felt overwhelmed. Exhausted.

"I love you. I love you so much that it scares me because I've never felt shit like this for anyone, you know? This feeling that suffocates and eats you alive, this shit scares me. And I know I'm a fucking psycho, but that's who I am, and I want you more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. I just... Fuck!"

He sniffled. He was trying to get rid of his watery eyes and all the humiliation that came with them.

You were in sheer shock. Carmy had never been so vulnerable as now and the whole situation was startling and unfamiliar to you.

"That's pathetic. I'm sorry." Disguising his shame with self-deprecation, he tried to laugh it off.

"Carmy." You took a step back, getting close enough to see how flushed he was. "Why didn't you ever tell me any of this stuff before?"

"Because I was scared. When something good happens to me..."

"You have an automatic assumption of the worst."

He agrees and looks down. You sigh and look at the countertop where his hands are. Exposed tattoos, each screaming for your silent touch.

"If all of this is real. Then why were you kissing her?"

"Claire?" He seemed surprised you knew her. "It didn't last. I don't know... I don't know what the hell I was thinking. In fact, I have a pretty good idea where my thoughts were. It just wasn't about her."

"Carm." You whispered, fingering his hand. "I don't care about the vanity. I just want to know if it's for real. If everything you've said is true."

Carmy felt his heart explode in her chest. Like a rough sea, his eyes watered. He took your hand and held it as he took one last step. The last step for the two of you to merge into one. Like a trap, his lips captured yours. Carmy was beastly, wild, desperate. There was an eagerness in his touch, and in the way that his lips moved around yours.

One of his hands went straight to your neck, gripping it tightly, while the other squeezed the skin around your waist. As he pressed you against the bench, deepening the kiss and moving your head as he pleased, a gasp escaped your lips. You were breathless. You felt narcotized by the longing for him again.

And it wasn't just a physical need. It was a lust for the meeting of souls.

"Is this real enough for you?" Carmy said after the kiss, sucking your lip and making sure you looked deep into his eyes.

You kissed him again with no time to lose. This time you made your way through the kitchen, knocking over utensils and pans along the way until you found your way to the office. Carmy rushed to close it, barely breathing.

Once again, he pinned you against the wall and held your wrists so that you wouldn't be able to escape even for a second. His lips explored your skin, every inch of it, so that you would never forget the taste. He wanted to carve his name into your skin, to worship you, to be devoted to your body and your love forever.

He had never felt anything so intense, and as frightening as it was, it was wonderful.

"Carmy." You whimpered as you felt his hands on your skin, on sensitive spots that made your eyes roll back.

"For old times' sake?"

"For old times' sake."

[jadeittic]

MUSE.

“Your words are my food, your breath my wine. You are everything to me.”

Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto + Artist!Fem!Reader

note : a small blurb for my favorite boy again cuz i cant get him out of my mind. lmk if u have any reqs! :)

In a bustling city, where creativity and gastronomy intertwined, there existed a love story that transcended the boundaries of personality. YN, an artist with a whirlwind of emotions, and Carmy, a stoic, introverted chef with an unyielding passion for food, found their lives intertwined in the most unexpected way.

YN’s vibrant art studio was a haven of color and inspiration. Her days were filled with laughter, conversations with her friends, and the rhythmic strokes of her brush. Her artwork, an extension of her expressive soul, captivated the hearts of art enthusiasts from near and far. She reveled in the joy of sharing her passion, breathing life into her canvases with every stroke of her paintbrush.

Carmy, on the other hand, found solace in the realm of flavors and ingredients. His restaurant, The Bear, became a sanctuary where he could let his culinary genius thrive. With unwavering determination, he crafted dishes that were unparalleled in taste and presentation. He poured his heart and soul into every recipe, channeling his stubbornness into creating gastronomic masterpieces.

Their paths crossed one evening at a charity event, where YN’s vibrant artwork adorned the walls, and Carmy’s delectable creations adorned the plates. Drawn to the energy of YN’s presence, Carmy found himself captivated by her contagious laughter and genuine enthusiasm. Despite his introverted nature, he couldn't resist the magnetic pull she had on him.

Intrigued by Carmy’s stoic demeanor and the unwavering confidence in his culinary skills, YN saw beyond his silence. She sensed the passion and dedication radiating from him, much like the flames that danced beneath his pots and pans. YN, with her boundless energy, brought colors to Carmy’s monochromatic world, and he found himself enchanted by her unfiltered comfort for life.

As their love story unfolded, they discovered a beautiful balance in their differences. YN’s enthusiasm coaxed Carmy out of his shell, encouraging him to share his culinary expertise with the world. Meanwhile, Carmy’s calmness and introspection grounded YN’s allowing her to channel her creative energy with focus and purpose.

Together, they embarked on a journey of culinary and artistic exploration. YN’s paintings adorned the walls of The Bear, creating an ambiance that resonated with patrons. In turn, Carmy’s mouthwatering creations became a muse for YN, inspiring her to infuse her art with the flavors and emotions that his dishes had.

Their love grew like a symphony, with each passing day revealing new harmonies and melodies. The pair celebrated each other's successes, finding solace and comfort in their shared devotion to their crafts. Their relationship became a tapestry of passion, understanding, and unwavering support, each embracing the other's uniqueness.

In a city where artistry and culinary genius thrived, YN and Carmy’s love story stood as an evidence to the power of connection beyond personality types. Their journey proved that love can blossom in the unlikeliest of places, uniting two souls whose passions complemented each other, painting a picture of a love story that transcended all boundaries.

[yellowharrington]

jaded -- chapter 1, carmy berzatto x reader

pairing + fandom: carmen "carmy" berzatto x fem!reader (she/her pronouns used), the bear fx

warnings: sexual content, mention of unprotected piv sex, swearing, workplace relationship. minors dni with this story please.

word count: 1.4k+

a/n: guess who's back... back again... natty's back... tell a friend.... hey besties lol ik its been a year but i've been obsessed with the bear so i decided to write this. it will be a multichaptered fic and i will update it as soon as i've finished writing the chapters lmao. inspired by the song "jaded" by miley cyrus. pls pls pls enjoy

summary: fresh off of his breakup with claire, carmy needs a rebound. he just doesn't expect it to be his pastry chef.

masterlist | chapter 2

It starts with a ride home after service.

The sun had fallen down over the horizon, painting Chicago black with night. It’s chilly, middle of February, and you and Carmy are the only ones left at the restaurant. You’re both at the lockers, grabbing the last of your things and turning off the last few lights, leaving it behind you as you step out into the darkness of the street. Only amber lights are above you, illuminating Carmy’s face, along with the glow of his lighter around his cigarette. “How are you getting home?” He asks, looking down the alleyway. “Just the train,” you reply, gesturing towards the station a few blocks down the road. “Let me drive you,” he smushes the cigarette underneath the toe of his shoe, looking up at you, rather softly. “Oh, it’s not far,” you try to step the other way, before he grabs your shoulder lightly. “It’s cold, and fuckin’ dark, and there’s murderers. Just let me drive you home.” He was nothing if not protective. 

It really had been a short drive, slow tunes coming from his old car’s radio, drowned out by the sounds of the city around you. It was generally silent, Carmy’s hand on the gear shift. “It’s just up here,” you gesture to the building up the street. “Just take a right.” He does, obeying your action, pulling up in front of a 3-floored walk-up. “Thanks,” you grab your backpack by your feet, opening the door and giving him a small look before stepping out. “Hey, listen,” you start. His eyes are dark, sunken, tired. He’s wearing his usual wool jacket around a cozy navy blue sweater. “I was working on something before work this morning. A… a dish. Can I show you really quick? And you can tell me what you think?” He looked at the time on his phone, and then up at you. Baby blue eyes, peering from under thick lashes. “Sure, chef,” he says quietly as he puts his car in park and unbuckles the seatbelt. 

When you walk him up to your apartment, he’s endeared. You let him in, and your place smells of vanilla candles and laundry, from the load you’d done before work earlier that day. “Sorry about the mess,” you gestured to small pile of plates and spoons in the sink, and the aforementioned unfolded laundry on the couch. “You’d lose your mind if you saw my place if you think this is mess,” he laughed, pushing a hand through his soft golden hair. Your own coat comes off as you make your way into the kitchen, and he has to stop himself from staring. Your tight jeans fit your body perfectly, white t-shirt coming up over your hips only enough for him to see a dark tattoo on the back of your hip. You poured him a cup of cold water and put it in front of him, before firing up the burner on your stove and putting a stainless steel pan on the orange-blue flame. “Make yourself at home.”

He wandered around your apartment a bit, peering into your bedroom. Soft white bed, soft sheets, big fluffed pillows. An open window, letting a chilly breeze in, curtains slightly swaying with the night air. It reminds him of her, her soft sheets, big eyes, the nights he slept next to Claire and kissed her supple cheeks and pink lips. She was like this too; eager, clean, happy, simple. Easy to be with, and easy to like. You’d given off a similar energy the same day you walked into the restaurant on your first day, and you had reminded him of her. Kind eyes, warm presence, but with a different demeanour that chefs almost always had. A jaggedness, he thought. 

The sound of the plates being put on your small kitchen table snapped him out of his daydreams, as you held out a fork for him. “It’s a, uh, mango custard, bit of toasted cardamom and coconut cream in there, and, um, a coconut macaroon with a homemade chutney.” He raises his eyebrows at the dish before him, plated beautifully, and takes a small bite of each component. You seem to wait for hours as he takes his time, feeling every ingredient on his tongue before setting down his fork on the small white plate. “It’s tremendous, chef,” he says quietly, wiping the corner of his mouth. “Almost perfect. Could use maybe an acid, it’s a little sweet, but, wow,” he looks up at you to see your wide eyes, excited at his answer. This was, essentially, the highest praise from Carmy you could get. “Thank you,” you say quietly, watching as he takes another forkful of the dessert. 

“What’s the tattoo on your hip?” he asks, pointing at the right side of your body, where your shirt had ridden up before. He hadn’t stopped thinking about it since he caught a glimpse. “Oh, um,” your cheeks turned a soft shade of red, standing up to lift up your shirt and show him. “It’s, uh, a snake. It goes down my leg too,” you pull down the waistband of your jeans just enough to show him a bit more of the ink, further exposing the thin strap of the black thong you had on. “Got it a long time ago, in school. Just wanted to feel cool I guess.” He stands up, slowly, coming to lightly pin you against the counter. It’s safe, it’s easy, and suddenly it feels so fucking right to have him here under the dim kitchen light. “Can I see the rest of it?”

All bets are off, then. Your jeans are pooled around your ankles in a second as he’s feverishly kissing your lips, hands everywhere, his calloused palms against your soft ass. His sweater is off, along with his signature white tee, showing off the glistening gold chain against his bare chest. You’ve managed to push his jeans down just enough to slide a hand into his waist band, eliciting a soft, breathy moan from him into your mouth.

When you stumble back into your bedroom, it’s all a blur. It’s hot skin against hot skin, his lips leaving a trail of kisses along your neck as his hands work their way in between your wet folds. They’re so gentle, yet he knows what he’s doing, so the slow circles on your clit as he lets himself rut against you are making you unbelievably wet for him. “I want you so fucking badly,” he pants into your ear, letting a finger easily plunge into you as you open your legs wider for him. “Is this a good idea, Carmy?” you let your fingers thread through his hair, allowing him to look up at you. His usual baby blues were dark again, lustful and wanton. “No,” he says matter-of-factly, but the smirk on his lips is so unbelievable, a cruel man above you. “Should we do it anyways?” You ask, your own smile playing on the corners of your mouth, allowing your hips to rut against his fingers, fucking yourself to feel more of him. He takes a large hand to your breast, letting it slide up, thumb slipping onto your lower lip and into your mouth. “Yeah… yeah, of course we fucking should.”

It’s so easy with him, which is what makes it so hard. He knows right where to kiss, where to touch, where to love on your body. He knows to take his hands to your sides, pushing you into the mattress as he laps at your clit and kisses your inner thighs, looking up and watching you take your own tits in your hands, squeezing them together, looking down at him with such need. He knows to slide up between your legs, and to cradle your neck in his hand, his thick cock plunging into you and making you weak, making his thumb wet with his own spit and bringing you to your orgasm, spasming around him, moaning his name into his mouth like a prayer. It doesn’t take much longer after that for him to spill inside of you, warm and deep, lips locked around his as you helped him ride his orgasm out. And it feels right, and real, when he lays next to you and kisses your chest and arms before falling into a deep sleep, your soft comforter over his chest. It all feels so fucking right, that first time.

But the next morning, all you have is an empty bed. And it doesn’t feel right anymore.

[pogueit]

C.B: 1 New Voicemail

Paring: Carmy Berzatto x Reader

Summary: You decided to leave the fresh coast to pursue your art in NYC. However, you fail to mention it your best friend… Carmy Berzatto.

Warnings: some anxiety symptoms?? If there’s anything else let me know!!

WC: 2.3k

A/N: Yay!! I’m writing again!! Albeit veryyyyy slowly but I’m currently working on stuff for the other characters from The Bear and Criminal Minds!! Also, there was a semi prequel to this (its to do with Family and Friends night) but I scrapped it (not entirely) but if you guys want that let me know!!

📞☎️📞☎️📞☎️📞☎️📞☎️📞☎️📞☎️📞☎️

He couldn’t sleep. He’s finally got everything he has ever wanted and he still couldn’t sleep. His phone hums lightly against the hard wood of the night stand and his hand instinctively reaches for it. The warm tone radiating off the screen helped his eyes adjust to the sudden light almost immediately. However, it took a second for his brain to process the words on the screen.

Y/N Missed Call

1 New Voicemail

His face instantly morphs into confusion. You never left voicemails. You always just kept calling and calling until he picked up, which always drove him nuts, however, now seeing the voicemail notification on his phone only unsettles him. Carmen sat up from his supine position, carefully so as to not wake the peacefully sleeping Claire. He swings his legs off the mattress and props himself up by placing his elbows on his knees with his head hanging low, peering at the screen. He debates whether or not to listen to the recording or wait until morning, which he would admit was stupid to consider as even he knows deep down he can never stall anything involving you. His thumb was quick to click on the notification before he could consider anything else. “C-Bass!” The sheer volume of your voice made him wince and rush to turn it down. A comforting warmth spread throughout his chest hearing the stupid nickname you gave him in middle school. “I’m assuming that you’re listening to this in the morning, but with your shit sleeping habits I know you’re listening to this right now. I just wanted to say that I’m leaving for New York—“ Carmy’s relaxed body immediately became rigid and he began searching for his shoes in the dark. There’s so many things he wants to tell you and to finally get off his chest, but you continue.“Like I’m at the airport right now—“ He halts his movements “So don’t try to run over here” you let out a breathy laugh and he can feel his heart seize up at the sound that never ceases to amaze him. You’ve had that effect on him since you’ve become friends but he has become unbearably aware of it in recent days. “I, uh, just wanted to start by saying that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it’s just been so hard— and now with the restaurant it felt even worse—“ You had to take a second to breathe and regain your composure and he wanted to do nothing more than to ease you through it and calm you down. “It— I got an offer from MoMA— Well, I submitted some pieces to them and Robbie vouched for me, but I got the offer last week.” you didn’t sound as proud as you should be, but that didn’t matter. Carmy was ready to take over for you and he gladly let the emotion rattle through him. He didn’t understand much of the complexities that go into your art just like you don’t understand the complexities of the culinary world, but that never stopped him from being proud of you even if it wasn’t something monumental. No one has been as proud of you as Carmy has and he will gladly continue to hold that title. “They need me over there for the installation and other artsy fartsy things, that I won’t bore you with.” You laugh, but it wasn’t as genuine as he hoped it would be and you let out a sigh.

He’s getting antsy. Carmy couldn’t stop his left leg from subconsciously bouncing, so he opts to stand up instead. Your voice continues as he quietly makes his way to the living room and takes a seat on the couch. “I just need to get out of here, C, and this was my chance like I finally have a reason to leave— maybe semi-permanently.” All your explicit and unexplicit reasons were always good enough to Carmen and he’s surprised you even stayed here this long. There was a piece inside of him that wished you agreed to go to New York with him and maybe things would have played out differently. He feels like a righteous asshole just thinking about it with Claire sleeping soundly in the next room. You draw in another breath, clearly dwelling on certain emotions that you’re uncertain of baring to him, which pains him that you even had to think about telling him anything. “I told my ma and pa and all them about me leaving and they took it well, actually, maybe too well— This is stupid, but— I stayed for them and they just wanted me gone. Everything I did and everything I sacrificed is dust. I don’t know, man, maybe I was looking or, uh, hoping for a different reaction, I don’t know.” You let out a deep sigh and he can picture you slumped down on one of those awful O’Hare lounge chairs with your spare hand rubbing the long day away from your face. “I should’ve kept calling you so I could hear your voice. You always make everything better, Carmen. I hate that I couldn’t tell you—“ Your voice was barely above a whisper like it was meant only for yourself. Your name is heavy on his tongue and he can feel his right hand twitched slightly as if to reach out to you. As if you weren’t solely an image in his head and the closest you’ll ever be to him in months. He stands up again to pace around the living room so he could have something else to focus on. “But— I just knew that if I did I wouldn’t be at the airport right now. You make me do crazy things Berzatto…” Your voice trails off slightly at the end and he knows you’re listening to the voice that’s coming from the overhead speakers, but he swears the phone grows cold without your cheek pressed against it. “Anyways—“ You regain your composure and continue with the warmth returned to the cellular device, “Bizarre-o tangent over, the Bear is going to be great and everyone is going to love it. You have nothing to worry about and you have an amazing thing going with Claire and I just want to let you know how proud I am of you and everyone who made this crazy ass thing work! God, this is nuts but— Alright, alright, I actually have to get going or the stewards are going to have my head on a pike, see ya soon you crazy bastard”.

The line went dead and the warmth that you graciously provided was gone as the metallic cool of the robotic voice took over. He finally sits down again and lets himself become shrouded in unpleasant darkness. The whirlwind of emotions that plagued him earlier were now absent which made him feel somehow worse. Nothing to keep him company except the gloating sun, who is attempting to make its appearance just beyond the horizon. As he watches the amber light pool into the room, there is an onslaught feeling of a fifty pound weight tucked into his stomach.

Carmen feels sick.

The heaviness in abdomen is awash with acid and he feels like he is going to vomit, yet he can’t do anything but sit there with itchy hands. The bile at the base of his throat finally flips a switch in his brain. The last fibers of control dissipate as memories swiftly flood his senses. They crash and collide. Violently dissolving like sea foam on sand only for them to recede into waves and surge forward again and again. It’s a blurry mess, but his hands find it easy to call you. It’s all he needs to reach his calm. He needs it just as much as you need him. The initial ring echoes through his head and the pause lasts for an eternity. His face is running hot and he’s thinking too much. It’s something he already knows, but once he starts it’s hard for him to stop. All the different possible scenarios are playing rapidly in his brain and he can’t keep up. The phone buzzes again, still trying to connect him to you. His hand is swimming through his hair impatiently as he starts pacing the living room for the uptenth time. The phone hums steadily another time. All of his emotions are caught in his throat and his stomach is in a perpetual knot. His breathing is shallow leaving his lungs aching for more and it’s almost as if there was no more air left in the atmosphere.

Then it clicks.

“Hello, sunshine” Relief crashes over him eagerly when the sound of your voice reaches his ears. He can tell that you're smiling and he can even see it briefly when he closes his eyes. Carmy is finally able to stop pacing and takes a second to sit down on the cool tiles of the kitchen floor.

“C-bass” You elongate the notes in a singsong way to reel him in. Your voice sounds off. It was hard for him to pinpoint at first but now it was easy to hear it was the nerves eating you up. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here” he sighs, the heel of his hand rubbing his left eye, “I, uh, thought you weren’t going to pick up.” He can feel the exhaustion settling in as he slouches against a cabinet. You fight with your carry-on as you move through the quiet terminal. It’s a maze of sleeping bodies and you try your best not to wake them. Once you reach your designated gate and find a semi-secluded spot, you continue ”Sorry about that, they changed the gate and delayed the damn thing.”

”I’m glad” Carmy mumbles without a second thought as he reveles in your long distance presence. ”You’re glad I’m stuck here?” You try to act all serious but he can hear the lightness in your voice and he can’t help but crack a smile. ”No, no, it’s just— uh, I’m glad that I can hear your voice” the cadence in his words forces you to bite down on your bottom lip to stop the stupid grin from spreading. It’s the Carmy effect. Idiotic smiles are plenty when the two of you are together.

”Fuck, me too” Your voice contradicts the violent affection that rattles your insides. It’s shy, almost as if you were embarrassed to admit it. There was a beat of silence, but Carmy beat you to speaking first. ”So, uh, how long is your plane delayed?” His now steady hand ghosts over the grooves in the tile. You were still battling the nerves from earlier, but thought it was an opportune time to actually apologize to Carmy ”Only like an hour. It took me over half of that to walk to the other side of the airport— Hey, listen, I just— I wanted to tell you I’m sorry—“

”No, no, I get it. I would have done the same—“ Carmy waves you off as if you could see him. ”I still feel bad“ you groan and lean your head into your hand in an almost facepalm fashion. You hate that you feel bad but you always do and you always will. It’s unavoidable. “Don’t, I didn’t when I left” he shakes his head to get rid of the memory of that day. He was trying to hold on to this tranquility the best he could and not derail again. ”Really?” You pause for a moment before asking, “Did you miss me?” Your subconscious emotions getting the better of you. ”Fuck, yeah like a lot. I wish you didn’t ditch me.” He was sincere like always and you can feel the guilt boiling in your stomach, ”Me too”.

“I think—,” Carmy pinches the bridge of his nose in thought, “Wait, uh, I know that it would’ve been better with you there”, he sighs and lets his hand fall back into his lap. ”Fuck, Carm, I miss you so much already and I haven’t even left the city yet” you try to make yourself laugh to get away from the regret that soared through your body, but you couldn’t. “I’ll come up there as soon as I can and help you unpack—“

” And, I’ll give you an apartment tour and show you my art displayed all fancy at the museum” You were already getting giddy at the prospect of the two of you being reunited. “I would love that, actually”, Carmy smiles into the phone as he imagines taking you on a personal tour of NYC.

”Great, because you still owe me a hot dog”

“You still won’t let that go, huh?”

“It was like the most perfect hot dog and you made me drop it, asshole!”

“Sorry, sorry, okay?” he laughs along with you, “I’ll get you another one. There’s this place in Hell’s Kitchen—“

”Fuck, Carm can you give me a sec?” You hate to interrupt him especially when he was in the middle of his excited prospect, but the airport attendants were making announcements and soon enough they will be calling up groups. You struggle to hear the muffled voice over the speaker and Carmy can hear you shuffle around to get a closer listen. After a few moments, you are able to piece together that the plane is on schedule and that Group A has been called to front.

“Fuck, sorry, Carm, I gotta go”

”No, I get it. Call me when you get to your new place”

”No, yeah, I will and Carmen—“ you interrupt yourself and flounder for a second. The words are heavy on your tongue. “I love you” the words roll off your tongue differently this time. They’ve always carried a hearty weight to them, but this time it felt like a confession. It sears his soul unlike anything he has ever felt before and you pay no mind to the flames raging in your ribcage.

“I love you too” it falls from his lips automatically without hesitation. He swears that his words are tinged with something else. The edges of the words flickering for something more. It holds a familiarity but he can't quite grasp it in the moment. “Carmen, get some sleep ok?” and your line goes dead.

Fuck.

[collecting-stories]

Peaches & Cream - Carmen Berzatto

Summary: Carmy talks the reader into making family and their relationship takes a turn.

A/N: I don't know if I like this installment as much as the other two but I'm running with it. Also, the actual dessert made is from Carolina Gelen and it's fucking delicious!

The Bear Masterlist

✰✰✰✰

You shook your head slowly back and forth, with what you were almost completely positive was a look of abject horror plastered across your face as your eyes met Carmy's blue ones. If there was one thing, anything, that you absolutely did not under any circumstances want to do it was cook in The Beef's kitchen. 

"No."

"It's not like you haven't cooked for everyone out there before," Carmy replied, leaning against the door and crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Yeah, but like...at my place...not like, seriously," you mirrored his image, leaning back in the office chair and crossing your arms. 

Carmy smiled, "family isn't serious." He said it in that way that suggested he'd caught you out. Like you were trying to pull one over on him but he found a loophole at the last second. He looked too triumphant for his own good. 

"Cars..." You groaned, there was no way you wanted to do family. When Syd did family it looked like some fucking five star gourmet meal. Even Ebra cooked up some really wonderful food for family. You had cooked at home, sure, but not in Carmy's kitchen. "Fine...but when it's shit-"

"It won't be," he replied and you practically felt the air knocked out of you. As if those three simple words had the power to truly dictate what sort of cook, chef, you were. And maybe they did because you felt ridiculously confident after he said it. 

You abandoned the paperwork to the office and followed Carmy into the kitchen. His attention didn't last long, immediately pulled to something else as Tina called him over to taste the potatoes she was working on. Your unexpected entrance into the kitchen didn't go unnoticed by Marcus or Syd or Tina, all three of whom followed you with their eyes as you went to the family shelf. You were positive you looked a little more than unsure of yourself as you pulled ingredients off the shelf, trying to think of a recipe that you could accomplish, that would taste good, and that might impress Carmy. 

-

"What?" 

"What?"

"People don't usually make that face after someone kisses them...unless like, I read the room wrong and I wasn't, or you didn't want me to kiss you," you stammered, eyebrow quirking as you stared at Carmy. Ever since the first Sunday Night Dinner you'd been thinking about what it would be like to kiss him. Probably ever since he first walked in The Beef and introduced himself to you. And maybe he hadn't been thinking about kissing you for that long but you thought maybe he was thinking about kissing you lately. Or not and you were atrocious at reading what vibe other people were projecting. 

"No, no...I mean, I, no, I wanted you to...I wanted to kiss you. I liked it. Ah..." Carmy inhaled, held his breath for a second and then exhaled. "I uh, you taste like peaches. It's like, really fucking wild, just like straight up peaches...like, not like chapstick shit or something but like actual fucking peaches." 

"Oh," you stopped yourself from laughing, "I uh, I ate like frozen peaches before you came over." You tried to explain. It was the most bizarre semi-compliment anyone had ever offered after a kiss. Probably in the history of the world. 

"Yeah?"

"I was trying this recipe-"

"What was it?" He looked over the back of the couch toward the kitchen as if a plate would be waiting there on the island for him to sample. 

"It's nothing fancy," you promised, a regular disclaimer whenever you made something new and let Carmy try it. You got up from the couch as you explained the recipe you'd seen online and had attempted to recreate in your own kitchen before Carmy had come over. Aside from the peach, which was frozen in your freezer, everything else was assembled. 

Whipped cream went in the bowl first, then the peach shavings, scrapped off a whole frozen peach like you were zesting a lemon, and then brown sugar syrup that you'd made earlier. In the short time it took you to assemble the dessert, Carmy came over to the island, leaning against the counter and watching you walk. 

"Here," you slid the bowl over and handed him a spoon from the utensil holder that sat in the middle of the island. He took it from you, his focus already zeroed in on the dessert sitting before him. The assembly was no five-star NOMA dish but you thought it tasted pretty good earlier and hoped you'd made it just as nicely the second time. 

The first time Carmy tried anything you made him your whole body had felt like it was on fire. Burning with nervous anxiety eating at your stomach. Now, you thought you should probably still be nervous but you weren't. Somehow you didn't have any of those nerves anymore. Or at least, they weren't turning over your stomach anymore. Instead it was just excitement, watching him taste the food that you prepared for him. 

"Well?"

With little actual warning, Carmy laid his spoon on the counter and leaned forward, kissing you this time instead of the other way around. You kissed him back, your hand moving to hold his face, fingers brushing the curls at the back of his neck. You'd be lying if you said you weren't a little dazed as he pulled away from the kiss, blue eyes shining with amusement as he smiled. Like really smiled, you noted. 

"Yeah, that's the peach I was tasting." He finally said, taking another bite of the dessert, "fire, by the way."

"Awesome," you stumbled over the word, not entirely sure it was the correct one to encapsulate the moment. 

-

You knew Marcus was hovering over you without needing to turn around, but you did anyway, twisting away from the focaccia bread that you were kneading onto the sheet pan to look up at him. "What?" You asked, unable to stop yourself from smiling when you caught the amused look on his face, "what?"

"You're doing family?" 

"Yeah, why...you have a problem with that?" You asked, trying to sound confident. 

"No...this looks good," Marcus replied, checking on the focaccia once more before stepping away from you. "What're you making?"

"Chicken parm sandwiches?" You replied, more as a question than a statement. As you slid the pan into the oven Marcus took a once over of the other ingredients on the counter. 

"You making your own mozzarella too?" He asked, sounding impressed that you were going to tackle something that complicated. 

"I am," you said, pulling a 'can you believe it' face, "Carmy showed me how to a couple weeks ago-"

"Carmy showed you how to?" He replied, the tone of the question teasing. 

"Don't you have like...something to do?" You asked, looking back at his station. 

You might've spent most of your shift in the back office but you knew that everyone in the kitchen was talking. It started with Richie, way before you and Carmy had kissed. He'd come into the office when you and Carmy were sitting in there and however you both were acting Richie had interpreted it as flirting (which was impressive considering how awkward you and Carmy flirting was). Richie being Richie, spread the news to Tina and Ebra and Sweeps, then Marcus heard about it and Sydney. Even Fak got filled in on the apparent 'romance' that was happening. You suffered through embarrassing comments every time you were remotely close to Carmy in the kitchen until finally everyone pretty much got used to the fact that you were pinning and probably never going to make a move. 

Or at least, you hadn't expected to ever make a move. He just looked so good sitting there on your couch and you'd been thinking about him for a long time and you were positive (at least 99% so) that recently he'd been thinking about you the same way. It was a long shot probably, cause Carmy was almost impossible to read unless he was yelling about food, but it worked out. 

"Are you doing family?" Syd asked. She was doing checks, purposely saving Marcus for last so she could see what you were up to. She'd seen you come out of the office with Carmy and go over to the family shelf, surprised since you never seemed eager to be anywhere near the kitchen during work hours. (Syd had come back for her headphones once and seen you and Carmy in the kitchen together, generally being cute...which she pointed out to you later on). 

"Yeah?" You felt even more unsure of yourself when she asked than you had when Marcus had asked before. 

She nodded, looking over the ingredients you had out. "Dope."

"Thanks," you laughed. 

You weren't surprised, considering how hectic you knew the kitchen could get, that you didn't actually see Carmy again (aside from glimpses as he moved back and forth from the kitchen to the counter and back) until family. And technically, once you'd plated family and called everyone out to eat, he was nowhere to be found. Richie told you he was having a cigarette around a mouthful of chicken parm sandwich so you plated some for him and carried it outside into the back alley. 

Carmy was sitting against the back wall, a plastic container of water in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He had his head tilted back and his eyes closed like he was maybe trying to catch a few seconds of rest before dinner rush. 

"Hey," you tapped his shoulder and Carmy started, opening his eyes and looking up at you. 

"Hey," he replied, laying down his container of water and taking the plate from you. He balanced it on his knees and picked up the sandwich to look it over. "What've we got?"

"Chicken parm sandwich on pistachio focaccia bread." You replied, "Richie said I was 'going all out'."

Carmy took a bite and you watched as his face change from neutral to slightly pleased. The look you knew meant that he liked something. "This is good, this is really good." He replied earnestly, taking another bite. "Did you make the mozzarella?"

"Does it taste bad?"

"No," he shook his head, looking away from the sandwich and up to you, "you could've kneaded it one more time, it's a little soft."

"I wasn't sure," you admitted, "you'll have to make me mozzarella and tomatoes again and show me how to make it." 

He'd shown you last week, when you were at his apartment for a change. He was in the middle of making dinner when he realized he didn't have mozzarella so he decided to make it, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do. Or at least the most normal thing in Carmy's. 

"You heading back inside?" He asked as you reached for the door handle. 

"Back to the office, where I belong." You replied. 

He waved you back over, tilting his head back to look up at you when you were standing in front of him again. You took the silent invitation and leaned down to kiss him. "I won't taste like peaches this time." 

"It's not a stipulation," he joked and you smiled into the kiss. 

Eventually, sooner rather than later, you knew everyone in the kitchen would find out that you were dating. Probably everyone outside of the kitchen too, once Fak knew that you were together it was only a matter of time before everyone Carmy had ever met found out that he had someone in his life. 

"Okay," you sighed, reluctant to pull away but knowing there was a stack of invoices you needed to look through, "eat your too shitty sandwich and get back to work chef."

"You bossing me around now?" He laughed, stubbing out his cigarette and following you back through the door into the kitchen. 

Everyone else had finished eating and were back to their stations. Tina looked over first when the two of you came in and you smiled, "Carmy said it was awful and I'm never allowed in the kitchen again."

"I didn't say it was awful-"

"The mozz was a little soft but the focaccia was insane," Syd pipped up in your defense.

"I didn't say it was awful," Carmy repeated, nudging you with his elbow when you smiled at him.

"He didn't say it was awful," you admitted, "he did say the mozzarella was soft." 

"Why you being a fucking hardass about some cheese?" Richie called from the counter, coming over and throwing an arm over your shoulders, "I'm fucking shocked as it is you got this one to go out with you, now you're gonna be insulting?"

Carmy flushed red, whether because of Richie or because of the whistle Sweeps gave at the previously unconfirmed news that the two of you might be something, "can we get back to work chefs?" He finally said, moving away from you and over to one of the stations, grabbing his knife to start prep. 

"Guess that's my cue to get back to the office," you joked, slipping out from Richie's arm.

[moonstruckme]

Omg yay I love that slightly dirty man!! I was wondering if you’d be willing to do something along the lines of a flower shop au situation, where Carmy is obv still a chef but reader works/owns a place nearby and they end up seeing each other a lot and so on and so forth but also I will devour literally anything about that man so wherever your heart takes you I’m 100% on board <3

He is perfectly dirty! Thanks for requesting babe <3

Carmy Berzatto x fem!reader ♡ 831 words

It’s peak hours, and your shop is completely empty. You’re leaning against the counter by the register, mashing your fingers into your temples and praying to whoever will listen for the noise next door to stop. 

It’s some sort of fire alarm, blaring from the shitshow construction zone you’re lucky enough to neighbor. It’s been going since nine this morning. It’s after noon now. No customers will stay long enough to buy anything, not even your regulars who come in looking for a specific book. At this point, you need to either get out of here or get a lobotomy. You head for the side door. 

It’s a bad idea. The noise is worse outside, but you’re committed now. You walk paces up and down the alley, blowing puffs of air that cloud in the cold and rubbing your arms because you left your coat inside. You’ve already walked the alley twice when you see him, bare-armed as you but smoking a cigarette like this temperature is just right. 

“Hey,” you say, too irritated to be embarrassed, “what the hell is going on in there?”

Carmy shrugs, taking the cig from the corner of his mouth. “The fire alarm won’t stop going off.” Smoke rises into the air as he talks. 

“I know. Are you going to do anything about it?” 

“We’ve got people on it.” 

That’ll mean the Faks, you suppose. You wish this was something you could rage about, but Neil’s a nice guy. He came over to help you board up your window when it broke during a hailstorm last year, and when you brought him a coffee he acted like the beans came from the Garden of Eden. 

You take a breath, trying to chill out. “So, are you guys all losing your shit in there?” 

Carmy shrugs again. He never really looks at you, you’ve noticed, just sort of near you as if that’s as close as his eyes can get. “Some more than others,” he says. “I don’t mind it.” 

“You don’t mind?” you laugh, incredulous. “You must be insane.” 

He turns his head to the side, something unidentifiable passing over his expression as he takes a drag. “I know.” 

You get the feeling you’ve taken a misstep. You need to say something nice, remind him you’re on the same team. You kick the overflowing dumpster next to you lamely. “Can you believe this shit? They’ve skipped us for two weeks straight now.” 

Carmy nods, relaxing somewhat. “It’s bullshit.”

“If they miss us again, I’m gonna have to start bringing our trash to other dumpsters or something. I don’t even know.” 

“They won’t miss us again. I’ve got someone making a call.” 

You grin. “What are you, part of the mob or something?” 

Carmy looks almost like he might be thinking about smiling. You have the urge to take a picture. “My family is Italian,” he says. 

“Oh, I know. Richie’s definitely brought it up.” 

Carmy blows smoke out, shaking his head in a way you suspect might be fond. “Richie’s not even Italian.” 

“Seriously?” A laugh stutters out of you. The wailing siren has faded into the background. You feel lighter than you have all day. “He’s the most Italian guy I’ve ever met.” 

“Yeah, he definitely thinks he is.” 

You look at Carmy for a moment. There’s always this tautness about him, like he’s perpetually ready to run or punch someone. Right now he’s as close to casual as he ever gets, hunched against the alley wall, but however he’s acting you can see the raised hairs of goosebumps on his biceps. His tattooed, very large biceps. You look away before you can get swept away by that line of thinking. 

“Well, even though the noise doesn’t bother you, do you wanna get away from it for a sec?” you ask casually. “It’s not so loud in here. You can barely hear it in the back room.” 

“Seriously?” Carmy’s looking at you as though this may be some sort of trap. He’s looking at you, and without explanation the world seems to sharpen into startling clarity. You’re suddenly conscious of your heartbeat. “Uh, yeah.” He glances behind him, seemingly wary of one of his coworkers coming out to stop him. “That’d be cool.” 

“Okay.” You open the door, nodding to his cigarette. “You can’t bring that in here, though. I don’t need it smelling up my books.” 

“Right, yeah.” He snuffs it half-smoked on the alley wall. There’s a slightly awkward moment where it seems like he’s trying to grab the door for you even though you’re already holding it open, but after a second he ducks inside, something that might be embarrassment stiffening his shoulders. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t sweat it.” You let the door swing shut behind you, leading him towards one of the plush couches in the back room. “We’ve got to do what we can to keep each other sane around here, right? A crazy neighbor would be bad for business.”

[thecapricunt1616]

capriiiiiii can i pretty please request something with carmy and a gf who is dealing with being stiff / sore and tired. i acc just need him to take care of me. maybe cook me a meal. :(( ily

My loveeeee Hello I'm sorry this has been rotting away I've been dealing with such writers block I hope this doesn't suck aaa! I'm sorry I haven't been writing as much / around tumblr this week i've been busy with other things but I hope to write more soon <3 I finally got my new laptop so i'm going to try and cook some stuff up really soon! Warnings for btc: None really, pure fluff & happy carmy!not edited sorryyyy WC: 1638

You had helped Sugar set up her nursery last night. All the moving of large boxes, and helping build the crib, changing table, and dresser, you were wiped out to say the least. You got home around 4 am, and  When Carmy had left for the restaurant that morning, you were still crumpled on the couch where he’d left you, snuggled in a blanket and softly snoring. When he came home that night and nudged you, you jumped like a sleeping cat 

“I’m awake!” You said quickly with an unintentional snore, rubbing your eyes tiredly. 

“Brought you a sandwich and some fries. Back still hurts?” He asked softly. 

You whimper gently as you stretch out your sore muscles, sitting up once again in the dark living room. “How’s work?” You mumbled with a yawn, taking the takeout container as he plopped next to you and planted a kiss on your head. 

“Doesn’t matter, m’here for you baby, why don’t I get you a bath set up mm?” He flicks on a lamp and you blink a few times as your eyes get adjusted to the light.  

“You’re too good to me, you know that right?” You gave him a peck on the lips. He smiled a bit and rubbed your side 

“I can’t even count the amount of back massages you’ve given me after a long week. I’m just repaying the favor.” He watched as you took a bite and sighed in relief, your stomach growling- likely in thanks as you hadn’t moved from your spot all day long in your blanket nest. 

“This is really good, Bear” you mumble as you chew. He hums happily at your approval, giving you one more kiss to the temple before getting up. 

“Good, I put a piece of princess cake in the fridge for you for after your bath if you want” he said on his way to the bathroom, and you could cry at the bliss that was being taken care of. 

He makes sure to clean out the tub with bathroom spray and rinse it fully, before starting the water at the very hot temperature he knew you liked after plugging the tub. He got one of the little herb sachets with different flowers and herbs and hung it over the faucet so it infused into the water, causing it to be a pretty light pink color.

From the bathroom closet he grabbed your little bath tray and set it up for you, as well as the little bath head pillow that suctioned to the tub for you to rest back on, and got those set up before taking out the waterproof electric candles and setting a few out for you for a comforting ambiance. After he put a good amount of the muscle relaxing herbal epsom salts in the bath for you, as well as plenty of bubbles the way you liked and agitated the water for you, he popped your favorite fluffy towel in the warmer. 

He cut off the water and went into the bedroom, grabbing your fluffy bathrobe and a comfortable pair of panties for you as well as the book you were currently reading from your nightstand and got them all set up on the bathroom counter for you, as well as your hair brush. He opened the bottom drawer where you kept all your sheet face masks, and picked out a bedtime one and set it on the bath tray for you next to your book. 

By the time he came back out to let you know your bath was ready you had already finished eating and were once again slumped on the couch, you figured you had pulled or overworked something in your back because even holding yourself up was proving to be exhausting very fast. “Did you want some wine my love” he crouched down next to where you were snuggled on the couch, brushing your hair from your eyes gently. 

“Yes please” you said softly. He planted a gentle, lingering kiss on your forehead before going to the kitchen. He got your favorite wine out of the fridge, popping open the bottle and pouring you a glass. He brought it to the bathroom and put it in the little slot on the tray made for wine glasses, before coming back to collect you. 

“Alright, up” he held his hand out to you and wiggled his fingers for you to take it. You sighed softly knowing moving meant pain, but when you grabbed his hand he lifted you to your feet with little effort, being sure to steady you with his other hand on your hip since you weren’t expecting it. 

“Woah” you giggled, the action having woken you from your tired state and following him to the bathroom. When you saw the state of it, you pulled him into a tight hug, kissing his neck gently. You didn’t want him to see the fact there was tears pooling at your eyes, since he hated when you cried. But the fact that he had a nearly 14 hour day, and came home to you- and still went out of his way, above and beyond to take care of you. To make you feel loved, cared for. You’d never had another partner who was so attentive and went out of their way for you how he did.

“Love you…” you muttered before pulling away with a sniffle. He cupped your cheeks, giving you a gentle kiss 

“Your towel is In the warmer waiting for you baby, I’ll get your pajamas set out for you” he gently tucked your hair behind your ear and rubbed his knuckle over your cheekbone before heading back to your bedroom, leaving the door cracked behind him. You noticed after he left that your skincare was all set up for you as well as your favorite body lotion and its matching body mist which just made you smile even more. 

After undressing you sit in the warm bath, sighing in relief as the hot water did wonders for your sore muscles, resting your head back on the comfortable pillow as you sip your wine and hum contently to yourself. For a while you just sat, reading your book and sipping your wine and after about 30 minutes when the water had gone lukewarm, and your glass of wine had been finished - you decided to drain the tub. 

Carmy heard you getting out of the bath, so he went and got your pajamas that he’d been warming in the dryer for you and got your side of the bed all made up after filling your reusable water bottle with iced lemon water.  By the time you had gotten your lotion on and did your skincare as well as brushed your teeth, the house had already been shut down for the evening. He had made sure to clean up the kitchen and living room, as well as shut all of the shades and get your coffee pot set up for the next morning like usual. 

“Hey pretty girl” he takes your hand, kissing it gently “got some warm pajamas for you, house is taken care of you just have to get in bed” he motioned to the bed where your pajamas were nicely folded for you. 

“And you say you aren’t romantic” you mused, causing him to chuckle a bit as he wrapped his arms around you, kissing the top of your head 

“What can I say, I guess you bring it out of me. Get your pajamas on I’ll rub your feet for you” he said and you hum happily, closing your eyes and planting a kiss on his neck

“Can I be babied like this all the time?” You joked, he huffed a laugh, handing you your pajamas. 

“The days that I’m not too wiped out from work, I can try” he plopped down on his side of the bed with a soft grunt of relief after being on his feet all day. You slipped out of your robe, and his eyes rake over your frame as you unfolded your soft, fluffy nightgown and slipped it over your head. “Mm mm mm” he said jokingly. You giggled as you crawl on the bed, resting your legs over his lap and wiggling your manicured toes teasingly. 

“Get to massaging this isn’t a free peep show” you said and he took your ankle, bringing it to his lips and giving it a chaste kiss

“What- so you can put me to work, and I can’t even eye the goods?” he joked as he put your leg gently back in his lap and grabbing the massage oil that he’d put on the nightstand and warming some in his hands before starting to massage your foot. You hum happily, lips curling into a small smile and your eyes fluttering shut in bliss. 

“Mmmm, keep doin’ that and I’ll let you see whateeever you want” you said happily, your voice nearly a purr from how expertly he was massaging your calves and feet. “Can I turn on Big Brother?” you asked and giggle at the way his face lit up

“You really waited?! Fuck yeah I wanna see whats up put it on” he said and you smiled, shaking your head jokingly as you turned on the TV. He had whined before about not wanting to watch ‘trash reality tv’ all the time, but over the course of the many nights he came home and you were watching it - he had eventually starting asking you to wait for him to watch ‘your show’ together, and you would tease him and tell him how you thought he said it was boring and gossipy, just to get his cheeks to go that cute shade of pink.“Of course I waited, it’s our show now”

[luveline]

Oooooo carmy request: him being jealous of readers friendship w richie cos they re like buddys and he thinks she doesn't like him cos shes not like that w him

—you realise what Carmy wants from you. fem, 1.4k

Richie isn’t technically an upstanding citizen, but he’s a good guy. 

“I’m telling you, sweetheart, you just need to be more aggressive.” 

You’re sitting on a stool behind the counter filling the ketchup and mayonnaise bottles with the huge ones from the walk-in. Richie isn’t doing much of anything, which is fine by you; he’s good entertainment for a shitty job. 

“I don’t want to be more aggressive, I want people to be nicer.” 

“We don’t get what we want,” he mutters. 

You frown expressively. “Aw, baby, we don’t get what we want. You don’t get what you want, huh?” 

“What’s your problem?” he asks, though he laughs brightly. “You’re the fucking baby. You’re not doing that right.” 

You point at your extremely slow drip of ketchup. “No, you think? I know I’m doing it wrong, Richie. Doing it right is a lot of arm effort. Have you seen my arms?” 

“You’ve got muscle.” Richie lifts your arm up by the wrist. “Flex. Flex your arm.” 

“I’m flexing. You can’t see that?” 

“What are you guys doing?” Carmy asks. 

He comes up behind Richie and they’re almost twins. Not in appearance —Carmy’s lighter facially and broader physically— but in stance, their mussed up aprons and the rags on their shoulders a uniform. 

You flex. “Weight training.” 

Richie drops your arm. “I’m showing her how to fill the sauce bottles.” 

“And you didn’t know how to do that?” Carmy asks you. 

“I’m the one that taught Richie.” You absolutely didn’t teach Richie how to do it, that much is obvious. Richie laughs heartily, and Carmy frowns, and you realise that Richie thinks you’re both laughing at Carmy, which isn’t what was happening. Not totally. 

It’s hard to navigate The Beef without Mikey; Carmy is nothing like his brother, and Richie’s an asshole. 

Carmy nods at you. You’re worried his lip is gonna curl like it does when he’s mad and you’re gonna get told to do something you’re uninterested in, but it’s Richie who gets punished. “Can you finish Sydney’s prep?” 

“Why can’t she do it?” 

“Her stomach thing. It’s just onions.” 

Richie wants to argue, but can’t. He’s paid a wage to work. “Fine. But tell Syd I’m not her gopher.” 

Richie saunters away. 

“He’s not her gopher,” you tease when he’s out of earshot, to Carmy’s surprised delight. “God, Carm, don’t you know anything?” 

Your Richie impression isn’t your best. Carmy must enjoy it, still smiling to himself as his attention is turned to the register, where he begins wiping down the keys. 

“Is that really the way to do that?” he asks, gesturing to your sauce bottles. 

You’ve turned the cap upside down, feeding sauce into the bottle one drip at a time. It would be quicker to remove the cap entirely and pour straight from the big bottle, but that sometimes requires three hands, the big jugs are that heavy. 

“Despite what you might think, Carm, I’ve thought it through.” 

“You sure?” 

You could get defensive. When Carmy first took over the restaurant, you thought, What the fuck, Mikey. Leave your shithole restaurant to your world class brother and get your entire roster of staff fired in one fell swoop. But Carmy never fired you, hasn’t cut your hours, doesn’t treat you like an asshole. He is a jerk, that much is certain during busy dinner service, but he has yet to take it too far. (Ish.)

So you won’t defend your laziness, or expect him to like it. You get up from your stool and turn the cap right side up, tapping what’s yet to drip through the spout into the bottle. You set the cap aside, and you uncap the big ketchup to decant sauce until the bottle is full. 

Carmy glances at you from the corner of your eye. He looks at you, looks away again. 

You think he might like you. In the don’t have a choice, grown on him like moss way. He gets cagey when you and Richie are having fun, and he stares altogether too much, but he can be pretty when he’s smiling (or really yelling) and he has nice hands, and nice arms. He has a nice way of saying things. You don’t mind his attention.

There have been worse bosses to want to push you up against a wall. 

Not that you think Carmy could. He whines like a bitch at you for stupid shit, but Carmen Berzatto shoving you into a wall for a rough kiss? That’s never gonna happen. 

And yet… his frown tells a different story. 

“Why do you get so weird about me and Richie?” you ask. 

“I don’t get weird about you and Richie.” 

You open the mayonnaise bottle and set the cap aside. “He’s nicer than you think.” 

“Yeah?” He sounds vaguely depressed, which isn’t uncharacteristic. Seriousness colours his voice with a strange charm. “I’ll take your word for it.” 

“He is, he makes me laugh. He makes sure I eat, he shouts at guys when they’re mean to me.” 

“Who’s mean to you?” 

“Carmy.” You give up on the mayonnaise and wipe your hands down your apron, to his ire. You’d prefer not to smell like egg and oil during this conversation, but it’s better than smelling like burnt chicken, sort of. “Richie’s a nice guy, whether you agree or not.” 

“That’s great, I’m glad he’s so nice to you.” He sounds angry now, but he’s stuck as you are —walking away is losing. 

You really don’t get it. “Is he not supposed to be nice to me?” you ask. 

“He can do what he wants. You can do what you want.”

You laugh, and hope to diffuse the situation with a joke, “Okay, thanks for your permission, Chef.” 

“Fuck off.” 

He sounds less tense, but not fixed. And you might find it harder to keep up with him, constantly wanting to impress him, knowing you can’t, but you’re not out of touch. You aren’t a huge dick. 

Carmy beats you to it. “I was kidding, about the bottles. You can do it how you want.” 

“I wasn’t offended.” 

“But you don’t– with Richie, you– I don’t know what I’m doing wrong with you.” 

You look him up and down, lengths of his arms, tattoos and the cut over his elbow. His clean t-shirt, his neck, the strong line of his nose and his bright eyes. 

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you say, smiling at him, knowing your expression says lots of weird stuff. 

Working here in the kitchen makes a busy atmosphere normal. Richie’s telling a story at the top of his lungs, Angel’s swearing about a dropped plate, knives scratch on boards and ovens hum. Being overwhelmed is something you’re good at, and big feelings don’t scare you. 

“You’re jealous of Richie?” you ask, playfully pitying. “Get it together.” 

“Fuck off,” he says again. 

“Seriously? Richie Jerimovich. He’s telling Tina a story right now about how the last date he went on ended with her asking if he’d ever been abducted by aliens.” 

“I’m not jealous of Richie.” 

“No, I don’t think you are,” you say, taking a step too close, and refusing to take the step back. 

Carmy doesn’t look mad anymore. 

You wonder if anybody’s ever held his hand. You used to think he must’ve had a ton of girlfriends, he got so famous everywhere he went, but… He looks like he’s never been this close to someone before. Like you’re making him nervous. 

“Me and Richie are friends,” you say quietly. “Is that what you want us to be?” 

His hand twitches at his side. 

“There, cousin, I cut the fucking onions. You happy?” Richie asks, and laughs as he steps back out to the front of house, unaware of the tension. “That’d be the day, right?” 

“Yes, Richie, I’m happy you did your job. Thank you.” 

“Was that hard for you, baby?” you ask Richie with a pout. “Here, let me kiss your poor hands.” 

Richie gives you the bird with both of them. 

You look to Carmy. Making fun of Richie together isn’t quite as good as holding hands, but you hope it’s a start. 

Carmy catches on, can’t hide his grin, “There’s tylenol in the office if you need it, cousin.”  

“Are your wrists feeling tender?” you prompt. “Or is that motion one you’re used to?” 

Carmy laughs and the sound takes on the shape of his smile, nearly giddy. 

“Fuck both of you.” 

[bookshelf-dust]

the art of dancing in the kitchen

carmy berzatto x fem!hairdresser!reader

gif by @hotch-girl

word count: 3,479

warnings: literally nothing? this is pure fluff with slight swearing and little baby innuendos. i did make reader a hairdresser because i just love the idea and it makes so much sense for this.

synopsis: nothing brings you more joy than spending time with carmen…except maybe having him help you bake.

a/n: i swear to you, i think this might be my favorite fic that i’ve ever written. i love it so much and it made me so happy to write. i found myself smiling at the screen while typing, if that tells you anything. i think i’d definitely like to continue writing things in this universe, too! carmy is so fun for me to write and i love coming up with ways to make him feel tangible. (also shoutout to the first pic because if you know, you know.) i hope you enjoy this one and happy reading!! <33

————

Carmy never sees you run as fast as you do when you’re leaving work. In this case, it’s just so he can eat lunch with you, but you rush out of the salon door just as fast.

Your sundress catches the wind, the hem flying behind you as you jog up to the passenger side door. You catch a glimpse of Carmen through the dirty window. His curls are crushed underneath that worn blue cap, but today it’s turned the wrong way around on his head.

It makes him look boyish. The hand rubbing over his mouth in an effort to hide a grin doesn’t help his case. 

If you’re honest, you’ve been giddy since six that morning, when you got up and remembered that Carmy was meeting you for lunch. And when you got to work and found it was much slower than expected, with no show after no show, you were so grateful for the blue eyed man waiting for you outside. In a loading zone, no less. 

You hop into the car, pulling the door shut behind you distractedly. You’re too eager to see him, and before you can even say hello, how are you, how’s life—anything—you’re kissing him. 

His lips feel a little chapped against yours, the skin slightly dry and cracked, but you don’t mind. It feels like he’s just shaved, his jaw all smooth, and he smells like cinnamon and dish soap and cigarettes, but you’d be a liar if you tried to claim that wasn’t the best smell in the world.

You pull away from his kiss, locking eyes with him, where his pupils are blown wide and his cheeks are flushed like he’s been pinched. “Hi, gorgeous,” you say. 

Carmen laughs, that little shy one that’s more of a big puff of air than a chuckle. He shakes his head at you, still not used to someone being so excited about his presence, so…enamored by him. 

“Hey, you,” Carmy answers, placing both of his hands on your cheeks. He stares at you for a moment. He’s trying to drink you in. He does this every chance he gets because he literally cannot believe you’re real. He’s not dissociating, he’s not daydreaming. This is his life.

Your already broad smile widens as you take the opportunity to stare back at him. Your eyes wander to his just-too-long sideburns. “I think it’s time for a trim again, Carm. Lookin’ a little grizzly there.” You ruffle his curls, which feel surprisingly clean. 

Carmy watches you bite your thumbnail in an effort to conceal the laugh threatening to burst from your throat due to your own horrible joke. 

“Ha, ha. So funny.”

He puts the car in drive and listens to you giggle to yourself as you fasten your seatbelt. Neither of you say much on the very short drive to the park across the street, knowing you’ll be able to vent as much as you please while you eat. 

“Cross your fingers our bench is free?” you say, raising your hand up towards Carmen. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as if that also counts as a way of manifesting your favorite seat. Carmy lifts his fingers in the air, the middle crossed over the index and gently knocks his hand against yours. 

You pull into the parking lot, the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires filling your ears, and your gaze immediately flies to the bench underneath the biggest tree with the most shade and the best view for people watching. “Fuck, yeah!” you shout, a brilliant smile blooming on your face as you unbuckle. 

Carmy laughs for real this time, the corners of his eyes going all soft and crinkly at your joy. “Run over there and claim it, yeah? I’ll grab everything.”

You push open the car door and stand quickly, smoothing the sweet ruffles of your dress. You wink, already starting to happily jog away. “Yes, chef!” Carm catches your salute just before he reaches in the backseat for the cooler and bag of food he brought with him from the restaurant.

On your bench, you prop your hand on your chin, tuck your foot under your thigh, and watch as Carmen walks up the short little incline to you. He looks gorgeous.

He’s wearing jeans, Levi’s that hug his ass and thighs just right. He has on an old “I heart New York” t-shirt that he only wears when he hasn’t caught up on laundry (and only bought for that same reason a few years ago). 

His curls and necklace bounce almost in sync, and you can’t help but think that he just looks so pure and free.

And he’s got this glint in his eye that’s directed right on you. 

“Ebra made your favorite. He heard I was meeting you for lunch and insisted he do it,” Carmy says, snapping you out of your how-could-this-man-get-any-more-sexy daze. 

He places the tin foil wrapped sandwich in front of you, pretending not to notice the way you’re gawking at him. “I swear he’s never been so gentle with roast beef.”

You smile, pulling up the strap on your dress where it’s started to slip. Carmy leans over the table to press a kiss to your shoulder. It makes your stomach flip. 

“Did he make yours for you?” you ask, mouth watering impatiently as you lift the still-warm bread up so you can take a messy bite. 

Carmen hands you a napkin. “Put that over your chest—yeah, like that. So you don’t get your dress dirty.” He rips open a bag of chips for you to share. “But to answer your question, fuck no he didn’t.”

You toss your head back and laugh. “You’ll have to tell him I said thank you for making such a yummy lunch for me.” Your boyfriend watches as you suck a stream of au jus from your thumb. 

Carmy scoffs playfully. You wink at him. “I did have the cutest delivery boy though.”

His brow raises, and the corners of his mouth quirk while he chews on the handful of potato chips he’s just shoved in his mouth. “Oh yeah?”

You hum. “Yep. Cute even with roast beef stuck in his teeth.”

Carmy falls for it, quickly taking a sip of his drink like he’s going to wash the beef free. But the twinkle in your eye tips him off. “You’re fuckin’ with me?”

You wipe your grinning mouth. “‘Course I am, Bear.”

Carmen raises up from his side of the picnic table just enough so that he’s leaning across to meet you halfway. He waves you closer with his hands. “Come on now, you owe me a kiss for bein’ a little shit.”

You brace your palms against the worn—and slightly damp from last night's rain shower—wood, quickly connecting your lips with Carmy’s. 

You do this thing where you start smiling into the kiss and in turn it makes Carmen smile because your giddiness to have your mouth on his is insanely fucking contagious, and he’d be a damn fool not to join in.

When you pull apart you make sure to quickly kiss both of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “There’s your tip for being such a pretty delivery boy and bringin’ me lunch.”

The both of you settle into quiet conversation, catching up on whatever as you finish your sandwiches and drinks. Carmy reaches across the table to hold your hand, rubbing the pads of his fingers over your polished nails. He likes the way they feel.

As a surprise to end your lunch hour, he pulls out a little back holding two oversized oatmeal raisin cookies. One for each of you. And he knows those are your favorite. You do a happy little wiggle in your seat when you see them. It makes him laugh, makes his stomach flip. 

“Marcus made a batch of these, just tryin’ out cookie recipes? We thought having them out front for people to grab on their way out would be smart.”

You take the cookie from him. “That is smart. And I already know it’s gonna be yummy.”

“Damn straight. I ate like, four of them as my breakfast and lunch yesterday. But that’s not important. How’s work so far?” 

You’ll have to berate him about that later. The man cannot eat cookies and wash them down with Pepto Bismol and call it a day. 

You demolish your cookie within seconds. “Work has been so fuckin’ slow today, Bear. We’ve had all these no shows, so I got set up and then they don’t come and now I’ll have to send them the files about the fee.”

“You want me to yell at ‘em for you? Tell them how they’re missin’ out on the world’s best haircut and color?”

You smack him playfully on the wrist. “I just love my job, y’know? So it sucks when I sit there playin’ on my phone instead of listening to all the gossip my customers bring me.”

Carmy downs the rest of his Coke and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “If it helps, I’ll let you give me that trim after service tonight.”

“At least I know you won’t cancel on me.”

Carmen watches you for a minute, losing himself in now fucking ethereal you are. He’s never imagined himself using the word, but that’s the only proper way to describe you. And he secretly loves you cutting his hair because your hands feel so good, especially when you wash it for him. 

“I’ll tip you real good too, baby.” Carmy blushes at his own joke and it makes you laugh. Mid-laugh though, your eyes widen like you’ve just had an idea. It feels a little devious to him.

You pull out your phone. “Oh! When I was doomscrolling this morning, I found this video of blueberry muffins—dammit, of course I can’t find it now—but they had the…the…”

You lift your hand, wiggling your fingers in a sort of sprinkly motion like you’re try to demonstrate what you’d seen. “The crumbly shit, Carm! I don’t know what the fuck it’s called.”

You reach over and take both of his hands. “Point is, they looked really yummy and I wondered if you’d help me make them?”

Carmy starts chuckling. He definitely knew what you were talking about with your hand gesture, since you’re always making them and he’s got them memorized by now, but it’s so fucking fun to see your brain work. 

He begins to gather up your trash and put it back in the bag he brought it in. 

“Yeah, I think I have enough flour and shit. There’s some frozen blueberries in the back of the freezer. But do you want the crumbly shit, or streusel?”

“Carmen, sweet angel baby, I don’t know what streusel is.”

“It’s usually got cinnamon and nuts and shit, so that’s what we’ll do because I know how you like your nuts, love.”

You take his hand when he offers it to help you stand. You smack a big, wet kiss on his lip. You let your eyes drag up and down his form before you begin to walk back to the car. 

“Sure do, Carmy.”

————

“You don’t need a recipe or anything?”

Carm presses a sweet kiss to your lips and passes you a few fresh blueberries to snack on. He’d grabbed some at the store on the way home because was he really going to teach his girlfriend how to make muffins with a questionable bag of frozen blueberries? Fuck no.

“Nah, it’s all pretty simple. I’ll tell you everything to do, and I can write one out for you if you ever wanna make ‘em when I’m not home.”

You pinch his sides, raising up on your tippy toes to express your giddiness. “Really? Holy shit, I love that.”

He lets out a huff of a laugh. “Yeah?” Carmen cups your chin, tilting your mouth up to meet his because he wants a kiss.

You start to talk while his lips are still on yours. “It’s your handwriting. I have a thing for it.”

He bites your bottom lip playfully. “You’re insane,” he says, smiling through each syllable. He pulls back briefly. “That reminds me, I got you somethin’.”

Carmen walks to the living room and pulls something out of his work bag. “Does this have to do with my insanity?” you ask, jokingly. 

He shakes his head. “Only with your insanely cute ass.” He holds up an apron. “It’s your honorary chef apron. Ta-da.”

It’s the same blue as his at work, except it has a ruffled hem and the logo for The Bear embroidered on the chest. Your brows shoot up.

“You got this today, Carm?” The alarm in your voice makes him smile. 

Carmy walks up to you and starts tying it around your waist. “No, no, not today. I got it awhile back, but you bringing up muffins made me remember I’d ordered it. It came with the chef’s whites and shit.”

“You got it made for me?” Your voice pitches up a notch, causing Carmen to spin you around so you’re facing him. 

“‘Course I did. Couldn’t leave my number one out. And yours is cuter than everyone else’s.”

Your eyes water, just slightly, and you start smothering Carmy’s face with kisses until he starts to giggle boyishly. “Okay, okay!” he fusses, “No tears, only muffins.” He grabs your hips and moves you in front of the counter where he’s laid out all the ingredients for you. “Let’s get movin’ now, yeah? This shit is making me hungry.”

————

“Why do they tell you to fold it in? I’m not doing fuckin’ laundry, Bear.”

Carmy is sitting on the counter next to you, watching you intensely. There are floury handprints on your apron and you have your tongue poking out in concentration. He keeps bringing a straw to your lips every few minutes to keep you hydrated, like this is a very important surgical operation. 

“Probably ‘cause it looks like folds when you do that?” You smack him on the knee and continue to fold in all the ingredients, pretending like you don’t see exactly what he means.

Once you feel like it’s all combined you let go of the spatula and turn to Carmen. 

“What now, Bear?”

“You gotta mix up the sugar and the flour and the cinnamon, and then you can add your little nut mixture and I’ll show you how to do the butter.”

You reach for the collection of small glass bowls Carmy set out for you. “So sassy,” you say, shaking your shoulder just a little. 

He smiles at you and extends a socked foot out to lightly kick you on the butt. But you were expecting it, so you reach behind you and grab his ankle, tickling the bottom of his foot, which is where he’s most ticklish. It’s his Achilles heel. 

Carmy releases a short bout of laughter before pulling away from you to catch his breath. “Fucker.”

You grin, leaning over the sink to wash your hands for the umpteenth time. “But I’m your fucker, angel boy.”

He hops off the counter, scooching in behind you to press a kiss to your clammy cheek. “Can’t argue with that,” he says. 

Carm watches over your shoulder as you add a small mix of crushed almonds, granola, and pecans to your streusel topping. “Good job, baby. Now I need you to cut a few pats of butter and add ‘em in. Just do a few—yeah, just like that—and you can start mixing it up. You can use your hands if you need to since it gets so difficult to stir.”

The warmth of Carmy’s chest against your back should be unnerving, what with him observing your every move. 

But it isn’t. Rather, it's comforting. When the butter combines with your little potion mix as much as it can, you use your hands to make sure nothing gets left behind. 

“You’re very good at making sure the crumbly shit is crumbly, lovebug.”

You look over your shoulder at Carmen as you finally slide the finished tray into the oven. “I’m givin’ you a run for your money, aren’t I, Bear?”

He smiles at you, reaching around your waist to untie your apron and lift it over your head. He hangs it on the little rack meant for keys. “Might have to tell Marcus about this. Get you in there, helpin’ him decorate donuts and shit.”

You push up on your toes and wrap your arms around Carmy’s neck. His go around the small of your back like that’s the only job they’ve ever had. 

“So you can throw them on the floor?” you quip, biting your lip to hold back a laugh. You know you’re being a little shit, but at least it’s a memory you can all laugh at now. 

Carmy’s lips quirk up at the corners. His right hand lowers and squeezes at the fat of your ass, a little menacingly, but loving all the same. “Never gonna let me live that down, huh?”

You lower your forehead so that it’s resting on Carm’s chest. He feels your giggle against his skin. Feels the way your fingers play with his necklace where they rest at the back of his neck. It’s giving him goosebumps. 

“Nope,” you say, that cute little teasing lilt to your voice. 

Carmy tightens his grip around your waist and lifts you up into the air, spinning you around his small kitchen a few times. Just enough that you squeal out of surprise, out of pure, unadulterated joy because of this romantic ass gesture that feels straight out of a story book. You pop your feet up for good measure. You could never let Princess Mia down like that.

When he sets you down, you both stare at each other for a moment, catching your breath with these stupid happy smiles on your faces. And right there, you both feel that little bolt of electricity. The one that tells you this will never go away. This connection is everlasting. 

It takes a minute for you to register that you’re both shuffling lightly across the floor, in gentle, sloppy circles. 

You look down at Carmy’s socked feet and back up to meet his eyes. “Does this count as dancing?”

He scratches his nose. “Couldn’t tell you.”

You kiss the spot where he was self-consciously rubbing. “Maybe we should practice, you know, in case we need to dance someday.”

Carmen snorts. “Yeah, maybe, sweetheart.”

You play with the curls around his ears, remembering your promise to give him that trim. “Have you ever danced, Mr. Berzatto?”

He kisses you. “Only alone in my room.”

You kiss him. “That what you do when I’m not around?”

He kisses you a second time. “Yep. Busted. But Richie used to try and make us play Just Dance with him when he got drunk.” He grins at the little chuckle you let out. “What about you?” he starts. “Have a past dancing career?”

You shake your head, admiring every little freckle on his face. Every little dry patch of skin, every line. 

“In high school, me and my girlfriends would usually just hold hands and spin around in a little dance circle since we were all single. It was very cool of us.”

“I would’ve paid to see that,” Carmy says, cupping your jaw. You grin up at him, eyes twinkling. You imagine you’ve got big ‘ol pink hearts fluttering back and forth at him. 

You both melt into each other after that. Slowly shuffling around the kitchen, hips swaying to music that isn’t there. Usually Carmy would be on the verge of shitting his pants in a situation like this, but…it’s you. You’re safe. 

Why wouldn’t he dance with you? 

Carmen brings his lips to your ear. “Is there music in your head right now?”

“Rick Astley,” you whisper. 

Carmy blinks. 

And then he tosses his head back, laughing. “Seriously?” 

“Nope. I just wanted to hear you laugh,” you say, and kiss the chuckle right off his lips. He kisses you back, pecking your lips three times in quick succession because one is just never enough. You tug on a curl. “We’re stupid in love, aren’t we?”

“We’re dancing, shuffling like old people really, in my shitty kitchen on a weeknight, and waiting on blueberry muffins that I’m pretty sure we’ll finish within the hour.”

“Oh my god, Bear.”

“Yeah, baby. We’re stupid in love.”

You are. And when you sit on the kitchen floor, your socked feet in his lap, eating warm muffins and getting butter all over your fingers and down your wrists, that only confirms it. 

Those are the best damn muffins you’ve ever had. And Carmy’s lips taste like blueberries for the rest of the night. 

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!

[heartsofminds]

i'm calling just to hear you scream - part i

"She’s tried to be positive. She’s tried to be kind. She’s trying to be the peacekeeper, but all of that falls out the window when her brother is bitching out everything that fucking blinks and breathes and Richie has slung a sledgehammer into the wrong wall that needed to be knocked down." or Natalie gets fed the fuck up and hires a hospitality attorney before everything else turns to shit. 

a/n: i couldn't help myself at all and had to bite by trying my hand at writing for carmy! what can i say? i love men with trauma that need to be cuddled like newborns! please enjoy the beginning of enemies to lovers to enemies back to lovers fic with a workaholic chef and an overly empathetic attorney. angst is my brand! i hope you enjoy!

Being the peacekeeper of your family is never something anyone ever sets out to be. 

One day you’re normal and live blissfully with the rose-colored lenses of naivety tinting life shades of bashful blush and magnetic magenta. The next day you’re diffusing a spitfire scarlett dispute between your anxiety-ridden mother and impulsively crude older brother while simultaneously taming the balloon of battered blue tears your baby brother sheds who observes from the corner; scared yet somehow unaware of the emotions sucking the oxygen out of everyone. 

At first, it feels good. It feels nice to be appreciated and turned to in moments of darkness. Helpfulness defines your livelihood and gives you the nameplate of the gold star child who can never do any wrong and always finds a solution. But then you realize that is what you ever really are, and you’re both hated for your inability to let things sour and for always having an answer despite uncertainty plaguing every course of action. 

Being the peacekeeper of your family is both a Medal of Honor, worn with pride and graciousness, yet a bullet wound wielded by shame and agony. The tenderness and hurt push on it until you can hardly stand it; half expecting pus to be seeping out in pale yellow heaps because the pain feels so real. 

There are no exit wounds. There are no breaks. There is no humanity or personal identity or room for self-discovery. 

A peacemaker is all you will be and all you will ever accomplish, and you’ll never say it out loud but it’s fucking exhausting. 

Being the peacemaker is something Natalie Berzatto never fucking asked for, yet here she is, playing project manager to her haywire (and sometimes freakishly obsessive) baby brother’s blind-eyed throw of a dart that manifested itself in asking Uncle Jimmy for an eight hundred thousand dollar loan with the promise to have it completely paid back within eight months. 

She’s not one to rain on a parade, but it’s hard to keep marching when your entire life has been putting out the fires of overly ambitious business ventures during unmedicated fits of mania. She had seen it with their dad, with their mom, and with Mikey. Carmen is the last needle needed to complete the fucked up haystack that engulfs their family. 

She’s tried to be positive. She’s tried to be kind. She’s trying to be the peacekeeper, but all of that falls out the window when her brother is bitching out everything that fucking blinks and breathes and Richie has slung a sledgehammer into the wrong wall that needed to be knocked down. 

Natalie has never thought of looking into Botox until now; when her face is set in a permanent scowl and her resting heart rate nears triple digits. Pete had been telling her for the past three weeks that she was doing amazing; that this was an impossible task to complete stress-free, and that the stress was “good” because it meant that she cared. 

Sometimes she doesn’t realize that not everyone has a mom who drives the fucking car through the den during Christmas Eve dinner nor does everyone have a mom who moves all the furniture to the backyard before having to leave for their oldest brother’s high school graduation. Not everyone has an older brother who blows his head off and doesn’t leave a note and not everyone has a younger brother who would lose his head if it wasn’t attached to his body and had his mouth that was spewing hurtful insults by the dozen.

Stress does not mean that you care. Stress means that your eyes are staring at the fucking Sun trying to see where the other shoe is getting ready to drop because there’s always another disappointment and always another phone call to make to the pharmacy for more SSRIs. 

Needless to say, Richie calling Neil “lard ass” on an antagonizing loop after he had pointed out the wrong wall was being destroyed was the last straw. Well, that and the fact she found a new patch of white hairs colonizing on her hairline the other morning. Constant shouted insults, gray hairs popping up overnight, and the colossal secret of a new infant making its arrival into the chaos in October weigh heavy on her. And she absolutely cannot afford to lose her cool and become the kind of bitchy and mean she knows that she’s capable of. 

Your phone number sits inside the LED-lit text thread of a friend she had known in high school. Becca was the older sister of Claire Cantor whom her little brother may have or may have not had a pathetic crush on years ago when he was in high school. 

She feels kind of grimy doing what she is; offering up information about Carmy to Becca to give to Claire who apparently thought her baby brother was the bee's knees (which, if she saw the way he was acting right now, Natalie knows she would run the other way). She doesn’t even think Carmen has the capability to think of anything outside of the restaurant and the menu and how royally fucked they all are. 

She can feel the dull ache of guilt in her chest that comes with knowing how unlikely anything is to come from this, and how wrong she is for pretending like her telling Becca where he grocery shops or if he has a girlfriend or if he was currently looking for someone to date would somehow tether Claire to a world where her and Carmen are a “thing” (because apparently “boyfriend and girlfriend” is too permanent of a word for Chicagoan twenty-somethings to use). 

But she’s doing it for the sake of everyone else! It can’t possibly be as gross and low-lived as she feels it is. 

Becca Cantor is insufferable and can only be taken in small doses, but she’s also a big wig junior partner at one of the most lucrative law firms in Chicago. Natalie hates blowing smoke up people’s asses who don’t deserve it (and in Becca’s case certainly don’t need it), but she desperately needs help and knows that she needs to figure something out before she fucks herself in such a deep hole that she couldn’t attempt to unfuck herself if she tried. 

Your official title is “junior associate” and you had been working at Becca’s firm following your graduation from Northwestern’s Pritzker School of Law a couple of years prior. Becca had said you were amazing; freakishly smart, funny, and hardworking. She also mentioned that you were the best kind of junior associate; the ones that know when to shut the fuck up and when to get the fuck out of the way. The addition added before the text conversation ended was how you were looking to get your foot into the hospitality legal field, and how you were willing to do anything concerning that for free fucking ninety-nine if it meant you would have some experience. 

Natalie sits with her lower lip worried between her teeth and her hands one tick shy of shaking. Her heart beats erratically despite lounging on her couch with the lights off and a re-run of That 70’s Show playing softly in the background. She makes a mental note to bring up the high resting heart rate at her next OB appointment. 

It’s because she’s pregnant. Yes. It has to be because she’s pregnant. 

She shouldn’t be nervous. It would be absolutely ridiculous to be nervous. She’s not nervous. 

She already ran the idea past Sydney and she agreed that they absolutely needed a lawyer in their back pocket. With all of the tax records fucked beyond belief, new workers being hired who actually knew their worth and wouldn’t tolerate not having an actual employement contract, and the lack of permits under their belt currently, a lawyer wouldn’t hurt if getting one turned out to not be as helpful as anticipated. Besides, Becca had said you were doing it for them pro bono which in turn meant free fucking nintey-nine. 

But Natalie had lied to Carmen about how much some fluted cocktail glasses cost to ensure that they purchased the cheaper ones so that she could run the numbers and figure out a way to put you on the payroll. Pro bono or not, you’re doing them a huge favor and part of her can’t put the peacekeeping to rest. 

Her fingers type and untype a novel of characters. She can’t seem to relax her mind enough to articulate what exactly she wants to say. She has one shot to not scare you off and not lose her mind in a fit of fiery rage and not have everything turn to shit and it be her fault. She has to be perfect. 

Fuck. She is nervous. 

Hi! This is Natalie Berzatto. I’m one of Becca Cantor’s friends and she referred me to you. I’m working on opening a restaurant and would like for you to swing by and discuss some things about it if you’re open to that! Please let me know. I’m looking forward to hearing back from you soon! 

Nat’s finger hits the blue “send” arrow in the rounded box of her phone screen the same time she pushes a gag to the back of her throat. She used to work at a marketing firm for Christ’s sake. Cold contacting people isn’t anything new and she’s usually not one to shy away from reaching out to anyone in her personal life first. But she can’t help the fact that she’s never been able to swallow the artificial bubble gummy niceness of reaching out to a complete stranger for the first time. She feels stupid and knows that she sounds even stupider but tries not to think about it. 

Besides, keeping everything together is never easy and she knows that she would be selfish for letting her discomfort prevent her from doing what she knows is best. 

Her breath is stuck in her chest as she eyes the open text thread to an unsaved number; her blue text message staring at her menacingly and breeding contempt as the seconds pass. She gasps loudly whenever she sees the gray bubbles pop up beneath it. Pete pokes his head into the living room with a tea towel in his hand and one of the ceramic plates they had eaten dinner on in the other. His eyes wear concern but he knows better than to confront his wife. Natalie was anything but sugary sweet when she was stressed and the influx of hormones as of late have not been helping. 

You see the message as soon as Natalie sends it. The unknown “312” number finds its way into your notifications and your eyes read over the words in a frenzy. You know that you’re intelligent. You graduated from law school for fuck’s sake, but for some reason you absolutely cannot comprehend the text you’re reading. 

Firstly, you were sure Becca hated your fucking guts. She was a junior partner that everyone hated being assigned to because she pushed all her work onto the associates and nothing ever seemed to be good enough for her. Part of the reason you had to take work home tonight was because she sent you an email with enough passive-aggressive undertone to know that these edits needed to be done now; never mind the fact that the time she took to type out the seven and a half page report about the original report probably took up so much time that she could’ve done the task herself. But yet you replied kindly and have been working through your brain fog and finger cramps since arriving home at six in the evening five hours ago. 

Secondly, hospitality litigation was absolutely above your pay grade. You had taken one elective course on it during your 2L year and did a two-week internship before the start of 3L simply because one of your friends wanted to go on vacation and needed to find someone to cover for them. You know jack shit about hospitality law and you don’t even know why Becca Cantor, of all fucking people, would be so willing to recommend you when she couldn’t care less if you lived or died. 

But of course, you can’t say no. You can never say no, and if this Natalie person was desperate enough to reach out to you via text at 11 PM on a Wednesday, she definitely needed help and needed it now. Besides, you would tell her that you do not need to be paid and if whatever she needs proves to be way too advanced for you, you can always help her find an attorney that knows what they’re doing.

Right? 

It definitely doesn’t mean that you’ll pull an all-nighter and research every aspect of hospitality law in Illinois that you can get your hands on. . .Or look up every department dealing with food and management regulations in the state. . .Or try and look at precedent cases. Your firm gave you unlimited access to West Law. Might as well use it for something slightly more interesting than trusts, estates, and contracts. 

You’re unusually pensive for something you know you would love to do. The ongoing battle as of late has been the dispute between seeking joy and wading in practicality; happiness or falsified peace? 

You rub your eyes with a roughness that would make your optometrist cringe. You know that staring at your computer screen five hours after your contracted work hours ended was the culprit for your dry eyes, but the hours you need are not going to bill themselves. Getting up to get your eyedrops will have to wait.

Replying to Natalie cannot. 

Your fingers type and untype; the feeling of texting back an unknown number foreign and unnerving. 

Thanks so much for reaching out and thinking of me! I would love to. What dates and times work for you, and where would it be best for us to meet? 

The text stares at you on your phone screen. Why do you sound so. . . corporate? Boring? Infantile.

She could probably tell you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about at all. The feeling of defeat rises in your throat but you ignore it and hit send instead. You’re trying to be better about that; letting your fear of uncertainty keep you from taking action. You’ve come to realize that the hard part isn’t doing the thing. It’s actually sitting in the aftermath of the “thing” and waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. 

You bite your lip so hard it begins to bleed and throbs with each pulse of watery blood that fills your mouth. The gentle suck you give it to stop the bleeding makes it partially numb. 

Fuck you, Becca. Fuck you, Becca. Fuck you, Becca. 

Natalie chirps when your text illuminates her screen. She gasps and sits up; startling Pete who had settled next to her after finishing the dishes. Her eyes curl up in the same way her lips do. 

Fucking finally. 

The world no longer feels like it’ll fall apart.