they really don't think they're enough for each other, huh. they really don't think they're enough.
stede thinks he has to "toughen up." stede thinks he has to be gruff and mean. stede thinks he has to win respect in order to subsequently win love.
ed thinks he has to perform. ed thinks he has to constantly put his persona on. ed thinks he always has to be this larger-than-life legend.
they both think they have to be so much for each other.
when, in reality, all they need to be is themselves. the simplest, sweetest, silliest, most genuine versions of themselves.
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i got absolutely shitfaced on new years and conjured up a not-so-healthy daydream of carmen comforting his drunk girlfriend.
warnings: vomiting, heavy alcohol consumption. not glorifying alcoholism... kinda unhinged. huge reader insert sorry!
"Carmennn," you whine, yearning for more of his comforting touch; the arm wrapped around your shoulder to keep you from nearly falling over not being enough. Your head pounds while your stomach stirs as it begs to choke up any poorly received alcohol left in your system.
"Shhh, I'm right here, baby," Carmen coos with his voice in a low whisper as he slowly shuts the door to the apartment you shared behind him. He mutters incoherent complaints under his breath. Something about saying he should've 'came with you.'
"I don't feel good. Feels like I'm—" you hiccuped,"'m fuckin' dying." Your eyes are screwed shut, unable to properly focus on anything other than Carmen's grip tightening on you, redirecting you towards the end of the hallway.
"I know you don't," he sighs, frustrated. The pads of his finger tips up graze and down your warm arm.
He carefully leads you into the bathroom, flicking the light switch on and immediately apologizing for the blinding white light. You feel your stomach stir again as Carmen's calloused hands hoist you up by your waist and place you on the cold counter.
You clutch your stomach with one hand, covering your dry mouth with the other. He knows what what's coming before you can even process your movement.
"Shit! Shit, shit, shit, baby. C'mon—" Carmen stammers, panicking and flipping the toilet seat up and sinking to the ground with you as you positioned yourself over the bowl. Sweaty strands of hair stick to your face, the back of your 3 inch heels digging into your feet, and the horrible itch the tag of your dress on your neck all worsen your nausea.
"Fuck—" you groan, gagging for a second time. You feel Carmen's hands gently lift your hair up, feeling his warm presence as he kneels directly behind you. With every gag and choke he speaks sweet subliminal whispers to you.
"You're alright, baby. Geez, fuck, sorry—"
"I know, I know. 'M sorry. Let it out."
"I'm right here, sweet girl. 'Kay?"
The air feels sweet and warm, despite the awful bitter taste in your mouth that lingered even after several sips of the ice cold water that Carmen left briefly to retrieve for you. He tries not to make his discomfort with every sound of your drunken haze show on his face, but he fails miserably with every furrow of his eyebrows and pull of his lips.
Seeing you like this nearly killed him.
"I don't—why do you do this to yourself?"
"I don't even know, Carm. I'm—" you wince in pain from the burning in your throat, leaning back into Carmen's touch as he sat against the bathroom wall. You rest between his legs, the back of your head against his shoulder.
"I'm really sorry, Carmy. I'm never doing this again," you pout.
His hands reach to wrap around your stomach and he gently rubs his fingertips up and down your abdomen once they slip up your shirt.
"'S alright, baby. I know. And that's—that's a great idea," Carmen can't help but chuckle a bit at your frustration even while he reassures you. He's just finally happy you're not sluggishly vomiting anymore. Your back pressed against his chest is makes his breath shorten and his arms around you are becoming sore..
But he doesn't have the heart to move your tired body until he's absolutely sure you've fallen asleep. He signed up for this even if this would be the first and last offense, and he wouldn't want anyone else to be the one to care for you.
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Hope it isn’t midnight for you yet but can you write another small snippet of Tim helping Damian with his poor pocket? It’s such a cute au
“Hello, Beloved,” he greets the Pocket formally, laying his hands on his thighs and dipping his head into a small bow. The Pocket immediately drops his folded clothes and falls straight off the throw pillow, and Damian reflexively snaps out his free hand to catch him. The Pocket lets out a high-pitched little screech and hides his face in his sleeves.
Damian is . . . not actually certain what to take from that reaction.
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I know us never seeing Sam's handprint from Cas pulling him from the Cage can be explained away by "Cas didn't get his soul" or, more hilariously, by "it's somewhere stupid like his ankle" or, more unhingedly by "Cas didn't HAVE to leave a handprint on Dean he did it on purpose because unhinged angel fell in love at first sight and said DIBS."
But my personal headcanon is that Cas carried Sam out of the Cage by pinching one corner of his jacket very gingerly with two gloved fingers like you'd carry a dead mouse to the trash, holding him as far away as possible the entire time.
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