#same matter cannot occupy same space

[prettyflyshyguy]

Not in the traditional sense, no.......

But she sort of was one all along.

"If I kill her, is it murder or suicide?"

[petday]

your art is so so so so inspiring to me which is strange bc my style isnt very similar to yours at all. but it makes me happy to see your art, especially when you make art from things from childhood id forgotten about💫💫💫💫💫🩷🩷🩷🩷

Thanks. Your message and similar messages from others over the years inspired me to try to put into words why I draw 'nostalgic things'. I ended up writing a lot.

There was a period of time when I became cynical about being seen as an 'artist who reminds people of childhood' or a 'nostalgic artist'. I no longer feel that way but I will explain why. Some artists, who I like and respect, will sometimes mention 'nostalgia holding artist's growth back' and 'nostalgia causes learned helplessness.' But I feel differently.

Maybe I perceive time differently. I have lived long enough to witness cycles of 'what is valued, and what is not valued' repeated. For example, I loved what is now called 'Y2K' style, but during mid 2000s, for whatever reason it was derided as something to be left in the past, something embarrassing. "Aren't we glad we optimized things now, and they are 'sleeker' and less complex? Old things were childish, an embarrassing weakness for humans, we must advance and reach our ideal evolution." That became the common attitude. I felt pressure to have the same thoughts. I just couldn't make myself feel that way no matter what, though. Even with the increasing threats about, 'keep up with others or you won't ever develop positive social relationships!' I couldn't change my mind.

(If what is currently valued becomes devalued and then it becomes valuable after that… that's an odd cycle to me. For example, if we like bananas, even when bananas cannot be harvested, we still like them even though they occupy a smaller space in our minds but we don't deride them. Going even further, though, I sometimes wonder if it is possible for humans to eventually remove the 'devaluation' stage, particularly in art 'trends' as I am an artist. Whatever is considered valuable remains valuable. A counter arguement would be, 'no, the devaluation of the previous thing is exactly what causes the next thing to be valued, and then the cycle flows beautifully: X was valued -> Y is valued, X is devalued -> Y is devalued, X becomes valuable again. If you want X to always remain valuable, just develop better patience. Like we cannot pick fruit we like all year, we cannot simply keep adding onto the pile of things we like, something has to be seen as inferior by the majority of humans.' I disagree. I might explain my thoughts against this argument more in the future.)

Anyway, what people call 'Y2K style' or 'art that emulates how things commonly appeared in early years of 2000s' is popular nowadays. Even someone who did not grow up with it can become attracted to it. That 'desire' itself is a communication between past and present. Something can make someone feel 'lighter' [in sense of, "wow, the crushing weight of my circumstance feels not so crushing when I look at this'] -- a similar 'light' to how someone in the past was perceiving it when it was the present and not the past. So, even though two people were born in different eras and may not become friends or even meet, they're still connected by that 'lighthearted' feeling they both like. I know it will be seen as 'lower value' soon, but I truly cannot care because as I mentioned earlier, I might perceive 'time' weirdly.

When I started playing video games, a family member would point out, 'those games were made before you were born, interesting!' but that statement confused me at the time since my perception was, 'well, if these games are from before I was born, I don't understand why she is bringing attention to it. Why is it interesting? It's just regular. They're alive in the present now, because I'm in the present and so are they.' That was when I was a very young child. I subconsciously kept the same feeling even as I was reaching teenage and adult years. The feeling echoed when people liked to ask the question 'why are you still playing games from long ago?' as I got older but still played the same 'old' games. The answer: they are beautiful and will remain beautiful, and something made in the past is still communicating in the present, so are they really truly 'outdated inferior games'...? Just because the cycle of valued and devalued happened to be in a different position and those old things were seen as an embarrassment? (Now there are popular games inspired by the era of games many people ridiculed me for consistently enjoying, lol. Similarly, I was using 'crappy' old versions of programs even through 2017. Now people from wealthy upbringing and background use 'crappy' programs willingly. lol)

The present talks to the past all the time, nostalgia is not a dead end. In that sense I cannot see nostalgia as a death trap but rather a connection made from past to present. A string between the past and present that feelings can crawl across and communicate. Feelings such as 'I wish my life took a different direction. I can't make things like how they were back then, it won't ever be the same again, so I'll do nothing.' The criticism of 'nostalgia' is towards that last sentence. But there are things you can do with those feelings. 'Doing nothing is boring. And I keep thinking of that fun drawing I saw... I kinda wanna try to make something.' Making something while thinking of the past and present at the same time, so there is a communication between past self and present self. Pure bitterness communicating with slightly light-hearted view, the 'end result' is artwork/creation.

*I used light-hearted feeling as example, but nostalgia can exist for any feeling, and not just for people who were nice when they were younger. If someone was cruel as a child/teenager, after the person has been an adult for a while, they can communicate with their younger self about what was it about the cruelty that was enjoyable, and then extract a small part from the cruelty that they wish to bring back into the present -- example, the attraction to 'high speed activities, playful mischievousness' can be extracted from 'hurting people on purpose so they will acknowledge/react to you'. The dialogue could be something like, "'honestly, you and I both know spamming people with bad things felt pretty fun at the time, so let's just keep the 'high energy mischievousness' feeling and leave behind the crap that hurt people deeply, and let's make an animation while thinking of that high energy feeling.

^ I don't answer questions or reply to messages often because of giving answers that aren't too long or too short is tough for me. lol. Thanks for liking my art. I like a lot of art that doesn't resemble mine as well. It's fun! Like appreciating different flavours in the same meal even if you cannot make the meal yourself.

[nakedbibi333]

Consciousness Is the Only Reality - Neville Goddard

I have heard time and time again that people find Neville's teachings to be too complicated to understand. I wanted to share some of my notes on his lectures and books as I re-read them. The point of this is to make it as easy to understand and accessible as possible. I linked the lecture above in case you want to read the actual lecture and you can use my notes as a guide if anything seems too convoluted or confusing.

All quotes are taken directly from the lecture.

Introduction

Before we begin, it’s important to mention that Neville bases his teachings on the Bible, which he says is meant to be interpreted as a metaphorical/allegorical text, rather than a historical text. 

The Name of God

This lecture begins with Neville explaining the meaning of God’s name. 

In short, it contains references to your I AM-ness (awareness), your imagination, your ability to feel as you desire to be and to take your desire out of the imaginary and reflect it onto the physical. 

When you break down the name of God, it explains the foundation of reality, your consciousness. 

“As you assume that you are that which you want to be, you have completed the name of God” 

You have the power of creation within you. 

“The question arises: What is God? God is man’s consciousness, his awareness, his I AM-ness”

You Become What You Are Conscious of Being and Dying to the Old State

Since your consciousness is the cause or the foundation of reality, then what you are conscious of being must be impressed upon the physical reality.

You have the power to leave behind your current state/undesired reality.

Your current reality has been created through consciousness, and you can leave it behind and recreate a new reality with anything that you desire.

You can die to the old state and create a new one. (You no longer become conscious of the old state--redirect your attention)

Story of Isaac and His Sons Esau and Jacob

The story of Isaac and his sons Esau and Jacob expresses the idea that your brain cannot tell the difference between what you experience in imagination and what you experience in the physical world. 

For example, your brain expresses the same physiological and psychological reaction to you imagining a hug and hugging someone in real life. 

If you place reality upon your imaginal acts and feel as though you are truly experiencing that which is taking place solely in your mind, then your brain believes that you are truly experiencing that. 

Leave the physical alone, do not take action, and do not reason.

You leave the physical world alone and simply use your imagination to change your life

You do not have to worry about the physical manifestation of your desire, that is not your job. Your only job is to imagine that you have what you desire. 

“In other words, you remain faithful to this subjective reality [that which you desire to manifest] and you do not take back from it the power of birth. You gave it the right of birth and it is going to become objective within this world of yours. There is no room in this limited space of yours for two things to occupy the same space at the same time. By making the subjective real, it resurrects itself within your world.” 

You cannot occupy two opposing states -- you cannot believe one thing and also believe the opposite at the same time (ex. You can’t simultaneously believe the statement “I am rich” while also believing the statement “I am poor.”)

The only way you can stop a manifestation from being reflected in the physical is by not being faithful to your new reality (failing to die to the old state/continuing to be double-minded). 

You will die to the old state simply by remaining faithful to the new one. 

“Do not ask yourself how this thing is going to be. It does not matter if your reason denies it. It does not matter if all the world around you denies it.” 

You never have to worry about how it will come to be, because that is not your responsibility. It will happen without any effort on your part. Your only job is to believe in the fulfillment of your desire. Everything else will be taken care of for you. You do not need to reason with it, you cannot let external circumstances get in the way of it, and you don’t need to think about what actions you need to take to “make it happen.” You do not need to do anything but remain in that fulfilled state.

SATS and Lullaby

State akin to sleep - the creative act. 

A sensory experience that implies the fulfillment of your desire. 

Remove your attention from the physical world, go into your imagination fully, and grant your imaginal act reality.

Don’t let the mind wander, make the imaginal act short and sweet, at the point of the fulfillment of your desire. 

Minimal effort is the key, it should not cost you too much energy to fully experience your desire fulfilled.

Lullaby method

When you are nearing sleep, repeat a short phrase that implies fulfillment of your desire. 

2-3 words that can easily be repeated without too much focus. 

The point is to fall asleep while saying it over and over in your mind.

You No Longer Hunger For It When It Is Fulfilled

“When satisfaction is yours, you no longer hunger for it” 

If you have successfully fulfilled the desire in imagination and you believe that it is yours, you no longer feel want of it, because you already have it. 

You no longer think of it as separate from you. 

You have granted it to yourself in imagination, then it is already yours, and there is nothing else to do but persist in that state.

Your Imagination Is The Cause

“Know that your consciousness is the only reality. Then know what you want to be. Then assume the feeling of being that which you want to be, and remain faithful to your assumption, living and acting on your conviction.”

Consciousness is the only reality -- it is the source of everything in the physical

“You draw from within yourself that which you now want to express as something objective to yourself” 

All your manifestations come from you. You are drawing the fulfillment of your desires from within yourself, from consciousness.

If you can imagine it, then it is possible.

“Your consciousness is the mother-father, there is no other cause in the world” 

Everything that happens in the physical world is caused and created by your consciousness. 

There is no other cause than your I AM-ness/your imagination. 

Since your imagination is the only cause, then the only way to change the outer world is through imagination itself.

“As I stand here, having discovered that my consciousness is God, and that I can by simply feeling that I AM what I want to be transform myself into the likeness of that which I am assuming I am; I know now that I am all that it takes to scale this mountain” 

Neville says that you don’t need anything other than your consciousness/imagination to achieve anything you want. You don’t need money, luck, power, etc. You only need imagination.

How to Manifest

“Take the idea you want to embody, and assume that you are already it. Lose yourself in feeling this assumption is solidly real. As you give it this sense of reality, you have given it the blessing which belongs to the objective world, and you do not have to aid its birth any more than you have to aid the birth of a child or a seed you plant in the ground” 

Define your objective (your desire), create an imaginal act that suggests the fulfillment of that objective, grant it reality, and persist in that new state.

You do not have to take any kind of physical action for it to manifest, you trust in your imaginal act and allow it to come to be on its own.

Do not wait to die to the old state and embody the state that you desire. If you desire something now, change your state now. Fulfill it within imagination the moment you feel it. 

“When my world conforms to my assumption the prophecy is fulfilled”

You were always meant to use your consciousness to manifest your life. In this lecture, Neville is basically saying that the entire point of the Bible is to teach you how to manifest through allegory and metaphor.

[paper-mario-wiki]

If you don't mind me asking, why is it that you choose to refer to yourself in the first person as Scout, but then you refer to yourself as Chase in the third?

The human body is a phenomena of individual atoms, molecules, fungus, bacteria, rot, and entropy coming together in a single space over an indeterminate amount of time. Both Scout and Chase have occupied this form. At one point during this one's window of existence, it has been accurately described as Chase, and I'll honor that for the rest of my life, as it would be disingenuous to do so otherwise.

Make no mistake, this is not a matter of split personality, or any other sort of plurality. I know, in basic terms, that I'm the same person. I'm the same form, and I have the same tastes and aspirations as I did before I transitioned, but when I use the first person pronoun "I" when speaking about things this one had done before it became Scout, it's inaccurate. Because "I" refers to Scout, not Chase. Scout can speak for Chase, and Scout is responsible for Chase's actions, but Chase cannot speak for himself anymore, because Scout isn't going away, and there is only one voice between the two.

I don't find it weird at all that most people don't view things this way when they change their name, as it's often done for a very private and personally important reason. When I'm called Chase it does bother me, because that's not right, I'm not Chase. I'm Scout. But Scout knows that Chase existed, and Chase knows Scout currently exists, even though he physically does not.

[architectureandfilmblog]

"Settlement" housing surveys and dominates the landscape, West Bank, Palestine

THE ARCHITECTURE OF VIOLENCE (2014)

It feels like an important time to revisit this short documentary. Part of the Rebel Architecture series, the film examines, clearly and concisely, the use of design as a weapon of intimidation and subjugation within the Palestine Israel conflict.  One element it focuses on is Palestine's 'architecture of occupation': the way the built environment, even in the form of suburban 'settlement' housing (in which tracts of Israeli homes have been built in occupied territories like the West Bank), has been deliberately shaped to intimidate, surveil, segregate, and even dehumanise.

"Settlements are built on hilltops, overlooking Palestinian valleys, to dominate. They're laid out to create a suburban-scale optical device that can survey the territory. The bright red roofs of the houses are mandated by law... to allow military to understand what's friend and foe: where to bomb and where not to."

"...When you put Israeli colonies on highways, you accelerate Israeli movement through the space. In the same way, with every twist and turn of terrain, Palestinians encounter a checkpoint, a border, a fence, a valley they cannot cross..."

It's important for architects and urban designers everywhere to understand that our craft has the potential to be weaponised. It's important that, no matter whom the client, we think about how a project will impact everyone whose life it touches.  But sadly, as essential as these considerations are, they're of no immediate help to civilians from both sides who are suffering in Gaza and the rest of Palestine and Israel right now. So, it seems worth sharing:

Some ways that we can help:

1. Speak up. Send an email to your elected representative. Sign petitions. Stand up in any forum you can against human rights violations, and against both islamaphobic and antisemitic behaviour.

2. Contribute to a trusted aid organisation working in Gaza, such as Unicef or the British Red Cross. Sites like  charitynavigator and charitychecker can be used to check it's a group who'll use it well.

3. Understand the context. Short videos here and here provide a clear introduction/overview.

4. Boycott companies that are directly profiting from the illegal occupation, and from human rights violations.

(Images: Ronen Zvulun/Reuters via Guardian, Léopold Lambert/Funambulist)

[redclercs]

DELICATE✰ CHARLES LECLERC.

iv. you and me would be a big conversation

— the one where both of you have big reputations.

warnings: this one got a little long sorry, bashing towards charles and y/n (i love them ok), taylor swift references,2.6k words.

masterlist ✢ next

FROM DATF1GURL ON TIKTOK: "IS Y/N Y/LN AFTER CHARLES LECLERC NOW?"

[female voiceover]: ❝(...) while it is true she has a contract with Elix the new MAJOR sponsor for Ferrari—horrible drink by the way—rumor has it y/n's actual goal is to get the monegasque driver to spare a glance her way... Like, okay girl, but you left a 3-year relationship five minutes ago, chill.❞

IN pure Taylor Swift fashion, y/n y/ln has found her own ‘Getaway Car’ in none other than the 25-year-old Monegasque Formula 1 pilot, Charles Leclerc.

While nothing’s been confirmed, (come on now, what celebrity will just confirm rumors of their own free will in this day and age? Screw you, PR agents) the actress has been seen at two Grand Prix and the Elix contract gives her good camouflage for being constantly photographed with her new beau.

No matter how much sex-appeal these two exude, let’s not forget that we have a victim here: Aidan Kim. How can you leave a three year relationship with the man that gave you everything and not even two months later you’re already with someone else?

Is it a rebound or are we looking at something serious? In your humble writer’s opinion it’s most likely the former. And let’s not forget what Taylor Swift, in her infinite wisdom, said: “Nothing good starts in a getaway car”, it doesn’t matter if it’s a Ferrari.

SEE ALSO:

→ Aidan Kim buys new home in Sherman Oaks.

→ Every celebrity present at the Miami Grand Prix.

→ Is y/n y/ln really done with RomComs?

May 13th, Los Angeles, California.

“ARE you sure this is who you want as your rebound, babe?” Victoria places the magazine down and turns her head to look at you, using the precise force and tilt for her sunglasses to slide down to the tip of her nose.

“Stop reading that garbage,” you warn, not bothering to change your position in the chaise-longue, you don’t even look away from the script in your hands.

The day started pretty well, sunny Los Angeles made you feel hopeful for the first time in a while as you opened the script Mildred sent you when you got back from Miami. A drama about a young widow. You can work with that.

“I just mean—” Vic shifts her whole body in your direction, “—You have options, what about Timothée? I’m pretty sure the Kylie thing is fake. And he wouldn’t say no to you.”

“Stop that, Vic,” this time you do look her way for emphasis, you mean it. “I’m not looking for a rebound, or anything else for that matter. I want a job.”

“Fine,” Vic makes a show of capturing her lip between her teeth to pronounce the “F” and lies back in the chair. “I’m just saying…”

You’re glad to be wearing sunglasses, so she can’t see the way your eyes rollback. To be fair, you’re at Vic’s house so she has every right to occupy the same space as you at any given minute. Which is all the time.

After the breakup you ran to Vic’s Los Angeles home and left the SoHo apartment to Aidan. Vic's house is amazing, with eight rooms, five bathrooms, a black granite kitchen and of course, the pool. But you miss New York, even if you can fit your own room two times in one of Vic's. At least, according to rumors, Aidan is moving out of the apartment so you might be able to return to it soon.

“I think it’s bullshit that they see me breathing near a guy and suddenly we’re dating,” you drop the stack of papers on your legs, startling Vic with the sound. “Bullshit.”

“It’s just tabloids, babe.” Vic goes quiet, knowing she’s annoyed you and now you feel guilty about that too.

“I know,” you sigh, picking the script back up. Suddenly you don’t like it that much anymore.

Of course you know it’s just tabloids. People talk shit just for fun, but you’ve been their main target for a few weeks now and you cannot wait for them to move on. Which seems unlikely.

You've never been more glad about turning down a Yankees game invite.

Following Ferrari’s disappointing Sunday and the respective mandatory Elix pictures, you hung around the Suite a little longer in aims of gathering your thoughts and the will to leave to meet Vic at another after-party.

“Hola y/n! I thought you’d left,” Carlos carried his bag in one hand as he struggled to put his sunglasses with the other.

“I’m about to,” you smiled at him, locking your phone. “You too?”

“Yep, going straight to the airport. See you in Italy?” he asked, running his now free hand through his black hair, all set.

“See you there, Carlos.” you waved him goodbye before leaning back on the couch.

Vic had apologized for the shenanigans she'd pulled the previous night, saying she knew she should have asked you instead of just running with things. So you were looking forward to the after-party, it would be fun to hang out with your best friend after making up.

It wasn’t even five minutes before Charles came out too, hanging up a call in his half-destroyed iPhone.

“Oh hey!” He greeted cheerfully, the bad aftertaste from the race wasn't evident in his demeanor anymore. They had their debrief and Charles was willing to let go of the negativity momentarily.

“Hi Charles,” your not-as-cheerful tone didn’t bother him one bit. “Are you flying back today too?”

You couldn’t picture yourself in an eight hour flight after everything they’d done today, but they’re not really regular humans.

“We’re driving to New York, actually,” his hand hovered over the refreshment table, until he picked one of the leftover Elix. Charles examined the black can he chose before speaking again, “We’re going to a Yankees game tomorrow.”

“That’s very nice, Charles.”

He hates Elix as much as the next person so you can't help but wonder why he drinks them even when the cameras are off. Carlos and you never do.

“Would you like to join us?” He offered, the last word deafened by the click of the can as he opened it.

You took a few seconds to process the question, long enough for Charles to down about half the can in one gulp.

“Thank you, but I’m flying back to L.A. tomorrow.”

Charles' mouth went down in one corner and you were uncertain whether it was your answer or the taste that caused it. He tilted the can making the remaining liquid dance.

“Maybe another time,” he added, downing the rest of the blueberry flavored Elix. “Don’t worry.”

“Thanks for asking me, though,” you smiled, grabbing your purse from the couch. You had recovered enough energy already, and you didn't want to miss the DJ set at the party. “I hope you enjoy it.”

“Thanks y/n,” his mouth was still frozen in that slight wince and you shook your head gently at the sight of the empty Elix. “I'll see you in Italy, right?”

“I’ll be there.” you assured, although you hoped not. But a week didn’t seem like enough time to secure a gig.

YOU land in Italy the day the Grand Prix gets canceled. Which is very much just your luck. It’s for the better, though, safety must always come first.

It makes no sense to run back to America when you have nothing else to do, so you resolve to stay in Rome and catch up with a few friends you have around. Matilde Bassi being the best among them, and she would rather die than let you stay in a hotel instead of her house.

"I said no," she repeats, and her accent—although barely even there— reminds you of Charles for a split second, before your brain lets go of the image. "I've told you a million times to come visit, I won't let you stay in a hotel."

You give up after that because you don't want to annoy her. Matilde has quite the strong character, which is the reason she got to Broadway in the first place. After years of being in New York, where you met her, she decided to move back to Italy. Mati, still pursuing her passion, is currently the European public's favorite Juliet.

The fact that all of this goes down in a phone call gives you time to pick up what little stuff you've gotten out of your suitcase and check-out of the hotel before Matilde gets there to take you to her house.

─────────

"So, how are you doing?" she asks, refilling your wine before moving back to the stove, where she's cooking your favorite Italian meal.

"I'm fine, I've told you," you chuckle, sipping the drink. Her house is beautiful too, and spacious, but it feels homey compared to Vic's. "Taking it easy."

One thing you tend to forget about Matilde is how she is able to see right through your bullshit, and that's exactly what she's doing now.

"You never take it easy, y/n. And I mean how are you really? How do you feel? A lot has changed for you lately." she flips her head back to remove a stray curl of hair out of her eyes, "You can be honest."

"I'm fine, seriously, Mati," you know drinking so fast will make the wine go straight to your head but you'll do anything to avoid really talking about this. Which is unfair, Matilde is being genuine.

"You moved from one coast to the opposite and you're fine? What are you working on right now?"

You sigh, managing to smell your own alcoholic breath. "I'm with Victoria, and I've lived in Los Angeles before, while filming, it's not a big deal. As for work... I'm just– picking some stuff out, seeing the best options."

Matilde nods and turns around to grab two plates from the sky blue cupboards behind her. "Are you planning on going back to New York?"

"Yeah, hopefully," you get up to help her and she gestures for you to take a seat again. "My name was on the lease and Aidan is moving out of the apartment, according to People Magazine, anyway so..."

"Your apartment was amazing," Matilde smiles, reminiscing the girls' nights you spent together while she worked in New York, it was always so much fun to be with Mati. "I hope you can go back. If that makes you happy, that is."

She manages to carry both steaming plates and the bottle of wine to the table, and finally sits down. "Well, enjoy!"

"Thank you, Mati, this smells amazing," you missed Mati's cooking so much because no matter how many Italian restaurants you visit, nothing compares to hers, and you're also glad to have something on your stomach that will make the effects of the wine go away.

Or that's what you hoped for anyway, because you're halfway through another cup of wine, almost done with your food, when you drop the grenade you've left unpinned in your brain for 2 months.

"I don't miss him," you whisper, resting the fork gently on the edge of the plate, between two of the yellow flowers painted on it. "Am I a horrible person because I don't miss him?"

You gave it a lot of thought ever since you took the plane from New York to L.A. the night you said no. You thought—still think—there's something wrong with you because the feeling that something was ripped out of your life and the hole that it left would never be filled never even appeared. There was no hole, it was a scar already, and you picked at it trying to make it bleed. But nothing happened. Nothing ever happens.

"You're not a horrible person, y/n don't say that."

You're glad Mati doesn't let silence fall between you, it would have made you regret everything that left your mouth, but she's already reaching for your hand and you feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

Mourning the idea of someone is worse than mourning their absence. And you had missed Aidan for a long time, even when he was with you.

"I just feel awful for leaving and not wanting to go back, I hate myself for being okay."

The rejected proposal is something you keep close to you still. You love Mati, and you trust her, but you cannot bring yourself to touch that subject.

Mati squeezes your hand, her food forgotten as well. "I'm glad you're okay. I liked Aidan, too. But you're my friend, and I love you and all I want is for you to be better than okay."

"Thank you Mati," it's her words that actually get the tears flowing, and you wipe them quickly with your free hand. "Sorry for dumping this on you so suddenly." you give a choked laugh before clearing your throat.

"I did tell you you could be honest," she laughs, giving your hand a last squeeze before letting it go. "How about we just go straight to dessert?"

You nod, grateful that she leaves to get the tiramisu you bought on the way home from the fridge so you can pull yourself together.

MONACO welcomes you the Sunday before the Grand Prix. Which you are excited about, for the first time in a while.

Matilde proves to be the best company once again, knowing her way around Monaco like it's her own home. You're glad she's attending the Grand Prix too and you were able to get her into the Ferrari Suite with you, unlike your failed attempt at Miami with Vic.

One thing you find out about Monaco pretty soon, is that they're obsessed with Charles Leclerc. He's in buses and billboards and you can see people waiting to catch a glimpse of him outside grocery stores. It warms you up inside that he's so loved in his own country, not many people can relate.

You don't love, however, that the articles online have brought attention to your presence in Monaco too. And although it’s far less than the one Charles gets for obvious reasons, the heat that comes from it is closer to ire than affection.

Still, you take photos with those who ask on your way back from dinner with Mati and ignore the “you’re here for your boyfriend, huh?” Questions that come from people with their cameras millimeters away from your face. Saying “it’s not like that” isn’t worth the effort because it won’t work.

May 23rd Montecarlo, Monaco.

Mati is introducing you to other celebrities that attended the All-Stars game, when Charles comes back from signing autographs to the part of the stadium where you are. He's messy, dirty and all dimples—again— which you start to find annoying. Although it's mildly sweet how he always smiles at you when your eyes meet, you cannot allow yourself to think of that too often. He's a nice guy, he's being nice.

"Hi y/n, I thought I'd see you until the weekend," he greets you, still drying off the sweat from the back of his neck.

You shrug, making way for a couple of guys who give Charles a bro hug, joke about the several mistakes he made during the match and then leave, acknowledging you in the form of a quick scan.

"Good game," you can't help the small laugh that follows the compliment, but Charles only smiles wider.

"I'm a natural," he replies, but takes his hand to the place he hit when he face planted. "Don't you think?"

"Definitely," you laugh again, raising both eyebrows. "I'm just glad you stick to racing."

"Me too," it's his turn to shrug, and run a hand through his damp hair.

“How was New York?” You look over your shoulder to Mati, who’s holding her own conversation a few steps away. “Did you have fun?”

“It was really fun, noisy, big. It’s a shame you couldn’t come.”

“Thank you again for inviting me. I do miss New York, but i had things to do.” You let the air out of your lungs hoping, albeit stupidly, he can’t see in your face that the things you did was read stuff on the internet about the two of you together.

“Oh you live in New York? That’s wonderful, so you know your way around. Lorenzo and I got lost.”

You chuckle gently. “It happens to the best of us.”

“Ready to go?” Mati puts an arm around you, smiling. “Hello, Charles.”

So it is true everyone knows each other in these circles.

“Hello Matilde,” Charles smiles back at her, “I won’t keep you any longer, y/n.”

“No worries, it was nice seeing you.”

“I’ll see you soon, maybe I can show you a place or two in Monaco.” Charles is very casual, but his eyes don’t leave yours for a heartbeat.

Matilde tilts her head and her ponytail falls into your shoulder, the small hairs tickling your ear.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Thanks Charles.” You shake your head away from Mati’s and wave Charles goodbye as he walks by you.

“My advice,” Mati is still holding you by the shoulder. “If I may be nosy… You don’t want to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Charles Leclerc. You don’t wanna do that, y/n.”

You roll your eyes but Mati is unbothered by the gesture. “I’m not doing anything, Mati. He’s being nice, we see each other every weekend.”

“He is a homie hopper, trust me, run don’t walk.”

You tsk, making her shake her head this time. “If it makes you feel better, I’m not doing that, never, ever.”

And although you intend to keep your promise, the first thing you do once your phone is hooked to the hotel’s wifi, is google Charles and his reputation.

Even if you know better than anyone that the internet is full of lies.

─── team principal radio: ❝hello! i really enjoyed creating this chapter, especially the fake media so i hope you've enjoyed it too. thanks for reading!♡❞

✰ paddock club members: @majx00

[echo-lover]

I wanted to share my thoughts about the first three episodes of Bad Batch season 3 immediately after watching them, but I was too emotional about everything I saw that I needed some time to calm down a bit.

It's beyond my expectations, just perfect! From the plot, to the characters, through the beautiful graphics and wonderful music, everything was epic. This season will definitely be much more mature and dark than the others. I love Bad Batch with all my heart and words cannot describe how important these characters are to me. I don't think I will focus on each episode separately, but I will show my general feelings and thoughts.

Something that touched my heart deeply was how Omega becomes so much like Hunter. Her facial expressions, her eyes, tactical skills and that characteristic whistle! I immediately thought of Hunter. She became so mature, strong, decisive and calm in stressful situations. It's clear that she's no longer the same little child we met on Kamino in the first season. She has changed so much... Even Crosshair seems to see this, as he let her lead during his escape from Mount Tantiss. He was her support, did not question her ideas and did not hesitate to follow orders. I love watching their bond become stronger. Every day Omega came to his cell, talked about her day... and he listened... he had no choice because he couldn't just go, but I think they both needed each other's presence. They knew they were not alone and encouraged each other, in some way.

It is clear that Omega still misses the rest of her brothers and strongly believes that she will be able to return to them again, together with Crosshair. She can't imagine leaving him, it's out of the question. No matter how hard Crosshair tries to make her believe that he is not worth saving, she will still be on his side. I think Crosshair realized through her that his brothers never really wanted to leave him and were willing to take him back at any time if he just wanted...

Even though Omega has become more mature, she is still a child. Being locked in a cell, the routine and monotony of life must be very exhausting for her, because she is by nature a lively, active and curious sweet girl. She spent most of her life locked up and the only good memories she had were of freedom and her brothers, even though it wasn't for a long time. She even made herself a doll like Lula, who stayed on the Marauder with Hunter and Wrecker. This parallel symbolizes their connection, despite the enormous distance that separated them. And Batcher... Omega doesn't want to forget, she wants to remember her brothers, the love she had for them and received from them, all those good memories together... Ouch...

Somewhere in another part of the Galaxy, two brothers are desperately looking for their little sister. Their worn armor shows that they have fought hard during this time. Hunter also has different bandana... I've seen a theory that it's similar to the band Omega wore on his wrist in season two. This way, maybe Hunter wanted to always have her close to him, at least a part of her, I wonder if he can smell her scent... Oh Force, I'm gonna cry...

The sight of Hunter having difficulty working with Tech's Datapad, how desperate he is to do everything he can to find Omega, how exhausted he seems... Maybe it's just me, but he looks thinner and has paler skin than before. This breaks my heart. I'm sure he was thinking about Tech who could do the job in a second. The sight of his goggles resting alone, the empty space he once occupied... Marauder never looked so lonely... Let me tell you, I shed a tear.

I really liked how Wrecker was the voice of reason in his conversation with Hunter. It's beautiful how one look, a nod of the head, or a hand on the shoulder can bring Hunter down. They support each other and it is clear that after everything they have lost, they have become even closer. They need each other to keep from going crazy.

Even though they are the only two left, Wrecker still considers Hunter to be the leader and waits for his orders even though he knows he doesn't have to. He remains loyal. When he was talking to the little cadets on the Marauder, I was so happy when I heard his laughter. Honest, loud and heartwarming. I think he's needed this for a long time. He definitely misses the company of a child on board, he loves children so much...

I also love that little scene where Hunter is working and looks at Lula out of the corner of his eye, thinking about Omega. He can't live without her... I feel like if they were separated again, he wouldn't be able todeal with it and would just explode, showing all the anger and despair he was holding, possibly doing something stupid in the process... He loves his little Omega too much that he can't imagine life without her. He is ready to drop everything just to be able to hold her close to him, to keep her safe. I'm so scared for him.

On the one hand, I was surprised that Echo didn't stay with the boys to look for Omega, but I expected him to join Rex. They may also be searching, but I think their main goal is to free prisoners and gather as many allies as possible to create the Clone Rebellion.

I could talk for hours and still not express all my thoughts and emotions that these episodes made me feel. I can't wait for next Wednesday.

[lowliest-manifestations]

Okay! I'm finally putting together some of my more specific Bending the Willow thoughts and this passage:

"Perhaps it was as Jeremy Brett noted: 'Women want to possess him, while men want to be him.' There is certainly some truth in that statement, but the idea is incomplete. I believe male readers not only identify with Holmes, but also experience, in the same way that D. H. Lawrence identified what he referred to as a 'blood consciousness' between men, a kind of spiritual closeness akin to love."

Is making me the kind of insane that makes me want to write like 17 essays. But in absence of the time needed to actually do that here are some of my main thoughts in a more disorganized fashion:

Overall I've noticed a really wild amount of gender essentialism within Sherlockian communities/ scholarship, and I know that a lot of that can be chalked up to the fact that even modern writings are done mostly by older white men, but I also think there's something about the text itself that encourages this. Sherlock Holmes is pretty fucking victorian about gender (Irene Adler occupies a weird space but I do not believe she is in any way exempt from those attitudes.) and I think sometimes scholars find themselves reflecting the values of a text that they do not want to admit is imperfect.

I think this passage pinpoints exactly how a lot of people gender their expectations of how reader are to interact with Sherlock Holmes and texts like it, and Sherlock Holmes in turn becomes kind of weird for women to interact with. For the most part people want to see themselves somewhere in the text, but women in particular are told that we cannot find ourselves within the main character. Some people may be fine with that, lots of people don't want to relate to Holmes and their enjoyment of the text does not come from seeing themselves in that particular character. Some women also genuinely want to relate to the text by fantasizing about being in a relationship with Holmes, and more power to them, but their feeling is not a default, no matter how hard anybody pretends it is.

The fact is that plenty of women do want to be Holmes, and they face an interesting dilemma if they are trying to hold that while still operating under the framework hinted at in this passage. Instead of projecting onto him directly they must find ways to be close to him, be a reflection of him, be him but a girl (without replacing him! don't worry!). I think that's why there's sooo much fiction out there about secret sisters, female apprentices, wit-matching lovers etc. (I myself would pretend to be Sherlock Holmes' secret daughter as a kid. I bought into this shit!)

This framework is also not particularly normal about men who may not see themselves in Holmes at all and who may, in fact, also be capable of fantasizing about having a relationship with him! Queer men exist! (within this passage in fact.) And I know Stuart Davies did not mean to acknowledge this when he wrote of "a kind of spiritual closeness akin to love." but he does put it somewhat homoerotically in a way that left me reeling a little bit.

I do understand the feeling described by Stuart Davies, even if the way he writes of it makes me laugh a little in its dramatics. I simply do not think it is a feeling exclusive to men... I don't think any feelings are exclusive to any gender. And in the end I think that's the idea that really frustrates me.

Of course this passage is also from 1996, it's a product of its time, I get it. I also know that people have had More expansive/critical/interesting ideas about Sherlock Holmes in relation to gender before and since it was written, and I don't think it reflects what everyone really believes. BUT I do think it hit the nail on the head of a phenomena I have noticed since childhood and affirmed that I wasn't imagining things. While also being. Kind of funny.

[girlactionfigure]

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conflictvoices_

What You Have to Know About Arab Opposition to Zionism! Dr. Einat Wilf, an expert on the history of the conflict, explains how - before there were refugees, 'settlements,' or an 'occupation' - the Arabs' sole priority was to prevent the formation of a Jewish state.  In metaphysics, impenetrability is the name given to that quality of matter whereby two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time. The same is true here. The only thing the Jews wanted was a legally recognized state. The only thing the Arabs wanted was to prevent that. This irreconcilable difference is almost one hundred years old. The British knew it, the UN knew it, the Jews knew it, and the Arabs knew it. Nothing has changed.

H/T @scartale-an-undertale-au 

[balioc]

I have a beard, of a particular slightly-distinctive style. I've had that same beard for the entirety of my adult life.

This is, obviously, the most contingent kind of fact about me. If I wanted to shave it off, or to style it differently, I could do so right now with zero difficulty. It's not a cultural signifier, or a marker of group belonging, or anything; even to me, it doesn't really mean anything other than "this is a symbol of me-the-person because it is associated with me because I have it." I started cultivating it in mid-adolescence for ephemeral irrelevant reasons, and kept it going basically out of inertia.

Nonetheless: it is really important to me. Like, really really important.

I basically cannot use character-creators or avatar-generators of any sort unless they have appropriate-enough beard options. When I contemplate getting rid of the beard...well, based on the way other people use the term, I think that the appropriate word for the feeling I get from that is dysphoria. During a brief period when I thought that I might have to get rid of the beard for medical reasons, I seriously considered wearing some kind of full-face leper mask whenever I left the house, because the thought of hiding my face from the world forever made me less unhappy than the thought of having people see me clean-shaven.

And, crucially, this affects my ability to Identify With People in literature and media. I am about 900% more likely to have an "it me" mental reflex if the character in question has a Beard Like Mine, regardless of whether there's any actual substantive commonality or grounds-for-sympathy there. I can control this with deliberate effort, but -- it takes deliberate effort. This phenomenon has probably had some measurable effect on my personality and philosophy, simply by causing me to identify or not-identify with potentially-high-impact characters in a subconscious (or conscious) way.

For example: I basically always see elves as Other and Not-Me, because elves are usually portrayed as the Beardless People, even if there are all sorts of obvious reasons to map myself onto a particular elvish character or elvish culture. Which there often are!

You might be inclined to say that this is, uh, stupid. I wouldn't blame you. It is, at the least, definitely very irrational; it's an aggressively hypertrophied bit of mental DNA, the sort of thing that you might fairly-if-uncharitably call a "psychic cancer." But of course it's never going to change, because the phenomenon operates deep down on the level of appreciative impulses and happy-buttons, which are mostly impervious to reason. (Assuming that you're inclined to try and alter them through reason, which is usually not worth the effort even when it can work.)

----------

It's not actually a problem for me that beard-related neurosis prevents me from identifying with elves. Not much of a problem, anyway. I guess I lose out on some cool Line of Feanor feels.

But I can imagine it being a problem. I can imagine the world in which the cool resonant myth that everyone cares about, the thing around which you want to build big chunks of your identity, has only elves with whom to identify. I can imagine the world in which all the cool smart people I want to be my friends are endlessly talking about their elfsonas.

And, y'know, in that hypothetical world, there's a few different ways I could react. I could say "fuck you, fantasy myth is for losers." I could be a mythic entrepreneur, and aggressively push my own homegrown stories featuring dwarves and ogres and other beardy folk. I could try to [shudder] map myself onto a beardless elf in my mind, and let that image occupy space in my fantasies, and hope that the revulsion and dissonance don't tear me apart. I could just be kinda sad about it all.

Or I could say: Hey, guys, could we maybe just agree that elves can have beards? Since they're made up and all, and their beardlessness doesn't even really matter to the myth anyway?

If I were so inclined, I could even follow that up with: Look, this is a really big deal for me. I'm pretty sure it's a much bigger deal for me than it is for any of you. That would be 100% honest.

And I imagine that many people would respond: What? No. Ew. The elf stories have clear lore and a well-defined aesthetic, and you're proposing to shit all over them with your weird beard nonsense. You don't get to do that; you don't get to make the akashic commons worse for your own private benefit; it doesn't matter what your reasons are. Play by the rules, or go play another game.

I would have a lot of sympathy for those people.

----------

(Yes, yes, I know, Cirdan the Shipwright, don't @ me.)

----------

There are, of course, lessons in this. Perhaps I will spell them out in another post, soon, if I find myself feeling less tired and cranky. But for now: he who has ears to hear, let him hear.

[climbthemountain2020]

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it) - Chapter 7/Loop 33

I Know You, I Walked With You Once Upon A Dream

Summary: Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter. 

Until one day, it doesn't. 

Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up on the same day - over and over. Now, Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact. 

A "round robin" style fanfiction with different authors. This work is meant to be read from beginning to end, but each chapter is written by a different author with their own spin on the time loop prompt. 

Warnings: mild canon-typical violence, NSFW, sexual content

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Word Count: 4k

Notes: Surprise! I am part of the hivemind! I am not subtle, lol.

I literally cannot tell you how much fun I have had with this wonderful group of people plotting and planning and cackling over all these chapters. @feysand-hivemind it’s been so fun to match your freak! I’ve had such a blast being a part of this.  <3 Thank you @popjunkie42 @tunaababee @witch-and-her-witcher and @rosanna-writer for the beta help! <3

Tumblr Masterlist | Read on Ao3 or under the cut.

Dead again.  

This time he hadn’t even known that something was wrong. He’d had a grand plan, a measured procedure for how things were going to go. Perhaps, he’d thought, if no one interfered at all, she would make it through the trials on her own and then the two of them might start with a cleaner slate. 

He should have known that she wouldn’t survive without any interventions at all. She was so lovely and beguiling, so smart and scrappy, so willful and stubborn, that it was so simple to forget she was also so tragically fragile and human. 

It had been two weeks since the last death, the reset having taken him by surprise, but he was biding his time now. Not intervening hadn’t worked, intervening too soon was equally disastrous. So instead, Rhys was performing his least favorite activity as he wiled his time away Under the Mountain: he was being patient. 

Blessedly, Amarantha had been sidetracked. Two uprisings in Day and Winter had kept her furious and occupied since he’d last awoken in her bed. The silence and privacy he’d been given in her distracted absence had left him time to think about what other approaches he might take to see this through to a different end. 

He sat on his bed in the darkness, the stress of the past two weeks compounding as he wondered where his little painter–where Feyre –might be now. He let his head sink into his hands, the pounding headache moving from his temples to the base of his skull. After fifty years, he thought he’d grow used to this living space, these bare, windowless walls, the stuffy and stagnant air. Normally, he could shove that claustrophobia, that need to breathe , somewhere deep down and far away. But today? Today Rhys had reached the end of his rope almost immediately upon waking, the walls closing in and sending his mind racing against the base need to feel open air on his skin. 

How many times was he going to live this torture?

He had wondered more than once about the potential merits of writing all the details down, even just to see them there on the paper. Would it make it more real? Would it make it more tolerable? At the end of the day, he’d decided over and over that it would be no use. He took nothing with him when the loops restarted–nothing but memories and the ever-growing desperation that this might be the punishment he’d earned for a lifetime of idiocy. 

And truly, he had earned this. He had done everything for the selfish benefit of keeping his home and his family safe. He would beg, barter, kill, and steal to keep them well and away from this, even knowing what torturous and questionable things he’d be required to do by Amarantha. He thought of his family as he so often did– Azriel’s brooding kindness, Cassian’s easy, teasing smile, Mor tossing her head back in laughter, and Amren’s harsh but loyal nature. He’d do it all again for them.

This time, though, the images didn’t end with them. They floated effortlessly into swirls of golden hair, freckles, and gray-blue eyes. They echoed with her taunting tone, her words–both sharp and curious–, her smile. Feyre was the key to this loop, somehow, and Rhys was going to figure it out even if it killed him. Again.  

Tonight had seen Rhys plagued again by nightmares. He had awoken in a cold sweat, the guilt and nausea eating at him as he’d shot awake in the dark room. Every night, he’d relive the light leaving her eyes as she died, that bright spirit guttering out as she searched for him across a sea of faces.

Feyre. Feyre. Feyre. 

He felt her name pulse through his mind like the beat of his heart. 

He was overcome by a need to see her, to assure himself that she was alright and unharmed in Spring. 

Without further time to hesitate, Rhys shot from the bed, tossing on clothes and sliding into the hallway. There were no sounds in the empty night, everyone having retired for the evening. The halls here were eerie even in the best of times, but Rhys hated the creeping feeling that was unique to this cursed place. He crept along the rock-hewn hallways, moving as silently as a specter and listening for even the smallest of sounds. There were no signs that Amarantha had returned, her quarters still quiet as the grave as he walked past. He sensed no thoughts from within, and hoped it meant that she was asleep or gone. 

He walked through the last of the halls to the tunnels, easily finding the door where he’d released the bogge. It had only been days ago, but lost in these loops it felt like it could have been years, lifetimes. As soon as he left the stifling swell of the wards, he was winnowing, taking the short bursts to Spring. The closer he got, the clearer the air smelled, that comforting and familiar tang of moss and honeysuckle and grass prickling at his senses. Long ago, he’d considered this place another home. 

He shook his head at the thought on his final winnow, arriving at the edge of the Spring woods, the magic of Tamlin’s wards shattering at a mere touch. 

Tamlin still couldn’t be bothered to fix his shitty border magic, despite the circumstances. No loops ever seemed to change that. Rhys could see the manor up ahead, a towering mass of marble and vines in the moonlight. The air around him was so warm it nearly felt like floating in a still sea as he moved closer and closer, following that lively trail of lilac and pear to the window he remembered as hers. 

That felt like years ago now, too, since he’d come here to find her and Tamlin embracing in their sleep. He shook his head again as if to dislodge the image as he materialized on the balcony’s edge. The security here would be laughable if it didn’t make him worried for Feyre’s safety. 

She slept with the balcony doors flung open, the gentle breezes of Spring dancing over her skin. This time, blessedly, Feyre was alone in the bed. She was faced away from him, curled on one side with her hands tucked beneath her chin. He could see the freckles across the bare expanse of her shoulders, and just like before, he ached to touch them. Rhys released a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding, the tension already allowing his shoulders to sink back down. Just the sight of her, her mere presence, worked like a balm on his soul. 

He looked over to the door, laughing at the haphazard trap she’d rigged up for anyone daring to enter. By his calculations, she hadn’t been in Spring for long. She and Tamlin were clearly not together yet. An emotion flashed in his chest at the huntress’ rope and curtain contraption at the door, an odd flare of something at her audacity, her will. It was becoming harder and harder to not feel things for this ferocious human girl, the ache within him calling to her even when it would all be so much easier if it didn’t. 

But there she was, sleeping peacefully and silently on the bed. She wasn’t dead, wasn’t broken. Her throat wasn’t ripped out, she was not being taken by wounds or choking to death, and Rhys could hear the steady thrumming of her heart from the open doors. It took every bit of his willpower to not slip inside the room, to inhale that sweet, light smell of her greedily like a man starved at his final supper. 

Rhys knew what the right move was. Feyre was safe and dreaming and that should be all he cared about, especially since she wasn’t with Tamlin. But…

But…

No. 

It was not Rhys’s place to be here. He had come to see that she was well, and she looked well. This Feyre didn’t know him, and even the Feyres that did know him wouldn’t have wanted him lurking in her bedroom while she slept. He had to admit he felt a little bad about skulking around Spring to watch her sleeping in the first place, and that creeping thought of truly being the creature of nightmares bit at him. But he’d needed to see her, assure himself that she was living and breathing and okay. Seeing her comfortable and at peace was enough for him. If all went well, he was sure he’d see her again soon enough. 

After giving her one more look, committing the soft sighs and smooth lines of her face to memory, Rhys turned to go. But as he turned to step back through the balcony doors and take off into the night, her sweet voice permeated the air. He whipped around faster than a flash of light, worried he’d been caught, but Feyre still slept, turned towards him now, her eyes shut tightly and a murmur on her lips. 

Rhys stood shell shocked, unable to draw his eyes away from her form, naked from the waist up. He couldn’t look away from her, even if he’d tried, his mouth suddenly dry and jaw slack. She moved again beneath the sheets, the seam of them dropping even lower down her waist against her writhing. 

The smell of her arousal hit him like a brick, and suddenly he was grasping the door frame, cracking it beneath his hands in his grip before his mind could catch up. It was like getting hit with a tidal wave–a heavily perfumed, absolutely delicious tidal wave. Rhys wasn’t one to fall to his baser needs, but the scent was the most overwhelming thing he’d ever experienced. His grip on the doors tightened and the wood warped and cracked beneath his palms. He couldn’t inhale fast or wholly enough, filling his lungs greedily with the scent of her. 

His Feyre.

He needed to leave right this second. He needed to get out of there before he did something he would regret.

Touch, claim, mine.

Turning from the room was the most difficult thing that Rhys had ever done in five centuries of living. Moving away from the delicious smell of her nearly broke him, but he needed to go before it was too late. As he turned to jump and winnow, her voice rang out quietly into the silence, so soft that he nearly questioned if he’d heard it at all. 

“Who are you?” His eyes shot to hers, but he found them still closed, eyelashes settled on her freckled cheek. She moved her hand over her face, rubbing the heel of her palm into her eye as she sank down further in the plush down of the pillows. “Come back.”

Now that she’d beckoned him, called out as though just for him, he knew he couldn’t leave her, even if he should. He could deny his painter nothing. 

She rustled beneath the sheets again, murmuring and moaning softly, and Rhys slipped quietly and gently into her mind, just for a moment, he swore to himself. 

Rhys was immediately struck by the smell of her, somehow even more potent than before. In her dream, she was on the same bed, the soft light of the moon filtering in through the windows. She was no longer sleeping beneath the covers, but kneeling, her legs spread wide and naked save for a pair of lacy, navy underclothes.

There on the bed, there was a figure curled lovingly behind her, his hand over hers as it moved methodically within her underwear. The figure was blurred, features not clear in the dreamlike state they were in. It looked nearly like a watercolor, the purples and blacks and blues all running together and unfocused. Rhys walked around the bed, keeping his eyes on Feyre’s writhing frame. The realization struck him as solidly as her scent had, the equivalent of running straight into a marble wall. It was him who cradled Feyre in his arms, the raven black hair and violet eyes beholding himself like a mirror as the hazy image came into focus.

He hadn’t projected that–hadn’t gone into her head to touch her. Had she been dreaming of him as he'd dreamed of her? His little painter…had some memory stuck, or was she dreaming of him in all the loops before they'd met? Had it been him the same way that he'd seen her in his?

He wove those tendrils of power out into the fabric of her dreams, caressing the fragments of sparkling night over the mirror image of him that had hands on her. With a flick of his wrist, dream Rhys was gone, the open air suddenly cold behind Feyre causing her eyes to fly open and land directly on him. 

Rhys stuttered a step, ceasing his motions. She shouldn't be able to see him here, not unless he'd willed it. But she was staring right at him all the same, a blush rising on her cheeks. 

Rhys was entranced by her, his eyes darting across her freckles, her smile, her hooded eyes, too much and not enough of every little bit of her, as though he couldn't pick just one thing to behold. 

Despite dream-Rhys’s removal, Feyre had not removed her own hand, keeping it pressed motionless to herself.

“Hello.” Her voice was thick and smooth as honey, and just as sweet, the sound coiling around Rhys’s ears and going straight to the base of his spine. Feyre looked at him from beneath lowered lashes, and his body itched to step closer. “You came back.” Rhys nodded, the action entirely out of his hands, still completely unsure of how she could see him in this dream without him willing it. 

She stayed as still as a statue, eyes firmly planted on Rhys. “Will you tell me your name this time?”

“Rhysand,” he answered without thinking, without planning, cursing himself inwardly as the word left his mouth. But Feyre just smiled demurely at him, the motion lighting up her entire face. 

“Hello, Rhysand. I'm Feyre.” 

“Hello, Feyre darling.” The greeting purred out of him as naturally as anything, and he could see her breath catch. She sat back on her haunches, that beautiful blush creeping to her neck and decolletage, but still, her hand remained where it was.

“I've dreamed of you before. But you never interact with me. It’s always just flashes, but you're here now.” Her voice had dropped, the husky tone of it driving home that force of arousal building within him. She was so beautiful, so lovely. And in this loop, even if it was just a dream, she wanted him. “This is another dream, right?”

He shouldn't. This was wrong . 

She thought it was just a dream, that there was nothing to it. But the way she was looking at him, the way she smelled. He inhaled again, even halfway into her mind the scent was overwhelming. The loveliest thing he'd ever had the pleasure of scenting. 

“This can be whatever you want it to be, darling.” He saw her breathe in deep, nostrils flaring as her wide eyes fixed on him.

“Would you, I mean, if you–” Her words failed her, but the intent was clear as she began to move those fingers that had been stilled the whole time. 

It was an invitation. She wanted him, her open blue eyes begging for contact. 

Fuck it. 

“Would you like a hand, love?” He could see the hitch in her throat as she inhaled, her eyes sparkling at the timbre of his voice. She was so responsive, her nipples tightening against the thin lace of her top and leaving nothing to the imagination, and he took a single unbidden step towards her. 

She nodded eagerly. “Please.” He felt delirious with want.

Rhys bit back a groan. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it in all these loops, what her skin would feel like against his, her soft warmth against the hard planes of his body. He circled the bed and watched as she took another deep breath, letting her eyes slip closed. He magicked his boots and tunic away, leaving him behind her in nothing but pants as he crawled into the bed. 

It isn't a good idea, his thoughts whispered, but as he touched her shoulder and a crackle of something zapped through his veins, he knew he wasn't going to stop unless she asked him to. 

She sighed languidly as his fingers danced over her shoulders and played up and down the sides of her neck. He pressed the length of his exposed torso against her back, her skin scalding against his at the contact. He swallowed back a sigh that seemed to emerge from him unbidden, but Feyre simply laid her head back on his shoulder, wordlessly expressing the level of comfort she already felt at his presence in her dreams. 

Rhys ran his hands along Feyre's sides, watching as her flesh prickled in response. His fingers slowly crept higher and higher, the silky smooth texture of her skin driving him wild. 

“Touch me.” Her voice was a whisper of smoke in the wind, but nothing had ever sounded clearer to him. 

He didn't need to be told twice, his magic racing out to mist the thin layers of lace into oblivion. His deft fingers wasted no time in cupping her breasts, feeling the heavy weight of them in his large hands and tugging gently on her nipples as she let out the most delicious sound he thought he might have ever heard. Her soft sighs and gentle moans were like music to his ears, her whimpers a song that he’d been waiting for his entire life. He touched her chest, gently and playfully touching and circling them until Feyre was gasping and wiggling in front of him, her body rubbing against his like a cat in heat. He was painfully hard by the time she was begging and pleading for his hands to move lower, pulling them with her own until they reached her sex. 

Rhys hardly managed to bite back a groan of his own when he ran his fingers through her wet heat. She was soaked entirely through, her arousal running down her thighs as he spread her open with his fingers. 

“All for me, Feyre?”

“Gods, please .” 

He grinned as he pressed hot, open mouthed kisses to her neck and shoulders, dipping his fingers barely into her and circling them around her as she cried out. Nothing has ever felt as good as Feyre trembling against him, nothing had ever sounded as nice as his name on her lips. 

“Rhysand,” she gasped as he pressed a finger into her warmth. 

“Rhys. Just Rhys.” 

“Rhys,” she murmured, turning her face to his and capturing his lips with hers. When their mouths met, Rhys swore the world shifted on its axis, the arousal and emotion and feeling in his chest threatening to explode under the pressure. The light around them went soft and hazy as they moved together, the glow blurring around them like the dream was ebbing in and out with their shared breaths.

He added another finger as she undulated against him, each and every point of contact shooting sparks into his bloodstream as he gasped aloud. She responded by doubling down, reaching behind her to toy with the waistband of his pants. 

He felt nearly embarrassed, reduced back to a youngling as he bucked forward into her touch, his rhythm momentarily stuttering. 

He tried to pull back, resuming his own ministrations, but she wrapped her fingers into his waistband and pulled him back to her.  

“I want to touch you.” He couldn't argue with that. 

Rhys shoved his pants down, his erection jutting against her back. Feyre wasted no time in grabbing it with enthusiasm, Rhys's mind reeling with the pleasure of it as she began stroking up and down the length of him. The movements were somewhat jerking with the angle, and Rhys still thought as he brushed against the cheeks of her ass, that it might be the most magnificent thing he’d ever felt. Despite the angle, the rush of it all overtook them quickly, the natural back and forth of it seeming as easy as breathing. Before long, they were both a breathy mess, her head resting back against his shoulder and his forehead against her neck while they moved together. 

“You're exquisite,” he whispered into her hair, the smell of her so potent and overwhelmingly lovely at this proximity. 

He could feel her fluttering around his fingers, feel the echoes of her impending orgasm grasping at him desperately while she moved her hand faster around him. Rhys was glad she was close because he was losing control, the feelings thundering through his chest and threatening to burn him alive wrapping down around the base of his spine. 

He pressed the heel of his hand into her as he pistoned his fingers in and out, the movements becoming more intense as she responded in turn, their touch reaching a crescendo. 

“Come for me, Feyre.” 

She clenched around him. “Only if you come with me,” she responded huskily, even as she herself tipped over the edge. Rhys followed immediately, his vision nearly blacking out for a moment as he did. 

He wasn't sure when he'd eased them to the bed, their breathing evening out between their twisted limbs, sticky with sweat and cooling in the Spring night air. Rhys felt weightless, the dream or the satisfaction allowing the pull of the world to work differently around them. He brushed her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear and tugging her back to his chest tightly. 

“That was incredible,” she whispered, and Rhys fought the urge to preen. 

“It was. You are.” 

She laughed softly, turning her head to look at him. Her eyes looked like the sky after a storm, the heavy clouds that used to roll in over the snowy peaks of Illyria. Home. 

She pressed a soft kiss to his lips, and Rhys wondered if he'd ever felt so sated in his life. His time here was limited, but he was going to enjoy every single second he had allowed himself.

She had dreamed of him, recognized him. She had wanted him here. 

“Will I see you again?” she murmured quietly as he brushed his fingers up and down over her thighs and hips. Her eyes were already beginning to flutter shut. 

“I would be willing to put money on it.” His voice was tinged with relief, with laughter, with joy he had not felt in ages.  

“Do you have to go?”

“I’m sorry, Feyre. I do.” 

She was mostly asleep by now, sighing lightly as her eyelids finally shut and stayed closed. “I’ll see you soon, Rhys.” He smiled despite himself, brushing his fingers lightly across her forehead then placing a kiss there as her breathing evened out. 

He carefully eased himself out of her mind. Outside of her dream, he was still leaning against the door to the balcony, the distance between them feeling near-painful now, a throbbing ache in his chest that demanded he step closer. Rhys resisted this time, knowing that the dawn would be coming soon and turning from the room with one final look at his painter. 

As he winnowed back to the grounds, walking around the property to the woodline under the cover of remaining night, his thoughts were lighter than they’d been since all this loop nonsense had begun. She’d dreamed of him, his face, his voice, his touch. If she could seek him out in her dreams this way, think of him as a soothing presence instead of something evil, how might that change the future of the loop? 

Next time, it could be familiarity and not fear or mistrust that guided their interactions. 

Why hadn’t he considered this before? It changed everything . 

Rhys rounded the final corner of the manor that bordered the woods, light on his feet and his spirit buoyed with this newfound, unfamiliar, but welcome hope. 

The last thing he saw was the form of a sentry, the sword already flying through the air and aimed directly at his neck.  

Well, fuck.

[tyrantisterror]

Can you talk about ettercaps in your world? I assume that they're an example of homo falsum-in this case spiders that mimic humans?

That's spot on, yeah. Ettercaps are spider fairies who have evolved to look very humanoid.

While they do a decent job of adapting to a human body plan, Ettercaps still diverge in a lot of ways, with the large abdomen and four pairs of very spidery arms growing out of their back being especially prominent.

Like normal spiders, Ettercaps have eight eyes: two main ones placed roughly where a human's eyes would be on their face, as well as six lesser eyes that sit in clumps of three above each main eye, occupying the same place as eyebrows do on a human. Ettercaps do not have noses or human-style ears, and while their mouths may appear human on the outside, inside they're a collection of articulate fangs as well as two pedipalps that have fused to make a rough approximation of a human's lower jaw.

Ettercaps exhibit sexual dimorphism to some extent as well. Male ettercaps rarely grow taller than three feet, while female ettercaps will reach five feet tall when they're sexually mature, and continue to grow taller until the day they die - which, given that death of old age does not happen in Fairyland, means some female ettercaps are VERY tall creatures.

Like spiders, ettercaps wrap their prey up in silk, inject digestive enzymes into it, and drink the resulting slurry. They are not restricted to this method of feeding, though, as they've come to imitate humans enough to be able to consume human food in a human way - i.e. chewing and swallowing it. This actually comes as a surprise to many ettercaps, as most have rarely have the opportunity or reason to try eating things the human way.

Unfortunately, ettercap physiology is so dependent on the abundant magic of Fairyland that they cannot survive in their true forms outside of it. An ettercap stranded in the mortal plane will begin to suffer organ failure in a matter of hours, and if they do not return home their body will attempt a last ditch transformation to save them from death: either turning them into a human, or into a spider (often an impossibly large spider, but an otherwise ordinary spider nonetheless in terms of physiology and intelligence). If this spell fails, the ettercap will die. Even the liminal spaces between Fairyland and the mortal plane are not entirely safe, as an ettercap's health will suffer the same way a human's might from spending time in a place where the oxygen is thin or the air is heavily polluted. As such, seeing ettercaps outside of Fairyland is extremely rare.

Fairies in general - the sapient ones, anyway - like to live in buildings that at least outwardly resemble those built by human beings, and ettercaps are no exception. Because they still feel a desire to build vast webs, their structures tend to be long, tall towers, often with no actual floors between the ground level and the ceiling - they instead scale the walls by climbing ladders of silk and rest themselves and their possessions on silk hammocks.

Ettercap culture is based primarily on their belief in the Great Web - i.e. the idea that ALL things, great and small, living and dead, mortal and fairy, are connected together by strings of magic and fate. They may be onto something, too - ettercaps are better than most fairies at spellcraft (most fairies only know a few spells they can consciously cast, and even then don't quite know how those spells work) and especially gifted at the difficult and dangerous art of prophecy, all of which they accomplish by "looking at the Great Web" through a magical sense that only they innately possess.

Because their arachnid appearance and nature is upsetting to humans, ettercaps tend to be recruited exclusively by the Unseelie Courts, with most Seelies fearing the spider fairies might scare off the humans they wish to convert into more of their kind. That's not to say there have NEVER been Seelie Ettercaps, though - one of Empress Titania's ladies in waiting in the Mediterran Seelie Court was an ettercap named Cobweb.

[mindblowingscience]

Physicists have discovered an exotic new state of matter that takes the form of a highly ordered crystal of subatomic particles. The new state of matter, called a "bosonic correlated insulator," could lead to the discovery of many new types of exotic materials made from condensed matter, according to the researchers, who detailed their results in a study published May 11 in the journal Science.  Subatomic particles can be separated into two categories: fermions and bosons. The primary differences between the two are how they spin and how they interact with each other.  Fermions, such as electrons and protons, are often thought of as the building blocks of matter because they make up atoms, and are characterized by their half-integer spin. Two identical fermions cannot occupy the same space at the same time. "Bosons can occupy the same energy level; fermions don't like to stay together," study lead author Chenhao Jin, a condensed-matter physicist at the University of California, Santa Barbara, said in a statement. "Together, these behaviors construct the universe as we know it." But there is a case in which two fermions can become a boson: If a negatively charged electron is secured to a positively charged "hole" in a different fermion, it forms a bosonic particle known as an "exciton."  To see how excitons interact with one another, the researchers layered a lattice of tungsten disulfide atop a similar lattice of tungsten diselenide in an overlapping pattern called a moiré. Then, they shined a strong beam of light through the lattices — a method known as "pump-probe spectroscopy." These conditions pushed the excitons together until they were so densely packed that they could no longer move, creating a new symmetrical crystalline state with a neutral charge — a bosonic correlated insulator.

Continue Reading

[quinloki]

you've casually ripped my heart out and took a bite so I raise you

Sun God Nika.

ACES brother.

Warrior of LIBERATION.

meeting the very not liberated "s/o" of his brother (and I mean they gave him candy so now they're auto besties )

I imagine him being torn with helping his friend even if he has to fight ace because something is obviously wrong with him.

This isnt the brother luffy remembers.

his ace would never take someone's freedom like this, he couldn't...He could never...right?

Not after all they talked about

...right?....

But he did and luffy is ridiculously emotionally smart so he knows in his gut this is the truth and he has to do something for his new friend who asked for help in getting free.

hes strong enough now.its not like he has to kill anyone to safely get you both away but why does it hurt so much? Your okay and he isn't wounded..so why?why does he feel so...so...betrayed?

..By ace?...

for not being who he looked up to anymore.

he really wants to cry. He wants to excuse his actions but that would make him just as guilty wouldn't it?

At least your free now. Even if its left his heart beating different....

Sorry for spelling mistakes !

No apologies needed, but allow me to make it Worse.

Imagine escaping Ace and ending up on Luffy’s crew - we’re not going to worry about any other surrounding details, but the important bits are that you don’t know they’re brothers.

Luffy doesn’t know the terrifying person you’re running from is his brother. Couldn’t imagine it in a million years.

Maybe it’s post time skip, post Wano even, before you, Ace and Luffy occupy the same space (I am thinking shadow reader vibes, thatch and Ace are alive, etc.)

All through Alabasta the stars just didn’t align, and at Marineford you realize Luffy’s connection to Ace and maybe that’s why you leave with Crocodile again instead of Luffy when everyone’s going their separate ways.

However it works doesn’t matter.

Its just that moment when Ace finds you, he’s relieved and delighted and the others are going to be so happy you’re alive. And for a second Luffy is almost delirious with joy.

His friend and his brother are friends and now they’ve been reunited \o/

But then Luffy looks at you, and he knows.

Your fear is palpable, but more than that he’s putting the pieces of stories he’s heard over two years ago or more together. The emotions. All the details. Your fear is so obvious and strong even the rest of the crew knows without seeing.

Luffy grabs Ace’s wrist and pulls until Ace lets go of you. He doesn’t understand at first, “Luffy what are you doing?”

But the smile fades and the expression on Luffy’s face is a mix of sorrow and despair.

“They’re afraid of you Ace, can’t you see?”

And in those words is so much more. How could you? What did you do? Why is their fear so terrible? Ace - what happen to you to change you so much?

He hasn’t hurt like this since the day he thought Kuma had slaughtered his crew.

And for that to turn into a fight? Yeah, the drums of Liberation will have an almost manic edge to them after that. They cannot be somber, so instead they’ll be a little more wild, a little more free, a little more loud to drown the pain god bears.

[0oolookitsme]

No More Kisses

Type- One-Shoty Blurb!

Verse- Footballer!Harry x Art Director!Y/n

Word Count- 1k

Warnings- Just a few curse words here and there, and a slight hint of smut :)

A/n- Some fratrry! Hope you enjoy <3

The game's season was to begin in one month, and Harry hasn't never felt more prepared. He's ready to tackle teams and get this over with.

All of this practise has been draining him down and the fact that the college literally wouldn't give them any breaks meant that it was practise, classes, practise and finally sleep. Whether he drank water or ate his meals between the gaps didn't matter as long as he was on the top.

Even Y/n hadn't been having the time to breath, in the midst of all this mid semester chaos – let alone call and check up on him and show up during his evening practices so that they can go back to the frat house together.

He missed her, terribly.

They would talk, but only in the mornings and the nights. And even then they didn't get to have a proper conversation because they were just so tired all the time, or busy. Early mornings and late nights had always been their thing, but to not spend that extra time with each other was something new.

Hell even not spending their usual time together was new; strange.

Sitting together on the floor of one of their rooms -- usually Harry's considering Y/n's room floor was always covered in miscellaneous things, and these days even her bed was occupied by half-finished or just-started projects -- they would just swing their arms or legs over the other one and work on their laptops.

As Harry finally packs up to go back to the house, late again, he feels his phone begin to buzz in his pocket. It was Y/n he saw and immediately he was swiping his thumb across the screen to answer the call.

"Hello," he says without much exaggeration, but he knows that she knows he has a huge smile on his face as he looks at the ground, one hand on his hip as he waits for her to reply.

"Whatever happened to love or darling?"

Stifling a laugh, he swung his bag over his shoulders before giving her the greeting she wanted. "Hello my sweet, sweet darling," he greeted, weighing down on the pet name.

"Yeah fuck you too," she retorted, laughing on the other hand. "I just called to ask if I could use a very small, hear me out! – a very small space on your room's floor to lay down a project?" She sheepishly trailed off.

Y/n knew she didn't need to ask him that, but it was a topic Harry always teased her about, saying 'does being an Art Director of your club mean you can't even step in your own room, hm?' and she thought it was about time that he worried about it too.

"Y/n... No. You cannot take over my room now!"

"Pretty please, H! You know what? I'll let you take a candle of mine. How about that?" She offered, feeling smug like a winner.

Both of them knew that it was an instant offer to get Harry to do anything, just give him any one of Y/n's candles. Still he made a show of grumbling and finally muttered a 'fine'.

"Thank you! May God bless you my dear," She cackled before hanging up on him, leaving him shaking his head as he slipped his phone back in his pocket.

The drive back to the frat house was filled with Niall chattering Harry's ear off as if he hadn't been getting smacked in the face while goal-keeping this whole day.

Turning off the engine, Harry muttered something about Niall influencing Y/n under his breath when Niall jumped out of the car, made the same old-creepy-man joke and called him a 'dear'.

When Harry finally entered his room, he wasn't surprised to see Y/n sprawled on his floor but he was definitely shocked to see a candle lit on his desk.

"Can't believe you stuck to your words!" He said while deeply breathing in the scent of the candle -- it gave vanilla with a hint of the smell of soil after it had just rained, and Harry knew he was never letting her take that candle back.

"Well, I can be good sometimes," Y/n shrugged without looking up from the sheet she was working on.

"That really is a shocker coming from you, grump," Harry said, his voice getting closer to Y/n with each step he took and then his hands slipped under her armpits, pulling her up. "And, I like you bad," he stated, glancing at her lips.

Y/n supported herself by her legs despite whining at him to put her down. "First of all, you smell horrendous, second of all, what the hell was that for? And third of all, that was not hot." She ranted, a little serious but her look of suspicion made him laugh.

"Missed your mouthy ass," he mumbled before crashing his lips right onto hers, pushing her back while she shrieked, warning him not to step on that sheet.

Her hands slipped past his shoulders to fist the baby curls at the nape of his neck, playing and pulling at them gently. His hands, though, travelled all over her body. Her chest, breasts, abdomen, stomach, hips, thighs – to slipping right past where she was beginning to ache and squeezing her bum, caressing her back that had been hunched over papers all day long and finally one hand went to fist her hair, the other one slipping down and down until his fingers reached the bottom of her bum.

Wrapping her legs around his hips, Harry started to move towards the bathroom, his hold on her tightening by each minute and the moment she realized what Harry had done, water was already pouring on them and starting to soak their clothes.

"I literally hate you so much," she said as they both hurried to take off their clothes.

Chuckling, Harry asked, "no kissing tomorrow?"

"No kissing tomorrow," Y/n assured him, nodding her head and then laughing with him knowing that there was no way that rule would be put into practise.

[kitcat992]

Identity Within︱Chapter 9 - Bachelor Party

Tony purposefully cleared his throat, breaking the lull as gently as he could.

“You know, not to turn the fun times into shoptalk…” he started to say, leaning forward to dispose of his near-empty beer bottle. “But the last time we saw you—”

“The stones, yes,” Thor easily interrupted, long before Tony had even gotten his bottle on the table.

Tony arched an eyebrow and Thor nodded his head some more, turning contemplative as the seconds passed.

“The infinity stones have proven themselves to be a mighty foe.” Thor frowned, deeply. “I’ve been seeking answers I cannot find…about many things.”

The energy that once played in the music seemed to have vanished, replacing the mood with something noticeably heavier.

Clint, already listening in with one ear, slowly but surely left the kitchen island once his curiosity couldn’t be contained.

“Thor?” Clint stopped where the couches began, leaning his hip casually against the armrest of the sofa where Tony sat. He gestured his beer bottle forward. “You okay there, big fella?”

Before anyone could open their mouths to speak, a crass shout sounded from the kitchen.

“Don’t get him started!” Rocket raised his voice so loud, it cracked at the edges — practically sounding desperate. “You get this blubbering mess started and—!”

“It all started with my father!” Thor boldly interrupted, followed by a groan from Rocket that was so loud, it echoed through the kitchen. That didn’t stop Thor from continuing on, leaning forward on the sofa as if the weight that burdened his shoulders was too heavy for even him to carry. “I found him to be missing. And it was in my search for him that I discovered my brother, Loki, had been well and alive all along.”

Tony leaned forward much quicker than Thor, absolutely no burden of weight keeping him from doing so.

“You wanna pass that by us again?” he quickly fired out.

“Loki’s alive, Thor?” Steve was hand-in-hand with Tony’s concern. They went so far to share a look — both saying different things, but somehow still communicating the same message.

No sooner after that, Steve looked back at Thor. “I thought you said he died, shortly before everything with Ultron.”

The mere mention of that name spoken was enough to bring Natasha to the lounge, her arms tightly crossed against her chest as she found a stance next to Clint. The music may have been lively and loud, but it wasn’t loud enough to overtake Thor’s voice — even if she hadn’t been discreetly listening in, she still would’ve heard him talking.

Unlike Thor, Natasha stayed quiet, waiting like the others to hear his answer.

“Yes, so I assumed,” Thor finally managed to say, his gaze caught on the rim of his metal cup, with eyes that seemed far away from the liquid that swirled inside. “That betrayal, it was…”

No different than the hours that had passed, Quill’s music kept the silence at bay. Vocal’s flew down from the ceiling with a raspy, warm, rugged tone, keeping his sentence hanging in the air as the classic rock song played on.

“It does not matter now,” Thor broke through the silence with a voice far weaker than any tone he’d used so far. Natasha went so far as to arch an eyebrow — suddenly put off by the display of emotion. “He has gone his way, and so have I.”

As Steve leaned further forward on his sofa, he shared another glance with Tony — who had since peeled off his glasses, busy tucking them into the opening of his polo placket where they could hang freely. He kept his eyes on Thor, no different than Clint and Natasha.

“Yep, off you’ve gone, all the way to space—” The crass voice called out from the kitchen, reminding them they weren’t the only five who occupied the lounge. “Time moves on, we get over things, we stop talking about things—!”

“Rocket!” Quill was the one to admonish him this time, giving Gamora a much needed break.

Rocket didn’t care. “You know damn well if we don’t stop him now, he’ll—!”

“—ever since the mechanical beast you named Ultron, I’d been plagued by a reoccurring dream,” Thor steamrolled right over him. “One of Asgard falling to ruins—”

“ —what’d I tell you!”