#they're only lamenting what was taken away

[sapphire-weapon]

not to be That Guy but

every so often I just search "Separate Ways" on Twitter to see general reactions to it and

overall, people are freaking out over the fact that it's not only better than but also longer than RE3make. there's also a bunch of pissed off fanboys crying about how they have to pay $10 for something that "was free when it came out originally," not realizing that Separate Ways very much was not free when it came out originally; it was $50.00 because you had to rebuy THE ENTIRE GAME on PS2.

and if you didn't have a PS2, you had to buy that, too. so, for some people, Separate Ways was actually hundreds of dollars when it came out originally. jackasses.

and then there's another certain subset of people whose reactions are just causing me to

[luveline]

gorgeous can we get bombshell reader and Spencer May be the first time he’s snappy with her bc he’s stressed and she’s just so taken aback and May be even tears up? And then just a fluffy ending with Spencer apologizing

thank you for requesting! fem, 2.2k

Spencer Reid is extra kissable when he's frowning. Button up and no suit jacket, sleeves pushed past his elbows and hair on the shorter side, he holds a certain confidence in his hands where they're tucked in his pockets. Sure of himself, and clearly agitated. 

You're always on his side; you don't think twice about easing into the conference room to see what's wrong. 

"Hey," you say with a slight lilt to your tone. You're always on his side, and always flirting. "What's wrong?" 

"Why does something have to be wrong?" he asks. 

Not mean. Not light. Somewhere in the solid middle, his gaze loyal to the laptop on the desk he stands behind. You step close enough to smell the subtle scent of his cologne, wondering if he can smell your perfume in turn, and if it's one he likes. You try to touch his hand and he takes the desk into his grip instead, leaning forward, out of reach. 

"That's not what I meant to convey," you say, still flirting. You're not stupid, you realise his mood, but you're hoping it's somebody else's fault. "But if you aren't happy to see me then I'd definitely suggest there was something wrong." 

"I'm just trying to figure something out." 

This close, to your own credit, Spencer usually trips up. He's been getting better as you've grown closer, your 'torturing' —as the team likes to call it— only prompting the occasional blush or stammer. You don't flirt with Spencer to torture him no matter what anyones says and you never have, you flirt with him because he deserves to be complimented. He's andsome, intelligent, and courageous. What others might miss you see in blaring neon lights: he's a catch. You intend on making your intentions known, and if that means playing the long game or the slow burn, that's okay. You like to dance. 

You put yourself between him and the laptop screen. He can still see it if he cranes his neck, and he does. "You look a little tired, handsome. Looking at a screen all day will hurt you in the end. Neck aches, shoulder cramps, eye strain. Though I can't help with the latter, the former…" His arm is solid under your hand, your fingertips running along the ridge of a stark vein. 

He doesn't quite flinch away, but he moves quickly enough to startle you, lamenting, "Could you give me some space, please?" 

That's all well and good, you rush to do as he's asked and step back because the very last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable and his voice is frankly acidic, but everything is moving too quickly, you're not as aware as you should be —you smash your hand backwards into a cold cup of coffee and knock it straight into the lap of Spencer's laptop. 

"No," you gasp, grabbing the cup before the entirety of it can empty. Coffee wells between the keys and you go to grab it to– well, to do something. 

"Stop it!" Spencer shouts, voice sharp as a knife. "You always do this," —quieter, venomous— "you can't help yourself." 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I would answer you if I had the time. I'll be busy rescuing my hard drive before an entire month of work is wasted thanks to your dire need for attention." 

He slips around you and stalks out the door, coffee dripping from the corner of his laptop in a sorry trail that shines in the fluorescent lights. 

Your first rush of tears are driven by indignation; it was an accident, you didn't mean to do that, why would you ever do that? But the second, more encompassing rush is a hot mixture of shame and guilt. What have you done? 

You take a hesitant step toward the door but don't bother following him. I'll make things worse, you think, bringing a hand to your face. Makeup marrs your hand as you wipe your cheeks. You stare down at the stains for a long, long time. 

I'll apologise, you think eventually, rubbing at the mascara like soot on your palm. Just as soon as I look okay again. 

You don't want Spencer or anyone to see you upset. You wear your makeup and your confidence for yourself, not to hide any insecurity but to embolden yourself, to be yourself. But to get to your desk you'd have to leave the conference room bared as you are, and you'd have to face Spencer, and the second option brings more tears. 

This is all so messy, and it's your fault. 

I'm such an idiot. I'm exactly what he thinks of me. 

You sit in the chair furthest from the door with a pack of tissues from the cubby and rub your hot cheeks dry, streaks of mascara in the shapes of your fingertips like soot left behind. It's sitting that gets you —the shock of tears at being shouted at by someone you care about amplifies into a distress you can't explain. It's stupid, it's stupid. You press your face into your hands and curl in on yourself at the table, ears ringing. I'm so, so stupid. 

—

The inside of Spencer's lip is bleeding, metallic on his tongue. He's white hot annoyance all the way to Penelope's office, choked as he tells her he needs her help. 

"Spencer?" she said. "What happened? Are you okay?" 

He realises what he's done. "Please, Garcia, can you do something? I really need to go." 

He doesn't hear her response beyond her surprised but emphatic Sure, spinning on his heel to walk back the way he came. He rubs at his temple, moving between a slow trudge and a speed walk as he assesses the damage of what he's said. What did he say? your dire need for attention. 

Your sniffing is something out of his fucking nightmares. Who does he think he is? You're sitting exactly where he left you next to that half empty coffee cup, a tissue scrunched in your trembling hands, visible in the small glass window of the door. You must be thinking of what he's said to have missed the sound of his footsteps, or perhaps he's left you too upset to want to look up. 

He sees the moment a sob works through you, watches you hold your breath in a painful effort to keep it down, raising the tissue to your eyes and catching your tears before they fall. You're doing a lacklustre job despite your efforts, the oily shine of mascara iridescent on your cheeks. Or maybe that's tear tracks. It's hard to tell. 

Spencer fights with himself. He doesn't know if deserves to come running back or if it would be more fair to send JJ or Derek in to comfort you. 

"You made your bed," his mom would say, not without affection. "You have to lie in it." 

Spencer squeezes his eyes closed to push away the memory, surveying the damage he's done carefully as he crosses the threshold back into the conference room. Your head lifts at the sound of the door, your stammer visible before you speak, "Spence– Spencer. Is your laptop okay? Did I break it? I'm so sorry." 

Gideon would tell Spencer to be nicer. Hotch would say Reid in that stern shade of voice that's half disapproval and half fondness. They'd both tell him to be better, but neither of them have ever had to see you as you look now, tearstained and sorry, eyes wide with worry but shoulders tense. He has his role models, and yet none of them could possibly give him a way to apologise that could ever make up for they way he's made you feel. 

Little dramatic, Morgan would say. Start with a hug, loverboy. Can't go wrong with a hug. 

He should ask but he doesn't, a second transgression against you. Spencer pushes past chair and the sodden circle of carpet to your chair, pausing in case you're going to tell him to shove it. You lick your lips. "Did I break it?" you ask, as though resigned for a yes  

He can't temper that amount of self-hatred on you. It doesn't suit you. He much prefers you the way you like to be, confident in everything, flirty and funny and soft, in both touch and touches. He takes your face into a careful hand, tilting it toward the light and weary of your shallow exhale. "I…" He begins and ends, stroking your tacky cheek with his index finger, as though brushing away an eyelash. If it were real he'd say make a wish, and you would wish for him or some similar sweetness, salacious smile to boot, or earnestness fit to fill a mountain. I wish you'd realise how pretty you are and stop denying me the pleasure of a beautiful boyfriend, you'd croon. 

His fingers collect at your jaw and slip behind your ear as he cleans your skin with the side of his thumb. You lean into the touch, slashing his hesitancy in two. 

"Sorry," he says, pulling your head toward his neck gently as he leans down to hold you. "I'm sorry. Don't be upset, please. Don't be upset " 

"I'm an idiot–" 

"No," he says, with the facts to back his denial. "I'm an idiot, I should never have upset you like this–"

"I broke your computer, it's just like you said–" 

"I shouldn't have–" 

"–I'm so needy I could've ruined all your hard work," you say, wriggling with guilt like you attempt to pull away. 

Spencer really doesn't want to let you go now he has you, not until he's sure you'll stay in one piece. "If it's ruined, it's my fault for failing to back it up." 

He should tell you that he's sorry for what he said. He knew it wasn't right he moment it escaped him, to speak to you like that, and accuse you of what he did. He basically called you selfish, uncaring. He implied it and worse, and for what? An accident? A mis-step that he practically forced you into? 

"I never should've said that to you," he says, breaking his hug to crouch in front front you, searching blindly for your hand as he holds eye contact, looking up. You deign to frown down. "And I walked away. And you're crying," —his voice fries with sympathy— "because of me." 

Your hand is limp in his. "I'm sorry," he says. 

"It's okay." You sniffle and nod, lips struggling into a smile. 

"It's not okay." 

"Well, I hit your coffee over, so we're even." 

"You accidentally spilled my drink, you didn't deserve to be mocked." 

"Spence…" Your eyes half-lidded, you wince down at the cradle of his hand where it holds yours. "Did I break it?" 

"I don't know. I got to Garcia's office and I knew I did the wrong thing, so I came back." 

You swallow audibly. "I just wanted to make you feel better." 

"I know." He stands again as your eyes well with tears to hug you, kissing the top of your head. "I'm sorry. That was all me, okay? I shouldn't have snapped at you." 

What follows is agony. Spencer patting your back through a panicked bubble of tears, wretched in knowing he caused it, and worse is the look you give him as he wipes your messed up make up away in want of a mirror, like you're grateful. 

"Does it look really bad?" 

"N–no. You look really pretty," he says. 

"Are my eyes puffy?"

A little. "No. You look great." He can't apologise anymore– it won't help you feel better now, it'll just assuage his own worry. What you need is a different reassurance. "It's hard not looking at you, sometimes, you look that nice. But you know that already." 

"I don't mean to do that. I didn't mean to." 

Spencer puts his hand above your heart. "I know you didn't. I really, really shouldn't have said it. I was being cranky and I struck out like a kid." 

"...You're not just saying I look nice to get back in the good books, are you?" you ask. 

Spencer leans in, nearly nose to nose with you. "Of course not." 

You tilt your head as though you might kiss him. He knows you won't and he's delighted anyways. It means you're feeling okay. He's nearly forgiven, or, at the very least, you're not actively upset. "I thought I liked seeing you pissed off, but now I'm not so sure." 

"It's not a good look on me," he murmurs. "But it looks great on you, if you want to get angry with me."

"Well now I can't. I know it's what you want." 

"Can I give you a hug?" he asks. 

You drop all your acts and slide your arms around his neck. He wraps you up slowly, one arm at a time, careful to put all the pressure exactly where you like it. 

"That feels nice," you mumble. 

He bends into you and rubs your back. "Yeah?" 

"Don't," you warn. 

He draws a shape into your back with his fingers, slow, tiny things that make you squirm. "Don't what?" 

"You're tickling me." You don't sound unhappy about it. 

"What?" he asks. "I can't hear you over the sound of me being a huge jackass. Sorry." 

Your giggle is honey into his shoulder, sticky and sluggish as his circles turn to stars.

[ralkana]

Fluffbruary, Day 5

February 5: rescue | inertia | lullaby

Dream of the Endless / Hob Gadling

Rated M? Maybe T?

-----

Hob is desperate.

He is out of options. He is no longer a religious man, but he has prayed. His fate is inescapable.

Hob is trapped.

Dr. Atkins will not leave.

He's tried everything to get his new colleague out of his office. He's tried hints. He's tried exclaiming about how much work he has. He's tried ignoring the man and actually doing his work, but he could not focus, and his students deserve better than that. He's stood at the door expectantly, and Atkins stood just outside the door and kept talking. Hob has gone to the toilet, which was extremely awkward, as Atkins followed him in, kept talking, and then followed him back to his office.

Hob could simply leave, but it's his office! His lunch is here! He has 32 exams to mark and 3 lesson plans to finalize, and he is extremely thirsty but he does not want to make tea because he does not want Atkins to consider it an invitation to sit down again. Also, he's afraid that if he just leaves, Atkins will follow him out and all the way home, still talking.

Atkins is currently bemoaning his tragic love life and failed marriages, and Hob bites back a snarl as Atkins once again laments how all of his lovers have taken advantage of him because he is an empath. Clearly, the man is not, or he would already have been knocked flat by the hostility boiling under Hob's properly polite British demeanor. Get out get out GET OUT! he seethes.

Hob longs for assistance, longs for rescue, but the department is deserted, his colleagues' office doors closed, their window blinds down. He knows they're in there, the cowards, but it's obvious that all of them have already been exposed to their new resident bore, and no one warned Hob.

He yearns for a student to stop in, for a fire alarm, for a bloody earthquake, the building's boiler to explode. He glares at his phone, lying silent and dark on his desk. Why won't it ring?

"Music is my first love, though," Atkins says. For at least the fifth time. "And I want someone I can share that with. Concerts are not the same on one's own."

"Mm, yeah," Hob says listlessly.

There are footsteps in the hall. They stop before his door, and Hob's heart leaps like a startled hare.

"Hello, beloved, I am here for our lunch date. You were to call me after your class, were you not?"

God's wounds, thank you, love!

Hob lurches to pull open the half-open door, grabbing Dream's hand with both of his and clinging.

"Hello, darling, so sorry!" He presses a quick kiss to Dream's lips. "Time got away! Come in, come in!"

Pulling Dream into his office, he threads his arm in Dream's and keeps chattering at lightning speed. "Got so busy talking, you know how it is. Love, this is my new colleague, Dr. Atkins. Drew, this is my husband."

"Oh! Ah, pleasure to meet you," Atkins says, eyes wide as he stares at Dream. Every inch the dream king, Dream nods regally. Seeing Atkins take a breath to speak again, Hob jumps in once more.

"So sorry to rush you out, didn't realize what time it was, we've only got time for a short break, you understand. It was lovely chatting with you!"

If he lets Atkins get a word in, the man will never stop, and then Dream will say something unspeakably rude, and the only reason Hob hasn't already been unspeakably rude is that he still has to work with the man.

"Oh sure, no worries, " Atkins says as Hob herds him inelegantly out the door. "Chat later?" he asks over his shoulder.

"Absolutely," Hob says with a cheery grin as he shuts the door in Atkins' face and then locks it.

He slumps against it momentarily and then springs up to tug Dream into a searing kiss.

Dream rumbles in pleasure like a big cat, hands curving around Hob's waist to pull him close.

They only break apart when Hob gasps for breath. "Hello, love," he pants, tucking his face into Dream's neck. "You're my hero, did you know that?"

"Your daydreams of rescue were very loud, but they did not seem to call for a combative response. Is all well, beloved?" He glares at the closed door. "Is Andrew Atkins a threat?"

Hob snorts and reluctantly steps away to walk toward his desk. He has so much to do. "God, no. Only to my peace of mind and my schedule for the day, duck. New colleague, frightful bore, couldn't get rid of him. I tried everything. Nice bloke, but he would not stop talking. If I had to hear one more time about how he saw Queen at Wembley in '85, I would not have been responsible for my actions."

He daydreams a little vignette of sliding his sword out of a desk drawer far too small for it, grinning at Dream's small huff of laughter.

"I am glad to have come, if it averted unnecessary bloodshed," Dream says as he crosses the office. He leans against the corner of Hob's desk, ankles crossed, and smiles down at him. Hob swivels so that his knee knocks Dream's, and smiles back.

There is a brief moment of blessed silence, and Hob savors it.

"As your rescuer, I believe I deserve a reward, do I not?" Dream's voice is a purr, low and sultry, and it sends a shiver down Hob's spine.

"Oh, I will happily reward you tonight, love. Repeatedly, if you like."

"I am here now. For our lunch date. And I find myself ravenous."

"Dream, we're in my office!"

Dream says nothing, simply staring down at him hungrily, and Hob swallows.

"I am so behind, dove. Atkins was here forever, and I have - " It ends on a gasp as Dream straddles him. Hob's desk chair creaks alarmingly.

"So fickle in your gratitude, beloved," Dream murmurs in his ear, his hands in Hob's hair.

Hob glances at his pile of marking. He glances at the blinds, closed, and the door, locked. Ten minutes. He can take ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.

END

-----

Thanks to @fluffbruary for the prompt and @ladytian for the cheerleading!

[krysissy]

Something not only me but many other people have pointed out, is how Shadow throughout the whole new episode, was actually just tying to help/save Sonic in like every scene we see him in.

Sonic is preoccupied with his thoughts and didn't see the shard coming at him, and Shadow noticing this saves Sonic. And they even have fun playful banter as they go to the Grim.

"Thanks buddy!"

"Don't get used to it."

"Wouldn't dream of it!"

Shadow isn't annoyed. And I think that's really great development from his first appearance in the series!!

When fighting the bots, Shadow tells Sonic to go get the prism while he does the hard work of trying to defeat the chaos bots. He sees Sonic fall from the top of Nine's tower and he's immediately worried and tries to go save him from the fall but is not fast enough so Shadow goes to protect Sonic's body from the bots while Sonic regains consciousness.

Sonic doesn't catch on as quickly but Shadow immediately understands what Nine is implying that he doesn't have all the prism energy. And he immediately goes from shock to pure anger. He's angry of how Nine would go to the lengths of draining Sonic of his prism energy.

And immediately tries to take Sonic away front the Grim by throwing Sonic out of the way. And in the process, he has to go up against the bots all by himself and eventually-

He gets thrown into the canyon that could be god knows how deep. And who knows what might happen to Shadow. He might be found by the bots and taken to Nine, or he could be just left there to bleed and die. Probably Sonic will be the one to save Shadow.

But the fact is Shadow did all this to get Sonic AWAY FROM NINE.

And not only does he always keep a lookout for Sonic when they're facing Nine, he is also trying to look out for Sonic as they try to escape Ghost Hill.

He tugs Sonic away from the mountain that is one of the first things to collapse because he knows Sonic is still reeling from the events of what just happened.

Shadow tries to reach out to Sonic to perhaps comfort him?? He's not angry or annoyed, he just gave a reminder to Sonic that the Ghost Hill version of his friends weren't real. And later on when Sonic was lamenting about Ghost Hill and the shards are now all gone, Shadow offers him a compliment that lights up Sonic's whole mood.

And in many other examples I can't show because Tumblr only has a 10 photo bullshit, Shadow has showed that he puts Sonic's life in front of his. And that Shadow actually cares for Sonic and they aren't just 'enemies' who 'hate' each other.

.

Anyways, someone drug me.

[ddejavvu]

Hi!

If you ever have time would you mind writing something angsty but super fluffy with someone fainting and Remus going into protective mode?

I’m very invested in reading your stories right now. Even when the idea of some isn’t my thing I just like your writing style.

Have a lovely day!

you are so sweet! i'm happy to hear that, and I'm sorry this took me a hot minute to write and post. i hope you still enjoy!

--

Remus had seen all the warning signs, and he's just glad you'd fainted in his room of all places. You'd been trailing off on your thoughts, your eyes had been blinking slower than normal, and you'd done that swaying-on-your-feet thing that only happened when your brain was feeling especially fuzzy. So when you fall, he's expecting it, and he catches you.

Even if he'd stuck your landing perfectly, slung his arms around your middle to keep you upright and taken you to his bed, he's still upset that he had to do it, and he's worried for when you'll wake up.

Of course, he doesn't lament taking care of you. No, what he's upset about is that anyone has to in the first place; he doesn't like that you have to live with the worry of fainting at any moment.

He's lost in thought, stroking your cheeks soothingly when Sirius and James burst in, already too loud for Remus's liking. He wants to return the same jovial greeting they give him, but it's hard when he has to rush to cover your ears. He knows you'll most likely not wake from their horseplay, but it feels wrong to subject you to all of that noise.

"Woah, sleeping beauty," Sirius cracks, peering at the way you don't even flinch when they're particularly loud, "What's their deal, exams?"

"They've fainted," Remus informs him, voice much quieter than his friends', "I'm sitting with them until they wake up."

"Oh, shit," James hums, brows furrowed in concern, "They okay?"

"Yeah, s'fine," Remus rubs a tired hand over his face, exasperated that there's nothing he can do but wait, "Just happens sometimes."

"Do they need- like, water, or something?" Sirius stands stiffer than he normally does, on edge at your unconsciousness. Remus smiles gratefully at the man, nodding towards the bathroom.

"Yeah Pads, that's a good idea. Can you get some?"

"On it," Sirius mumbles, socked feet padding to the bathroom in search of a glass.

James perches on the bed beside your feet, careful not to jolt you where you're laying in Remus's lap. He presses two tentative fingers to your wrist, finding a pulse there that loosens the knot of worry in his chest.

"They're fine," Remus promises, keeping his voice to a low murmur, "They just need a minute."

"Water," Sirius chimes, setting the glass on the nightstand. He sees your lashes flutter slightly, watches as your fingers twitch, "Uh, Prongs, let's leave them alone."

"Right," James clamors off of the bed, watching apprehensively as you blink your eyes open, blearily looking at Remus's pudged chin as he stares down at you.

The two leave without another word, and you sit up groggily, with the help of Remus's hand on your back.

"Hi, dove." He smiles kindly, "You feeling okay?"

"Mhm," You rub at your left eye with a knuckle that's far too aggressive for Remus's liking. He pulls it away, and smooths the discomfort away with his gentle thumb instead.

"Here's some water, courtesy of Sirius," He hands over the glass, "Why don't we rest for a bit?"

"Okay," You hum, drinking nearly half of the glass and settling back into Remus's warm embrace, "Rem?"

"Hm?"

"Did you catch me? Before I hit the ground?"

"I did," He grins into your hairline, arms tightening around your waist, "I'd never let you fall, dove."

[missmonsters2]

—NIGHTHAWK | EIGHT

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x OFC/Fem!Reader

Summary: The Poe Cup race has long passed and Wednesday actively tries to ignore the bet she's made. She may have won, but why does it feel like she's been defeated? She may be able to ignore it during the day, but not so much at night.

Warnings: Wednesday laments over planning a date. Enid is exasperated. Thing, our lovely messenger. Xavier gets threatened with jail. Mother!Weems

Series Masterlist | Library Blog | AO3

Reminder there’s no taglist but you can follow my library blog for notifications 💘

Note: Wednesday: I will threaten you with a horrible time—wait, no not like that.

Part Seven

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Nighthawk: Noun. A recurring thought that only seems to strike you late at night—an overdue task, a nagging guilt, a looming and shapeless future—that circles high overhead during the day, that pecks at the back of your mind while you try to sleep, that you can successfully ignore for weeks, only to feel its presence hovering outside the window, waiting for you to finish your coffee, passing the time by quietly building a nest.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"Why are you rearranging everything?" Wednesday asks, her voice dull but tinged with a hint of annoyance.

You look at her sheepishly. "Sorry, I know you're trying to write."

Wednesday sighs, letting the ire settle away. After all, this was your room. But Wednesday had taken your words about coming here for some peace and quiet last week seriously and brought her typewriter the next day to your room, and it's been there ever since. 

Wednesday actively doesn't think about what it could mean that she'd been moving her stuff over into your room slowly because, at the very least, she still goes back to her own to sleep at night. 

She actively doesn't think about anything to do with you during the day.

"Why are you rearranging everything?" Wednesday asks again, her face unimpressed with how you've shuffled your coffee table, the inside of your closet, and how you've been eyeing your bed as if it was next.

You purse your lips as if debating whether or not to tell Wednesday the reason, but when she pinches her eyebrows at you, her gaze becoming more narrow, you relent. 

"I thought it'd be nice to have more room..." you mumble, rubbing the back of your neck.

"You've already optimized the space to its full potential," Wednesday raises her brow at you. "You won't be getting anything more unless you start throwing away things and you own nothing like the miserable orphan you are."

You can't help but laugh.

"I was thinking of giving away the coffee table," you admit with a smile. "One of the gorgon girls in the woodworking class said she could make me an extendable coffee table that I could fit into my closet."

"Why have you asked her? It is doubtful her skills would be superior to mine."

"Because you're not taking woodworking and it would have to be an extracurricular activity to do outside of class, and I feel like there's more interesting things you could be working on," you point out, giving up on rearranging and sitting on your bed.

"Like what exactly?" Wednesday flatly asks, her gaze studying your fictitious nonchalant face. 

"Do you like horror movies?" You ask instead of answering Wednesday's question, which makes the gothic girl's mouth twitch in annoyance. 

"If you're asking if they scare me, then no," Wednesday answers succinctly, with a tilt of her chin. "But I do enjoy watching them if they're done well."

"Me too," you tell her. "I mean, they do kind of scare me but I also kind of enjoy the feeling because then that means the movie was good."

There's a ghost of a smile on Wednesday's lip, too quick for you to see. 

"Which ones have you seen?" Wednesday asks, curious about what your tastes are. "Which ones terrify you the most?" Her eyes are glinting. 

"Not too many," you give her an amused smile. "Remember, I didn't really have access to the internet for entertainment, and I'm not really one for watching it by myself." 

You sit in thought, and Wednesday waits in anticipation. This was the kind of information that Wednesday had been waiting for because it was difficult to gauge what you were afraid of. 

"I think maybe paranormal movies?" You say, your tone lifting at the end like you were unsure.

Wednesday's face fell. "You're scared of ghosts?" She asks, thoroughly unimpressed. 

"Hey," you kick her foot lightly with your own. "How are you supposed to fight something that is already dead? They clearly already have the upperhand."

Wednesday lifts her hands and starts counting on her fingers. "Rituals, spiritual artifacts, using a psychic, destroy whatever is holding their attachment here, become a ghost yourself and—"

"Okay, okay, I get it," you laugh. "I still find them unsettling, though."

"Ridiculous," Wednesday scowls with distaste. "There are far more horrifying and interesting genres."

"Well," you say lightly, and Wednesday looks into your eyes. They gaze into her like they want to draw her in and send a secret message. "Guess you'll have to show me one of these days."

Wednesday wants to ignore the secret message. 

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"You'll have to show me one of these days."

The words kept repeating in Wednesday's mind, torturing her while she tried to sleep. Usually, it'd be lovely, but Wednesday would've preferred that it was her nightly sleep paralysis afflicting her instead. 

Wednesday had successfully ignored the fact she had won the bet of winning the Poe Cup race. It makes her irate that she’s won yet she feels like she’s been defeated. At least during the day, she was able to ignore it. At night, it haunted her and cost her sleep. 

On top of that, Wednesday was still looking into what her vision could possibly mean. During the day, she spent all her time analyzing you, searching for clues that you might turn on her just like Tyler had. It would be just her luck to have it happen to her a second time. 

But while Wednesday could see something lurking underneath your mask you put on to others, and even sometimes to her, you seemed mindful about the pace to be close. It was different from Tyler, who constantly made it known exactly what he wanted from Wednesday and that he wanted it immediately. 

Wednesday had been snooping around, hoping to trigger another vision, but nothing had come; therefore, she was at a dead end. She supposes she could just bring the issue to your attention and hear your thoughts, but for some unknown reason, she was reluctant. 

"You'll have to show me one of these days."

Damn it all, Wednesday sighs with force.

The task at hand was overdue, and Wednesday wonders if you wonder if she'll keep her word and plan this...date. The idea of being thought of as someone who couldn't keep their vows was disconcerting and disgusting.

This was ridiculous, Wednesday thinks as she removes her covers and sits up. So utterly ridiculous.  

Wednesday Addams never backed away from a challenge, and she was most definitely someone who kept all her threats and promises. 

She grabs a piece of paper, neatly scribbling words onto it before she tosses the pen to the side. 

"Thing," she whispers, even though nearly nothing could wake Enid at this hour. The disembodied hand gets up from his resting place and scuttles quietly over to her. 

"Drop this off and bring me a reply," she tells him. 

He looks at the note and starts signing words to her.

"Yes, what's wrong with what I said? It is succinct."

Thing makes a show of being exasperated with her using his fingers but takes the note and scurries off. 

Wednesday doesn't return to bed, waiting impatiently for Thing to return with her arms crossed, her index tapping her inner arm. It's minutes before the hand returns with a note in return.

"Was she awake?" Wednesday asks, and Thing indicates that you were. He passes her the note.

Wednesday grins, but it looks maniacal.

'Are you threatening me with a date? I thought you'd never ask.'

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

The sounds of Wednesday typing lull you through your headphones. It's a consistent sound, and the only break is when the sound of Wednesday returning the carriage as the page hits the end. 

It was late at night, and it was unlikely for either of you to go out again. Since it's just the two of you in your room, you have your wings out, carefully preening the feathers with your fingers. The scars were healing nicely, but any forceful exertion would make them split open again, and you were not keen on that happening. You're also pretty sure Wednesday would be disgruntled with you if you did as well.

"How are your wings?" Wednesday asks as she takes a break from her writing.

"Sore," you admit, ruffling them lightly. "I can't really stretch them without re-opening the wounds, and they're usually hidden inside my back most days."

"I've been meaning to ask how that works," Wednesday stares at you while you gently massage the sore areas, being very careful of how far your stretch.

"I wish I could explain, but I really can't," you shrug. "It's just innate in faeries to be able to hide their wings. How does it all fit? I'm not sure, really. Most likely evolution and fae magic."

You were really focused, seemingly annoyed with where you couldn't reach. 

"Do you want assistance?" Wednesday offers. 

You freeze for a moment, looking up at Wednesday. The idea of Wednesday's fingers going under the feathers and pressing her fingers carefully against your wing was...a lot.

"Oh, uh," you remove your fingers from your flight appendages. "No, it's okay."

"Why?" Wednesday raises her brow. "You're clearly struggling. Do you not trust me to handle your wings carefully?"

"No, no, it's not that," you correct immediately. You sigh for a moment, feeling the heat rise to your ears. "It's just..." you shift on the bed. "You know my wings are sensitive."

Wednesday nods. "And I will be meticulous."

"It's not that," you mutter, feeling warm. "You massaging them...touching them...like that..." your voice trails, and you feel slightly mortified. This was so embarrassing.

Wednesday seems to catch on immediately, and her back goes straight and rigid. "I see." Her voice is brisk.

"Yeah," you say quickly back. "It's, you know...just ticklish," you say to avoid the awkwardness, but you both know it's not quite that. 

Wednesday just nods, not pushing to offer her help further, but there is a curious look in her eyes. You don't dwell on it as you check your watch.

"Oh, shit," you sigh as you stand, gently brushing the last of your feathers with your fingers. 

"What?" Wednesday asks with a frown, watching your wings disappear. 

"Larissa is leaving for some conference. It's apparently a long trip and she needs to drive out tonight."

Wednesday recalls Weems mentioning her absence for the weekend and a group of teachers being in charge, but there was hardly a need for concern as it was the weekend.

"I have to go see her off," you tell Wednesday. "It'll probably be a couple of minutes. Are you going to stay here writing?"

"I will be finished in a couple of minutes as well," Wednesday says. "I will be returning to my dorm room for the night. I have preparations to finish."

"Preparations, you say?" A sly smile on your lips that Wednesday rolls her eyes at. 

Since that night after the Poe Cup race, there haven't been any kisses. Wednesday's still figuring out what to make of it all. You seem content with how things are, and Wednesday was slowly studying her own desires and how to handle them accordingly. Sometimes, Wednesday thinks it was easier kissing a serial killer.

At least with the serial killer, she didn’t have to do any date planning. But since she was, she was going to do every single part of it correctly and perfectly. Wednesday mindlessly thinks she’s probably been driving Enid insane and feels gleeful at the thought.

The sly smile turns soft, the rarity that only belonged to Wednesday. You lean over and faintly kiss her on the cheek, and your warm lips tinge Wednesday's cool skin. "I'll see you tomorrow then."

You leave Wednesday sitting in your room with a soft click of the door, heading out to the front gates. There are still some students wandering about, and you give them friendly, light smiles with a short wave of your hand as they greet you. 

Inwardly, you sigh. 

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"I'm very serious," Weems gives you a stern look. "If there's anything wrong, you're to go to the nurse immediately. Don't think I've gotten over the last incident you had with the gorgon girls."

"I told you it was an accident!" You sigh almost dramatically. "They're nice girls! They're just...enthused...and strong."

Weems merely rolls her eyes but doesn't comment on it anymore. 

"I will only be gone for the weekend, I should be back Sunday night. It will be a short meeting."

"I know," you say, hiding back your sigh. "It'll be fine. I'm just going to be doing homework over the weekend."

"Right," Weems raised her brow, and an amused and wry smile graced her lips. "And by just doing homework over the weekend, you mean having a date with Miss Addams?"

You narrow your eyes suspiciously at Weems. "How did you know?"

Weems just makes some noncommittal noise before sighing. "My life seems to be fated to be entwined with the Addams family."

You look at her curiously, but Weems waves you off before she looks at you with a mildly uncomfortable look. "Do I need to give you the talk—"

"No!" You say immediately, cutting the principal off. Heat rises up your chest, burning the tip of your ears, and your cheeks feel hot. "It's—" you clear your throat into your fist—"it's fine. I'm good, I know."

Weems's face is slightly flushed red at the apple of her cheeks, and it makes you feel better. The two of you chuckle, letting it die into a comfortable silence. 

"I'll be home in two days," Weems repeats, softer this time. 

You nod. "Okay," your voice softer as well. It was strange, but you really did like having Weems around, despite Wednesday's grumbling about her. "Have a safe trip."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Saturday passed quickly, and Enid could not be more thankful. If there was one more annoying thing than Wednesday obsessively investigating things, it was Wednesday obsessively trying to plan a date. Her grim roommate was extra unbearable this entire week. 

Thing dropped off a note to you earlier today to meet in Wednesday's room at precisely 7PM with your laptop. While Wednesday executed her plan, Enid kept her company for most of the day. 

"I'm surprised you were able to actually cook dinner here," Enid says dryly. "I can't believe you made your own makeshift stove and didn't burn our entire room down."

"Controlled arson is child's play," Wednesday drawls. She finishes setting up a projector she's borrowed (stolen) from a classroom before setting down a blanket with some cushions. She looks at Enid. "Give me all of your pillows."

"What? Why?" Enid frowns.

"Because only I enjoy sitting on rigid and awkward angles that may give me back or neck pains later," Wednesday explains succinctly while she grabs the one pillow from her bed, tosses it on the floor, and then grabs a black fuzzy blanket.

Enid sighs, reaching for her pillows and tossing them onto the blanket. Normally, she might've denied her roommate the request, but it was clear that Wednesday was trying to make this the perfect date from the way she's been obsessing about it all week, meticulously planning and researching. 

It was endearing to watch, but Enid wouldn't say it out loud.        

"You will change the pillowcases and wash the old ones when I'm back tomorrow," Enid warns her roommate, who noncommittally nods.

Then Wednesday freezes. "You're not returning tonight?"

Enid smirks. "Nope. I'm having a sleepover with Yoko tonight." She then gives Wednesday a look. "I won't do it too often, especially since Fae has her own bedroom you guys can be doing your dates at."

"It's smaller," Wednesday mutters, even though she knows it would've been fine to do it at your place. But Wednesday chose to do it in their own room so that she could rely on Enid returning in the worst-case scenario where the date was a failure.

Wednesday checks the time on her wrist and finds she has no time to make adjustments now. It was 6:55PM, and you'd be arriving soon. 

"Leave," Wednesday dismisses Enid, who sighs at her roommate's callousness but still wishes her good luck as she goes to find her vampire best friend along with Thing.

Time ticks slowly as Wednesday checks to ensure the sea witch paella she made is still warm. She does a final review of all her preparations and stands near the door. 

Wednesday wouldn't describe herself as nervous, but she does feel an uncomfortable pressure in her chest and something twisting in her stomach.

It's nauseating and exhilarating.

7:00PM. 

Wednesday waits, telling herself that while it's annoying that people are not customarily on time, it's not abnormal. 

7:05PM.

You were late, but Wednesday isn't worried. You aren't typically late to things, but there's been an occasional time she'll catch you out of breath running to class or to their nightly meet-up.

7:15PM.

Irritated.

Now Wednesday is irritated with how inconsiderate you were being and plans to make you reiterate what you were doing every single minute to be late. She knows you know the time to meet was 7PM. When Thing dropped off her note to you, you also provided a note back saying, 'You have such a way with words. See you at 7PM sharp then.'

A liar is what you are, Wednesday thinks with a downward curl of her lips. Wednesday pinches the bridge of her nose, annoyed at the fact that she has a stupid phone that is utterly useless. She wanted to throttle both Xaiver and Enid for endlessly praising how useful it was to have one. 

7:30PM.

Wednesday clenches her jaw as she blows out the candles and turns off her makeshift stove. She's vexed, but a larger part of her doesn't believe you'd not show up. The vision Wednesday had during the Poe Cup race appears, and she briskly strides out of her room.

Not in your room.

Not in any of the classrooms.

Not in the garden.

Not in the cafeteria.

Not in the library.

"Addams," Bianca greets with a raise of her brow. "Aren't you supposed to be on a date?"

Wednesday stops as Bianca approaches her. "You knew?" Her eyes narrow.

Bianca rolls her eyes, her blue eyeshadow accentuating her eyes. "Of course. Fae briefly mentioned it in the afternoon with a sickeningly happy look on her face. Can't say I see the charm of being on a date with you, but I digress."

"So you did see her earlier then?" Wednesday asks pointedly, ignoring everything else the siren said. 

Bianca raises a brow slowly at Wednesday's behavior. "I did, but she left for her studio about two hours ago. Why?"

Wednesday doesn't bother answering, walking past Bianca with haste.

There was only one place left to check, and Wednesday expected you to be there. You had better be sitting in your studio, having lost track of time, and Wednesday would berate you. But you'd be there to apologize, and they could salvage what was left of their date, and Wednesday would pointedly remind you that it was your fault their food was cold. They'd watch their horror movie as planned, and it wouldn't matter if it'd be late into the night because Enid wasn't coming back anyway.

Because if you weren't there, Wednesday would certainly kill someone. 

"Wednesday!" Bianca calls as she strides to catch up to Wednesday as they pass the Quad, grabbing the attention of Enid, Yoko, Xavier, and Eugene. 

"Wednesday!" Enid calls after her best friend, but she ignores it, walking with a distinct purpose to your studio. Enid and everyone else get up with haste to follow after their friend. "Wednesday, where's Fae?"

The familiar tree trunk comes into view, and she does the same sequence of action she always does to enter, not caring that she looks insane.

"What are you doin—where'd she go?" Eugene asks, his eyes narrowing as if that would allow him to see Wednesday again.

"It must be a fae realm," Bianca deducts, thinking back to her conversations with you. "Sirens have something similar. She must've created one out of her studio. Just follow what Wednesday did."

One by one, they repeat the actions, and Enid is the last to go through. And when she enters, she finds Wednesday a few feet away from her, eyes narrowed with her jaw clenched.

They don't have time to take in the space and view, as amazing as it is. 

"This isn't right," Wednesday grits out, her hands forming into fists. "This isn't the studio."

It looks perfect—neat and tidy. 

Untouched.

"What do you mean?" Bianca asks as she looks around. "This has to be Fae's studio, I can see her belongings. Look—these are the vases and pots she made in pottery class."

Wednesday's eyes move to look at the three pottery pieces Bianca is pointing at sitting in a cluster on the coffee table. They weren't perfect, a little wobbly, and you had laughed when Wednesday pointed out every imperfection and questioned why you even let them go into the bisque firing to set. 

But you said you liked how they were very clearly flawed and still worked without a hitch. 

There was nothing out of the ordinary, and they were most definitely yours. 

The only problem was that earlier today, Wednesday had come into your studio while you were studying. You had given Wednesday a strange look but asked no questions as she grabbed the soft, fuzzy black blanket you favored. You bought it in town recently after Wednesday started to help you apply the salve, picking black specifically because you hadn't known Wednesday like you do now and heard she was allergic to color. 

It was for the cooler nights, not that the cold ever bothered Wednesday, but it didn't stop you from carefully draping the blanket over her. Now, it was in preparation for tonight's date when they were watching horror movies.

Yet, the soft black, fuzzy blanket in her room was also folded neatly on a shelf inside a trunk-turned rack. Which also wasn't where Wednesday had taken it from earlier today.

"This is weird, though," Enid mutters, inhaling deeply through her nose.

"What?" Yoko asks as she takes off her glasses and looks around. 

"Wednesday, you said you and Fae are here pretty frequently, right? I thought you came here earlier."

Wednesday nods rigidly. 

"That's weird," Enid ponders, tilting her head. "I can barely smell you and Fae in this place. It's like...very stale. Months old, at least."

"Wait," Eugene furrows his brows. "How is that even possible?"

Xavier looks in deep thought, holding his chin as he thinks, but Wednesday already knows. Especially after Enid confirmed the scent. 

It all leads to one conclusion. 

This wasn't your studio, or more accurately—you and Wednesday haven't been in your real studio for some time.

"Is there anyone in this school that has Fae's number?" Xavier asks, and it makes the room tense. "Does she have Snapchat or anything that could show her location?

Bianca shakes her head. "No, she doesn't have any social media and she hasn't even given me her number, not that I think it would be useful, anyway. She's never on her phone except to watch her shows or read. Half the time, I'm convinced she probably just leaves it lying around."

"We...we should contact Weems, right?" Eugene asks as he looks at everyone. 

"Even if we do, Weems won't make it back until the morning, at least," Xavier points out. "But we should."

You were missing.

No, you've been taken.

The thought felt hollow, like Wednesday couldn't believe it. It only lasted a second before pure, unadulterated fury filled her. It was like a hot white ball forming in her chest, making her clench her jaw, barely able to contain the noise she wanted to let out. 

Wednesday hadn't been watching for you just half a day, planning this ridiculous date that you had been so stupidly excited for, and you were taken.

Wednesday can only blame herself. 

She blames herself for so many things. 

Indulging you.

Indulging herself.

She should've never agreed to this date—she should've never agreed to you. 

Why couldn't she just have dismissed you as another passing curiosity? Why couldn't she have just gotten what she needed to know and left you? You should've been nothing more than a passing, disturbing thought.

It would have saved her from feeling so wretched now. 

"Wednesday," Enid says softly. She lifts her hand to gently touch her roommate but thinks better of it when she practically smells the anger radiating off the grim-looking girl. "Wednesday," Enid repeats instead, "We need to find her."

"Of course," Wednesday snaps, unable to even comprehend that she was snapping at the wrong person. "Spread out and start searching every corner of this inane institute."

Xavier looks upset. "Wednesday, you shouldn't look alone—" 

"Go, or I will unapologetically send you to jail for a second time," Wednesday cuts off, threatening the tall, lanky boy with a glare. 

Bianca grabs the sleeve at his elbow, dragging him out while the others follow. 

Thing is the only one left with Wednesday, and he stands on top of the table, waiting for Wednesday to say something. 

Wednesday's jaw is clenched, and her hands are closed in tight fists. 

The problem was that Wednesday did indulge herself, and now you were hers, even if she refused to say it out loud. 

You. Are. Hers. 

You were hers to make pay for making her feel so wretched over you. 

"Thing," Wednesday bites out. "Bring anything personal of hers. Bring me anything that looks out of place."

The mystery brought her obsessive personality up to the front, and she would solve it.

Wednesday was going to find you—because you were hers—and she would slowly maim whoever had taken you.

PART 9

[h0rr0rsaxo]

Hi!! Would you write either hcs or an x reader (whatever works best for you!) I'm kinda obsessed with the idea of Mammon (obey me) getting some kinda cat spell cast on him and suddenly not wanting to like snuggle with y/n because he doesn't want them to feel/hear him purring???

Pawsitively Purrrfect [ + Mammon ]

☆ Masterlist / Requests?

SYNOPSIS. Mammon basically gets cat-like traits after getting hit with a spell.

PAIRINGS. Mammon x GN! Reader

GENRE + WARNINGS. Lmao it's literally just fluff, no warnings needed.

WORD COUNT. 854

A/N. I chose hcs bc they're easier :P

☆ The day had started as any other with Mammon, the second-born demon of the House of Lamentation, always in some kind of trouble. This time, he had somehow managed to get a cat spell cast on him, and you noticed the subtle changes - the sharpness of his eyes, the gracefulness of his movements, and the strange avoidance of your usual snuggles.

☆ Throughout the day, you couldn't help but notice how Mammon seemed to be avoiding you even more. It started with subtle gestures - him ducking out of the room when you entered, staying occupied with his phone or any other excuse to keep his distance. It was strange because Mammon was usually the one clinging to you, claiming he was your first and demanding all your attention.

☆ The more he avoided you, the more you felt a pang of sadness deep within. Your heart longed for his familiar touch, the warmth of his embrace, and the playful banter that always filled the air when the two of you were together. It felt as if a vital part of your daily routine had been unexpectedly taken away.

☆ You couldn't help but wonder what had caused this sudden change in Mammon's behavior. Was it something you did or said? Did he no longer want to be close to you? These thoughts swirled in your mind, filling you with a mix of confusion and a slight tinge of self-doubt.

☆ As the day wore on, you became increasingly touch-starved, craving the comfort and reassurance that came from being in Mammon's arms. It was as if your body ached for his touch, a yearning that couldn't be easily ignored. Yet, every attempt to get close to him was met with his skilled evasion tactics.

☆ "Mammon," you call, watching him dart around the living room with a sudden agility that was both impressive and suspicious. "What are you doing?"

☆ It was both frustrating and amusing to witness Mammon's antics. You couldn't help but chuckle at his exaggerated efforts to maintain distance, as if you were some kind of contagious plague. But beneath the amusement, there was a longing, an ache to bridge the gap that had formed between the two of you.

His golden eyes flicker towards you, gleaming with an unusual mischievous light. Mammon was mischievous all the time, but this seemed a little different. "Nothin', Y/n," he replies, a little too quickly.

☆ The more he avoided you, the more determined you became to confront him. You knew that the only way to break through his barriers was to tackle him head-on, both literally and figuratively. You wanted to understand why he had been avoiding you, and more importantly, you craved the closeness and affection that had been absent all day.

☆ And so, when the opportunity presented itself, you seized it, pouncing on Mammon and pinning him down onto the couch. His surprised yelp and frantic attempts to escape only fueled your determination. You were not going to let him slip away this time. His cheeks dust with a red that you've seen plenty of times before, making your heart pound against your chest. "Y-Y/n!" he stammers, squirming under your grip, "What's gotten into ya?"

☆ Ignoring his protests, you place your hands on his face, pulling him closer. "Why have you been avoiding me, Mammon?" you question, your tone soft yet firm.

☆ His blush deepens, the redness spreading to the tips of his ears, accentuating the cat-like features now apparent on his face. "I ain't avoiding ya," he mumbles, unable to meet your gaze.

☆ As you pressed your hands against his flushed face, pulling him towards you, you couldn't ignore the slight flutter in your chest. The mixture of adrenaline, curiosity, and a deep yearning for his presence overwhelmed you. You needed answers, but more importantly, you needed to feel his warmth, to hear his heartbeat against your own. A soft, rhythmic sound fills the room, and you realize it's coming from Mammon. His purring. The realization makes you grin, "Are you... purring, Mammon?"

☆ His eyes widen in surprise, and he tries to push you away, but you hold him tighter. "No, I ain't... I ain't...," his voice trails off, obviously flustered.

☆ You chuckle, pulling him even closer. "Mammon, the Great Demon, avatar of greed, afraid of a little purring?" you tease, your fingers tracing his blush-filled cheeks. He groans, hiding his face in the crook of your neck, but his purring gets louder, resonating through his chest into yours. It's a sweet, soothing sound that makes you feel warm inside.

"It's not funny, Y/n," he grumbles, but his words are muffled against your skin. You laugh, ruffling his hair affectionately.

☆ "Oh, but it is, Mammon," you retort, "It's adorable." His purring becomes more pronounced at your words, and you can feel his embarrassment radiating off him. But beneath that, there's a sense of comfort, of contentment, that makes your heart flutter.

☆ "Ya think so?" he mumbles, his voice barely audible. You nod, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

☆ "Absolutely," you reply, your voice filled with sincerity. His blush seems to intensify, but he doesn't pull away, instead snuggling closer.

[666writingcafe]

A Deal With Death

This week has proven that the demon brothers are completely hopeless without MC. According to them, things started out okay, but then a couple of them got in a fight, resulting in a significant part of the House of Lamentation getting flooded and everyone having to sleep in the living room.

During their visits, MC makes sure I communicate their exasperation to them, and I can't say I blame them. I mean, I'd expect seven grown men to be able to take care of themselves, but apparently not.

Today's been quiet, though. Other than Barbatos occasionally poking his head in, no one's stopped by their room today. In order to pass the time, I've been telling MC stories about me and my older sister Candy. They're amused for the most part, so hopefully I'm helping them take their mind off their current predicament, even if it's only for a few moments.

Just when I finish recounting one of many traps that have backfired on me, someone softly knocks on the door.

"It's unlocked!" I holler. The door remains shut for about a minute before slowly opening, creaking as it reveals the one brother who has yet to visit MC.

"I have food," Lucifer murmurs, lifting up a to-go bag high enough for me to see. "I wasn't sure what the state of things were, so I brought enough for the three of us."

"I'm surprised your brothers haven't kept you updated," I reply as he walks over and sits in the chair on the other side of MC's bed. He shrugs.

"After the third day, I told them to not tell me anything unless Zephyr woke up." He reaches in the bag and hands me a plastic container and utensils. I'm pleasantly surprised to find it contains stewed zombie dragon liver. It's a fairly popular dish in reaper cuisine.

"I figured you'd like that better than the demon food you've been forced to eat during your stay here," Lucifer explains softly. "I myself am still getting used to it." I take a bite. It's not the best I've ever had, but it's pretty decent. The fact that someone went out of their way to get something I might like is the important thing.

Lucifer pulls out his plastic container and sets the bag off to the side. After a few minutes of silent eating, he states,

"You must think I'm a horrible person." Thankfully, I've swallowed my food before he said that, because I would have choked otherwise.

"No, of course not! Whatever gave you that idea?"

"The fact that I didn't stop through earlier."

"From what I've heard, you've had your hands full." Lucifer sighs.

"That's an understatement."

"So, give yourself a break. I seriously doubt Zephyr's the type of person to give you grief for not showing up sooner."

Exactly. Quit beating yourself up.

His eyes widen as he looks over at MC. Is he able to hear them?

I know you're stressed. This is a very scary situation, and you've had to remain strong for your brothers. Solomon and Barbatos have been working really hard to figure out a way to wake me up, so hopefully we don't have to deal with this much longer.

Lucifer turns away so that I don't see his face, but I still catch him rubbing his eyes.

I'm a little surprised it's taken this long for their mental connection to manifest itself. Then again, MC may have blocked it on purpose in order to avoid suspicion. I know I didn't believe them when they first told me that they were Lucifer's heir to the Ring of Light. It's only after extensive research that I accepted it to be true. For one, there's no one in the Devildom good enough to create a perfect counterfeit of that, and the ring MC gave to me for safekeeping fits every description of it to a tee. And then there's the fact that it glows whenever they expend a lot of magical energy. There's only a handful of rings that link themselves to people that way, the Ring of Light being one of them.

"You okay?" I ask him once he faces me again.

"I'll be fine. I just have a lot on my mind at the moment." He momentarily resumes eating, but just as quickly he stops, staring directly at me.

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course. That's part of my job." I've learned long ago to not question people when they request my services, especially if they're in positions of power. "Do we need to step outside?" Lucifer glances over at MC, appearing deep in thought.

"That won't be necessary. Some of it relates to Zephyr, so it wouldn't be right of me to exclude them."

Your secret is safe with me.

He softly smiles, emphasizing just how tired he is. He probably hasn't gotten much sleep, poor thing. I'll have to make him some of my special tea when we're done here.

"It has to do with my sister. I gave up my freedom to ensure that she could live a full human life. It was either that or permanent death, and I love her too much to have her die unnecessarily." He takes off one of his gloves, revealing Diavolo's mark boldly seared on the top of his hand.

"Does it hurt?"

"Sometimes. He hasn't used its power a whole lot. Only to get me to relax when I'm overly agitated, and only after he's exhausted all other options." Interesting. I know plenty of demons that would abuse that kind of power. Then again, the prince hasn't exactly played by those rules, has he?

"But that's neither here nor there," he continues, putting the glove back on. "Initially, I thought that all of Lilith's soul went into her human body, but it appears as though it's split in half."

"That can happen," I tell him. "Magic has a tendency to separate from the soul when it transfers from one body to the next. Sometimes that magic ends up in an object, but most of the time it just kinda floats, waiting for the most compatible soul to latch itself onto."

"Does it have to be a fresh soul?"

"Not necessarily, although that's the most common method of transference."

"Does the soul also have to be floating in the air, or can it be inside someone?"

"There have been times when magical energy enters the soul while it's in a body, but that's very rare."

"But not impossible."

"No, not impossible." Where is he going with this?

"This might seem far-fetched, and maybe my grief is making me see things that aren't really there, but I feel like part of Lilith's soul has made its way inside Zephyr."

Shit, shit, shit. How the fuck am I suppose to dig my way out of this? Solomon told me that Barbatos, Diavolo, and I are the only ones that are allowed to know MC's full backstory. If Lucifer found out the truth...

"Merely asking out of curiosity, what makes you say that?"

"Have you ever seen a demon produce white energy?"

"Well, no, but--"

"And then there's the time where I glanced at Zephyr's face, and they looked exactly like her."

The energy is left over from my days as a human. That was one of the only things the organization couldn't change. I'd have ended up dead otherwise. As for your sister, it probably is your mind playing tricks on you. Grief can be rather cruel sometimes.

Damn. Solomon's never been able to lie that well. I'm not surprised that Lucifer buys it. If I didn't know better, I would have as well.

"You know, one of the last things she ever told me was that someday I'd meet someone that I loved so deeply that I'd be willing to throw everything away for them, and then I'd finally understand how she felt," Lucifer recalls. "At the time, I dismissed it as immature angst, but now I think she was actually telling my future." He takes MC's hand and wraps it with both of his.

"The truth is, I miss you, Zephyr. It's lonely without you around. Please, wake up." Suddenly, MC's surrounded by a bright, white light that forces me to close my eyes. Even then, I can still see it. It lasts slightly longer than a flash would, and I open my eyes just in time to witness MC quickly sitting up, gasping for air.

Taglist: @lost-in-time-wanderer, @fuzztacular, @dianedancer18, @sweetbrier2908, @flare-love, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf, @thunderlightning351, @l3v1chan, @anxious-chick, @5mary5, @expressionless-fr, @tenkobitch, @interconnectedmatrix

[therosehost]

ShuririWeek: D1

Fluff + "Don't Go"

cw: allusions to nsfw content

Shuri doesn't hear the humming at first. She's too frustrated.

She isn't Queen, nor is she the heir anymore, but the Elders hold her hostage in meetings and at inane ceremonies for hours as if she still were. It grinds at her skin like sandpaper.

Especially because Shuri knows why they do it. They care. They've watched Shuri grow from a glimmer in her mother's eye to a white-draped shadow by her casket. The elders care for her, Shuri knows this. But that doesn't make the overbearing attitudes any less irritating.

Today's latest antics had involved them - particularly Elder M'Kathu - insisting that every member of the council attend the Prayer of the Hymned Beetle. Shuri had wanted to throw her chair out the window with herself inside.

That biannual prayer had started in the river tribe as a joke ceremony. It was just an excuse for people to be off from work and drink themselves to incompetence.

It had never been taken seriously, that is, until Elder M'Kathu got it into his head that Shuri singing the Hymned Beetle's lament would somehow make her happier.

HA!

By the time Shuri escapes (just barely) and returns home, she's still wallowing in incredulous anger. She doesn't hear the humming, but when she yanks the bedroom door open she definitely sees the dancing.

Riri, as usual, is beautiful. And she's even more so as the golden silks she currently wears make her glitter in the setting sun.

Positioned in the center of the small garden's inner courtyard, Riri's prayer forms are uncertain. Sometimes her knees don't bend all the way they're supposed to. And at one point her arm doesn't extend to the full ninety degree angle the instructions scrolls describe.

But that doesn't matter because of why her beautiful talented dedicated genius girlfriend is praying. Or rather, to whom.

Shuri knows the prayer that slips low and careful from Riri's lips. She knows every note and syllable. It is her mother's funeral hymn. The Honor of Ramonda's is a celebration of her mother's birth and life, and a bitter bemoan of her death. There's a promise there at the end, humming with a grief that Shuri knows in her heart will last all her life.

She had poured her soul into creating a prayer dedicated to her mother. When Riri sings it, Shuri almost wants to cry.

It's beautiful. Her girlfriend is beautiful. Her girlfriend singing the prayer is beautiful.

Shuri moves forward, past the door where she's stopped in her tracks, and stops only a foot away. Riri's robes swirl around her, a red whirlpool of gauze that stops short when Shuri comes into sight.

Riri watches Shuri with wide eyes, lips parted to express her surprise.

"Your form is all wrong," Shuri says and then wants to shove a fist in her mouth. Damnit.

Riri puts her hands on her hips and laughs, her blouse rising up at the movement. "How are you this awkward?" The skin of Riri's stomach peaks out. Shuri stares. The blessed oils make the skin glisten. Shuri bets if she steps closer she could smell the spiced lotuses.

"I'm not being awkward." It's a distracted mumble instead of the annoyed tut she intended but Shuri can't bring herself to care. She wants to lick Riri.

Riri narrows her eyes, crosses her arms under her breasts, and gives a fox like grin when Shuri licks her lips. "Oh, you not?'" she laughs again. "Then what would you call it?"

Shuri pouts. "Giving constructive criticism, of course".

"Criticism." Riri says the word slowly as if tasting the letters. "I think I've heard of that before but I'm not real familiar. Why don't you stop hovering over there and come show me."

It sounds like an invitation to fight or fuck. Shuri is willing to do either or both of it means she can touch her girlfriend. But-

Shuri shakes her head and moves back towards the threshold. "I want to let you finish though."

"I thought my form was shit?" Riri raises an eyebrow.

"It was, but that doesn't mean I don't want to see you pray." Shuri's words are a lovesick trill.

Riri snorts but presses a hand against her own cheek like she does when she's trying to stop blushing "Nah, see, now my feelings hurt. It was supposed to be a surprise but I don't even want to do it anymore."

"Ok, I apologize. I take it back. Finish the prayer."

Riri hums, rocks back and forth from heel to toe, and then reaches for the towel on the stone bench behind her. Shuri flails.

"You have completely mesmerized me and I want to watch you dance forever," She almost gets on her knees. "Please please please finish."

Riri clucks her tongue, watching Shuri with a sly smile as she backs away. "Naaaah, I lost the motivation. Maybe I'll go hire an instructor instead."

Shuri huffs, rushes forward, and catches Riri around the waist. It startles a laugh out of Riri and Shuri huffs again. "Don't go. I'll help you. We'll pray to my mother together. Just, please, dance for me." She makes her voice as soft as her heart feels.

Riri cups Shuri's cheeks, rubbing a thumb under her eye and kissing her. It's a light brush against the lips really, but it's enough to send Shuri's heart into a frenzy in her chest.

"If you're so desperate," Riri says, her voice is sultry, smile teasing, "then I guess I'll entertain you a bit."

"Yes. I am very desperate." Shuri nods firmly.

Riri wiggles out of her hold with a groan. "Don't do that. I feel guilty for being mean when you get all earnest and shit."

"I like to when you're mean to me though."

Riri groans again and throws the towel she'd dropped at Shuri's head. "Shut up and help me already." Her plush lips form a pout around the words.

Shuri laughs and catches the towel. "Anything you want, my love."

"Uggggggggh. Please stop!"

a/n: this is rushed as shit and mostly unedited. but, ya know, fuck it. i really wanted to participate in shuririweek at least one day so here it is!

@shuririweek

[is-the-fire-real]

'Reminder that "punch a nazi uwu" leftists utilize Nazi rhetoric to justify punching Jews.

It was never about punching Nazis; it was about getting social permission to punch.'

It was this very mentality that drove me away from considering myself a liberal anymore (I AM VERY MUCH LEFT LEANING, I DIDN'T DECIDE TO BECOME CONSERVATIVE JUST TO BE CLEAR. I just don't feel like those spaces have any intrinsic safety any longer). It feels like so much of western leftism has become about "punching up". I don't think it's about compassion or concern anymore, it's about finding the "right" targets. And so often that was just used as a way to excuse bigotry. I'm a goy but I noticed this on a personal level plenty with people identifying as feminists, they'd be perfectly okay saying something unquestionably sexist, as long as "white women" was attached onto the front. It's very much the same with shaming people over physical features that others may have, as long as the individual person is "bad enough" it doesn't matter if wide foreheads or big noses or acne are features many people have and would feel hurt by seeing them used as an insult, because they're only "really" directing it at "one of the bad ones"

So, I'm going to link to this piece again because it's been embarrassingly useful, and explains why I say things like "pretending to believe" despite their clunkiness. For new material, I hope you don't mind that you have accidentally triggered a massive unskippable cutscene, but you tapped into a few things I have been pondering and I'd like to take advantage of your observances to add my own.

Part of what you're discussing here, which I agree with, is that toxic slacktivists pretend to believe that they are Good People Doing Good Work. They are Bad People and their work is Bad Work, but if they all get in a group and pretend together that it's Good, then that's almost the same as being Good, right?

Another worthwhile aspect of what you're discussing is something I became aware of in the aftermath of the collapse of Occupy Wall Street. One commenter on a liberal blog I still follow lamented that mass protest never seems to accomplish anything, and how the millions of people who turned out for OWS protests should have affected more political change. Considering most of them could also vote, write to representatives, etc., something other than littering and arrests could've been done.

Another commenter pointed out that he had personally been at most of the anti-Iraq War protests, including the largest worldwide protest on 15 February 2003 (6-10 million estimated participants). But most of those protesters did not agree with each other. There were at least four major coalitions of antiwar protesters showing up then and thereafter. The ones he listed were:

"Just war" advocates who believed the Iraq War was unjust.

Total pacifists who believed all armed conflicts are unjust, and therefore the Iraq War is as well.

Right-wing bigots who believed a war might potentially benefit those they thought of as religiously or ethnically inferior and subhuman.

Xenophobes, both left- and right-wing, who believed "the US can't be the police of the world" and that any action taken outside USian borders was immoral.

Imagine four people with these beliefs in a room talking about the Iraq War... then bring up the war in Ukraine to them and see how fast the coalition falls apart.

"Well, the war for Ukrainian liberation is a just war," says the just-war advocate. The pacifist starts to scream "HOW COULD YOU DEFEND ANY ACTION THAT MIGHT LEAD TO CHILDREN DYING, YOU MONSTER!". The right-wing bigot says they support the war, too--on the side of the ethnically and religiously superior Russians. And then a left-wing xenophobe says we're wasting money that should be supporting American workers and uplifting Americans out of poverty instead of buying new bombs for Ukraine.

And your "antiwar" coalition collapses, with the pacifist wandering off to agree with the xenophobe while the just-war liberal and the right-wing bigot scream at each other pointlessly and without resolution.

This is one of the wisest breakdowns of human behavior I have ever discovered:

Any coalition of people is made up of many sub-coalitions who only temporarily agree on a single aspect of a single issue. Making sure the group does not collapse prematurely is the true, unsung labor of movement maintenance.

To be real, it's much easier to let one's coalition collapse and scream about how The Menz, or The CIA, or Greedy Capitalists, or The Jews artificially forced your group's collapse than it is to admit that one might just suck a big one at coalition building. This is especially true among leftists, who are sometimes anti-hierarchy and frequently fall for populist, anti-expert nonsense. Having a leader means you're suggesting someone should have authority, and a lot of leftists are allergic to that suggestion.

Moreover, though, a lot of "leftists" are "leftists" but only agree with one or two aspects of leftism.

To use your feminism example: I have absolutely seen feminists who think they can be misogynists so long as they say "white" before they say "woman". I mean, who can even argue? I have also seen feminists who think they can be gender bioessentialists so long as they're doing it towards "men" (a category which includes a lot of people who neither look like men, nor live as men, nor benefit from male privilege). I have seen feminists who think they can call themselves "trans allies" while consistently ignoring, degrading, and dismissing the concerns of anyone who isn't a binary trans woman. Etc.

The thing is, they are all feminists. What makes someone a feminist, at bottom, is the acceptance of and opposition to patriarchy. That's it. It's similar to how what makes a person a Protestant Christian is the acceptance of Jesus as their Lord and Savior--you might need to do one or two things to be considered a part of a specific branch of Christianity, but all you need is that one specific belief about that one specific idea. There's a lot of bunk about how "you can't be a REAL Christian unless you do X" just like there's bunk about how "you can't be a REAL feminist unless you do Y", and it's all bunk.

There are people who might be really bad feminists or Christians, but that's not the same as not being feminists or Christians.

So, the coalition of leftism has several sub-coalitions who actually despise each other. Here is my proposal for the sub-coalitions. (Please keep in mind that I am not defining groups by how they define themselves, but by the far more useful metric of their actions.)

Liberals who agree with leftist economic thought, but strongly disagree with leftist conclusions regarding violent revolution. Liberals do not have time for online arguments and superficial action. They are generally participating in protests, running for office, writing postcards to advocate for candidates, informing voters, and working within the system for positive change that alleviates suffering. They are pro-expert but opposed to a vanguard party due to its inherent authoritarianism.

Tankies, whose primary interest in leftism is authoritarian. They oppose capitalism and support violent revolution because they imagine themselves as the vanguard party who gets to control everything when the revolution comes.

Anarchists, whose primary interest is opposing hierarchy. They want to burn down the system because it is a system, and frequently become angry and defensive if you try to ask them any questions about what would be built out of the ashes.

Progressives, whose primary interest is opposing liberals. They also oppose capitalism; they are, like tankies, positioning themselves as the vanguard party because they are already in political power. What makes them Not Tankies is that they care more about sticking it to "the Dems" than they do about actually being the vanguard, opposing capitalism, or achieving anything of worth or meaning politically.

"Red fash", who used to be called "beefsteak Nazis". They say all the right things regarding violent revolution and economics/capitalism, but they only believe what they believe for the sake of their specific ethnic group and nation (frequently, white and USian, but this is extremely popular in Europe too). IOW a red fash wants the vanguard party to only have whites of a specific ethnicity in control of the revolution; they only want universal health care for "their" people, that sort of thing. Some red fash are actual Nazis cosplaying as leftists, but some are just really, really, REALLY bigoted leftists.

Whether we like it or note, the acceptance of armed, violent revolution as a Good Thing means that leftism has always regarded punching up and violence as a necessary component of leftist thought. This is not a perversion of Real Leftism. This is leftism. If you think revolution is good and necessary instead of a terrifying possibility, then you also think punching up is okay; it's just a matter of who is Up and who gets to punch.

Of the five sub-coalitions I described, only one has rejected violent revolution--and it's the one all the other leftists accuse of being right-wing. And interestingly enough, only liberals are habitually accused of secretly colluding with the right... when red fash are natural allies to the right, and when all other forms of leftists openly ally with right-wingers so long as they say the right things about economics. (See under: "After Hitler, us" leftists, left-wing Trumpistas who think they'll rule the ashes after Trump burns down the current system.)

And if you believe in violent revolution, then (let me be facetious for a second) what's the problem with making fun of your political enemies for being ugly? If we believe Steve Bannon is a Nazi, aren't we obligated to stop him by any means necessary, and doesn't that include mocking him for his alcoholism? Isn't mocking someone for their appearance and intrinsic characteristics mild compared to, say, threatening them with exploding cars covered with hammers? Or retweeting pictures of pitchforks and guillotines?

If we believe Ben Shapiro is an opponent to the revolution we accept is necessary and vital to the movement, then what's a little antisemitism in the name of the people? Don't we have to be bigots to oppose bigots? And--

--oh. There's that horseshoe bending round to the right again.

[sophiacloud28]

Believe It or Not (One-Shot)

One-shot, Rise Mikey, No Pairing, set in main timeline

It had been a while since he'd been on a mission by himself. After the Lou-Jitsu Game, it had taken quite a few years for him to see action with the change in leadership and the fact that said leader had then gone missing for about a year.

That was why despite the arguments it entailed between Leo and Raph, he couldn't help but be overjoyed when he was handed a mission. He couldn't help but feel happy with the fact that his older brother was giving him a chance to shine. And he couldn't help but be proud when he was brought into Donnie's lab to be given a rundown of what was expected of him.

"It's basically going to be the same idea as your first mission. In and out, don't get detected, and, once you have what you're going in for, you come straight home."

"What am I getting?"

"Information. They have to have some computers on a local network that's not connected to the internet because I'm missing the data."

"Use the vents and stay out of sight as much as possible. We don't know what the EPF is up to so we need to be extra careful."

"What happens if I'm found?"

"Abort mission, get out, and portal home."

"Without the –!"

"Yes. You're more important than the info, Mikey."

Yet, it's not until he's near their headquarters that he gets both how much Leo trusts him and why the clause of him coming before the information is so important.

The guards are armed. Not with tranqs, either. A rifle is hanging around the neck of every guard he can see along with a semi-automatic. And while he doesn't doubt that someone in there would probably prefer him alive, something tells him they’ll have no qualms in shooting him if he becomes a problem.

He needs to be careful. He needs to navigate this quickly and stealthily. A bit of a problem when his destination is in the middle of the building and his entryway is…

He straightens as his gaze scales the building, past the T.C.R.I. sign and beyond. He takes a breath and locates the pole he has to latch to to cross the street and make it to the vents. And he gives one last look at the guards before grabbing his nunchuck to grab on and pull himself to the building. No time to lament his fate. He has a mission to do and his brothers are counting on him. So while he might wish he had the entirety of his future self's abilities, he has to deal with the fact that he doesn't as he lands and immediately hides behind an HVAC unit as the crunch of gravel finds his ears.

Guards here too. He's not surprised, but they're making this much more complicated. This is nothing like his mission five years ago, and the fact that the stakes feel much, much higher doesn't help. Comes with the age, he's guessing. This is what they've been training for all their lives, even as teenagers, and it's making him wish he'd been more attentive during his mystic lessons.

Sweet Pizza Supreme, Leo might have been better equipped for this. Then again, all of them are climbing in height and size, and his older brother's portals only work within sight when he doesn't know the layout. Won't last long, though. Draxum isn't just helping Mikey, after all.

For now, he has to find the closest vent and disappear into it.

He does and he's glad it's the middle of fall. Means he doesn't have to worry about the system being on as he travels in it. It also makes listening to conversations much easier as he manages to catch more than one person getting relieved of their position.

Nothing relevant. Just some friendly banter or complaining between colleagues. Better than nothing, though, he supposes, as it reminds him that, no matter how well these humans are equipped, they're still… fragile. Still thinking they're safe even though…

… God has his life changed since Krang.

He finally finds the grate that leads to the server room. The fact that it's fastened shut with screws pretty much gives it away even if it's relatively easy for him to open thanks to the tools Donnie lent him. Hell, it only makes his job easier as he drops atop the servers instead of on the floor where, if he had to guess, there's a motion-tracking system. Something the powder he releases just confirms.

… This is so different from when he was a teenager. And nothing pounds that in more than him shrinking while trying not to disappear into his shell when the door opens.

He hears the rifle the guard is holding getting shifted. He takes a breath and holds it as he lets the nictitating membrane slide over his eyes as the sound of footsteps echoes in the room. He's got thirty minutes, a good idea of where the soldier is, and, from the blinking lights he sees, the main server right in front of him.

Donnie had been thorough. He can't muck this up.

Timing his movement with the footsteps, he carefully makes his way to the end of the room while pulling out the stick that his brother in purple handed him. A quick jump and he gets atop the servers before plugging the stick into one of the available USB ports. He then taps on the communicator on his wrist to both turn on and send a message to Donnie.

Two shorts. One long, one short. He gets a light signal back, three long and one long, one short, one long, prompting him to exhale as quietly as he can before taking another breath and holding it. Wait. He just needs to wait. There are two signals he can receive and has to wait for. He's just not sure when he'll get them. At least if there's one thing he's started to learn from Draxum, it's patience.

And take other signals, like the red lights and the alarm that blares.

The morse code for "run" doesn't even have the time to start that he's already breaking Donnie's device and heading for the vent. He hears a rifle move and a shot take off just as he climbs in. More soldiers rush in and more shots are fired, this time into the ceiling as he tries to reach a corner and climb his way back up.

… Or down. They're shouting about the roof. They're going to be waiting for him up there, aren't they? God, he doesn't have time! He needs…

"Breathe, Michelangelo."

"I can't!"

"Then make it so you can."

He settles in a corner they can't fire in and breathes. Closes his eyes as he inhales and exhales. And he lets his fall back as he reaches as far as he can.

Had been the hardest lesson for him to get a grasp on, certainly after Leo disappeared, but he could only thank Draxum for making it the first thing he'd gotten a grasp on.

Both the roof and the entrance are covered. He can't escape. But there's a room with a lone soldier. If he can take them out and get their gear… Not the safest course of action, but safer than having his brothers bust him out. Now, it's just a question of pulling it off.

He leaves the corner and covers the distance. He finds the guard and breathes while biting his inner lip. A girl. Now this just makes him feel bad. At least she doesn't have her rifle yet. Not that it's going to help any with the vent falling out the moment he puts weight on it, sending him tumbling through.

He flinches as the semi-automatic is picked up. He shakily breathes as no shot is taken, just footsteps. He closes his eyes, praying to the Hamato Spirits that she might get closer only to curse under his breath as she stops moving.

"You the thing they're looking for?"

And blink at the question. Maybe. Maybe he's got a chance. If he can emulate his brother's behavior, maybe he can make it out.

"Maybe. Why do you ask?"

He hears something click before it's put away with a sigh and something like a locker door opens.

"Come on."

He flips around. Blinks as he watches the woman fumble through a locker — he's either in the break room or where the guards start their shift. And he narrows his eyes as a uniform is held out to him.

He… doesn't like this.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because no place like this should hire this much security without a good reason, and you're just the proof I needed."

But it's a way out, whether he likes it or not.

He takes the clothes and puts them on. After a quiet debate with himself, he even takes off this mask and grabs the cap the young lady tosses him before he's equipped with weapons he can't use as his brother's order rings in his mind along with the implications.

Get home safe. The data doesn't matter as long as he gets home. They'll just… need to find another way in.

And maybe, just maybe, he has one as he's helped out of the building and around the corner where he gets to take off the disguise and put his mask back on.

… Yeah, he's not liking this. Not enjoying this at all.

"Thanks"

"No problem. Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Sally! You done messing around?!"

Just like he hates leaving that mess behind.

He's got a name, though. And a name is more than enough.

He's up the building before the woman can turn back around to check on him. He breathes as he watches her make her way back to the building. And he reaches for his communicator, hoping that his first contact is…

"Mikey? You okay, little man?"

Exactly who responds. Thank goodness.

"I'm fine. Mission was a bust, though."

"Nothing you could have avoided. They have a hell of a protection system from what I heard Donnie say in between swears. We'll just need another way around."

"Yeah, well… I might have something."

"Do you, now?"

"Yeah. Talk about it when I'm home?"

"Sure thing, Miguel."

It had been a while since he'd been on a solo mission. He should feel proud. So why did this all make him feel… uneasy?

[scarlet--wiccan]

good afternoon in a avengers issue quicksilver was like Wanda is the only one who love me am I the only one who was bothered by that I mean what about Luna maximoff she adores him like my dude I love his character but he can be a bit of a you know what let’s keep this kid friendly he is a bit of a fart nugget I don’t like how marvel keep skipping over her anyway that is my opinion what do you think on it

Good afternoon! This is my inbox, not a private chat. If you have a question or are seeking any kind of information/critical analysis from me, I would really appreciate you making an effort to write legibly. I'm not saying this to be judgmental-- it's not a matter of language, it's just a matter of respect. Most people can do better than firing off a run-on stream of thought with no punctuation.

And if you want to ask me about a specific issue or incident, please cite the series title and issue number. There's no guarantee that I can know what comic you're talking about otherwise.The Avengers has been around for over 60 years-- "a avengers issue" tells me nothing.

I assume that you are asking about The Avengers (2023) #14, which is part of the Blood Hunt event. In it, Pietro has joined an ad hoc group of Avengers to take down the vampires attacking New York City, but his main goal is to rescue Wanda, who has been taken captive by the vampire leaders. Each of the heroes in this issue are introduced with a brief inner monologue, and Pietro's describes how he's driven away most of the people in his life except for his sister, who, in Pietro's words, is the one person left who loves him.

The purpose of this scene is to introduce Pietro as a new character to the book, as it's his first appearance in this volume, and establish his primary motive-- rescuing Wanda-- along with relevant information about his background and personality. All of these elements come into play, and are given greater nuance, as the story progresses, but this is just the introduction. These are extremely common writing conventions.

Pietro's impatience, prickly attitude, and personal priorities create tension with his teammates, but those tensions are resolved when Pietro demonstrates that he can be patient and cooperative when he needs to be. He is not being a "fart nugget," as you so evocatively described him-- he's actually showing a lot of growth, while still maintaining core personalities traits that have been part of his character for 60 years.

As for Luna-- she's not being overlooked here, as she and Crystal are mentioned at the top of Pietro's monologue, where he indicates that he has driven them away. Again, this is a simplification, but it's not untrue-- Pietro and Crystal have been estranged for a long time, and while Luna does love her father, but I wouldn't say she adores him. You might have missed it, but there was a whole decade or so where their relationship was really rocky after Pietro stole Terrigen crystals and coerced Luna into undergoing unregulated Terrigenesis. He initially lied and blamed these actions on a Skrull shapeshifter, but because of her powers, Luna knew the truth. Pietro eventually came clean, and Luna did forgive him, but she has a much more cynical view of him now. Pietro doesn't have custody of Luna, and her appearance in Scarlet Witch was the first indication in years that that even see each other any more-- in 2018's Quicksilver: No Surrender, Pietro saves Luna from an energy monster while lamenting that they're basically strangers.

Luna was an important presence in the late-90s Quicksilver series, had big plotlines with Pietro in the wake of HoM, was a very present and active character in All-New X-Factor, and has had cameos in every Quicksilver or Scarlet Witch-titled series in the last six years. As far as children of divorce go in superhero comics, that's actually pretty good. If it feels like she's not getting enough page time, maybe it's because Pietro himself doesn't get as much page time as he should, on top of the fact that the Inhumans have been basically shelved since 2018.

[chifuyusangel]

GONE

cw. replaced mc! au, neglect, angst just pure angst. not proofread as always.

did i just spend the whole morning reading om angst? yes i did <3

when the prince of hell announced that the exchange program was planning to have more students, you were happy! another human in the program, wouldn't it be nice to have someone more similar to you?

but with the gradual shift of how they treated you made you think twice. you'd understand at first, they're doing this to make them feel welcome after all! but you feel it, they're slowly becoming more distant with you, it just doesn't feel that way anymore. it's always 'the new student this', 'the new student that', when was the last time they cared about you?

all those precious moments you shared with them discarded just because of someone new?

you found yourself lost, just like you once were when you were new to the devildom. you didn't know who and where to run to. who were you to seek comfort when they just seemed to be doing just fine?

and so you left.

it hurt to leave the demons that you once loved and held dear, but it looks like they didn't need you anymore so you left it at that.

it took a couple of weeks for them to realize that something was missing. they were still caught up enjoying the new students company when they suddenly thought of you, when exactly was the last time they saw you? so they excused themself, hoping to find you in your room. he knocked, receiving no answer. 'well, that was odd', he thought to himself. he knocked again, calling your name, and still no response. he let himself in your room and the sight took him aback. your room where you shared memories together, stripped down to its barest form, it looked like it hasn't been touched for weeks.

"mc's gone!" his voice was heard throughout the house of lamentation. as if everyone was snapped out of their trance, they were shocked, what do you mean 'mc's gone'? they all hurried towards your room to find nothing, not even a note. they all scurried to find you, the others went to the purgatory hall to ask the angels and the sorcerer about your whereabouts, but they seem to be as clueless as the demons were. the others went to the demon's lord castle to ask diavolo if mc has gone there, to which the prince only shook his head no. they were feeling hopeless by the minute, how could they let this go this far? how could they let you go out if their arms like that? just how long were you keeping this to yourself until you decided to leave them altogether? they begged barbatos and diavolo to use their powers to see where you might've gone, but even the strongest ruler of hell was unable to answer their question. it's like you just decided to no longer exist, no trace of your once happy self left behind in devildom.

the brothers went back to the house of lamentation, feeling solemn as ever. it's like finally noticing your abscence took a huge toll on them. nothing was the same after that, it felt like a part of him was taken away from him. he often found himself dazed and staring into space. blaming himself for ever neglecting you and taking it too far. he finds his brothers in the same state, they weren't as happy as they were when you were still with them.

the days and weeks blurred for everyone, just how many weeks since they last saw you?

he doesn't know how he has fallen asleep, but something jolted him awake. his pact mark with you, it's glowing. he couldn't believe his eyes, were you finally calling for him? he fixed himself, preparing to finally meet you again. but none of it came, instead he saw his pact mark slowly fade away from his skin.

no, no, no! he stared at his skin frantically, where was your mark? it was just glowing a moment ago, you were gonna finally call for him! and it dawned upon him, you finally cut all ties with him. there was no way left for him to find you. what was left was the shell of his old self, hollow and dazed, still hoping that one day he can finally meet you again and atone for his sins.

[kit-williams]

Barn Anon. The second part. Uh... too dark?

The Ultramarine was frantically searching the makeshift base of the Chaos Warband. He's aware of the other Space Marines that had are part of this attempt to put down or at best drive away the Warband moving around and mercilessly butchering any surviving Chaos Marines. Behind him an Iron Hands is following him, he too had his human snatched up by these Chaos Marines.

The Ultramarine reaches some of the holding cells and his heart drops when he sees the numerous dead humans lying in and around the cells and cages. Were they too late? The Iron Hand lets out a pained cry and darts forward to tenderly pick up and cradle one of the broken bodies. Terror builds in the Ultramarine, was his human dead as well? He desperately searches the place. Then he finds her, his human... he effortlessly rips the cell door open and moves closer only for her to scream in terror and scramble back.

Her eyes. Her beautiful eyes. What have they done to her? He calls out in her, hoping to at she can recognize his voice. He quickly pulls her into his arms, she's trembling and mumbling pleas for mercy. Under his helmet, his eyes burn as tears start to flow. His sweet human... this wasn't supposed to happen, he shouldn't have let her travel on her own. This is his fault. He whispers apologies and promises in gothic, anything to soothe her. Please don't be afraid of him.

Part 2 part 1

Yeah anon this might be a bit dark

All heads snapped to the wailing Iron Hand as they all heard "They're dead! They're dead!" And all hell broke loose. The Word Bearer snarled as he fought his kin screaming dark promises for what happened to his charge... all the while the unbonded one tries to reason with his kin and telling him how he is freed from whatever madness has taken root.

The Khornites are let off their leash as they rush down the "feral" astartes. The humans that are left simply start screaming as to them its the end of the world... some who still have their mind left on them scream for their Astartes... howling their name. Bolter fire and plasma shot ring out as the roar of chain weapons fill the air as death has come to collect.

But when they see humans alive it's a mad rush around the base after the others are chased off or killed. Howls and roars of pain and anger ring out as corpses are found. The astartes do not understand why they feel this way towards a mortal but they simply do... they cherish their mortals dearly.

A wounded Lamenter hesitates as they look at the cages calling out softly before crying out in joy as their charge is safe. But, their charge wails out at the wounds their Astarte has endured. Bodies both alive and dead are collected and held close... as they try to soothe them... as they all beg for them to not fear them.

------

She squirms in her seat as she tries not to itch the skin touching the prosthetics the apothecarian installed after her eyes were ruined. They still itched badly... she had survived a feral chaos warband attempt... theory being they're trying to go home or something like that all the articles blend together like therapy does. But she had made progress enough to go find her Ultramarine.

She finally was missing his company as... she was in no state to be around him after what had happened. A common occurrence after surviving whatever the hell that was... was a fear of astartes. She still doesn't understand how those survivors with chaos astartes can stand them but it had taken her this long to even miss her ultramarine.

She looks at the two guarding the door... he was staying with a feral company of Ultramarines. Feral loyalists were less likely to openly attack humans... unless it was Iron Hands or Dark Angels. She was ready to give up when the doors opened and she recognized her Ultramarine even under that beard he was now sporting.

He knelt down just saying stuff softly like she was some skittish animal looking hurt... but she hugged him and sighed, "It took me awhile to finally be able to say this but I missed you buddy... are you ready to come home?"

She smiles as she feels him hug her back gently.

[ottpopfic]

It's not the first time Nico has had to turn their ass back around the way they came because they fucked some underworld something in what di Angelo has dubbed their ‘Gay Chicken On Steroids Quest’. He's equally pissed at both Leo and Jason every time, so Leo tries to take some solace in that

Like, hooray Leo we‘re glad you're back, go back from whence you came we gotta go close the hole you crawled out of or whatever

---

The last death

-

Leo is alive, again, for like the sixth time 

Something something Jason went off to gather parts of all the plants people have been turned into to make a sacrifice? Dr. Frankenbonsi a Leo? He's not sure, all he knows is he got spat out of Thalia’s tree and it was both gross and hella painful. Not the worst resurrection so far, but definitely the one with the most tree sap

Also, Nico’s pissed again that they fucked around too much. Whatever Jason did with his spooky tree thing has apparently made a weak spot for underworld magic and now they have to go close it 

It's not the first time Nico has had to turn their ass back around the way they came because they fucked some underworld something in what di Angelo has dubbed their ‘Gay Chicken On Steroids Quest’. He's equally pissed at both Leo and Jason every time, so Leo tries to take some solace in that

Like, hooray Leo we‘re glad you're back, go back from whence you came we gotta go close the hole you crawled out of or whatever

The issue this time isn't how Leo came back, but the fucking cultist that have taken over the spot Jason did his Zuse wood magic thing

They end up in Newport State Park near the tippy-top point of Wisconsin’s peninsula, in a clearing in a grove of Oak and Linden trees. The place has to be hidden by the mist, Leo has checked the satellite imaging on Google Maps multiple times as they trek through the trees and underbrush to see nothing out of the ordinary, or even a landmark. There's some kind of temple off up a hill with way too many Canadian Geese guarding it, but that's not what they're after 

What they are after is the lowlands under the temple where the earth was carved away by an ancient flood. The trees never grew back there, leaving room for the milkweed, cardinal flowers, and forget-me-nots to flourish under the sun. It would be a lovely sight, if the flowers hadn't been trampled by the cultists

Fucking cultists, they're digging a hole

“What's with the hole?” Piper asks. The three of them are up in the brush at the top of the hill across from the temple, watching the robed dudes down below and desperately avoiding the geese. 

“Fuck if I know” Nico monotones

“Dude, you're the whole reason we're here,” Leo gapes “How do you not know what's up with the hole?”

“Just because I know that cultists are fucking around doesn't mean I know the method to their madness” Nico grouches 

“Oh no wait I think they're planting that guy,” Piper identifies “Or burying him alive? Whatever there's a dude going in the hole”

“Yeah, looks like it's time to step in,” Nico tosses the binoculars back at Leo to stash in his tool belt and draws his spooky-ass sword “Whatever you do don't bother the geese, I think they are only here for the temple”

“There is no way in hell I'm fucking with a goose,” Leo relents, tucking everything away “Have you ever been one on one with a goose, because I have”

“Oh yeah same,” Nico shudders “I got chased by like four of them when I was homeless in Central Park”

“Fucking vicious right!?” 

“Yeah, if I didn't know better I'd say they were hell spawn”

“Is there a plan?” Piper cuts in before they start down what she calls ‘sad homeless orphan lamentations’

“Keep the cult from burying anyone, don't die,” Nico tells them “I can close the weak point once we clear them out”

“Fantastic,” Piper says 

They end up splitting up slightly, being outnumbered puts a damper on charging in even if it looks mostly like mortals below. Nico poofs off one way whereas Leo and Piper sneak off the other, it works for about eight seconds before they are spotted in the wildflowers 

“You there!” cries one of the cultists pointing “Show yourself!“

“What is he a fucking Monty Python character” Piper grumps

“Hello!” Leo improvises, standing abruptly “Hello fellow cult members, I have come to uh, help you with the cult stuff” Leo can see Nico facepalm in a patch of swamp lupine on the other side of the hill

“Yep sure do love digging holes and putting people in them, uh” Leo is apparently now the distraction because Piper is lining up her blow dart as his hip and Nico is creeping in from the back “Sure am excited using a whole ass man as a seed, that's definitely gonna appease our god!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” cuts in one of the cult guys in the back, Piper blow darts him two seconds later

Things go fast from there. There are six above-ground cult members and one fancy one in the hole, Nico quickly takes out the one next to Mr. Blow Dart In The Neck. Leo pulls a handsaw and a ball peen hammer out of his belt, whipping the hammer at the closest robed figure and following a knife-wielding Piper into the fray 

It's the classic chaos of a close combat fight; dodge, duck, swipe at a weak spot, and don't hit your friends. They're holding their own pretty well for being outnumbered in a goose poop-filled muddy clearing. But it's when Leo turns to throw another hammer at the man starting to overpower Piper that he hears a new voice enter the equation

“Leo!”

And there he is, it's Jason. 

He's alive, walking talking breathing moving of his own accord. Or he would be, if the knife that was meant for Leo wasn't sticking out of his back

Leo hasn't seen him in three years . 

“Jason?”

They lock eyes for a second, blue to brown, and then Jason gives one hard bloody cough. Leo can see the tip of the knife just piercing through his shirt, the smallest hit of silver surrounded by spreading red

“ Jason !”

The Hole Cultist pulls his blade up first, making a sick crunching and ripping noise accompanied by Jason’s cut-off scream, before wrenching it back out and kicking the blond away. Jason falls hard, and he stays down, the robed man turning back to his original target of Leo with a sneer. There is a lot of blood, like the knife went through a major artery or organs or something, pooling around where Jason lays barely moving, it makes Leo see red

He tends not to be the one fighting in the front lines, especially not with his fire. Like Leo can defend himself and others if he needs to, but he much prefers to launch wrenches at people like Ratchet from Transformers or act as a support. Fire is too hard to control in close or crowded combat, and there is too high a risk of hurting someone friendly or catching the landscape ablaze

Leo doesn't really care about that right now, his body moves on its own

Charbroiled he thinks the term is, or at least extra crispy, because for once Leo is not holding back. That tight panicked control he's had to keep on his fire his whole life whips away from him in a flash of light and heat at the cultist, a Saturn's rings of flame surrounding him and then projected at the man. Either way, there's not much left of them when he's done, half the flesh seared off the bone and all

“Jason!” Leo screams as he turns back, scrambling away from the horror show he's made of the robed figure and sliding on his hands and knees next to the blond. He gathers Jason into his arms and onto his lap, not caring for the blood and viscera that are coating them both, Jason grabs him back with shaking hands the best he can “ Jason !”

“O-oh hey,” Jason says like he's not actively bleeding out “It's good to see you”

“Jason, what the fuck” Leo cries, vision blurring with the water in his eyes “Don't do this to me!”

“It’s okay,” Jason tries to soothe him through the blood in his mouth, gore-slick hands losing their grip on Leo’s jacket and looking straight into Leo’s eyes like a promise “I'll get you on-on the n-next round, just-just wait, for me” and then he's gone, the light leaving him In one last desperate rasping breath

“No no no nonono no! ” Leo begs through his tears, shaking him in his arms like it will make Jason’s spirit come back to his body “Jason come on please! ”

It's not fair, he's right here and it's not fair . They were so close, Leo can feel how close they were to making it

He's on fire, he knows he is but he doesn't have it in him to care. It's whipping around like a storm, like a tornado, pouring off of him harder and hotter than it's ever been, the heat making Jason's body slowly cremate in his arms. All Leo can do is burn and sob, hunched over what's left of the man he's so desperate for even as other things around them catch with him

It's not fair, they were so close and it's not fair

Leo is done. He's played by the rules and bent over backwards to appease the gods and this is what they get? They were never going to let Leo have him, it's always been just a show, just another stupid myth to add to the collection. Here's a parable on what wanting what you can't have will do to you, it is storm or fire after all

Leo is over it, he's going to write his own story

He can hear Piper’s panicked voice somewhere off somewhere, but he can't find it in him to care for once. If he's going to die this time for this at least she won't be there like all the other deaths. Maybe she can be spared for once

It's hot, his fire, so hot for once it's blue. Jason’s body might be dust slipping through his hands but Leo knows without needing to look it's the same color as his eyes

So he hulls himself up. He's still burning, the ash that is Jason combining with the ash and stone that is the landscape and changing. Magma, lava, stone and glass. 

Obsidian 

Leo walks 

And the ground melts away

He walks the whole way down like that, all the way to the underworld. Nothing stops him, not the earth or spirits or monsters, nothing even tries. He creates his own tunnel like that, burning his entrance to the upside down, an Obsidian Field

He may not be falling into the planet, but it sure is close

Leo doesn't waste time when he gets to the upside down, beelining it to the queue of souls waiting to be judged, honed in on the blond like he's being reeled in by the heartstrings. He's terrified, he's breaking so many rules, but he can't care about that right now. He won't care about it. If they want to strike him down for this Leo can just step in behind Jason, he's not above cutting in line.

It doesn't take Leo long to find him, in the long procession of semi-transparent dead people Jason is surprisingly opaque. He has a hand in his grody ripped jeans pockets and staring at an outcropping of stalagmites like a crappy waiting room TV. The microsecond Leo is close enough he grabs him out of line by the hand, Jason looks surprised to see him so soon

“We are leaving ” Leo demands through his teeth

“Okay,” Jason says, and then Leo drags him back the way he came

He doesn't let go of Jason's hand the whole way up, but he doesn't look at him either, just in case.

When they get upstairs the land around them is one big sheet of black glass with the hole to the new underworld entrance smack dab in the middle. there's a spot in front of them, where the new stone is discolored and rippled like water. Where Jason died, where Leo caught fire. It’s kinda pretty in a way, glittering and reflective, but nothing looks better than turning around and Jason still being there

“Hi,” Jason says, a huge grin on his face

“Hey,” Leo breathes back, still terrified their both about to be whisked away back under

“I missed you,” Jason tells him, squeezing his hand

“ Dude ” Leo is trembling, is this really happening?

“Just, come here ”

Jason pulls him into an embrace by their joined hands, and Leo melts into it holding him back like a lifeline. 

It's probably the best hug in existence Leo thinks, even though it's one-armed and they are both hella gross. But it's Jason , and he's here. He's here and he's sticking his stupid handsome face in Leo’s hair and pulling him in so tight it makes his ribs hurt. Leo thought he had run out of tears somewhere between the Metamorphic Rocks and the Mantle, but apparently not. He's sobbing into Jason’s nasty ass shirt, and Jason lets go of his hand just to hold him tighter

“Holy shit!” Leo hears Piper shreek in the distance “Holy shit he did it! ”

There's more screaming, the sound of friends and family inbound across the still-steaming ground, but right now it's just Leo and Jason standing in the cooling obsidian 

Leo looks up at him, just to make sure it's true and Jason is here for realzies this time. He's met with blue eyes, blue like the sky above them clear of clouds, blue like the heart of the hottest flames, blue like home

“Let's go home,” Leo tells him

“Okay,” Jason replies, seconds before Piper body slams them both to the ground “Let's go home”

---

@queenjunothegreat

[ddejavvu]

A little request 🥰 Injured rugbyJames! He gets roughed up at a game you couldn’t go to and he tries to keep it covered up cause he knows how you worry- you don’t realise until he gets into bed that night with a shirt on… he never wears a shirt to bed, you interrogate him and figure out what’s going on, worrying when you see the bruises

today is multiverse monday, send me any au you can think of! :)

--

For once, James is glad you hadn't been at his games. He'd initially been bummed, because he always wants to see you in the stands, but tonight had taken a rather unfortunate turn, and you're better off not knowing. You're sleeping blissfully under the blankets after a double shift at work, and he manages to get himself ready for bed without waking you.

But when he crawls beneath the covers you realize the bed is dipping, and you force your eyes open to greet him.

"Jamie?" You coo, voice thick with sleep. He can't help but smile, wrapping his arms around you when you roll over into his embrace.

"Hi, love," He croons, kissing the crown of your head as you bury your face in his chest, "How was work?"

"It was-" You start, but your face hits fabric instead of skin and you frown. Even in your sleepy haze, you're too smart for him.

"Jamie," You tug at the hem of his shirt, "What's this for?"

"Hm?" He plays dumb, "Oh, the shirt? That's- um, it was cold in the bathroom. So I just slipped it on."

"Take it off," You whine, "Wanna cuddle you."

"Okay," James sits up clumsily, trying to keep his chest sheltered from your suspicious view. He rips the garment off over his head, chucking it aimlessly onto the floor near the closet.

"Jamie!" You scold, "Don't leave it on the floor! Go get that."

James groans, frustrated more that he can't get away with it than he is with your cleanliness, "Right. Just don't turn on the-" A soft click is his only warning before the room is bathed in the soft, warm glow of your bedside lamp, and James's back stiffens where it's turned to you.

"What is- James!" You gush, now wide awake as you scramble to sit up in bed, "James, are you hurt? Oh my god, those are- those are bruises! James, you're hurt, let me-"

You stumble onto the floor, bedsheet tangled around your legs, and you're luck to escape its clutches before it sends you to the floor. James turns to reassure you but forgets that there's another purplish patch on his chest, only fueling your horror.

"It's okay!" He rushes to console you, cupping your cheeks that are stretched over your gaping mouth. You're looking at the bruises like they're fatal wounds, and he redirects your gaze to his own with a sweet smile.

"Love, I'm alright," He promises, "I know it looks bad, but s'not, I promise. They hurt a little bit, but that's all. Jus' got a bit banged up." He keeps his tone light and airy, but it does little to quell the surge of nerves rising in your chest.

"James," You whimper, worry plaguing your sweet voice, "What happened? Wh- did you get hit by a truck? These look awful," You lament, brushing your fingers over James's torso.

"No, darling, it wasn't a truck," He laughs, keeping you grounded with his hands on your cheeks even if you're distracted by his injuries, "I got to ice them on the field. And they barely hurt now, I'll put some more ice on them tomorrow. I promise I'm alright, I just didn't want you to freak out. Okay?"

He ducks his head down so that his nose bumps your own, and you're forced to look at his face. You can't resist his shiny, pretty eyes, even if you're still worried about the state of his bruises.

"Alright," You stammer, nodding along as he ushers you back to bed, "Alright, Jamie. Should- should I sleep on the couch? What if I accidentally hurt you," You linger by the bedside, but he pulls you down with him so that you're draped over the part of his chest that isn't bruised.

You frantically try protesting, worried about a stray elbow or an accidental kick, but he locks you in place with one of his large arms, kissing your forehead.

"I want you here," He hums, throwing the blankets over your back and trapping himself beneath them as well. He pretends to think, scratching his nails down your back under the covers, "Y'know, I bet if you kiss them, they'll heal faster."