#slcvicshadow

send a  🎁, get a present

Wanda: @thcscarletwltch

Erik had never forgotten his roots in Juadism. Thus, when the Holidays rolled around, he decided that he would not send a single gift to his daughter on Christmas, a day which meant nothing to him. Instead, beginning December 12, he started having his Brotherhood leave small gifts at her doorstep. 

The first was a menorah. Simple, handcrafted, one he had found many years ago in Russia. ‘I hope you do not mind the intrusion, Scarlet Witch,’ he wrote. ‘But I heard that you are also of the faith, and I worried you may not have one of these. It is an old antique, but I trust you will take excellent care of it.’ 

The second, he sent a dreidel tucked into a bouquet of blue and white flowers. Another note was attached. ‘If these gifts are a nuisance, please inform me. I will cease. I hope you are having a happy Hanukkah.’

Third, a cookbook, entitled Traditional Jerusalem Dishes. He had to assume his gifts were welcome, so he continued.

The forth night, he sent over latkes, made with his own hands, and a gift card for a local restaurant. She could take Pietro if she felt so inclined. 

On day five, he had a necklace made. Simple and gold, with her name written in traditional Hebrew. וונדה

The sixth night, he merely sent a note. ‘I have donated to a Sokovian relief fund, in your spirit.’ He supposed they would not be pleased to hear her name, so he kept it anonymous. While it pained him to support so many non-mutants, this gift was not about him. 

The seventh night arrived, and he sent her a ring. A ruby, bright red and shining, not unlike her own powers. 

❤ for an affectionate text

✂ for a worried text about the receiver

¿ - for nebula to ask peter a personal or uncomfortable question: 

It wasn’t often that Nebula voluntarily hung around the Gardens. She much preferred the company (or lack thereof) of her own ship. But she had run out of food, and while stealing from Terrans was easy, it was also tedious. Besides, the Starlobe owed her.

The Gardens had lit a small fire, not far from the wreckage of their ship, and eaten around that. They had been wary at first, but Gamora’s looks had silenced any comments. (Most of them, she still heard the fox and the twig whispering to each other.) The others had long since retired, even Gamora eventually succumbed to her exhaustion. She gave Quill a pointed look before stepping back onto the ship, and glanced back like she might say something to Nebula, but thought better of it.

Now they were alone, the orange flames casting strange shadows along his pale skin. Nebula watched him for a moment, wondering how this small, insignificant creature had managed to hold an infinity stone. Had bested not only her, but Gamora and Ronin. Had foiled her father’s plans. From what she gathered on Ego, though, he was far from only human. 

(✉ → hot wife): i’ve been told it’s a mixture of infuriated, exasperated, and turned on.

[a few minutes later]

♥ - for my muse to express physical affection to yours

It was dark.

Clint had always hated the dark. When he was a kid, it’d been that childish kind of fear, the idea that things were lurking in the shadows ready to pounce the second the lights went out. Then, he’d lost his hearing and the fear grew more desperate. Suddenly, it wasn’t quite so irrational. Clint couldn’t hear danger coming, and he relied on his eyes far more than he’d like to admit. Without his eyesight, he had nothing. He was completely useless. In the dark, he was more of a liability than an asset. 

And now, it was dark. 

He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, couldn’t hear anything at all (where were his aides?), but somehow he knew she was there. It was like he felt her calling out for him despite the sensory deprivation. For the first time since he’d first come across her in Russia, her presence brought fear instead of comfort.

Clint reached blindly into the shadows, searching for her. Every time, it was like she slipped just beyond his grasp, and the panic inside of him grew. She was close and she needed him and he was useless. 

Suddenly, without warning, a spotlight turned on. Clint blinked against the light, wincing at the sudden brightness as his vision adjusted. She was the first thing he saw. She was red, red all over, soaked through with blood, and Clint stumbled towards her. “No, no, no,” he muttered desperately, and suddenly he could hear, too. He turned her over and her eyes were open and unseeing and his heart stopped.

She was gone. She was dead and he failed her and suddenly, being afraid of the dark had never felt less childish.

Clint awoke with a start, sitting up in bed quickly. His heart pounded against his ribcage with such force that, if he weren’t intimately familiar with what could and couldn’t bust a rib, he might have been concerned for his bones. In a panicked frenzy, he turned to the spot next to him where Natasha slept, putting a hand on her back to feel her breathing, two fingers on her neck to feel her pulse.

She was okay. She was alive. He hadn’t failed her yet. 

He couldn’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around her and pressing a firm kiss to the back of her hair, trying desperately to calm his breathing. He knew it’d wake her up -- she’d always been a light sleeper -- but he needed the reassurance, needed to remind himself that she was solid. “I love you,” he muttered, biting back the I’m sorry that desperately wanted to accompany it. 

Send “✘” for a HATEFUL text