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I really love your writing and I had an idea and thought you ould write it really well (no pressure ofc) 💕 I was thinking about Carmy and f!reader in a weird situationship/fwb situation. they both like each other and have feelings for the other but they aren't together, but reader gets pregnant
𝐀 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 ♡
Thank you for the request! I hope this captured the vibe 💕
Carmen Berzatto x reader || Carmy playlist || Main masterlist
summary: On an unexpected morning with Carmy, your world quietly, irrevocably shifts.
word count: 4.2k
tags/warnings: Afab!reader. Throwing up. Pregnancy. Hurt/comfort. Fwb/complicated situastionship to lovers. Carmy is bad at feelings, but he has them and he's trying his best.
You wake before the sun, the room still blue-gray and quiet except for Carmy’s breathing. He’s curled toward you, one arm slung loosely over your waist like he forgot in sleep that you’re not really his. Just like he isn’t yours. You are not even sure what to call what the two of you are.
You’re just… whatever this thing between you is. Friends, but not. Something easy and complicated all at once.
You slip out of his bed as carefully as you can, but even half-asleep he notices the loss of your warmth like it’s instinct. His brow furrows, a quiet sound leaving his throat as his hand reaches out blindly, fingers brushing the sheet where you were.
“Mm, where you going?” he mutters into the pillow, voice gravel-soft.
“Bathroom,” you whisper.
He hums, already drifting back under.
Your stomach has been wrong for days. Weeks. Enough that the faint morning queasiness doesn’t surprise you anymore, though you’ve been pretending not to notice. But today it’s stronger.
You make it just in time.
The nausea hits like a wave you’ve been trying to outrun, knees hitting tile, palm braced on the edge of the tub. You breathe through it, eyes stinging, throat burning.
It’s fine, you tell yourself. It’s stress. Just stress. Work, life, this… thing with Carmen that shouldn’t mean so much. It has to be stress. Except your period is late. Really late.
When you’re sure your stomach has settled and you have nothing more to throw up, you get up, slowly pulling yourself up, one hand gripping the porcelain like it might slip away if you let go. Your legs feel weak, hollowed out, and you have to stand there for a moment with your head bowed, breathing through your nose until the room stops tilting.
The bathroom smells faintly like Carmy’s soap. Clean, sharp and familiar.
You rinse your mouth, trying to get the worst of the acidy taste washed away, but it clings to the back of your throat like a bitter pill.
You splash cool water on your face, watching it bead and drip down the sink. You press your chilled fingers to your cheeks, trying to breathe normally. Maybe he didn’t hear.
The door creaks. Of course he heard.
“Hey,” Carmy says, his voice suddenly sounding wide awake, sharp with worry. “You okay?”
You straighten too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
He stands in the doorway in sweatpants and a white tee, wrinkled and stretched from sleep, hair a mess, loose curls flattened on one side, sticking up on the other, brow pulled tight in concern that looks carved into him. He’s always ready for emergencies, they are something he has started to expect from life, he’s just not used to you being one.
“You’re not fine,” he says softly. “You were throwing up.”
You open your mouth, close it. The acidic taste burns at the length of your gorge. You don’t want to say it. Because saying it makes it real, and real is way, way too scary.
He steps closer, slow and careful, like he is sure if he is allowed to. Like one wrong move might send you retreating back behind that careful, practiced distance you keep between the two of you when things get too real.
“Is there something I can do?” he asks quietly.
The question is so simple it almost breaks you. Not what’s wrong, not why didn’t you tell me, just that. An offer, an opening, the want to help.
You shake your head, a small, useless motion. Your throat tightens around the words before they ever make it out. You turn back to the sink, fingers curling around the edge like it might anchor you.
“I don’t know,” you say finally. Your voice sounds thin to your own ears. “I don’t think so.”
You know how he likes his coffee. He knows exactly how you take your eggs. You’ve seen him at his worst, panic tight in his chest, hands shaking, voice breaking. He’s seen you quiet and careful, the way you tuck pieces of yourself away so neatly it almost looks like strength. You know each other in these intimate, unspoken ways that don’t have a name, that don’t fit neatly into something but are so, so far from nothing.
That’s the thing that scares you most.
You swallow. “It’s not… it’s probably nothing,” you say. “I’ve just been… feeling off.”
“Okay… How long?”
You hesitate. Then almost inaudibly: “A few weeks.”
He rubs a hand over his mouth, a habit you’ve seen a hundred times when he doesn’t know what to say yet.
“You been sick the whole time?”
“Not… like this,” you say. “Just tired. Nauseous sometimes. I thought I was just run down.”
He hums, low and thoughtful. Then he takes a step closer, his eyes searching your face like he is looking for something. “You could have told me.”
“I know,” you say. “I just… didn’t think it was important.”
Carmy exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s counting without meaning to. Like he’s replaying every moment over the past few weeks in his head, looking for the signs he missed. “You being sick is important.”
You look down at the sink, at the tiny chip in the porcelain you’ve stared at many times before, because meeting his eyes right now feels like too much.
“I don’t think I’m sick,” you say quietly.
His breath catches. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you feel it anyway, the shift in the air, the way the room seems to narrow around the two of you.
“My period’s late,” you whisper.
Silence. Not empty, but heavy. He swallows, his body tightening, but he doesn’t step away.
“How late?” he asks, voice rougher now, like he’s bracing for impact without quite knowing what that impact is.
“Late enough that I’m thinking about it.” You swallow, the words tasting metallic and sharp in your mouth, bracing yourself for what you know you have to say out loud. “I think I might be pregnant.”
There it is. The words hang between you, heavy and fragile and terrifyingly real.
Carmy goes very still.
For a heartbeat, you can’t read him at all. Not panic, not anger, not relief, just shock, like his brain is rebooting under the weight of it. Then he swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, and he drags a hand down his face.
“Okay,” he says again, quieter this time. “Okay.”
You watch him, trying to read the slight twitch of his jaw, the way his fingers flex against his face. His chest rises and falls, steadying himself, but there’s an almost imperceptible tremor in his shoulders.
“Do you want me to…” His words falter, and he runs a hand through his messy curls, unsure. “Do you want me to go get a test?”
You nod, feeling the sting of tears pressing at the corners of your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper, voice small, “I… I think I need to know.”
He nods, slow and deliberate. “Okay. We’ll do that. I’ll go. Or we can go together. Whatever you want.”
You hesitate, then nod again. “Together,” you murmur, you don’t want to be alone right now.
He exhales, a breath you feel more than hear, and steps closer, letting you lean into him. His arms wrap around you with a steadiness that feels like gravity, anchoring you even as your stomach twists with nerves.
You move in silence after that, just the quiet choreography of two people trying not to break something fragile between them. Carmy grabs his jacket, slipping it on over the white tee.
You grab a sweater from a chair, his, obviously, and pull it on. It smells like him, warm and familiar. Carmy watches you do it, lips pressing together like he wants to say something and doesn’t know how yet. You slip your shoes on by the door, fingers fumbling a little with the laces. He notices. Of course he does.
“You sure you wanna go now?”
You nod. “If I wait, I’ll spiral.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Okay. Yeah, that tracks.”
The street outside is quiet, washed in early morning light. The city hasn’t fully woken up yet, no horns, no crowds, just the low hum of distant traffic and the whisper of wind between buildings.
You walk side by side, his palm on your back, after half a block, his hand slips down and finds yours instead, tentative for half a second before you squeeze back. He exhales, relieved, like that small contact steadies him as much as it does you.
The pharmacy is open, fluorescent lights humming overhead. Everything feels too bright, too normal. A woman at the counter yawns behind a coffee cup. A rack of candy bars gleams obnoxiously cheerful.
Carmy disappears down an aisle and comes back with not just one, but three tests.
“You don’t need,” you start.
“I know,” he says quickly, already a little flustered. “I just… I wanna make sure. In case one’s busted or, I don’t know.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you say, and you mean it.
At the checkout, he insists on paying, swiping his card with hands that are steadier than you expect them to be. When the cashier slides the bag across the counter, Carmy grabs it like it’s something precious instead of a thin plastic sack holding your entire world.
The walk back is even quieter. He keeps glancing at you, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he looks away too long. Back inside his apartment, the door clicks shut behind you, sealing you into the small, familiar space.
He sets the bag down on the counter and looks at you. Really looks at you.
“Bathroom’s yours,” he says gently. “I’ll… I’ll be right here. Okay?”
Your throat tightens. “Okay.”
The bathroom feels smaller than before. Too quiet. You close the door and lean against it for a second, pressing your palm flat to your stomach. Nothing feels different, yet everything does.
You open the box of one of the tests and follow the instructions, placing the little plastic stick at the side of the tub before washing your hands. You leave the bathroom, finding Carmy sitting just outside the door, leaning against the wall, hands on his knees. He looks up as you step out, eyes soft but alert.
“Have you?”
“Yeah,” you say with a small nod. “We have to wait a few minutes for it to develop.”
You sit down next to him, letting yourself lean into him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. He leans back, letting his cheek rest lightly against the top of your head. Neither of you says anything for a while, the quiet stretching around you like a fragile bubble, both of you holding your breaths in tandem, hearts thudding in that peculiar, synchronized rhythm that comes from knowing someone this intimately.
Then, after a few minutes, he moves, just slightly, to leave a gentle kiss to the top of your head. It almost breaks you, but you don’t move, don’t pull back. You just let it land, soft and grounding.
His cheek finds your hair again, you almost can’t take it. You want him so bad, you have known it for a while now, that you are in love with him, but you have not let yourself admit it. You tried to convince yourself that you were content with the way things were. Now you feel like you will never have the chance of having him. Because whatever waits in that bathroom feels like it could take that possibility away before you ever get the nerve to reach for it.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, so softly it barely disturbs the air.
You hadn’t noticed. Or maybe you had and didn’t want to name it. You tuck your hands closer to yourself, but he catches one, warm fingers wrapping around yours without hesitation this time. No question. No pause.
“Hey,” he says, and you feel it in your chest more than you hear it. “I got you. Okay?”
The words hit harder than anything else has.
“You don’t have to do this,” you whisper. “You know that, right?”
His brows knit together. “Do what?”
“Be here like this. Be… involved.”
He lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah. I kinda do.”
You blink. “Why?”
“Why,” he repeats quietly, tasting the word. “Because I did this to you.”
“I don’t want you to,” you start, then falter. The words pile up too fast, tripping over each other. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck. Or obligated. Or like this,” you gesture weakly toward the bathroom door, the waiting, the fear, “is something you have to carry just because you feel guilty, or trapped, or whatever.”
He shifts so he’s facing you fully then. “I’m not trapped,” he replies, firmer this time, like he needs you to hear it all the way through.
You shake your head, eyes burning. “You don’t know that yet.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “Maybe I don’t. But I know this.” He swallows, jaw flexing. “I know my first instinct wasn’t to run or pretend this isn’t happening. It was to stay right here. When you said you might be pregnant, the only thing I could think was…” He swallowed again, jaw tightening for just a second. “I don’t want you going through that without me…” He trails off, breath hitching like the rest of the sentence is too big to fit through his throat all at once.
Something in your chest cracks at that, not a clean break, but a splintering, the careful structure you’ve built around yourself giving way under the weight of how sincerely he means it.
“I think the five minutes are up,” you say softly.
The words feel unreal in your mouth, like you’re narrating something that’s happening to someone else. Your gaze flicks toward the bathroom door, like it might suddenly swing open on its own and spare you from having to make the choice to look.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Do you wanna… do you wanna do it together?”
You nod. You don’t trust your voice.
You stand slowly, knees unsteady, and he rises with you like it’s instinct, like his body has already decided it’s not letting you do this alone. You walk the few steps to the bathroom side by side, shoulders brushing, the light inside still on, too bright, too honest.
The test is exactly where you left it.
Your stomach twists as you pick it up, the small plastic stick suddenly impossibly heavy in your hand. Carmy’s presence is a pressure you both lean into and lean against, grounding and terrifying at once.
You look down and your breath gets caught in your chest. One clear vibrant line. But next to it is another. Faint, but unmistakably there.
“It’s… positive,” you whisper, voice breaking before you can stop it.
Carmy exhales, slow and measured, though his chest rises and falls a fraction too fast to be completely calm. “Okay,” he says, soft, almost to himself, and then he reaches out, fingers brushing yours.
“Yeah,” you whisper, barely louder than a breath.
“Scared?” he murmurs, voice low, careful.
You nod again, whispering it this time: “Yeah. Terrified.”
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. “Me too,” he admits.
Tears sting your eyes. “You don’t have to—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts, fast. Desperate. “Please don’t. I don’t know how to do this, but I know I want to do it with you,” he says, voice breaking just enough to make your chest tighten. “Whatever it is you want. And if later you tell me you want space, or you wanna do this differently, or you don’t want me hovering, then okay. I’ll listen. But don’t decide for me right now.”
He swallows hard after that, like he’s said something that cost him, like he’s bracing for you to pull away anyway.
You don’t. Instead, you break.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. It’s quieter than that, your shoulders caving in, breath hitching, tears spilling over before you can stop them. You press your face into his chest, fists curling in the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.
“I don’t know what I want,” you admit, words muffled, raw. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. I just…” You inhale shakily. Tears start coming faster now.
His arms come around you immediately, firmer this time, no hesitation at all. He presses his cheek into your hair, breath warm against your scalp. You shake against him, a quiet, helpless sound leaving your throat.
Carmy tightens his arms around you instinctively, like your fear has weight and he’s trying to hold all of it for you. One hand presses firm and steady against your back, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head.
His thumb rubs slow, grounding circles at the base of your skull, like he’s trying to remind your body that he’s there and you aren’t alone,
“That’s okay. You don’t have to know,” he murmurs, softer this time, voice rough around the edges.
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes burning, lashes wet. “You won’t hate me is I choose to keep it?” The question slips out before you can stop it, small and terrified and painfully honest.
His eyes flicker, not away from you, but inward, like he’s checking himself before he speaks. He shakes his head once, slow and sure. “No,” he says, too fast to be anything but true. “No, I wouldn’t hate you.” His voice is steady in that way you know means he says what he really feels. “I can’t hate you. I, uhm, I think I love you.”
He doesn’t finish the sentence cleanly. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s said it until the words are already hanging there between you, fragile and incandescent.
“I…” He exhales, shaky, a hand lifting like he might take it back and then dropping again. “I don’t know why I said that,” he cuts himself off, brow creasing like he’s bracing for impact. “I know I love you.” The words land this time without hesitation.
You freeze for half a heartbeat.
“I love you.” He says it quieter, steadier, not because it’s less terrifying, but because he’s stopped trying to outrun it. He closes his eyes like saying it any louder might shatter something delicate between you.
Your chest aches in a way that’s almost unbearable. Relief and fear crash together, leaving you breathless.
“Carm…”
“I know,” he says quickly, opening his eyes again, earnest and scared and impossibly sincere. “I know this is… a lot. And the timing’s shit. And I’m not saying this fixes anything or makes it easy. Fuck no. But I couldn’t not say it. Not right now. Sorry.”
A sob slips out of you, half-laugh, half-relief, breath shaking.“God, you’re such an asshole.”
He lets out a breath that might almost be a laugh. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ve been told.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he rushes, immediately, voice low and rough. “I’m not— I’m not saying it because of this. Or because I think it fixes anything. I just…” He swallows. “I just needed you to know.”
Your breath catches. You can feel the sincerity radiating off him, anchoring you even as your stomach twists and your heart threatens to burst.
“Carm…” You try to speak, but your voice falters, so thick with emotion it comes out as nothing more than a choked whisper. He tightens his arms around you, gentle but unyielding.
“You don’t have to say anything right now,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry, I’m so shit at this. It’s a fucked up timing, sorry…” His words are rough, jagged with emotion, but steady underneath.
“Can we cuddle?” you don’t know what else to say, your body needs the closeness, your thoughts won’t form into anything coherent.
“Yeah,” he says immediately, voice low, rough around the edges but steady. “Yeah, of course.”
You follow him back to his bed, letting him guide you. The sheets smell faintly of him, clean, comforting, familiar, and it’s enough to ground you in the moment.
You sink down beside him, and he immediately wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. Your body presses into his side, fitting like it’s meant to, even though your mind is still spinning. He drapes the other arm across your back, holding you with a quiet, unshakable steadiness.
You inhale shakily, letting the warmth of him anchor the panic and fear twisting in your chest. His presence is a weight and a support all at once, grounding you without words.
You lean fully into him, resting your head on his chest. The steady rise and fall of him beneath your ear, the soft brush of his fingers on your back, the faint warmth of his skin, it’s all grounding. You let yourself tremble, let the tears fall freely now, and he doesn’t flinch. He only holds you tighter.
Minutes pass, or maybe even hours, time has lost meaning. The tears stop, you bury yourself in him, letting his heartbeat, strong and deliberate beneath your ear, ground you.
“You love me,” you murmur, voice small and trembling.
“Yeah,” he murmurs back, voice rough, steady, and certain. “I do.”
You press your face closer to his chest, letting the words settle in your chest like a fragile warmth. “I love you too,” you whisper, voice breaking.
He tightens his arms instinctively. You lay like this for a while like the world has shrunk to just the two of you, the hum of the city outside fading into irrelevance.
“Are you hungry…?” he asks softly, voice low, almost hesitant, like he doesn’t want to shatter the fragile cocoon you’re both wrapped in.
You can’t help but laugh, soft and shaky, a small, breathless sound that surprises even you.
“You’re such a fucking chef,” you say
He lets out a small, rough chuckle, the kind that starts deep in his chest and shakes him a little. “Yeah,” he says, shaking his head, “sorry.”
You nuzzle closer, letting the humor thread its way through the fear still coiled in your chest. “Don’t apologize. I am hungry.”
He smiles faintly, just the corner of his lips lifting, and it’s warm, quiet, gentle. “Yeah?” he murmurs, a little surprised, like he’s relieved to be useful in a way he understands. His hand rubs slow circles into your back, grounding. “Okay. Uh… I can make something light. Toast? Eggs? Soup? I’ve got—”
“Carm,” you interrupt gently, tilting your head to look up at him. His eyes are soft, a little red-rimmed, still holding all that fear and tenderness at once. “Eggs sound good.”
He blinks, like the simplicity of it catches him off guard. “Yeah?” he says again, quieter this time, a little smile breaking through for real now. “Okay. Eggs. I can do eggs.”
He presses a quick, careful kiss to your forehead, like sealing a promise he’s afraid to say out loud, and gently shifts out from under you.
“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, softer than usual, like loudness might scare the moment away.
You stay curled in his bed, wrapped in sheets that smell like him—soap and coffee and something warm you can never quite name. You listen to him move around the kitchen: the low click of the burner, the scrape of a pan pulled from the rack, the quiet curse under his breath when something clatters a little too loud. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds. They ground you in a way nothing else has all morning.
Your hand drifts to your stomach without you thinking about it, before you can stop yourself. There’s nothing to feel yet. No change, just you and fear. And something fragile and new and terrifyingly flimsy.
From the kitchen, you hear him clear his throat. “Scrambled okay?” he calls, trying and failing to sound casual.
You smile despite yourself. “Perfect.”
There’s a pause. Then a soft, almost relieved, “Okay.”
When he comes back, he moves carefully, like the room has turned sacred. He sets the plate down on the nightstand, scrambled eggs, still steaming, toast cut diagonally because of course it is. A mug of tea follows, placed just close enough that you won’t have to reach too far.
“There,” he says quietly. “Didn’t overdo it. Should be easy.”
You push yourself up, pillows tucked behind your back. Before you can even thank him, he’s already climbing back onto the bed, settling beside you like that’s where he belongs.
You take a bite. Your stomach settles, just a little, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Hey,” he murmurs, noticing immediately. “Okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. Better.”
His shoulders loosen at that, tension bleeding out of him in a way that feels almost physical. He watches you eat for a second too long, then catches himself and looks away, rubbing at the back of his neck.
“Good,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “That’s… good.”
He hesitates, then reaches for your hand anyway, threading his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You lean into his shoulder, warm and full and still scared, but steadier now. Outside, the city keeps moving, cars, sirens, lives continuing on, despite your world just having quietly, irrevocably shifted.
STAY SAFE!! [ID: the Gilbert Baker pride flag with the words “Happy pride to all those who are unable to celebrate openly and safely. You are loved and seen!” in all-caps black text over it. /end ID]
I'd love to see Katseye live, but only with Manon and only if they're clothed.
No offense, but full offense, I'm not trying to see barely legal barely dressed girls dancing to AI slop.
And I rarely go to concerts without black performers.
And actually no offense to the other girls, but I honestly just don't like the group without Manon. It just doesn't feel right and I want nothing to do with them, without her.
I've dealt with too many girl groups mistreating the only black girl in the group and I'm not interested in getting invested in another one.
It was bad enough that I had to see that ugly ass bitch come back to this company after all of the disturbing shit he's been accused of, but y'all retired his ass....and I have to see him again????
Like, am I supposed to be excited about watching both El Grandes fighting 4 weeks in a row, so they can get unmasked in 2 weeks, when we already know who both El Grandes are????
Like, I get to a certain extent that it gives 6 ppl who don't have their own storylines, something to do. But did it have to be racist?
“Haha remember when murder-hornets were gonna be a thing? What a nothingburger.”
Yes, because the Washington state government activated like a sleeper-cell and ruthlessly, systematically hunted them down and annihilated them.
“Y2K came to nothing amirite?”
Yes because an army of software engineers working around the clock, losing sleep, and busting ass till the last minute prevented it from happening.
“Remember the hole in the ozone layer?”
You mean the one that was fixed through rigorous world wide government action?
One of the root problems of our society is a refusal or inability by media to articulate that all those “it’s gonna be an apocalypse” disasters were not disasters because we collectively did something about them.
The good news is this is actually quite correctable. I maintain my firm belief that we as humans are capable of solving almost all of our problems, when we decide to do so.
And I still think that’s going to happen. I don’t know when or how, but I do know that abandoning hope won’t help bring it about.
And I refuse to let the cynics own a chunk of my heart.
