#not markers of body-truth but rather markers of mind-truth. I was never weak but I thought I was.

[neverendingford]

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[veliseraptor]

Hey Lise, do you think you will maybe consider writing Thor’s pov in reckless self-endengerment? About Thor seeing Loki’s scar for the first time and knowing it was real. Maybe he blamed himself for leaving Loki on svartalfheim, because Loki was alive and he could have died because Thor left. Some brotherly feels. They needed hugs

Self-Preservation, 1.5k, as requested, Thor POV of (part of) Reckless Self-Endangerment, I’m sorry anon Thor didn’t get hugs in this one, Thor takes on more personal responsibility than he probably should

—

It had been a while since Thor had been truly afraid.

Perhaps that was less a marker of his life than it was a marker of the fact that he was less often afraid than he should be; certainly Loki would say so. Of course, Thor did not think that Loki, at the moment, had room to talk. Not that he was talking. He hadn’t, a moment ago, been breathing. Bleeding, but not breathing.

He had been afraid then. Looking at his brother, laid out, unconscious, pale as death and chest still, a horrible, strangling panic had risen up and wrapped itself around his lungs, a memory of another planet, kneeling in black ash as Loki shook in his arms and then went still. It hadn’t been real then, in the end, but the memory still cut just the same.

Now - Thor felt frozen, blood turning to ice, and it was Valkyrie who pushed him out of the way and began triage, cursing under her breath. Thor held his until Loki’s began again.

Then he scooped Loki up and dragged him back to the Statesman, his heart still beating in his throat.

**

The toll of a collapsing building dropping on Loki’s body was harsh. Not irreparable - he’d heal, and cleanly, with a little time. He’d been spared much damage to his skull, and if several rather important organs had been crushed it was nothing he couldn’t at least temporarily survive without until his body mended itself. Given that, and the realistic fact that their medical facilities were extremely limited and there wasn’t much their hedgewitch-turned-healer could actually do, Thor was rather quickly ushered out and told to - carefully - remove Loki to his own room to recover.

None of that was what was occupying Thor’s mind at the moment. They’d cut away Loki’s clothes to look at his injuries. Thor hadn’t tried to dress him again, settling for a sheet pulled up to his waist to preserve a little modesty. He was still unconscious, his breathing a little strained for his broken ribs but more or less steady.

Thor could have just left him to rest, and hadn’t. He stood over him, looking down at his brother’s bared chest.

There were marks he didn’t recognize; scars whose source Thor didn’t know. He looked a little too thin, even for Loki. The purple and black bruises spanning his torso were hideous, and there was a small spot of blood that had leaked through the bandage covering the puncture wound in his abdomen. But none of that was what held Thor fixed in place; had held him fixed in place for several minutes.

It was the scar. There were others, but that was how Thor couldn’t help but think of it: the scar.

It would have been hard to miss. Running a good handspan down the center of Loki’s chest, it was thick and ugly, clearly left to heal with little to no treatment.

He moved, slowly, to lift Loki’s limp body so he could see his back. He knew it was there, but he wanted to see it. There, indeed, was a scar that almost perfectly matched the other. A little higher. A little shorter. The mark of a blade driven through and up.

Thor eased Loki gently back down and reached out to touch the scar on his chest as though if he did it would melt away, no more than an illusion, but it did not.

Valkyrie whistled. “That,” she said, “is some mark.” Thor glanced briefly over his shoulder to see her in the doorway before turning his gaze back to Loki.

It wasn’t real, Thor thought, a little dazed. It was an illusion.

Apparently not. The Kursed had impaled Loki in truth, dealt him a killing blow. Somehow Loki had survived. Thor had held him, and felt him go still and quiet, but he hadn’t been dead.

He hadn’t been dead when Thor had walked away.

His head spun. He was dizzy, and wanted to sit down.

“What did that?” Valkyrie asked.

“One of the Kursed,” Thor said.

“Ouch,” Valkyrie said. Thor clenched his hands into fists.

When he’d returned to Asgard and found Loki alive, he’d believed there must have been some plan. That Loki had always planned to escape, and tricked Thor - he didn’t know how, but it didn’t matter. Even with his anger, a part of him had still been relieved. If that wasn’t the case…

He’d acted to save Thor’s life, and that he hadn’t given his own, it seemed, was more accident than intent.

There was a quiet, half-developed unease growing in the back of Thor’s mind. A fear he didn’t want to examine too closely, though he had a feeling he should.

“I have to go,” Thor said. Valkyrie turned sharply toward him.

“What?”

“Not far,” Thor said. “I just - need a moment.”

He strode away, though some part of him shrieked in objection, telling him that if he walked away Loki would die, again. As though he could stop it if he stayed. He’d been there before, and hadn’t stopped it then.

His intestines squirmed like snakes, seething in his gut.

You walked away then, too. Left him there, wounded to the edge of death, and walked away.

Thor strode into his room, closed the door, and sank down onto his bed, head in his hands. The ache in his chest throbbed like a second heartbeat. He kept picturing that ugly scar, seeing the Kursed seize Loki and ram the blade through his body.

I didn’t do it for him, Loki had said.

Oh, Norns.

He would have woken alone. Alone, and in pain. By the looks of it, that wound hadn’t healed quickly or cleanly. Thor imagined with a kind of grim masochism the process of cleaning it himself, tending it himself, because of course a healer wasn’t an option.

He wondered if Loki believed that Thor had left him for dead deliberately. That he had walked away, knowing Loki still lived, abandoning him as an acceptable casualty. It seemed like the sort of thing he might believe, though he’d never said as much. Never said anything, in fact; Loki hadn’t corrected his assumption. He’d let Thor believe that it had been an act. Why? Why not tell him the truth?

Thor supposed it wasn’t that surprising. Loki had never liked revealing his weaknesses. And that was probably how he saw this: as a weakness.

Nothing Thor needed to know.

What else, Thor wondered suddenly, remembering the other, unfamiliar scars, might Loki think he didn’t need to know? What other weaknesses might there be of which he felt Thor didn’t need to be aware?

He could see it so clearly. Loki gasping, dying. Voice shaking as he fought for words. A memory that had been carved in his mind since the day it had happened, and he’d been relieved to believe it was false - that Loki might have been injured, but the fear and the pain were no more than a convincing performance.

That comfort was gone now.

There was a deep heaviness in his heart. There was a fear that made him want to run back and see Loki, place a hand on his chest and feel him breathe.

He stayed where he was, head bowed, and thought about how often he’d nearly lost his brother. How close he’d come to it happening again. These missions Loki went on were dangerous. What if this happened again, and he couldn’t reach him in time?

No, Thor thought. No. I can’t allow it. Loki wouldn’t like it. Loki seemed to have devoted himself wholeheartedly to the task of these planetary expeditions, no matter how risky-

Thor paused. Several things fell into place. He thought of Loki’s attack on the Kursed again: he’d stabbed it, but he must have known, or guessed, that wouldn’t be enough. He’d used one of the bombs as well. Attached it to the creature’s belt. He’d put himself in easy range to do it, when he’d seen the kind of fighter the Kursed was. It was a dangerous move to make.

Reckless, even.

He’d done it to save Thor’s life. Out of desperation, perhaps, not seeing another way, though Loki was quick enough on his feet that Thor couldn’t help but feel he should have. What might he do for Asgard’s survival?

There had always been one particularly good way to get Loki to throw caution to the winds, when Thor had wanted him to do something. He’d learned it quickly, and used it ruthlessly. All he’d had to do was make Loki feel he needed to prove something. That he was strong enough, or brave enough, or fast enough - it didn’t matter what it was.

You could be more, Thor had said, before walking away on Sakaar.

He might as well have said: prove it.

Oh, Thor thought, dread sinking like a stone into his stomach. He might have made - a rather large mistake.

At least he could still fix it.

[glorious-blackout]

Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Part Six

@rock-n-roll-fantasy I should probably warn you that I am definitely back on my angst-junkie bullshit with this one, but I promise there’s more to come after this! 😅 Not sure when I’ll be able to post the next parts but hopefully you enjoy these two in the meantime 😊

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

********************************

There’s something wrong with the Earth.

This isn’t necessarily a surprise. In the week since the quake that never was, the entire world has felt off; tilted on its axis to such a degree that Alex can’t even begin to fix it. The details of the hotel feel muted, the life slowly draining from his surroundings as empty husks are left in the wake of an unseen angel of death. Once pristine white walls look faded and beige beneath flickering lights. The usual buzz of activity emanating throughout scattered hotel rooms has quietened, as though a volume dial has been turned all the way down. Portraits which once hung proudly along the reception walls have tilted, and if Alex studies them closely enough, he can see the colours smudging as the paint melts, removing all nuance in the process. At this point it wouldn’t surprise him to find cracks creeping along the marble columns or dying lilies curling over themselves in neglected pots, although he supposes it’ll only be a matter of time before that sight greets him as well.  

It’s not just the hotel itself which has fallen prey to this lack of vitality. The guests have never been particularly fascinating company, but now they appear virtually soulless. Their numbers dwindle with each passing day despite no clear evidence of rockets carrying them towards home, and when scattered patrons do reveal themselves, Alex ends up eavesdropping on the same mundane conversations over and over again. Staff members offer the same monotonous greetings to him regardless of any attempts to lure them into conversation. Even Andrew, who can be quite amenable to a casual conversation over a pint, has little more to offer besides, “How are you enjoying your drink, sir?” when Alex forcibly drags himself to the bar.  

On the one occasion where he agrees to play a show, he finds himself gazing at a placid, unmoving crowd who deign to make as little noise as possible. There are no cheers, no attempts to sing along, no murmurs of approval. Alex doesn’t even have the energy to be startled when he notes that several faces in the crowd have been replaced with expressionless masks, as though an artist has erased their features entirely, leaving only a discoloured smudge in their wake.

The world appears to be winding down, crumbling at the seams with no end in sight. And to top it all off, he’s the only person alive who seems to have noticed.  

Even his weekly meetings with Murphy have halted without explanation. He’ll sit by the computer for hours on end, waiting for the dreaded ringing to invade his eardrums, but it never does. For the first time in his life, Alex would give anything to face that man and give him a piece of his mind, but God doesn’t appear to be answering his calls right now.  

And then there’s Jamie.

“Are you coming down to rehearsals then?”

Alex doesn’t pay him any heed, choosing instead to keep his gaze fixed on the alluring form of Earth above him. He cannot bear to look at Jamie right now; not when doing so will only unveil a lifeless expression marring his friend’s once kind face. He only wishes the man would say something – anything – else. It appears to be lost on Jamie that he’s uttered the same sentence three times in the last fifteen minutes, having said little else since drawing up beside Alex on the balcony. The fact that he never receives an answer doesn’t register with him either. He simply keeps asking, like a children’s toy with only one voice-clip, not realising that every time he asks, he only succeeds in adding a further crack to Alex’s thoroughly abused heart.  

Nick and Matt have fared little better. Playing a show with them the other night had been akin to playing with three ghosts who have yet to leave their bodies. All traces of humour and nuance and love have been stripped from them, leaving empty shells where his best friends once stood.  

Or rather, where convincing replicas of his friends once stood. Alex can’t pretend to understand how this version of reality works, and he’s still struggling to separate the splintered fragments of Mark’s false memories from his own recollections. The Jamie, Matt and Nick he has been living with are certainly modelled after the people he’s known and loved all his life, but there are enough subtle differences to make him question if they were ever real in the first place. The most glaring marker of all being the fact that when he’d insisted they call him Alex, the only response had been a lack of recognition which had almost broken him.

The only person who has ever referred to him as Alex in all the time he’s been here is Matthew, but even as his mad theories have become more and more plausible, the man himself has remained infuriatingly elusive.  

At least Alex knows why he seemed so familiar now. They’d only crossed paths occasionally in the past, exchanging pleasantries and compliments at various awards shows and festivals, but given their similar positions it would be impossible for him not to be familiar with a certain Matthew Bellamy. The man has always been more of a friend-of-a-friend to Alex than a proper acquaintance, but he likes him well enough to believe that Matt’s apparent fondness for him was also genuine. Granted, he doubts he’d ever have pictured the man as a planet-hopping outlaw, but then again, he imagines Matt must have been equally surprised to find him acting as the owner of a four-star establishment on the moon.

A disbelieving giggle erupts from him before he can stop it. He’s been doing that a lot lately. No doubt it’s an unconscious coping mechanism his brain has concocted while processing the impossible situation he’s stumbled into; he supposes his only options at this point are to laugh or sob like a child.

Pointedly ignoring Jamie’s lingering presence, Alex lets the Earth consume his attention once more. She’s as beautiful now as she always has been – her deep shades of greens and blues vibrant against a dense black sky – but that only adds to the sense of wrongness tugging at his heart. He shouldn’t even be capable of standing here, gazing towards home from this angle. Surely without proper protection and oxygen tanks, the air should have been sucked from his lungs and he should be gliding across the ground rather than standing still. Is there a force-field surrounding them, providing them with breathable air and simulated Earth-like gravity? If he concentrates hard enough, will he be able to spot the tell-tale shimmer of a shield embracing his tiny civilisation?

How odd that he’s never questioned such technicalities before.

As for the Earth itself, the more he studies it, the more it looks like someone has merely devised a painting of her against an endless black canvas, basing their work on ancient photographs from age-old Apollo missions. The image is too perfect. Too still and unaffected; a close approximation of how Earth must have appeared millions of years ago, before her surface was warped by humanity’s influence. The more he remembers of his final days on Earth, the less the image before him aligns with the truth. The clouds hovering beneath the atmosphere shouldn’t be a perfect white, they should be blackened by thick smoke. Those vibrant greens should have been burnt away to smouldering brown, as ash falls thick and heavy over once beautiful landscapes. No doubt even the oceans must have turned a grim, murky grey by now, rather than the striking blues he gazes upon now.

Alex gasps as a memory emerges unbidden, hands desperately grasping the balcony railing. These episodes have been coming thick and fast of late, and it takes all of his willpower not to collapse as faint echoes of screams pierce his ears and the foul taste of ash smothers his tastebuds.

He lets the memory carry him away, however, for he knows that stewing in his own ignorance is no longer an option he can indulge in.

The air is thick with acrid smoke as ash gathers on his tongue with every breath. His eyes draw upwards towards a tangerine sky; the sun obscured by thick smog which he can feel clogging his lungs, leaving him lightheaded and weak. Only hours ago the advice had been to stay inside, but the sirens now piercing his eardrums signal a change, and he knows with unexplainable certainty that if he’d stayed behind, he would have been consumed by the flames which lick their way across the landscape without mercy.

He doesn’t recall the events leading up to this moment, try as he might. Can’t recall if he’d been at home, or in the studio, or trapped within the confines of a hotel halfway around the world. The only instinctual memory he retains is that the catastrophe had crept up on them without warning, announcing itself with all the subtlety of an air-raid siren shooting panic into the veins of every human being on Earth. Only it hadn’t been sudden, had it? Not really. Humanity at large had known for years that the world was destined to burn unless something was done to stop it, but the warnings had been largely ignored, right up until the moment the fire was breathing down everyone’s necks.  

The crowd surrounding him is desperate and he whimpers as countless bodies shove against him. No doubt he could remain perfectly rigid and yet still find himself pushed forwards by the sheer force of the human wave. The claustrophobia is suffocating, and breathing provides little relief when the air is as poisoned as it is. He can feel his chest heaving and the constant shouts and screams are momentarily drowned out by his pulse pounding a steady rhythm in his ears, and he clings tightly to the hand wrapped securely around his own as he’s guided along the wide street by a steady anchor. He doesn’t need to look to know instinctively whose hand it belongs to. The calming influence as his guide squeezes back and pulls him in closer is unmistakable. He presses himself against the other man’s body as the cacophony is quickly drowned out by gentle reassurances of, “We’re okay Al, just stay close yeah? We’re nearly there, just a little bit further, you’re doing great...”

He must look a state to warrant such a commentary, but he cannot bring himself to care. As he allows himself to narrow his focus entirely onto that soft voice, he can feel his heartrate slowing and his rapid breathing starting to ease. He feels - rather than sees - a worried face turning in his direction, ensuring that he’s still locked in the present rather than lost in the grasp of his panicked mind, and he gives a shaky nod to indicate that he’s okay. The world is burning and there’s no guarantee that safety is as close as his friend insists it is, but he’s not alone and the flames are still far behind him, so for now he’s okay. His hand is caught in another gentle squeeze - it occurs to him that the action might be for the other’s benefit as much as it is his - and they push onwards as best they can through the hulking mass of bodies surrounding them.

There’s a scuffle behind him as someone utters a sharp cry. Perhaps the constant shoving of bodies has finally erupted into a full-blown fight; either that or someone has merely lost their balance and fallen to the ground. Either way it spells the end for him. A desperate hand clings to Alex’s forearm for support and he feels himself being jerked backwards, struggling to maintain his grip on the precious fingers clutching his hand as faceless bodies try to pull him away. Panic seizes his throat, tightening his airway to the point where he cannot so much as scream. As the force of the disorganised crowd pulls him backwards, the people in front keep advancing, still trying to escape the flames and the thick, cloying smog. Concerned brown eyes turn to look at him, having sensed his distress in the crushing grip of his hand, and Alex can only watch those eyes widen with naked fear as their owner is pulled in the opposite direction.  

Those pivotal seconds seem endless when replayed in Alex’s mind. The image repeats itself like a broken VHS tape - an unending loop of terror - but it must have taken no time at all for their connection to be severed with surgical precision. He remembers panicked, animalistic screams escaping his throat as he fought and clawed at the terrified masses surrounding him, his hand suddenly grasping nothing but air. He remembers the crowd in front pushing onwards, with one man among their ranks fighting tirelessly to stay behind, screaming Alex’s name over and over to the point where it must surely have torn his throat.  

Neither of their efforts work. Their hands never meet again, and Alex can only watch as his salvation is carried off like a life-raft on the ocean, leaving him behind to drown on his sinking ship. And even above the distant sirens and the roar of nearby flames, the frantic, hopeless scream of “Alex!” continues to ring in his ears long after his would-be savior has vanished from sight.    

“-ark?”

The crowded street blanketed in a thick, ashen haze vanishes from his mind’s eye and he blinks as Jamie’s voice pulls him back to the present. It takes a moment to fully reorientate himself, even as his eyes settle upon the pleasant mirage of Earth hanging above them. The air still feels unclean and the thick, cloying taste of ash still resides on his tongue. His throat still screams from the frantic cries that had been torn from it and his chest aches with the effort of breathing in filthy smog. His hand feels cold and empty, still grasping nothing but air in the place of warm flesh, and an overpowering sense of loss washes over him like a painful echo. If Jamie notices his distress, he makes no mention of it. His face is as blank and expressionless as it has been since his world became muted, and Alex thinks he would give his right hand in exchange for five minutes of his friend’s smothering concern.  

“Where’s Miles?” he croaks out eventually, turning to face Jamie with a damning sense of dread. Part of him suspects that he already knows what the reaction will be and he longs to tear his eyes away in order to spare himself the pain, but he has to look. He needs this final grain of proof.

Jamie barely reacts to the words despite the fact that they’ve come out of nowhere. The only reason Alex even registers the minute furrow of his brow and downwards tug of his lips is because he knows that face better than he knows his own, and even then, the impassive blankness is back within mere seconds.

“Who’s Miles?”  

Alex can’t look at him anymore. If he forces himself to look at that emotionless face then he knows his heart will crumble to dust and he’ll never be able to piece it back together. His eyes are drawn skyward and he keeps them there, unblinking, even when the growing sting becomes unbearable. His vision blurs with unshed tears and his chest shudders fitfully with the effort it takes not to break into animalistic sobs, but he forces himself to swallow down his grief before it can consume him. The pain is unbearable. It creeps over his mind like a specter, dragging its scythe wherever it goes without a care for the damage it leaves in its wake. The temptation to laugh as he realises that this has been the reason for his pervading sense of loneliness all along almost overwhelms him. Perhaps that would get a reaction out of the hollow shell that has taken Jamie’s place.  

In the end, however, he doesn’t have the energy to make the slightest sound.

Because it’s not just Miles he’s grieving. The Jamie he knows and loves would never have let those two words leave his mouth. He would never stand idly by while Alex falls apart, visibly struggling to piece himself back together despite knowing that his efforts are completely worthless. The Jamie he knows would have pulled him in for a hug and let him sob his heart out without judgement, before gently telling him to tidy himself up so they can go out to thoroughly drown their sorrows. No doubt the Jamie standing beside him now has always been nothing more than a façade; expertly written code and little else. The same applies to Nick and Matt and every other human being he’s interacted with since stepping foot on this godforsaken rock, perhaps with the exception of Matthew. They’d been rather convincing replicas, he’s loath to admit, but that’s all they’ve ever been.  

“Doesn’t matter,” he forces out in a choked whisper, in the full knowledge that that couldn’t be further from the truth.

He wonders if his real friends are still out there somewhere. Did they make it to safety while Alex was left behind and imprisoned within this lie? Have they been searching for him all this time, while he allowed his mind to be manipulated to the point where he forgot they existed? Are they mourning for him with the same all-consuming grief he finds himself overwhelmed by now?  

Or are they simply ghosts, lost long ago to a world that has become uninhabitable? Perhaps they’re even trapped in the same boat he is; so wrapped up in the blissful ignorance of a beautiful lie that they cannot remember their own names.

“Is it better to exist within a terrible reality or a beautiful lie?”

He recalls Matthew’s burning question with a new sense of clarity. Because it hadn’t been hypothetical had it? Matthew had uncovered their circumstances long before Alex had. In his own infuriating way, Matt had been trying to prepare Alex for the conundrum he would be forced to contend with once the curtain rose. Their entire conversation had been a warning, planting seeds in his head that would eventually result in his world collapsing at the seams.  

Had Matt also been crippled by an overwhelming sense of loss prior to stumbling into Alex’s makeshift life? Alex searches his mind for any random details he knows about Matthew Bellamy, but he cannot recall anything with great certainty. Miles had known him much better than Alex had; he vaguely remembers throw-away mentions of a wedding and a new baby, but nothing more concrete than that. For all he knows, Matthew is currently battling his way through an endless, synthetic maze to crawl back to the arms of the people he loves, or at the very least to be reunited with versions of his bandmates who haven’t been programmed to hunt him down and kill him.

“Are you coming down to rehearsals then?” Jamie asks once again, uncaring and toneless, as though trapped in an unending loop.

A huff of laughter escapes Alex’s mouth before he can stop it, and he bows his head as a tear finally slips from the corner of his eye. Rehearsals and playing live was once his only solace amongst the mundane goings-on of his daily life, but now the thought of facing the replicas of his friends and seeing them stripped of all personality is unbearable. Normality is nothing but a distant dream. There is no returning to the life that had been carefully carved out for him here regardless of what Jamie seems to think, and as the details of the hotel slowly fade around him, he doubts there’ll even be a crowd to play for by the time evening rolls around.  

Jamie seems utterly unaffected when Alex finally turns to him, a thousand-yard-stare emanating from deep blue eyes as though Alex is a mere phantom standing in his way. A sense of finality takes hold as Alex stares at his friend, memorising the details of his face with a pang of grief, and he offers a small smile which he knows provides little benefit to either of them.

“You go,” he says, in a flat voice he no longer recognises as his own. “I’ll join you in a bit.”

The lie rolls surprisingly easily off his tongue, and despite giving no indication that he intends to follow-through on his promise, Jamie doesn’t question him for an instant. Instead, he simply shrugs before shoving himself away from the barrier and moving in the direction of the hotel. Alex watches his retreating back as he strolls along the cobbled balcony, and it takes all of his willpower not to yell at him to stop. To request a proper farewell, or a hug, or even to run up alongside him and enjoy one last hurrah with the band before everything fades to black.  

However, as he watches Jamie vanish behind a set of automatic doors, he knows that running after him would be a mistake. There is no point in embracing the lie anymore. The avatars wearing his friends’ faces like intricate masks no longer have the power to replace the real thing in his heart, and having to reward them with false affection would surely destroy him.

Instead, he bids one final farewell to the Earth above him. For the first time he can remember, the clouds have cleared above the British Isles and he can see the tiny, shrunken form of England resting just above a narrow watery channel. Deep forest greens interspersed with tiny golden pinpricks amongst the well-lit cities are the only details he can make out, but yearning tugs at his heart regardless. He wonders what would happen if he took the initiative and made the trek to the space station now, requesting a ticket for the first flight back to Earth? Would the falsehood adapt around him and expand to include a detailed simulation of his home, from a time when everything was perfect and alive? Or would he simply hit a dead-end and be forever trapped within a tiny radius which encompasses the hotel and casino and little else? He has nothing left to lose by trying, but a nagging suspicion tugging at the back of his mind is enough to inform him what the outcome will be. Whoever designed his current reality didn’t deem Miles of all people to be a necessary addition - no doubt out of intentional cruelty - so the prospect of arriving home and throwing himself into the arms of his mum and dad is surely unthinkable.  

It’s impossible to tell how long he spends gazing at the planet above, committing every single detail to memory with a bittersweet smile, but when he finally pulls his eyes away he’s momentarily overcome by a wave of contentment. The yearning for home vanishes and a renewed sense of finality tugs at his heart, only this time he lets himself bask in it. It’s over. The sky above is as much an illusion as everything else within reach, and while he knows he could lose himself staring longingly at the stars like a hopeful child, he finds that he no longer has any desire to do so.

After all, what’s the point in yearning for something that isn’t real?  

******************************

Lilting piano notes resound through deserted, crumbling corridors; the echo bouncing off the ballroom walls, causing the delicate glass shards of the chandelier to tremble. All trace of life has vanished, with the exception of the lone musician on his humble stage, playing to a crowd of ghosts.  

Alex doesn’t mind. He’d expected to find the hotel empty upon his return – no doubt his mental embrace of that finality had banished all remnants of humanity from its walls – and the uninterrupted stroll to the stage had been an oddly calming one. For the first time in years, a song had popped into his head with little fanfare. There’d been no need to agonise over chords or second-guess lyrics; instead the music had come to him fully formed as though obtained through a dream, and the need to perform it had become his sole objective.

A guitar would have been preferable. He has never felt entirely comfortable on the piano, but the choice seems to have been snatched away from him as all of his stringed instruments have vanished in his absence. Similarly, the lone drumkit and various brass instruments which once rested upon the stage are now missing. Only the piano remains. Each note sounds dissonant beneath his fingers, reverberating through the hall in all directions, and he gets the distinct impression that the instrument hasn’t been turned in years despite it sounding perfect only one week prior. His voice also sounds raw to his ears, but that doesn’t stop him from baring his heart anyway.  

It’s a bittersweet song with an emphasis on the sweet, and he latches onto the topics of lost loves and friendships tied up with nostalgia for a golden age that no longer exists. No doubt he would have been proud of this one had he gotten the chance to write and record it on Earth, but at this rate he doubts anyone will hear it besides the ghosts haunting the fractured walls.

That’s okay though. This understated piece of music feels like the only genuine creation he’s produced in all the time he’s lived here, and for that reason alone he’d rather not be singing anything else.

While he refuses to give his surroundings much in the way of scrutiny, it isn’t lost on him that the ballroom is fading away with each passing second. Pristine white walls appear to be melting and cracks trail along the granite columns like lightning bolts stretching to the ceiling. The light from the chandelier is muted, emitting only the faintest golden glow through shards of glass which no longer shimmer, and the deserted dancefloor below has been swallowed whole by drab red carpet. The circular dining tables and bar are cloaked in shadow, their surfaces smothered by a thick layer of dust, and adorning the walls are empty frames where elegant portraits once gazed proudly upon the room.

Only one image remains. A small wooden frame sits on the wall directly within Alex’s eyeline, and though the photograph it displays sends an ache lancing through his heart, he finds it to be a pleasant ache. Captured for eternity is a shot of four young boys, barely out of primary school, with hair cropped short and arms wrapped lazily around each other. One curly-haired lad is looking away from the camera, eyes closed in a mistimed blink, while two others gape at the lens with deliberately widened eyes, baring all of their teeth in exaggerated grins. Only the smallest of the group is smiling in a fashion which can be considered normal, though the crinkling of his large brown eyes implies that he too is mere seconds away from bursting into uncontrollable giggles at his friends’ antics.  

Alex can’t remember the photo being taken. The unremarkable brick wall behind them suggests it was taken at his childhood home, but it would not surprise him if the photo itself is yet another falsehood on top of the myriad of illusions he has spent years of his life sleepwalking through. And yet, he cannot bring himself to mind. The photograph may not be real, but the memories of a happy childhood surrounded by friends certainly are, and the sweet nostalgia that warms has heart can never be taken away from him. His real friends may have been lost to him long ago and even the replicas have deserted him now, but so long as he focuses on that image and dedicates this song to them, they can never truly be gone.

A shiver creeps up the back of his neck and he has the distinct impression that a pair of eyes have landed upon him, but he banishes that suspicion before it can take hold. This song is not intended for anyone’s ears but his own. The melody is quickly approaching its coda as he recites the final verse. The piano has grown so soft he barely registers the sound of it, but he carries on with a sense of obligation he doesn’t entirely understand. Perhaps it’s the sense of approaching finality which has made him so determined. His world is fragmenting piece by piece and he cannot comprehend what will happen to him once it fades completely, but he imagines there will be no coming back from it. He should be terrified and desperate, battling with every breath in his lungs to remain solid and whole, but he no longer has the energy to fight. Besides, he has always found contentment in music and performing, even in this godforsaken place. Why fight the inevitable when he can embrace it in peace instead?

The final note sounds abruptly as the last word escapes his lips, but before he can figure out a proper ending, the piano dissolves into atoms beneath his fingertips and the world explodes in a flash of brilliant white, carrying him along with it as his mind goes blank.

[shirtlesssammy]

9x01: I Think I’m Gonna Like it Here

Errm, we forgot a season opener episode...so here’s 9x01 for your enjoyment :)

Then:

Heaven’s doors closed, kinda

Now:

Sam and Dean are on the road discussing the fallen angels, and how they’re going to tackle this new situation. Well, Sam is. Dean keeps driving until he tells Sam they have a far more pressing matter than that, or Metatron, or Cas. “You’re dying, Sam.” 

Indeed he is. They’re not in the Impala. They’re in a hospital and Sam’s attached to a bunch of wires and machines. 

The doctor gives Dean the bad news that Sam has severe internal injuries and his recovery is “in God’s hands.” Lol, it REALLY is. And ol’ Chuck isn’t going to let one of his favorite characters die! He does like to see them tortured though. Dean loses his shit, because, at this stage in the game, God isn’t playing. 

He goes to the chapel AND PRAYS TO CAS. 

He tells Cas that whatever happened, they’ll work it out. “Please man, I need you here.” Dean looks up and is shocked that Cas isn’t there. AND I’M EMOTIONAL. He has so far to go. But also, I feel so bad for him right now. Anyway, he gives it about 5 seconds before he puts out an open call to any angel willing to help.   

Business angel, Tractor angel, and Helo all take the call. 

Memory Lane Alert:

Sam continues to have a mental conversation with Dean in the Impala. Dean has a plan, and Sam just needs to hang on. Sam thinks he’s lying (and LIKE, is this his brain trying to rationalize death? Bobby shows up to argue yes.)

In Longmont, Colorado, on a lonely stretch of road, we find Cas. He’s walking and is overwhelmed with angel radio whitenoise. 

For Cas Looks So Fucking Good In This Episode Science:

Also, a crazy driver that nearly kills him. The guy offers to give him a lift to a phone. Cas agrees, adding, “I would fly but I have no wings, not anymore.” 

I need a  moment.

Sam continues to deteriorate. I enjoy the snark in Sam’s mind that he saved Bobby from Hell. Anyway, Bobby and Dean continue to argue about whether Sam should or shouldn’t live. Bobby pulls Sam from the car and they land in a forest. 

Cas’s ride drops him off at a filling station and gives him some money. Cas accepts it reluctantly, insisting he does eat. Meanwhile, a woman watches Cas from a car.

Cas reaches the pay phone, currently in use.

He doesn’t want to hurt the guy, but this is an emergency. The guy is very polite when he tells Cas to try and hurt him. Cas tries the old fingers to the forehead trick. Nothing happens. He tries the old whole hand to the forehead trick (isn’t that usually a smiting move? <nervous side-eye emoji>) The guy brushes Cas’s hand away and tells him that he’s going to finish his call, and then stab Cas. Cas walks away in a daze. 

The woman from the car approaches him. She knows Castiel. She’s an angel named Hael. 

A grief counselor comes to talk to Dean, but he’s not done fighting. 

He realizes that he has the King of Hell in his trunk (not yet you don't ...I think I’ve used that joke before, but it never gets old.) Before he can get Crowley out of the Impala’s trunk, Business angel attacks. He’s looking for Castiel. Dean isn’t talking. Helo pops up and gets into fisticuffs with Business angel. He distracts him enough for Dean to stab Business angel in the back. Helo assures Dean that he’s here to help him, and then passes out. 

Hael and Cas talk about the angels falling and life in Heaven. So many angels are afraid of this unknown new order. 

Cas assures her there is nothing to be afraid of, and there is something better on Earth. Oh, you poor Humanity loving fool, Cas. He makes a case for Free Will. 

Dean puts Helo in a ring of fire to interrogate him. His name is Ezekiel. And he is not here to hurt Dean or Cas. He’s here to help. 

Sam and Bobby take a nature walk while Bobby chips away and Sam’s uncertainty of dying. 

Dean brings Ezekiel to Sam. 

Dean’s phone rings while Gadreel examines Sam. It’s CAS! Insert EXTREME HEART EYES HERE. 

Cas briefly explains that Metatron tricked him, but Dean overrides Cas’s discussion of the angel apocalypse for a more pressing matter: Sam’s dying. Cas explains that he can’t heal him without his grace, but that also doesn’t matter! Ezekiel is a “good soldier,” according to Cas, so Sam’s in good hands. Dean warns Cas that angels are after him and he needs to get to the bunker, do not pass GO, do not trust anybody else. 

The hospital shakes as another angel circles a vessel. Dean grabs a dry erase marker and starts scrawling angel warding all over Sam’s hospital room. He leaves Ezekiel there to heal Sam while he races through the hospital trying to clear it out. 

Cas tries to extricate himself from Hael’s company. “This is your chance to help people. Help yourself.” Cas, you altruistic sunflower! Hael rewards this by whacking him across the head with a plank.

When he wakes up, Hael explains that she couldn’t let Cas go. She blames Cas for the fall but she can use Cas…

Dean confronts angels in the hospital, including the now-possessed grief counselor. 

In Sam’s head, he arrives outside a cabin. Bobby tells him that the cabin will end his life and wishes him well when suddenly he is STABBED! Sam’s projection of Dean killed him. “Bobby was the part of you that wants to die,” Dean explains...uh...reasonably? He starts to punch Sam in rage, trying to get him to fight for his life. “I can’t help you if you ain’t willing to fight for yourself!” Sam...knows that. And...he’s not willing to fight anymore. 

Sam heads for the cabin.

Real Dean is in his own pickle. Grief counselor angel hauls him around, demanding to know where Cas is or Sam’s gonna die bloody. Dean refuses to give up Cas. He’s bloody and exhausted, but blasts the angels out with a banishing sigil. He heads in to check on Sam. Ezekiel sits slumped in a chair. Between the banishing sigil and the warding, he’s incredibly weak and can’t heal Sam. There are “no good ways” to save Sam so Dean, being Dean, asks about the bad ones. 

Ezekiel thinks he can save Sam by possessing him, but Dean knows that Sam would rather die than be possessed. Ezekiel brings Dean into Sam’s head so he can see how bad it is. 

Dean witnesses Death talking to Sam. Death tells Sam that he played a good game! Sam asks for a boon from Death: he doesn’t want to come back. At. All. He doesn’t want anybody else to get hurt because they tried to save him. SAM BBY!

Dean “There’s Another Way” Winchester is appalled. 

Cas is still trapped with an angel Heaven-bent on possessing him. He looks around at the tools at hand. An angel blade. An angel new to cars and driving. He puts on his seat belt. (Side bar: is this the first time any of our heroes has EVER put on a seat belt???) Cas hauls at the wheel, steering the car towards concrete barriers. 

At the hospital, Dean unpacks the proposal. Ezekiel possesses Sam and they both heal together. When Sam’s better, Ezekiel leaves. 

In a wrecked car, Cas wakes up from his second head injury in an hour or so. He unbuckles his seatbelt and stumbles out. Sprawled ahead of the car is Hael. She’s looking...really bad with her body snapped in some really unfortunate ways. Cas swears to help her - and all the angels. It’ll be his life’s work! “I’m one of you. I will never stop being one of you!” She tells him all the angels despise him. BRB weeping!

He tries to walk away, but she vows to reveal him to the rest of the angels if he leaves her. Cas kills her to save himself. So…...first day as a human? Not going super great. 

Sam prepares to die. Dean stops him from leaving the cabin! (Dean apologizes to Death for not bringing cronuts. I forgot those were a thing!) Sam wants to know why Dean is even there. “You gotta let me in, man. You gotta let me help! There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you.” 

Sam says….yes to being saved. Dean transforms into Ezekiel and light fills Sam’s head.

Outside the hospital, Dean and Ezekiel walk and talk. Ezekiel reports that Sam’s in super rough shape. He also suggests that Sam not be told he’s possessing him. If Sam knows he’s possessed, he’ll expel Ezekiel and then die. Dean’s not happy with that plan, but he agrees to hide the truth from Sam. Adding icing to the cupcake of betrayal, Ezekiel promises to erase Sam’s memories of almost dying in the hospital. Oh dear. 

Cas winds up at a laundromat. He’s bloodied and injured, and I guess these are just...normal laundromat experiences? It’s really sad! Unlucky Cas!

But I’m getting ahead of myself because the laundromat experience is also THIS. Lucky us!

Cas loads his clothing into the washer, but he has very little money. He steals clothing and uses his change to buy something to eat and drink instead. 

In the car, Sam wakes up slowly. Dean asks him how he feels. Sam gets the dollar recap of the angels falling and NOTHING ELSE PERTINENT. Sam’s ready to jump back into the fight and Dean feels G R E A T about it.

Shirtless Quotey:

This one goes out to any angel with their ears on. This is Dean Winchester and I need your help

I would fly, but I have no wings

Let's go see the Grand Canyon, then

Anybody ever tell you you hit like an angel?

There ain't no me if there ain't no you

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[dudeandduchess]

Peach(es) and Cream [Tomioka Giyuu x F!Reader] Chapter 3

Rating: E! NSFW Characters: Tomioka Giyuu x F!Reader Chapters: 5/5 Summary: Wherein Giyuu is betrothed to a noble woman, and visits her with a present. Tags: Smut, Fluff, Short Series, Fingering, Creampie, Established Relationship, Arranged Marriage, Quiet Sex

***NSFW***

Even though the sun hung high in the sky, and the threat of a demon attacking her was at its lowest point, (Y/n)’s heart pounded so hard in her chest. Maybe it was the fact that it was the first time that she had ever done something so uncharacteristic, but she could feel her adrenaline coursing through her system.

The thrill of having done something so blatantly disobedient both elated and frightened her, and part of her wanted to turn back and go back home— but a bigger, and more irrational part of her wanted to see Giyuu. 

It had been four months since they had last seen each other, and the lackluster replies she received from him— merely assuring her that he was still alive— weren’t enough to tide her feelings over. 

The paltry reply of: ‘That’s good. I’m doing well.’ to each of her letters weren’t enough for her, or even for the most insensitive of people.

She wanted to see him; touch him, kiss him, do everything with him.

And so, that was how she had found herself waking up at the crack of dawn, and silently packing the necessities she knew she would need, before setting off for the not-so-distant mountains; or so she thought they weren’t too distant.

Giyuu had once told her that he lived just a few hours away from her house— up in Yabuyama. And she had, stupidly, gone on that scant description.

After all, she reckoned that there weren’t too many people living in Yabuyama.

She wasn’t wrong with that assumption, but it left her with frustrated tears in her eyes as she kept traversing through the forest. Because there were no other houses nearby to ask for directions.

It wasn’t like her to cry, but she could feel her frustrated tears pooling in the corners of her eyes— threatening to fall at any given moment.

‘I just wanted to see him. Was that too much to ask for?’ Were the thoughts running through her head at that moment.

She wanted to scream and cry out for Giyuu to save her. And she was about to, had she not seen the rock marker bearing the Kanji for Tomioka.

Abruptly, her tears cleared up and her heart skipped a beat in relief. It appeared that she wasn’t going to have to resort to such desperate means. He would be furious with her for giving her family the slip, she didn’t need to add to that by proving just how inept she was with protecting herself.

Though, in her defense, she did leave a note for her family stating her whereabouts. But she may have bent the truth a bit— or blatantly lied, rather— about Giyuu having picked her up at dawn.

Her father wouldn’t mind because she had said that she was with her betrothed, but it was her brother that she knew would go berserk when he found out.

But it wasn’t the time to dwell on that. So, with a deep sigh, she steeled her resolve and lifted up the hem of her kimono— before tackling the challenge that were the numerous stairs leading to Giyuu’s home.

(Y/n)’s breath came in short bursts, as she sat down on the low stone wall that bordered the pathway. Her feet were killing her, and her back felt like it had given out by the time she had reached the top of the stairs, so she had taken to having a breather.

If only to put down the small but weighty basket she had taken with her.

‘You should have just waited for him to visit you, baka,’ The young woman thought to herself, all while casting a furtive glance over at the goods that peeked out from the woven basket. ‘Impatient is what you are. Horny wench.’

With an evident blush on her face, the (h/c) haired woman shook her silent monologue out of her head, before setting off down the path once more.

Thankfully, the path leading towards the old Tomioka home was nothing but a leisurely stroll. The thicket of bamboo trees on either side of her made for some good shade, while still maintaining a warm brightness that (Y/n) wanted to bask in the whole day.

Briefly, it led her mind to the blush-inducing assumption that she could do it once she moved there with Giyuu; after they got married.

“(Y/n)?” The familiar voice shook the aforementioned woman out of her daydream. She blinked twice, as if to clear her vision and to make sure that the man heading towards her wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

He looked to be in good condition, with no new scars or bruises on his face from her vantage point. And try as she might to keep herself rooted to her spot, she couldn’t. Her grip on her basket loosened until it fell to the pebble-laden ground, as she launched herself forward to wrap her arms around him.

“Baka, Giyuu. Baka,” (Y/n) muttered quietly as she pressed her face into her lover’s chest. His scent enveloped her senses, and a telltale warmth spread throughout her body— stemming from her chest. “That’s good? I’m doing well? Baka!”

The Demon Slayer reckoned that it was insensitive of him to hope to satisfy her with those short replies. He wasn’t pressed for time, as he wrote his replies at night, but he merely did not know what to say to her.

He was never one to be talkative; in fact, he hated talking. And he knew that he could better express himself through actions, so he saved up all his replies for until he went to see her again: in the form of collecting small trinkets for her.

From every place he went to on missions, he would get something small and very distinct to that place. All so she would know that she was always on his mind, wherever he was.

But it appeared that she couldn’t wait until the month was through, because there she stood in his arms— clinging tightly to the back of his haori, as if he would disappear if she let go of him.

And yes, he was happy that she was there— only for the realization to dawn on him like a slap to the face. No one else was emerging from the long pathway, and he could also smell the distinct scent of a Wisteria charm tucked into his lover’s obi.

“Did you come here alone?” He questioned— his tone betraying the mild surge of panic that rushed through him. He didn’t even care that there were other Demon Slayers who were staring blatantly at them.

Giyuu was furious. (Y/n) could tell that much from his tone, and was made even more evident when he swiftly hoisted her over his shoulder.

Then, he moved to disappear into the house— slamming the door behind him as he went.

“What were you thinking?” The raven-haired man snapped at his lover, as he set her down in the middle of the modestly-sized living area. “Coming here without protection? You could have asked that handmaid of yours to go with you. Why did you even come here?”

As much as (Y/n) appreciated the way that Giyuu was being chatty, she didn’t particularly care for his tone with her. It made her feel small and weak; something so frail that it needed to be babysat at all times.

She already knew that she wasn’t as strong as some of the women that were in the Demon Slaying Corps, but he didn’t need to reiterate that fact to her.

With a glare, the young woman shot asininely, “I only wanted to see you by myself! What’s so wrong with that? I took precautions: I carried that charm you gave me, I also brought that dagger you gave me years ago. And I travelled during daytime. Is it so wrong to want to see the man who’s going to be my husband?”

That slew of answers took Giyuu aback. He expected an infuriatingly smartass remark, but he never saw an outburst coming. And, may Kami-sama help him, but he liked it; he liked seeing the fire in her eyes as she glared at him, and he loved seeing her lips twisted in a contemptuous line at him.

And before he knew it, he had cupped her face in his hands and slanted his lips over hers in an all-consuming kiss.

All of his frustrations for the past four months were also poured into the kiss; from all the times when he thought it was better to not see her again, to the tender moments when all he wanted was to hold her— he put all his feelings into his kiss.

Sturdy, battle roughened hands drifted over (Y/n)’s body— feelings every inch of flesh beneath her clothes, and leaving a blazing trail of heat in their wake. While the (L/n) heiress’s gentle hands pressed themselves against her lover’s chest, before eventually settling for cupping his cheeks.

Both parties were breathing heavily when they untangled their lips and respective tongues, before devolving into another hug.

“I’ve missed you, Giyuu.”

 ***

 “Keep your voice down,” Giyuu whispered gruffly, just before he aligned his tip to her entrance and pushed in to the hilt.

He peppered kisses along her jaw, before starting to move his hips. The sideways position they were in— beneath the futon— afforded very little room for movement, but it was the best they could do without arising too much suspicion.

And it was also the most covert position to pretend to be asleep in, in case they got caught. After all, they wouldn’t put it past an unsuspecting Slayer to come and investigate the low whimpers that came from (Y/n).

Although the couple doubted that anyone would dare to disturb the Mizu Hashira’s room.

They were all surprised to find out over dinner about who (Y/n) really was, which dampened the young woman’s mood. And, despite all of Giyuu’s subtle efforts to cheer her up, sex was the option that topped his list.

It had been months since they last did it, after all.

“Faster, Giyuu,” The (h/c) haired woman whispered, before biting down on her bottom lip to suppress the moans that bubbled from her mouth.

Wordlessly, the raven-haired Slayer slid his left hand down to his lover’s thigh, then proceeded to raise her left leg up. With the movement came the sweet increase in pace and angle that (Y/n) craved, which had her biting down on her knuckles to silence her moans.

It didn’t take long after that for (Y/n) to reach her climax, but she accidentally cried out when Giyuu pulled her closer to him and readjusted her left leg— so that her calf was propped up against his bent knee.

And, after making sure that she wouldn’t move, he wrapped his left arm back around her and proceeded to play with her clit relentlessly; while his right arm— which served as a pillow for (Y/n)— reached towards her breasts to tease her nipples.

(Y/n)’s knees shook uncontrollably, along with a heady, burning sensation from the pit of her stomach. Her senses were extremely overwhelmed, but there was nothing but Giyuu on her mind.

Her cunt’s walls were throbbing like crazy around the raven-haired man’s cock, yet he kept on thrusting to chase after his release. He had missed her body so much, that he couldn’t help but want to prolong his orgasm.

But (Y/n) was already on her second orgasm; he couldn’t put her through that much strain, even if he wanted the moment to last a bit longer. So, with one last thrust, he emptied himself within her— thick, hot ropes of his cum flooding her cunt that was the catalyst for her second orgasm.

After a few moments, Giyuu pulled himself out of his lover, then pressed a tender kiss against the back of her head. “I want another round, (Y/n).”

He waited a short while for her answer, but none came— except for the light snores which signified that she was already asleep.

A quiet chuckle left his lips, only to be cut off by her quiet murmur of his name. The simple action made his heart race in his chest; so fast and hard that he thought it was going to leap out and grace them with its presence.

And then, as softly as he could, Giyuu whispered, “I… love you.”

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

[screensirenfic]

Black Leather - Chapter 1

Life had remained largely the same, despite the obvious overhanging changes over the last year. I mean; life had always been hectic; disastrous even, taking turns and downright derailing at the worst times. We’d experienced loss again and again, been chewed up and spat on, but got up fighting; because that was what being a Hopper meant, being too damn stubborn to die. It was in the genes.

Life had gotten weirder. The discovery of real, living and fucking breathing monsters had been a big ole’ “fuck you” to logic, but science seemed to back it up with the uncovering of Hawkins lab and whatever sinister experiments they were running there. Of course; that wasn’t a concern any more, considering old Uncle Sam had shut that down quicker than the health inspector at Benny’s; God rest his soul.

But even with the finality of the death and burial of Hawkins greatest catastrophe/mystery; it still left a lot of bodies in its wake, one of which I was currently adjusting to calling sister.

Eleven. El. Jane. Whatever people preferred to call her; she was currently sharing a home with Me and my dad, as we all played happy families in the darkened depths of Indiana woodlands. I liked the kid; I’d admit it. She was sweet in her own way, and knowing she could toss shit around with her mind made her much cooler than the average thirteen year old. Of course; all of that was a secret. Everything about El was; as far as the government knew, she didn’t exist. It was the price that had to be payed for safety, and God knew dad valued that above all else: including our sanity.

So instead we stayed shut inside that little wooden hut forgotten by time and space, sneaking in and out at the rising and setting of the sun, like criminals or bats in the night. It was enough to drive you crazy; and trust me, dad was already half way there. Tensions ran high all the time; higher than they had at the height of his PTSD, and God; sometimes I just wanted to scream. For someone to address that shit wasn’t normal, rather than sitting around and pretending that it is.

The only true bit of normality was school and work. Mainly just school, as the arrival of a new dependant meant my work hours were seriously fucked. Wasn’t the kid’s fault; dad was a workaholic, didn’t know when to call it a day, and that left me picking up the pieces. It was Sara all over again. At least back then things were normal. There was still trauma, but it was the kind normal families had. A missing parent; semi-alcoholic father; that was shit everybody had to deal with, but this. This was the stuff that only happened in B movies.

—————————————

God; sometimes I really loved having a motorcycle. The wind slapping your face like a Californian wave; that rush of adrenaline when you take a corner a little too fast, when death seems just moments away. It was like flying; soaring through the air without limits. No; it was more visceral than that. Like free falling; the absolute relinquishment of control as you hurtle through the ozone, the earth rising up at you as the void closes in; death approaching at a hundred miles per hour.

You couldn’t compare it to any other sensation. I’d seen kids trying to mimic it on tiny dirt bikes painted up like NASCARS; their little legs spinning the pedals like turbines as they tried to reach just a lick of that speed. To feel the breeze on their face; the closest you could get to freedom in the tiny township of Hawkins, Indiana. That rush didn’t touch the one I felt when I rode my Triumph, hitting 80 as I threaded through standstill traffic; the reaper breathing down my neck.

But like all great rides; it came to an end too soon, the nondescript flat roofed shape of Hawkins High rapidly approaching. I pulled into the parking lot, cruising through row after row of dusty cars; from the beat up old Pacard, to the shiny new Chevy.

I parked a couple of rows before the school, swinging my leg over my saddle as I finally accepted my joy ride was over and I’d have to land back on earth.

“Hey; Lola!” A familiar voice rang out as I pulled off my helmet, shaking my hair loose, less the dreaded helmet hair take hold.

Nancy Wheeler; Hawkins High’s very own Miss Perfect, the princess of Indiana. She was the daughter fathers dreamed of; pretty in a girl next door kind of way, well behaved, a high achiever; the kind to bring home boys who got her back by ten and kissed goodbye at the door. I got called other things. Jail bait, wild child; a lawsuit waiting to happen. Well meaning grandparents used girls like me as a cautionary tale to expecting parents on what too little discipline did to ‘nice little girls’.

Not that I didn’t like Nancy. She was nice, and Steve’s girlfriend too. Besides, being a princess was hard; a lot of expectations to live up to, a lot of hopes to let down. I never had that problem, and with her cotton candy smile; I couldn’t help but give one in return.

“Hey Nance” I chirped, placing my helmet on the back of my motorcycle and knowing damn well no one would dare touch it.

“Steve was just wondering if you’d take a look at his college application...” She began, and I could see the flustered figure in question trailing behind her.

“He’s been finding it hard to find the right words, and we know how you never get tongue tied.” She joked, and I took it at face value; I was getting A’s, despite the perception that girls like me were only good at one thing and one thing only.

“Is that so, Steve?” I asked, unable to hide my smugness as I stared at him, despite his insistence on avoiding eye contact.

There was nothing I enjoyed more than really digging into him. It was just too easy; to push all his buttons. Of course; he did the same in return, but who really had more to lose? The self proclaimed king of Hawkins High, or his leather clad sidekick?

“Yeah, sowouldyoutakealookatit?” He mumbled, rubbing his nose as if he could hide the words as you would a cough.

“I’m sorry, Steve. I didn’t quite get that.” I purred with all forced sweetness and sacharine smiles. I could never resist the urge to really twist the knife.

“I said, would you take a look at it...” he sighed; a visible strain on the admission of inferiority.

“Please...” He added, drawing a smile to my lips. Sweet, stubborn Steve; too good to ask for help, and  just desperate enough to need it; but then what are friends for?

“Sure thing Harrington...” I grinned, finally plucking the crumpled stack of papers from Nancy’s grasp. “Would love to.” I removed my gaze from him, savouring the rare look of humbleness on his face, and turned it upon the paper.

——————————————-

Steve Harrington was many things. Charismatic. Caring. Rich. Good looking. A great guy with almost endless good qualities, but smart wasn’t one of them. I’d spent the best part of a quarter of an hour troweling through his paper with about as much joy as a prospector in a dry well, but was yet to strike gold.

It really was garbage, and that was treating it nicely, but still both me and Nancy tried our best to revive a corpse; not because we felt there was anything worth saving, but because it was Steve, and we cared about his future; even if it was doomed to culminate behind a deep fat fryer in a fast food joint.

My eyes trailed across line after line of smudged ink; much of it crossed out and rewritten in the margins, trying to make sense of whatever it was he was trying to convey in a comparison between WW2 and a basketball game between us and Northern.

“And did you...” I said; pointing out a particular eyebrow raising line, talking about the all American value of victory.

“Yeah; that’s what I thought...” She agreed, picking up off my tone and honing in on the line in question.

“Uh huh” I mumbled reading onwards on what was a virtual mine field of badly used metaphors and poorly linked  stories.

Steve didn’t seem to fare much better than his essay, pacing restlessly up and down a small stretch of parking lot, reminding me distinctly of an expecting father in the delivery room. However; his midwives were much more willing to take our time perfecting the delivery of his academic baby.

“And don’t you think...” Nancy trailed of, redirecting my attention to a sentence circled in red marker. Another misused simile courtesy of the genius that is Steven Harrington.

“My thoughts exactly.” I concurred, knowing that we were both desperately avoiding as coming across as purposely nitpicky with his work.

A loud, impatient sigh interrupted our conversation as Steve’s nerves finally reached their limit.

“I’m sorry, but are you girls anywhere near done?” He asked, drawing our attention away from the paper and up to his signature Steve Harrington pose; hands perched on his hips.

“We were just trying to find some constructive criticism to give you...” She began her tidy little avoidance bullshit; the kind that came with years of forced diplomacy beneath the perfect four bed suburban roof. The kind of bullshit I couldn’t stand; let alone tolerate. I had to put an end to it.

I strolled up to Steve, shoving the proverbial toilet paper he’d used as an application to his chest in a way that told him loud and clear what the truth about his efforts were.

“She means your paper sucks, man...” I translated; my words holding none of her polish, but all of the dirty intentions beneath.

“I wasn’t going to say that. I was...” She said; already backpedaling the hard truth I’d spilt onto the table.

Steve just gave her a look. He knew she was lying; if only to save his feelings. He may not have been smart, but he wasn’t stupid.

“Okay; it’s a little suckish, but nothing we can’t fix...” She offered in consolation; a weak smile the most she could offer in her lie.

I was about to object, knowing the hole she was digging the both of us was deeper than we could deliver upon, when a grisly roar overshadowed all thought. I knew the sound well; all eyes turning to it’s source, the newest arrival to Hawkins.

A Chevy Camaro; older, probably fixed up by some dedicated hobby mechanic with too much time on his hands. I’d seen hundreds of them in the shop in varying states of rustiness; most beyond repair, but still, some insistent gashead would insist it could be done, sinking fistfuls of dollar into what was essentially raising the titanic.

“Nice car.” Nancy remarked, and for a princess like her to notice, it must be true. It was in good shape. Baby blue with just the slightest of wear on the paint; someone took a lot of care with their baby. Fuck; if I had one, I probably would too!

“Yeah, but I bet the backseat is a nightmare.” Joked Steve; insecurity seeping into what was meant to be a light dig.

Not the only man with a nice ride on the block now.

His dig fell short when the driver stepped out, hard rock pounding in his stead.

Pretty; was my first thought. Like his car, he had all the well tailored ruggedness that created the perfect balance between pretty boy and rebel. Blonde haired, blue eyed; think James Dean if he had a mullet.  His clothes looked good too; double denim that clung to him like a second skin, with a white t shirt that really left nothing to hide.

Smoking a cigarette with movie star casualness, if I’d seen him in a movie, I’d be drooling. But this wasn’t a movie; this was Indiana, and I’d seen too many of his type roll up to Charlie’s in pretty cars with prettier faces thinking it meant the world owed them something. That that something was hidden somewhere down the denim shorts I wore so religiously.

I’d had it with pretty boys. They could all go jump off a bridge.

And as if he was already decided to live up to the cliche, he went and cemented it when he strolled past us, dripping sex and arrogance; his eyes trailing up and down me like I was something to be bartered for, like I could be bought.

“What an asshole.” Sneered Steve, taking the words out of my mouth, and I almost smiled; because of course he’d be the one to say it.

But I didn’t; not when the new kid was leering at me with all the restraint of a hungry dog.

I watched him lick his lips; that’s right, lick. his. lips. Pink tongue peaking out past too perfect teeth, running across a full bottom lip. I tried telling myself it wasn’t sexual. That it was just a private little tick that he couldn’t control. But his eyes had never left me; a dark grin that promised any number of sins stretched across a heartbreaker’s face.

“Yeah. An asshole.” I agreed; the word rolling off my tongue automatically, but I don’t think my heart was in it. That frightened me.

That, and the small itch in my stomach that grew every time his bright baby blues met my green.

Finally; those blues relented, tongue disappearing behind white teeth as he shot me a smile that could’ve sent knees buckling. A quick wink and he was done, strutting into Hawkins High like a stormy breeze that was sure to rock the entire school.

“Hey Lo. You listening?” Came Steve’s voice through a fog of cigarette smoke and gasoline; the smell reminiscent of home, despite its cause being far from homely.

“Yeah. Sure...” I replied, tearing my eyes from where the newcomer had disappeared into the school.

“Let’s get to class before we’re late.” I said, shouldering my bag as if it was any other Monday morning. And it was.

Just another manic Monday.

[thanidiel]

Big Bang Theory

Yes, she clearly recalls the moment in which her world grew into something expansive, and wide, and freeing.

She had scoffed at such sense before, had seen it before, in the way it manifested in Eldest Brother. The way his eyes grew and his brows lessened their dire weight after he began to attend school in the Village Down The Water. 

He’d rush up the twisting roads when he came back home every week’s end, dirtying the clean blue of the clothing that Mother had stitched herself from the cloth they had bartered last summer with rice slurry. His sparse whiskers collected sweat like the fat droplets of dew that came in from the mountain sky every morning.

Yes, she remembers that. And she remembers how he’d throw down the cross of his legs onto the kitchen mat like a soldier making himself welcome, swallow down the thick strips of rice noodles set in front of him, lick down his chops until every bit of the chicken fat and soy sauce dissipated. Then he’d pull off his school tunic, walk bare into the paddies, and perform what work there was to be done with frenetic spirit.

And after that, once the sun slept and once they had rubbed garlic onto their flatbread and ate their fermented eggs; once Father began to chew his stick of sugar cane and once Mother bared her dark breast to Third Sister - Eldest Brother would pull them all together with something conspiratorial. All of them: her, Second Brother, Third Brother, and Second Sister. They would sit together in the light of the fire, and Eldest Brother would insist upon a thorough, if condensed, curriculum of what had been learned the week previous. It was these days that she saw a joy in his lips and eyes that never quite reached him in times after. 

She took it in readily, as she had always taken all that had come to her, but she did not realise what it was in that joy until one night, when the Kou had demanded so much coin and food from her family that Father could no longer pay for schooling - she and Eldest Brother had spirited to town with their saved allowances. There, in the orange sun, they had bought sticky and dried persimmons and sucked on those furiously in their cheeks, washing it down with syrupy plum-wine they had excused as buying for Father. 

There, in the cool night, sprawled out and hidden in the barley fields on the outskirts, her red-cheeked sibling turned to her.

“First Sister– Hui.”

“Yes?”

A pause fell here, so needed it was. The eventual thought came out of him like a frog’s croak; a bubble of mucus slowly blowing out of the buffalo’s nose and bursting.

“Do you think I will die like this? Doing the same work as everyone before us?”

“Who am I to read the future? That’s why you were in the books.”

“And now the Kou have taken everything from me.”

“Don’t say that. You don’t know who else is around.”

“It’s true though, I wasn’t supposed to be the one to take up Father’s work. Now it looks like five of us are going to be divvied up with the rice paddies. Scraps and heritage.”

“Five? Third Sister is sickly, but not weak. Morbid, much? She’s almost to her first year.”

Another pause. She watched Eldest Brother play out the mannerisms of their Father, chasing the gulp of wine with the thunderous smack of his lips and the roll of his fat tongue around his gums and lips. He punctuated the start of his words with a loud sigh of satisfaction.

“You are the brightest, the capable one. Everything points to it. That’s why Father hasn’t accepted any offers for you yet - not until he has made a trip to the city. You’re the only one of us that reached for the gil on your Zhuazhou, you know.”

She remembers snorting at that, “So I’m bright because some stupid tradition says that I’m a money-grubber?”

“Good with money, rather. Smart. A business-woman. And what else could someone look for in a wife?”

“A wife that’s interested in sticks,” shot out easily. She and Eldest Brother were the closest of any of their siblings, nothing was kept from the other. She remembers how that came out too. They had been wandering the town together one evening when the work was little and Eldest Brother had been irritated with the sharp tongue she had driven off his flirtatious friends with - until she had spat onto the rich soil below their feet and declared she’d bleed like the rivers before ever accepting any man’s gaze upon her. After that, he was shocked in his silence. His apology was using the last month of his allowance to buy her a dusty, pale, mooncake rich with duck yolk.

“A luxury, yeah?” He dismissed so easily; as everything Eldest Brother ever did. Then he fixed her with a drunken severity. The bulb of muscle betwixt his brows jutted out like an oranda’s head, 

“You have a natural intellect like the tigers down the river, the rest of us are nothing beyond what we already are without that schooling. You’re going to be the one that makes it out of here, Hui.”

She remembers that she did not conceive how to reply to that. They swallowed the engulfing silence, of which was a grieving of the truth and all of its touch, with the rest of the bottle. After that, there was a blur of resting and intoxication that ended in Father dragging them onto their knees over a scattering of grain. Once they had cried out all of their repentance, they had gathered every dusty piece and returned it to the sacks else they would waste even more on that night.

It was only some months after that where the burden of the Kou squashed the dreams of their Father. A festival, she remembers. A festival that brought some handfuls of peoples of the Steppes, and the Sea, and Doma to their humble village. Meagre, and she recalls the way elders collected of festivals one thousand times the size of it when Doma ruled Doma, but ironically freer in these times than the south where the Kou rested their hand more heavily.

Though for play and worship, the underlying spirit of festival and foreign visitors was ultimately business. She remembers the unprecedented flow of gil from the house, Father opening his doors to all newcomers, and the way Mother and Second Sister worked for days beforehand to stack pretty parcels of mooncake stuffed with winter melon for the coming meetings. 

The mornings and afternoons were a flurry of touch, and sickness, and nothing but the flow of the Hingan they spoke below the mountains. Old, rounded, women touched her here, there, and everywhere; moving her jaw and brushing their thumbs across her cheekbones and twisting her hand over to trace her palm lines. And her lower back strained from the repetition of tea ceremony after tea ceremony she had been made to perform for both them, and their husbands, and their prospective sons.

The criticisms burned where they were laid. For the families of fishery and soil, she was too pale and delicate. For the merchants, some remarked that she was too dark and course, while others proclaimed she did not demonstrate a sufficiently practical character. The rare presence of the neighboring Raen clucked their tongues and declared her etiquette unpracticed and unsuitable to their kinsmen at home. Roegadyn pointed out the markers of ill birth in her body.

And the offers seared her soil evermoreso than the rejections. The sell-out magistrate of their village made an appearance and had plainly offered to take her out of Father’s hands as Third Wife. She remembers thinking how Eldest and Second Brother would have whipped his skin into curls for his arrogant gluttony, had they been present. Another offer was even more debasing than that - Kha had visited the family as well and placed offer as concubine, for even they would not suffer to pass heritage through non-Auri offspring. Though the one that flared her heat the most was a Kou-Decurio who had demanded to take her above all visitors, as she were such a ‘pretty girl.’

All of this, she bore silently. Finally, it was after the second week where Father and Mother released her to contemplate her future, daring not to refuse the Kou, and giving her the last days of the festival freely. 

It was there where the world truly expanded, that she remembers oh-so clearly.

There was a special visitor - a truly special visitor. A landowner from Hingashi’s famed port-city, who had paid the Ruby Tithe for the purposes of business with the Kou that could not be handled within Hingashi’s limits. They said she had come there to survey the qualities of the mountainous land between Doma and the neighboring Steppes.

She managed to convince the village girls to settle close to where the visitor was purported to be, and they huddled over their collective plate of sugar cake with furtive glances and furtive ears.

The first apparent thing was that this visitor, this woman, possessed beauty and wealth beyond anything any of the girls had seen before. 

Yes; that is a stark image in her mind to this day. The flowing silks on her person were dyed bright, with colours those of Yanxia could not think to replicate with gil or their own raw materials. Her hair was blacker, much blacker than their’s, and thin and sleek in opposition to what sprouted from their heads. Her eyes, too, shone with green like the waters instead of their brown eyes. And whereas their faces grew square, this woman possessed delicate, rounded, features. Servants and a palanquin rested nearby as she spoke with the elders; an obedient wushi behind her left side.

Something changed in her, watching that woman and hearing her haggle between the Kou and magistrate for contract of the village’s export. Or, in a most precise description, something resonated in her. It was a truly awe-inspiring affair; observing that woman. She had an arrogant manner in her, this Hui understood. The surety and dominance she exuded as the village men, red-eared like jujube fruit, ketou to her twisted an ache of want under her breast. And when she spoke of the culture of this distant Kugane, of the wealth and freedom apparently in every nook and cranny of its streets, Hui breathed it in like a caged bird set by the window. So righteously envious was Hui of this perfumed niang that her companions yanked her away with a twist of fingers along the cartilage of her ear.

That was the moment; those other girls too late in the rescue of their friend. That was the expansive breath that changed everything. It was as though she were a child with caul, freed by an attentive midwife - Eldest Brother was right. 

She was better than this, how ought she not reach for more?

This Kugane, this ziyou, if it were to breed women like this stranger as purported, then that is what she would aspire for. That is the thought that rang, and brayed, through her mind with every step that tore her farther away from that woman.

Opportunity knocks at the door only but once; she would pluck this fruit of her mind before the cold took it away.

[ganymedesclock]

What do you think is the relation between Light and Void? They are opposites in many ways, like how Ghost can gain Essence only from ghosts, and Soul energy only from living enemies. But both energies still seem tied to what I'd call 'spirit', because essence affects dreams, while soul is self-explanatory. They seem like complementary powers that have similar effects when overflowing, like you see with Godmaster DLC endings compared to the Infection.

So this might seem like a rabbit trail, but, roughly, here’s my thinking.

What Hollow Knight tells us that Silksong’s basic premise confirms is that there are two mutually true statements:

Hallownest is surrounded by wastelands

Contrary to the Pale King’s words in the Howling Cliffs, there are other kingdoms beyond these wastelands

This intrigues me because it’s fair to presume Pharloom has other gods to its name, or at least had at one point, which IMO, would seem to suggest they still have gods. We have yet to see a dead god that truly leaves behind no lingering seed of their presence. Unn is absent according to the tablet her children leave behind but she still has a physical body; she is a weak god, not a dead one. Radiance, when killed in the Dream No More and Embrace the Void endings, dissolves into Essence. And Grimm and Radiance can be refought after their boss fights that ostensibly kill them, even if it’s in a dream. The Pale King is dead- his corpse can be found- but the Seer, who isn’t proven inaccurate about anything else she says- cheerfully wonders if he’s watching Ghost.

Even, seemingly, the “Blackwyrm” Ogrim alludes to- there is some manner of enormous, jet black creature with blue eyes that can be seen in both Godhome and the lifeblood abyss dream. 

Let’s assume for a moment that Pharloom is also going to be surrounded by the wastes. Let’s assume- since we have no reason not to- that Hallownest is standard; a kingdom containing all manner of flora and fauna, surrounded by an empty, nearly-lifeless no man’s land. After all, assuming the Pale King is the author of the whispering lore tablets, since they speak in his voice and the author states indirectly they are a Higher Being (”your great strength marks you among us”), we know he traversed the void himself before arriving at the edge of the kingdom to leave behind his Wyrm body. And he claims “there is no world beyond”. It would suggest even if he’s wrong (many other bugs, from Quirrel to Cloth to Zote to Cornifer, suggest or outright state the existence of other kingdoms that they’ve traveled to) he views the world as empty.

This would seem to suggest that life exists by clinging to specific habitable zones created by gods. Possibly, Grimm’s adherents, being oddballs, occupy a travelling bubble of life and safety created by his power- it would explain why, when dream nailed, the two giraffe weevils resting outside his tent are thinking about how the roads are dark and cold, but their master is always guiding them.

That said, that doesn’t necessarily mean that Light and Life are synonymous. While many beings allude to the Void as death, that’s not the full picture. Lifeblood- the substance most directly conflated with “life”, appears to be abyssal in origin. There are artificial void beings- the Kingmoulds and Wingmoulds, among them- and natural ones as well. The snail shamans appear to have been long ago born from the void itself- the shamans you free from the Crystallized Mound and the Soul Sanctum both dissolve into shadow just like the Collector. And what’s more interesting is that Lemm’s remark on the description of the Void Idol tells us that there were bugs that worshiped the void.

Void does not appear by its nature antithetical to light. In fact, the truth seems to be more interesting- void appears primed to devour light when the two come into contact. It seems to take a lot of light and a weakened void for the former to triumph- see the Broken and Pure vessels. And at their pinnacle, Pure wields the power of holy light, effectively and without hurting themselves.

Roughly, what I think is going on is that Light is roughly the energy of a god; they are beings made of Light, who radiate it, like living suns. This is worth noting, because at least Hallownest as we saw it does not appear to have any natural sunlight- outdoor regions are perpetually overcast and dim, and the majority of the kingdom is underground. All light comes from either artificial lighting or a natural glow that seems to pervade certain areas.

The gods radiate light, and, in that light, life flourishes. In the sense of Essence, that’s described as “fragments of light that dreams are made of” but several sources, most noticeably the cut full text of the Elegy for Hallownest, suggest that dreams are not exclusively a gift of the gods. Seemingly, all living beings have dreams.

And most interestingly? That’s not just the light-aligned beings. Kin, when purified of the Radiance, with their spirit freed after the Lost Kin fight, still has essence to give Ghost. The Collector can be dream nailed and read. Ghost’s ascension to the Shade Lord basically predicates on their ability to enter dreams, and on having the awakened pure nail.

This is really interesting if you consider Ghost becoming the Shade Lord seems to involve aggregating a lot of essence to them. And many of the Warrior Dreams, after their defeat, talk about entrusting themselves to Ghost, watching them or coming with them or being taken somewhere by them. The Seer also remarks that “the dreams of this kingdom are starting to stick to you.”

The Elegy for Hallownest also implies both the Pale King and the Pure Vessel took the Kingdom’s dreams onto themselves.

So, perhaps, if Higher Beings can be thought of like stars, then, the heat and pressure that forges that star is by hitting a critical mass of essence. It would explain what gods get out of this symbiosis with “Lower” forms of life- to retain their power, to not fade away and gradually diminish, they need to retain believers, who will continue dreaming the dreams that sustain them. Radiance parasitically forces herself into others’ dreams by creeping through the minds of those who already knew of her, and then as her strength regained she was able to attack the minds of others- helped that she was the  god matriarch of the moths, who specialized in manipulation of dreams.

So where does this leave Void? I think that Void is simply another god’s light- albeit a particularly eldritch light, coming from the oldest god we know of.

The relics from before Hallownest’s history are all void-aligned. The Pale King and White Lady usurped the Radiance to become Hallownest’s new gods, and seemingly pushed aside Unn to do so... but it’s likely that Radiance overthrew another god- because she greets Ghost as “ANCIENT ENEMY”.

I think the Blackwyrm was the first god of Hallownest, and its stamp yet remains on the kingdom- most directly, in the form of the void totems, arcane eggs, the snails and Collector, the lifeblood cocoons, and of course, the black sea at the bottom of the kingdom, but I would expect, before Radiance’s rule drained the water away, it’s likely that sea was much higher than the Abyss.

What makes me say that? Well, Hallownest loves shells, doesn’t it? And the most common kind of shell that appears, all over the place, as high as the Forgotten Crossroads, in-game?

Ammonite shells.

Ancient sea creatures.

Flowing water would likely have bored out the expansive network of natural caverns the kingdom takes place in. And, again, the Snails would appear to be the descendants of natural void creatures. There’s certainly no ‘fetter’ on them like the Pale King imposed on the Moulds and Vessels. There are land snails. There are also sea snails.

The Abyss is heavily conflated with the distant past and this notion of primal life. The Hunter’s Journal entry for the Void Tendrils has the Hunter outright talking about how the bugs of Hallownest wondered what predated them- that the Hunter is wondering about this here would heavily suggest that the primal life of the void is that ancestor.

The Radiance went to war with the Blackwyrm, but, it’s likely the Pale King never did. The White Defender’s journal entry has Ogrim reference only a single “battle of the Blackwyrm”. That’s not a war. And the Pale King is way more willing to stick his face and hands (and children) in the void looking for a leg up on the Radiance.

This could well be a kind of generational ignorance acting here. The King came after Radiance had ruled for long enough to establish the moth tribe, and for the moths to get quite entrenched- if the Resting Grounds are only what was left of the tribe after a long decline, that’s still a rather fancy area with a lot of personalized tombs and markers. So he’d have arrived long after the Blackwyrm’s first defeat. And even the Snail Shaman doesn’t allude to the Blackwyrm- people who mention the idea of life in the Abyss mention it in words of idle curiosity and speculation. If we presume Lifeblood is tied to the Abyss, and tied to the Blackwyrm, as the creature in the background of the Lifeblood Dream and that door in the abyss would certainly seem to imply, then the closest thing the Blackwyrm has to an extant worshiper is Joni the heretic, and implicitly some others given Salubra cheerfully mentions drinking lifeblood is kind of a taboo, which, you don’t establish taboos for something that nobody is even considering doing.

Blackwyrm is a forgotten god- so faded and distant that they’re only peeking around the corners through dreams. It might well be that by the time the Pale King encountered the void, he viewed it as something without sapience entirely. After all, he perceives the Vessels as “mindless” when you could make a two-hundred point bulleted list over things that Ghost canonically does, either actively in cutscenes or implicitly in the thrust and limiters of the game, that make no sense if they’re a mindless puppet operating only on the instructions they’re given. Like, for example, sitting with Quirrel or Marissa, or walking slower in some sections than others.

The implication is the Pale King viewed void as something mindless and godless, but it was neither.

And the interesting takeaway from that? Is the idea that the Pale King may have given the Radiance’s ancient enemy an open door without even meaning to. After all, Bardoon outright says- death to a Wyrm usually means transformation. So perhaps in creating the Vessels, the Pale King was actually just imposing fetters on fragments of the Blackwyrm- and with the Godmaster endings, Ghost was the one to shatter that fetter and ascend to the emptied throne of the God of the Void- the new incarnation of the Blackwyrm.

[inn-o-cencebabes]

He Can Smell It: Part I

A/N: I know it’s been a while because I was facing a bit of a block, but I’m back with the goods

Please note that this isn’t Beta read and I literally just finished writing and uploaded so if there are mistakes I’m so sorry

Also just a reminder, Mari is you, and you are Mari

Thank you and ich liebe dich!

Throughout the entire test, you felt like you were on the verge of passing out or throwing up or both. Not because you didn’t know the answers but on the off chance that you ended up wasting Thor’s time.

“I’m going to fucking fail, I can feel it.” The thought ricocheted around your skull painful and obnoxious. You’d been struggling with the same section for the past twenty minutes, the coolness of the whiteboard against your head doing nothing to comfort you. When you first realized you were struggling with the same section you held it together but the more you arrived at the wrong answer you could feel the hot heat of frustration rise in your face making the tips of your fingers tingle. Sagging against the whiteboard completely you admitted defeat. The emotion swelling, building up in your throat and behind your eyes. You weren’t a crier, at least not in front of others. The innate need for perfection still gave you a hard time, and sensing failure made you feel less than, weak. You let your eyes close using only sheer will and a few deep breaths to get the tears to retract. It wasn’t any easier once you felt him behind you. It was hard to ignore it, everything about him was grand, his presence, his smell, all of it enveloped you in a hazy cloud. A soft-spoken hey with fingertips barely grazing down against your arm. The same fingers reaching to slide the dangling marker from between yours.

“Hey, look at me, what’s wrong?” his voice low and rolling like soft rain.

Your body turning slowly it was almost like you could feel it pushing each particle out the way. Your eyes flutter open, looking straight ahead, seeing the individual fibers that made the shirt. There is no more energy in the tank to get your words to be more than a mumble.

“I could tell you the events leading to the rise of Hatshepsut as pharaoh or how botched the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand was. I could recite the Heartland Theory drunk. I can layer time and theory and politics as easy as I breathe. But-” your breath catches in your throat as you look at him through unshed tears.

“But I can’t get this,” eye contact breaking as you felt a piece of your heart break, tears flowing faster than your hands can swipe them away.

“It’s okay, you’re okay min lillie, take a breath please, for me. Now take a seat and explain it to me, it’s just you and me.”

Now that you were finished you wanted nothing more than to lay down and stop existing for a moment. Making your way to your dorm, you see the Jersey boys at the end of the hall with what looks like twenty boxes of pizza. A small huff passing your lips. Turning to face the door you could hear Gugu or G.W. For short, rummaging just behind the other side of the door. As terrible as her organizational skills were, in the beginning, she was a great source of encouragement, plus she picked up a few of your cleaning habits. However, you couldn’t tell she remembered any of it with the clothes, thankfully, strewn about her side if the room.

“G.W. what in the hell are you doing? Why is,” you turn to peer into her closet, “almost half of your closet out and about?”

“Babes it’s Friday, and you just had that test, so we need to loosen up,” she says with a smile

“By going out?”

“Well, you're coming along whether you like it or not.”

Seeing as there’s no point in pitchin’ a fit with her now that her mind’s been made up you give in and let her pick out your outfit.

“Dress?”

“No.”

“Skirt, pants, or shorts?”

“Shorts.”

Pulling out a pair of high-waisted denim shorts rolled at the bottom and your Chucks, G.W. throws them on your bed. A pensive look pulls over Gugu’s face as she tries to find a shirt that goes with the vision in her head. Thumbing through your closet proves to be futile, and she quickly moves to her belongings. Sifting through the mountain of clothes her hand reaches for a sheer black crop top.

Oh hell no

“G.W. I’m not wearing that,” nearly screeching, “I don’t need eyes seeing or hands reaching!”

“Chill out, it’s only for one man in particular, tall, blonde, Nordic. Ring any bells?” G.W. calmly responds back

Arguing with her on almost anything is futile the outfit was gonna end up on you. Settling in defeat, you watched as she pulled out a black sports bra that zipped in the front, the word BABY on one side while GIRL was written on the other. Your casket was sealed, there was no use in protesting. Trudging to the bathroom, you changed into the clothes. Stepping out you had to give props where props were due, you looked damn good.

“Damn if he doesn’t wanna fuck I do.”

You roll your eyes at her antics. The girl was always jumpin somebody but she had good taste. Sitting down on G. W. ‘s bed you close your eyes and let her finish off the look. You could only faintly tell what was going on, but it was nice having someone else do all the work. Relaxing back into her you let yourself drift off.

__________________________________________________

“Okay kiddo, let’s move.”

The temperature only dropped a little and was comfortable to walk in. Your mind began to drift to Thor.

I wonder if he’ll be there? What if he’s not? What if he thinks I’m a hoe? This outfit is a bit out there. Who cares? I care, but I shouldn’t care about his opinion. I -

“Mari. Mari! We’re here.”

The dark brown door in front of you barely contained the activities going on behind it. The music billowed out from the minuscule cracks in the house and slightly open windows, giggles filtering around you, and wrapping you in an overage of energy. Gugu doesn’t bother to knock and opens the door, stepping through. You followed behind ensure of what type of party you were actually participating in. Sweat, alcohol, and something else you’d rather not think about permeated the air as you looked around. Girls in laps, backs on fronts, and drinking games surrounded you. Without command your eyes found him surrounded by pale, medium, and badly tanned bodies of females vying for his attention. Backed into a wall, he looked cute trying to dodge around flirtatious comments and reaching hands.

“Come on let’s dance,” Gugu yells across the music

Back to back, you both playfully grind against each other and play dance enjoying being free from the monotony of life at college. All thoughts of Thor and concerns about your outfit long forgotten. After a while, the air shifts and tingles against your skin. The party has seemingly split into several factions: the Watchers, the Daredevils, and Wild. Taking the cue, you tell G.W. you're going to the kitchen to get something to drink. Turning around the corner you find him standing there, back to you, and before you can backtrack, he turns making eye contact with you.

Thor was never taught to be a liar, Frigga made sure of that so it could be said that him wanting to devour Mari on the counters would be an understatement. It was strange to him, seeing you display so much skin, to him it felt like a century had gone by since he’d seen the brown that stretched along the curve of your body. But standing here now, before him, he felt the heat of jealousy rise in him as everyone got to see you like this. Unmarked and unclaimed as well. But more than your appearance, it seemed there was no longer a dark cloud hanging over you anymore. Good. Stalking closer to you, he could still smell the metallic bite of your blood, intoxicating him more along with the Asgardian mead he’d slipped in. Upon closer examination, he noticed you fidgeting with your fingers. He hadn’t meant to make you nervous, but perhaps it would help in the end.

“Mari, nice to finally see you,” spoken with a slick smirk at the end

“You to Thor.”

You looked between his eyes as if to search for something to say, however, the moment was broken once someone yells Truth or Dare. The echo lingering in the air of the house. Leaning down he made sure to brush his lips against the shell of your ear.

“Let’s play between us min lillie,” voice rasping

He sees the flash of hesitation between your eyes, but he knew you wouldn’t back down that quickly. Flashing him a crooked grin you take the bait.

“Truth or Dare, Odinson?”

“Truth.”

You knew you were getting yourself into hot water but when would this opportunity present itself again.

“Is there absolutely no girl who has caught your eye?”

“There is one, intelligent and stunning really, just waiting for a sign,”

Lucky girl

“Truth or Dare?”

“Dare.”

“Dance with me.”

You looked at him incredulously. He thought dancing with him was a serious dare? There could be no way. With disbelief thick in your voice you clarified,

“Dance how? Like normal?”

“No. Like you want me, seduce me.”

Slick asshole. 

You wouldn’t back down, it wasn’t in your nature. Virgin shyness be damned you knew your body could be a weapon, all you needed was the soundtrack to go with it. The universe, seemingly listening, let The Internet’s Special Affair filter into the kitchen. Taking your phone out your back pocket and sitting it on the counter you became a woman with a mission. Rolling your shoulders back you let the music slither through you. What started as a small of your hips, changed to sensual rolling of your body. Letting your hands roam where they wished, your body was lithe striding towards Thor. It was a struggle for him to maintain control of his friend down below when he wanted to touch you. Instead, he settled himself against the island and gripped the edge. Once you were close enough, he felt your hands settle against his chest. Pressing into him, he could feel everything. Slithering slowly down his body you waited till you were halfway down before rising back up. Nearing the end of the song you turn so you could feel him pressed into your back. Rolling your hips, you took his hands and guided them over you. Once the song came to an end, you knew that something about your friendship wasn’t the same. Letting go of his hands you went to step away, the action cut short when firm hands gripped your waist and you were pressed between the island and Thor.

[kazliin]

9) Things you said when I was crying

9 Viktuuri?

9 or 10!! ❤️

Sorry it has taken so long to fill this prompt! 

This the third part of my ‘Forbidden Love AU’. 

First part / Second part

(warnings for mentions of imprisonment and very brief mention of execution)

Prompt no.9 – Things you said when I was crying 

When Yuuri arrived at Mari’s camp, the air smelled like death.

Her army was situated a few miles from the battlefield, butthe stench of blood and fear still lingered on the breeze. Yuuri had receivedword only a few days previously that his sister had secured another hard-wonvictory, and he had been summoned to assist in the strategic planning thatwould follow. With the opposing armies being pushed further and further backeach passing day, their victory was now almost assured. If Yuuri knew his sister,she would suggest they march on the enemy capital in a matter of months and endwhat had been a long and bloody war.

A few soldiers rode out to greet him and his retinue as heapproached, guiding him into the heart of the camp. Everywhere was abuzz withactivity, soldiers sharpening swords, tending to the horses or caring for theirinjured comrades. Cries of pain and elation filled the air as they celebratedtheir victory and mourned their losses. The atmosphere was heavy and Yuuri couldsee the battle weariness in every eye that he passed.

“This way your highness,” one of the soldiers gestured whenYuuri finally dismounted, feet sinking into the muddy ground beneath him. “Yousister requested your presence as soon as you arrived. She wishes to discus theprisoner.”

“The…what?” Yuuri asked, confusion flooding through him atthe soldier’s words. “What prisoner?”

“I apologise, your highness,” the soldier bowed deeply. “Iassumed you had been informed.”

He looked back up at Yuuri and there was a hint of pride inhis voice as he spoke again.

“During the most recent battle, your sister captured the enemyprince.”

Yuuri was not prepared for the sight of Viktor as aprisoner.

He had demanded to be taken to see Viktor immediately,ignoring the soldier’s protests about Mari’s orders. Yuuri couldn’t care lessabout orders right now. Had one of the soldiers not finally agreed to escorthim to Viktor, he would have cut a bloody path through the camp to find his ownway there.

When they finally reached the tent where Viktor was beingheld, Yuuri tried to brace himself. In the presence of the soldiers, it wasparamount that he remain emotionless, no matter what he saw upon entering.Officially, he had cut Viktor out of his heart when the war began and neverlooked back. No-one could know otherwise, for both of their sakes. It would betreason, should anyone find out about the promises he had made to Viktor. The secretmeetings between battles during whatever time they could steal to be together.The nights when Viktor had touched him like he never wanted to let go and swornthat they would somehow find a way.

No-one could know that he still loved Viktor. But even withthat knowledge, Yuuri still couldn’t help but gasp when the tent flap was drawnaside and he saw what awaited him within.

Viktor was chained to a wooden stake in the centre of theroom, sitting slumped on the ground. His hair was stained brown with dirt and driedblood and his armour was gone. In its place was nothing but a thin shirt, doinglittle to protect him from the chill of the air around him. But when Viktorglanced up, his eyes were as bright as ever and full of fire.

Those same eyes widened when they fell on Yuuri’s face, everymuscle in Viktor’s body tensing.

“Yuuri,” hebreathed, and Yuuri felt the soldier at his side go for his sword. It was theutmost disrespect for a prisoner to refer to a prince as anything but their title,but titles were the last thing on Yuuri’s mind.

“Leave us,” he commanded and the soldier stopped, lookingtaken aback.

“But your highness…” the soldier began. Yuuri’s sharp scowlcut him off.

“I said leave us,”he demanded, voice icy and barely restraining his cold fury.

“But it isn’t safe…”

The soldier made one last attempt to protest and Yuuri’shand twitched for his own sword at his side.

“Are you implying I am so weak as to not be able to protectmyself from a bound prisoner?” he spat, and the guard paled considerably.

“No, your highness,” the soldier mumbled, before fleeingfrom the tent. Yuuri knew that he would remain outside with the other guardstasked with ensuring Viktor’s captivity, but his absence gave them at least a semblanceof privacy.

As soon as they were alone, Yuuri rushed to Viktor’s side.

“Viktor,” he whispered, trying not to be heard by anyone waitingoutside. His voice caught on the words and he could already feel tears beginningto build in his eyes.

“Yuuri,” Viktorbreathed again. He still looked at Yuuri like he was something precious,despite everything, and that did nothing but make the tears come faster.

“Are you hurt?” Yuuri asked, reaching out to run his handsover Viktor’s body, desperately checking for injuries.

“No,” Viktor insisted, but when Yuuri’s hands reached his head,he winced. His temple was a bruised and bloody mess, undoubtedly the injurythat had allowed him to be taken captive.

“You were supposed to be at home,” Yuuri choked out, fingers still running over Viktor’s skin. Reassuringhimself that Viktor was alright. But he wasn’t. Nothing about this situation was.“You were supposed to convince your parents to surrender!”

‘You were supposed tobe safe’ was the thought he didn’t voice out loud, but the unspoken wordshung heavily in the air regardless.

“I tried.”

When Yuuri looked at him, there was a sadness in Viktor’seyes that cut straight to his heart.

“They sent my troops and I back out here.” Viktor explained,voice full or sorrow. “Said that we would fight to the last, no matter what.That they would rather see me die nobly on the battlefield than surrender.”

Yuuri’s hands faltered, coming to rest on Viktor’s face.Thousands of emotions were crashing through him but all he could focus on wasthe horror at Viktor’s words.

“But you can’t win,” he whispered, and Viktor nodded. “Theyknow you can’t. Every month Mari’s armies push further into your territoriesand it’s only a matter of time. Why won’t they surrender peacefully and sparemore pointless death?”

In the first year of the war, neither he nor Viktor had spokenof the outcome. Neither could betray their countries, but neither could theystay away from each other. Instead, they had stolen nights together and refusedto speak of the battles that was waiting just beyond their tents. But as thesecond year of fighting had dragged on and the favour had swung to Yuuri’sside, talks had turned to strategy. Viktor was a soldier at heart, but even hehad seen the inevitable defeat as it loomed ever nearer. Better to convince hisparents to surrender and sign a peace treaty than be overrun altogether. And ifthey had both secretly hoped that maybe that peace could be secured withmarriage, they had never spoken it out loud, the future ahead still too uncertain.

But now, even those fragile plans were crumbling aroundthem.

“Their pride won’t allow it,” Viktor sighed, shouldersslumping again. “They began this war. They won’t concede it, not even now.”

“So they sent you to die?” Yuuri hissed, fury still burningin his veins for the unfairness of it all.

“No, they sent me to win,” there was the hint of a smile onViktor’s face but Yuuri knew him far too well to miss the pain behind it. “Unfortunately,your sister had other plans.”

“I’ll speak with her,” Yuuri insisted. There must still be away to fix what had happened. To free Viktor from his chains and salvage thefuture he still so desperately wanted. “I’ll get you out of here, I promise.”

Viktor smiled again and this time, it was full of affection.

“How many times have I told you Yuuri,” Viktor murmured. “Don’tmake promises that you can’t keep.”

Gently, he leant up and pressed his lips against Yuuri’s,soft and light as the brush of a butterfly’s wing. It was nothing like theirkisses of the past, full of passion and promise. Just the feeling of Viktor’slips against his and the taste of bitter regret in Yuuri’s throat.

When Viktor pulled away, there was a wetness smeared acrosshis cheeks that Yuuri realised had been falling from his own eyes.

“Don’t kiss me like that,” Yuuri begged, feeling his heartconstrict in his chest. His world was crumbling apart around him, and it hurtmore than he could bear.

“Like what?” Viktor asked, voice still full of heart-breakingaffection and eyes full of sorrow.

“Like you’re saying goodbye.”

“No,” were Mari’s first words as soon as Yuuri stepped intoher tent.

She was standing by the map table, gazing intently at themarkers indicating where their armies were stationed. Regal in her armour and alreadypreparing for another battle. She was the crown princess, the leader of thearmies, the future empress, and when tales were told and songs were sung of thewar, it was her name that would be praised.

Yuuri didn’t want to know what they might say of him, ifthey knew the truth.

“Please Mari…” he began but a sharp gesture from her cut himoff in his tracks as she turned to face him.

“You’ve come to ask for Viktor’s release,” she said bluntlyand Yuuri nodded.

“Then you know why I can’t give you that.”

Mari sighed, running one gloved hand over her face. Shelooked tired, more tired than Yuuri had ever seen her. The lines on her facecut deeper now after years of war and Yuuri knew how desperate she was for aquick and decisive victory.

“I know how you feel about him Yuuri,” she said, lookingback at him again with pity in her eyes. “But he’s the enemy. And I am notraitor. It’s my duty to take him back home to our parents and you know it.”

“There must be another way!” Yuuri insisted but Mari justshook her head, reaching out to clasp him by the shoulder.

“I’d advise than you say your goodbyes tonight Yuuri,” shesaid softly, pity still clear in her gaze. “We move at first light.”

“I am not saying goodbye,” Yuuri insisted, stubborn refusalto accept what was to come to much to accept her suggestion. Viktor and he hadcome too far and suffered too much for him to accept defeat now.

“You’d be a fool not to,” Mari snapped, suddenly soundingfrustrated. “How do you think this will end Yuuri? Because let me tell you. Viktorhas royal blood in his veins and that means he will never stop being a threat. Theminute we get back home, our parents are going to have him dragged to thedungeons, where he’ll spend the rest of his life. If they don’t decide toexecute him instead.”

Her grip on Yuuri’s shoulder tightened, almost bruising. Hereyes were imploring, as if trying to force him to see sense.

“Say your goodbyes now,” she warned him again, but there wasno harshness in her voice. But somehow, the sympathy that had replaced it was evenworse. “Because come tomorrow, you’ll never see him again.”

TBC

[chipper9906]

Heal The Cracks Within My Heart - Chapter 3: Healing Touch

<- - - Previous Chapter

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR LOKI SEASON 1 EPISODE 6 ‘FOR ALL TIME. ALWAYS.’

Pairings: Loki/Sylvie

Rating: General Audiences

Chapter Word Count: 7,622

Overall Word Count: 32,322 (In Progress)

Status: Multi Chapter Fic - In Progress (3/?)

Chapter Preview:

Loki did as he was told, putting down the flask and placing his hand over hers that held the make-shift gauze in place. Her hand slipped away from under his, now coated in his blood that she could still see glaring at her despite the less than ideal lighting conditions they were in. She quickly grabs another piece of material, placing it over the deep scratches on his side and pushing with enough pressure to make him suck in a surprised breath through his teeth. 

Loki laughed low and slow, resting his head against the thankfully cool but uncomfortable rocky wall behind him. "You know, if you all you wanted was to disrobe me, you only need ask-,"

"How about you flirt with me when you're not bleeding all over the damn floor?"

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You know, at this point, he was starting to get used to the sensation of falling through a portal connecting separate points in time and space. 

Still, being used to it didn’t minimize the pain he felt as he found himself slamming into the ground chest first, knocking the wind out of him with a pained grunt. Loki didn’t even get a chance to process the ache in his ribs from the ground coming up to meet him before the wind was knocked out of him for a second time, Sylvie’s entire weight landing on his back and softening the blow for her whilst making his entry into this world less than ideal. 

“Sorry…” Sylvie groaned in apology, rolling off of him with a grunt of effort. Loki grimaced as he pushed himself up by his arms, spitting out the few grains of sand that had managed to force their way into his mouth upon face-planting into wherever the Hel they had ended up. 

Loki rolled over onto his back, taking a few seconds to re-gather the breath that had been quite forcefully removed from his lungs. He frowned up at the sky overhead, his scrambled feeling mind trying to figure out what exactly didn’t feel right about. 

Ah, that’d be it: the sky was vividly, and glaringly red. Just… red. The sun of this solar system was also of a different color, burning a strikingly bright green. And it was hot, its almost unbearable rays of heat beating down on them, making quick work of turning his pale skin into a patchy, leathery, red mess if he’s not careful. What should have been a soothing, cool breeze had also baked in the heat of the sun, blasting them with dry, hot air whenever a gust blew by. 

The sand they rested on was at least a familiar golden color and felt just like normal sand as he held some in his hands, watching as the grains slipped between his fingers and flowed back down to the dune below like a stream of water. Loki could already feel his mouth beginning to dry out in the minute they had been here, his tongue starting to stick to the roof of his mouth.

“Uh… what Apocalypse is this?” Loki asked, peering out to the stretches of dunes and dry, sheer canyons that surrounded them. 

Sylvie had managed to get her feet, looking none too pleased with the thought of how much sand she was going to have to try and get out of her clothes. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if it is an Apocalypse."

Loki could only frown up at her in immense confusion. Hadn’t she just stated the importance of them remaining in Apocalypses to keep under the TVA’s radar? “But… But I thought you said-,”

“I didn’t exactly have time to make a specific selection, Loki!” Sylvie got out through gritted teeth, her movements agitated as she fruitlessly tried to brush off the little grains of sand that had stuck to her outfit. “And I still haven’t quite figured out how to use this stupid thing, if you didn’t remember.”

Sylvie gave the TemPad on her wrist a weak glare as it lit up at her voice, pulsing random light patterns of golden veins in what kind of looked like an attempt to soothe its owner. Loki struggled up to his feet, his footing less than stable as the hills of sand he stood on shifted under his weight. He scanned their surroundings yet again, hoping to see some sign of a civilization existing within this strange, increasingly obviously uninhabitable desert. 

“Kind of strange that this is the second time I’ve been spat out in a desert…” Loki mumbled, hands on his hips as he squinted against the harsh light of the green sun burning in the blood sky. “Doesn’t there need to be people for an apocalypse to occur?”

“We don’t know that there are no people,” Sylvie tried to argue, sounding rather unsure of herself as she took in the expanse of dry nothingness ahead. “You’d be surprised how well species can adapt to their environment. Maybe these conditions aren’t ideal for us, but there could be a form of intelligent life on this planet that’s built for these kinds of conditions.”

“Okay, so… where are they?” Loki had to ask, waving out his hand to the horizon in an obnoxious manner. “Hiding underground? A civilization of mole people, perhaps?”

Sylvie shot him an unimpressed look - which she did quite often, now that he thought about it. “Do I need to remind you that I’ve been doing this for… oh, only a thousand years more than you have. I’ve seen more than you have, Loki. Experienced more.”

“So… yes to the possibility of mole people?”

Loki shouldn’t have been too surprised that Sylvie’s reaction to that would be for her to turn around and start walking away from him, leaving him to watch her retreating form for a good twenty seconds before realizing that he should probably be chasing after her. 

“What’s the plan, then?” He panted out once he had caught up to her, trudging through the thick sand that seemed to be trying its best to swallow his feet. 

“There still might be some people living here,” Sylvie sounded equally as out of breath as him, the warm climate of this planet starting to get to her. “Where there’s people, there are usually buildings. And where there’s buildings, there’s usually some form of power. Not to mention some shade, and some water. You know - the vital things we need to live.”

“And what if we don’t find anyone?” Loki didn’t want to ask this question, but he had to. “What do we do then?”

“We hope that there’s enough power in this thing to get us out of here,” Sylvie lifts her wrist that held the TemPad. “Or we find out that this place is in fact not an apocalypse, and the TVA arrives and either arrests us or prunes us on the spot.”

If he was being entirely truthful, a part of him preferred the dreary, cold atmosphere of the Void to this inescapable heat that already had every inch of his body soaked in sweat. 

“Actually, about that… If this is an apocalypse, then… how will we know? How long will we have?”

“I know as much as you do,” Sylvie said, sounding kind of frustrated at this point. “I’ve never been here. It’s not a place I’ve seen on the TVA’s list of apocalypses, as far as I can remember. It’s certainly not one I had saved on the TemPad that you destroyed back on Lamentis. I don’t know where the TemPad spat us out, but I think we can both agree that it’s better than if we had stayed on Miiphus and been burnt to a crisp.”

“I’m not blaming you,” Loki said gently, not letting any of his own frustration seep into his voice. “Just want to make sure I understand everything.”

Sylvie sighed quietly to herself, but more out of annoyance and a slight hint of shame at herself for snapping at him. Loki always found a way to simultaneously be incredibly kind to her whilst also bringing to light how much of an arsehole she was being towards him. “Sorry, but… afraid we both know about the same as each other right now. There really isn’t much we can do but… walk.”

Which is exactly what they did. They walked, the heat bearing down on them seeming to make time go even slower. The sting of heat against their skin made every minute movement all the more painful, every inch of skin becoming covered in a sheen of sweat that evaporated away in moments. 

Their surroundings didn’t seem to be changing, which was ridiculous; he knew that they had trudged a fair distance across this dry and hellish landscape. But there wasn’t much to use as a marker to keep track of how far they’ve walked when all you can see is a bunch of damn sand, closed in by imposing cliff-sides that seemed to stretch on forever. 

Loki's fairly certain they’re at the second hour of walking when he remembers the flask still tucked into his pocket. He pulls it out, the sound of the liquid sloshing about within sounding like music to his ears. He reaches out to Sylvie, tapping her on the shoulder with the flask to get her attention, then offering it out to her when she turns to look at him. 

“No point,” She says, much to his confusion. “It’ll just dry us out more.”

“I don’t think it’s that strong,” Loki counters, peering down at the flask in his hand. “We are Gods after all; I’m sure our bodies won’t be in such a rush to filter it out.”

“Save it for when we’re at death's door,” Sylvie said, and Loki wasn’t too sure if that was supposed to be a joke or not. “Or, y’know, we find a source of water. Then we can drink it to celebrate.”

“You can be very bossy at times,” Loki mumbles under his breath as he stuffs the flask back into his pocket. “I’m not usually a fan of people telling me what to do.”

“Yeah?” Sylvie pants with a huff of laughter. “Tough shit.”

“There’s a reason I said ‘usually’ there,” Loki teases back. “You’re genuinely terrifying at times, so, you know – feel free to be all commanding and domineering towards me as much as you like.”

Sylvie shot him a rather weirded-out side-glance as they walked. “I feel like you’re letting on more about certain personal preferences than you might have intended.”

“Oh, I think I’ve let on exactly what I want to let on,” Loki’s words made Sylvie stumble somewhat in the sand, snapping her head over to him to see his knowing grin. “I’ll leave it up to you to do what you will with that information.”

Sylvie granted herself a few seconds to get her feet back under her again, trying not to curse out loud at the way Loki had caught her off guard. Never one to be outdone by anyone else, she gave Loki a sly smile and a tip of her head, making sure to hold his gaze as she spoke. “I might just take you up on that offer.”

Loki was quite sure it was more than just the deserts heat that had made his mouth so dry. His mind scrambled for another witty remark to reply with, something to get her to trip up in the way she pretended she hadn’t. But then the playful smile drops off of Sylvie’s face, her eyes lighting up as she smacks his arm and points to something behind him. “Look! I think that might be the entrance to some sort of cave system!”

Loki twists his neck around to glance over to where she was pointing, seeing that there was indeed what looked like some kind of hole carved into the side of the cliff-face. It might not be a sign of civilization, but the allure of some cool shade away from the unrelenting sun was just as good. The two share matching smiles of relief, adjusting their course and heading in the direction of what they hoped wasn’t just a trick of the light, or their fried brains making them see things. 

The closer they got to the rocky walls of this planet's cliffs, the more it became clear that what they had seen was, indeed, the beginning of a cave. It didn’t seem to go that deep into the cliff, rather, it went down: a steady descent down underground, hopefully to where it’d be even cooler. Loki was about ready to kiss Sylvie in sweet relief for spotting the cave, happy to escape the blistering heat that was sure to have his skin peeling.

Something moves. Right near the entrance of the cave, they can see something shifting from beneath the sand. The two of them freeze in their tracks, eyes fixated on the large lump that slowly rises from the ground, still shrouded in a cover of sand. They both pull out their weapons simultaneously, keeping their grips tight as they prepare themselves for what felt like any possibility of hostile life on this planet unknown to either of them. 

It starts off as a low, shaking grumble they can feel vibrating through the sand under their feet. The grumble slowly begins to drift off into a long-streamed hiss of territorial anger, this creature enraged by the strangers who dared to approach its home. The force of its vocalizations shakes off the sand covering it, revealing to them its true appearance. The creature was long, maybe seven or eight feet in length, with thick and bulging muscles that seemed barely contained by the shining scales that armored it. The scales were of a dark, coal-black that absorbed all light directed towards it, appearing like a lizard-shaped black hole against the light-colored sand. 

For a moment, it was a stand-off. The creature's long, sweeping tail flicked in irritation as its beady eyes focused on the two of them, whilst they stared back at the creature with just as much caution, stepping closer to one another to form an imposing-looking wall. The creature curls its body as it steps to the side, dangerous-looking claws drifting through the sand as it drags his scaly foot across. 

“What are you thinking?” Loki murmurs as softly as he can as not to startle the creature. “I don’t think we’re going to be able to get around it.”

“No. No, I think we’re going to have to fight,” Sylvie replies in agreement. “I think we can take it. There’s only one-,”

It’s of course when she says this that they feel the ground begin to shake once more. Another lump reveals itself, this time seeming more hurried to shake off the sand as an identical-looking beast erupts from the sand. This one, on the other hand, looks a lot more pissed off by their appearance than the first one did. It already had its long snout wide open, displaying rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth as it snarled at them. 

“-Only one each…” Sylvie corrected herself, casting Loki an apprehensive look out of the corner of her eye. 

Loki makes the mistake of holding his gaze on the aggravated creature for too long, him staring back at its hostile gaze being the beast's last straw. It gives them no warning, no growl or snarl before it starts towards them, its thick legs scurrying through the ground in a blur of movement as it advances. The other started after its partner not long after, trailing just behind with equally impressive speed. 

Loki is the first of them to react, sending out a blast of magic that hits the creature square in its chest. It doesn’t quite have the devastating effect he’d hoped, but it does at least blast the one in front a good few meters back. He isn’t sure if the snarl that rips from the creature's throat is one of pain, or of fury that he had dared to fight back against it. The attack on one of the creatures doesn’t seem to distract the other, which seemed to have its sights set on Sylvie. It had reached them in no time, jaw opening wide with long strands of saliva stringing between its teeth, eagerly awaiting its next meal. Before it could even think of biting down, Sylvie had stepped to the side and swung her sword in a large arch, catching the creature across the side of its body. 

There is no hiss of pain this time. The sword does nothing, bouncing off the impenetrable scales like her trusted weapon was made of nothing more than cheap plastic. If anything, the creature only looked annoyed that it managed to miss her completely in its strike, reeling around as its eyes swivel between the two of them, trying to decide who would be the easier target. 

The other had managed to recover from the effects of Loki’s magic, if not a little disorientated looking as it prowled towards Loki once more. Loki planted himself, gathering as much focus he could as he pushed his magic towards the beast. It did not look too happy as a wave of his telekinesis washed over it, trying to force the creature back. Its long claws left deep trenches in the sand as it tried to keep a grip on the ground, its full-tilt running being brought to a grinding halt.

The sword in Sylvie’s hand was slick with sweat as she wielded it against the creature that seemed to have it in for her, grinding her teeth in frustration whenever the sharp bite of steel only bounced off the creature’s body. In fact, she was fairly sure that the lizard’s hard scales were actually dulling her blade with every strike. 

The smug, self-satisfied smile on Loki’s face as he watched the struggling creature under his hold quickly slipped from his face as the creature seemed to do the impossible and fought back against his magic. Every movement it made looked unsteady, its limbs trembling as it forced itself forward. But they were movements nonetheless, movements that it shouldn’t be able to make. 

In a blink, it seemed to have shaken off his magic completely. Loki barely had time to react to its lunge, thrusting out his dagger in front of him to parry the swipe of its claws. But the parry wasn’t done in time and, whilst avoiding what would have been a disemboweling blow, he does not escape the creature's claws completely. Loki yelps out, both in pain and surprise as the claws rip through his side, leaving three deep marks sliced into his skin. Blood blossoms from the wound, staining his white TVA shirt a distracting red.

Sylvie knew that the last thing you should do in the midst of battle is to look away from your opponent, but the sound of Loki’s pain-filled cry and the flash of red she saw from the corner of her eye immediately snatched all of her attention away, taken aback by the sickening fear that clenched tight around her chest. With that fear, however, came a type of protective anger she’s never had to deal with before. Even the beast in front of her showed a sliver of fear at the look of wrath that came across her face, seeming to hesitate slightly as it went to make its next move. 

Loki had curled in somewhat on itself at the pain that radiated from his side, holding his free hand to his wound to try and stem the bleeding. He could tell it was deep, the gushing of blood from his side quickly coating his hand and soaking his shirt. The scent of his blood excited the creature, whose long forked tongue snaked out to scent the air. Anticipation shined through its eyes as it locked onto his wound, a pleased sounding rumble escaping the beast moments before it launched itself at him. Loki barely had enough energy to swing his dagger up, hoping it would be of some effect. 

To his surprise, the dagger does not bounce off. He feels the sickening thud of his dagger sliding into flesh, hears the shriek of agony the creature lets out as thick, dark blue blood spurts out from under its chin. His dagger had slipped straight through a weak spot on the underside of its jaw, where the scales gave away to soft and vulnerable flesh. The creature could only flail uselessly as Loki slid his dagger out from its head, dropping to the ground as the last spurts of blood spilled out onto the sand. 

“The underside!” Loki exclaimed in a rush, trying to keep a firm grip on his dagger now it was covered in the lizard's blood. “You need to stab it in the-,”

His words dried up as he turned to face Sylvie, greeted by a sight that made his heart stop. In that brief moment where she had been distracted – had forced her eyes away from the creature to make sure he was alright – the beast in front of her had gotten the upper hand. It had shot out its tail in a long sweeping motion, knocking Sylvie’s feet out from under her. Her back hit the dune, letting out a pained grunt both at the wind being knocked out of her, and the pulsating ache in her legs from the creature's forceful tail strike. She had just managed to lean up on her arms, eyes locking with the creatures as it threw itself at her once more, ready to make the killing blow. 

Time seemed to slow. It felt like she had forever to make a move, but in reality, there was nothing she could do. Nothing but watch as those rows of teeth got closer and closer, intent on sinking into her neck and crushing her windpipe with a single clench of its jaw.

But that’s not what happened.

There’s a flash of green light somewhere to her side, and she waits for the coming blow of magic to knock the creature off course. Again, her assumptions are incorrect. The light shimmers in front of her as Loki materializes back into existence, having teleported to place himself between her and the creature. She isn’t sure if he makes some attempt at thrusting the dagger through the creature's throat, but either way, she has to watch in sickening horror as the lizard's teeth clamp down hard on Loki’s arm. There’s a nauseating crunch of bone as it bites down, and she isn’t sure how she manages to hear it over Loki’s pain-filled yell. 

Loki finds the strength to grit his teeth through the pain, pushing his arm up against the creature's bite to force its head back, exposing the dark and penetrable flesh underneath. “There! Do it!”

Sylvie doesn’t need his yelled instructions. He had barely got the words out before she had shoved her sword up, taking great satisfaction at the sight of the sword forcing its way up through its skull, pushing it with enough enraged force that the blade exited cleanly out the top of the creature’s head. The lizard falls still, its bite thankfully loosening as the last of its life leaves its body. Loki lets out a grunt as he pushes the weight of the animal off both of them, collapsing down onto his back as the adrenaline begins to wear off and forces him to feel the overwhelming pain of his injuries.

“Loki-,” Sylvie says his name in a panic, scrambling up onto her feet and over to him. His eyes were clenched firmly shut in obvious hurt, cradling his damaged arm to his body as he tried to breathe through the pain. 

“C’mon, I’ve got you,” Sylvie utters softly to him, trying to fight down the anxiety she could feel bubbling over. She wraps a hand around his uninjured arm, grimacing at the groan of pain he lets out as she pulls him up. The fact that he immediately leans his weight into her side as he stands does nothing to quell her worries. She takes his arm and wraps it around her neck, keeping hold of his wrist as support as she guides them both towards the entrance of the cave. 

“I’ll be fine,” Loki pants out, trying to hide another groan at the fresh wave of pain from his side. Sylvie glances down to his injuries, the sight of his blood steadily dripping down his skin and leaving a dotted trail of startlingly red blood against the yellow sands making her purse her lips with worry. 

The shade of the cave wasn't as much of a relief as it would have been in normal circumstances, with Sylvie having to half-drag Loki down into the cave, feet slipping on the occasional steep section of their descent. The only bit of comfort she got was from the strength of his arm wrapped around her waist, reassuring her that he at least wasn't anywhere near passing out on her. 

It didn't take long for the floor to eventually level out, leading into a large, cavernous room. The ceiling of the cave must have been somewhere near thirty feet above their heads, large cracks running along the ceiling letting in a few rays of light that kept them from being trapped in a pitch-black space of tripping hazards. 

"Alright... Here we go..." Sylvie huffed, carefully lowering Loki down to the ground by a wall of the cave. Loki hit the ground with a huff, scrunching his eyes both in pain and exhaustion. Blood still dripped steadily from both his wounds, but it was his arm that seemed to have gotten the worst of the creature's fury. 

Sylvie acted fast, years of experience of patching up her own wounds from the occasional scuffle with pissed-off locals, aggravated wildlife, and the few TVA agents that had been hot on her tail taking over. Although, it was not a skill she had ever really had to use on another person before.

Loki had only just barely managed to push himself up against the wall when Sylvie reached forward to unbuckle the TVA belt that had been wrapped snuggly around his waist. She whipped it off with extreme efficiency, leaving him gaping at her in a blood-loss-infused shock. 

She answered his unspoken question of what she was doing by winding the belt tightly around his injured arm, a few inches above his rather nasty-looking wound. Despite his best efforts, the overwhelming pain of the tourniquet being applied punched out a gritted and muffled groan of pain, throwing his head back onto the wall behind him with a hard 'thump' as every muscle in his body tensed, waiting for the waves of pain to lessen. 

"I know, I'm sorry-," Sylvie does sound genuinely pained by his pain, frantic eyes scanning around their surroundings for anything she could use. Of course, being in a cave that had only housed giant man-eating lizards, there wasn't much but a few bones discarded around the place. "Don't think you could conjure up some more bandages, do you?" 

Loki shook his head with gritted teeth, his pale skin even paler in this dark space and clammy with sweat that stuck his hair to his face. "Afraid not. Not right now, at least. Conjuration takes a bit of effort and concentration which-," He cut himself off with a hiss, the slightest movement of his arm setting off some fresh waves of pain once again. "-Which I don't exactly have right this minute."

Sylvie cursed quietly under her breath, searching through her mind for an idea of what to do next. She could only see one potential thing that could possibly be used to stop the bleeding. She draws her sword from her side and, no matter how much Loki trusted her, he still eyed the blade in her hand with understanding concern as he wondered what the hell she was going to do with it that would help. 

"Once we get you stable? You're going to teach me some of your magic tricks," Sylvie all but demands of him, not giving him a chance to respond before she's grabbed ahold of his tie and yanks it off his head. Before he can even say anything, she grabs hold of his shirt, giving it a fierce tug towards her. It tears away like it was barely hanging onto him in the first place, ripping the little plastic buttons off and sending them flying across the cave. "Only fair, considering I taught you my best trick."

Loki glanced down to his mostly bare chest with a genuinely confounded frown, but didn't bother to try and stop Sylvie as she began pulling the shirt off him, taking considerate care as she peeled off the parts that had become covered in his blood,  which had created a suction effect against his skin. 

Understanding flooded him as she took the sword to his shirt, cutting them up into long pieces of material. The flask he had stored dropped out from its place in his pocket, and Loki quickly scooped it up. He made quick work of removing the cap, taking deep gulps of what he hoped was strong enough to act as a pain killer of sorts. 

Sylvie took one of the pieces of shirt she had cut up,  scrunching it up and pressing it firmly against the bite on his arm without much warning. "Here, hold this in place. Don't let up pressure on it."

“See? Bossy…” Loki did as he was told, putting down the flask and placing his hand over hers that held the make-shift gauze in place. Her hand slipped away from under his, now coated in his blood that she could still see glaring at her despite the less than ideal lighting conditions they were in. She quickly grabs another piece of material, placing it over the deep scratches on his side and pushing with enough pressure to make him suck in a surprised breath through his teeth. 

Loki laughed low and slow, resting his head against the thankfully cool but uncomfortable rocky wall behind him. "You know, if you all you wanted was to disrobe me, you only need ask-,"

"How about you flirt with me when you're not bleeding all over the damn floor?" Sylvie scolds him. Though truth be told, the fact that he was able and willing to make such comments was a great relief – and a good sign that he wasn't about to die on her. 

“This will hurt,” She warns him as she gingerly picks up his injured arm, carefully prodding at the underside of his arm in search of a break in his bone. Miraculously, she feels no break despite the awful-sounding crunch she heard earlier. 

“Seems you’re lucky and escaped a break,” Sylvie informs him of her findings. Loki doesn’t respond, only sits and watches her fret over him with his hand still held against the bunched-up material of his shirt against his arm.

“Sylvie-,”

“Why did you do it?” Sylvie asks hurriedly, interrupting whatever it was he was about to say. She was refusing to look at him, keeping her eyes focused on her hands as she takes another strip of shirt, getting to work tying it around his side as a makeshift bandage. 

“...Why did I do what?” Loki asks slowly, unsure as to what she was trying to get at. 

“Put yourself at risk like that,” Sylvie answers, tightening the knot of the shirt-bandage a little harsher than she intended. “Did you even have a plan? Or did you decide you were going to shove your arm in its mouth and hope for the best?”

Loki didn’t give her an answer straight away, for he knew the reason she was reacting like this, in criticizing his choices. He knows because it’s what he does when he’s scared. Lashing out always seemed the better alternative, using this more powerful emotion to latch onto rather than the fear that threatened to take hold. 

Sylvie’s hand stilled over the knot she had just created, letting her eyes flutter shut with an almost unheard sigh. Loki lets the beats of silence between them pass, waiting for her to make the next move, or say whatever it is that was on her mind. 

“You might have…” Sylvie begins to say, but finds her voice unwilling to cooperate as her throat constricts against her will. She shakes her head, gritting her teeth as she continues. “I wish you wouldn’t make those kinds of risks. Not for me.”

“I’m sorry. But I’ll always be making those kinds of risks,” Loki’s voice left no room for arguments. “As far as I’m concerned, there was no option for me to choose from back there. I saw you, and I saw that thing about to tear you apart, and… I knew I had to stop it, one way or the other.”

“Not by throwing yourself in the firing line!” Sylvie snaps. Loki tries to argue back, but she takes the cruel advantage of pulling his hurt arm into her lap to wrap it up and shut him up with another muffled yelp. She snatches the bloodied patch of shirt from his hand and, despite the anger that made her hands tremble, still took care as she wrapped the last bit of shirt around his wounds. “I’m not worth that-,”

“How could you say that?” Loki blurted out, his head snapping up to look at her in disbelief that she could think such a thing. The frustration boils over when she continues to keep her gaze averted from his, and he reaches out his other arm to grab hold of her forearm, squeezing gently but firmly until she forced her eyes up to his. 

“You are,” Loki says with such soft authority, doing all he can to convey just how much he means what he says. “Sylvie, don’t think for a second that you aren’t worth it. Simply knowing you has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. Every moment I get to spend by your side is a gift I sometimes don’t know what to do with -- but one I know I will treasure forever.”

Sylvie ducked her head, breaking his intense gaze, unsure of what to do with such kind words – words she had never heard spoken of her before. His grip around her arm was reassuringly strong, the clarity in his eyes bright for someone who must have been suffering from blood loss. 

“I’ve never had to worry about someone else before,” Sylvie finally mumbles in admission. Her hand slides over to where his is placed on her arm, fingers resting just above his. 

“I’ll be okay,” Loki reassures her, giving her a small smile as he gestures with a finger to the both of them. “Frost Giants, remember? And Gods? I’ve taken a beating from the Hulk before; I think a little bite and scratch from an oversized lizard will heal just fine.”

Sylvie blinks in a daze at him. “Hulk?”

“Oh, uh… big green guy,” Loki answered unhelpfully. “Deals with some rather unfortunate anger problems.”

“...And… and when you say ‘taken a beaten’, you mean…?”

“I mean he picked me up by my legs and threw me around like a rag doll,” Loki answered with as fake a smile as he could muster. 

“Ah…” Sylvie got out, looking away from his affronted glare and biting down on her lip to suppress the laughter that so wanted to force its way out. “That’s-,”

“Don’t laugh-,”

“I wasn’t laughing!”

“It hurt!”

Sylvie failed miserably at hiding her amused smile behind her hand, pretending she was just wiping the sweat off her upper lip. “I’m sure it did.”

Loki huffed indignantly, but the curl of a smile to his lips could only mean he wasn’t too offended at her amusement of his suffering. “Would you believe me if I told you that happened not long before I met you?”

Sylvie answered him by raising an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate. 

“My Glorious Purpose…” Loki drawled out with a lazy-sounding chuckle. “Ruling over Mid-Guard… involving myself with Thanos to procure an army…” Loki shakes his head at his past self. “All to lead us – some versions of us – to the one moment ‘He’ always intended for us to end at. I suppose I could say I got myself into all this mess, but… it was ‘Him’ who paved the road to get me there, in the end."

“If we’re to believe what we were told.”

Loki hums low in his throat, looking blankly to the other end of the cavern as he thinks back to… days ago? Weeks ago? Months? It certainly felt like months at this point. “I was close, you know. My army had mostly infiltrated one of Mid-Guards – Earth’s – biggest cities. It had seemed… easy, I suppose, at the time. They didn’t seem to have many defenses against threats from outside their planet. Don’t get me wrong, they have plenty of weaponry to use against themselves. But I… was wrong.”

“I’m assuming this ‘Hulk’ was used as a method of defense?”

“One of them,” Loki agreed with a grumble. “They call themselves ‘The Avengers’; group of individuals – some with powers, some with advanced skills and technology – who are ‘Earth’s first line of defense’.”

“I take it these are the ‘powerful individuals’ you mentioned before?” Sylvie asked. “Do you really think they’ll help? Considering…. you know, recent events?”

“If something's of a threat to their little planet? Yes, I think they’ll be willing to fight with us,” Loki said. “Especially considering… our sibling became one of them.”

Sylvie’s brow shot up at that, already able to tell the regret Loki felt, knowing that he more than likely had to take arms against his brother as part of his plan to achieve his ‘Glorious Purpose’. “Maybe we should find some variants of them? One’s you didn’t piss off?”

Loki huffs out a short chuckle of laughter. “We could, but… there’s only one version of the Avengers – the one’s that ‘He’ kept track of in the sacred timeline – that were able to take on and defeat Thanos.”

“Part of me’s glad that I never had to deal with all that ‘Thanos’ stuff,” Sylvie admits to him.

“Technically, I haven’t had to deal with it myself,” Loki reminds her. “Only the version of us on the Sacred Timeline did… who’s neck was snapped by Thanos under ‘He Who Remain’s story-telling…”

“I still don’t understand why that was our moment to die,” Sylvie wonders out loud. “What purpose did it serve?”

“To better others,” Loki says with a shrug of his shoulders, wincing at the pull to his – thankfully – healing side. “When I was shown our file, and it got to our death… Thor was there to witness it. I only saw brief moments of whatever time we had spent together on the Sacred Timeline between the events of New York and my death, but… I suppose I must have changed in some way – enough to risk my life to try and stop Thanos – and… enough for our sibling to grieve for us, in the end.”

“Thor always cared a great deal,” Sylvie said softly. Loki’s mouth pulled into a sympathetic smile at the emotion he heard in her voice, flipping his hand under hers around to offer his palm to her. Sylvie slid her fingers between his without much thought, their fingers curling together to keep a consoling grip on one another. “My Thor, from what I can remember, she was… a great deal emotional at times.”

“Well, we can’t exactly talk,” Loki points out. “Perhaps it’s an Asgardian trait?”

“Hmm… Or maybe it’s a ‘Spoiled Prince’ kind of thing.”

“Says the woman who released a burst of power just through yelling back on Lamentis,”

Sylvie nearly scoffed at him. “You had just ruined a plan I had meticulously mapped out for years and doomed us to almost certain death! I think I was permitted to show a bit of emotion at that.” 

Loki conceded defeat, though not before rolling his eyes at her in a very childish way that nearly had her smacking his arm before remembering his likely sore wound. 

“Well, you certainly seem to be doing better,” Sylvie was relieved to see, noting the color that had been steadily returning to his skin as they talked. 

“Suppose there are some advantages to being a Frost Giant,” Loki said. He raised his injured arm up slightly, the pain of the movement already much less than it was not too long ago. “I imagine I’ll be all healed up in no time.”

Sylvie regretfully slid her hand away from his, pushing herself up to her feet. Loki stayed in place, watching her as she took a few exploratory laps around the cavern they had claimed for shelter. Whilst the level of light in this place wasn’t ideal, there was still enough for her to make out a few details, most particular being the unmistakable wet sheen that coated the wall she stood in front of. Sylvie placed a hand against the blessedly cool surface, disrupting the minute flow of water that filtered down as it slowly began to drip down her overheated skin. 

“What is it?” Loki asked as she rushed back to his side, scooping up the now empty flask he had placed by his side. 

“A change of luck,” Sylvie throws over her shoulder as she hurries back to the wall, holding the flask below one of the stronger streams running down the wall-face. It took a good long while of just standing there pushing the flask against the wall for it to fill up to a good enough level, but honestly, she was just thankful for some sign that life was capable on this horrid planet.

Sylvie pulls the flask away from the wall, taking a much-needed sip from it. The water tasted fresh, infused with whatever materials this cave system held. They were lucky enough to have found a source of water, let alone a fresh running source of water. 

“Here,” Sylvie crouches back down by his side, holding out the flask for him to take. “Drink up. Sorry it’s only water; seems this planet doesn’t have a running tap of wine leaking from its walls.”

Loki reaches out to take the flask from her, the cooling sensation of the metal against his clammy hands already a great relief. “Have you-?”

“Yes, I’ve already taken a drink,” Sylvie unsurprisingly guessed what he was about to ask, taking a seat next to him against the wall. “Stop being a white knight and drink your damn water.”

Loki opened his mouth to speak, but Sylvie beat him to the punch. “Yes, I know I’m being bossy again, so there’s no need to remind me. Besides, apparently you’re into that, so I don’t see why I should stop.”

Loki had only gotten down a few swallows of water, choking on the next mouthful at her last comment. He beat furiously against his chest with a closed fist, coughing out most of what he was trying to drink down himself. He cleared his throat once his choking fit appeared to have mostly passed, glancing down at the water he had spilled over his skin, still exposed after Sylvie’s rather tactless removal of his shirt. 

“I think you’re supposed to use oil to glisten up your muscles, not your own drool,” Sylvie said much to his embarrassment. 

“Just thought I’d give you one last show before I covered myself up,” Loki teased back, savoring the lovely flush of red across her face at his wink. He glanced back down to himself, closing his eyes with a deep breath as he gathered all of his focus. Any lingering traces of pain were pushed to the back of his mind, slowly expelling his magic, instructing it to manifest into his item of choosing. His body lit up in a flash of lime-green light, moving across his skin as his magic formed a fresh, un-torn, and un-bloodied sheet of soft, cottony white material. Loki rolled his shoulders experimentally, trying out the comfort of the button-up shirt he had materialized – nearly identical to the polo shirt the TVA had supplied him with. 

“What?” He asked at Sylvie’s questioning look at his choice of wardrobe. “You have to admit, we do wear black a little too often.”

Sylvie could only shrug her shoulders at that with a look that said ‘fair enough'. “I didn’t say it was a bad choice. Just… didn’t think you’d want to be reminded of your time as a prisoner.”

Loki unwound the TVA belt from around his arm, placing it in his lap and running a finger across the blood-stained metal buckle displaying the TVA logo. He tapped at the letters a few times, taking in a long breath through his nose. “It’s… a reminder, I suppose. The events that have taken place, people I’ve met, allies I’ve made… all things that have changed me. In that time, I learned that… that maybe there is some good in me, that I don’t have to follow the self-destructing, hateful path I was always destined to follow. The fact that we’re right here, having this conversation right now is proof of that. And in knowing that, I also know that… that not all of the TVA is ‘bad’. Yes, there are some that take pleasure in the work they do for all the wrong reasons, and whilst the work that they do isn’t necessarily good, it’s… it’s still run by people who had their lives taken away from them. People that still have good in them.”

“...’S a good reminder to have,” Sylvie says quietly, watching as he buckles the belt back around his waist. “Hopefully, one day, you won’t need a reminder to know there’s good in you.”

“I’m not too sure about that,” Loki mumbled. 

Sylvie nudged his shoulders with her own, forcing his woeful gaze from his lap up to her. “Wanna know how I remind myself that I’m capable of good?”

Loki didn’t answer out loud, instead nodding his head in a barely noticeable movement, looking genuinely interested in what her reminder was. 

“I just look at you.”

Next Chapter - - ->

[ramon-balaguer]

Do You Know my Jesus?

https://www.facebook.com/REBT.D/posts/4095564410487302

Do You Know my Jesus?

No seriously, My King & God, Do You Know Him, Jesus The Christ? Now, I’m Not talking about Jesus to cutting your grass, painting your home or replacing your roof… I certainly Not talking about the Jesus "exclamation mark" Christ the Bostonians often yell out to make a point. No, no, no… And I’m Not talking about the prophet or Messiah or messenger God sent to guide Israel for a short time and was eventually replaced by a “last” prophet named Mohammad who while high on opium in some cave got visions of Judaism and Christianity to create Islam…

I’m Not even talking about the man called Jesus the Mormons through the revelation after the Holy Bible Revelation according to Joseph Smith (the other “last” prophet) who while high on weed had a vision of an angel he called Moroni and wrote the Book of Mormon to create the church of Jesus Christ and Latter-day Saints. Their Jesus was born of the Virgin Mary and the one and only god the Father who was once a man like present day human beings, but who lived on another planet and sent his semen by his spirit to spiritually inseminated her and therefor Jesus inherited godly powers as His son. When I found out I wasn’t following the real Jesus, I was totally undone. I had long left Catholic private school I attended and Catholicism my family raised me in to run the streets and women as an atheist and eventually landed in the Mormon cult and subsequently dibbled and dabbled in Islam (Yes, they have a Jesus too, mentioned above as one of many prophets) having read and studied the Koran or Quran at least 5 times cover to cover while serving in the US Army.

The hard work of making Jesus fit my brain, answer when I called, and label me righteous was a full-time job that robbed me of peace. When I finally fell into the loving arms of the real Jesus, I began a genuine relationship with the Savior of the world—the One who died for me. He is everything He promised and so much more. Our culture presents us with so many versions of Jesus, letting us make Him in our own image, as oppose to us in His image and likeness. Maybe you’ve come to depend on a false Jesus and didn’t even realize it. If you are struggling to find peace, read about these false Jesuses with an open mind. Consider what Jesus said about Himself and test your beliefs against the Truth from Holy Scripture.

Here are 10 false versions of Jesus people keep falling for:

1. Mean Jesus Perhaps this image of Jesus comes from social media and the rants we see from devoted churchgoers. Maybe it is our constant news sources bickering over who is better or what is Right & Wrong. Or it could be you had a hellfire and brimstone pastor growing up, and this became your earliest depiction of Jesus. Mean and angry, full of wrath, ranting and raging about how Sin would destroy you (it will, if you remain in it and reject Jesus). But balance this image of Jesus with the story of the little children gathering to him, with His compassion for the Lazarus’ sisters, with His dealing of the woman at the well to forgive her and her to reject Sin and share The Good News. While Jesus called out Sin when He saw it, He was never cruel it except that one time with the Pharisees and Sadducees in His House of Praise, Prayer & Healing. Jesus, the Lamb, went to slaughter so that you would be free from His Wrath.

2. Political Jesus How would Jesus vote? Since there were no Democrats or Republicans in His day, we don’t know. What we do know is that He loved and would Never Vote against Himself or His Father. I other words, he would Not Vote for Satan and his followers or folks for killing babies or justifying illegal activities or any manner of Sin. But the apolitical Jesus took the side of those in need and that my friends is what we The Church should be doing and Not trying to depend on the government to do for US.

Today, we are all in need in one form or another, and we all need Him. As a believer in Jesus Christ, He is on your team. He is for you. He is for your redemption. He is for your Sanctification. He died for you while you still Sinned. Right or left, wrong or Right, He is for you. He is patient with us as we learn and grow and understands the frustrations that we face with both the Republican and the Democrats and especially the Sin Sick Socialist Lying Leftist Liberals. He walks with us through the valleys, and He delights in our newfound wisdom and growth.

3. Genie in a Bottle Jesus Your wish is not necessarily His command. That the Oprah Winfrey kinda Jesus. We’re often mystified when we clasp our hands tightly together and summon Jesus to answer our every request…and nothing happens. We become deflated by what we believe is unanswered prayer, allowing our faith to increase or decrease by what we perceive.

If you’re a parent, chances are you desire a good relationship with your child. But if your child asks for $10,000 and you say no, does that mean they stop believing or depending in you and the relationship is destroyed? Of course not. In the same way, you must consider what you are asking of Jesus. What are your expectations and motives? And are you still going to Believe in Him even when you don’t get your way?

4. I’ll Teach You Jesus. Imagine what your relationship with your child would look like if these were some of the requirements: You will meet me at 5:00 every morning, I don’t care if you didn’t sleep. Now tell me what you want. I may or may not give it to you. If you have been completely impossible to deal with, I might sprain your ankle or give you a brain tumor to teach you something. Laughable? Sure. But how many of us believe in this works-based and punishment-loving Jesus? He died while we still Sinned. He came to bind up the brokenhearted, not break our hearts and spirits to keep us in line.

5. You Look Like You Can Take It Jesus. “God won’t give you more than you can handle.” Do I look like I can handle the Big C “cancer” or even the lil c “COVID19″ the left has left many in fear of or the lung disease doctors have given up on my brother-in-law is dying from and dealing with? Or the Black Lives Matter and Antifa domestic terrorists’ Stealing, Killing and Destroying Democrat ran cities the “leadership” there allows? Or bankruptcy, or a natural disaster, or the death of a child? Do I even look like I could handle an itchy rash or ingrown toe nail much less a combat related wound or Divorce?

Scripture teaches that we can’t handle anything apart from Jesus Christ. Far from doling out sickness or discomfort or tragedy, He promises to be with us in times of need, Not to mention at all times to Never Leave us nor forsake us. In our weakness, He shows Himself strong and makes us stronger by His Spirit.

6. I Couldn't Care Less Jesus. Sometimes we feel like He is nowhere to be found. We call, and there is no answer. This Jesus is not the Compassionate Christ who laid down His life for ours. Still, in times of heartache, it is hard to understand why He doesn’t answer. Or at least, we don’t know or understand His answers. He has shown me it is okay to question Him. My most favorite prayer in these seasons? “Lord, help my unbelief.” One of the shortest but most impactful and helpful prayers in The Holy Bible.

A relationship with Jesus is a journey. There will be ups and downs. He can take the heat—He proved that through the cross. It is okay to ask why. He always shows up, every time. He said in this life, your life, you will have troubles, but be of good cheer, He has overcome it ALL. Ask, Seek, and Knock. He will answer.

7. Church Jesus The Law is Holy and Good, but it doesn’t make me Holy and Good. No more than the full nice 2” clerical or ordained minister’s collar I wear from time to time. No matter how good a church and it’s teaching of the Word of God, it does not make me Holy. Paul reminds us, do not neglect the assembly (Hebrews 10:25). Yes, hold each other up, hold each other accountable, and by all means encourage one another. But if the pew is shaken, guess what shouldn’t be? You and Jesus. Your relationship with Jesus is separate and not dependent on the church (body of Believers congregating in a place), But The Church, You, Yes, You. No matter what unexpected challenges happen in “the church,” you and Jesus should still be on solid ground. He is the Solid Rock of our Faith, Salvation and ALL.

The church is made up of imperfect people, while Jesus is Perfect and Holy.

8. Rule-Play Jesus This Jesus and I have been super tight for many years. I obeyed all the rules. I even laminated a list and used color-coordinated markers to check off my accomplishments, believing they counted me worthy, while Not writing down my failures and Sin so as Not to remember them or the wretched man I am. Beloved, Salvation is the Cross plus nothing. The thief on the cross was asked only to Believe and that very hour he was Saved. There was really nothing left for him to do. He couldn’t attend a service, memorize Scripture, sing in the choir, take a meal to a neighbor, volunteer, or wash feet or the altar clothes. He was made Righteous because he said Yes to Jesus.

There was no other requirement to fulfill. Circumcision? No; Water Baptism by full or even partial immersion, pouring, sprinkling or even the mystical and unseen Fire Speaking in Tongues Baptism? Nope!  There is nothing that can make the Perfected Work of the Cross anymore Perfect than the Perfect One our God, The Son and Lord Jesus The Christ. Your yes to Jesus counts you as Righteous. Toss out the rules of religiosity and bask in the refreshment of relationship. But stay connect and Sin Not so as Not to lose the salvation you gained as a Born Again Believer; or rather remain Not in Sin that His Grace may abound. God forbid.

So don't get it twisted, Jesus does have a Rule Book He Lives and Plays by, it's Called The Holy Bible or The Word or His Word... Because He Is The Word. Just remember, that all the Rules and Laws Given fall under His Two Greatest Commandments to Love Him with ALL your Heart, all your Soul and all your mind. And the second is like unto the first, You shall love your neighbor (Family and friends or everyone) as yourself.

9. Confused Jesus A couple years ago I went to a pastor and asked some questions about the Sermon on the Mount. The pastor laughed and said, “Yes, ours is not to understand. Ours is just to obey. Jesus was a confusing guy.” I lived with this, heavy on my heart. It would be two more years before I heard a sermon by another pastor and was undone by the revelation that Jesus was not confusing, except to unbelieving hearts and minds. 

My Jesus fulfilled the Law and set us free from this heavy burden of condemnation. Jesus did died to set me and yes, you free. There is nothing confusing about Him, this and His Word. Not Confusing, No Contradictions and No Controversies. We walk free from condemnation in the grip of grace.

10.  If/Then Jesus This is the most elusive and deceptive Jesus. If I do such and such, then Christ will do what I expect. But Jesus cannot be manipulated, and our works do not make Him move; our Faith does. Our good deeds do not make Him love us more and our bad deeds less. In fact, NOTHING can separate us All Sinners and Saints alike from His Love (Don’t get that confused with our ability to lose His Salvation and therefor Separate or Sever ourselves from Him). Again and most Importantly, nothing can separate us from the LOVE of JESUS.

The belief that “If I do or do not do, then Jesus will or won’t do” is a Jesus of colossal works. This Jesus keeps us in bondage to busyness and striving that keeps us apart from the good nature of my Jesus Who just simply Loves. He Is Love. He Loved perfectly so that we might be together for eternity. That was all. Simply Jesus.

Was there even a twinge or flutter in your spirit? One that said, “Oh, that is the Jesus I have been serving?” I know as I came to a place of Knowing, Understanding and Loving the real Jesus, my God, I saw pieces of the false Jesuses falling away and more of His natural and good character shining through to make me more like Him.

Will you pray this prayer with me?

Jesus, I said Yes to You. Thank You for Saving from this world and myself, the clutches of Death and the Devil. I Love You with ALL my heart, soul and mind; and live to Serve You. I want Only You First and Foremost in my Life, Heart, Soul, Mind and Spirit. The real You. All of You. You promised that if I seek I will find. Help me seek the Truth in ALL things and keep my eyes wholly fixated on the True and Holy You to Love and Serve You ALL the more and to  love and serve fellow Believers and others all the more. Amen. 🥰🙏💘 #REBTD 😇

[genesiskrps-blog]

KIWI MUSIC NEWS: IDOL PROFILE SERIES !

[+ 500, -15] Wow! MIZ is my favorite soloist in KWN ! [+ 243,  - 5] KWN is lucky to have her, aren’t they?! [+ 225,  - 9] I can’t wait to see more of them - fighting!!

PROFILE !

FACECLAIM: won minji CHARACTER NAME: kwon halla STAGE NAME: MIZ CHARACTER AGE: 22 COMPANY: KWN POSITION: soloist (anda), producer, lyricist TIME WITH COMPANY: n/a (upcoming) STRENGHTS: creatively, halla is ingenious. courtesy of her parents genetics and their encouragement of her passions and pursuits, she has mountain-shaking talent when it comes to the actual creation and production of music. her brain is hardwired with melody and rhyme, and for several years halla has been a respected producer and coveted writer in the khh and r&b scene. as her time in show me the money has displayed, she maintains an exceptional ability to battle on the spot and with prepared time. her vocals are also strong, and her eye for music video and live stage aesthetics is an asset. her natural ease and confidence makes her good for variety in a limited sense, but also a danger. WEAKNESSES: her work and performances are not anywhere near as kitschy as idol work, despite the commercial success that brings. her dedication to her art is manic, and while she can meet deadlines, many of these have been done by a string of all-nighters the week before it’s supposed to be finished that planned out preparation as she “follows the muse,” rather than making a schedule. she’s nontraditional and nonconformist, which, while it was in keeping with her previous crew is not how most prefer to work. her easy tongue and quick mind can unfortunately get her in trouble quickly when there’s a camera in front of her, making variety and other media a potential liability.

BIOGRAPHY !

her childhood is brightly coloured canvases and cigar smoke in the air. her mother wears silk robes and makes herself a butterfly, her father dances through the kitchen and makes himself into her breeze. they are the artists whose medium is never just one thing: they turn life into experimental work

her bedroom has paint on the walls, birds drawn in marker and hymns on the door. halla is the product of love, truth, beauty, freedom, the daughter of neo-bohemia. she is told to live as she creates – freely

it helps that she’s made like art, with her plush lips and the drastic curve of her body. mathematicians get hard trying to figure out the angle of waist to hip and mouth to neck, and they still never quite find the answer

like her parents before her and their parents before them, she’s a muse and artist both, and the fall she takes with ease into a crowd and career is a lot more like a jump. 

in this day and age, they’re the revolutionaries and the rebels: the boys with tattoos and too much to say, brash in their mouth and on their skin. they’re famous and she’s beautiful and they make a good match, them with their creative minds and her with her artistic heart. sure she fucks them sometimes, but business and pleasure have never mixed so well.

she’s a goddamn innovation, the way she moves, talks, thinks. at first it’s everything behind the camera and between the glass and microphone, writing the lyrics and ensuring they come out the right way. and shit, she’s good; fuck, she’s a genius. with her body she works wonders but with her mind she works miracles.

the fame means nothing, the money is something but not nearly everything. halla only wants to live as she always has, with the capability of doing anything she likes at any time. some call that hedonism – she names it freedom. but when the boys in the snapbacks and inked fingers tell her it’s her time, she doesn’t protest. she’s always been made to make art, and now is her time

the crowd that knows her isn’t the mainstream, but it is unified and full of respect. she’s got men that sell out stadiums around her and the shit they make together has no compromise

she signs on to the show because the boys rile her up, because it sounds like fun, because she likes recognition, and her face-name-reputation starts ebbing towards the front lines

and she keeps on like she always has; borne of music and independence. how misplaced a thing, how large a liability, in a world like this.

[chocolatequeennk]

Better With Two?

The Doctor said he’d never leave Rose behind, but then he did--and not in Aberdeen, but on a spaceship three millennia and two and a half galaxies from home. A conversation the next day sends him scrambling for explanations and apologies when she confronts him with how that made her feel.

Ten x Rose, all ages. This is part of As Time Goes By--I’m working my way backwards now, filling in the time before their relationship shifted into a romance.

This was written for the @doctorroseprompts missing moment prompt: the conversation after GITF. It was heavily influenced by my meta post and the addendum that owes a great deal to @gingergallifreyan.

Betaed by @lastbluetardis, @pellaaearien, and @rudennotgingr. Thank you all! And thanks to @skyler10fic for the encouragement and for suggesting the novel they’re reading.

AO3 | FF.NET | TSP

The Doctor hoisted himself up from underneath the console, groaning a bit when he rolled his shoulders. There was more he could do, but six hours was too long to stay hunched over like that.

It was also too long to go without seeing Rose. He rubbed at his chest, trying to ease the ache left by yesterday’s close call.  He’d wanted a little bit of space after he’d nearly told her how he felt outside the cafe earlier in the week; he hadn’t reckoned on three millennia and two and half galaxies.

Before he could dwell too long on that, his stomach reminded the Doctor that it had also been six hours since he’d eaten. He half-hoped to find Rose in the galley, but the room was empty. However, from the tray laid out with the crusty bread she liked and her favourite cheeses, it seemed like the TARDIS thought he should take her something to eat.

After adding plates, napkins, and two bottles of cider to the tray, the Doctor left the galley, trusting his ship to take him to Rose. He wasn’t surprised when she led him to their favourite room—the library.

The Doctor pushed the door open with his elbow. “I come bearing food,” he said grandly, setting the tray down on the coffee table. Rose’s lips turned up in a smile, but it wasn’t the wide, tongue-touched smile she usually gave him. He pushed that concern to the back of his mind and sat down next to her.

Rose filled a plate and opened her cider. “Thanks, Doctor. I didn’t realise it was so late.”

“I lost track of time, too,” he said.

She huffed. “For a Time Lord, you sure do that a lot.”

“Oi!” he said. She only raised an eyebrow, so he kept up the faux indignation, hoping to make her smile. “I’ll have you know, Rose Tyler, that I am a Marquess of Minutes—no! The Duke of Days!”

Instead of laughing, Rose’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Whatever you say.”

A rock lodged itself in the Doctor’s gut. Rose was only this brusque with him he’d really upset her. But she was smiling when we said goodbye to Sarah Jane… That brought with it the uncomfortable memory of the conversation he’d overheard between the two women, and he quickly refocused his attention on his meal.

They ate in silence, while he tried to figure what he could have done, since they’d barely talked in forty-eight hours. And everything went fairly smoothly yesterday, outside of one serious brush with danger.

By the time they were done eating, the Doctor was desperate to ease the unnatural tension between them. He cast his gaze around the room, breathing a sigh of relief when he laid his eyes on Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which they’d been reading together in the evenings. He wiped his hands and picked up the book. “Now, where were we…” he mumbled as he opened to the marker. “Oh, right! Arthur Dent is about to meet Marvin the depressed robot.”

Rose took the book from him and set it down. “I don’t want to read right now.”

The Doctor noted her stiff shoulders and unsmiling face. “What would you rather do?” he asked carefully.

She blew out a breath and looked away from him. “Look, you don’t need to do this,” she said. “Actually, I wish you wouldn’t—it isn’t fair.”

The Doctor froze at the unfamiliar note of bitterness in her voice. “Do what? What isn’t fair?”

“Pretend you want to be here with me.”

“What?” The rock that had settled in his stomach earlier was joined by several more, making him wish he’d eaten less of the rich cheese. “Rose, no… That’s not… How could you think I don’t want to be with you?”

Rose snorted. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she said incredulously. “Even you couldn’t be so dense that you don’t realise you ignored me all day yesterday.”

“I didn’t ignore you,” the Doctor said, but his protest was weak as a hot rush of shame swept over him.

Rose rolled her eyes. “Right. The only time you looked directly at me was when you were telling me what to do—which, conveniently, was usually something that would split us up.” She ticked examples off on her fingers. “You told me to stay put while you went through the fireplace to talk to Reinette. You told me to follow the droid and take care of your bloody horse. You told me to go through and tell Reinette we’d be coming to get her.”

Her lips were twisted in an angry smile, but the Doctor’s hearts fell when he realised the shimmer in her eyes looked a lot like tears. “Rose…” He reached for her, but dropped his hand when she shifted away from him.

“No. You don’t get to explain this away. Because I get it now. I thought I was your best friend, maybe even your partner in crime as you saved the universe. Better with two, right?” She blinked quickly, then quickly replaced her mask of anger. “But I’m not, am I? I’m just… what, your pet? Something for you to play with until you get bored and find a more interesting model?”

The words knocked all the air out of his body—not a simple feat to do to a Time Lord.

When he didn’t say anything, she set her jaw so hard that he saw the muscle twitch in protest. “I thought I understood when you let Mickey come along. It wasn’t like we could tell him no, the way he invited himself along. But yesterday…” She pursed her lips. “I got the message yesterday. You never really wanted me with you. I was just a stand in until you could find someone who could really be your match. Someone more like Reinette—one of the most accomplished women who ever lived.” She swallowed hard. “I was just a poor man’s Reinette.”

Her flat, resigned voice as she spoke the last sentence finally jolted the Doctor out of his stupor. Rose was the best—as he’d told Adam over a year before—and to hear her so obviously doubting her value killed him.

“You are not a poor man’s Reinette,” he said firmly. “I’d say it’s the other way around, but that implies she could replace you, if I ever lost you.”

Rose shook her head. “This isn’t really about her, Doctor,” she said, her voice weary. “You weren’t listening at all, were you? This is about me ’n you.”

The Doctor squeezed her hand. “And I’m telling you that the worst part of my day yesterday was when I thought I’d have to live through decades or even centuries before I found a way to get back to you. Rose…” He raked his free hand through his hair. “I came looking for you earlier because just six hours without you was too long. I don’t know how I would have managed years.”

Her hand relaxed, just barely, and she tilted her head and licked her lips. “You… you were gonna come back?”

The soft surprise and uncertainty in her voice wounded the Doctor in ways her anger couldn’t. “Rose. How could you think I wouldn’t?” he asked.

She yanked her hand free of his, and any softness she might have shown disappeared. “Maybe because you spent all night at a party with Reinette and her French friends and left me strapped to a table, ready to be cut open by insane clockwork droids!”

The Doctor felt the blood drain from his face as he remembered his desperate run back to the TARDIS, the fear pounding in his hearts while he put together a plan to save Rose. His hands had been shaking when he’d concocted the anti-oil, and his singing had the dual purpose of making himself appear drunk, and hiding the tremble in his voice.

“I got there as soon as I could,” he said, the remembered fear putting an edge in his words.

Rose narrowed her eyes and shook her head quickly. “Mickey said we were there for hours.”

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “And Mickey has never been known to exaggerate my failings when he’s under stress.” She didn’t answer that, and he sighed. “I did go to the ball with her,” he admitted, “because she practically dragged me there. But I’d only been there ten minutes when the TARDIS told me you were in trouble, and I came right back—in fact, I left her standing on the dance floor.” He tugged on his ear. “Well, on the edge of the dance floor, just before the dance started,” he amended, suspecting this was a night when only absolute honesty would suffice.

She blinked, and some of the hostility in her eyes turned to uncertainty. “But your tie… and the banana daiquiris…”

He suddenly saw the scene from her perspective. If she’d already thought he’d left them there for hours when he’d staggered into the room looking drunk… And coupled with the  undeniable fact that he had actually been ignoring her most of the day…

“Rose,” he said slowly, “I am definitely an idiot. An idiot and a fool and you can call me any other name you want. I shouldn’t have assumed you would understand my plans when I never explained them to you.”

She leaned back in the corner of the couch, looking at him challengingly. “Oh, is this the part where you give me some kind of speech that explains everything away so I realise you actually aren’t a wanker?” she said, her voice acerbic.

The Doctor winced and tugged at his ear. “Only the simple, unvarnished truth,” he insisted. “And first of all, I was not actually drunk, Rose.” She rolled her eyes, and he held his hands out pleadingly. “Come on, you know I don’t get drunk on alcohol.”

She seemed to waver for an instant, but then she shook her head. “You did a bloody good job acting drunk for someone who was sober.”

“I acted drunk so the droids wouldn’t think I was a threat,” he told her. “Every single word I spoke to the droids—the whole schtick about being drunk and partying with the French and inventing the banana daiquiri—it was all an act, so they would let me get close enough to save your life.”

He held his breath, and finally, Rose’s shoulders slumped as the anger drained out of her. “Doctor… Why didn’t you just tell me all of this?” she whispered.

Her voice was hoarse, and the Doctor felt a dull ache in the pit of his stomach when he realised she was trying to hold back tears. There was anger towards Sarah Jane, too, for telling Rose that some things were worth getting her heart broken—he was not worth Rose Tyler’s tears.

“I thought we were partners,” she repeated. “Partners tell each other things. They don’t order each other about, they don’t swan off alone without any sense of sharing a plan, they don’t swish in pretending to be pissed and expect the other to pick up on their act and play along with it, and—” She swallowed hard. “And they don’t leap through magic mirrors without explaining their plan to reunite, especially not if they’ve already said there’d be no way back.

“You promised you’d never just leave me behind, like you did Sarah Jane, and then you just left me—and not even at home, or in Aberdeen. You left me on a bloody spaceship in the 51st century.” She swiped angrily at the tears that had fallen from her eyes. “You made me feel like I was disposable. Replaceable.”

“No. No, Rose.” The Doctor shook his head. “You are absolutely irreplaceable. We’re partners—the Doctor in the TARDIS with Rose Tyler.”

A ghost of a smile finally appeared on Rose’s face, but her gaze was serious when she looked into his eyes. “Then you’ve gotta treat me like a partner,” she told him. “You can’t just… order me around and pretend I don’t exist whenever something is bothering you.”

He stiffened in shock, and Rose shook her head.

“You forget that I know you,” she told him, a hint of reproof in her voice. “Something got under your skin, made you want space. I don’t know what—I’ve got my guesses, but I won’t make you tell me. Because in the end, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that next time, you talk to me instead of treating me like I’m invisible.”

Each new way Rose found to describe how the way he’d treated her had felt stung, because he knew they were deserved. If only she knew he’d pulled back because he valued her too much… But he hadn’t acted like that, and she had no way of knowing.

Rose bit her lip. “So, what do you say, Doctor? Better with two?”

The Doctor took a deep breath. He wanted to tell her how much she meant to him, to speak the truths they’d left unspoken since the day they met. But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, he shook his head slowly. “No, Rose Tyler,” he said as he scooted closer to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Better with you.”

[fracturedelvaan]

What Happens - 1/?

So after reading a story I was desperate for a cuddle scene. This is the result. While I have thoughts for other scenes to continue this, I don’t know if they’ll ever make it out. So for safety, homosexual themes (nothing explicit), if you don’t like that well don’t read. :D

               Finger slid beneath the corner of the page, pulling it across once he’d consumed the last few words upon it. A long breath was taken and released. He had to get through the material, no matter how dry or uninteresting it was. Unfortunately, there was little that could be done to help stave off the necessity if he hoped to make it cleanly through the course. Not to mention, it was always best to complete whatever work he had to focus on early before his roommate made an appearance.

               It wasn’t that he was bad. Truth be told he knew rather little about him, though he fully admitted fault to that. He’d chosen for his own reasons not to engage in much conversation with him, and he seemed fairly willing to allow him that luxury. He wasn’t certain for how long though. Perhaps he was waiting for the opportune moment? It was difficult to fathom that someone who seemed so personable would allow him be for too long, but it was a bridge to cross when the time arrived. The time would come. For now, though, he needed to focus while he could.

               The sound of the door latch clicking free jolted him from his focus once more. Was it that late already? A quick glance to the clock was taken as the door budged open. In quick succession as he simply tried to acknowledge the fact it was much earlier than normal for his roommate to make his evening appearance the door had slammed shut, a pack had fallen to the floor, and a body had plummeted rather heavily into the mattress in the opposite corner. He wasn’t accustomed to him being back before it was nearly bed time, but the sun was still up?

               No word had been spoken, not that he had anticipated any, as the body drew itself further into the bed. He recognized the position fairly well for someone that didn’t take much credence in tuning in to the feelings of others. He was tucking himself further in as if to hide. He was upset. No, not just upset, his body had jerked. He was.. crying.

               He found himself heavy in debate. He had serious doubts that Jess, as he had introduced himself, was seeking his sympathy. He’d never given Jess the slightest impression he was willing to give, or even capable of giving, such a sentiment. The safest thing to do was to continue reading the material assigned. Then, however, there was a weakness he’d only recently become aware of since his arrival. That weakness was only praying harder and harder on him as he watched each shudder wreak havoc upon the male.

               He had every reason to believe he was going to regret his decision, but it would seem his mind had surrendered itself to the inevitable. A marker was drawn free of earlier pages to be placed between those he left off, before setting the book upon the bed. A low, almost shaky breath was taken. Awkwardness would no doubt control the events that took place. This was far from anything he’d considered doing before, but watching him lay there and cry without word simply didn’t feel to be an option.

               Socked feet upon the floor, arms would push himself free of the comfort of his own bed. His heart skipped a beat. This was not his usual MO. He closed the distance perhaps more quickly than he intended, though it was unlikely he could have moved slow enough to know the best way to advance. How was best to not freak him out? Swallowing down, he would reach forward slowly, fingers coming to rest upon the shoulder of the long-haired male. The body jerked away from his touch, causing his own hand to retract quickly.

               Emerald eyes were quick to greet him, though the red webbing was very discernible about them. Each cheek still held the well-worn groove of the tears that had been captured by the pillow he’d tried to bury them in. They were wide however, something he very much anticipated in reaction to the fact he’d venture so close. Unfortunately, there was only one question he could ask, which felt rather stupid in nature, “..Are you okay?”

               He could have asked what was bothering him, or if there was anything he could do to help. Nope, had to be the stupid question. Even more unfortunate, his question was met with a lapse of silence. He was putting Jess on the spot. Neither of them were obviously prepared for this turn of events, but the longer the silence lasted, the more he wanted to withdraw back to his own corner. He already felt himself begin to step back. This.. this was a mistake.

               “..No..” Jess was rather uncertain of how else to respond. The two of them had not communicated very much. He couldn’t comprehend what would bring Krys to even reach out to touch him, let alone to question him. Uncertain of what else to do, or what other intentions he might have, he would only bury his face back into the pillow. Another set of words broke the silence once more, though he could sense Krys was back-pedaling further in the process,

“..What happened?”

               Swallowing the firm lump of tears within his throat, he could not yet bring himself to draw his head away from the pillow again. “..Do you really want to know, or are you just trying to be polite?”

               His nerves were driving him to step back, but he’d been caught by the smaller male’s words. He wanted to retreat from the discomfort of the situation, but it was far too late for that. He’d instigated the conversation based upon his own discomfort simply witnessing him in pain. No, it was much too late for retreat now. He could not deny wanting to know what ailed him, and to answer negatively was only going to push the blue haired boy further into depression.

               The best way he could find to keep himself from retreating any further was to take as stationary a position as he could. So, he would step forward once more, forcing himself to lower at an angle upon the edge of the bed. It was enough to keep him in place, yet keep Jess well in view. “..Tell me, if you are willing.”

               The pressure upon the bed caught him off guard, but not enough to tear his attention away from his hiding place. He only tried to move himself slightly away from the body now seated nearby, just to present them with a comfortable amount of distance. Of all times to want to talk, he had to choose the time when he was least willing and less than capable. It was difficult to tell though whether he was genuinely concerned, or attempting to feign it for whatever end he might have. “People are assholes.”

               “I know.. but there’s more.”

               A long breath was taken in. If nothing else, the shock of the events had distracted him enough away from crying he was actually able to speak. Pulling further away from the figure, he turned himself over slowly. An arm ensnared about a pillow to pull it with him as he drew first it, then his legs up into his chest. His back and head soon rested into the wall. “..I’m gay.”

               “I know.. but there’s more.”

               Taken aback for a brief moment, he couldn’t help but to allow a faint smirk just crease at the corner of his lips. “..I suppose it is obvious..” The pillow would be lifted briefly, just enough for him to smear his face into, not having much of a better item at the moment to help clear his face of the drying tears. “Back home, there were no great.. relationships. Anybody that wanted to be with me wanted to hide it, or they just wanted to fool around in the bedroom and be done. As soon as I refused, they were gone. I wanted something special, they just wanted..”

               “..sex.” It was an easy sentence to complete. There was a part of them that even wanted to laugh. The story sounded very familiar in a different regard, but now was not the time for his own escapades. “So you’ve never..”

               “..no. I wanted something they didn’t have the time or the strength for. Fast forward, high school is done, on to the intellectual years. I get here, not really even looking, but someone finds me after the first couple of days. So I think ‘Wow.. someone that might actually care!’ Of course not.” His head turned back, resting simply into the corner of the wall. He would swallow down once more, though his legs.. the pillow grew tighter against his chest.

               “..So we start hanging out.. I think we’re getting to know each other.. he’s hitting on my left and right, we even go on a date. Doesn’t seem to be hiding it from anyone. No one seems to care. Feels nice and great, and of course, he pops the question.”

               “..sex.” In part Krys felt like a broken record, but it seemed as though Jess was following his own bitter broken record. Everything always seemed to circle itself back around to the same conclusion. Someone always wanted to have sex with him, yet no one seemed willing to give him what he actually wanted.

               “Bingo. So I deny him. Last night actually. Explain I’m not ready yet, yadda yadda. He seems to accept it. Today I approach him and get the cold shoulder. Then this girl starts circling.. pushes me away. Somehow I’m not.. terribly surprised. Disappointed, yes.. but not surprised. Whatever, I turn away, wanting to just get away until I can deal with it. Then it comes.. at the top of their lungs.. ugh.”

               “..What comes?” A brow arched. He wanted to reach out to the male, though it was easy enough to restrain himself. This was not par for the course for him already. He’d already pushed himself far enough beyond his boundaries, there was no need to test the grounds further. So he thought.

               “..faggot. Of course that grabs everyone’s attention. Most of them don’t care one way or the other, I try to leave again. They won’t leave though. They tell anyone that will listen I was begging her boyfriend for sex right in front of her, called me a slut, even managed to get enough to affectionately chant at me. No one else cared enough to join in or stop them, just enough to provoke them into continuing.”

               “How did you get away?” It took barely a look to register the tears were only beginning to grow once more. Re-living the event was not helping his case at all, nor was it offering much comfort for his pain, only validation that it still burnt. Somehow Krys simply couldn’t fathom why anyone would go through the trouble of pretending to like someone, just to turn around and throw it back at their face in such a way.

               “..I finally just ran. They had enough attention they didn’t care to chase me down. To think I had this silly notion things might ACTUALLY be different here. Nope, it’s worse! They’ll actually waste their time to humiliate you for their own pleasure.”

               Krys found himself at a loss for words. There was no excuse or explanation for it. Still, he was finding it more and more difficult to see the smaller male in such distress and disarray. He was not at all convinced he was the right one to provide any amount of comfort to Jess, but the more he tried to hide, the more tears that fell along each cheek, the more he was willing to try. “They could have had something planned if you said yes.. it could have been worse.”

               “And it could still GET worse.”

               Krys would be the first to admit he was not great at comforting another. A flash of courage led him to turn himself upon the edge of the bed, pushing himself back into the wall at the head of the bed just next to the long-haired boy. He wasn’t quite certain what to say or do next, but at the very least he wanted to present himself as willing to offer whatever little council he could provide. “I know I’m not any good at this..”

               “You’re trying, which is more than anyone else ever has.” Without any prompt Krys was aware of anyways, Jess had begun to shimmy and slide his way back down into the bed. He saw little more that was going to be said. He turned at the last second though, and although his body only seemed to curl tighter, his head came to rest upon the top of Krys’ thigh, testing the boundaries for committing himself to actually laying his head within his lap, “..though, I’m not doing great at proving the type of person I am by crying against the first man’s shoulder that’s offered to me.”

               His stomach was in knots, this was exactly the type of thing he was trying to avoid. He had dug his own grave in that regard though. At even a semester of living with one another, he was never going to avoid socializing with him forever, though this was.. a tad over-board. Unfortunately, he could not stop his hand from placing itself atop the male’s head, even daring to dip fingertips down into the blue locks. His heart nearly climbed into his throat, trying in vain to choke him as he spoke, “..what happens in here stays in here..”

               “..You’re right though.. it could have been much worse. They could have been upset because they didn’t get whatever they really wanted.. I have to know though, ..why are you doing this..?”

               The question caught him. He didn’t have an answer for that, at least not one he was fully willing to give. “..you won’t believe me.” He knew it would not stop there. Jess was beginning to comprehend that had he given in to his supposed boyfriend’s request, any number of things could have happened. There was no telling what they had planned.. or who was involved, and Krys could have easily been one of them.

               “..You’ve barely said two or three words and we’ve been living together for nearly three weeks. After what’s happened today, I just want to know I can trust you.” Jess had already rested his head upon Krys’s lap, it was too late to take that back. Krys knew he owed him at least some sign of ability to trust him. Still, completely expelling the truth right now felt like a horrible idea.

               “You were upset. It felt.. unnecessary for you to be in that state. Maybe I should..” A hand grasping onto his cut him off, holding it entangled within the scalp of the youth before he could even dare to pull away. He’d already over-stepped so many of his own boundaries with Jess this evening, and likely a few of Jess’s as well at this point. Parting ways seemed like the more logical decision, but emotion rarely dealt well with logic.

               “Don’t.. please.. That’s enough for now..”

               A slow, unsteady breath fell free. He allowed his body to relax back more fully into the wall once more. Though, Jess would speak again, with a rather obvious streak of nervousness laced in those words.

               “Would you.. I mean.. c-could you.. eh.. I-I’ve never.. had.. I.. I want to ask something.. I don’t.. know how..”

               The words were somewhat perplexing, yet somehow he had suspicion what it was Jess was asking for. Unfortunately for him, it only caused his stomach to twist even tighter and his heart to jump free of his throat. He could have choked on it easily. Did he really want to follow the rabbit down such a deep hole?

               He’d crossed so many lines already. Somehow he found doubt that he’d find anything less than regret for surrendering the.. dare he admit.. opportunity? Jess was still attempting to find the words, and though Krys was still quite uncertain that it was a good idea, he found himself slowly sinking down into the bedding.

               A glimpse of emerald hues through blue bangs became a clear display of thankfulness. He’d guessed right, despite the awkwardness that would ravage his movements. Far far from anything he was accustomed to, he slid further into the bedding until he found himself nearly even with Jess, his head finally coming to rest upon the pillow.

               In due time, his arms ensnared the body slowly, drawing Jess partially on top of his side. He soon had the male’s head nestling itself against his neck. A hand would raise, aligning itself along Jess’s back simply so his fingers could once again worm their way in through the blue tresses, resting carefully into his scalp to help cradle his head close.

               It took a few moments, but in time their bodies managed to blend more perfectly. Legs became entwined, arms were hooked about one another, and heads rest themselves rather close. What took longer though was the rate of his heart to calm itself, but it was difficult to convince himself to relax at first. This was not what he’d had in mind when first attempting to check in on Jess, and what he’d desperately been attempting to avoid. He was.. closer than he’d allowed himself to imagine.. and he liked it..

               The warmth.. the weight. The feeling of the silken strands between his fingers, the idea that he could bring peace to someone. It was almost too perfect.

               “..thank you.. what happens here.. stays here..” The words had been re-iterated to him, meant to serve quelling any doubts or concerns that the closeness they were sharing might find its way outside of the confinements of their room.

               It was not long before the very soul he’d observed sleeping across the room was soon asleep upon him. It was difficult to deny though.. he found happiness and tranquility in the thought, in the feeling, in the closeness. He didn’t know what was going to come of this.. what tomorrow would bring. All he could do was to allow his mind to give in for the evening and allow himself some sleep. Tomorrow was a new day.. and it was difficult to say what it would bring.

[sagebodisattva]

Methodological Solipsism

Alright, so getting back into our in depth exploration of solipsism, we find a philosophical variation classified as methodological solipsism. A strange designation, as solipsism is best described as an introspective conduit towards the fundamental truth of reality, so how does methodology, relating to a system of methods used in a particular area of study or activity, apply here? Solipsism isn't really an area of study, nor an activity, and shouldn't even be called a philosophy, so what are the methods being implied, and towards what utility are these methods being employed? Is methodological solipsism perhaps advocating for meditation, lucid dreaming, sensory deprivation or psychonautical explorations? Oddly, not. Again, as found to be similarly the case with epistemological solipsism, methodological solipsism seems to be mainly preoccupied with thinking, doubting, and the treatment of knowledge. So let's investigate methodological solipsism. According to a general definition, methodological solipsism is an agnostic variant of solipsism. It exists in opposition to the strict epistemological requirements for "knowledge", the requirement that knowledge must be certain). It still entertains the points that any induction is fallible and that we may be brains in vats. Methodological solipsism sometimes goes even further to say that even what we perceive as the brain is actually part of the external world, for it is only through our senses that we can see or feel the mind. Only the existence of thoughts is known for certain...

Unfortunately, that was a bit of a weak definition, composed of vague descriptions, lacking strong clear declarations as to what the actual position of methodological solipsism is. So according to generality, methodological solipsism is a variety of an outside reference, exists in opposition to an outside reference, entertains the point of an outside reference, and sometimes goes even further to say an outside reference ... and all that's nice. But, ordinarily, when trying to present a comprehensive elucidation of a subject, you need to outline more on the side of what a position IS, rather then what it isn't. Only in the last part of the attempted description, the assertion that "Only the existence of thoughts is known for certain.", is put forth as a solid positive descriptive statement. More on that in a moment. But to quickly address the more wishy washy segments of the explanation, this position is described as an agnostic variant of solipsism. What ever could this be referring to? A lack of commitment to the implications of the position? Yes, you seem to be aware of a something or other, going on, somewhere or other, and are not prepared to say one way or the other, about what can be known about this, one way or the other... Very well. Then stick to what you really know, that which cannot be denied without forfeiting that which is doing the denying: there is awareness. Never mind what that means, what can be known or not known about it, or the uncertainty that prevents the commitment to a belief about it. There is awareness. This much is known for sure. This should be your initial premise... THEN you can move on to better address the context of the thoughts that you seem to be aware of. Knowledge is never going to be certain, because any and all possible knowledge is relative only to a contextualization, but don't allow this to enable you to become stagnate, wallowing in a sticky pocket of suspended stasis. You are aware. And this fact is a fact before the onset of thinking and the subsequent confection of contextual knowledge. Standing in this truth, the premise of it becomes infallible, and whether or not we are actually brains in a vat is irrelevant. Never mind what you might imagine to be a hidden truth about what you actually already find to be the case. These are all abstract externalizations still seeking to assign responsibility elsewhere, even if this allocation of power is to an ambiguity. Stick to what you find to be the case, foremost and first hand.

The position almost hits the mark when it sometimes goes as far as to make the observation that the brain is an inventory item within the field of perception, but then it goes off base, integrating this with the imagined idea of an external world, further entangling itself in a web of thoughts. And I think this is the major problem with methodological solipsism: it clings to an identification with the thinking function, which is silly, as "thinking" is just an operation of an organism, to which, awareness, the primary agency, is not ultimately attached. This would be like forming an identification with a hungry stomach, or to an aroused genitalia. Interesting functions, to be sure, but not true proper identities, to be sure. There comes a point with introspective inquiry where there needs to be a dissociative split from the identification with thoughts. This is one of the issues a solipsist is going to encounter in the introspective journey: the complacent tendency of not traveling deep enough within. This is when a philosopher moves a little bit within themselves, but then quickly sets up camp among the shallow inner layers, and assumes the mission is complete. This is exemplified by simply moving the place marker of the identification of the self to an earlier designation then the physical body. It's a step in the right direction, to be sure, but will lead to confusion and difficulty if not followed through upon, the whole way. Where epistemological solipsism moves the place marker back to an assumptive position at the event horizon of the thinking mind's interaction with knowledge, methodological solipsism moves the place marker back a step earlier, to the thinking process itself.

This is where we will find the old tattered weather-beaten flag of 16th century French philosopher, mathematician, and scientist, Rene Descartes; embroidered with his now world famous maxim: cogito ergo sum; translated as "I think, therefor I am.", or also sometimes stated as "I doubt, therefore I think, therefore I am". So, from this, it seems that, whatever methods methodological solipsism is referring to, that any actual methods consist rather more as abstractions, then pragmatic tangible techniques; logistical schematics used as an analytical guideline for proper intellectual masturbation. (And just on a little crypto semantic side note, a notation you might wanna contemplate earnestly, the word anal is not rooted in the word analytical merely by coincidence.)

But anyway, if you've managed to get past the identification with the physical body, one of the great difficulties an existential agent will initially confront, there will be an even greater difficultly to navigate, the thinking mind, of which, half of the greater difficulty will be in simply discerning that the thinking process is not the intended destination. It only seems that way because it's as abstract as the mind can conceive of intellectually, while staying loyal to the the parameters of an imagined scientific standard. You can doubt everything all the way down to that which is doing the doubting, but if you try to doubt that which is doing the doubting, then what is it that is doubting the doubting? The thinking mind! Hence: I think, therefor I am! This is as far as Descartes got: thinking. But, as abstract as the spectrum of the mental facilities are, this is still an externalization, as thinking itself is not nearly as ethereal as the fundamental essence ultimately isn't. It goes much deeper then this. Descartes might have benefited from some sitting meditation. Notice how, when asserting "I think, therefor I am", the "I", in this, is taken for granted as a given, and it's descriptive classification is conveniently glossed over. There's no clarification, so apparently this must mean that the "I" is the thinking mind; as to use skepticism to reduce down to a conclusion that only the existence of thoughts is known for certain, is to identify a self with thoughts. If we stop here, with the idea of a self associated with pure thinking, then of course it will disconnect existentiality from it's purpose. This mutes the function of symbiotic experiential agencies, as it will inevitably drain all the quality and lushness from life. This is the problem with the intellect. It can be cold, calculating, selfish and myopic. Indeed, too much intellect can even be considered a handicap, for, when it comes to uncovering the true nature of reality, gaining clarity into these matters will entail unlearning, and the mind's ability to retain unbending focus and not become distracted by the constant din of the thinking mind. You're not ever gonna stop the thinking mind, but you can lower it's volume, so to speak, with the mind's increased ability to differentiate itself from the thoughts, and, in a manner of speaking, minimize this frame down to bottom of the task bar...

So, moving on from the general definition to some other more extensive descriptions of methodological solipsism, it is stated: In epistemology and the philosophy of mind, methodological solipsism has at least two distinct definitions, of which, each will be dissected accordingly. The first definition: Methodological solipsism is the epistemological thesis that the individual self and its states, such as subjective impressions (Empiricism), or innate knowledge (Rationalism), are the sole possible proper starting points for philosophical construction, which emphasizes that justifications of an external world must be founded on indisputable facts about one's own consciousness... Can you now see the issue that continually keeps cropping up with this position? Despite understanding that an introspective factor is the only sure thing, it misidentifies what exactly this factor is, and still wants to externalize it. It wants to substitute the real foundation, awareness itself, with characteristics of illusion as the foundation. Philosophical construction won't hold up under it's own weight if the foundation upon which it stands is composed of weak fallacy. Empiricism is not a proper foundation, nor is rationalism, as these are both but tools of awareness, and are equally part of the illusion, just as the idea of an external world and one's so called "own" consciousness. This is making everything about the ego, and the ego is also not a proper foundation, as it too is but an inventory item of illusion. These applications may have their limited utility within illusion, like as the basis of a science established within a dream, but this is a very shallow consideration for philosophy to be concerned with. Yes, there are rules to the dream, many of which can be tested and experimented with, the results of which often producing reliable results, which then can be used as a basis of a sort of scientific knowledge about the context of an illusion, but when it comes to the more deeper philosophical interests, the fundamental nature of reality is of greater importance then the contexts of falsehoods. This is why the explanations offered for methodological solipsism are so vapid. They are not really interested in providing fundamental truth, but only with what can be demonstrated to be a contextual truth within a fabrication. This is why it is said that methodological solipsism is often not held as a belief system, but rather used as a thought experiment to assist in skepticism, which I think is the real underlying intentions behind this position. It's just a tool to assist in doubting, which is a gold standard of intellectual integrity; to simply doubt doubt doubt, doubt anything and everything, and not budge, until it can be proved otherwise, within the criteria of a specific framework. And overlooking the fundamental truth, whether intentional or not, is why these "methods" produce such mundane explanations: they are not concerned with illumination; only with what can be agreed upon within the delusion of a subjective frame of reference.

And now the second definition: Methodological solipsism is the thesis that the mental properties or mental states of an organism can be individuated exclusively on the basis of that state or property's relations with other internal states of the organism itself, without any reference to the society, culture, or the physical world in which the organism is embedded. This is a extreme position that implies that the content of someone's beliefs about, say, water, as an example, has absolutely nothing to do with the substance water in the outside world, nor with the commonly accepted definition of the society in which that person lives. Everything is determined internally. Moreover, the only thing that other people have to go on in ascribing beliefs to someone else are the internal states of his or her physical brain... Hmmmmm.. this is basically a perfunctory proposition that is quite perplexing, as it represents yet another externalization that assumes imaginary divisions within illusion, while claiming that the external has no bearing on any subject, yet somehow still implies that there are objective norms that have been established by a collective of subjects, i.e. a culture or society. Huh? This also implies there is an "outside world" of which a subject is somehow in conjunction with despite being partitioned from it completely, with the mind forming mental states and mental properties on its own, totally unrelated to the outside phenomena. I would say this position has a ton of issues and is just reaching around in the dark. It's not clarifying what these mental states and properties are, but yet can still nevertheless assert that they are in a specific configuration with external factors. A bit of nonsense. The mental states or mental properties being implied here are still part of the field of illusion. They are still in the spectrum of that which is contextualized within fundamental reality. So this whole line of distinction isn't providing existential explorers with any useful knowledge of the journey. And in closing, I will reiterate the spirit of this point. You are charged with finding out what the truth of reality is. You have two potent methods towards this purpose that I have advocated many times, in many ways, with urgent emphasis... that are: discern that which is false and break ties with it, and discern that which is truth and gain intimacy with it. This will take time and effort, for so much of the work is going to entail mastering clarity and unraveling a web of conditioning that is aimed at keeping your mind enslaved. But with continual effort put forth, one will eventually be able to break the binds of the delusion. And one of the greatest obstacles in this, as the implications of methodological solipsism suggest, is the thinking mind. The thinking function is not the proper fundamental axiom. Rene Descartes had it wrong. It's not that you think and therefor are. But rather, there is awareness, therefor there is an I that ams; an am-ing that produces all experiential phenomena such as feelings and thoughts.