#I have been hoping and praying SO HARD for this

[tarnishedxknight]

Basch doubted very much whether it was an apology Noah was looking for. He'd never accepted one from him, but then again, what he'd done to Noah was unforgivable. That made an apology less a healing comfort than an insult, he supposed. Larsa hadn't done anything wrong, however, and so Basch struggled to think of why his brother would be waiting for an apology from the boy. But he said nothing, for as Larsa had only now just said, Basch knew nothing about his brother, and therefore had no right to speculate on what Noah needed in this moment. If Larsa thought he knew, then let him try.

Oh, to have a family the way Noah did, though. To have someone who loved him. To have a child. Even with all of the clear problems and awkward issues his family had right now, Noah was a far richer man than Basch in that regard. All Basch had was unrequited love, silence, and memories. But was that not all perfect? Was that not all as it should be? Perhaps the gods had finally set things right, giving Noah a loving family to replace the one that had abandoned him, and taking all manner of family away from Basch, who had never deserved one in the first place. It was painful. It hurt. But it was right. Basch truly believed that. Now all he had to do was endure it, while his brother hopefully would be able to find some measure of peace and happiness with Drace and Larsa.

He simply nodded at Larsa's words, still not knowing if Noah was looking for an apology, but... he agreed with the sentiment. Noah... deserved. A great deal many things. And Basch was not the person to give them to him. So he'd hang his heart and hopes on Drace and Larsa being able to do it for him.

But his thoughts seemed to arrest beyond that because of the feel of... a second hand on his. The sight of their stack of hands, the magnitude of the sentiment, forced that painful lump back up into his throat again. Or perhaps it was merely him placing so much weight on so small a gesture because Basch wasn't used to any gesture at all. The weight of his beloved princess' hand on his, made slightly heavier by Larsa's laid on top of it, felt like a heavy ton placed on his soul. Not a weight in the sense of a burden or a shackle, but weight like a warm, heavy blanket, or the tightness of a hug. It weighed him down, anchored him, when he'd felt so very much adrift.

Basch bowed his head and closed his eyes, his other hand coming to lay over the boy's own, enveloping Larsa's and Ashelia's hands between his own. A tear trickled down his cheek. There was no sobbing, no shuddering shoulders, and no sound. Just a single tear.

Ashelia swallowed hard, her eyes becoming so sad as she looked at him. She'd never seen Basch so deflated before, not even after two years in Nalbina. "It's alright..." she whispered. "It will be alright, even if it must take time to be." She... didn't know that for a certainty, but like Basch, Ashelia hoped. For where else had she learned her hope from, but from Basch himself?

"I pray that it shall..." Basch said softly after a time. "For you both." That he was absent from his own statement of his wish was not lost on Ashelia, but she didn't know what to do about it. Any way she might try to show her appreciation for Basch, to show how much he meant to her, would surely be perceived as inappropriate.

His oatmeal was cold, and his tea was quickly cooling as well, but Basch felt the warmest he'd felt in a long time, simply holding Ashe's and Larsa's hands in his...

- - - - -

Drace quietly returned to the bed, a glass of water in hand. She's slipped away from Gabranth's side in the early morning hours to get him some water, knowing that today would likely be a day that he would neglect himself a bit. Whether out of emotional exhaustion or self-punishment, she knew he would likely stay in bed all day, not bothering to eat or drink anything. The situation with Larsa had hit him harder than anything had in a long time. Or at least she thought, though she of course hadn't been there to see his reaction to having to kill her, but... that was another matter for some other time.

"Gabranth..." she whispered as she gently stroked his hair.

"Mm..." he said, shifting but not bothering to sit up.

"Take some water or you shall earn yourself a demon of a headache," she coaxed.

He slowly rolled over and his eyes blinked a few times, the clarity of wakefulness coming back into his gaze. Looking at her and then at the water, he knew she would not relent until he drank it. She was always bothering him with this and that, prodding him to take care of himself... and he loved her for that. With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself to sit up and took the glass from her. With his eyes on hers, he drank the water, handing the glass back to her. There was a need in his gaze, a vulnerability he showed only to her, and only sometimes.

Drace smiled softly, saying nothing as she took the glass back. "I ought to-" check on Lord Larsa, she'd been about to say, but he interrupted her.

"Stay," Gabranth said. His tone denoted that he was not at all certain she would agree to, but that he needed her to. "Just a little while longer."

Drace stared at him for a moment before rising from the bed to take the glass back to the kitchen nook.

Gabranth sat watching her every movement, knowing that it was probably more important that she do go and check on the young lord. How culd he be so selfish as to demand more of her time? But he was. He was selfish. And scared. And afraid of being alone with himself at a time like this.

Placing the glass on the counter, she then returned to the bed and sat down on it, taking one look at Gabranth's face and knowing that she couldn't leave him. Not yet. She nodded her head for him to lie down again, and he did as she wanted. Getting in next to him, she drew the blankets over them and drew him into her arms, just as she'd done the night before.

Gods, how he needed her to hold him right now. Drace made the world stop spinning somehow. She beat back the madness and staved off his self-destructive thoughts with her mere touch and presence alone. He sighed, a shuddering and shaky thing, and settled into her hold, feeling sleep tugging at him once again...

Larsa did not expect to be unfrozen at all, let alone in the future. When he had snuck upon Gabranth's ship set for Pharos he did it to ensure the peace would be possible. The last thing he remembered was running towards fallen Gabranth and then... Light. (Marvel AU) - tarnishedxjudgement

@tarnishedxjudgement

Noah didn't have the same abilities and resources in this time period with which to inform himself of anything and everything that was going on around him. He was in the dark, most of the time, unless directly informed of things, a condition he hated. Being at the mercy of others he neither knew nor trusted for information was not a position he usually found himself in.

It was the reason he hadn't known about Drace being found after him until she was brought one day to the training compound. Inexplicably, after executing her in his own timeline, here she was again, seemingly from another. The entire experience was wholly jarring, but not nearly as jarring as losing his only son.

So often had Noah thought of Larsa in the months following his revival in this strange time. Thoughts invaded his peace, his sleep, his ability to function, until he found himself so erratic and unhinged that he did not recognize himself anymore. Even Drace found it difficult to comfort him, and she had always been a master of that feat. There was no closure to be had, no second chances, no going back... and that knowledge was eating Noah alive from the inside out.

But once again, information had been kept from him, and yet another arrival from Ivalice to the Avengers compound was neither expected nor necessarily wanted. Would it be another Dalmascan? Gods forbid a Rozarrian. And the way the people of this time seemed to think that all Ivalicians got along and would be happy to see each other was beyond irritating to him. Nevertheless, when he was specifically summoned to greet this newcomer, Noah begrudgingly left his quarters to do so.

What he saw... stopped him dead in his tracks. Within seconds, his expression betrayed him, and within a few more, he was on his knees, his legs giving way in disbelief of the sight that lay before him. It was little Lord Larsa, looking just as he did when last Noah laid eyes on him, perfect as can be.

He knew he should say something, but words betrayed him as well as his own legs had. Instead, he merely stared, the absence of his helm serving to display to the boy all the shock, confusion, and relief at seeing him standing there. Finally, he forced out the only two words he felt he could say without falling apart.

"My lord..."

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Blood

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You wake up in the grasp of your kidnappers, and they are far from done with you. But they forgot to take one thing into account: The Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

Warnings for this chapter: ANGST, graphic descriptions of violence, kidnapping, blood, S1 plot, allusions to domestic violence and sexual assault

Word Count: 3k

A/n: Hi! It's been a while! In fact, since before Daredevil: Born Again came out. It's strange to write a story that takes place in season 1 of the original show after watching Born Again, but also weirdly refreshing to work with the Netflix version of Matt again. Anyway, this chapter takes place in episode 4. Hope I didn't disappoint.

Read Chapter 17: Blood here on AO3!

You still remember the day you first held a human heart in your hand. It was eleven ounces, the size of your fist, and still beating. The pale cadaver you encountered in your first year of medical school couldn’t have prepared you for what it would feel like: a terrifying honor and a privilege. 

The day you witnessed the miracle of open heart surgery for the first time was also the first time your hands felt destined for good. Becoming a surgeon was never going to bring back what you lost, but at least it gave you the feeling that all the agony you went through finally meant something. You held onto hope with all you had, made sacrifices, and scraped your knees praying to a God you never had faith in, but at what cost? 

You gave more than you’ve ever had, and you still keep losing. 

You jolt awake when your head hits the wall of the tiny trunk they stuffed you into, God knows how long ago. The already bleeding skin around your scalp burns with the sudden impact, and you cry out. Even the darkness seems blurry. You try to move, but the car hits another pothole, and you’re thrown back into the hard plastic with a force that makes your stomach churn. 

You don’t need a medical degree to figure out that you have a concussion, probably lost half a liter of blood, too. Your heart is beating so fast, so loud that you can taste it on your tongue. You must be stuck in an infinite time loop of misfortune because there is no reasonable explanation for why this keeps happening to you. And if the situation weren’t so grave, you would have laughed at the irony of it all.

You’re not scared. You know you should be, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. The pain is merely an old, familiar ache in your bones, so familiar that it has rendered you numb. Your mind is screaming for you to fight, even if it kills you, but your body has already flatlined. The memories flash in a sequence of distorted pictures before your inner eye. 

You swore to yourself that you would never let this happen. You swore you would never let a man lay a hand on you again. Over your dead body, you said, but no matter how hard you try to reason with the voices in your head, you just can’t move.  

The car comes to a stop. You hear the doors open and close, and the voices disappear for a moment before a set of footsteps approaches the trunk. 

Bright neon lights break through the darkness. You lift your duct-taped hands to block it out, but the stranger takes hold of your arm and yanks you out of your makeshift cage. You catch yourself on unsteady feet, panting, only for a moment, before he throws you to the cold floor like garbage. One of them laughs, or maybe it’s all of them. You can barely make out who’s who over the ringing in your ears. 

Blood trickles from your temple to the cracks in the cement. It reeks of burnt rubber, motor oil, and varnish. Not even a minute passes before one of the men grabs you again. You don’t recognize him. You close your eyes, trying to stop the world from spinning, but his grip on your hair tightens. And then he lands his fist in your face. 

The skin above your brow splits open. The pain spreads through every nerve and every muscle, settling deep in your stomach and traveling back up your esophagus. When you spit it out, though, all that comes out is scarlet. 

He pulls you off the floor and onto a fragile plastic chair. It’s cold, hard. The cab they transported you in—you can tell it’s a cab, obnoxiously yellow with that telltale sign on its roof—offers a stark contrast to the fog that continues to cloud your vision. 

Another man appears. His eyes, empty and soulless, zero in on you. “Here’s the deal,” he says, twirling the metal of a baseball bat in his hands. “You answer my questions, he stops hitting you. Everyone is happy.”

Everyone but you, he fails to add. 

The men who took you, those nowhere to be found, didn’t bother covering your eyes. You may not know where you are, but you have seen their faces; you know that you have no chance of getting out of this alive, and once they have what they want, or they inevitably find out you truly know nothing, they will dispose of you.

You manage a weak and broken, “Go to hell!” But the man only laughs at you. It echoes off the walls and pierces your eardrums.

You don’t see it coming until it does. His henchman lands a clean punch across your already bruised nose, and the bone cracks. The pain pierces your skull, straight through to your brain. You lean forward, the taste of copper in your mouth overwhelming enough for you to retch, but a hand pushes you back into the hard plastic underneath you, and you choke. 

A pool of maroon has long formed at your feet, slowly seeping into the cracks in the cement. You suppose once they’ve cut up your body into neat little pieces and drowned you in the Hudson, at least your DNA will be left at the scene of the crime. And when the police run it, they’re not going to find that it belongs to Olivia Clarke; they’re going to match it with a missing person’s report from California with your real name on it, and then they will know. 

But who is left to mourn you, anyway? Claire has made it clear she is done with you. She wouldn’t cry for you. Or maybe she would, for a week or so, and then she’d take her secrets and move on. But at least she’d still be alive, you think. At least she wouldn’t be at the bottom of the Hudson, and you wouldn’t have to mourn the only friend you’ve ever had in this city.

It would kill you, but if you died, she would be fine. She will be fine. That is all that matters.

“The man in the mask,” the man says then, “I want his name.” 

Your lungs burn with every breath you take. “Wh–” You must have not heard right. 

But then you remember the night you first met him; the night you were trying to help that woman, and he jumped in because you couldn’t have cared less about your safety. You were reckless, and he was there, as if he just somehow knew where to be. 

You let him go. Of course, you let him go. No one admits it, but everyone knows the city is a safer place with him out there.

You have had more perpetrators on your table this past year than their victims. Men beaten to a pulp by someone with very skilled fists, never gravely injured, except for the one they’d pulled out of a dumpster not so long ago with a head injury that even a neurosurgeon couldn’t fix. The nurses said he was Russian and that they had to put him in a coma. He put him in a coma. And a few days ago, he went into cardiac arrest.  

You’re not sure how it connects, but it must, somehow.

Another sharp tug at your hair makes you groan. “I don’t know him,” you choke out. “I don’t know who he is.” 

The man sighs, unbothered at first, then his face contorts. It’s as if someone stabbed you with a syringe full of unbridled adrenaline, and you exhale a shriek when he brings that metal bat in his hands down on you, on your fragile skull. 

Your heart opens up to the possibility that this is it, you are going to die, and the panic that grabs you without warning knocks the air out of your lungs. 

You were kidnapped. You’ve been beaten and tied up, and now they’re going to kill you because you can’t give them the answers that they want. Because you don’t know anything. It’s not just a morbid thought anymore, it’s reality. And you’ve already given up. How sick is that?

You couldn’t care less about your life, but this is not what you escaped for. This is not natural selection. This is madness. 

You close your eyes, but instead of your skull, the man smashes the metal into the window of the taxicab behind you. Glass goes flying everywhere. It scratches whatever skin it can find and leaves you bleeding some more. You swear you can even taste it on your tongue, slicing open your esophagus when you swallow the salt that has collected on your tongue.

It’s only then that you realize you are crying. You’re so detached from your body, you’re suddenly looking back into your own broken eyes from the other end of the room, and what you see is nothing short of terrifying. 

“I swear!” you cry. “I don’t know him! I don’t…” your voice cracks, the air getting caught in your throat where it meets the blood that has long made its home there. 

The man lifts his bat again, but before he can bring it down again, someone stops him.

“Sergei!” He switches from English to Russian. You can’t make out what he’s saying, but it at least gets him to put his weapon down.

The man takes another breath to steady himself. “This gives me no pleasure,” he says. “It really doesn’t. But I have been given a job to do, so please, answer the questions I was told to ask.” Though all politeness leaves his body when he waves that godforsaken baseball bat for the millionth time and adds, “Or I will begin breaking you, a piece at a time.”

You try to breathe through the pain that has consumed your entire being like a fire-breathing dragon. “I told you, I don’t know him,” you say. “I only met him once, and we barely… we barely even talked. I don’t know him.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not! You’ve got this all wrong. Just…” You shift. “Please.”

He takes a step forward, and the men around him scowl as if you’ve threatened their puppy with murder. “Are you calling us stupid?” he asks. 

“No!” you’re quick to answer. “No, I’m saying you’re wasting your time.”

He growls again. “Tell me his name!”

“I can’t! I–”

His hand finds your jaw, grabbing it and forcing you to meet his eyes, not an ounce of humanity left in them. You open your mouth, but before you can utter another pathetic plea, the neon lights above flicker and then go out completely. 

The moment of silence that follows is deafening. Then, all hell breaks loose. 

Voices start to overlap. Orders or curses are shouted in Russian. You can barely make out where they’re coming from anymore. A body hits the ground not far from you, then another. Fists collide with bone.

You can’t make out anything through the faint glow of the moonlight streaming in from somewhere outside.

Outside.

You push through the pain threatening to paralyze you and rise to your wobbly feet. You manage one step, two, before your knees buckle and you cave in on yourself. The moonlight disappears into darkness.

Your skull hits the cement, but your skin is numb to the pain. Your nerves are tired. You are tired. Every thought about lifting yourself off the ground stays just that—a thought. And that primal need of survival starts to lose its hold on you. 

A gunshot rings out, followed by a groan and the clanging of metal, and then… silence, again. 

The air is thicker now, full of smoke and something you can’t quite put your finger on, and underneath all of that, there is a scent you recognize, soft, soothing. 

You try to remain still as footsteps pad across the floor toward you, but another wave of blood in the back of your throat tickles a cough out of you. 

“Hey,” a low voice says. “Hey, I got you. You’re okay.” His hand brushes your shoulder, fingers curling into the bloody fabric of your shirt, and you jolt.

It’s as if he met you with electricity, or the blade of a knife. Your skin burns where he touched you, and with what little strength you have left in you, you scoot back as fast as you can until your back hits the wall. 

“Hey, hey, hey.” The moonlight engulfs his silhouette, dark and looming. You can make out the faint lines of black fabric over his eyes. “You’re okay,” he says again. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The more you try to focus, the more you start to recognize him—his lips, his nose, his stubbly jaw, and his gloved hands stained with blood. He looked less terrifying in the alley that night. Perhaps because you weren’t hurt, and there was enough light to see him. 

But tonight, you don’t trust him. He is the reason these men even took you. You can’t trust him. You don’t even know where up and down are anymore.

“Get away from me,” you croak. 

He sighs as if hearing you say that physically pains him. “Liv…”

The way he says it, the way he utters that name, is so strikingly familiar that it sends a chill down your spine. 

Your heart stutters for a few beats. “No!” You inch back even further, your spine protesting when it touches the hard metal of a support pillar. “H–how do you know my name?”

“I–” You half expect him to say that he guessed, but the lie dies on his tongue. Instead, he reaches for the edge of his mask, slowly, and peels it off like the layers of an onion. 

The moonlight is enough to break down the wall of denial your brain erected. 

You should have known. You should have filled in those missing puzzle pieces the moment you sensed something was wrong. But you were hurt, you got drunk, and you pretended your life was not even remotely connected to the bullshit Claire was trying to sell you. 

Your vision blurs, not from the pain but from the onslaught of tears that begins to burn behind your eyes. “No,” you whisper. 

Staring back at you are those unseeing hazel eyes you have fantasized about. Hazel eyes that were covered by a pair of red glasses, the last time you saw him. Before he broke your heart. 

No.

Denial fights with reality once again as you try and find some other explanation for this. Something reasonable. Something that doesn’t add up with the evidence starting to collect in your foggy mind. It must be the concussion playing tricks on you, a hallucination. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be the same man you met the night you lost a kid in the operating room and cried like a baby in the hallways of Metro-General. 

Except when he opens his mouth and whispers, “I’m so sorry,” you know, without a doubt, that it is him.

Matt Murdock. Your Matt Murdock. And the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. 

“You’re not real,” your voice cracks. “I’m hallucinating. I, uh, have a concussion. The blood, I…” 

He shakes his head, and you do the same, but for an entirely different reason. “It’s me,” he says.

You whimper, “No.”

“Hey. I’m gonna get you out of here, okay? And then I’ll explain everything. I promise. You’re safe now.”

“No.”

“Liv.” His hand meets your knee. “Please.”

You cry out, throwing your body back against the pillar, “No!” 

He pulls away instantly. If there is hurt in his eyes, he doesn’t let you see it. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“Don’t touch me!”

“I’m sorry. I won’t. I won’t.”

A strangled sob escapes you.

Everything hurts. Your body, your mind, even your soul. Your nose is broken—it has been broken more times than you can count—your head is bleeding, and your ribs are bruised, but the old scars that decorate your body scream louder than the fresh ones. 

You remember his hands, so harsh when they broke your bones, so strong when they wrapped around your neck and knocked the air out of your lungs, and they, too, tossed you around your apartment as if you were nothing but garbage. You accepted it. But then they would caress you, his touch suddenly so gentle you thought he meant it, and no stopped having meaning.

So many hands have touched you tonight. So many hands, cruel hands, have hurt you, and when you close your eyes, you can still feel them. You still feel him. 

Matt’s fingers were gentle, too, where they’ve brushed against you, and it hurts. It hurts because for the longest time, you’ve associated gentleness with pain, and you cannot bear it. 

Dark spots begin to dance in front of your eyes. The world resumes spinning at a pace that might eject you. Your limbs start feeling dangerously light where they lie curled against your body. 

“Hey,” Matt says through the cotton in your ears. “Stay with me, sweetie. Stay with me.”

There is that name again, sweetie. His face blurs, as does the hand reaching out for you.

“Keep your eyes open.”

You can’t. 

The darkness buries its claws in you. It tears at you, dragging you under, steadily toward the abyss, your body folding in on itself. But before your head can hit the concrete, he catches you. Soft. Gentle. It doesn’t hurt this time. Nothing does. 

His fingers brush over your face, the blood, the cuts, the scrapes, and the broken bones—everything. He curses under his breath, something blasphemous, maybe, you’re not sure. The fear in his voice tastes bittersweet on your tongue. 

Your heart flutters, then starts to slow. “Matt,” you breathe.

“I have you,” he says. “I have you.”

But the darkness wins the war. 

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @thatonegamefish @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson @atemydadforbreakfast @stevenknightmarc @zheezs14 @shouldbestudying41 @kiwwia-wiwwia @writtenbyred @echo-ethe @kezibear @peterbarnes @littleagxs @silas-aeiou @scoliobean @spn-reader @daisy-the-quake

[mochinek0]

Daminette December: 21-Drunk Text

Damian looked at his phone in frustration. He had developed feeling for his classmate, Marinette Dupain-Cheng and the semester was coming to an end. To his knowledge, she would be returning back to Paris.

He had seen her speak to several males from the class.

'Surely one of them must have been her boyfriend. I would have taken the opportunity, had they not been involved. She's smart and beautiful. Her designs never fail to amaze me. She doesn't stay silent about those who are threatened. I wish she was mine.'

Damian looked down at his phone in his hand. He looked to the three shots on the table his brothers had left him.

'Loosen up.'

'You need to lose the stick up your ass if you ever want a relationship.'

'At least take these three shots.'

Marinette sat on her bed, hyperventilating as each text came in.

'This isn't like Damian. Is this suppose to be a prank? A bet or something?'

Mari hesitated, as another text poured in, then she pressed the call button.

"Mari, you call me." Damian slurred speech rang through.

"Da-Damian, are you drunk?" she questioned, finding it hard to believe.

"Brothers told me too." he chuckled, "Loosen me up. Stick up my ass."

Marinette giggled.

'Guess his brothers want him to loosen up a bit and be more friendly.'

"Hey! Who let him make a call?" She heard a voice shout in the background.

"Did he call Bruce?" Questioned another.

"Sooooo, Bruce, uh- " began the third voice.

"This isn't Bruce." Marinette announced.

"Demon Spawn called a girl!" The first voice cried out.

"He what?" Shouted the second.

"I suggest taking Damian home or sobering him up." Marinette pressed, "He isn't in his right state of mind."

"Uh, did he say anything?" The person on the phone asked.

"Plenty." She answered, "Just tell him to call me when he's better." and hung up.

Damian woke up to a slight headache.

'This must be what they call a hangover. I do not appreciate it.'

He saw the sun was high in the sky and moved to go downstairs, hoping to find something to eat and for his head. As soon as he entered the dining room, his brothers froze.

"What?" Demanded Damian.

"S-Something happened last night." Dick confessed.

"I believe your words were 'pictures or it failed to happen'." The youngest retaliated.

"We don't got pictures or anything, but you called someone, last night, and it wasn't to B or Jon." Jason declared, holding up his phone, "They said to call them back."

Damian swiped his phone, confused. He unlocked the screen and went into his call logs. He heard his own breath hitch.

'I called Marinette.'

He quickly realized there were unanswered texts messages, as well. He quickly scanned the texts before retreating to his room.

"Hey, you know what that was about?" Dick questioned.

"Nope. Demon Spawn has his phone locked like Fort Knox. Babs is out of town and said not to contact her and Replacements' knocked out from partying." Jason declared, "Why?"

Dick sighed "I think he more than just called her."

Jason shrugged, "He was in eye sight and clothes stayed on. I think that's a win. "

DAMIAN: I would be amazed if someone like you were still single.

DAMIAN: You hold me captivated by your words.

DAMIAN: You r eyes are soooo blu

DAMIAN: Art is so pretty

DAMIAN: If u single, date me.

DAMIAN: dont go to paris. Stay

'I can feel my intelligence fading as I read this nonsense. Father will have to understand that I will be an only child, forevermore. I can only pray that she will forgive my embarrassing harassment and continue to speak to me.

Marinette: I am single and if what you said is true, I'd prefer a sober confession.

Damian reread her text two more times before he clicked on her number.

"Hello, Damian." Mari spoke.

"I am sober!" He announced.

Mari smiled, "How are you feeling?"

"I apologize for confusing you suddenly." He stated.

'I knew it.'

"It's okay, Damian. I'm sure you were confused, as well." she replied.

"Marinette." Damian spoke.

"Yes?" She answered, surprised he called her by name.

"I would prefer if we could meet next Friday at the Cafe we went to for our first science project." The Wayne heir declared.

'Wait! Is he asking me out?'

"I would like to get to know you more, as well." He continued, "While inebriated, it appears I spoke my true feelings."

'He likes me!'

"I-I like your company, Damian. I'd like to continue getting to know you, too." Marinette answered, grateful he couldn't see her blushing red face, "I look forward to seeing you, even if it's just to talk for a few moments."

'I am grateful that I was not alone in enjoying those moments.'

"I can't wait til next week, Damian." She smiled over the phone.

"Me either. " he answered.

"Get some rest, Damian." Mari spoke, "Drink lots of water and get something to eat."

"I will." He replied, hanging up.

Damian sighed in relief, laying on his bed. He hadn't realized he had been holding his breath.

'I should kill them, but that inebriated text may have won me something far greater.'

@maribat-calendar-events

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[tianhai03]

behold. my collection of arthur morgan doodles i kept telling myself i would post (some of these are almost a month old now)

[emiarainewrites]

MY (scream) DREAMS HAVE COME TRUE!!!!!!

Queen Barbara got Jeffrey Combs for Scream Dream Pod

[johnnyshrine]

★ 071 // “it gets better”

[lilaccatholic]

aaaaaaaaaahhhh the church job i applied for sent a list of follow up questions which, while a (seemingly?) good sign, is making my anxiety and imposter syndrome flare up SO bad

pray for me????

[sesamestreep]

“requiem for methuselah” crazy ass episode for many reasons. Kirk is being fully insane, like I don’t actually think, even controlling for how quickly and easily and readily he seems to fall in love with anybody at the slightest encouragement, that he’d go that bonkers for that android woman he just met while everyone on the ship was this close to dying, but that’s neither here nor there, because in the background you’ve got an equally but much more subtly insane episode for Spock, who extremely uncharacteristically admits to experiencing an emotion (or nearly experiencing, whatever) and that emotion is ENVY of all things. And then spends the rest of the episode warning Kirk away from this new love interest (something that doesn’t usually happen, even when Kirk has very inadvisable love interests) and is, in the end, the person who accurately identifies that Rayna’s competing love for Kirk and Flint is ultimately what overwhelms and destroys her with the most killer line in maybe history???

And then to wrap it up we get an equally uncharacteristic sort of denouement scene (TOS loooves to cut an episode off right after the actual climax, leaving little time for falling action or character reflection, or to stick a sitcom-y button on the end where the gang all smiles and laughs at their misadventures and everything resets to zero, which is not a criticism, it’s just the style of that era of tv, honestly) where Kirk is literally miserable over Rayna’s death (again, kind of unusual for a lot of his love interests, he tends to be able to move on pretty quickly) and Spock goes to see him and he falls asleep right in front of Spock (also odd) and then when Bones comes in to give the final word on Flint, Spock waves him off from waking the Captain (tender) and Bones gives him that awful speech about how it’s sadder that Spock can’t even imagine the love Kirk felt for this random android woman than it is that Kirk lost her in the first place (debatable but also rude) and how his great tragedy is that he can’t love at all like they can and how all he wishes is that Kirk could forget about all of this and move on. AND THEN, to have Bones leave and Spock go over to Kirk and very gently, tenderly, reluctantly touch him and put his hand to his forehead and tell him to forget and HAVE THAT BE THE END OF THE EPISODE??? What am I supposed to do with that??

[viperbunnies]

this is not the news i expected to see when i get home

[savage-rhi]

A very deep magenta.

[tirfpikachu]

tfw i have $948cad and rent is $980 AND MY PLACE IS A WRECK

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

God I love roommate hunting

[lesbiansanemi]

I'm so tired

[thebirdandhersong]

:'))))))

[solitaireships]

My desperate need to talk to people vs struggling with starting conversations

[dandyshucks]

everyone pray for me that i did not just give myself food poisoning (;･∀･)