CORRUPTED LUNGS

[xeightyhg]

-sonic x theme song playing in the background-

                       Anonymously tell me what you think of my character portrayal.

     THANKS–

[shxriffwoody-deactivated2014071]

Anonymously tell me what you think of my character portrayal.

[xeightyhg]

TREE?:

          It is not so uncommon a thing she does, she thinks, even as she sinks into the bark of the tree. The life that thrums within, slow and yet sentient, fills her with peace, and she feels her own heart slow, feels her own thoughts still and fade until all she can feel is the wind in her leaves and the cool earth around her roots. 

           Such peace does not last long though, until another cheek is pressed to her own, and startled she feels the whole tree sway and creak. The bark retreats from around her, and she tries not to laugh ; the both of them were hugging a tree, but it seems he had not a clue that she had been there, just beneath the surface.

                                  “Go find your own tree!” Haleth is only joking, voice full of mirth, the words spilling happily from her lips. Gently, she pushes the boy off of her, and steps away from the comfort of the tree behind her. 

Pietro figures he’s stopped being surprised.  It’s impossible -- assassins, frozen heroes, men with metal in their chest and a god.  ( Also the robot and the more normal people.  But we don’t talk about the robot. )  As a child, red light spilled from his sister’s fingertips, and Pietro forgot what surprise tasted like on the back of his tongue.  She was everything.  Her power made the rest of the world a bit less bright.

Having a tree release a human is not SURPRISING.  He is... startled, however.  Voice petering into a high pitched sound as he backs up wildly, nearly numb to the flare of pain where the heel of her palm touches a gauze stuffed hole.  All he can fathom is silence.  No tease, no comment on powers.  Pietro does shift slowly around her to look at the still whole tree.

      “What, wait what--”  Both of his hands are held high, a silent request for time out.  “Who?  What?”

[xeightyhg]

???:

     Does it?

[ the scent of chamomile curls around her senses, gentle and calming. raven finds herself even more baffled. ]

     You think I need to relax?

     Yeah, your hair is dark --      I can never pull off white flowers.

( he smiles, loose and easy.  it’s   no difficulty to appreciate the    myriad of looks his crowns earn   him. )

     Everyone needs to relax!  But,      yeah -- you too.

[xeightyhg]

ssamuraiedge ::

     “Hey --”

He zips to the larger man’s side, a grin plastered over his features.

     “You dropped your wallet.”

( He stole it. )

     “Nice photo on your I.D.”

And offers it out, walking backwards to keep pace with him.

[xeightyhg]

MIA:

Luckily for Pietro, she doesn’t bother questioning him about what he’s doing ( since it’s not her phone he’s messing around with in the first place ). However, Mia couldn’t help but to watch him from her seat while she gathered up the unfinished paperwork into a pile.

     “Don’t--”

The phone lands on the table between them. Follow by him.  Head, shoulders, and then half  of his entire body half sprawled across wood and papers.  

      “Mnggh.”

[xeightyhg]

CHO:

[text → the roadrunner] i’ll definitely need to weigh you again then [text → the roadrunner] how’s the wound going? 

[text; has good sweaters]   no don’t wanda will get concerned and try to feed me [text; has good sweaters]   or she won’t i can never tell anymore [text; has good sweaters]   it’s good, i broke out of the hospital again! [text; has good sweaters]   how are you, super famous awesome doctor?

[xeightyhg]

( Sidenote: Just felt like saying that your portrayal of Pietro is wicked, and that I always appreciate seeing you on the dashboard with the wit and humor; but, aside from that, you seem to really enjoy your writing and have a blast, which is awesome to see when most people tend to be doom-and-gloomy. So, keep on rockin', and thanks for making the dashboard awesome. )

       ( eee thank you so much!  i love pietro a lot, he’s my sunshine spirit because hey, even through what he’s been through he’s completely determined to be a happy person.  also kind of a dick because of his pranks.  but i digress, this was wonderful to wake up to.  i feel a lot better right now. )

[xeightyhg]

I’ve been in a bad mood since two thousand and seven.

                                                            meme.  accepting.

Silence.  Run.  No, really.  Run.  He’s up to no good, the scrutinizing look that he’s caught Johanna with is far too piercing to mean anything more than trouble.  If you don’t get arrested–

     “Ice cream.”

He grins.

      “Ice cream can cure your blues, let’s go!”

[xeightyhg]

the first time i'm sending ths i swear "Are you from Europe because europiece of shit. "

                                                             meme.  accepting.

     “Jo—”

    Oh my god, she’s cheating.  She knows the answer and she’s cheating, that bee, how DARE she!  This isn’t fair!  None of it is fair!

          “No, y’know what?  I quit.  I’m not answering that!  I quit!  I’m done!  Nope!”

[xeightyhg]

I don’t trust people who can look good with messy hair.

                                                              meme.  accepting.

     “Sorry, not sorry.”

He shakes his head violently as more strands collapse around his face.

[toomuchtelly]

Ask Memes;; Tumblr Post Edition

And then Satan said “put the alphabet in math”.

Sometimes I think I’m sassy and then I realise I’m just too sarcastic and borderline mean.

Do my dark undereye circles and unwashed hair turn you on? 

I love sunglasses! Am I looking at that tree? Am I looking at your dick? Who knows!

This is the police, open up, tell me about yourself, don’t be afraid.

Raise your hand if you’re a lil’ bit of an asshole. 

Why don’t people do random nice things for me? You know, send me a message, draw me, paint me, send me three hundred thousand dollars.

I am three years behind on math homework. 

I don’t like your clothes; take them off. 

What if you start making car alarm noises when people you don’t like touch you?

Hey, is your girlfriend seeing anyone?

I get butterflies when I think about myself. 

When you see a good body and you just can’t think of a good pun. IT’s dev-ass-tating.

Umm… hi. My friend wanted to know if you think I’m hot. 

To quote Hamlet, act three, scene three, line ninety two, “no.”

I never run voluntarily so if you see me running, you should probably run too because something must be coming. 

I’ve got a masters degree in being ignored. 

I will do a lot of things, but admitting to my mum that I’m cold after she told me to bring a jacket isn’t one of them. 

Dads are either too nice or assholes; there’s no in between.

On a scale of fake pockets to nachos, how good is your idea? 

I’m alive, but only ironically. 

I’ve been in a bad mood since two thousand and seven. 

No, you’re not as funny as me. Stop trying. 

Just suck my dick, bro. I said no homo like, five times. 

I love it when people try to hurt my feelings because I don’t have any. 

-sighs- Why am I better than everyone? 

I don’t trust people who can look good with messy hair. 

If my jokes offend you - one; I’m sorry. Two; it won’t happen again. Three; one and two are lies. Four; you’re a pussy. 

If I go to hell, I’m just going to torture everyone by continually asking if it’s hot in here of if it’s just me. 

My love is like a candle; if you forget me, I will burn your fucking house down. 

Let’s play a game called “Guess My Sexuality”. 

I’m angry and quite offended that you don’t have a crush on me. 

Are you from Europe because europiece of shit. 

[xeightyhg]

GRUMP:

Probably true, killing someone would take energy that at the moment he just didn’t have. That didn’t mean he enjoyed being pestered, he was in no way good at humoring people today.  Right now his head was pounding  and he wanted a drink. “Are you high? Shit, you’re annoying.”

Fair point.  Truthfully -- yes, he’s not that long waiting between the escape and the thrum in his veins, it’s still full power.  Dizzying when he turns his head to the left. But to admit that --  he’s not that stupid.

     “Naw.  You okay, man?  You’re depressing.”

[yotsuba-and-reactions]

[xeightyhg]

PROPHET:

SUPERMASSIVE BLACK HOLE

Eisenhardt is an old name. Not as old as her own ( royal & blessed & biblical ), but still of considerable age. It is a good name, strong & heavy with its history, bloodlines & family trees flash beneath her darkened eyelids. There is a small growth that takes place in her smile, it is a treasure that sits behind her teeth, stardust structures keeping the horrors of the Universe inside. The most massive of galaxies were her innards, drenched in interstellar medium & dark matter. She is pleased! A happiness makes her countenance shine, an event horizon devouring & crushing light. 

In the presence of the Prophet, he is home. 

She reveals her identity to the boy, a title that resonates in every organic being in the Universe, bone-rattling vocals plunging syllables into inscrutable depths, slowly spoken phonetics were like a hundred hands grabbing his heart & squeezing the cardiac muscle tightly ( too tightly ). It originates from the wisest king that wrote the Shir ha-Shirim, the sacred progeny of a righteous monarch & warrior that founded a messianic dynasty. It is as ancient as humanity itself. The question she asks him is a knife that slices open his bones.

❝ I am the Shepard. Are you one of the People, Pietro? ❞

His body shivers, a natural curl towards her -- something of instinct and conscious AWARENESS that knows there is a difference between all beings and her.  His chin juts upwards, his eyes large and huge as he sucks in clean oxygen.  Tastes galaxies on his tongue, revels in the flavor.  Pietro can only fathom how many have been gifted the right to see her smile, the parting of lips to show bright shining teeth.  Answers with his own, softer and human -- even in his mutation, his difference that is hated and calls for blood.  It is not hate that he feels in the back cortex of his fast speeding mind.  Not the constant underlying concern of butcher.  Horror.  Of violence from bigotry.  

In her presence, he is safe.  Pietro’s head dips immediately.  A wavering motion as he feels the slow rumbling power of something not her, but her, not him and yet HIM, and it’s overwhelming as he takes a step backwards.  Shifts and wavers as the answer bubbles inside of his chest.  He is OF the people, it courses through his blood from his father, and from his mother, a line racing backwards through time to a beginning that he never had the chance to learn.  Ending in the story of sorrow and brutal injustice -- the tale his father writes to erase one almost identical.  

Pietro’s breath is shaky as it escapes his lungs.  

      “I am.  I... my father.  Left when I was an        infant.  If I am, I am afraid that what little        I know would... shame me, Prophet.  He        never taught me.  And my mother -- is not        the same ancestry.  She is of the Old Blood        of the Romani people.”

His tongue wets his lips, and he swallows through the tight channel of his throat.

      “I wish I could be more certain, Prophet.”

( It sounds like an apology. )

[xeightyhg]

CLINT:

               THE FLUORESCENT HOSPITAL lights are unkind, scrawling across the off-white walls, birthing thick, spidery shadows that leak out behind almost everything with enough mass to process them. They HANG onto the sallow pockets that haggardness carves into their features. A tired look, a familiar look.

     ❝ Just a piece of advice from your pal, Barton. ❞

               Hospital diets are not a good look on anyone. Their veins opened on IV’s, skin blanched && sucked dry of lively glow. On Pietro it is especially daunting, the silver hair in contrast with his papery complexion making him look less like a slice of MOONLIGHT && more like the dirty bulbs that buzz above them. 

              Clint examines the tide line left by black coffee on the old porcelain of is mug, smuggled in exchange for the plastic cups Doctor Cho usually forces on people. He prefers to at least drink his black sludge without it wearing the same CLINICAL shell as the rest of the the medical wing. 

               Hospitals, curtesy of Stark Industries or not, gave him the heebie jeebies. 

     ❝ You are the biggest PUNK I have met since      college, kid. && I get out, a lot. ❞

               The fondness wrinkling at his eyes is plain, easy to read. It’s obvious he does this on purpose, as all SHIELD agents are, or were, adept at playing stone-face.

     ❝ I agree with you. Wanda’s on board as well. ❞

               Expression moving, he slips into something partially curious, partially coy.

     ❝ && the codename? ❞

He nods shortly, slowly wiggles.  The sheets have been kicked off through determination some hours ago, now craved as chill creeps up his spine ever so slowly.  Small half inch wiggles of his hips and legs until the sheets are just a bit higher.  Heaving out a breath he didn’t expect -- it was hard, he feels weak -- and grinning.

      “Thanks for the advice, old man.”

It’s funny, Clint looks pale, looks unnatural under the light.  Just as Wanda looks like the witch she’s named as, skin an ugly pallor and hair black as the midnight skies above them.  But to see him alive... even in such horrific lighting.  Pietro finds himself distinctly content against the pain.  Suffering for a reason, so someone said.  

No idea who.  Doesn’t matter, he thinks.  Grins as he throws a hand out, drops it over Clint’s larger fingers -- hardly tries to even squeeze.  The touch is language enough.  The grin is language enough, fondness painted across every inch of his features.  

      “Well, y’know, pbbhht.        That was centuries ago.”

Taps his fingers madly against Clint’s hand.  Far too much focus for a human, merely mutation burning through his dulled mind.  

       “Knew she would...  We’re simpatico.”

A low laugh escapes his throat.   He pretends to contemplate the question.

      “I’m thinking Quicksilver.  I’m quick,        silver, it suits me!”

Oh, Clint is going to laugh.

[xeightyhg]

STARK:

Tony feels a smirk rising to his lips when he says that he won’t give Tony any credit, but he’s fine with that. He doesn’t get credit for a lot of things, and he’s mainly the back burner worker these days. It’s not often that he’s needed to go into battle, unless the world is in peril, but honestly, it’s a rarity in itself that the world is ever really in danger.

The only time the world is really in danger, is because of SHIELD or because of himself. Because he built something that destroyed more than it was worth. He was the reason that the world nearly ended the second time and that holds an amazing amount of guilt on his chest, and his shoulders. The world was literally hanging on his shoulders.

Best not to dwell on that any more.

“They’re just helper bots. They don’t do anything, other than help when things go awry.”

Tony shakes his head, looking to the other with a raised brow. He knows that the entire subject of Ultron is sensitive to him, and to everyone around him, and he knows that no amount of apologising will help his case, even if it was a real life accident.

But Tony Stark isn’t allowed to make mistakes.

“You want to help?”

It’s hard, wanting to like someone and hate them at the same time.  Captain talks a lot about team work, but teams aren’t friends -- that’s never been one of the staples of a good team.  Childhood memories full of fuzz would speak of football teams that abhorred each other, but would play until they scored enough points and beat the enemy down.  Same with the Avengers, PIetro figures.  Most of them try, but sometimes... it’s harder than any of them expect.  And Stark is retired ( almost ), doesn’t linger with them as much as the newer members do.  

He nods, slowly.  Helper bots, that... well, it’s smart.  And explains why Stark is working alone in such a large room.  Even robots must be a comfort, sometimes.  The mechanical version of stuffed dolls, just with more uses for creating other, well.  Creations.  He inspects the broken pieces hollowly.  Lets his mind linger on Vision, on Wanda.

If that thing feels, do these?

      “Yeah, sure.”

What he means is:  don’t read into it.  But what he says --

      “I don’t work well on this, I mean...  I’m into medicine,  but my hands are steady.  I can at least hand you stuff.”

A small smile, his hand lingering above tools stacked in neat piles.  Peace offering of sorts, even with tension.  Marked with the smallest of smiles.