#possibly unwarranted optimism

[kalinara]

So, I saw someone else's post pointing out the weird inconsistency with the way the Uncanny X-Team and the regular X-Team interact. How it starts out fairly pleasant but then, kind of out of the blue, the Uncanny team starts acting really hostile toward Scott and his team.

(Including a really nasty comment from Logan, and it's like, dude, weren't you fucking on the Moon, not that long ago?)

Meanwhile, on Scott's end of things, he's basically being polite, civil, and trying to adjust his plans to accommodate them.

I don't disagree with that post at all, but I didn't want to hijack it with my own thoughts, so this is my little bit of meta.

I admit, I've not caught up on a lot of the Krakoa stuff yet, but I definitely agree that this is inconsistent with the dynamics that I saw in those issues.

But it is definitely consistent with everything BEFORE Krakoa. And bizarrely, that makes me a bit optimistic. I remember, a long time ago, writing this rant about how consistently inconsistent the in universe treatment of Scott Summers was prior to his death. How everyone, under the pen of multiple authors, in multiple lines, seemed to fairly consistently believe the worst of him when his behavior would be completely opposite to their expectation.

I said then that it really did seem like it's building somewhere. And I'm cautiously thinking that it might still be. Rosenberg's X-Men, which I enjoyed very much despite its general pre-Krakoa bleakness, started out with Scott and Logan in a surprisingly okay place but things seemed to fall apart pretty dramatically and for not a lot of reason.

And honestly, I still can't quite get over Jono basically telling Scott that he hated him while he died. That was intense and singularly horrible.

But then everyone reunited and we pretty much got Krakoa right after that, and everything was different and good and bad and fucked up in all sorts of brand new ways. And I figured, okay, I was wrong, it really wasn't going anywhere. It was just weirdness that, if it ever had meant something, doesn't apply now.

But we're back to basics. We're back to the old patterns. We're back to Wolverine and whatever team represents the school and the "Xavier style" of mutant ideology against Scott's black ops "Magneto style" aggressive protection. And again, we have a Scott who doesn't seem to buy into that conflict while everyone around him does.

I had a theory briefly that the sheer irrational reaction of everyone around him was because Scott, as the Phoenix, right after killing Xavier, somehow mind-whammied the world to feel exactly what he did: a deep love and idealization for Charles Xavier that, while occasionally disappointed, never truly faltered, and a deep and complete loathing of one Scott Summers.

I still think that theory works, and might well explain why no one seems to remember that they were pretty fucking mad at Xavier at the end of the Krakoa stuff (with Logan actually trying to kill him.)

The other theory I have is simpler though, which is that Scott ends up being the focal point for all of his fellows grief, despair, and helpless, pointless anger because they think he can handle it.

If Charles Xavier is the spirit of the Dream, then Scott Summers is the embodiment of the X-Men. (I think there's even a point in one of the Captain Krakoa issues where we're told that "I am the X-Men" was basically his campaign speech at one of the Hellfire Galas). And as such, he's always going to be there: strong, implacable, steadfast and invulnerable to whatever they send his way.

And that leads to something really interesting, because as we've seen in X-Men #3. He's NOT. And that's not really surprising, it's not like Scott has ever been a paragon of good mental health. But the panic attack is new. And assuming that it's actually a panic attack and not some indicator of possession or powers going out of control or something, then it's a vulnerability that he might not be able to hide.

And that makes me think we might, FINALLY, see an actual resolution to this decades long thread.

And if not, well, if I didn't enjoy watching Scott Summers suffer, I wouldn't be reading X-Men comics.

(Also, Jean's actually alive now. She's in space at the moment, IIRC, but I really don't think she's going to tolerate this bullshit for too much longer, if and when she finally notices it happening.)

[skpct]

Thoughts-Time to wake up, Neo.

This is a new section I’m doing. The trail is a good place for reflection, so sometimes I have thoughts, and sometimes I write them down. It’s also a good opportunity to post some more pictures; Tumblr only lets you upload 10 per post on Mobile, so I have to leave some on the cutting room floor.

Back in civilization, I would check the news constantly. I was always aware of everything that was happening all the time. Now I’m not, because I live in the woods, and there’s not much cell service out here. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

My impulse is to say it is a good thing to be disconnected. I think it’s sort of a hip thing to say. “I’m off the grid! I’m disconnected! I’m reconnecting with nature!” I do feel that way, and there are certain freedoms and benefits out here. I’m less resentful towards the world in general, for instance. I’d see news that made me feel sad or angry, and I couldn’t do anything about it. That made me resentful, and it’s nice to not have to deal with that. It’s not all positive, though.

This is a super extreme example, but if North Korea launched a nuclear missile at Seattle while I was way out on the trail, I wouldn’t learn about it for several days. Sure, I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, but it would be nice to know that my home and family are gone. That’s kinda dark, and I’ll move on, but you get what I’m saying.

People expect you to be connected. I ran into some service right before I got to Acton, and a text came in. It was from my old professor. They weren’t able to reach me though email, I hadn’t been checking it. A student was running a story on my professor or something and needed me to sign a release form for a photo I was in. They had sent me a two emails, and the second one was definitely pretty frantic, asking me to please sign the photo release form as soon as possible. It may be positive for me personally to be disconnected, but there’s no question: it caused a student distress. I was a student not long ago, and I tell you, they don’t need any additional stress. Sure, I don’t technically owe that student anything, but we all owe each other kindness. It’s a reality that in the modern world, being in touch is a component of that, and I’m not in touch.

One thing I’ve noticed is that nothing really happens. When you stare at the news constantly, there’s an illusion of something greater. However, when you only see it once in a while, it’s different. It’s like regardless of what happens today or tomorrow, life goes on. When I took that step back, it felt like the world was moving in a more positive direction than I thought. Or maybe that optimism is totally unwarranted and everything is terrible. Who knows?

I don’t have a grand thesis here, I’m afraid. In some ways, I’m unquestionably better off. But in other ways, things are worse. Maybe when I come back, I’ll have a completely different worldview. Maybe not. We shall see. Okay, thoughts over.

[mitigatedchaos]

[ me ]

Ah, here we go. Rationalism is not a cult and Yudkowsky is not a cult leader, but it contains some tools one could use to build a cult and it's reported that someone did do that.

[ anon ]

From what I've seen of this cult, it looks like the most important Rationalist assets it used were the people, not the ideas - it treated Rationalist communities as a good hunting grounds to find susceptible people.

I haven't reviewed the reports myself because that's not my "job," per se. I'll agree that the Rationalist population has people who are susceptible to certain cult tactics.

I was going to do a quick and dirty ideological functional decomposition on some common Rationalist tropes (not my usual target!), but in terms of risks from ideological mechanics, the core thing for the Rationalists is that all formal systems are fundamentally incomplete and break down outside a given range of underlying conditions.

Maximization/Optimization pushes the conditions towards these kinds of asymptotic positions where the formal system is either less connected to reality, or becomes undefined.

(It's possible that all ideological systems contain some fundamental core loop, but not enough study of the functional components of ideological systems has been done to determine this.)

Rather than the circular logic of more conventional systems ("denying that you have male fragility is classic fragile male behavior!") though, most of the body of risk in Rationalism likely lies in the asymptotes where the proposed underlying conditions exceed those of appropriate epistemic humility for a human being - taking ideas too seriously, shutting up and multiplying the wrong numbers or numbers too wildly imprecise to be used in practice, acting on the basis of thought experiments devised to test the limits of ethics with an unwarranted degree of certainty, and so on.

For instance, just because God can see every possible vector combination of realities doesn't mean those realities actually exist. As far as I'm aware, the Many Worlds Interpretation hasn't allowed us to interact with any other "branches," so we have to weigh the (substantial) possibility that our physics about it is just incorrect.

But if someone can be talked into believing in "quantum immortality," in which reality branches and their experience is continuous only with branches in which they survive, they can be convinced of insane ideas like playing the lottery with a commitment to shoot themselves if they lose - with only their gut, which they may have been told not to trust, telling them not to do it.

Lately I've been thinking in terms of text as having "weights." As in, "take this only 80% seriously." I suspect a lot of Rationalist thinking is useful in the 30-80% range, can't quite make up for shortfalls in underlying intelligence, and gets toxic above 80% and dangerous above 90%.

[meloinaw]

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[vojtapetr]

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[firstchoicekratom]

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[crystalelemental]

Unit Teambuilding - Sygna Suit Red

Alright, the BP Pairs are done, and I finished the Red alt discussion. Finally I am done.

........fuck, I forgot about the grid expansions.

General Overview Not content to ruin my day once, Sygna Suit Red also gets something, in the form of his grid expansion. Thankfully, this is far, far less annoying, as DeNA seems to categorize original Kantrio more as "Free pair" than as "PokeFair," so they limited the possibilities. Unfortunately, this is my first time talking about him as a sync pair.

SS Red was the original powercreep unit. Brought about at the half-anniversary well before I was playing, he was miles ahead of everyone else. While SST Red and the new NC Red are certainly bullshit, absolutely nothing compares to the gap in power from those early days. Red was the unit, so significantly that people would prefer off-typing with him and Kantrio instead of using on-type damage for many types, for over two years with the game. The reason for his power was two-fold. One was Blast Burn. Other options had access to four-bar moves, but the lower accuracy combined with Piercing Gaze meant a power boost without the downside. Second, Red's self-setup is immaculate. Two turns of trainer move, Dire Hit+, sync gives him +1 crit, and you're at maximum offensive ability, with maxed out speed. There was very little that compared, so much so that even the first Master Fair in Leon was considered less potent due to his poor self-setup.

Over time, this stopped being as significant. Stronger moves than Blast Burn exist, and better self-setup certainly exists among limited pairs. Red didn't strictly need this help, but it's not entirely unwarranted. He fell off a bit. So to keep him relevant...they gave him some cosmetic tools.

Soften Up, Sharp Entry, Solar Flare 2, Sync Thinker, Standfast 9, and TM: Propulsion. All of these are solidly mid. At no point has Red ever thought to himself gee, I sure wish I could Flare Blitz right now. Sharp Entry is nice for easier setup on that first sync, but Soften Up isn't worth the price of getting to it. Sync Thinker is funny for the kaboom after sync, but it's one use per rotation so it's not the same as, I dunno, a multiplier. That's really the big loss; Red still has no natural multipliers for move damage, which is his big draw. Meanwhile Lance and Alder are out here getting fat 30% free boosts on goddamn Hyper Beam. The tradeoff is Propulsion, which means Red can now fast ramp with any other source of -1 cooldown. Which is great, except that one of Red's defining features is his 3-turn self-setup. So if you go for a fast-ramp, he's support reliant now.

Again, the grid is not the worst there's ever been, but it's very noticeably limited compared to what contemporaries have received. Like, not even Burn effects off Heat Wave for Gauntlet purposes. Just very small, almost superficial upgrades that don't seriously change how he was playing in the first place. Which I love. He'll never be bad, sadly for me, but at least this form will never see the light of top tier performance again.

EX and Move Level? There are people that don't have him 3/5 EX? Weird, man. Anyway, mine's now 3/5 for sad reasons involving banner sharing, but I don't EX him and he can do alright.

Team 1: SS Red, SS Morty, Eevee Lucas/NC Leaf This is the more or less defining set. SS Morty is Red's best partner by miles, while Eevee Lucas supplies special defense debuffing and even eases Red's setup if you're going for Propulsion sets. NC Leaf is a solid alternative, packing even more immunities for the team and extra Sun setting. But also she has Kanto Pride and Potion. Which means that this is like the only time Flare Blitz SS Red makes any kind of sense. That said, his trainer move only gives attack if he's already mega evolved, so I don't really think it's optimal.

Team 2: SS Red, Lodge Dawn/BP Janine, Blaine If you're going for F2P, this is the set. SS Red hits like a truck even at 1/5 thanks to Blast Burn, and a little Sun application will power that up quite well. Blaine has a ton of matched theme skills and that coveted Sun. Lodge Dawn and BP Janine are really nice partners, thanks to Team Sharp Entry, but each has their own utility. Janine can easily buff his offense to max, so after one Dire Hit+ he gets blasting. Dawn offsets the defense drop on his trainer move, and can run Mind Games 2 as a lucky skill to debuff defenses. Up to preference.

Final Thoughts Again, I've been a this a while today, so I'm cutting it a little short. Red has very little utility under his belt, and exists to sync under Sun and spam Blast Burn. Thanks to effective self-setup, he is able to do this with minimal consideration to partners. I could talk about the Propulsion set, but I am very opposed to 5/5ing Red. I don't think it's actually worth it. Besides, the only adjustment is "bring someone who also buffs crit," and Morty can do that fine.

[stackableringsny]

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[edelblau]

i don't know. i keep trying to be optimistic but my optimism often ends up being unwarranted/unottainable things, i only seem to be able to have faith at the worst possible times and end up getting hurt and i cant tell if im just not trying hard enough or if there really is nothing more that i can do, it doesnt help that im pretty sure theres like. massive issues with my physical health going unaddressed bc my family doctor doesnt take me seriously but im not sure how to go about finding another doctor and because my family doctor doesnt take me seriously i still don't have any help w my mobility issues which makes like. taking steps very difficult since anything that involves physically going somewhere is immensely hard for me to arrange hehe

[cacoetheswriting]

fluff alphabet - spencer reid

A = Attractive (what do they find attractive about the other?)

It would be safe to say you’re strangerly attracted to his genius. Many people find it annoying, how he spits facts completely unwarranted, but not you. His vast knowledge of quite literally anything is what sparked your interest in the young doctor in the first place.

Spencer on the other hand is captivated by your smile. The kindness behind it; how truly genuine it always is. He especially likes when he is the reason that smile spreads across your face, from cheek to cheek, illuminating your perfect features.

B = Baby (do they want a family? why/why not?)

Definitely yes, and you know Spencer would make a great dad. He has a way with kids and it comes to him so naturally. Frankly you can’t wait for the day you get to tell him you’re expecting.

C = Cuddle (how do they cuddle?)

One arm wrapped securely around you, pulling you in as close to him as possible. Your head resting on his shoulder landing just below his chin. He smells your hair taking in the scent of your shampoo before placing a soft kiss on the top of your head. 

D = Dates (what are dates with them like?)

He likes to take you out to the movies where you share popcorn and a large soda. A lot of coffee dates where he enlightens you on books he read or reread and you fill him in on the latest pop culture gossip. Nothing too adventurous but never boring.

E = Everything (“you are my ____” (e.g my life, my world…))

“You’re my home.” Spencer whispered, his hands cupping your face. You blinked a couple of times registering what he just said but before you got a chance to respond he continued. “When I’m with you, I feel so comfortable and at peace. I can truly be myself around you, no judgement or scrutiny.” He took a soft breath. “When I’m with you I feel at home and that doesn't make much sense to me but you’ve told me before that not everything has to make sense. Especially when it comes to love.”

F = Feelings (when did they know they were falling in love?)

One evening at a bar with your friends you repeated a fact to the group that Spencer had told you earlier in the week. It caught him off guard because no-one really listens to the rambles that come out of his mouth. Yet here you were, the biggest smile on your face as you reiterated: “chewing gum boosts concentration.”. You glanced at the young doctor from across the table. His eyes lit up as they locked with yours. That’s when he knew. 

G = Gentle (are they gentle? If so, how?)

Spencer is one of the gentlest souls you have ever met. He has an incredibly pure and kind heart. He always puts you first and would never dare to do anything that could hurt you. Your happiness is his priority and even though he’s not the most physical person he always does everything in his power to make you see how loved you are. 

H = Hand/Hold (how do they like to hold? how do they like to hold hands?)

For many reasons he isn't the biggest fan of public displays of affection. But when he does hold your hand, he traces down your fingers gently with his own before intertwining them. He’d then lift your hand to his lips and place a soft kiss on your knuckle.

I = Impression (first impression/s)

At first Spencer found you quite hard to read. He’s usually not good at social cues or interactions therefore it took him longer than the rest of the team to really get to know you. 

You on the other hand were instantly mesmerised by the young doctor. The wealth of knowledge he possessed was captivating and in a way inspiring.

J = Joker (are they into pulling pranks?)

Definitely; Spencer loves a good practical joke. He also has quite a good sense of humour. Not everyone always understands his jokes but they never fail to make you giggle.

K = Kisses (how do they kiss?)

When Spencer kisses you he does so with all his might. Unlike his usual gentle demeanour, when he kisses you it’s always with immense passion. He cups your face with his hands and pulls you in as close as humanly possible. 

L = Love (who says I love you first?)

You do - however completely by accident. “Did you know nutmeg can be fatally poisonous?” Spencer asked as the barista handed you a brown paper bag with a pumpkin dessert bar inside. “A little dash of nutmeg in a pumpkin pie or on your eggnog gives it extra flavour Spencer.” You noted flashing him a smile. “Too much nutmeg, however, can be toxic. Two to three teaspoons of raw nutmeg can induce hallucinations, convulsions, pain, nausea, and paranoia that can last for several days.” He stated. You couldn't help but laugh. “I love you Spencer but I’m not going to die because of a sweet indulgence.” It took you a second to register what you just said. Your free hand travelled to your mouth covering it with a soft gasp. “Shit Spencer, I didn-” “You love me?” He interrupted. All you could do was nod in response. 

M = Memory (their favourite moment together)

After a particularly hard case Spencer drives you home, like he has done so many times before. He walks you to the door of your apartment and waits until you are safely inside. He places a soft kiss on your forehead and says goodnight - which is when you ask him to come inside, stay the night. Rather than going to sleep however you stay up baking what turned out to be the worst brownies either of you have ever tasted. 

N = Nickel (do they spoil? do they buy the person they love everything?)

Spencer is not an overly material person. He prefers to shower you with words of affirmation and subtle compliments. Although when he does give you a gift it is always extremely thoughtful and definitely something that means a lot to the two of you.

O = Orange (what colour reminds them of their other half?)

If he had to associate a colour with you it would be yellow. Yellow - the colour of optimism. The colour of sunshine and enthusiasm. It stimulates the left side of the brain, helping with clear thinking and quick decision making. 

P = Pet names (what pet names do they use?)

He shortened your name. It was unintentional when it first happened but you liked the way it sounded so it stuck. You on the other hand, if you’re not using his first name, usually call him ‘honey’ or ‘sugar’ which he used to hate. If you’re feeling giddy you’ll call him by the original nickname you came up before you were dating: ‘suspence’.

Q = Questions (what are the questions they’re always asking?)

“Are you okay?” - you are his priority therefore he likes to make sure nothing is ever wrong. “Do you need anything?” “How are you feeling?” 

R = Rainy Day (what do they like to do on a rainy day?)

When the weather outside is far from ideal and the two of you are not out working a case, Spencer likes to curl up on the couch with you. He’ll put on an old back and white movie as you provide the drinks.  

S = Sad (how do they cheer themselves/each other up)

If he’s feeling sad you find yourself reaching for a random book on his shelf and reading the first few chapters aloud. His head rests in your lap, eyes closed, as he listens to the sweet sound of your voice. 

If you’re feeling down, Spencer will draw you a bath. He’ll light a couple of candles and dot them around the bathroom. He’ll play relaxing music through the speaker of his phone as the two of you enjoy the warm water together. 

T = Talking (what do they love to talk about?)

The short answer, everything. You never run out of topics to discuss and the conversation flow is always pleasantly smooth. 

U = Unencumbered (what helps them relax?)

Quite simply you. No-one knows Spencer the way you do and even though the two of you haven't been together for very long you know exactly what to say or do to calm him down.

V = Vaunt (what do they like to show off? What are they proud of?)

Spencer is modest which is one of the things you admire about him. The one thing he truly shows off is his knowledge of pretty much everything - even if he does it unintentionally. 

W = Wedding (when, how, where do they propose?)

“Almost fifty percent of all marriages in the United States end in divorce or separation.” Spencer said turning off the documentary you just finished watching. “Researchers estimate that forty-one percent of all first marriages end in divorce.” He continued. “Well, lets hope when we get married we’ll be in the lucky fifty-nine percent that lasts.” You teased, a small smile circling your lips.

X = Xylophone (what’s their song?)

Let’s Groove by Earth, Wind & Fire. The song was queued by Penelope at one of Rossi’s famous get togethers - before you and Spencer were dating. She swayed and twirled, soon joined by Morgan, as the rest of the group watched and laughed. You glanced at the young doctor and before he got a chance to protest you dragged him into the middle of the room to dance. 

Y = You’re the ___ to my ___ (e.g the cookies to my milk, the macaroni to my cheese)

“You’re the Holmes to my Watson.” He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Why am I not Watson?” “Because you’re not that kind of doctor.” You nudged Spencer playfully. He couldn't help but laugh under his breath. “That is a terrible analogy.” “Terrible or not, it’s true.” 

Z = Zebra (if they wanted a pet, what pet would they get?)

He wouldn't want a pet for now. The job is too demanding, he’s away for long periods of time and there'd be no-one to take care of it. Perhaps in the future, when you’re married and have kids. Perhaps. 

-

[astrowithkaro]

hi! can i request a language of birthdays post for jan 10? thank you so much! ❤️❤️

Language Of Birthdays: January 10 - Capricorn

[You can find the rest of the series here; or check out my masterlist]

The Day Of The Hard Look

Those born on January 10 are realists first and foremost, capable of taking a hard look at most any situation, sizing it up and acting accordingly. Rarely prey to false optimism, dreamy hopes or visions, they are somewhat proud of their realistic assessment of things. Whether they are sensitive people or not, January 10 people do not let either their own or other people's sensitivity get in the way of telling it like it is. Uncompromising in their views, those born on this day are not accustomed to sugar-coating the pill or honeying their words. Things simply are the way they are—take it or leave it.

January 10 people may thus be accused of being blunt or undiplomatic, but rarely of being dishonest. Even their detractors have to admit that they do not operate by a double standard they apply the same strict and unyielding standards to themselves as they do to everyone else. Not necessarily analytical or critical types, it is more their own forthright views and uncompromising attitude that can bring them into conflict with others. Indeed, most born on this day do not hesitate to flaunt unpopular opinions or behave in a manner at odds with convention, particularly when they feel that the dictates of convention are unwarranted or unreasonable. Not all January 10 people are exhibitionistic or colorful, however. Some prefer to understate their no less realistic view of the world, or perhaps on occasion keep silent where others would speak. In that silence, however, they can convey the heaviest brand of judgement, simply by withholding their approval, endorsement or enthusiasm.

January 10 people are not averse to leadership roles, but dominating a situation, even from behind the scenes, is usually good enough for them. In personal combat, their attacking style need not be a wading in there and landing of first blows. They are very good counterpunchers and know how to wait for their opportunity. Because they are good at eliciting desired reactions from people, they often maintain the upper hand right from the start. When hurt by an opponent, or for that matter a friend, they may reveal little of the pain they suffer.

It seems as if very little surprises January 10 people, and indeed they enjoy living as if prepared for anything. Yet, of course, they have their vulnerabilities. Like anyone else they wish to be appreciated and admired by those close to them, and perhaps by a wider circle as well. But they have few insecurities in this respect, and consequently do not display an overt need to be liked.

Respect is something else, however. This they do demand, perhaps too often in an overt fashion. One weak spot of January 10 individuals is that they are rather thin-skinned when un-favorably compared to others. Prone to jealousy in this area, those born on this day are likely to reveal their Achilles heel even when only indirectly challenged by their rivals or competitors being praised. In such an event they should just learn to laugh, shake it off and forget it.

Strengths:

Tough

Authoritative

Realistic

Weaknesses:

Insensitive

Armoured

Jealous

Advice

Those born on January 10 are apt to harden themselves in an overly realistic, anti-sentimental stance, perhaps in the process of burying their emotions and sensitivities. They may come to suffer from all sorts of rigidity, both psychological and physical, and as they grow older not only suffer defects of posture, arthritis, restricted muscular movement, neuralgia and the like, but also tightness in the chest or bowels. These may all be symbolic of a kind of armoring, which they must break through, perhaps in extreme cases trying Keichian therapy, Rolfing. rebirthing or other aggressive procedures. For them to remain vulnerable, and display their feelings openly is something to strive for. January 10 diets should be kept light, fun and colorful, rather than dark and heavy. A well-lit, sunny home is strongly recommended, if possible, with plenty of fresh air. As far as exercise is concerned. January 10 people often prefer intense or highly athletic activities, but should also consider more social forms of exercise such as dancing.

Keep it light and have fun

Let your guard down occasionally

Carrying all the armour can be pretty tiring

Take a seat once in awhile and enjoy the ride

Allow yourself to need and be needed

[cavalierious-whim]

Two’s a Crowd (FE3H)

Felannie | Canon-Compliant | War Phase | Teen | Complete There’s only one horse. Felix will take on one hundred crest beasts alone if it means avoiding this.

----

A/N: This was a Secret Santa give and I was asked to write ‘There was only one Horse’. Read here on AO3 for better quality! Also, I’m on Twitter!

----

While Felix has never been one to follow the rules, he now understands why Byleth is so reluctant to let them roam outside the gates of Garreg Mach freely.

Sure, they’re adults and they can make their own dumb decisions. Still, it’s wartime; there are crest beasts and ample opportunity to be stupid enough to get yourself into a pickle.

Felix frowns. Annette’s colorful words, not his.

Byleth often turns a blind eye to the odd training session outside the Monastery, especially when it comes to Felix. Byleth knows that Felix can handle himself when it comes down to it, and while the Professor’s expression is prone to permanent frowning, he’s never said no. Not outright.

It’s more like carefully placed and unasked advice that he knows Felix won’t ever listen to but can claim to have given all the same.

“Just in case you find yourself gored,” said Byleth one dreary afternoon. “I’ll have the chance to say ‘I told you so’.”

So far, Byleth has been denied the pleasure because Felix is a slippery bastard; far too stubborn to die. And, as it turns out, he’s not the only stubborn person in the world, which brings him to his current problem:

Annette crashes through the underbrush alongside him, sagging with weariness and covered head to toe in mud and Goddess knows what else. It’s exactly Felix’s luck that she’s the one to sneak out after him because her curious little nose got the best of her.

At least it’s a cute nose.

“It just had to be a crest beast,” says Annette, mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. That’s cute on her too.

“It had to be two,” amends Felix. He’s never had any luck with anything, least of all women, so he doesn’t know why he insists on longing for Annette. Then, he suddenly remembers something else, smacking his hand against his forehead. “Ingrid is going to kill us.”

A long moment stretches between the two of them as they stand there in the woods looking at each other.

“We’ve lost horses before,” says Annette. Sure, they’ve lost horses, but never a Fraldairan Marsh Tucky. And its accompanying mare because, naturally, that was the horse Annette picked. Ingrid’s captious about her thoroughbreds and she’d brought those from Galatea personally. Felix pauses in his step, leveling Annette with a tired stare, to which she sighs in response. “Okay, yeah, she’s going to kill us.”

Annette is lucky that Felix likes her. More than likes her. Kind-of maybe loves her, not that he’s the confessing kind. But, all her goofy songs and eternal optimism in the world won’t save him from Ingrid’s wrath, Mercedes’s clipped threats for endangering Annie, or Byleth’s contempt for attracting her attention by merely existing.

Byleth’s a bit of a stick in the mud when it comes to intra-army romance.

Annette’s mouth then tips into a tiny little smile and Felix wonders if it’s a bad thing that he likes the idea she’d followed him. She’d said that it was dumb of him to go it alone and that she’d been worried. The only person that worries about him nowadays is Sylvain, and it’s entirely unwarranted, unwanted, and suffocating in every way possible. The change is, admittedly, nice.

“There’s a village this direction,” says Felix, pointing to the west. “They’ve got a decent inn with tolerable food, and a stable with likely a few horses for sale.”

“Do we have the coin?” asks Annette.

“We’ll manage,” says Felix, thankful that he’d brought his purse with him that day. He doesn’t always, so maybe he’s luckier than he’d thought. His gaze slides back to Annette who watches him with interest, her eyebrows drawn up. “What?” he snaps, testily.

“Nothing,” says Annette, but judging by the sly little smirk on her face, it’s anything but. Felix doesn’t have the time to think about it anything further.

“We’re losing daylight,” says Felix. “We should get walking, otherwise Byleth will close the gates for the night.”

“He’d let us in,” says Annette.

“He won’t,” says Felix. He’d know, he’s camped outside the entrance before, punishment for making it back late. There’s a pause and then Annette laughs, causing Felix to scowl. Even if he likes the sound of it.

“He’d let me in, then,” says Annette.

Felix grumbles at that. “He probably would.” Annette smirks at him again and Felix rolls his eyes, but he’s only mildly irritated. Truly, Annette is lucky that she doesn’t incite his ire much. Felix wonders how this entire thing would go if it was literally anyone else stuck out here with him.

They’d probably have a sword through their neck already, or at least, be slightly maimed. Felix is in a maiming sort of mood. He and Annette head westward, slogging through the slick mud leftover from earlier rain.

“Hopefully, there won’t be any more beasts out here,” says Annette, and Felix whirls on her, pressing a finger against her lips. She blinks, surprised. But she doesn’t move away, if anything, she leans into the touch.

“Don’t!” hisses Felix.

“Don’t what?” she says against his finger, her breath warm against his skin.

“Say something like that. Don’t you know that’s exactly how it works?”

“What works?” asks Annette.

Felix groans, almost certain that she’s being obtuse on purpose because Annette’s the teasing sort. “It’s bad luck,” he says. “The moment you say something like that, it--”

There’s a deafening roar behind them that echoes through the trees. And then the woods fall deathly quiet. Annette swallows thickly, but to her credit, doesn’t pale or look scared. She’s a plucky little thing and that’s in part what Felix loves about her most. Annette isn’t one to back down, she seeks danger out. Case in point, trailing after him on her own.

Felix pulls his hand away from her.

“We’ve no choice,” says Annette. It’s not a question.

Felix draws his sword and readies a bolt of Thoron. “Might as well make it quick,” is all he says in return.

Annette answers with a resigned sigh.

#

Turns out, their luck is worse than anticipated, not that Felix is surprised. This entire trip has been working against him since before he left the Monastery.

“I have a bad feeling,” Byleth told him as he saddled up.

“Nonsense,” Felix said, annoyed at the Professor’s incessant mothering.

Felix is eating that word now, laying on his belly in the underbrush, slick with muck and worms. Annette shifts beside him, leaning closer.

“How long do we wait?” she asks.

“Until the damn beast is gone, obviously,” says Felix.

Annette’s eyes narrow at his tone. “This isn’t my fault.”

“You said the words,” says Felix. “You should never say the words.”

She huffs at that. “You’re the one that forgot a spare blade. Since when do you strap only one sword to your hip?” Then she pauses. “Also, what are the chances that it would just crack right down the middle--”

“The entire point of laying in this filth is to be quiet, Annette, and let the beast leave.”

Annette’s mouth snaps shut, but it’s not without an annoyed scowl shot in his direction. “You’re evil,” murmurs Annette, just loud enough for him to hear. Felix knows it’s absolutely on purpose. She’s got a mean streak in her at times, he’s just never been on the end of it.

The mud and foliage hide their smell, and eventually, the crest beast determines them to be a lost cause and saunters away. Felix reaches out to grab Annette’s wrist before she can get up. “Wait, just a little bit longer. It might come back.”

They lay there for longer than she wants, Felix can tell by her squirming, but Byleth’s words have been prophetic: it’s just one of those days. Finally, they rise. Annette looks down at her dress and cringes at the sight.

“I’ll have to burn this and get Mercie to make me a new one.”

“Mercedes has more important things to do than sew garments,” says Felix with an annoyed huff.

Annette narrows her eyes at him. “I’ll remind you that this is your fault.”

“I didn’t ask for you to sneak out after me.”

“You brought that upon yourself when you decided to go out on your own.”

Felix glowers. “Which I do, often.”

Annette shoots him a rival glare. “Because you have no sense of self-preservation. Honestly, Felix, I should have come with you sooner. How often are you so ill-prepared? How unlike you.”

Felix can’t deny that one; how unlike him indeed. “I’ve been distracted lately,” he finally says, and Annette’s face softens slightly. She thinks that he’s talking about the war, but that isn’t it actually, it’s more so the tight feeling in his chest that he gets when he looks at her. He’s taken to marking up trees in frustration, away from prying eyes in the training ground.

The dramatic irony of her blaming Felix isn’t lost on him.

“It’s going to get dark,” says Annette. Felix frowns. How astute and glaringly obvious. “And, according to you, Byleth will abandon you outside the gates.”

“Wouldn’t be a first,” gripes Felix.

“So,” starts Annette, rolling back on her heels slightly. Her hands are tucked neatly behind her, all manners despite looking like she crawled out of a sewer. “To the village then. We’ll get a room.”

Felix, who’d already turned around to head west, stops dead in his tracks. Then he closes his eyes. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Two rooms, he thinks. He can afford two rooms, he’s got enough gold for at least that.

When he looks back to Annette, she’s already beaming at him like she always does. Felix wants to roll his eyes, but he can’t. Instead, he wants to do something a little more drastic, like pull her in for a hug.

Which is ridiculous, because Felix doesn’t hug people.

“Felix?” asks Annette. “You’re staring.”

It takes everything in him not to wince. “Mud,” he says, dumbly. “And sticks. In your hair.”

Eloquent, Felix is not. Despite this, Annette takes the explanation in stride and their walk to the village isn’t so terrible considering.

#

“Say that again, but the answer better be different.”

The innkeeper swallows, his thick neck turning a little bit red. Felix threatens people often enough that he’s got it down to a science. Arms crossed over the chest, his foot tapping in annoyance. The worst scowl he can manage followed by a flash of steel.

He’s having to make do without that last one.

“We’ve only one room left,” says the Innkeeper.

It takes everything for Felix not to jump the desk and choke the man out.

“Felix,” says Annette, resting her hand against his arm. He doesn’t pull away and neither does she, her fingers curling into his quilted sleeve. “It isn’t his fault. The men out in the bar must be the reinforcements we’re waiting on.”

Felix massages his temple. Right, reinforcements; Byleth had told them all they were expecting another Magic Corps to show up. Just their luck. Or lack thereof. He looks to Annette, who looks back at him, large eyes framed attractively by delicate eyelashes.

Goddess above, he can’t do this.

“You’ll take the room,” says Felix, finally tugging his arm away from her grasp. “I’ll stay in the stable.”

“Absolutely not,” says Annette.

“There’s no room there, either,” says the innkeeper unwisely. Upon Felix’s dangerous glare, the man immediately adds: “I’ve got two stable boys who bunk there.” They would find the one inn that employs by way of food and shelter, and not coin.

The innkeeper takes a deep breath and then bravely says, “There are two beds. If that makes a difference.”

It does, but only barely. Felix eyes the man warily, but slaps down a handful of gold.

That’s when Annette does the unthinkable and says, “And a bath, please. And fresh clothes.”

Felix is going to sleep in a stall with a horse if that’s what it takes, because he cannot, cannot share a room with Annette if she’s intent on bathing. Annette doesn’t think about these kinds of things. She’s not a healer like Mercedes, but she does her share in the medical tents. She sees a body like she sees everything else; just as it is and nothing more.

When he finally meets her gaze, she’s looking at him expectantly. Her eyes flash to his coin purse and then back to the pile he’s left on the counter. Felix lets out a long-suffering sigh and slaps down a few more coins.

“For the bath. And the clothes,” he says tersely. All Annette does is smile widely, happiness practically beaming off of her and she looks utterly ridiculous, covered in the mess that she is.

The room isn’t large, but there are two beds as promised. The stableboys haul a bath inside and Annette has the forethought to direct them to place it behind the changing screen. Felix lets loose a breath. Small blessings and some actual luck, finally.

Annette sings as she bathes. Felix washes his face in the basin by the door and changes into the clothes they’ve been provided, before settling into one of the beds. The moment he hits the mattress, he realizes how weary he is. It’s been a long day of dodging crest beasts and avoiding pesky feelings.

“Felix,” calls Annette from behind the screen, “has Byleth actually left you outside the gate after coming back late.”

Felix snorts a laugh. “Once. The lesson was learned.”

Annette chuckles and then goes back to her made-up tune. “Oh, how I love to bathe. Wash away the icky bits, ‘cause being dirty is just the pits.”

It isn’t so much that her voice is good, it’s just nice. Calming. Sweet. Felix closes his eyes and listens, drifting off to the soft tune on her lips. Comforting when you think about it because Annette sings about the things that she loves.

He falls asleep before her song shifts, singing about a dark, handsome swordsman instead.

#

There’s only one horse.

It’s a curse, straight from one of those ridiculous romance novels that Sylvain pretends he doesn’t like to read. Felix will take on one hundred crest beasts alone if it means avoiding this.

Annette has the gall to look amused. “It’ll be fine, Felix,” is what she says.

It will be the exact opposite of fine because while Felix has been very good at keeping her an arm’s length away, that isn’t an option here.

Felix glares at the stablemaster who regards him with an apologetic look. The only reason Felix doesn’t gut him right then and there is because it isn’t his fault. The man isn’t responsible for the delay in new livestock, the rain had done that. Regrettably, because Felix very much wants to stab something. Anything.

His head falls back, cheeks to the sky, eyes slipping closed as he lets out a long, drawn-out groan. This is divine punishment, Felix thinks, because he’s too much of a coward to just tell the damn girl that he likes her.

Or loves her. But really, at this point, what difference does it matter?

Annette pulls herself up first, settling into the saddle with ease. Felix turns to drop gold into the stablemaster’s hand, who offers a small smile in return.

“If it’s any consolation--”

“It’s not,” Felix cuts in.

“-- I think that she likes you back.”

At that moment, Felix wishes that murder for entirely inane reasons is legal. But alas, it isn’t, and Byleth would be quite irate if Felix were to remove the head of this man. The Professor loathes cleaning up messes and Felix makes a lot of them. So, the stablemaster keeps his life.

Only because Felix is too lazy to think of a valid excuse, or cook up a proper plan.

He pulls himself up behind Annette and settles in easier than he thought possible. Annette’s tiny enough that it’s not as awkward as it could be. Felix slips his arms around her waist and she hands him the reins, and then they’re off at a small trot.

The horse is calm and moves along the road well. Annette leans back against Felix’s chest, humming a tune. Felix is relatively relaxed. The Goddess hasn’t set the world on fire just yet. Small blessings.

“This is nice,” says Annette.

Not how Felix would phrase it. He’s caught somewhere between ‘this is divine’ and ‘this is absolute hell’. He allows himself the former though, arms settling around her closer than he’d normally allow. His nose close enough to the crown of her head that he can smell the fresh soap she’d bathed with. He enjoys the way she fits against him.

Felix would say that Sylvain’s a saint for putting up with this on the regular, but it’d be a lie. Worse, Felix gets why it’s a lie because Annette in his arms feels nice, even if it’s on the back of a horse, and only because there isn’t another choice.

“Nice,” agrees Felix halfheartedly, when he remembers to reply.

“You know, one could even say romantic.”

“There’s nothing romantic about being forced to share a horse because the Magic Corps didn’t think to bring their own.”

Annette turns her head slightly to look back at him, lips quirked into an amused smile. “Not one bit?” she asks.

Felix looks down at her, frowning slightly. What on earth does that mean? And why is she so amused? “I said that it was nice.”

“Felix, you look like you ate some of Flayn’s cooking.”

“This is definitely preferable to that,” says Felix, meaning it.

Annette sits there, twisted awkwardly in front of him for a moment longer, watching him. Felix squirms slightly, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. Finally, she says, “I must admit, I’m at a loss.”

“For what?” asks Felix.

“Nothing,” says Annette. Felix frowns again because now she just isn't making sense. But then again, Annette often doesn’t make sense, it’s part of her charm.

The Monastery isn’t far from the village, barely an hour by horse. The rest of their ride passes without any issue. No crest beasts, no bandits, and miraculously, Felix doesn’t entirely combust after enduring close contact with Annette.

He’s decided to treasure the moment because it’s never happening again.

It’s no surprise that Byleth is waiting for them at the gate, their arrival having been spotted by a lookout and announced. The Professor looks calmly collected and not at all worried. Felix’s eyes narrow, instantly suspicious.

Felix drops from the horse first before reaching up and helping Annette down. She lands gracefully, her hands grasping Felix’s forearms. She doesn’t let go. Felix tries to pull away, but she holds tight, and damn, she has an impressively strong grip. She just looks at him, a soft little smile on her face.

“Annette,” says Felix, unsure how to continue.

“Felix,” replies Annette. “Thank you for taking care of me. You’re such a gentleman.”

Felix is anything but, and he’s about to tell her that when she finally let's go. Only to reach up and grab him by the face, fingers curling around his jaw. She yanks him down, none too gently.

And then, Annette’s kissing him, pressing her lips against his with careful precision. Felix is surprised but he doesn’t go entirely rigid. His hands slide up to grasp her cheeks and he kisses her back. It’s not sweet in its touch, but it’s not scorching either, somewhere middling of the two. Her hand snakes around the back of his neck to grip him possessively, pulling him closer.

Felix responds eagerly, his fingers slipping into her hair, tugging her face into a different angle to slot their mouths against each other better. Then, he parts his lips, intent on licking into her mouth--

There’s a cough from next to them and they break apart. Felix doesn’t look away from Annette whose cheeks are tinged pink. Annette looks to the side. “Byleth,” she greets coolly.

“Um,” starts Felix, but can’t think of words past that.

“I’m pleased to see that the two of you are okay,” Byleth deadpans.

Annette is looking at Felix again, and his gaze is still glued to hers, unsure what’s just happened, still trying to process the kiss. That she’d started. That she’d enthusiastically responded too. That she seemed annoyed to have been interrupted in the midst of. The stuff of dreams, really, specifically his dreams, and more often than he’d like to admit.

Felix’s brain is having a hard time comprehending.

“As I said, Felix took fantastic care of me,” says Annette kindly. Then, she reaches up and brushes Felix’s bangs away from his forehead.

“I’d prefer it if the two of you would continue taking care of yourselves within the gate.” Byleth pauses. “And after the meeting. We have things to discuss.”

The mention of a war council breaks the spell that’d fallen over Felix. He can feel his skin burning bright red in embarrassment, and worst of all, Annette looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

And she’s holding his hand. He hadn’t noticed her grabbing it.  

“When I was singing about the dark, handsome swordsman, who’d you think I was imagining?” asks Annette, words quiet enough for only Felix to hear.

“When you were singing about what?”

Annette pouts. “Oh darn, so you were asleep then. I’d hoped you weren’t.”

“Annette, what on earth--”

“Later,” says Annette. “Mostly because Byleth is giving you the stink eye, and I think it’s because we’ve delayed his carefully planned schedule.”

One look at the Professor proves her right. Felix clears his throat and takes several steps away, before grabbing the reins of the horse. “Right, then. I’ll just handle this. The horse, I mean.”

“I’ll see you in the war room,” says Annette, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet.

Felix decides that he doesn’t hate the light-hearted, flabbergasted feeling that’s floating through him. He also knows that the moment he regains his wits abashment will hit him full force because he’d practically eaten Annette’s face off in front of half the Monastery guard.

And Byleth.

So, Felix properly excuses himself in favor of stabling their new horse and perhaps locking himself away forever out of embarrassment.

If he’d stayed just a moment longer, he’d have seen Annette flash Byleth a conspiratorial wink as she passes him by. And how Byleth smiles slyly in return, tapping at his nose like he’s keeping a secret.

[aurorawest]

Hi! I really admire your writing, so glad you’ve reached a follower milestone! For the prompt request, I would love some Thor & Loki feels, prompt No. 7 or 9 from Whumptober, with Thor whump. I can’t get enough of Loki’s scheming being derailed when his bro gets hurt. Thanks! :)

Thank you so much!! And I have to sincerely apologize for taking forever to get this written. I’m not sure what it is about me that I can churn through 1000+ words in my longfics every day, but give me a oneshot prompt, and it takes me 2 months. Anyway, here it is. This is probably not exactly what you had in mind (not nearly enough Loki scheming, I’m sorry!), but I still hope you enjoy it! Thanks again for the prompt!

Title: Big Damn Hero Rating: T (some injury description and mentions of blood) Relationships: Loki & Thor Word Count: 3.5k Summary: Thor always has to be the big damn hero. Loki gets stuck cleaning up after.

Thank you to my beta @mareebird! Also, this is technically for Whumptober prompt #7, I’ve Got You, but I’m not sure I can claim that it’s a Whumptober fill here on November 23.

Read it on AO3 or here on tumblr below.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Loki snapped. “Why can’t you ever listen to me?”

“I listen to you all the time,” Thor grunted, his voice tight. “I’ve listened to you and ended up in plenty of bad situations.”

“Yes well, at least those weren’t normally avoidable situations, which this was completely,” Loki said. He glanced at his brother, trying to keep the anger sharper than the worry in his eyes. It wasn’t the battle they’d just fought that had him concerned, nor the possibility their attackers might return. It wasn’t his own wounds that worried him, either. No, it was the fact that as they had fought, the cavern that they were inside had collapsed around them, trapping them in an unstable death trap several hundred feet inside the earth.

Loki had avoided injury.

Thor had not.

Thor’s legs, to be exact, were trapped under several tons of rock. If they were lucky, he was merely incapacitated. If they were unlucky…well.

Thor tilted his head back, letting it hit the ground. His hair was matted with blood from some head wound. It probably wasn’t serious. At least, Loki hoped it wasn’t serious. There was something dripping down the side of his own face too, though whether it was sweat or blood, he didn’t really care to examine. It could easily have been either. When the cavern had collapsed around them, chunks of rock and debris had gone flying, turning blunt force trauma into impalation risks.

And the temperature in the cavern was rising. It already had felt hotter than Helheim in there when they’d been doing battle. Now it was…especially hotter than Helheim.

Something slid down Loki’s eyebrow and dripped into his eye, and he gave in and swiped at it, unable to stop himself from glancing at the side of his hand to see what color it was. There was nothing there except the mealy colored dust of this planet. No blood. Not on his forehead, at least.

“We had to fight back,” Thor said. Was he grimacing? “They were going to destroy that village.”

“So there would be one less village in the universe,” Loki muttered. When Thor glared at him, Loki blasted air out through his nose. “I’m just not sure it’s worth dying over.” The village being wiped out would be regrettable, of course. Thor dying was more on the order of intolerable.

Waving a hand and wincing as he did it, Thor said, “Who said anything about dying? Anyway, risking one’s life is just what heroes do.” There were lines in his forehead, furrows made craggier by the dust caked there. Loki tried to pretend they weren’t because of the several tons of rock sitting on Thor’s legs, though he wasn’t particularly successful at convincing himself.

“Well, no one has ever accused me of being a hero,” Loki said. He was studying the massive column of rock that was on top of Thor. There were spells he could perform to get Thor out, but he was worried it would destabilize the whole cavern and crush them before he was able to call up a shielding spell. Then again, even if he was able to call up said spell, all it would mean was that they would have an even smaller bubble of air to exhaust before asphyxiation. He could rearrange the molecules of all the rock sitting over them, but he would also have to pull Thor behind him while maintaining the spell to make sure they weren’t encased in earth.

“Are you in pain?” Loki asked. Thor looked at him like he was an imbecile. Right. Point taken. Pressing his lips together, Loki cast his eyes over the cavern again. It had been lit by some sort of orange bioluminescence covering the walls before, but the cave-in had destroyed whatever delicate ecosystem had been producing it. There were still a few spots glowing weakly here and there, but the cavern would be shrouded in blackness if not for Loki’s magic. He’d summoned several glowing balls of light which were floating at points around the cavern.

“Will you be alright for a few minutes?” Loki asked. He got the same look in return and rolled his eyes. “Pardon me for attempting to look out for you, brother.”

Thor grimaced, though Loki wasn’t sure if it was because of what Loki had just said or because he was in pain. It could, he supposed, be both. With a grunt, Loki got to his feet, summoning a glowing orb of light to his fingertips as he made a slow circuit of the cavern. The orb inched back along his fingers to his palm, and he held it up, increasing the brightness until as much of the cavern was illuminated as possible.

As he’d suspected. There was no way out.

Swearing under his breath, Loki made his way back to Thor’s side and knelt again. “I have a very bad plan,” he said.

“So,” Thor said, “as usual.”

Normally, Loki would have scowled at him. But Thor was beginning to look pale, wan, almost, and there was sweat standing out on his forehead that Loki didn’t think was solely from the rising heat in the cave. “I have to get you out from under all this rock,” Loki said. “And the only way to do that is with magic.”

There was a silence. Thor blinked at him. “I don’t know if I’d call that a very bad plan,” Thor said.

“Well, good, then we’ll do that bit first, and I’ll tell you the rest of it once we’ve successfully freed you.” Loki could hear how false the cheerfulness in his voice was. He hated this—he was no good at being the chipper one, the optimistic one. Loki had one job in these sorts of situations, and it was to be the bearer of bad news, the one saying I told you so, because he invariably had.

But they were past I told you so now and well into forced optimism. Loki sincerely hoped they didn’t get to the next stage, which was tell me how bad it really is.

“Can you move?” Loki asked, knowing as soon as the words left his mouth what a stupid question it was. “I mean, after I do the spell.”

“Of course,” Thor replied with a confidence that Loki felt was entirely unwarranted.

Gathering his magic, Loki put his palm flat against the column of rock bearing down on Thor. With a slow inhale, he sent the spell into the rock, pushing magic between the molecules of stone and loosening their bonds on each other. He felt the magic flow through the rock, and when it was sufficiently fluid, he said to Thor, “Move. Now.”

Thor did. It was a good thing, because the longer Loki held the spell, the more unstable the column became.

On the other hand, with Thor’s legs no longer crushed under the rock, Loki could see just how badly they were both broken.

Anyone else wouldn’t even have legs. If Thor weren’t Asgardian, all he would currently have was crushed bone and red stains around him that had at one point been his muscle and skin. But Thor was Asgardian, so he merely—merely—had several compound fractures. Not that it wasn’t unsettling to see his brother’s splintered shin bone poking through his skin. But it could have been worse.

Even so, Thor couldn’t walk. It would be entirely up to Loki to get them out of this.

Thor looked paler. Loki knew his brother would never show pain if he could help it, so the fact that there were tight lines around his eyes and mouth made the worried knot in Loki’s stomach tighten. “I’m afraid the only way out of here is doing what I just did,” Loki said. “Only we’ll have to…well, climb out.” When Thor just stared at him, Loki added, “I did say it was a very bad plan.”

“It’s a terrible plan,” Thor said. It was impossible not to miss the strained note in it. “Climb? Climb what?”

“The sides of the passage I create for us,” Loki said with more confidence than he felt. “It’s not like you to balk at something that’s almost certain to get both of us killed, brother. You must have hit your head.”

There was little reaction from Thor, which was worrisome.

Drawing a breath, Loki said, “I know I’m hardly trustworthy, but we don’t have much of a choice. If you were in any state to punch your way through Norns-know-how-many feet of solid rock, I’d certainly let you do it.”

Thor grit his teeth. “What do you mean, you’re hardly trustwor—do you really think I don’t trust you? You think that’s the problem?”

“Well, it’s a problem,” Loki said. “I wouldn’t say it’s the only one, no.”

Breathing in and out deeply, the lines tightening on his face, Thor asked, “What happens if you can’t hold your spell?”

“A quick death, I would think.” Loki glanced up at the rock over their heads. It seemed to be closing in, making the space smaller, though he knew it wasn’t. At least, he thought he knew it wasn’t. He wiped sweat off his forehead again. His eyebrows were saturated with it. “The weight of the stone should crush us instantly.”

Actually, he wasn’t sure of this at all. They were Asgardian, after all. Or, well, one of them was, and Loki was—whatever he was. Jotun and some sort of magical mixture of Asgardian, thanks to his father’s magic. It was possible that their bodies would stand up to the crush of rock long enough for them to suffocate due to the lack of air and the fact that their lungs were being compressed. That would be a far more unpleasant death than every bone in their bodies, including their spinal columns, being broken at once. The latter would end things quickly. If Loki was going to die, he really would prefer it to be quick, though he’d never had much cause to believe that this would be the case—not for him.

Thor propped himself up on his elbows and looked at his legs. His face remained expressionless as he took in the way his splintered bones poked through his skin. Unable to help himself, Loki looked, too. Much of the material of Thor’s pants and boots had been shredded, which put his wounds on full display. Around the punctures, Thor’s skin was purple and swollen, blood oozing out and mixing with the pale dust that covered both of them.

It wasn’t a great look. Loki reminded himself that Thor could survive such an injury. Both of them could. Probably. Loki didn’t particularly want to find out if this was the case for him, as well.

Thor looked up and met Loki’s eyes. “You’ll have to carry me, climb out of here, and do magic.”

“Glad you’re still following along,” Loki said. He was being an arse. It might have been on purpose. It was the only thing he could think of to do.

No reaction to the gibe from Thor. “Is it a difficult spell?”

Loki cast his eyes upward again. Was it a difficult spell? No. Molecular rearrangement of stone was no more difficult than molecular rearrangement of anything else—doors that no one wanted him to walk through, prison walls, metal cages. As long as there was nothing hampering his magic, it wasn’t a challenging spell. The difference between this situation and those others was that typically, he only needed to rearrange a section of material that was a little over six feet high, two feet wide, and a few inches thick at most.

He didn’t know how much rock was sitting over them. He had a vague idea, because he knew roughly how far they’d descended into the cavern as they’d been fighting off their attackers. It was, needless to say, more than a few inches.

“Not terribly,” Loki finally said, deciding to split the difference.

“Don’t lie.”

Loki set his mouth in a line and stared at his brother. “The spell itself isn’t difficult, no. It’s the rest of it, and the length of time I’d be performing the magic. As I said, I know you don’t trust me—”

“It has nothing to do with me not trusting you!” Thor said. His voice was strained. “I don’t want you to get yourself killed trying to save me.”

Loki sucked in a deep breath to argue. “I’m perfectly capable of—er—what?”

Thor rolled his eyes, though the way his hands clenched into tight, bloodless fists rather took the sting out of it. “You can get yourself out of here easily. Right?”

“I…” Loki’s gaping was beginning to make him look like an idiot. Taking a breath, he said, “Yes.”

Jerking his head in a nod, Thor said, “Then you should go.”

Oh. Of course. Right. Big damn hero Thor; he’d sacrifice himself for anyone, even his ne’er-do-well, God of Chaos, Mischief, and Lies brother. “I should go,” Loki repeated flatly. “And what will you do?”

“Loki, I’m not going to let you risk your life for me—”

With an irritated scoff, Loki leaned forward, grabbed Thor under the arms, and said, “Oh, shut up, would you?” He flicked his fingers and a strand of glowing green magic flowed from them, one end looping once around his wrist and the other end looping around Thor’s. “Don’t try to break that connection,” Loki said crossly. “It will make sure my spell encompasses your mass as well as mine, and if you do something stupid in the name of being noble, I will come back for you, so it will be your fault if I die.”

For a moment, Thor stared at the thin twist of green magic around his wrist. Then, he looked at Loki and said, “You’re being stubborn.”

“I am,” Loki agreed. “It’s one of my most annoying qualities, and that’s really saying something.” There was no chance Thor could stand, so Loki wrapped an arm tightly around his shoulder. “Ready?”

There was a long pause. A pointless pause. The longer they dallied, the weaker Thor became, and the more difficult this would be. Perhaps Thor knew that—and perhaps he was more stupid than even Loki thought he was, and actually fancied that Loki would leave him behind if he thought Thor would be a drag on his own escape.

Finally, Thor nodded. “Alright. But if you feel yourself weakening—”

“Thor, shut up.” Loki put a hand out, resting his palm against the column of rock that had so recently been on top of Thor’s legs. A green glow spread from beneath his palm and the surface of rock rippled. Loki could feel the solidness of the rock loosening, the spaces between each atom opening up. He extended the spell as far as he dared, then looked at Thor. “Let’s go,” he said.

Because Thor couldn’t use his legs, this first part was all Loki. One-armed, he heaved Thor into the rock, sparing a second’s thought for the fact that this would probably be a deeply unsettling experience for his brother.

But then there wasn’t time to think. Or—perhaps there was time, but he didn’t have the mental space for it. Climbing the tunnel that he created for them, a foot at a time, was arduous and tense. They made their way up through the column of rock and into the mass of earth sitting over them, and when Loki thought they’d reached the top of it, he sent out a sounding spell to check.

He was right. All he felt to either side was the press of dirt and rock. The tomb imagery was all a bit too apt, so he stayed away from it. He wasn’t particularly claustrophobic, but considering the circumstances, he thought he could be forgiven the flutter of panic in his chest.

He tried to angle their passage, both to make it easier to gain handholds and to give his screaming muscles a bit of a break from bearing most of Thor’s weight. But angling their magical bore-hole increased their time in the earth, and Loki’s magical energy wasn’t infinite. Combined with the physical exertion of carrying Thor, he could feel himself tiring.

And he would not, he would not fail. So he clenched his teeth, pushed his magic out, and tightened his hold on Thor.

When they emerged onto the surface, it took Loki a moment to realize it had even happened. His magic suddenly wasn’t moving rock, and panic clutched at his chest, and he frantically looked at the darkness around them, left, right, upward, where they needed to go—and his eyes fell on three lumpy, shining objects, surrounded by a scattering of pinprick points of light.

Moons. Stars.

The bright, lumpy things were this planet’s three small moons. The rest were the stars of the night sky.

They’d made it.

Loki’s chest heaved as he drew several breaths of clean, fresh air. His arms and legs were trembling with fatigue. His heart was thundering and he realized his entire body under his clothes was slicked in sweat. His clothes were soaked through with it, too, and here on the surface, where the air was cooler, he could feel the clamminess of his damp clothes against his skin.

The line of green magic still connected his wrist to Thor’s. But Thor was prostrate on the ground, unmoving. “Brother?” Loki asked, worry threading through his tone.

Thor groaned and pushed himself onto an elbow, looking up at Loki. “I was thinking,” Thor said.

The worry in Loki’s chest fluttered, then settled back. He allowed the magic to dissolve away into the night air. “Yes?”

A light breeze ruffled Loki’s hair. Thor flopped back to the ground. “Maybe next time we have to fight a group of marauding space pirates, we should do it above ground.”

Loki laughed, which turned into a cough, because he was still gasping for air, his lungs full of dust. “I couldn’t agree more,” he finally said, once he’d stopped choking.

They were hardly in the clear. Thor’s legs were still mangled and they needed to get back to their ship, and there was no guarantee that they wouldn’t face another attack on their way. But with the sky above them and that cool breeze fluttering at Loki’s hair, escape and survival seemed eminently possible. Easy, even. He’d give it a few more moments for them to catch their breath and gather a bit more strength, and then they’d set off.

It occurred to Loki he was going to have to carry Thor. His brother was really going to owe him for this.

The two of them were quiet, their breathing slowing. Loki’s fingers twitched involuntarily in the powdery dust, his exhausted muscles already protesting the further labor he was going to ask of them. The ache in his arms made it tempting to sit there for another hour. Or maybe three. But they needed to go. So finally, Loki groaned and pushed himself to his feet.

“This is going to be very undignified for both of us,” he said warningly. “I’ll never speak of it if you don’t.”

Thor straightened up as best he could. There was an expression on his face that Loki didn’t like—the kind of softness and sincerity that meant something sentimental was about to come out of his brother’s mouth. So Loki held up a hand. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Thor protested.

“You were going to.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.” Huffing, Loki said, “You were going to say something…embarrassing. Something about my better nature.”

In the dark, it was hard to tell if Thor was smirking or just smiling. “Actually, I was going to say—I’m glad you’re here, Loki.”

Loki crossed his arms over his chest and looked away, squinting into the darkness. He would have to light their way with magic. Hopefully he was still up to it. “Only because you’d still be trapped down there without me.”

“No.” Thor managed to get to his knees, and when he held out a hand, Loki thinned his lips, clasped his brother’s arm, and hauled him to his feet. Idiotic. They wouldn’t make it more than three steps this way, not with Thor’s legs in the shape they were. Loki slung Thor’s arm over his shoulders and wrapped one of his own arms around Thor’s midsection, supporting most of his weight. “I was going to say,” Thor said, “that I’m glad we’re together, because there’s no one I’d rather fight side-by-side with.”

Letting out a slow breath, Loki rolled his eyes. He tightened his grip. Then he said, “Shut up, Thor.”

Thor grinned. Loki ignored the fondness in his own voice.

The two of them set off into the night.

[joonsdiary]

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝒕𝒂𝒆𝒉𝒚𝒖𝒏𝒈

a regency au that absolutely nobody asked for. (please pray for my countless untouched wips that will never see the light of day.) rated e for extreme fluff with a slight hint of humour, because what else is new around here. blame this kim taehyung for the existence of this drabble. 1,870 words. enjoy!

     “Another correspondence,” your sister whispered in the dead of night, candlelight gently flickering against the bronze of her skin. You laid still against the silk of your sleeping clothes, underneath the warmth of your cotton quilts, unsurprised by her quiet outburst into your shared room. Her eyes met yours and at that moment you wished nothing more than to be buried six feet well below the ground, sleeping amongst the worms and maggots and ants alike—

“Would you like me to read it for you this time?”

—and be rid of this world once and for all. What joy that would bring you. It’s quite the dramatic disposition, as your mother would often point about yourself, but an understandable one, nevertheless. Because it had the faintest of truth in it: You’d rather die than face the embarrassment of possible rejection.

The floorboards creaked as she moved to place the chamberstick on the bedside before making room for herself beside you, tucking her legs neatly beneath her. You have an inkling as to who he might be, but your heart assured you that it wasn’t the person you’ve been desperately waiting for—the one whose disapproval would possibly shred your heart pieces. In hindsight, you should have known better than to place your trust in a man. No matter how handsome they might present themselves, they’re all the same.

“Is it Sir Jeon again?”

Jeon Jungkook was an esteemed young bachelor, no less. The grandson of a wealthy colonel, who owns a large estate in the next town over. But his reputation precedes him as a ladies’ man through and through, having asked the hands of several women in marriage, only to break the arrangement before nightfall. He’s been the same tireless charade for the past summer months, and you happen to be the unfortunate target that has caught his unwarranted attention.

Yes, he might bear more money that you will be able to comprehend, but you refused to allow yourself to be the next name stricken in his long list of women.

“What if it is?” she gave you a playful grin and a soft push on the shoulder. “Will you finally say yes?”

“I’m not vapid, sister. My answer hasn’t changed in the twenty-four hours since he last sent his letter.”

“Rumour has it that he hasn’t pursued anyone for this long.”

“So that’s what this is then, a challenge to him,” you rose from your position, pulling the covers tight against your body. “Then he’ll tire of this charade before the parchment’s ink runs dry.”

“Will you not at least entertain his company?”

“Was the dance he persuasively requested from me at the ball not enough amusement for him?” you said, exasperated.

“You have to admit, he can be quite the dancer,” she marvelled, eyes mooning in obvious adoration.

“He stepped on my foot twice,” you said wryly.

“To which he apologized for, both in person and in the last three letters he sent.”

“You can read the letter if you so desire,” the softness of the bed welcomed you back into its warmth as you made space for her. “I’m tired and I wish to sleep.”

“Tired from what, playing the pianoforte all day?” she mocked, sighing when you don’t reply with your usual banter. You rolled to your side, facing away from her, unsure if she heard your quip: What else am I to do with my time? It’s not like I can take the horse and ride it to where he is.

The sound of paper rustling echoed against the silence of the room as the bed moved, and you could only picture her holding the letter against what little luminance the candle provided. She didn’t say anything for a while and you concluded that the contents remained the same as Sir Jeon’s previous ones: The tactless You are the lucky maiden bestowed the chance to meet me once more along with your beauty outshines even the moon herself. He’s not quite Shakespeare, but reading what he wrote allowed you an insight into the inner workings of his mind and how he managed to rope in so many women in such a short period of time. Flowery words carefully crafted by The Hedonist himself; only a fool would cave in to such whims and a fool you were not.

She suddenly gasped, and you turned just in time to see her hand as it slowly went and covered her lips in apparent astonishment.

“What is it? Has he asked me to wed him?” you mused, half in jest. Her eyes moved back and forth, scanning each and every letter meticulously. “Well?”

“I feel as though I’m being intrusive by reading something that’s not meant for me,” she turned to the next page and glanced it over quickly before pushing the papers into your hands.

“That hasn’t stopped you before,” you sighed and slid up the headboard. The expression she wore made you somewhat fearful—just what nonsense had Jeon Jungkook written this time around?

You prepared yourself for the worst as you took a deep breath.

           Dearest Flower—

The introduction already had you rolling your eyes to the ends of the earth. You continued, nonetheless, but not before noting the difference in handwriting.

          I hope this letter finds you in good health. I am aware that I promised to write to you immediately after our encounter, which is still engraved deeply in my mind, never to be forgotten. That evening, you held countless stars in your eyes that twinkled at every quiet giggle — I am still stunned that I was able to pull a burst of enchanting laughter from your lips, as I am told by my confidants that humour is not my forte. Were you being too generous, perhaps, inflating a weak man’s ego like you had done mine? I can only imagine that you permit no one else to see the beauty hidden beneath your smile but me, selfish as that may sound. 

“Did he really pen this, Sir Jeon?” you wondered audibly. Your sister begged for you to read the rest aloud, and you relented. “There isn’t a dreamless night that goes by where I do not see your face the moment I lay and close my eyes. You’ve bewitched me, Dearest Flower.”

You paused to glance at your sister, who merely motioned for you to continue reading the letter. She wore an almost-teasing grin as the apples of her cheek rose to meet the corner of her eyes.

“You must know that I am writing this against the unspoken will that binds me in the hands of my cousin. I know you are aware, as most people in the town are presumably, that he has been charmed by your unwavering wit, as have I. When he made it known to me — his longing for you — I knew I had to step back and hand him the reins. For how could I possibly compete with him?”

Your heart galloped against your chest at the sudden realization, and with bleary eyes, you read the next words with a different perspective than you had previously.

“Therefore I want you to know that I write this without the knowledge of your affection; only with the cautious optimism that you do not share the same feelings as he has for you. I am once again reduced to nothing else but greed with soaring hopes that you have cast away the letters he has written you. If by chance I am mistaken and have disillusioned myself with such thoughts, I shall suffer in endless affliction with the knowledge that I should have reached out sooner and without fear.”

With heat slowly rising to your cheeks, you turned the page over to the next and continued.

“If there is still but a tiny amount of chance for me, then I can only assume you’ll read this letter in its entirety. But please know that I will assume no ill will if you choose not to entertain my company. I have been fortunate enough to receive your hand in what will be your final dance that evening, so the least I could wish for is a lasting impression.”

Gone was your wistful feeling of dreaded rejection, replaced by pure, unadulterated bliss. You cleared your throat, and with bated breath, you proceeded.

“However, if your desire is the same as mine, then I would like for us to meet with no one else’s company but yours and mine. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire you, and there is not a single waking moment where I do not yearn to get another glimpse of your captivating eyes. Perhaps much longer than fate allowed us to the last time.

“I will be waiting in the garden by the old church just before the day breaks. If your heart truly doesn’t belong to Jungkook, or anybody else by then, come indulge in my endeavour. For I bear no intention other than to shamelessly claim your heart as mine for keeps.

“With love and devotion, Kim Taehyung.”

Your sister squealed in delight, much to your chagrin, possibly waking the entire household. Your horrors were confirmed when you heard the padded footsteps of your mother along the hallway, prompting you to shove the letter underneath your pillow. By the time you placed your hand in her mouth at an attempt to silence her, she’d already knocked at your door before it promptly opened.

Hair dishevelled and unkempt, she asked, clearly displeased, “What in god’s name are you both up to this late at night, disturbing everyone’s sleep?”

“We thought we—uh—saw a rat. She just got a little spooked, is all.”

Your mother narrowed her eyes at you, then your sister, who nodded belatedly in agreement.

“From countless years of witnessing your shenanigans, do you think I’m easily fooled?”

The tension in your mother’s brow eased as she chuckled, shaking her head. You released your sister from your clutches as your mother approached. She bent over to dispel the lights from the room, and you welcomed darkness as you blinked it into familiarity.

“Stop wasting candlesticks and turn in for bed now.”

You willingly followed her instructions and quickly felt underneath the pillow for the presence of two parchments. Renewed with a sense of promise tomorrow will bring, you closed your eyes as the door clicked shut.

At the faded echoes of your mother’s foot carrying her away to your room, your sister whispered, “Will you meet with him?”

For once, your heart and mind are in synchrony, humming the tune of an acquainted melody.

A short pause before a confident, “Yes,” escaped your lips.

You vowed not to be persuaded by the fragrant sentiments a gentleman presents because all too often they stay like that: Mere words, unaccompanied by actions. But from the moment he plucked you out of the sea of women that vied for his attention, you knew you’d willingly sway in any direction he guided you — as long as it’s within his arms.

If a fool was what became of you from this correspondence alone, then you’ll wilfully submit to becoming town’s jester.

[eubautista]

⟨ CIERRA RAMIREZ. CIS FEMALE. SHE/HER. ⟩ though the mist might prevent some from seeing it, ELENA BAUTISTA is actually a descendent of I R I S. it’s still a question of whether or not the TWENTY-ONE year old EARLY CHILDHOOD DEVELOPMENT MAJOR from MIAMI, USA has taken after their godly parent completely, but the demigod is still known to be quite OPTIMISTIC & NAIVE.

hey y’all! i’m rae ( she/her, 18, est ) and i’m excited to be here! check under the cut for more information about elena & like this/dm me if you’d like to plot. i highkey wasn’t expecting elena’s account to be posted until tuesday so i’ll be popping in & out tonight ♡

brief history

grew up in miami, fl. had a large extended family but only had her father in the home.

as a child, she was known for having a huge imagination. her dreams and daydreams were extremely vivid, and she often had a hard time separating them from reality. this caused the people around her to think she was super imaginative or even a liar at times.

elena got claimed at the age of twelve, a couple weeks after her illusions started being able to be seen by others. those were a strange couple of weeks, as she had no idea why or how people were starting to vaguely notice some of her daydreams as well. she was in the living room with her father, trying to show him some of her illusions, when iris appeared in the midst. elena was mesmerized and could hardly contain her excitement ( and confusion ) during this meeting.

after that, she attended camps every summer. she loved the fact that she could develop her powers without feeling like a freak or worrying for anyone’s safety, but she always missed home too much to try staying year-round.

her father tried to raise her as “normally” as possible, so she had a fairly basic teenaged experience despite everything. however, as her abilities became stronger, she realized it’d be safest for her and those around her if she continued her education at eonia.

personality

head in the clouds seems to be a phrase that perfectly describes elena, as her constant immersion in self-made illusions often contributes to a dream-like state. absent-minded and off-beat, she can seem a little clueless, which is one reason many mortals back home were shocked when they found out she had gotten into eonia university. another notable trait of elena’s is her optimism and faith in others, which often leads to naivety and allows her to be easily manipulated and taken advantage of. she is also pretty sociable and playful, often rambling about the things that excite her and offering her unwarranted opinions to whoever is nearby. despite her flaws, she is very sweet and has a genuine love and concern for others, often ready to look out for her loved ones.

abilities

virtuakinesis was the first power that elena started to develop. it started off as incredibly vivid dreams/daydreams until it reached the point where others could see them as well. growing up as an only child, she spent countless hours just playing around this power. this is her strongest power, and she is currently learning mist control. soon came photokinesis and rainbow manipulation, which started presenting themselves around the same time. while these powers aren’t as strong as her virtuakinesis and require much more concentration, she is still fairly decent at them. finally, she has slightly enhanced speed, but this is often overshadowed by her natural clumsiness. while many of these skills were naturally developed through her genuinely enjoying her powers, it wasn’t until middle school that she started attending demigod summer camps to further develop her skills.

wanted connections ( based on the grease soundtrack lol )

summer nights (g-rated): childhood camp crush/best friend. they met at camp one summer and immediately bonded. all good things must end, especially when it comes to middle school relationships, so they amicably parted ways at the end of the summer and lost touch.

hopelessly devoted to you / tears on my pillow: ex relationship. elena still isn't over this relationship. although they break her heart time and time again, she is still willing to do anything for them.

look at me, i'm sandra dee: frenemies. this person is the rizzo to elena's sandy, the jade to elena's tory. elena and this person are practically opposites. although elena may try to settle their differences and befriend this person from time to time, she usually ends up annoying them instead.

it's raining on prom night: this person found elena during a sad moment, and now elena always vents to and confides in this person, whether they want her to or not.

alone at a drive in: elena broke up with them or maybe hooked up with them at a party, but unlike them, she isn't interested in anything further.

those magic changes: they're just friends, but elena started seeing them in a new light after a special moment, which they seem to be oblivious to.

hound dog: to most people, elena is a sweet, semi-innocent girl, but not to this person. elena royally screwed this person over by hooking up with their significant other, so now their relationship is pretty rocky.

we go together: this is elena's person, her best friend. they could've met before eonia or became fast friends during freshman year, but now they're practically joined at the hip.

other connection ideas: camp friends, mentor/mentee, squad (PLS), and ofc i’d love to plot dynamics w all her half-siblingss

[rosesforshego]

𝓘𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ

August 26th, 2002 2:30 pm

CRACK.

Sheila’s knees crashed onto the steady tile below her; her pants wiped away black marks left by her last class. She winced as a sharp pain shot from her knee to her thigh as her weary eyes remained fixated on a lone gum wrapper, stuck to the dirty floor by a piece of chewed gum.

Oh, you’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.

With one hand resting upon her sore thigh, the other pinched the wrapper between her gloved fingertips. The wrapper clung onto the gum for dear life as she separated it from the unconventional adhesive. It maintained its attachment as a few strands of the sticky substance offered a bridge between the paper and the gum that remained embedded in the floor. Sheila, unable to contain her disgust, turned her head away from the grotesque scene. How could any human be this gross?

A sharp intake of a long-awaited breath pierced her lungs as she held back a violent gag. Carefully, she folded the wrapper to trap the strands of chewed gum inside of its original tinfoil exterior, praying that the spit-covered substance wouldn’t stain her new gloves. She remembered the contorted features of an annoyed senior who sat at the desk above her—Amelia—a popular socialite with a blatant disregard for others. Sheila’s shoulders hunched as her free hand recoiled from her thigh. She remembered the distinct smack of Amelia’s lips as she chewed on the gum that had made its way to the dusty floor. This senior, a student she barely knew, had gone out of her way to make Sheila’s job difficult out of what? Spite?

What had Sheila ever done to her?

She turned to face a broken pencil—splintered wood and broken led littered the tile. A small rumble, that slipped past her throat in the form of a groan, escaped her. That was her good pencil, given to Michael in good faith. Did he step on it? The dirt that took on the vague shape of a shoe suggested so. She knew this student well, “Big Mike” the others would call him. She’d see him in the halls, lonely, lost even. Sheila felt for him. But, as she cradled the splintered wood within her palm, Sheila forgot about the unrelenting torment he endured within the hallowed halls. Though, with a reputation like Big Mike’s, she could understand his frustration. Her features softened as her innate, empathetic nature regained its control. She shook her head, dumping the contents in her hand onto a ripped syllabus she had used as her dustpan. It was a shame that he had to take it out on the newbie and her property. She was not sure what the other students’ excuses were.

As she gathered the remnants of her syllabus that was strewn across the floor, the corners of her lips settled into a deep frown. Her brothers fought her pessimism by whispering sweet nothings into her ear, filling her with a false sense of optimism—and she believed them. She believed that her transition from substitute to full-timer was going to be a smooth one. She believed that her students, her children, would welcome her to Middleton High with open arms. These ideas, coupled with her endless passion, had conjured a false reality within her mind—a fantasy that disintegrated as the first vulgar swear barreled in her direction. She was a fool to believe them. She was a fool to so much as think that she would have it easy. She should stop pleading for Life to give her a break for, with each passing day, Sheila had slowly realized that Life does not care about her. The next step was to accept it.

Her lips curled into a vile grimace as she placed the gum wrapper on her paper dustpan. She remembered the smiling faces of her students who warmly greeted her that very morning, which instantaneously morphed into devilish looks that she could not decipher at her exciting announcement. Slowly, her beloved children, possibly possessed by demons, turned into beings of chaos. From back-talk, to complete and utter disregard for her authority, these friendly faces were paired with despicable and unwarranted behavior, which perplexed her. If only she had the answers to the questions that nagged her.

Though, what seemed to weigh upon her mind the most was not the trash, or the skipping of her class, or the general bad attitude. It was the snickers that her attuned ears would catch as she turned her back to the class; the whisperings of ill-will upon her; the jokes, the shaming, and the wishes to rid of her presence. She was unwanted—unloved. Her students wanted her gone, or wished that she was merely a low-life, substitute again. As the welcoming atmosphere coldly shifted to one of disdain, disappointment and subtle anger—especially in the students who were forced to take Intro. to Psychology to graduate—jabbed at Sheila’s sense of self-worth. A piece of the syllabus ripped in her hand as her fingers encapsulated the flimsy paper within her fist. She did not deserve that type of treatment. It was unfair for her students to unleash their fury of frustrations upon her. But that was the life of a full-timer, wasn’t it? This is what she signed up for. Maybe she should have read the terms and conditions, first.

A slow creak of an old door gave way to delicate footsteps upon the tile but remained unnoticed by the woman crouched on the floor. Hot tears stung behind her eyes as the viscous liquid emerged from its hiding. Her vision, blurred by her tears, focused on the various knick-knacks of destroyed trash that she carefully lifted from the dirty floor. Caught up in her imaginative world, plagued by the detrimental experiences that she had endured, her heavy sigh masked the sound of shoe-upon-tile, that grew clearer as the figure of a man eerily crept upon the disheveled woman in front of him.

“Hello, Miss Goodwin.”

A sudden heat spread through her chest as her heart pierced her ribs. Startled, she dropped the trash and attempted to wipe away the growing tears with her sleeve before the salty liquid spilled onto her cheeks. Through the water that glistened in the fluorescent lights, she turned to the figure. A man, taller than she, surveyed the disaster that Sheila called her classroom.

“Rough day?”

A deep breath to soothe her beating heart escaped her nose as she turned towards the pile of garbage that she had scattered across the floor.

“Don’t get me started.”

His brows rested within the wrinkles of his forehead as the woman’s voice struggled to break free from the sorrow laced within her tone. A soft voice-crack gave him the information he needed to know—a rough day, indeed.

“Oh,” he interrupted, drawing attention away from her saddened stature. With a soft grunt, he knelt on the floor beside her, “let me help you with that.”

A side smirk, the first form of a smile that she had displayed that day, threatened to break through her sour demeanor. She was pleased by his offer of aid as she remained consumed by her mental distraught. Out of all of the full-time staff she had the pleasure of meeting, this man seemed to be the nicest.

Though, there was no reason for him to clean up after her students’ disgusting littering habits. That was her responsibility.

“No, it’s okay, I got it.”

She extended her hand towards the make-shift dustpan, but it was out of her reach before she could regain her composure.

“I insist.”

Blinking back a few straggling tears, she turned to face the man. His slim shoulder brushed against her own as he moved the syllabus away from her fingertips. A wide smile, plastered within wrinkles, reflected the fluorescents that illuminated their close bodies within the vacant room. And, as he moved away, the shadows that emphasized the strong structure of his cheeks shifted, highlighting the aged skin that sagged around the corners of his mouth, but his eyes remained transfixed on her own. His blue irises, which she found herself swimming in as if she were wading in the waters of the Mediterranean, instructed her to relax. Her shoulders slumped as her rear slowly descended to the back of her heels. Without uttering a word, she felt comforted by his presence—a comfort that she had not felt in a long time. 

He turned to sweep some dirt onto the paper, his slick, black hair shifting along his neck. Her lips tightened as she continued to study his features. He possessed an aura of familiarity about him. Then again, so did all the staff. She must have met him in passing. What was his name, again?

“Here,” he spoke. Sheila slightly shook her head to rid her thoughts. He didn’t notice. “I’ll clean. You pack your stuff.”

Wearily, Sheila raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Maybe he was being too nice.

“No, really, I—”

Before she could finish her protest, he tore a piece of the crumpled syllabus off of her pseudo dustpan and used it to pry the gum off of the floor, “Don’t worry about it, Miss Goodwin.”

“Sheila.”

“What?”

Her heart thumped. Caught off-guard by her abrasive response, she attempted to display a false sense of security to mask the uncertainty that re-established its role, seizing the forefront of her thoughts.

“You can call me Sheila.”

His faltered smile returned and Sheila nearly found herself accompanied by a sigh of relief. As the burn behind her eyes subsided, she returned the gesture—the smirk breaking free from its confines. It was the least she could do.

“Already on a first-name basis, are we?”

The statement elicited a larger grin from the green woman. Class clown, huh? She carefully rose from her position on the floor, leaving circles of displaced dirt from where her knees had rested. Two can play at this game.

She brought her gloved palms to her thighs as she wiped away the accumulated dust that nestled into the fibers of her slacks. She broke her gaze with the cheeky man as she turned to her desk; her legs carried her with long strides as she approached the bag that patiently waited for her on her padded chair.

“Almost,” her bag opened with a smooth zip. She shuffled a few objects to make room for the stack of papers that diligently sat on her desk, ready for her to take back to Lowerton.

“Remind me, what was your name again?”

He placed a calloused palm on his leg to push himself off of the ground as he answered with a cheeky smirk, “Dr. Drew Lipsky.”

Drew Lipsky. Sounded very familiar. Chemistry teacher, if she remembered correctly.

“Oooh~” she chided, eyes downcast as she shoved stapled packets into her bag, “a doctor! Mama must be so proud.”

Drew’s playful smirk faltered as he dumped the remnants of the syllabus into the trash can, “Well, I’m not a medical doctor—”

“Clearly,” she gestured to the classroom around him, her attention back on the man who subtly rolled his eyes at her statement. A soft “tch” escaped her parted lips while she watched his slender body carefully weave between cluttered desks. Under normal circumstances, his eye-roll would have peeved her, but she was the one who joked at his expense. She deserved it.

“She’s still proud though,” he retorted, a little more defensive than he would have liked as he made his way to the next pile of broken pencils, “I, however, am still paying my student loans.”

Sheila’s smirk, that imbued fraudulent confidence, contorted into a slight grimace. College was never a time she liked to look back upon—four years of betrayal, pain, and burnt bridges that she could never repair—but, due to her years of protecting Go City, the mayor offered to pay for her higher education. At least something good came from that job.

She peered at her new college as the slightest hint of remorse ghosted his features. She figured he wasn’t so lucky.

“Regretting that Ph.D., Dr. Lipsky?”

Fuck. No. She inhaled through her teeth; her eyes shut as her shoulders found their way to her neck. What the hell was wrong with her? That was not something she should say to a man who offered her aid in her time of need.

Sheila turned back to her bag, wishing that her superpower was to stop unruly comments from slipping past her lips. Damn it. He was sure to think ill of her naivety.

To her surprise, he remained. As unprompted as her off-handed comment was, Drew refused to abandon her. He remembered his first days at Middleton High and the wave of nerve-wracking uncertainty that came with it. He remembered when he had made his own slew of off-handed comments to faculty members who responded with open disdain for his presence. He remembered how awful he felt—a weight in his chest that kept him grounded, that would slow his movement by day and bring a resurgence of guilt by night. He didn’t want Sheila to feel the same pain.

He thought about her question—after all, it was still a question. Did he regret his Ph.D.? Maybe. While he enjoyed the additional education, Drew often pondered if it was worth plunging into a pool of debt for. Though, if the question was “if you had a chance to go back and change your decisions”, his answer would be “probably not”.

A slight shrug of his shoulders indicated his uncertainty, but it was only for his own amusement as Sheila’s gaze remained transfixed on the bag in front of her. Quietly, her gloved fingers pulled a piece of raven hair behind her ear, then returned to the stack of papers that she had haphazardly shoved together. The light above her shone upon her, rather interesting, skin—radiating a healthy glow, mixed with a tint of green. Drew blinked a few times, certain that his old eyes, that rested behind thick lenses, had played a devilish trick on him.

Following the line outlined by her hair, his gaze rested upon her tense shoulders. She was acutely aware of the way her question had rebounded off of the classroom walls and, while not a peep of an apology was muttered, he could see the remorse settling into her soul. Instead of continuing the painfully awkward topic that the conversation had turned to, he opted for a casual response.

“Please, call me Drew.”

Her head shot up, her gaze locking onto his own as his smile greeted her with a welcoming gesture that she craved. Her meek response was a weak grin, coupled with a half-hearted chuckle, as she zipped her bag shut, her belongings shuffling beneath the cotton prison.

“Okay. . . Drew.”

He approached her once more, dumping shreds of the broken pencil into the trash beside her desk. His shoulder found its place against the chalkboard behind her.

“Now are we on a first-name basis?”

A hint of playful laughter made a resurgence, “Officially? Yes. I’d say so.”

A faint chuckle rumbled within his chest. She was witty. He liked that. Quickly, he found himself enjoying her company.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to welcome the new-hire after all.

“So, Sheila,” he enjoyed the way her name rolled off of his tongue, “What compelled you to take this job?”

A small sigh heaved within the confines of her ribs. She could say that she needed a steady income, which would allude to her impoverished condition. She could say that she wanted to spend more time with the students, but then she’d seem needy. . .

“My love for psychology,” she decided as she tidied the trinkets that were left askew on her desk, “I always found the subject to be fascinating and, I dunno. . . I guess I’d like to pass my knowledge onto the next generation of psychologists.”

She concealed a scowl that threatened to form on her features. That was a stupid answer—a response any teacher would give. She turned to Drew, who leaned closer to her, hanging on to every word that left her.

He took the bait.

“Psychology is rather fascinating, indeed,” he concluded as his gaze shifted from the corners of her lips to the wall past her frame, “complex, yet alluring. Provides answers to some of life’s questions, while opening avenues for further exploration, just like any good discipline.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This man was a walking poem.

“I could argue that psychology is just as interesting as chemistry.”

She raised an eyebrow, her voice deepened, “Oh, really?”

Shoulder slumped further into the wall, his body relaxing as the conversation continued, “Of course. Chemistry may be my one true love, but I would deem psychology to be high on my list of subjects that pique my interest.”

Her suspicions were true.

“So, you are the chem teacher I subbed for last year.”

A slight shake of his head was his immediate response. He was taken aback by her sudden shift in tone but quickly regained his composure, “Y-yeah. I believe so.”

“Around December, right?” she copied his stature, her hand forming a limp point in Drew’s direction.

A glower seized his faded grin, “The flu. Don’t remind me.”

She dropped her hand; it rested by her side as her other arm slowly snaked around her waist, cradling herself against the chalkboard. She had heard horror stories as to how the seasonal flu wrecked the poor man.

“Well,” she mustered a cheery disposition to take his mind off of the sickness he struggled to overcome, “in any case, your students were a delight.”

“They tend to be,” he nodded in affirmation.

Sheila may not have known Drew by name, but she was always a witness to the rumors of the immense amount of love he held for his students. As his name, carried by whispers, ghosted the hallways, the students that she had met throughout her year and a half of substitute teaching spoke highly of him—often describing the positive impact he had made on their formative minds. The more information she gathered about Middleton High’s chemistry teacher, the more she admired his dedication.

Now, if only the students could say the same about her.

“Wanna switch?”

“Excuse me?”

Her shoulder dug into the chalkboard—dust brushing onto her blouse, “Wanna switch classes? I take your chem students, you take my psych ones?”

It wasn’t a serious question. . . at least, she didn’t think it was.

“Why?”

“So, you can work your Lipsky magic on them, or whatever it is you do to make them love you,” her fingertips ghosted her thigh as she lifted her hand towards her destroyed classroom, a hint of aggravation released into the air between them.

His gaze followed her gesture to the skewed desks he had neglected to straighten. A faint sigh, followed by a dejected “Oh. . .” quickly replaced the aggravation and hung in the void that laid between him and Sheila.

His worst fears were true—she was another victim of the initiation. How was he going to break this defeat to Steve without the big lug laughing in his puny face?

“Oh?” she questioned, returning his attention, “What do you mean by ‘oh’?”

“Listen,” he crossed his arms upon his chest as he watched her slender eyebrow raise at his vague continuance, “I’m sure you’ve heard, but Middleton has an. . . unconventional way of—quote, unquote—vetting new teachers.”

She squinted her eyes, distracted by his use of air quotes. Though, his rough explanation would explain her day from hell.

“It’s something that administration tried to ban a few years ago,” he continued, solemnly, as he refocused his gaze upon the clusters of desks that left scratches upon the once pristine tile, “I see it remains alive and well within your students.”

“Unfortunately,” she responded, repositioning herself against the green chalkboard. Her back landed upon the slab with a muffled thump; her eyes squinted as a deep groan rumbled in her chest. The metal chalk holder by the bottom of the board jabbed her hips, but she made no effort to move or display her discomfort, as she duly noted the way the desks were laid—strewn across the floor in confusing patterns that did not exist that morning.

Drew’s head pressed firmly against the dusty chalk as his lips formed a tight line that settled into his light wrinkles. He relaxed further into the wall that supported his frame.

“It sucks. I know.”

“You?” she spat, her voice abrasive against the thick, saddened atmosphere that encased her and her colleague, “Dr. Drew Lipsky? You understand?”

“Listen, Miss Lippy--,” he lifted his body from his comforting position as a section of his spine cracked.

She blinked a few times as she processed his words. Miss Lippy? That was new.

“—The students did the same to me back in ’96,” he continued with a blatant disregard for her confused expression.

Different students, but some traditions never changed, no matter how hard he tried.

“Oh, I—” boy, did she feel like a complete ass. Her body eased from the wall beside her as she followed his gaze to the muck on the floor. Her voice trailed away, fading into the stale air trapped within the classroom. If only she had known before opening her big, stupid mouth. 

“So, to answer your question, Miss Sheila Goodwin,” a side smirk parted his lips as his blue eyes searched her green irises.

Had they always been that blue?

“Yes, I understand.”

Sheila’s stature relaxed, her back hunched as she caught herself melting in his presence. Suddenly, she understood why he went out of his way to help her clean her classroom. As a hint of longing flashed within his piercing crystals, Sheila wondered if anyone had lifted him from the barrage of chewed gum and broken pencils left by his students. She bravely peered into the irises that looked upon her with a soft, almost sympathetic, gaze and came to her silent conclusion.

Probably not.

“Don’t let it get you down, though.”

Her brows furrowed. How could he remain so optimistic?

She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued, effectively stealing the worlds right from her.

“I understand that the first days are discouraging. But, from what little conversation we’ve had,” he crossed his arms once more, “you have a youthful spirit—a passion that drives your ambition. Use it to your advantage,” he tightened his grip on his arm, “and don’t let these experiences force you to abandon your dream.”

Just as they had nearly destroyed his.

“Is that a guarantee?” she asked, nearly pleaded.

“You survived your first day, didn’t you?”

He had a point.

She cocked her head to the side, a slight nod of affirmation.

“Then you’re already halfway there,” his pearly whites shone behind his thin lips to offer positive support for the newbie.

“If you can get through this first week, you’ll be golden.”

Sheila groaned, her body slamming into the chalkboard with a force she didn’t anticipate. She winced, slightly, at the impact, but maintained her exasperated attitude.

That was not the news she wanted to hear.

Drew shook his head. Youthful, she was. Youthful and seemingly impatient. Though, he was certain that she’d learn to value her worst experiences. At least, he hoped.

“Not sure if I can do that, Doc.”

Doc? How cute.

“Try,” he instructed. He’d hate to see her talent wasted because of some idiotic vetting program.

She huffed. No one told her what to do.

“I—”

“Sheila,” his voice calmer than she had expected, “the students—they rave about you. It’s obvious to the faculty that you’re the favored substitute, no matter what Steve says.”

A slight shade of pink rose to her flushed cheeks. The only compliment she had ever received happened to be an off-handed comment from Steve Barkin in passing. Though, as Drew had confirmed, she figured it was his jealousy that kept the wall standing between herself and her former, substitute colleague. But she felt a twinge of uncertainty settle as she continued to process his statement.

Sheila Goodwin? A favored substitute? It was hard to picture within the sea of her self-doubt.

“You think?”

“I know.”

Unknowingly, Sheila’s grin had widened, giving way to the teeth that laid behind her lips, as her shoulders lifted—turning her relaxed stature into a sheepish one. Sheila was never one to take compliments well—she’d either reply with a snarky comment or she’d turn into a crumpled version of herself as her internalized shy nature would seize control. And, since the conversation was thickly laced with her, albeit, regrettable sarcastic comments, she opted for the latter.

Drew watched the witty woman shrivel in front of him. How peculiar, she was. An enigma. A puzzle worth solving.

As her grin widened, he couldn’t help but return the gesture. Conversing with Sheila was pleasant—much more pleasant than the others who occupied the teacher’s lounge. Maybe he could find a friend outside of his niche group of science teachers. The proposition looked promising as her gaze returned to his own.

His grin faltered. He shouldn’t get ahead of himself. They had only just officially met; it was too soon to find friendship. Though, as her softened, emerald irises peered into the depths of his soul, he found her charm to be irresistible. For the first time since college, he wanted a friend.

A friend named Sheila Goodwin.

A subtle growl waved his thoughts away, the words within his mind dissipating into the air. Sheila quickly peered at her abdomen as her arms lifted from her frame. She then turned to Drew, hoping that he hadn’t noticed.

“You hungry?”

He had.

“Oh, uh, y-yeah,” she stuttered, peeling her arm from the wall, moving to grab her bag that awaited her return. It was getting late; she should make dinner.

Her stomach growled again, a little louder this time, as the image of sticky, empty shelves in a dimly-lit refrigerator reminded her of her negligence towards her own needs.

Great. Whatever. She’ll order take-out again. No big.

“Here.”

She turned towards a hand that had been thrusted in her direction. Within it sat a sandwich.

“It’s ham and cheese.”

She followed the hand, connected to an arm that brought her back to the smiling face of Drew Lipsky.

“Oh, no, I—”

“I insist,” he nudged her with his knuckles, “I’m not going to eat it, anyway.”

“Oh, well,” she hesitated for a moment, which prompted Drew to pry her free hand open, carefully, gracefully, transitioning ownership of the fresh bread and deli-meat to her gloved fingertips.

Now this? This, he didn’t have to do.

“Thank you, Drew.”

“Anytime,” he retracted his hand to close his lunch box. “Listen, I have to go,” he gestured towards the door with his thumb, “But, before I do, just remember—”

Sheila held the sandwich within her palm, her fingers digging into its flesh as she anticipated his words of wisdom.

“Give the students a chance to prove themselves as good students, and they’ll give you the chance to change them for the better.”

The sandwich brushed against her lips, “You sound like you speak from experience.”

“Don’t get me started. . .”