#gravestone memes

[icantfindthatonerpmeme]

What would your muse write as my muse’s epitaph (gravestone)?

It can be something loving, funny, or straight up evil!

[geekhatter]

can we have a petition for having your favourite meme displayed on your gravestone when we die? Imagine, then the graveyard would also serve as kind of a museum of how humor changed over the ages

[tonyandhisbots-archive]

It’s the same formula as it always is. Clint wakes while the sky is still a stained and grimy grey, before the sun has managed to dispel the darkness that settles over the city.

He dresses. He heads out of the door without a word, without telling anyone where he’s going.

The cemetery looks as it always does, save for the seasonal changes - the way the leaves turn from green to yellow to russet, the way the flowers come and go, the way the light changes.

He sits with his back against Tony’s headstone. Once, he’d worried that it might be disrespectful - and then he remembered whose grave he was at, whose death he was mourning. He figures Tony’d like the company.

"Stark Industries got the city’s contracts for transport development," he says, dutifully, because Pepper’s often too busy to visit and say that kid of thing for herself. “R&D fitted me out with this - this badass sonar thing that I don’t understand at all. They said with practice I might be a decent marksman again. It’s good, but I know you’d have done it better."

His fingers drag through the grass he sits on, find a small flower. He brushes a finger across the petals, considers picking it, leaves it as is.

"I miss you." In the distance, a bird starts singing. “Still don’t quite believe that there’s so much we’re not going to get to share." Another silence, comfortable, as one between old friends or good lovers.

"Everyone else tries to give me what I need, but it’s not the same as with you." He stays a while longer, describes the blind-colours of the sky, the colour of the cold air on his face and the earthy grass beneath his fingers and the small, empty hollow in his heart. Eventually, he stands, turns to face the gravestone. Feels no shame in kissing his fingers and letting them drag across the stone.

"I’ll see you tomorrow."

It’s the same routine it always is. Every morning, rain or shine. Clint has no idea it’s an anniversary, that today was the day. He doesn’t keep count, anymore.

There’s no point.

---- (( ...You broke the Wasa and she is no longer under warranty. Alternatively Becca, GO TO JAIL. AND NO YOU MAY NOT COLLECT TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS WHEN YOU PASS GO YOU JERK.))