All righty guys, this is serious business. SERIOUS. My question for this chapter is; SLASH OR NO? coz srsly guys I get people saying'cant wait for slash' and others that are all like'no slash plz', and even one that was like'tony/loki/bruce?' to which I was all like NO. I will, I will write slash, or not, depending on what u guys want, but I cannot do the three way relationship things, its just, too much feels to manage I cant balance it. And I need to know soon if u want slash I need to start building it up next chapter, which is about 3 days away. All votes up until the next post will count on the slash vs no slash front, but all votes after that wont count, just fyi.

This chapter is different to the others, and if I ever have a question which is more like; what type of story do you want? As opposed to where do you want the story to go now? You will get one of these chapters. SO guys, SLASH OR NO. leave a comment/review/whatever.

Enjoy

Loki; An introspective

The push and pull of dark and light was all that covered his mind pouring black or splitting white. It hurt either way and he couldn't decide whether to fight for the ice or the fire. He was known as the shadow compared to the sunlight, so that's where he should dwell, but after so long in the cold, dank, dark he just wants the burning fire of the sunlight to fall on him, even if it ruins him. There's no telling which way to go the dark is so wonderful once he's been exposed to even the lightest rays of the sun, pulling him, but he knows it twists and festers where it lurks, so much so that he plunges his way back towards the blinding light and the lack of sight it leaves, the lack of anything. It burns so bright and he's never been able to live in it, no matter how hard he wished he could, never been able to see past the rays or to be seen through the golden luminescence. At least in the shadows he is seen, he is not alone, even if the presence is poison to his every thought. And so the cycle continues, up and down and in and out. Its black and white, and he can't find a place he's comfortable, he can't find a place he belongs.

And then there's the pain, and he knows that he's fighting awake or asleep, and still it parallels his life to a point in which he doesn't really know what is and what isn't.

And he burns, but not from the light, and not from the ice, but from the wounds on his body and it's the only thing that constantly reminds him of his unconscious state. If he had to choose a word for how he felt, it would be shit, as crude as it seems it fits perfectly. He could say he feels like death, but even its dreadful fingers feel sweeter than he does now. But he has lived through this before, and he will do it again, and he'll attempt to live in the sun, and when it burns too bad he'll find somewhere shady, and he'll sit for a while. And he'll wander. And he'll be lost again.

But somewhere, here, in the constant push and pull, there's something that feels a little too mean in the shadow, and something else that feels a little too nice in the light something that stops the light from shining through him and onto someone else, something that stops the burn of eyes who look through him and onto others. It feels a little too much like being seen, and it almost sends him scattering back to the shadows, back to the safety of a certain fate. Almost. He always wanted to live in the sun, and if even one thing is looking at him, if even one thing is stopping the light from tearing through his skin to reach others, than maybe he can, maybe the sun will lose its sharp edge and he can feel the warmth that he yearns for, instead of the searing pain he's used to.

These are the things, the misplaced hopes and misguided beliefs of something better than before, something better than all he's felt. Of all the times things have been stripped from him, he still wants to give, and maybe, maybe whatever's giving him the sweet sensation of a parasol on a sunny day will smile upon him instead of looking down at him as if he's hardly worth the air he breathes, hardly worth the space he takes.

And his eyes are open, but the light is fading, and he can look past the white and into a room. And his heart is pounding, he can feel it as if the organ will break his ribs and rip through his flesh. Because all he can see is pain to come, all he can see is the faces of those who have beaten him down, no matter how hard he tried to fix everything. All he can see is the pain and fear that falls out of their faces. But he doesn't want to be feared, not now, not ever. Even worse is that he knows what fear does, how it causes people to act, and he knows that they have the upper hand. And his heart won't stop hammering and it's all he can hear, the rush of blood through his head and he's finding it hard to breathe and the light that burns off of these righteous people is effulgent in its brightness and it pricks his skin where they touch and by the nine they're looking at him now and he knows it's over. He knows what happens when people look down upon the form of their enemy, and he sees that one is talking, but his blood is still gushing and he still can't hear, but even as they continue to look on he begins to calm. Because if this is the end at least he's himself, at least he won't break anything else. There's a burning on his cheek and he waits for the crushing of the side of his face, the pain that's sure to come under every touch he feels. But it doesn't. And if they want to toy with him first, then he has nothing to say. He's done enough that he surely deserves the treatment, deserves more pain. He certainly doesn't deserve the peace death will give him. Even if he wanted to argue he can't move.

And they continue to move and then they leave, and it's all too surreal. Perhaps they want him to recover before they begin. Want him to trust him. It's happened before.

The next time he was conscious he almost wished they were there, he didn't want to be alone any longer, even if the presence only meant harm. And they seemed so kind. He could pretend, for the shortest time. He could pretend, before his death, that these people were kind to him because the light had caught him instead of pulling him apart. It took everything in him to make his arm even traverse the small distance between where it was laying and the others' arm. It took more to utter the single word. He instantly regretted it. He could pretend; they would not. They would not go so far as to offer comfort when al they saw was a monster, just as everyone else has. And then the surface was less taught, and there was warmth and to look in his eyes he saw perhaps a glimmer of sympathy. He'd pretend he did anyway.

And he finally had enough energy to move, to walk, and he just wanted to pretend for a bit longer, just a while, before everything burned again. But there was no one, no surprise, he was used to it. And so he made do, he walked to the iron-man suit and the hulk hands, and if he could pretend they cared, he could pretend that these items provided the same amount of care.

By that afternoon he felt stronger, and he felt defiant. He felt sour again, he had spent too long in the darkness during his slumber, and pretending wasn't enough anymore. And then they tried to get him to pour his weakness on the floor, and the sun was back. And the sun brought back that blasted hope, and he pretended to see care, concern in their actions. He warned them, told them, whether they cared or not, they'd allowed him to recover somewhat and he was it their debt. He told them so, but the darkness still fought the light, and the pain and expectations, and no matter their cause he couldn't let the darkness hurt those whom had helped him.

He was fearful, scared. Skittish and his pulse either beat too hard for him to think or too soft for him to feel anything more than the all-consuming pressure and anxiety. And he wanted to tear his hear out and shred his hands and scream and yell and run. And yet he couldn't shake the feeling of safety, safety unlike anything he'd felt in the longest time. Safety in the arms of some of the world's mightiest heroes.

It was these thoughts that caused him pain now, worried him now. He could feel the emotions and they swirled and collided and he questioned his every move and what it would lead to. It was the reason he questioned his sanity over his every breath, because he knew of the lengths people would go to, to gain advantage and cause pain seeming to care was hardly a sacrifice. He knew because its happened before.

Anyways, tell me what you think, about the chapter and the question SLASH OR NO SLASH.

Remember you've only got like 3 days, so get ur votes in, u can still vote on flying or drinking for the last chapter too, just fyi.

Hope this introspective was, well, not enjoyable, but interesting at least. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Stay awesome.