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Entry tags:
Ships in the Night
Who: Sharon Carter, Kobra Kid
When: Evening, Day 61
Where: Around town
What: Both Sharon and Kobra are searching for prey. This could be a mutually beneficial relationship.
Bruce has done his best. Steve- No, don't think about Steve.
She isn't feasting enough. That's the problem.
No, feasting isn't the right word. It can't be the right word. What she'd done to Natasha had nothing to do with feasting, it was worse than that. So much worse. She can't remember how, she can't think how. She can't think.
She feels pain in her fingers, the sort of pain deep in her flesh that says she's been hurting for a while and hasn't noticed. Her fingers. When had they started bleeding? Where had the glass come from?
She looks up, her neck feeling weak, and it occurs to her that she hates when her neck feels weak, but the stars are quite nice. How did her bedroom window get so far away? Isn't her door locked?
The door. Fucking hell. The door is locked. So's the window. But there are evidently ways through the window.
Shaking, Sharon forces herself back against the wall. She can't be out here. There's no telling what she'll do if she's out here. No telling who she'll hurt? Whom? What the fuck, brain? Don't we have bigger problems right now?
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, repeating the exercise until her breath is steady again. First, she has to get the glass out of her palms. Then, she'll focus on getting back inside without hurting someone.
Of course, they do tend to like being hurt. Natasha had, at least.
She groans and hangs her head. No. Fuck, Sharon. Stop thinking like that! And stop thinking fuck and fuck-related things, damn it!
When: Evening, Day 61
Where: Around town
What: Both Sharon and Kobra are searching for prey. This could be a mutually beneficial relationship.
Bruce has done his best. Steve- No, don't think about Steve.
She isn't feasting enough. That's the problem.
No, feasting isn't the right word. It can't be the right word. What she'd done to Natasha had nothing to do with feasting, it was worse than that. So much worse. She can't remember how, she can't think how. She can't think.
She feels pain in her fingers, the sort of pain deep in her flesh that says she's been hurting for a while and hasn't noticed. Her fingers. When had they started bleeding? Where had the glass come from?
She looks up, her neck feeling weak, and it occurs to her that she hates when her neck feels weak, but the stars are quite nice. How did her bedroom window get so far away? Isn't her door locked?
The door. Fucking hell. The door is locked. So's the window. But there are evidently ways through the window.
Shaking, Sharon forces herself back against the wall. She can't be out here. There's no telling what she'll do if she's out here. No telling who she'll hurt? Whom? What the fuck, brain? Don't we have bigger problems right now?
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, repeating the exercise until her breath is steady again. First, she has to get the glass out of her palms. Then, she'll focus on getting back inside without hurting someone.
Of course, they do tend to like being hurt. Natasha had, at least.
She groans and hangs her head. No. Fuck, Sharon. Stop thinking like that! And stop thinking fuck and fuck-related things, damn it!