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bakerstreet2019-04-27 07:57 pm
hydrates) wrote in bakerstreet2019-04-27 07:57 pm
[ a new life would be perfect, pls and thanks. endgame compliant, go for it ]
"You know, I really didn't miss all this chopping wood. Did trees get more solid in the last five years?" Clint said, taking another swing at the piece of log and splitting it. To be honest he was glad that he was able to complain about this. Glad that Nat was here to complain to even if she would likely call him on his bullshit or give him a hard time about his age.
Clint didn't care about any of that stuff because he didn't always have the luxury of complaining about this stuff. But he could absolutely bitch about it without taking it for granted.
"Where's Thor with that big ass ax when you need him? He could stand to get in a good workout."
Clint didn't care about any of that stuff because he didn't always have the luxury of complaining about this stuff. But he could absolutely bitch about it without taking it for granted.
"Where's Thor with that big ass ax when you need him? He could stand to get in a good workout."
all your friends are dead but also so are you in a way so ??
logomachist
2019-04-28 03:01 am (UTC)(link)
Waking up weak and shaken isn't new. Waking up with an existential dread in the back of his throat isn't either. It's waking up with the scent of humanity drenching his senses.
Enjolras isn't certain who dragged them free of the wreckage of their lives. Everything is in bits and pieces, as shattered in his memories as the night he had actually died. There are flashes of certainty (Combeferre's eyes roll toward the sky without even the chance to scream; Courfeyrac's body crumbles in the center of the barricade), but few that make the night properly clear again.
He knows his fangs had ripped into his own wrist to press properly fresh drops over Grantiare's lips. He knows, when he regained himself, the night had barely been clinging well enough for him to drag them both into the proper darkness of his closet of an apartment. He knows that he had fallen into the stupor of dawn with his head pressed to Grantaire's chest, willing the one last piece of his life here to keep beating.
His eyes are too heavy to lift properly, but the air certainly tastes as familiar as Grantaire's blood.
Enjolras isn't certain who dragged them free of the wreckage of their lives. Everything is in bits and pieces, as shattered in his memories as the night he had actually died. There are flashes of certainty (Combeferre's eyes roll toward the sky without even the chance to scream; Courfeyrac's body crumbles in the center of the barricade), but few that make the night properly clear again.
He knows his fangs had ripped into his own wrist to press properly fresh drops over Grantiare's lips. He knows, when he regained himself, the night had barely been clinging well enough for him to drag them both into the proper darkness of his closet of an apartment. He knows that he had fallen into the stupor of dawn with his head pressed to Grantaire's chest, willing the one last piece of his life here to keep beating.
His eyes are too heavy to lift properly, but the air certainly tastes as familiar as Grantaire's blood.
[Info post is on my journal. Tl;dr he's not an ordinary human. Interspecies relations are a go.]
Edited 2019-04-28 16:01 (UTC)
She can’t remember, not wholly, how she came to be here, this idyllic place of fine gardens and white picket fences, of fine houses and cherry trees down the avenue, and things that seems just perfect all the time.
The knowledge that there are pieces of her memory (her stories, herself) that are gone is not something entirely easy to take in stride. Who was she before, and what could she do? There are times when she sits at the side of the river and sees the early morning sun dance on the water’s surface, and for a moment there is such a lightness in her, such a joy, that she can hardly stand it.
Looking at Natasha is similar, sparks flames in her that warm her, rather than reduce her to ash.
“Do you remember the day we met?”
Light and easy going, as though it were just any conversation. As though she weren’t glancing over her shoulder towards Natasha to see if anything registers in her expression, to see if there were any sign that Natasha was plagued by the same familiarity without memory that troubles more and more. Was Natasha starting to slowly worry at the lose threads of memory as Jayanti was, or was she the weaver of them? Was Jayanti sending tremors along strands of a web that would draw a hunter to her?
The knowledge that there are pieces of her memory (her stories, herself) that are gone is not something entirely easy to take in stride. Who was she before, and what could she do? There are times when she sits at the side of the river and sees the early morning sun dance on the water’s surface, and for a moment there is such a lightness in her, such a joy, that she can hardly stand it.
Looking at Natasha is similar, sparks flames in her that warm her, rather than reduce her to ash.
“Do you remember the day we met?”
Light and easy going, as though it were just any conversation. As though she weren’t glancing over her shoulder towards Natasha to see if anything registers in her expression, to see if there were any sign that Natasha was plagued by the same familiarity without memory that troubles more and more. Was Natasha starting to slowly worry at the lose threads of memory as Jayanti was, or was she the weaver of them? Was Jayanti sending tremors along strands of a web that would draw a hunter to her?
[Are you good to go for Endgame stuff or no?]
[ compliant with endgame or earlier. ]
Edited 2019-04-28 22:35 (UTC)
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