#viiride

⋘     @viiride     ::   heart’d the thing  ::   ✘   ⋙

⋘   @viiride​   ::   plucked a feather from  ::   ♞  ⋙

BC U IS A FAB FAB FAB PETER

                        ‘ she’s you’re daughter, erik. ’ -- and without fail, the often estranged feelings of WARMTH and familial bond began to fill his chest. heart heavy with wholeness, the weight was an unfamiliar obesity for one usually so empty. yet, mentally, the statement had yet to truly process. ( questions were there, however he was far too stunned to ask them. ) it was easier to simply take action, and allow the eerie quiet of flight absolve him of contemplation. 

                        though any comfort was short-lived. silence broke as erik grew closer to the site, magnetic pulses sporadically vibrating though the air, rattling his bones. they were easy to recognize ( lorna ) as was the meaning behind their increasingly anxious tempo ( she was LOSING. ) 

                        and despite there being few things that could crack at the iron armor about his being, erik’s own pulse couldn’t help but increase. the waves continued to HIT AND HIT AND HIT -- she just had to hold out. give him enough time. -- sheer concern, rather than fury, managed to propel him across the sky. it was a race against the clock ( the flames ), and his chest threatened to BURST with blood and cries of terror at the realization. -- nerves were successfully shook; pulsations only adding to feverish paternal worry.  ( rage ... rageandsereragea-- ....................

                                                .......... .   .......                                                                         . .... ....   . .. ..         ....                                                                                                 ... ..         .

                                                                        .                           )

                        an abrupt stop in vibrations, the silence was no longer a comfort ( !! ) frantic heartbeat was all that pounded in his ears, struggling against his famous affinity for BAD LUCK. mind was static, the mission becoming the only thought left swirling in his head ( to think about anything else would be a mistake. ) -- feet landed. a sound roared from his chest, otherworldly in its death-like seriousness:

“Everybody has their colour.”

Tony Stark had red and gold, blood soaked upon his hands and encrusted under his nails. Natasha had her red and black, flashing danger in the inviting gleam and sharp curved smirk in her eye. Even beloved Wanda had her reds, warmth and danger and family hearth rolled in the package of her soul. It seemed uniform in a hero’s world to have a hero’s garb, a hero’s colours for cities to revile and beaming children to splash across their faces in paint and crayon. Without uniform, there would be no order to a slowed world, but Pietro had no need of a slow world’s laws. Blue and silver followed him as blurs, liquid lightning champing at his heels and badges for the last light of brave Sokovia, but they brought him no order. He was chaos incarnate, constant motion and screaming bones howling for all to catch up; colour would not fix genetics, no matter how hard humanity fought.

Appraisal gleamed in lithe limb, sloshed and bright upon impatient bone. The sharp look in the elder’s eyes would be rude on any other, but was a facet as key as silvered hair. Pietro could not help his rage at the world, but he would not willingly extinguish it.