#husband!carmy x wife!reader

[answer2jeff]

when it rolls in like thunder:

chapter 1.5 — anyone else but you.

DISCLAIMER: half chapters are much shorter and used as wholesome, or not ;), fillers for the series! they're essentially palate cleansers so you can be emotionally prepared for more angst + hurt/comfort in the full chapters. however, you won't need to read these half chapters to understand context in full ones.

husband!carmy x hispanic!wife!reader

teaser. chapter 1. next chapter.

warnings : reader occasionally speaks some Spanish that Carmen hasn't picked up on. he thinks it's endearing. nothing else really. just very fluffy and touching. just good ol' sappy carmen and his wife going out for the day before the honeymoon!

authors note : this series is not doing well and it's kinda killing me inside but that's okay! just for funzies. also, the end is mostly dialogue. got a little lazy. sorry!

word count : 3k (not as short as i thought it would be ngl..)

highly recommend listening to the series playlist.

song(s) for this chapter : anyone else but you, & everyone adores you (at least i do)

"14.56? You're kidding me!"

Your eyes scan over the rainbow assortment of fresh, boxed fruit, the overpriced strawberries immediately grasping your attention. But not necessarily in a good way. Neither you or Carmen can totally remember who's idea it was to walk to the farmers market in this dry heat. It's not like you don't enjoy long walks, but it comes with cons. Pollen irritates your nose and the wind always messes up your hair.

You tug at Carmen's shirt, which, for once, isn't a tight-fitting pure cotton tee. It almost looks a little big on him, the sleeves rolled and cuffed perfectly so they still hug his arms. It's collared too. That ring on his finger makes your knees weak. He smells like the cologne he used to snag from Mikey's bathroom as a teenager. Richie got him his own bottle for Christmas the year after his passing and he's been wearing a spray or two on his neck and the insides of his wrists every 'special occasion' ever since.

And a hint of cigarette smoke. But you like it.

You always have.

He looks good. Fresh. Clean. Yours.

"Wow. I mean—" Carmen lets out a breathy chuckle that isn't quite loud enough to be a laugh, "it's a massive box. And it's strawberry season: May."

Still, despite his persuasive tone and the big hand that sits in the back pocket of your jean shorts as he stands beside you, it's not enough to convince you it's reasonable.

"But—"

"And we're at a farmers market, like, 10 minutes away from our place. Convenience costs money, baby."

Carmen peers down at you, retracting his hand from your rear and teasingly pushing your head into his shoulder. You pout. You don't want him to be right. The dramatics are fun.

"Pero, que es eso? Quieren que yo pago casi quince dólares para unos pinche fresas?" You throw your hands up, directly pointing to the tempting, fresh, and beautifully red fruit.

Carmen only nods. Even after 2 years of accidentally eavesdropping on your conversations, filled with the Spanish slang and sometimes vulgar language you've been using your whole life, he still hasn't quite learned much. Most of the time, he's too anxious to ask you what you're saying. He worries it'll make you stop doing it in front of him.

Until he comes to Tina, desperately. She'll ask him for the details but he can only remember bits and pieces of your one-sided conversations with him. She laughs for a moment or makes her eyes go theatrically wide just to fuck with his head. But eventually, she tells him the truth.

You only know this because Tina immediately started cracking jokes after she spent 15 minutes crying over your engagement, and then another 25 over your official elopement. 'Sacaste con un puré, gringo, mi vida! He needs patience!' she'd say to you whenever Carmen did the most minuscule thing that not-so-accidentally set you off.

"Mi amor," you turn to him, pinching your fingers and widening your eyes to make sure he's really paying attention, even if he doesn't understand you, "podemos comprar la misma cosa en Walmart, or algo así!"

The look in his eyes suggests that he didn't catch most of that. The only words he picked up were "mi amor" and "Walmart," obviously. He just assumes you're continuing your pointless bicker. But he doesn't have the heart, or even the want, to stop you.

He does love the way your nicknames for him roll off of your tongue. It warms something in him. Almost as if he believes your words capture your feelings and fully encapsulates him better than boring English ever does. They're smooth and they stick to his brain hours, or even days after they're spoken to him. In fact, he's been pretending he didn't faintly hear you whisper into his curls as he drifted off to sleep 'te amo con todo mi alma' last night, all fucking morning. It's the only full sentence you've ever spoken to him that he's been able to engrave into his memory.

"Uh-huh," he chuckles as he nods his head slowly, his dimples cinching in near the corners of his mouth. His skin looks a little tanner and brighter than usual. The veins in his eyelids are nearly invisible now, and the little moles that are scattered around his face and body are so much darker now. You thank the spring, nearly reaching the tips of summer, sun for bringing some life back to him. But you're not done complaining. So, you try not to smile in awe of your husband.

"Ó sea, que, are they gonna make me grow a magical straw-baby?"

"What, like—like how people say you'll grow a watermelon in your stomach if you swallow a seed?"

"Yeah! Like that!"

"I don't know, peach. Maybe?"

"It's not worth finding out."

"Yeah. Definitely not."

Despite this, you guys buy the damn strawberries.

You continue walking through the market and stopping at every other intricate little selection of produce, picking up ingredients for tonight's, tomorrow's, and the next day's dinner. You're still snacking on the overpriced strawberries, the entire carton in hand. Carmen occasionally lets you pop one in his mouth. He contently bites right before the stem and swallows. They're perfectly ripe, sweet, and juicy. And unfortunately a tad bit sticky. In the end, they're worth the aggressive price tag.

Finally, you stop in your tracks at a flower stand. Bouquets tied together with white ribbonYou're immediately drawn to the vibrant red of the roses and the pure, angelic white of the mums. Oh god, and you're convinced the baby's breath tucked in neatly between each gap that couldn't be closed by blooming petals could remedy the need for plant life in your living room. The fantasy makes you feel like you just can't leave without taking some of these gorgeous flowers with you.

"Mm—" you point, your mouth full of mushy strawberries, "those look really nice."

For a moment, Carmen hesitates. Those flowers will shrivel. They will lose their once attractive and captivating saturation of color. He's not even sure if they'll last more than 72 hours, given how bloomed the petals are. But you still have those clay vases from your engagement party. And he still loves to make you happy. Despite their fleeting nature, your appreciation for his gestures will last forever. Even if their lifespan doesn't.

Carmen's had this tendency for longer than either of you can pinpoint. Having money he doesn't need, money he doesn't use, has led to him making some questionable decisions. All in good faith. But impractical nonetheless. Take, for example, that time he bought you a Cartier love bracelet for your 1 year anniversary.

Yes, you heard that right. Cartier. The gold and shiny flat bands that required the disassembling and unscrewing of 18 karat gold bolts with a miniature fucking screwdriver. Oh, and this was even after you and him agreed to 'no gifts,' as you were already planning a trip to Copenhagen. The reaction he received from you wasn't quite what he expected. Tears streaming down your face and the kiss on his cheek to compensate for the lack of a proper gift for him was not part of the thoroughly walked through plan he wrote in his head. But your happiness is his, in the purest and pathetic and shameless way. He realized this the moment he screwed that last bolt and secured the thin piece of gold against the circumference of your wrist.

It's around 4pm, and the glistening sun is just slightly past its highest peek. Bright transparent blue and green spoons made from hard plastic swirl around in the cheap, (and definitely not authentic) gelato you share. Outdoor seating wasn't the first option, now that spring was slowly evolving into another scorching hot Chicago summer, but the AC of the parlor was sure to give you hypothermia.

"Fuckin' hot out here. Can't see," Carmen mutters, taking a small bite of the creamy pistachio mixture. He squints at the blinding beam of the sunlight. You felt a little guilty for letting him sit right in the direction of the sun. But he insisted.

"Did y'know blue eyes are more sensitive to sunlight?" You raised your brows, wiping the corner of your mouth and licking the gelato residue from it.

"Seriously?" Carmen leans forward, putting his hand above his eyes as a makeshift visor. His hand reaches out to adjust the heart shaped sunglasses that started to fall off of your head.

"Here," you hand them to him, feeling bad that you'd completely forgotten about them.

"And yes, seriously," you nod, hovering over the table and adjusting the sunglasses so they'd rest perfectly on Carmen's nose before sitting back down, "It's because blue eyes have less melanosomes compared to green and brown eyes."

A simple, "thank you, baby," would've sufficed, but kisses your lips, gently cradling your jaw and barely letting a breath of air slip through the empty space between your mouths after the 3rd kiss. Alas, you remove your lips from his and sit back down.

"Is there, like—"

"An exact number?" You finished his sentence.

"Yeah."

"Yes, actually. Blue eyes have 3 in each, green eyes have 5, and brown eyes usually have around 9 to 12 depending on how deep the color is."

You smile, shrugging your shoulders as you try to remain humble. It's impressive, he has to admit. Carmen's always been fascinated by your knowledge of pointless information. He wishes he could store and retain so much of what you know. But for now, he'll just admire you for it. He'll contemplate his lack of ability to remember things like patterns and bullet pointed facts that didn't relate to culinary arts later.

"Huh," he crosses his arms against his chest, his button up shirt squeezing his flesh and showing his slightly faded tattoos "kinda makes sense."

Letting out a laugh or two, you take another disappointing bite of the fake gelato monstrosity. It's not that it doesn't taste decent, but the texture is off and the crystallized ice that formed around the sides is unappealing for the price. Carmen had doubts since the moment you dragged him in by the hand like a greedy kid spotting a candy store. But he didn't say anything. What's the point of using his knowledge and skills to crush making you happy? It wasn't necessary at the time.

But, much to his pleasure of being correct, but his dismay of your disappointment, you aren't the biggest fan of it in the end.

"This isn't great," you swallow, shaking your head and dropping the spoon back into the paper cup in defeat as the green and nutty mixture went down your throat for the last time.

"It's not real," Carmen joins you, just to end up dropping his spoon in the same unfulfilling manner, too. "Most gelato places aren't. Gelato's dense. Not fluffy."

You nod, pushing the cup to the side and interlocking your fingers into his. His calloused fingertips gently caress the back of your hand and go over every little vein and mole that shines through your soft and soothing skin. He's become pretty fond of the whole hand-holding thing. Especially with that pretty rock on your finger. It's delicate. You're delicate. You're his.

"You've been doing that since the day we met, y'know," you hold onto his hand tighter, smiling and snatching your sunglasses back from his face with one swift motion before he can protest.

"What? Explaining shit about food you don't care about?" Carmen chuckles, his teeth showing. Sometimes he was embarrassed of his info-dumping, but he's learned to not be so shameful of it. You find it interesting. He doesn't really notice that he does it anymore.

"Yeah. But it's cute. It's what made me wanna keep talking to you. You don't do it to make me feel stupid, or something. You just.."

You paused to think.

"You know a lot about what you do, Carm. You're passionate."

Ah. The day you met.

Around 3 years ago, you'd just moved to the bustling city of Chicago after writing and successfully selling a beautiful script to an indie short film, which ended up being undeserving of your work due to the poor execution of dialogue. It didn't even end up showing at the film festival you were practically forced to attend. Even after co-writing and directing film projects and not-so-popular cinematic pieces, you hadn't tasted the pleasure of success. You dreamed to write something all on your own and conjure up a moving script of the century. You figured moving to a brand new city would get the creative juices flowing. Eventually, it did, but it took a boring circle of friends and a couple sleepless nights before you were successfully back and thriving in the industry.

You decided celebrating with an appletini or two at a shitty Karaoke bar down the block from your apartment was the best option. And thank god you did.

Carmen caught your eye the moment you detached yourself from your social circle to smoke a cigarette or two outback in the alleyway to melt the anxiety that started to consume you once you got a little tipsy for the first time in months. The tattoo on his hand and the way he crouched down on the asphalt beside Richie who complained endlessly about the complexities of his divorce was intriguing.

You butted into their conversation and lit a cigarette of your own, politely greeting them. Richie didn't say much. It's like he knew it would be Carmen's opportunity to function like a normal person and have a pleasant conversation with a random bar girl in black pantyhose and combat boots. The two of you discussed moving back to Chicago, discovering that Carmen actually grew up there and started a new life of culinary exploration and expertise, while you just needed a sense of control and escapism.

After the conversation had reduced to mundane small talk, visibly making both of you tense up, you finally got his name: Carmen Berzatto. His use of his full name was a little displacing. It made you wonder if you should've known who he was, considering his surprisingly humble background check. You couldn't help but want to know if there was more to him than his career. More than his cigarettes and his tattoos and his weird love-hate relationship with his family friend he called 'cousin' for no real particular reason.

More than the restaurant he'd been trying to revive.

That night caused him to come to the realization that he didn't actually know if there was more to him. Ever since that conversation and its rude interruption of Richie's right hook into some random guys face landing him in a cell overnight, he's been forming into a real person instead of the outer shell that is his job as a chef. He asked about your films, your projects, what made you start working in cinematography, and who your inspirations were. You answered completely honestly and wholeheartedly with every question, never making him feel a burden for his curiosity.

You could tell he was nervous with the way his voice shook and his breath went uneven with every look.

"I was kinda scared to talk to you when you came up to me," Carmen smiles, running his free hand through his dry and defined blonde curls. You squinted in disbelief.

"What? Me?"

"Yeah. I don't know, I–" he shrugs, leaning forward to get even closer to your again "you were cool right off the bat. You still are. Possibly a lot cooler than me."

You roll your eyes playfully, refusing to take the compliment in a fit of flattery. Constantly being humble around Carmen was kinda hard. Especially with the way he unintentionally showered you with compliments that were really just state of facts to him. But he didn't want you to be humble. He wanted you to own that shit.

"And you're beautiful. So, so beautiful. I think that scared me a little, too."

"I think I might've been more nervous than you were. I was just so determined to talk to the hot guy with tattoos and a blue apron over a slutty white t-shirt that I tried desperately to hide it," you joked, laughing harder at the sight of an eyeroll of his own.

"Yeah, well, look at us now. Married," Carmen smiles, gently pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear and exposing your decorated lobe with earrings Natalie gifted you for your birthday last year. "I'm glad you stuck it out. You always do. All the time."

Carmen gushes over your ability to 'always know what to say,' when you know deep down your life is just a constant cycle of 'figuring it out' and 'going with the flow' of inevitable highs and lows of life as you go on. Your brilliance is so organic. Everything about you has always been the purest form of excellence and love to him. Even when he barely knew you.

"Can I ask you a really stupid question?" You bite at the inside of your cheek, your hand releasing from Carmen's so you could clasp your palms together in a pleading motion.

"Sure."

You pause, swallowing the familiar lump that hasn't formed in your throat since the first time you told him you wanted every part of him in your life.

"When..." you breathe in sharply through your nose, "did you realize, 'oh yeah, I need to spend the rest of my life with her.' Was there any specific moment?"

Almost without a second thought, Carmen answers with a blush against his cheeks and his hand grasping yours again at the loss of physical contact.

"Probably the first time we kissed."

That response surprises you more than it probably should. That night in your apartment changed his course and perspective on love and life for the rest of eternity. He learned to slow down and let himself fail and pick the pieces of his mistakes back up.

"I love you, Carmy."

"I love you."

He says it back hungrily like he needs it to be branded into the ridges of your mind. And at this rate, it might've already been stamped into your memories of him.

current taglist : @lemmejustpulloutmylightsaber @fallinallinmendes @sexyyounglatinoboy @febris-amatoria

[nolita-fairytale]

don't want to walk alone | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x fem!reader | chapter four: the honeymoon pt. 1

summary: the infinite undressing and undoing of mrs. berzatto -- or how you and carmy spend your mini-moon at the langham hotel.

warnings: so much smut so this chapter is 18+ only!! also the smut is from carmys pov and im shaking!! husband!carmy who comes with a warning label of his own, swearing, lots of tooth rotting fluff, marriage, no use of y/n, second person pov, she/her pronouns

wc: 4.9k

listen to: the official don't want to walk alone playlist

a/n: surprise! i decided to split the honeymoon into two chapters because it was getting way too long and i refuse to cut any of it so there's that.

on another note: this series, this world, is so special to me because it is my first: first series on tumblr, first series for carmy, first time writing fanfic again as an adult that i actually followed through with. it was the universe that got me through unemployment. the fic that helped me fall in love with writing again, so i will always hold this world near and dear to my heart. but aside from occasional one shots here and there, it may be time to let them ride off into the sunset, into their happily ever after. let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist.

part three | masterlist | part five

Before he can even get the door properly closed, you’re all over him, your mouth covering his own with kisses that feel like promises, as your hands multi-task, fumbling with the door to get in closed the rest of the way. 

“As much as I loved celebrating with our friends and family, I’ve been waiting for this moment all damn day,” you say, in between kisses, satisfied as soon as you hear the clicking sound of the door locking. 

“Hmmm and what’s that?” Carmy asks you, coyly. 

His lips curve into a cocky smile mid-kiss, and he hears you chuckle, knowing exactly what buttons to push to wind you up.

“Getting you alone, Mr. Berzatto,” you giggle underneath your breath, taking a few steps away from him. 

Carmy watches you in awe, his eyes traveling from your kiss-swollen lips, to the way your hands begin to trail down your body, to the careful steps that you take backwards. His breath hitches in his throat as he watches your fingers delicately undo the first button on this goddamn blazer dress he thinks he’ll never be able to get out of his mind – not after tonight, that’s for sure. He watches them dance over the second button from the top down, peeling it open, as a bright pop of red begins to peek out from underneath your dress. 

“Carm?” you ask him, your eyes flickering down to your hands as you undo the third button, then the fourth, before returning your heated gaze to him. 

“Yes, baby,” is all he can reply, as if he’s under your spell already. 

Carmy gulps, his pants feeling incredibly tight, the air noticeably thick as he watches your little strip tease. 

It’s just a few more buttons before your dress falls open, revealing the crimson red set you’re wearing underneath. 

Red Floral Lace. Mesh. See-through. 

“Come get me,” you beckon, as you let the dress fall to the floor. 

“Fuck,” he growls on an exhale, before charging towards you. 

It’s all hot, all-consuming kisses as he pushes you back onto the California king-sized bed, eagerly following as he lays his body on top of yours. Long gone is the sport coat he was wearing earlier, and he thanks whatever deities he may owe this to that he really only has to get three articles of clothing off. 

Carmy pulls away, because he’s gotta get one goddamn good look at his wife. 

His wife. 

His breath picks up, as he drags his fingertips over the straps of your red lace bra, down to the mesh cups, watching your face twist in pleasure as his fingers run over your already-perky nipples. 

“You like?” you ask him, a small amount of vulnerability in your voice as you do. 

“Do I-, baby, have you seen yourself?” he stammers, in disbelief that you could even ask, only to be met with a smirk because you know you look good. 

But that’s not what you’re asking. You want to know if Carmy likes it, because you have much more where this came from – lingerie, you mean. And instead of telling you, Carmy has bigger and better plans to show you instead. He begins to leave hot, open mouthed kisses along your neck, across your chest, nipping at the top of the bra cup with his teeth when he gets there. 

Carmy’s eyes move to yours, watching you for a reaction so he knows that he’s giving you exactly what you want. To his delight, you hiss in pleasure, arching your back as an invitation, offering your body to him in a silent effort, begging for more. 

“This why you put on this dress?” he rasps, in reference to the fact that you had insisted on doing an outfit change from the courthouse to the reception. His tongue snakes out, running over the mesh fabric that barely covers the nipple of your left breast. 

You moan, letting out a small giggle in between breaths, as you cook up a witty reply.

“‘S not like I could wear anything underneath my wedding dress. Had to come up with a plan B,” you counter him, just another part of your seduction. 

Carmy lets out a well earned-groan and it’s music to your ears as he continues to move down your body, worshiping you with his mouth, his tongue, muttering to himself that he’s not sure whether he would’ve preferred that – you in your wedding dress, nothing underneath – or this, all fire and lace. 

But he doesn’t have time to think, settling on the fact that as long as he gets to have you, he’s not sure he cares. 

“This is so fucking sexy, baby,” he groans, shaking his head in disbelief as he sits up on his knees, taking you in. He almost forgets to breathe for a moment, as it dawns on him that you’re his, and that you’re here, all spread out for him tonight, aching for him and only him. 

Before you can get in a word, he’s pushing your legs apart, settling down in between them to get exactly what he wants. You let out a gasp of surprise, considering he hasn’t taken off our panties, your eyes fluttering shut as he pulls them to one side instead. 

“Fuck,” he hears you whine, as he buries his face between your thighs. “Oh my god, Carmy.” 

His favorite thing.

Tasting you. Bringing you the kind of euphoric pleasure that makes you feel high.

 He loves the way you say his name, and how it changes, when his tongue traces tight circles around your clit; how it changes when he flattens his tongue up against your wet heat, painting broad strokes; how you cry out when he’s busy tracing abstract shapes across you till you’re completely lost in your own pleasure. Carmy moans against you, as he feels you thread your hands through his golden locks, and the sensation of your fingertips running along his scalp goes straight to his cock. 

“Carmy, don’t stop!” 

And how could he? How could he deny you the one thing you’re asking for? His mouth on you, bringing you higher and higher, winding up that coil buried so deep inside you that it has to explode, knowing that it’s him and only him that makes you feel this way. 

You’re pulling at his hair, grabbing at the bedsheets, bucking your hips up into his mouth, writhing underneath the weight of his hands that hold you in place. He can’t keep his hands off of you, desperate to feel the way your body responds to him at every touch – holding your hips down, pressing your legs wider, grabbing at your breasts as he dips his tongue inside of you. 

“Oh my God. Carmy, fuck. Don’tstoppleasedon’tstopdon’tyoudare-!” 

The feeling of your orgasm ripping through you completely rendering you speechless as you come. Carmy slows down the movements of his mouth, working you through your orgasm, wanting you to know that he’s here for you, that he’s got you as you come down. He uses his tongue to clean you up, watching you carefully as you try your best to catch your breath, committing this image to his memory. 

There are two places he feels like this – triumphant, untouchable, on top of the world – in the last push of a hard won dinner service, and when he’s right here, between your legs, in the falling action of your climax as he waits for you to come back to him. 

Carmy waits for you, watches as your eyes begin to flutter open, your breath still heavy, as you look down on him. 

“Shit. Who knew married sex would hit so differently,” you pant, let out an incredulous laugh from how hard you just came. 

Carmy grins up at you, and he loves the way it feels as you pull him towards you once more. Your hands are desperate, needy, impatient as they tear through the buttons on his shirt, practically dragging the top over his head and tossing it onto the floor with a vigor he knows only comes from how much you need him. 

“You good, baby?” he asks, cockily, because after years of this, he thinks he’s earned the right to know just how good he always makes you feel. 

“Just need you, Carm,” you rasp, propping yourself up so that you can chase his mouth with yours. “Need you so much. Need you inside of me.” 

“I know, sweet girl. I-,” he begins to say, before freezing, as if there’s an alarm going off in his head, his voice full this time as he swears, as if he’s just forgotten a really important date:

“Ffffffffffffffffuck.”

“Everything okay?” you ask, sitting up this time in response to his sobering pitch.

Carmy can feel the heat rise to his cheeks as he flushes red, completely embarrassed that he’s put the heat of the moment on pause for this, knowing fully that he won’t be able to stop thinking about it now. 

“Yeah just I just gotta-... give me like… five seconds. I promise,” he nods, though his eyes silently plead with you. 

You shake your head as Carmy leaves you, his footsteps rapid and hurried as he practically sprints over to where you left the suitcases in the hallway. He swears underneath his breath, rummaging through his bag before finding a certain plastic tupperware, a feeling of relief washing over him. He can hear you laugh as he runs through the room, tucking it safely in the mini fridge, and he can only imagine that it’s quite the sight to see.

By the time he returns to the bed, cheeks flushed, and an apologetic look in his eyes, you’re sitting up on your knees, waiting for him with an amused look on your face. 

“Do I want to know?” you ask, skeptically.

“You’ll thank me later,” he chuckles, still embarrassed. Shyly, as he steps towards the edge of the bed, he works up the nerve to ask, “Will you uh.. Think we can pick up where we left off?”

Still stunning as you were moments ago but now with that post-orgasm glow, you wrap your arms around Carmy’s neck, pulling him in closer so that he’s standing across from where you kneel. 

“You can come back to bed. But lose the pants, jerk,” you reply, feigning disapproval. 

He nods, eagerly taking off his pants as he joins you back on the bed in only his briefs. 

Carmy’s intent on making it up to you, his mouth back on yours as soon as possible, lowering you to the bed as his hands grope at any exposed flesh he can. He’s dragging the straps of the red bra down, but refuses to take it off completely. Keep it on, he insists, because he can’t get the image of you riding him in it out of his mind. It’s not till he’s tearing your panties down your legs, tossing them somewhere on the floor that you know he really means business this time. 

“No more interruptions,” he promises you, as he settles in between your legs, his briefs long gone and his hard, aching cock desperate to feel you. 

As Carmy presses into you, reeling over the fact that every time feels like the first – it’s that glorious, that wondrous – you know, without all the trauma of your actual first time. You’re all tight, wet, heat pulsing around him and for once, he doesn’t have to think for a moment. 

Carmy’s always been a thinker – an overthinker, really, calculating each and every move with strategy – rarely ever a doer because that’s just not who he got to be. But with you, inside of you, it’s all instinct, and breath, and I love yous, both in pursuit of your shared pleasure. In these moments, he gets to be a doer, responding to your every moan, taking the lead when he knows what will set you off, showing you just how much you turn him on with every kiss, every touch, every thrust. 

It doesn’t take long for you to push him onto his back, reminding him that he has some making up to do for the earlier coitus interuptus and that he should let you fuck him instead.

But as you climb on top of him, turning around so that your back is to him, he swallows, admiring the view you’re so intent on giving him. He can picture it clearly, exactly – your head thrown back, biting down on your bottom lip, brow furrowed as you sink down onto him – even though he can’t see your face. 

Instead, he listens to the way you whimper his name as you begin to move your hips, traces the curves of your body as you settle into a satisfying rhythm, digs the pads of his fingers into your hips and your ass because he just can’t not touch. 

It’s music to his ears as you let out a keen-like moan when he begins to meet your hips with thrusts of his own, speeding up the perfect rhythm you’ve set. He can feel you squeezing around him, chasing your own high as you fuck yourself on him, and he can feel that familiar tightening at the bottom of his belly. 

“Fuck,” he grits out, his jaw tightening as he can feel it coming. 

All it would take was a few more thrusts, a vigorous pace, take hold of your hips and showing you just how he wants it. But instead, Carmy sits half way up, reaching out for you as he stills your hips against his. His movement causes you to shift as you realize he’s sitting all the way up, wrapping an arm around your waist, the new angle causing you to squeeze around him.

“Baby,” you whine, beginning to grind your hips in circles where you’re connected.

“I wanna see you. I wanna see you cum again,” he requests, his voice tender yet intent, as if he plans on embedding the words into your skin. And as he leaves little kisses against your shoulder blade, his words go straight to your heart. 

“Okay,” you agree with a soft whisper. 

Carmy sits back just enough to let you switch positions, before propping himself up on both hands that rest behind him. With the softest smile he thinks he’s ever seen, you climb back onto his lap. Grabbing the back of your head, he pulls you to him, kissing you like he wants to give you the world and then some. Your hands smooth over his strong shoulders and inked arms, then you’re reaching down between the two of you, guiding him back into you as you take him once more. 

He swears his eyes roll to the back of his head as he feels you again, beginning to move your hips in perfect harmony together. This new position is passionate, intense, intimate. Your hands are cradling the back of his head, kissing him like he is oxygen, as he surrenders to you, to the moment, to the dance between you.

“I like this,” Carmy finally says, as he notices the way the straps of your bra hang loosely off your shoulders. 

“Me on top of you?” you smile, devilishly. 

“This,” he repeats, his eyes hungrily taking in the image of you on top of him in this sexy lace little thing, as he toys with the red elastic. “But that too.”

You grin before pressing your lips against his once more, because he truly has no idea what else you have in store for him. 

“Feel so good, sweet girl,” Carmy grunts out, his thrusts becoming deeper, harder, sloppier as the feeling returns. “You feel so good.” 

You throw your head back in a moan, and he knows you’re letting him set the pace. He’s so goddamn close to cumming, as the two of you chase both of your highs this time. 

“I love you, Carmy,” he hears you whine, your head leaning against his shoulder. “So much. I love you, baby.”

He can feel it – feel you – and he knows you’re close. 

“I love you,” he manages to get out, in between a clenched jaw. 

His hips stutter, and you’re tightening around him, losing all control, surrendering to your release as you cry out. Watching you come undone around him, feeling you contract and release around him, calling out his name till your voice is hoarse is what brings him there with you. Carmy continues to fuck up into you, filling you, as his hands begin to slow down the pace of your hips.

You’re magic to him – somehow just as and more electrifying as the day he met you, the day you told him you loved him, and today, the day you both said, “I do.” 

“I think you’re right,” is what he says, in between pants, finally breaking the tension. “Married sex is a whole ‘nother level.”

“Cheers, Mrs. Berzatto,” Carmy toasts to you. 

“And a cheers to you too, Mr. Berzatto,” you reply, clinking your champagne flute with his before drinking. 

After coming back to reality – recovering from your joint discovery of just how damn good married sex is – you and Carmy spent a few more precious moments in each others’ arms, sharing languid kisses and whispered words. And after cleaning up, you both came to an agreement that if this weekend is anything like how it started, you will absolutely be in need of fuel – Carmy encouraging you to order a few things for room service off the hotel’s late night menu. 

So here you are, drinking clinking glasses of fancy champagne over overpriced burgers and truffle fries, as you begin a new journey with your husband, thinking to yourself that there’s no other way you’d want this to be. Wrapped up in his Ralph Lauren Oxford shirt that you’d gleefully pulled out of his suitcase after your quick rinse off in the shower, Carmy’s got one of those looks of deep admiration in his eyes while he listens to you you wax philosophical about something or other. 

It’s not that he’s not listening – it’s just that he cannot get over the fact that you made it here – something his twenty-five year old self probably never would’ve believed. 

“Any chance you’re still hungry?” Carmy asks, a hopeful look in his eyes as he watches you polish off the last bite of your burger. 

“Actually, yeah. Someone wore me out,” you answer cheekily, with a flirtatious shrug. 

He smiles, “Good. Stay right here.”

As you watch Carmy jump off of the bed, beelining for the minifridge to retrieve whatever he put in it earlier, you note that it’s the second time that he’s left you tonight whatever the hell it is he’s keeping in that goddamn plastic tupperware. With an arched eyebrow, you ask:

“Watcha got over there?” 

Carmy climbs back onto the bed, kneeling as he offers the square-shaped box to you, careful not to knock anything over on your shared room service tray. He begins to peel back the plastic lid, pulling it away from the storage container, earning a well-won sound of surprise from you as you realize exactly what it is. 

“Tiramisu?” you gasp, completely moved by your husband’s gesture. “Carm, when the hell did you have time to make this?”

He gives you nothing but a boyish shrug, before gathering your two unused spoons that came with the silverware sets that room service brought up with your late night dinner. 

“Had a little extra time at the restaurant this week,” is all he says, which you know is a lie. 

You send a skeptical look his way, because rarely does he ever have extra time at the restaurant where he’s just hanging around. Sure, a tiramisu isn’t wildly difficult to make, but it’s been off of The Bear’s menu for years now.

And you should know. You’re the one who put it on there in the first place. 

“Thought you didn’t bake,” you challenge him, as you pick up one of the spoons off of the room service tray.  

“Yeah ‘s about the only thing I can do… considering it requires little to no baking at all,” he shoots back, picking up his spoon as well. 

With no hesitation of being first, you dig your spoon into the soft cocoa powder covered cream and espresso soaked lady finger dessert, before raising your spoon to your lips for a first bite. 

“Ohhhh, baby…” you practically moan, your eyes closed as you throw your head back in pure bliss. 

Carmy snorts with laughter, but he’s satisfied with your reaction, knowing that he did a damn good job with it. 

“Would you two like to be alone?” Carmy teases you, pointing his spoon to the tiramisu then back to you. “Thought this was our honeymoon.” 

You lift your head, rolling your eyes playfully, before going back for seconds, “Don’t be jealous. You’re still the only one making me moan like that.”

And suddenly, the room feels about five degrees hotter, as Carmy feels heat rise to his cheeks. But he’s not quite ready to go there again, just yet, so instead he just explains:

“I know we both promised we wouldn’t do any of the food today, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to show you how much I love you in the only way I know how.” 

“It’s not the only way,” you tease him with a smirk, as he shakes his head incredulously. 

You can tell you’ve made him blush, which is only a little bit funny considering the dirty things that came out of his mouth barely an hour ago. But the silver lining is this, and it’s not lost on you: after all this time and all of these years, it’s good to know that on your wedding day, you still know how to flirt with your husband. 

Carmy’s eyes are fixed to the tiramisu as he focuses on digging his own spoon into the tiramisu, inhaling the spoonful right away. 

Damn. It is good, he thinks to himself, though he’s usually quite hesitant to give himself a compliment. 

“So what were you and Sugar talking about?” Carmy asks, curiously changing the subject. 

“Oof. You really wanna kill the mood with that answer?” you counter him, and he can hear the reality of the situation in the way your voice drops. 

“That bad?” he pries, hesitantly. 

“No,” you’re quick to reassure him. While you’re not sure you want to ruin a perfect night by talking about Donna, you also feel like there’s no escaping it either. “Sugar and I’s talk was great but… she was upset… about your mom not coming.”

With a quick raise of his eyebrows, Carmy nods along, only slightly disappointed by the answer. 

Leave it to Mom to ruin a perfectly good day without even showing up, he thinks to himself. 

“Are… you… okay about it?” you drag out, cautiously. 

“Yeah,” he answers with a curt nod. You’re not convinced, eyeing him carefully as Carmy chooses to charge through. 

“Didn’t really expect her to come anyways. Would’ve been more drama than it was worth.” 

“Bear,” you sigh in response to the impossible situation, because there’s no way that he’s not at least a little disappointed. 

He shrugs, his eyes evasive of yours as he scoffs dismissively, shaking his head. 

“Welcome to the fuckin’ family, I guess.”

You really don’t want to get into it now – not on your wedding night – so you shut your mouth even though you’re not exactly satisfied with his response. You know Carmy has every right to not want his mom there knowing that everything he’s said is true, but it still hurts your heart that he’s closed off his heart to her like this – that it has to be this way. 

You let out a heavy exhale, before digging back into the tiramisu, pushing the thought out of your mind. And just when you think you’re done talking about it, Carmy presses you once more, his voice softer this time as he asks:

“What’d you uh… say? To Sugar?” 

You take another breath, a sympathetic smile on your lips as you explain: 

“I told her that I was sorry… that things are the way that they are, but I really just think she just needed someone to listen to her.” 

“Yeah.”

A half beat. 

“And I told her that… well, I told her that… we get to change things. You and I. Her and Pete. With the baby coming and everything too and… and us. Getting married, you know?”

Carmy hums in response, nodding his head as he processes what you said. Returning his gaze to you, it feels like he’s looking right through you, his blues so intense as he softly speaks again.

“I like the sound of that.”

“Me too.”

You wait a beat, then another, noticing that your champagne glass is almost empty. You reach for the bottle, topping off Carmy’s flute first. You search your mind for something else to talk about, because you think he may actually be done talking about Donna this time, a small laugh escaping your lips as you think about today. 

“Hmmm?”

Your eyes move to Carmy’s, then back to the almost-empty champagne flute that you’re refilling as you smirk with, “Bold move putting me on the spot like that with the vows.” 

He laughs, a blush running across his cheeks as he shyly replies:

“You know, we got there, and I uh… well, I wanted to. Should I uh-, you know… think we shoulda talked about it before?” 

“No, I actually kind of liked it,” you reassure him, raising the champagne flute to your lips once more. You take a sip, before continuing to flirt with your husband. “You’re gettin’ the hang of this whole… romantic gesture thing, Berzatto.”

“Anything for you, Berzatto,” he shoots back, emphasizing your new last name in a way that makes your heart flutter at the reminder.

You hum a satisfied hum in response, relaxing a little more into where you sit on the bed. 

“Though if I had known ahead of time, I guess I could’ve prepared something. ‘S too bad,” you say playfully, causing Carmy to smile.

“We could do it now,” he offers, his voice going up at the end like it’s a question, and there’s something so boyish in his charm that it makes your heart melt. 

“Hmmmm,” you begin, pondering where you’d like to start. He had promised to love you forever, and you him, but as you think about all the ways you want to love him, a smile spreads across your lips. 

“Okay,” you accept, ready to play along. “I promise… that on the days you want breakfast burritos… that I will go to the place you like a few blocks down from ours.”

“Even though you think the place across from our place is better and closer?” he asks, unable to hide his shock as his eyebrows raise then lower. 

You giggle, “Even though I think the place near ours is way better and is so much more convenient to get to, Bear.” 

“Wow uh. Okay then,” Carmy says, taking this as an invitation. “Then I promise to always make sure to check that they put extra green salsa in the bag for you, no matter where we get the breakfast burritos.”

You grin, nodding your head alongside a, “You’re too good to me.”

This time, you take a moment to think it over, taking it more seriously now. 

“I think… we should promise… to always have each others’ backs; to always be each others’ teammate.”

Carmy nods his head in agreement, “Yeah I uh… I think that’s great, babe.” 

Two of you settle into a comfortable quiet, eating tiramisu and drinking champagne, while Carmy continues to steal glances your way when he thinks you aren’t looking. 

He takes a beat. Then another, before propping his head up on his hand where he lays on his side across from you.

“What about this?” he proposes. “We promise to love each other, even when we disagree.”

“Even when you’re being a dick,” you tease him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah. Even when I’m being a dick and you’re fuckin’ fed up with me,” he agrees with a head nod. “What else?”

“That we grow old together,” you say, without question, before painting him a picture of what you dream it could look like. 

“And we promise to take care of each other when we’re cranky and smelly, and you’re telling the grandkids about your glory days as a hotshot chef….” You take a beat, giggling at the thought. “... while I roll my eyes because you’re yelling at someone to bring you your old chef’s knife so that you can show them that you still know how to perfectly Brunoise a carrot.”

“Oh, you’re gonna have to pry my chef’s knife out of my cold dead hands,” he warns you, humorously.  

You laugh, “Honey, I knew that when I signed the marriage license.”

“I think we’ll be those grandparents, don’t you? The ones that pass on all of our recipes to the kids and the grandkids, and even when we’re not there anymore, we live on in everyone’s kitchen,” you conclude, and you can’t take your eyes off of him. “You know? You and me.” 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

You exchange a silly laugh, because neither of you know where to go after this, your and his hearts warmed by the thought of growing old together. You’ve been together for years now, but in so many ways, it still feels like you have so much life ahead of you; a life with Carmy that you’re only just getting started. 

Carmy waits a beat, allowing your shared laugh to subside. 

“I like the sound of this. Of us,” he declares, his voice soft yet sure. 

“Me too, Carm. Me too,” you agree.

[daysofyellowroses]

Hiii!! I have another request for you if it’s okay!!🤭🤭

Can I please request a Carmy x fem!reader where she’s Carmy’s wife, and she is walking to The Bear to join her hubby and his staff for Family because she just got off work (maybe she works at a bookstore coffeeshop nearby- This is 100% self indulgent lmao). Carmy has definitely told her many times that he does not want her walking by herself (not in a controlling way, but in a “Chicago is not safer especially for women that are by themselves” way), but Y/n knows how busy her hubby is with the opening of the Bear and doesn’t want to stress him out🥺 On her way there, a group of men start harassing Carmy’s wife, and luckily Carmy was outside on a smoke break and heard the commotion. He intervenes and tells them to F off, and they yell at Y/n to “Make her guard dog back down” and other comments towards her, and Carmen goes absolutely BALLISTIC, 10000% protective husband Carmy🫣

well first of all we clearly have the same dream because dear lord in my perfect universe i own/work in a bookstore coffeeshop like..please 🙏🏻 and protective husband carmy is everything, i love it 😭🥹 will absolutely cry writing this but in the best way 🫶🏻💗🌼

[nolita-fairytale]

don't want to walk alone | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x fem!reader | part two: august

summary: you head down to savannah, georgia with syd, sugar, liz, and maya for a not-bachelorette weekend.

warnings: swearing, eventual smut, lots of tooth rotting fluff, marriage, no use of y/n, second person pov, she/her pronouns

wc: 5.5k

a/n: it's finally heeeeere!!! i know i've gotten quite side tracked with my luca fic, but chapter two of don't want to walk alone is finally here thank god. anyways, this is a carmy-lite chapter, but i think this is just as important. enjoy, besties. chapter three is thee wedding, so it may take a while for me to get that one out and honestly, i like taking my time with this one. i have some very fun ideas and yes we will be getting honeymoon smut don't worry. please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist.

part one | masterlist | part three

Thursday

“Hey, did Syd go out already?” you hear Natalie ask, causing you to pause what you’re doing. 

You’re in the middle of laying out the gifts you’ve brought for your friends for the weekend, as a thank you for coming to Savannah to help you find a wedding dress. You’re not looking for anything extravagant – you are eloping at the courthouse after all – but it felt like a good excuse to get your best friends together for the weekend too. While you’ve spent most of your time planning this trip insisting that it’s not a bachelorette party, it’s certainly beginning to feel like one. 

“Just because we’re not doing a big wedding thing doesn’t mean we can’t do a pre-wedding girls’ trip,” you’d explained to Liz and Maya over your group FaceTime. 

“Hmmm, sounds a bit like a bachelorette party,” Maya had observed with every intent of provoking you.

“It’s not a bachelorette party!” you had vehemently insisted on the call. 

“Sounds a little like one to me,” Liz had added, earning an eye roll from you as you murmured something about the two of them always ganging up on you. 

So here you are, deciding that, maybe, you should just lean into it. 

While Sydney’s gone to the grocery to do the shopping (something she insisted on doing since you’re both making brunch for tomorrow morning) it’s just you and Nat in the house. You could’ve sworn Nat was on the phone earlier – Pete being the every-worrying, doting husband who hasn’t spent a night away from his wife since she got pregnant. 

“Hey, you!” you finally greet her, a broad smile spreading across your face as you turn to see your very pregnant almost-sister-in-law. “Uh… yeah she was going to the grocery store for some things. Need me to text her?”

Natalie shakes her head ‘no,’ before stepping into one of the many rooms that fill the airbnb that you have rented for the weekend. 

“Watcha got goin’ on over here?” Nat asks curiously, as she takes a few steps towards you. 

“Well,” you sigh, placing the neatly folded set of washable silk PJs down on one of the two twin beds that fill the bedroom that Maya and Liz will be sleeping in. “Just because you’re not technically my bridesmaids doesn’t mean that I can’t get you guys gifts, right?”

Sugar snorts, “Huh. That’s funny.”

“Hm?” you hum in response. 

“Soooo many things, especially since you won’t just admit this is your version of a bachelorette party but…” she teases you, pausing before she continues with: 

“I mostly came in here because I have a gift for you.

“What? You didn’t have to get me a gift,” you start, watching as Nat presents a gift bag stuffed to the brim with tissue paper. 

“I know. But just because you refuse to admit that this is a bachelorette party, doesn’t mean I can’t get you a bridal gift,” she answers, taking a seat on one of the beds as she repeats your own reasoning back to you. 

“Fair enough,” you chuckle sitting down on the bed as you accept her gift. 

Parting the mountain of tissue paper, you pull a neatly folded article of clothing wrapped in more tissue paper. Gently, you slide the fabric out of its sleeve, revealing a silk lace slip nightgown out of the gift bag. 

You gasp, examining the soft, delicate material in your hands. 

“Nat, this is-, holy shit. It’s stunning,” you marvel, running your fingers over the creme-colored material. 

“I saw it and couldn’t help myself,” she smiles proudly, happy to see that you love it. 

“It’s perfect,” you whisper, this time moving your fingers over the black lace trim at the hemline. 

“I wanted to give it to you before everyone got here,” she explains softly. “Wear it this weekend. Or for the honeymoon. I don’t know. I saw it and… it just felt like you.”

“Thank you,” you smile, your heart warming as you lean over to give her a hug. She squeezes you back, ecstatic that you love her gift. 

“Think Carmy’ll be jealous I didn’t get him anything?” she asks, jokingly, her eyes narrowing. 

“Oh, this is a gift for him too,” you’re quick to reply with a smirk. 

“Ew!” she glares at you, earning a laugh from you as you defend yourself. 

You shrug, “You set yourself up with that one, mama.”

You exchange a look, and a laugh, as Sugar playfully rolls her eyes at the thought of her brother doing anything more explicit than what could be in a PG-rated film. 

“How ya doin? How’s my soon-to-be-nephew?” you ask, shifting your body so that you’re facing here even more so now as you change the subject. 

“I’m alright,” she sighs, leaning back on her hands behind her. “Second trimester’s been a whole lot better than the first but… this whole pregnancy thing? Wow.”

“Yeah, we are in no hurry,” you empathize, adding a little humor to your sentiment. 

“Well, from what I hear, it hasn’t stopped either of you from-,” she begins to tease you and now it’s your turn to say:

“Oh my god, Natalie! Ew!” 

You roll your eyes this time, no stranger to the fact that you and Carmy’s sex life has started a rumor or two that’s gotten passed around the restaurant staff like wildfire.

She nudges you playfully, earning another laugh from you before the two of you settle into a comfortable silence, sitting side by side. 

Natalie takes a beat, carefully choosing what she wants to say to you, especially since heart to hearts weren’t exactly common for her growing up. 

“I also came in here to say…” she begins, her voice softening because she really means it. “I am so glad that he met you – Carmy – that you found each other. And I meant it when I said that I couldn’t wait for us to be sisters.”

The memory of the night you both got violently high together before Sugar got pregnant – the night she first called you her sister-in-law – brings the biggest smile to your face as you laugh. 

“You’ve changed his life,” she finishes, the deepest of gratitude coloring the words she says. 

You think someone should’ve warned you that getting married would bring up so many goddamn feelings, because you’ve been feeling pretty damn nostalgic and emotional lately too. 

With watery eyes, you grab Sugar’s hand, giving it a squeeze as you say, “Nat, he changed mine. He keeps… changing mine.” You pause for a moment wondering when, all of a sudden, you’ve gotten this sappy. “I love Carmen… so much. And… I’m so glad that in loving him… it brought us together too.”

She nods in agreement, as she whispers a tearful ‘yeah,’ giving your hand a squeeze in return before releasing it. 

“Jesus Christ. When did we become these people?” you chuckle, shaking your head. 

“I have no fucking clue but I’m blaming the pregnancy hormones,” Nat laughs with you. 

She pauses once more, and it’s as if she can’t help herself, diving into it again because there’s so much more she wants to say. 

“You know, I always wanted a sister…” Natalie starts with a disappointed nod of her head. “I always thought… like, maybe things would’ve been different or something. Mikey and Carmy could do no wrong, you know, but me?” 

She lets out another sigh, shifting her sitting position in pursuit of something more comfortable. 

“I don’t know… I always wondered what it would be like – to have an ally in it all, a partner in crime – because Mom was Mom… and-. Well, you know. But now with the baby coming, I just can’t picture putting a child through that.” 

She takes a beat this time, making sure she’s clear on what she’s trying to communicate to you. 

“I think what I’m trying to say is, selfishly, I’m so damn glad Carmy swallowed his pride and called you all those years ago.”

You’re grinning from ear to ear as you listen, agreeing with, “Me fucking too, buddy.”

The sound of the front door is an almost-welcomed interruption as you and Nat exchange a look, the both of you coming to the conclusion that it’s probably Sydney, back from the store. 

“Helloooooooo!” you both hear Sydney call out in the empty downstairs area of the airbnb. 

“We should probably go. See if Sydney needs our help?” Natalie suggests.

“Yeah,” you reply, standing up from where you’re seated on the bed. 

“Nat,” you say, offering a hand to help her up. 

She takes it, murmuring a thank you before groaning about her feet. You giggle, but this time, you have one last thing you want to say to her. 

“Thank you for the gift… and for what you just told me,” you say, before finishing your thought with, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she replies, a soft smile on her face. 

You share a look, and one more moment, before heading downstairs. 

“Look who I found!” Sydney squeals, her voice resonating broadly throughout the house. 

It’s then that you hear the sounds of luggage being rolled, as Maya goes on about how cute this place is, while Liz, following closely behind exclaims something about how goddamn hot it is outside. 

“Oh my god!” you exclaim, leaping over the last few stairs as you crowd both of your New York friends. 

It’s an exchange of squeals, how are you’s, how were your trips, and enthusiastic hugs exchanged between old friends. 

“Liz, Maya, you remember Natalie, right?” you introduce, as Nat gives both of your friends a small wave. 

While Liz and Maya have met Sydney multiple times (including a few trips to New York Sydney’s taken by herself), you know your two best friends have only met Sugar once or twice when visiting you in Chicago. 

“Yes, Carmy’s sister!” Liz says, her eyes lighting up with recognition. 

“Yes,” Nat nods, confirming the statement. 

“Well, come on in! I’ll show you up to your room so you can put your stuff down and whatnot,” you encourage, ushering the both of them upstairs as Natalie asks if Syd needs help unloading the car. 

“I can’t believe we’re finally here!” Maya exclaims, excitedly. 

“In Savannah… That you two idiots somehow figured it out and are getting married,” Liz continues, adding clarity around the very layered statement. 

You laugh, “Listen, you and I both, sister.”

You show both Liz and Maya to their shared room as the three of you catch up about the flight here, shared exclamations about how stoked you are for the weekend, about how much you were all in need of a good vacation anyways. As you watch your best friends set their things down and begin to settle in, it feels surreal. 

Like you and Carmy’s last trip to New York, it feels as if your worlds are once again colliding – two sets of friends from two very different chapters of your life as you approach a new one. 

Friday 

Your not-bachelorette brunch menu goes as follows: 

Syd’s famous potato chip omelet, a vanilla bean yogurt with Liz’s favorite homemade granola recipe, made last night before bed, bacon you’re frying up in a cast iron pan that belongs to the stocked rental kitchen, and one of Liz’s favorite mocktails because, yes,

“You’re making us go for a hike?!” Maya exclaims. “In this heat? In this humidity?!”

“I thought you were… on your whole SoulCycle kick,” you’re quick to reply. 

“Yeah, because it’s indoors,” she emphasizes with a sigh of defeat. 

“Thank god you didn’t get your hair done for this, babe,” Liz teases her friend, earning a ‘seconded’ from Maya. 

“Oh my god! I forgot that we both love SouCycle!” Sugar chimes in, simultaneously. 

“Add it to the list,” Maya replies, because she and Nat have gotten quite chummy over the last 12 hours. 

After ordering pizza last night, Maya and Nat had promptly curled up in a corner of the couch with a glass of wine for Maya, and an non-alcoholic cocktail for Nat, and spent almost two uninterrupted hours of realizing that they had way too much in common to not become instant-besties.

“So let me get this straight. It’s your bachelorette party and-,” Maya begins, straightening up on the barstool that lines the other side of the breakfast bar. 

“It’s not a bachelorette party, it’s just a girls’ weekend,” you and Syd say in unison, you more insistent while Syd simply recites the words as that you’ve droned on about again and again. 

“And we’re not going out?” Maya asks, unamused by your lack of enthusiasm.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you shrug, careless for the idea of going out this weekend. 

“What about the strippers?!” Maya exclaims, a little louder this time, sending all of you into a fit of giggles. 

“What strippers?!” Syd exclaims. 

“Listen, I’m not against strippers…” you laugh with a shake of your head. “...but I just wanted this weekend to be about getting my favorite people together and looking for a dress. YOU are the one who called it a bachelorette party.”

“You’ll have to excuse Maya. It’s been a while since she’s had a weekend away from full-time mom duty,” Liz teases her, as the two of you share a knowing look. 

“Not to mention full-time work! And full-time wife-ing,” Maya adds insistently. “I’m ready to shake my ass!” 

You and Sugar both snort with laughter and Syd snickers again, plating her final omelet. 

“And while she’s somehow the first one of us to settle down, she’s also always been the biggest party animal of the both of us,” you continue, picking up where Liz left off. 

“See, this is what you have to look forward to,” Syd jokes, directing her comment to Nat. “The both of you.”

“Oh shut up,” she quips back, playfully. 

You shrug, before offering to help Syd distribute her stunningly plated omelets to the kitchen table that Liz has already set. 

“Tell us what you made today,” you joke, doing your best Padma Lakshmi impression, as if Sydney were a contestant on Top Chef. 

Sydney laughs, while the rest of the girls take their seats, standing at the head of the table as she takes your invitation to roleplay a little too seriously:

“So this… is a potato chip omelet with boursin cheese inspired by our very own Natalie Berzatto.”

“You’re amazing,” Natalie coos, because she truly cannot get enough of this omelet. 

“This looks incredible,” Maya compliments, admiring the neatly shaped French omelet. 

“And the potato chips are fucking genius,” Liz marvels, simultaneously.

“Something I started making at the restaurant just for Nat since, you know, it kinda hits all the cravings. It’s salty. It’s filling. You know you got a little texture going on with the chips. Aaaaand I’m starving so let’s end this Top Chef cosplay right now and eat,” Syd says, earning a laugh and statements of agreement from the rest of you as she rushes to the last empty chair. 

You spend the morning enjoying breakfast before ushering everyone out to the car for your hike. Insistent on heading out there before it gets too hot, you decide it’s probably best to go before noon. As you head out to the Skidaway Island State Park trail, the fact that you friends are finally all together in one room begins to hit you. While Nat and Maya have hit it off over their love for SoulCycle, how strange pregnancy cravings are, and their mutual adoration for Maggie Rogers, you smile to yourself while you listen to Sydney and Liz dissect the most recent season of Love Island. 

And despite the few yet passionate protestations, the hiking trail really isn’t all that bad. The five of you spend about an hour out there, hanging out a little longer along the boardwalk, before heading back into town for lunch, and then home for showers and some downtime. Tonight’s game plan is to get all dressed up (sort of) then head to Mashama Bailey’s restaurant, The Grey. 

You take some time (and a nap) to yourself this afternoon, knowing that everyone else has taken some time to read, catch up a little, or just hang out. As you awaken from your nap, you flip through your phone for a bit, and, you think to yourself, it feels really damn good to slow down. 

You decide to call Carmy, Facetime-ing him as you remain snuggled up in the airbnb bed. It takes a few rings before Carmy answers, his hair wild, dressed in his chef whites. 

“Hey, babe,” Carmy smiles, as soon as your face appears on his phone screen. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“You too. I’m glad you picked up,” you reply, a lightness in your voice that only comes with vacation-you. 

“How’s my girl doing?” he asks you, adoration in his eyes. 

You hum happily in response, stretching a little in your bed. 

“She’s great. But she misses you,” you answer, soaking in how much you love when he calls you his girl. “The trip’s been great so far, baby. We went for a hike this morning and uh, well, everyone’s really hit it off. Pretty sure Nat and Maya have become best friends now.”

“Uh oh.”

“Oh come on,” you chuckle, snuggling deeper into the duvet. “You know Maya’s always been your biggest fan.”

“Yeah,” he nods softly, because he does know that, for whatever reason, she’s always been his biggest advocate. 

“But how are you? How’s Aioli? What am I missing?” you ask your future husband. 

“We’re good. And Aioli is still the most spoiled cat in the Greater Chicago area. Not much to report here. Just taking a smoke break before dinner service,” he answers with a shrug. 

“What’re you up to?”

“Just waking up from a nap,” you reply with a yawn, your disheveled bedhead more of a turnon then Carmy will admit. “And we’re going to The Grey later.”

“Mashama’s place?”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna get all dressed up?” he asks, his interest piquing. 

“Yeah, I think we are,” you reply, the conversation taking a slightly flirtier turn as you add, “Don’t worry. I’ll send pictures.” 

With a shy look on his face, Carmy returns with a:

“Oh shit. Well, let me know how it is. The restaurant.”

“I’ll report back,” you assure him. “You know… maybe we can come back here together. Another time.”

Carmy hums in response, barely able to wrap his head around the idea of a vacation. It’s not like you’d never been on one together, but no matter how many steps he takes back, how much he’s learned he’s allowed to (sometimes) slowdown, the unshakeable fear of falling behind hangs over his head. He’s learning, getting better at it, and you’ve helped, but it somehow always still feels a little unsettling at first. 

You can see that Carmy’s mind is running a mile a minute, so you decide to cut to the chase as you say: 

“I just… wanted to call and see what was up. Tell you I was thinking about you, babe.”

He smiles softly. 

“Yeah,” he exhales. “I’m thinking about you too.”

He waits a beat before following up with:

“I’m always thinking about you.”

“I love you, Bear,” you whisper, a smile on your lips. 

“I love you too,” he says back, and you swear Apple has installed a filter on FaceTime with how vibrant and blue his eyes are as he looks at you. 

The knock at your bedroom door grabs your attention, your eyes shifting immediately to where the door hangs slightly open.

“Hey, I heard you were up,” Sydney says, poking her head in. “Can I come in?”

“Oh my god! Yeah, of course. I’m just on the phone with Carmy. Wanna come say hi?” you encourage, waving her your way. 

“Sure!” she grins, quick to hop onto the bed, settling down right next to where you lay. 

“Great. It’s like you never left Chicago,” Carmy groans dryly, as Sydney snuggles in. 

“Whatever. You miss us,” Sydney shoots back with a playful eye roll.

Carmy’s become no stranger to getting kicked out of his own bed when Sydney comes over – you and her taking it over to watch a movie or giggle while watching TikTok videos for hours on end. Most days he’s so glad that you found a friend in each other, while other days, he’d very much like his bed back. 

“Well, babe. I won’t keep you. I’ll see you Sunday?” Carmy asks, more than happy to let you spend time with your friends. 

“See ya Sunday, honey,” you reply before ending the call. 

You toss your phone on your bed with a sigh as Sydney fake vomits at your sickeningly sweet goodbye. 

“Did you nap?” she asks you. 

“Dude I passed the fuck out,” you reply, enthusiastically. 

“I don’t know how you do it. Like, I think I’ve seen you sleep in…” she starts, trying to pull together a rough guesstimate in her head of how many times she’s seen you nap in a public place. “... more places than I can count.”

“OH! I have not forgotten about your little… photo album,” you remind her, in reference to the photo collection of you sleeping that she has of you. “I’m begging you to release this photo album AT our wedding brunch.” 

And you’re only half-joking about it. 

“Did you get a nap in?”

“Nah.” 

You take another breath as you and Sydney lay next to each other, settling into a comfortable quiet as you reflect on the moment you had with Sugar yesterday, suddenly consumed with an immense amount of gratitude for her and Sydney’s presence in your life. 

“Shit…” you exhale. 

“What’s up?” Sydney asks you, turning her head to look over at you this time. 

“Somebody should’ve warned me that getting married would like… bring up all these extra feelings about… literally everything,” you admit, your eyes fixed to the patterns on the popcorn ceiling above you. 

“Oh god,” she groans. “Don’t tell me you’re pregnant.”

“God no!” you snort, reassuring her that you just finished your period. 

You and Sydney exchange another laugh, and a look of mutual affection, before returning your gazes back to the ceiling. 

“You wanna… talk about it?” Sydney asks, carefully. 

It’s not that you and Sydney don’t do the heavy stuff together, but she’s become one of your best friend because she makes you laugh harder than anyone ever has, so it always feels different – foreign in a way – when you have these moments together. 

Your friendship with Syd is lighter. It’s laugh until your abs hurt kind of lighter. 

But you know she’s here for all the rest of it too. 

“Uh… sure,” you answer, as you share what’s on your mind. “I’ve just been so nostalgic lately. Just thinking about… you know… me and Carmy’s relationship. The life I’ve built with him. You guys….”

“Ew,” she jokes, her face twisting into an expression of repulsion. 

“I know,” you groan, unable to stifle the life that escapes your lips. 

“Not to get all, you know, emotional or anything,” Sydney starts, shrugging it off like it’s no big deal. 

“But like… I wanted to work with Carmy, you know? Which is why I came to The Beef. And… It was a lot.” She pauses, thinking about what she wants to say next as you nod along because you know it was a lot. “I wanted to learn from him and… I wanted to be somewhere that I could make an impact – where I could make something good.”

And in the spirit of being sappy and nostalgic Syd continues. 

“And… I never thought, like, in a million years… that on top of building a restaurant… I’d meet you. You’re like… one of my best friends.” 

“Woahhhh,” you tease her, pretending to be surprised. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

You both take a beat, knowing that you’re both using humor to deflect from the moment of vulnerability that you’re sharing. 

“Syd?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re one of my best friends too.”

Saturday

“This isn’t me. I mean… none of this… is me,” you say to yourself, examining your reflection in the mirror. “I mean. We’re getting married at the courthouse, you know?!” 

Maya had booked you an appointment at one of those high end bridal boutiques where they make a custom sign for you and serve champagne, and while it was more than a lovely gesture, even the least-fancy dresses here still don’t feel right.

“I figured as much but thought we’d give it a shot,” Maya sighs, disappointedly, as Syd and Nat exchange glances. 

“If it helps, your tits look great,” Liz suggests, earning a laugh from you because, she’s not wrong and it may be the highlight of this dress stop. 

A mischievous smile spreads across your lips as you say: 

“C’mon. I have an idea!”

It’s those five words that lead you to the most ridiculous bridal consignment shop with the floofiest gowns you’ve seen all day. Deciding that you should have a little more fun with today, you use the fact that you’re the bride and it’s your weekend to convince your friends that they have to try the most extravagant and silly dresses on with you.

“Oh my god! Well we’re going to make beautiful brides,” Maya gasps facetiously, as she steps out of the fitting room in what can only be looked at as a ball gown. 

“I’m pretty sure this thing has a built-in petticoat,” Liz adds, spinning around in the dress she’s tried on, something that looks like it should be what one milks cows in. 

“I’m SO sending this to Patrick,” you laugh, snapping photo after photo on your phone while Nat cackles along with you. “I think you guys are going to have to get married again just so you can wear this dress.”

Before you know it, Sydney is pushing you into a dressing room with another dress to try on, promising you that she’ll try something on this time too. It takes way too long to put on the ball of taffeta, and Sugar has to come in to help figure out what goes where, before you emerge once again, like a cotton ball of a bride. 

“Well, I think this is the one,” you joke, staring at your reflection in the mirror. 

“And we can’t forget thiiiiiis,” Maya says in a sing-song voice, adding a hand beaded veil to your head this time. 

“Wait, this is actually really pretty,” Nat says, in reference to the veil. 

You agree with her, as Maya slips away to grab a few more dresses from out front, before turning your attention to the still-closed dressing room that Syd is hiding in. 

“Sydney Adamu. Get your ass out here!” you holler, just as she makes her dramatic entrance, pulling back the curtain to the fitting room. 

“Oh my god!” you gasp, the minute you see her in the beaded, fitted white dress. Aside from the mermaid tail-like hem, the fitted bodice fits her like a glove. “Ummm… this is hot!” 

“Excuse me?!” Nat squeals as Liz simultaneously adds, “Okay, miss thing! Give us a walk! Give us a spin.” 

“You guys are out of control,” Sydney says, gesturing towards the three of you, even though she knows you’re right. 

She looks phenomenal. 

“Okay, okay. Go try these on. I think I finally found some good ones,” Maya encourages. And before you can even protest, she’s handing you a few hangers worth of white dresses and shoving you into a dressing room while Syd continues to strut around the fitting room area. 

You smile to yourself, listening to your friends giggle and squeal over the silly dresses, while you hang up the few that Maya’s picked out for you. One in particular catches your eye: a slip-like silhouette with a high halter-like neckline that cuts low in the back. You run your fingers over the smooth material and decide to try this one on first. 

The dress fits a little big, and the hemline is a little long, but it’s nothing you can’t take to a tailor. You pinch the fabric, picturing what it would look like fitting a little closer to your body as you shout:

“Guys!!” 

“What? Did we do the impossible? You find something you actually like?” Sydney teases you, as you pull the curtain back. 

“Um… well it needs to be taken in some. And hemmed. But… yeah,” you reply, the reactions immediate on your friend’s faces as soon as they see you. 

Maya gasps, while Liz’s jaw drops. Tears well in Nat’s eyes while Syd rubs a few soothing circles on Nat’s upper back. 

“Holy shit,” Liz says. 

“We did the impossible,” Maya adds, awestruck. “We actually found something that you, the anti-bride, actually like.”

“Oh sweetheart, you look so, so beautiful,” Nat whispers, so overwhelmed with emotion as she thinks of you and Carmy. And because this is so not any of you, Sugar can’t help herself, instantly deflecting with a dry, “God, I can’t believe you haven’t left his ass,” as the five of you burst into another fit of giggles. 

As the laughter subsides, and the reality that you’re going to marry the love of your life sets in, you stare back at yourself in the mirror once more, the words falling out of your mouth. 

“Yeah. I… think this is it.”

--------------------------------------------

Crowded around the dinner table, the five of you work through what seems like a never-ending amount of Chinese takeout, as you wonder to yourself who let Liz over-order when you’re all leaving tomorrow morning. You sit next to Sydney, one of her knees tucked into her chest as she listens to all the drama from Liz’s last kitchen job. 

“Shit,” Sydney commiserates. “When do you just say ‘fuck it’ and start your own spot?”

“Uh… when I marry rich and don’t have to worry about the business of it all?” Liz replies, earning an ‘amen’ from Nat and a laugh from you. 

“I always knew,” Maya says, a sure smile on her face as she changes the subject. 

“What?” you ask her, quizzically. 

“I always knew that you and Carmy would end up together,” she replies with a certain amount of aplomb that baffles you. 

It’s a simultaneous “How could you know?” from Liz and “How could you know that?” from Sydney, and an “I didn’t even know!” from you, as Nat exclaims a skeptical, “My brother?!”

“I knew! Because…” she declares insistently. 

“I saw the way that Carmen looked at you. How he always looked at you. Even when you thought you were just friends. Even when you guys banged and thought you fucked it all up. And especially when he finally got over himself and invited you to Chicago.”

It’s a strange feeling, that one of your best friends in the whole wide world could see something that you, for a long time, could barely understand yourself, and it reminds you of the magnitude of you and Carmy’s love story. 

“That was really beautiful,” Sydney admits, so casually that you have to laugh. 

“You always were his biggest champion,” you say, earning a confident nod from Maya. 

“Hey, remember when he was so nervous to even talk to you that he spilled your drink all over you?” Liz brings up, almost jokingly as you all burst out into laughter. 

“You were soooooo mad.”

“So mad!” you agree passionately. 

“Poor guy didn’t know what he was doing,” Liz chuckles. 

“What an asshole,” Nat adds, as she and Sydney exchange a knowing look. 

“Well. I will cheers to that,” you announce, even though you know, for all the shit you give him, he is and always will be the love of your life. 

“To our last night here in Savannah. And you, our best friend, in all of her anti-bride glory who got us all here this weekend. And to Carmy, for loving our girl. Our king and queen of (not-so-much-anymore) denial,” Maya toasts, holding up her glass. 

You cheers with your friends, exchanging laughs and quips as your glasses clink. You look around the table, and it’s not just the wine you’re drinking that brings a warmth to your cheeks. There’s Liz and Maya, the friends that loved you through your life before Carmy, through hating him, and eventually, through falling in love with him. And then there’s Nat and Syd, the two women who, had you and Carmy not taken a chance on each other, you never would’ve met. Never would’ve gotten to know. Never would’ve gotten to love. 

You’re starting to understand this whole bachelorette party thing. You may not have bridesmaids, or all of the bells and whistles that come with having a big ceremony, but the love that you have in your life is bigger than just romantic love. 

It’s in this room right now, a living, breathing thing that fills the air and warms you from the inside out. 

It’s palpable, it’s real, and most importantly, it’s yours.

[answer2jeff]

⟡﹒ fics by : answer2jeff ' ꒱ ! ⟡﹒

navigation: blurbs and fics.

rules: 18+ MDNI. (my page does not contain a lot of nsfw, but i'm not responsible for the media you do/do not consume.) reblogs are much appreciated!

shameless :

lip gallagher.

break-up, make-up (oneshot) — angst, fluff, smut

the bear :

carmen berzatto.

painter!reader x roommate!carmen — fluff

narrow thoughts (part 1/2) — fluff

narrow thoughts (part 2/2) — fluff

staying in from work with carmy — fluff

workplace relationship blurb — fluff

moving in w/him — fluff

kitchen counter love — smut

journalist!reader x nyc chef!carmen — smut

When it Rolls in Like Thunder:

husband!carmen x wife!reader SERIES.

teaser (essentially a sneak peak of the series) — fluff

chapter 1 : for the mr. and the mrs. — fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

chapter 1.5 : anyone else but you. — fluff

note: there are a bunch of Carmen and Lip related posts that you can find on my blog, but for the sake of narrowing down my navigation to the creative works i've fully fledged out and written into actual short stories , i didn't include them.

[answer2jeff]

ok guys how do we feel about a spin-off series about Valeria (the daughter of husband!carmy x hispanic!wife!reader) from When it Rolls in Like Thunder about her going through a love story of her own with a family friend?

This could possibly be one of Tina's nephews, or someone else close with the Berzatto's.

[answer2jeff]

nearly done with chapter 1 of "when it rolls in like thunder" (husband / future dad!carmy x hispanic wife / future mom!reader)

here's some of my storyboard notes for you greedy people...

[lemmejustpulloutmylightsaber]

OMG YOUVE DONE IT AGAIN

IM ACTUALLY IN LOVE WITH YOUR WORK HOLY SHIT EVERYONE SHOULD READ IT IM SOBBING OMG

@answer2jeff i’m actually in love with your writing and may need to steal (delicately take notes on for hours upon hours) it and run off into the dead of night (i’m going to study how you write emotions and do the writing equivalent of an art study on it)

when it rolls in like thunder:

chapter 1.5 — anyone else but you.

DISCLAIMER: half chapters are much shorter and used as wholesome, or not ;), fillers for the series! they're essentially palate cleansers so you can be emotionally prepared for more angst + hurt/comfort in the full chapters. however, you won't need to read these half chapters to understand context in full ones.

husband!carmy x hispanic!wife!reader

teaser. chapter 1. next chapter.

warnings : reader occasionally speaks some Spanish that Carmen hasn't picked up on. he thinks it's endearing. nothing else really. just very fluffy and touching. just good ol' sappy carmen and his wife going out for the day before the honeymoon!

authors note : this series is not doing well and it's kinda killing me inside but that's okay! just for funzies. also, the end is mostly dialogue. got a little lazy. sorry!

word count : 3k (not as short as i thought it would be ngl..)

highly recommend listening to the series playlist.

song(s) for this chapter : anyone else but you, & everyone adores you (at least i do)

"14.56? You're kidding me!"

Your eyes scan over the rainbow assortment of fresh, boxed fruit, the overpriced strawberries immediately grasping your attention. But not necessarily in a good way. Neither you or Carmen can totally remember who's idea it was to walk to the farmers market in this dry heat. It's not like you don't enjoy long walks, but it comes with cons. Pollen irritates your nose and the wind always messes up your hair.

You tug at Carmen's shirt, which, for once, isn't a tight-fitting pure cotton tee. It almost looks a little big on him, the sleeves rolled and cuffed perfectly so they still hug his arms. It's collared too. That ring on his finger makes your knees weak. He smells like the cologne he used to snag from Mikey's bathroom as a teenager. Richie got him his own bottle for Christmas the year after his passing and he's been wearing a spray or two on his neck and the insides of his wrists every 'special occasion' ever since.

And a hint of cigarette smoke. But you like it.

You always have.

He looks good. Fresh. Clean. Yours.

"Wow. I mean—" Carmen lets out a breathy chuckle that isn't quite loud enough to be a laugh, "it's a massive box. And it's strawberry season: May."

Still, despite his persuasive tone and the big hand that sits in the back pocket of your jean shorts as he stands beside you, it's not enough to convince you it's reasonable.

"But—"

"And we're at a farmers market, like, 10 minutes away from our place. Convenience costs money, baby."

Carmen peers down at you, retracting his hand from your rear and teasingly pushing your head into his shoulder. You pout. You don't want him to be right. The dramatics are fun.

"Pero, que es eso? Quieren que yo pago casi quince dólares para unos pinche fresas?" You throw your hands up, directly pointing to the tempting, fresh, and beautifully red fruit.

Carmen only nods. Even after 2 years of accidentally eavesdropping on your conversations, filled with the Spanish slang and sometimes vulgar language you've been using your whole life, he still hasn't quite learned much. Most of the time, he's too anxious to ask you what you're saying. He worries it'll make you stop doing it in front of him.

Until he comes to Tina, desperately. She'll ask him for the details but he can only remember bits and pieces of your one-sided conversations with him. She laughs for a moment or makes her eyes go theatrically wide just to fuck with his head. But eventually, she tells him the truth.

You only know this because Tina immediately started cracking jokes after she spent 15 minutes crying over your engagement, and then another 25 over your official elopement. 'Sacaste con un puré, gringo, mi vida! He needs patience!' she'd say to you whenever Carmen did the most minuscule thing that not-so-accidentally set you off.

"Mi amor," you turn to him, pinching your fingers and widening your eyes to make sure he's really paying attention, even if he doesn't understand you, "podemos comprar la misma cosa en Walmart, or algo así!"

The look in his eyes suggests that he didn't catch most of that. The only words he picked up were "mi amor" and "Walmart," obviously. He just assumes you're continuing your pointless bicker. But he doesn't have the heart, or even the want, to stop you.

He does love the way your nicknames for him roll off of your tongue. It warms something in him. Almost as if he believes your words capture your feelings and fully encapsulates him better than boring English ever does. They're smooth and they stick to his brain hours, or even days after they're spoken to him. In fact, he's been pretending he didn't faintly hear you whisper into his curls as he drifted off to sleep 'te amo con todo mi alma' last night, all fucking morning. It's the only full sentence you've ever spoken to him that he's been able to engrave into his memory.

"Uh-huh," he chuckles as he nods his head slowly, his dimples cinching in near the corners of his mouth. His skin looks a little tanner and brighter than usual. The veins in his eyelids are nearly invisible now, and the little moles that are scattered around his face and body are so much darker now. You thank the spring, nearly reaching the tips of summer, sun for bringing some life back to him. But you're not done complaining. So, you try not to smile in awe of your husband.

"Ó sea, que, are they gonna make me grow a magical straw-baby?"

"What, like—like how people say you'll grow a watermelon in your stomach if you swallow a seed?"

"Yeah! Like that!"

"I don't know, peach. Maybe?"

"It's not worth finding out."

"Yeah. Definitely not."

Despite this, you guys buy the damn strawberries.

You continue walking through the market and stopping at every other intricate little selection of produce, picking up ingredients for tonight's, tomorrow's, and the next day's dinner. You're still snacking on the overpriced strawberries, the entire carton in hand. Carmen occasionally lets you pop one in his mouth. He contently bites right before the stem and swallows. They're perfectly ripe, sweet, and juicy. And unfortunately a tad bit sticky. In the end, they're worth the aggressive price tag.

Finally, you stop in your tracks at a flower stand. Bouquets tied together with white ribbonYou're immediately drawn to the vibrant red of the roses and the pure, angelic white of the mums. Oh god, and you're convinced the baby's breath tucked in neatly between each gap that couldn't be closed by blooming petals could remedy the need for plant life in your living room. The fantasy makes you feel like you just can't leave without taking some of these gorgeous flowers with you.

"Mm—" you point, your mouth full of mushy strawberries, "those look really nice."

For a moment, Carmen hesitates. Those flowers will shrivel. They will lose their once attractive and captivating saturation of color. He's not even sure if they'll last more than 72 hours, given how bloomed the petals are. But you still have those clay vases from your engagement party. And he still loves to make you happy. Despite their fleeting nature, your appreciation for his gestures will last forever. Even if their lifespan doesn't.

Carmen's had this tendency for longer than either of you can pinpoint. Having money he doesn't need, money he doesn't use, has led to him making some questionable decisions. All in good faith. But impractical nonetheless. Take, for example, that time he bought you a Cartier love bracelet for your 1 year anniversary.

Yes, you heard that right. Cartier. The gold and shiny flat bands that required the disassembling and unscrewing of 18 karat gold bolts with a miniature fucking screwdriver. Oh, and this was even after you and him agreed to 'no gifts,' as you were already planning a trip to Copenhagen. The reaction he received from you wasn't quite what he expected. Tears streaming down your face and the kiss on his cheek to compensate for the lack of a proper gift for him was not part of the thoroughly walked through plan he wrote in his head. But your happiness is his, in the purest and pathetic and shameless way. He realized this the moment he screwed that last bolt and secured the thin piece of gold against the circumference of your wrist.

It's around 4pm, and the glistening sun is just slightly past its highest peek. Bright transparent blue and green spoons made from hard plastic swirl around in the cheap, (and definitely not authentic) gelato you share. Outdoor seating wasn't the first option, now that spring was slowly evolving into another scorching hot Chicago summer, but the AC of the parlor was sure to give you hypothermia.

"Fuckin' hot out here. Can't see," Carmen mutters, taking a small bite of the creamy pistachio mixture. He squints at the blinding beam of the sunlight. You felt a little guilty for letting him sit right in the direction of the sun. But he insisted.

"Did y'know blue eyes are more sensitive to sunlight?" You raised your brows, wiping the corner of your mouth and licking the gelato residue from it.

"Seriously?" Carmen leans forward, putting his hand above his eyes as a makeshift visor. His hand reaches out to adjust the heart shaped sunglasses that started to fall off of your head.

"Here," you hand them to him, feeling bad that you'd completely forgotten about them.

"And yes, seriously," you nod, hovering over the table and adjusting the sunglasses so they'd rest perfectly on Carmen's nose before sitting back down, "It's because blue eyes have less melanosomes compared to green and brown eyes."

A simple, "thank you, baby," would've sufficed, but kisses your lips, gently cradling your jaw and barely letting a breath of air slip through the empty space between your mouths after the 3rd kiss. Alas, you remove your lips from his and sit back down.

"Is there, like—"

"An exact number?" You finished his sentence.

"Yeah."

"Yes, actually. Blue eyes have 3 in each, green eyes have 5, and brown eyes usually have around 9 to 12 depending on how deep the color is."

You smile, shrugging your shoulders as you try to remain humble. It's impressive, he has to admit. Carmen's always been fascinated by your knowledge of pointless information. He wishes he could store and retain so much of what you know. But for now, he'll just admire you for it. He'll contemplate his lack of ability to remember things like patterns and bullet pointed facts that didn't relate to culinary arts later.

"Huh," he crosses his arms against his chest, his button up shirt squeezing his flesh and showing his slightly faded tattoos "kinda makes sense."

Letting out a laugh or two, you take another disappointing bite of the fake gelato monstrosity. It's not that it doesn't taste decent, but the texture is off and the crystallized ice that formed around the sides is unappealing for the price. Carmen had doubts since the moment you dragged him in by the hand like a greedy kid spotting a candy store. But he didn't say anything. What's the point of using his knowledge and skills to crush making you happy? It wasn't necessary at the time.

But, much to his pleasure of being correct, but his dismay of your disappointment, you aren't the biggest fan of it in the end.

"This isn't great," you swallow, shaking your head and dropping the spoon back into the paper cup in defeat as the green and nutty mixture went down your throat for the last time.

"It's not real," Carmen joins you, just to end up dropping his spoon in the same unfulfilling manner, too. "Most gelato places aren't. Gelato's dense. Not fluffy."

You nod, pushing the cup to the side and interlocking your fingers into his. His calloused fingertips gently caress the back of your hand and go over every little vein and mole that shines through your soft and soothing skin. He's become pretty fond of the whole hand-holding thing. Especially with that pretty rock on your finger. It's delicate. You're delicate. You're his.

"You've been doing that since the day we met, y'know," you hold onto his hand tighter, smiling and snatching your sunglasses back from his face with one swift motion before he can protest.

"What? Explaining shit about food you don't care about?" Carmen chuckles, his teeth showing. Sometimes he was embarrassed of his info-dumping, but he's learned to not be so shameful of it. You find it interesting. He doesn't really notice that he does it anymore.

"Yeah. But it's cute. It's what made me wanna keep talking to you. You don't do it to make me feel stupid, or something. You just.."

You paused to think.

"You know a lot about what you do, Carm. You're passionate."

Ah. The day you met.

Around 3 years ago, you'd just moved to the bustling city of Chicago after writing and successfully selling a beautiful script to an indie short film, which ended up being undeserving of your work due to the poor execution of dialogue. It didn't even end up showing at the film festival you were practically forced to attend. Even after co-writing and directing film projects and not-so-popular cinematic pieces, you hadn't tasted the pleasure of success. You dreamed to write something all on your own and conjure up a moving script of the century. You figured moving to a brand new city would get the creative juices flowing. Eventually, it did, but it took a boring circle of friends and a couple sleepless nights before you were successfully back and thriving in the industry.

You decided celebrating with an appletini or two at a shitty Karaoke bar down the block from your apartment was the best option. And thank god you did.

Carmen caught your eye the moment you detached yourself from your social circle to smoke a cigarette or two outback in the alleyway to melt the anxiety that started to consume you once you got a little tipsy for the first time in months. The tattoo on his hand and the way he crouched down on the asphalt beside Richie who complained endlessly about the complexities of his divorce was intriguing.

You butted into their conversation and lit a cigarette of your own, politely greeting them. Richie didn't say much. It's like he knew it would be Carmen's opportunity to function like a normal person and have a pleasant conversation with a random bar girl in black pantyhose and combat boots. The two of you discussed moving back to Chicago, discovering that Carmen actually grew up there and started a new life of culinary exploration and expertise, while you just needed a sense of control and escapism.

After the conversation had reduced to mundane small talk, visibly making both of you tense up, you finally got his name: Carmen Berzatto. His use of his full name was a little displacing. It made you wonder if you should've known who he was, considering his surprisingly humble background check. You couldn't help but want to know if there was more to him than his career. More than his cigarettes and his tattoos and his weird love-hate relationship with his family friend he called 'cousin' for no real particular reason.

More than the restaurant he'd been trying to revive.

That night caused him to come to the realization that he didn't actually know if there was more to him. Ever since that conversation and its rude interruption of Richie's right hook into some random guys face landing him in a cell overnight, he's been forming into a real person instead of the outer shell that is his job as a chef. He asked about your films, your projects, what made you start working in cinematography, and who your inspirations were. You answered completely honestly and wholeheartedly with every question, never making him feel a burden for his curiosity.

You could tell he was nervous with the way his voice shook and his breath went uneven with every look.

"I was kinda scared to talk to you when you came up to me," Carmen smiles, running his free hand through his dry and defined blonde curls. You squinted in disbelief.

"What? Me?"

"Yeah. I don't know, I–" he shrugs, leaning forward to get even closer to your again "you were cool right off the bat. You still are. Possibly a lot cooler than me."

You roll your eyes playfully, refusing to take the compliment in a fit of flattery. Constantly being humble around Carmen was kinda hard. Especially with the way he unintentionally showered you with compliments that were really just state of facts to him. But he didn't want you to be humble. He wanted you to own that shit.

"And you're beautiful. So, so beautiful. I think that scared me a little, too."

"I think I might've been more nervous than you were. I was just so determined to talk to the hot guy with tattoos and a blue apron over a slutty white t-shirt that I tried desperately to hide it," you joked, laughing harder at the sight of an eyeroll of his own.

"Yeah, well, look at us now. Married," Carmen smiles, gently pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear and exposing your decorated lobe with earrings Natalie gifted you for your birthday last year. "I'm glad you stuck it out. You always do. All the time."

Carmen gushes over your ability to 'always know what to say,' when you know deep down your life is just a constant cycle of 'figuring it out' and 'going with the flow' of inevitable highs and lows of life as you go on. Your brilliance is so organic. Everything about you has always been the purest form of excellence and love to him. Even when he barely knew you.

"Can I ask you a really stupid question?" You bite at the inside of your cheek, your hand releasing from Carmen's so you could clasp your palms together in a pleading motion.

"Sure."

You pause, swallowing the familiar lump that hasn't formed in your throat since the first time you told him you wanted every part of him in your life.

"When..." you breathe in sharply through your nose, "did you realize, 'oh yeah, I need to spend the rest of my life with her.' Was there any specific moment?"

Almost without a second thought, Carmen answers with a blush against his cheeks and his hand grasping yours again at the loss of physical contact.

"Probably the first time we kissed."

That response surprises you more than it probably should. That night in your apartment changed his course and perspective on love and life for the rest of eternity. He learned to slow down and let himself fail and pick the pieces of his mistakes back up.

"I love you, Carmy."

"I love you."

He says it back hungrily like he needs it to be branded into the ridges of your mind. And at this rate, it might've already been stamped into your memories of him.

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