#hes only given like a small handful of people easy access to the depths to visit him and speak on joining him on his endeavors

[deathblightprince]

"Win-nie...?"

Smelling strongly of her prayer incense, she peeks into his quarters, Serosh loyally perched on her back. She has no idea what went down or why, but she has picked up on something being wrong - that someone needs her help. And while she's been rejected by many, still she has tried and tried, not for belonging or any sort of materialistic gain.

And oddly, it's the rejected and horrible that embrace her the most.

Pushing inside, she softly shuffles his way, Serosh mewling to alert Godwyn that she is there.

@eldenlordofdragons [Peronie!]

Her intuition was correct. Something was very wrong, but it didn't exactly tell her if she should be the one to bring comfort. For all we know, maybe Miquella could sense something horribly wrong and was giving signals to Perona to investigate.

He was laying in his bed in his large, ornate chambers. The curtains on the bed were drawn closed and the fire burned low within the grand fireplace. He didn't care how cold it was, it could never be as cold as the ice in his heart or his grave.

The mewl roused him from his state of being in-between sleep and wakefulness. He couldn't sleep, not much anyways. Nightmares had come back to haunt and nip his soul tenfold now. He was even beginning to have nightmares of that night, but instead of the black knife assassins, it was Fia, his father, his mother, or even some of his tarnished friends.

He initially believed it was his father entering the room, he was about to speak up through the curtains to tell him to leave him be, but then he heard Perona's voice and froze.

How the hell did she get in here?

He lifted himself off the bed and pulled back one of the curtains to look. Holy shit it is her, and she has Serosh? That means his dad isn't too far away.

"What it is thou need, Perona?" He assumed that if she didn't know, then she likely came in looking for something else within this small castle.

[bugsbenefit]

ST is much more inspired by Stephen King than we tend to acknowledge and i mean MUCH more

Warning: Major spoilers for Firestarter by Stephen King (also Carrie, IT and the Talisman but only teeny tiny one's)

some parallels on the show get talked about a lot, especially with how the writers are very vocal about them/them getting verbally mentioned in the show:

IT, by Stephen King, for example, gets constantly referenced in ST. it's an aesthetic inspiration: small town, townsfolk doesn't know about the HorrorsTM, kids riding around on bikes taking it into their own hands etc. they also took massive inspiration for Vecna and his visions -> classic Pennywise move. but even more specific things, like the balloons at the snowball exploding in blood, or the painting plot of receiving a love confession that gets attributed to the wrong person, are IT plot points

also easy to catch is, the Talisman, by Stephen King, since it gets read out loud by the end of s4. it will for sure somehow play into s5. even just with it's main premise being two worlds that are identical mirrors of each other and having to defeat the evil on the other side to save your own

those two parallels are obvious. but as someone who read Way too much Stephen King growing up, those two are not the only two works that were referenced heavily in the writer's room

for example: Carrie has crazy parallels to ST, especially El and Henry and the concept of powers as a whole. a really quick rundown of themes that get reflected in ST or even incorporated to some degree: (short, because i'll make an actual in depth post on this when i finally find the time to reread it properly)

the religious imagery and fanatic religious followers, the way powers seem to work to begin with (with negative vs. positive emotion as their source playing a big role), the way people respond to the powers (fear, attributing them to a demonic source, isolation as both punishment And a breaking point for Carrie) her relationship with her mother (an abusive parent), bullying tying into powers, and of course, Carrie's main rampage the book is famous

BUT. what i think is one of the biggest parallels on the show for how obvious it is -> the lab and El as a whole are 1000% inspired by Firestarter. i'm so serious it's not even a small reference. it's literally the exact same in large parts

the parallels of ST to Firestarter are absolutely Insane so to show how OH it is, here's the general plot summary of Firestarter (spoilers):

a couple takes part in an experiment while in college because they need the money. (can't remember if it was MKultra explicitly or just implied but yeah, it's MKultra) as a side effect of the substances and hallucinogenics (LSD) they were given the mother develops minor telekinetic powers and the dad has some form of mind persuasion abilities afterwards. they go home with the money, however, get continuously observed by the organization to monitor any additional effects but then they have a daughter who has Big psychic powers because of the tests done on them. the organization who did the original experiment finds out and tries to take the girl. (the mom dies as the husband and child manage to flee) long story short, after being on the run for a while, the daughter gets taken by the men and locked up in a lab facility. where she's confined to a room, has guards that keep her from leaving, and has to participate in "tests" where scientists try to figure her powers out. especially intense though is the director of the organization, who becomes obsessed with her and her powers while at the lab, the man, who was hired to kidnap her in the first place, now takes interest in her and assumes the identity of a worker in the facility, a janitor, to appear more harmless and get access to her. he manages to gain her trust with this disguise and convinces her to actually demonstrate her powers, which have become incredibly powerful and destructive after some HorrorsTM she witnessed prior later she manages to escape the facility when her dad shows up to get her back. however the "janitor" claiming to be her friend kills her father which causes her to express powers on a level never seen before with which she kills both the "janitor" in disguise and the obsessed organization leader (while also having almost everyone present in the building die as a result of her exploding it and any military vehicle approaching as she escapes) PS: she and her dad hide out from the organization in an old abandoned cabin of his in the woods for an extended period of time PSS: the book ends with her going to a newspaper and planning to reveal what has been going on at the lab to blow their cover and get them to finally stop hunting her down

it's LITERALLY THE LAB. IT IS. it's one of THE most obvious parallels in ST imo and i'm shocked i've never seen Anyone bring it up (also need to reread the book soon and make a longer post about it because there's SO much there) but this is literally the conception and later downfall of the lab in s1-2. and now with s4 it even covers some of the general conditions there with the tests and guards and Henry and. just. hhh. it's the SAME. Brenner, Henry, Hopper, Terry, and El are all in this book

also fun fact: the book is called Firestarter bc the girl is able to, duh, start fires. but it later turns out that her powers actually Aren't just pyrokinesis. she has general powers (very similar to Carrie). the fires only happen because of the insane energy levels she's able to channel, they're just the Side product. she can also just use normal telekinesis -> even robs an airport coin telephone at one point (El stealing is fun Hopper and Will let's commit fraud Byers would be proud of her)

Stephen King books like IT and Carrie seem like obvious inspirations for some elements of ST. but Firestarter especially is such an obvious inspiration and for Sure the blueprint of Hawkins lab it's not even funny. Stephen King in general seems to be a BIG influence on ST as a whole which makes sense with the way the Duffers talked about him before...

but i'm so serious, when i say Stephen King is probably the place where you'll consistently find The Most ST references and spoilers for future plot points, i MEAN it

[scripttorture]

You mention in posts how torture doesn’t make people obedient and usually makes them spiteful (which obviously makes sense), but isn’t it realistic for someone to comply out of fear rather than loyalty? Whether that was giving up information or obeying orders or something else entirely. I imagine it depends on the person, and they would probably still be willing to turn on their torturers if given the chance, but would it be possible for them to obey orders in hopes of avoiding more pain?

This is a much more nuanced and complicated topic then we’re taught to assume.

 When it comes to giving up information it’s pretty clear cut. No, torture can’t lead to accurate information for a lot of interconnected reasons. I have about six separate masterposts covering the reasons for this.

 One of those is the antagonism torture produces. Another is the memory problems torture causes. Another is the effect that the use of torture has on organisations and the chain of command. Another is the effect torture has on torturers.

 Torture drastically increases the chances of memory loss and it also increases the chances of inaccurate memories. So not only is a torture victim less likely to talk, they’re more likely to be wrong if they do talk.

 But the effects on victims aren’t the main reason torture doesn’t work as a way of getting information. You’re assuming that torturers have access to people who have information.

 The reality is that torture destroys an organisation’s ability to gather accurate information. Most information comes from volunteers: when torture comes into play less people volunteer information. This means that an organisation which tortures is more likely to be questioning someone who knows nothing. That person is then abused until they start making things up.

 Because there’s less access to volunteered information and because humans are very bad at telling when someone is lying, a lot of these made up stories are believed. And this then effects who else the organisation arrests and tortures. This creates a sort of spiral, with lies leading to more lies.

 Additionally the torturers themselves make things worse. There’s less quality research on them, but the research and anecdotal accounts create a pretty clear picture of their behaviour. They undermine the chain of command, they lose the skills the originally had as they turn to torture, they’re aggressive, incredibly competitive and they have a… fracturing effect on their organisation.

 Basically they’re incredibly difficult to work with and totally convinced of their own importance. And this effects their colleagues. It totally divides organisations. The worst case I’ve read about involved members of the same organisation killing each other over access to prisoners.

 That’s a short run through of the main factors. Torture, in the legally defined sense, means all of these factors are in play. Plus a few more I’ve omitted to keep this shorter.

 With all of that together you just can’t get accurate information.

 If you want longer posts I’ve made on the subject I suggest looking for the ‘torture doesn’t work’ tag and the ‘torture as interrogation’ tag. You can also read the masterposts. If you want a much more in depth look at why torture consistently fails as a way of getting information I recommend O’Mara’s Why Torture Doesn’t Work and Rejali’s Torture and Democracy.

 O’Mara is a neuroscientist and goes through the effects torture has on the brain in a way that’s accessible, explaining the damage torture causes and how that destroys the evidence torturers claim to be seeking. Rejali’s book is a breeze block but it’s really a must, it is the textbook on torture in a broad sense. He ties together information from across the globe creating a broader picture of what torture does, not just to victims but to societies.

 The question of compliance under threat and pain… is more complicated.

 People can be forced to do some things. That much is obvious from a brief glance at human history and things like slavery. But it’s important to listen to what people in these scenarios say.

 And my opinion, based on what I’ve read, is that what these people say doesn’t support the idea that humans will easily obey instructions when they’re hurt or threatened. I think instead these people are making hard headed, rational choices in absolutely awful situations. I think when we don’t have these experiences of torture or slavery, it’s easy to look at the surface of the situation and assume that pain alone assures obedience. I think that happens because it’s hard for use to understand the rationale when we don’t have that lived experience.

 Let me give some examples. So it probably goes without saying that slavery goes hand in hand with physical abuse. One of the major researchers on slavery, whose data I quote pretty regularly, assumes throughout his writings that pain is the deciding factor which ‘makes’ people obey.

 But he also describes a couple of very obvious consistent patterns in the ways slavers behave. Slavers almost universally do the following things as well as using physical abuse:

Separate enslaved people from their community

Bar enslaved people from other forms of support

Make enslaved people financially/materially reliant on the slavers

Tell enslaved people that going to the police/authorities will lead to the enslaved person being arrested

Try to convince enslaved people that they will be better off if they comply, usually by framing it as a debt to be worked off with promises of riches after a period of time

 Now here’s the thing: we know from studies on cults and studies on ICURE techniques that a lot of these strategies will result in obedience when there is no violence or physical abuse.

 Given that I don’t think we can assume that violence is the deciding factor. In fact I think the evidence we have from forced confessions under torture suggests the violence may lead to less obedience and a lower ‘success’ rate then a set up that used emotional abuse or other exploitative techniques without violence.

 We have two sources of historical data that are used for statistical studies on forced confessions. One is from historical France. We think that this data set only involved torture to force a confession; no other method of coercion just violence. The rate of forced confessions varied a little in different areas but over all it’s about 10%. The second data set is from the ‘London Cage’ a British prison during the second world war. Here we know that torture was combined with blackmail, bribery and other kinds of coercion. The rate of forced confessions there was about 30%.

 And while this is just two studies, while the data is lacking… That is one hell of a jump.

 Let’s circle back to ICURE. ICURE stands for Isolation, Control information, create Uncertainty, Repetition and Emotive responses. It’s a set of techniques which can, sometimes, change someone’s beliefs when it’s applied consistently over a long time.

 Notice the effort slavers put in to isolating their victims. Notice that the behaviour pattern I’m describing means the slavers are creating uncertainty over seeking help and repeating those messages as well as messages that the victims will be better off if they just go along with it.

 Slavers will generally also try to control the information their victims have access to, taking phones and blocking access to news sources and other resources. Now a lot of slavers will transport their victims to other states or countries putting a language barrier in place. They sometimes also use emotive responses in attempts to persuade victims to comply.

 I’ve read multiple accounts where survivors of modern slavery described slavers telling them that the money they were making was being sent to the victim’s family and without it the family would not survive. (Sometimes the slavers do send small amounts to the families of their victims, sometimes they pocket everything.) I’ve also read accounts where gangs of slavers used religion and oaths taken in a religious setting to persuade their victims they’d be punished by God for not complying.

 Even with all of this, all these techniques we know can sometimes ‘work’- lots of people refuse. Lots of people disobey. Lots of people escape. Lots of people actively sabotage the operations the slavers put together.

 And if you look at that same history of slavery, that shows us people can sometimes be forced to work, you’ll see that this has always been true.

 We have records of historic enslaved people attacking slavers, forming organised militias, forming parallel societies, sacking towns, taking over an entire Caribbean island and beating off four European armies in the process. We also have records of smaller acts. Sabotage, worship of banned deities, speaking banned languages, destruction of property, aiding in the escape of others.

 What I’m saying is: this isn’t black and white. The evidence, modern and historical does not paint a clear picture of violence leading to obedience.

 Instead I believe that it shows humans are resilient, stubborn, adaptable creatures. People can survive all kinds of horrible situations. It is more accurate, more human, to assume that people make rational choices.

 Sometimes those choices involve short term compliance while looking for a better option or a way out. But we tend to hear less stories about the people who completely refuse to comply. We tend to treat that as an impossible fiction when it is a recorded historical and modern reality.

 Bringing this back to writing as a general rule the more complicated the act the less likely you can force someone to do it. Because the more complicated it is the more opportunities they’ll have to sabotage it or use it against their abuser.

 I recommend reading up on the history of Haiti pet. Then Brazil via Palmares.

 I’ll end this by bringing it back to those statistics on forced confessions in historical France. Imagine the conditions with me for a moment. Unsanitary, cramped cells. Dehydration, starvation and disease. Plus the kinds of scarring torture that are conjured up in the minds of most Western people when the word ‘torture’ comes up; thumb screws, leg irons that tighten until the bone snaps, whips.

 Picture it. Try to imagine the pain those people went through.

 And remember that 90% of them did not comply long enough to sign their name.

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

[marmolady]

The Fountain

Main Pairings: Estela x (f)MC

Summary: Post-EndlessEnding. A Broken Chains AU. The world has been restored, but at the price of Taylor's life. And Estela isn't ready to let her go.

Word Count: 2121

Warnings: Major character death.

Tagging: @saivilo, @edgydepressedchoicesthot, @sceptilemasterr, @greengroove

Hug prompts-- 29. group hug. Thanks @mauvecatfic! I'll make Raj's next hugs more cheerful.

Through the rumblings of an oncoming rainstorm, the silent figure of Estela Montoya limped and crawled through the thick La Huerta jungle, driven by a thought that had become a need… to see the face of her beloved again, to hear her voice.  It spurred her on, a tiny glimmer of something worth living for that she clung to with desperation that increased with every unsteady step.

Estela’s last memory of her wife, of her beautiful Taylor, wouldn’t be that hollow shell-- bloodless, devoid of all the fire and spirit… all the easy warmth that should have been there-- that she’d laid sobbing next to the dark medical room. No. She was going to take her minute more. Everyone else… they had a world raised from the dead; a world that meant absolutely fucking nothing to Estela now. After everything she’d sacrificed… god, Taylor… the world owed her that moment.

The Fountain of Youth was a long and arduous trek from Elyys’tel at the best of times, but half-dragging a savaged leg, it was near insurmountable. If it weren’t for the promise of hearing that voice, of seeing those sapphire eyes alight with life… well, Estela would endure the harrowing journey over again if that was the end. Her knees, the heels of her hands… they were badly grazed and muddied from catching herself as she’d stumbled again and again. Her senses, usually alert to her surroundings, had been dulled by the haze of grief that preoccupied her every thought. She was lucky to have gotten all this way through La Huerta’s treacherous jungles without coming to serious harm, but it was of little concern to Estela. The worst that could happen was that she’d die. And that…. In all honesty, it would be welcome. What was there worth surviving for now? Were it not for all that had been sacrificed so that she might live, she’d end her fucking life herself and be done with it. There was no future… no future save for this time they had together. When their moment was over, Estela would be once again plunged into the abyss that was the depth of her grief, an abyss that would surely swallow her up. She couldn’t look that far ahead-- she just couldn’t. She had to keep it together for Taylor… one last time.

Estela fell to her knees as she came through the doorway of the abandoned temple. Dread flooded her body. All that was left now was for her to summon the courage to reach out to the woman she loved from across time… to do so knowing that she’d been setting in motion the last minute they’d have together. Once it was done it was done; that much she as certain of. She could keep going back to that tree until she drove herself to insanity-- but doing so would be to inflict that pain on Taylor, forever colouring her too-short life with a darkness she didn’t deserve. Just once. Just once in the rest of her life-- that wasn’t asking too much, was it? Estela’s stomach turned as she thought it out. There had been no thinking it out while she’d slogged through the jungle; she’d moved onwards robotically, her mind and body detached from one another while grief drove her to the last hope, the last scrap of her person. Only now did she doubt everything. She hauled herself back to her feet, her weakened leg trembling violently beneath her weight. And she kept walking forwards, all the while her mind whirred.

It wasn’t as though Taylor would see this future, see the heartbreak in her wife’s eyes, and be able to change the path she’d set herself on. This path had tortured Taylor. She’d sacrificed herself because she simply couldn’t live with the alternative. And she’d died with hope. A hope that had been for naught, a spark extinguished along with the life in her eyes, but a hope that had given Taylor the courage to give away her very life force. What right did Estela have to take that away?

But I need her. I need her!

She’s gone.

The minute would be over and… Taylor would still be… gone. Would Estela hurt any less? No, but she’d endure a world of pain for even a second of feeling Taylor’s presence there with her. She’d endure it again and again, over and over until it killed her.

If it’s gonna hurt her…?

Estela’s shallow breathing became even more rapid as she stood before the tree. Tears spilled down her dirty cheeks. Blind grief had gotten her this far, but she’d been so blind. She couldn’t do this. Not now, not ever.

Taylor was dead. Dead and gone. They’d said their goodbyes down beneath Atropo, before Taylor had touched that damned crystal.  She’d close her eyes and see the terrible, sickening way her sweet Taylor had writhed in agony… the way her face lost almost all semblance of her self as it contorted with the pain. As Estela had seen again and again, near constantly since she’d woken to a healed world, but a world without Taylor. It was more than she could bear.

With tears and snot rolling into her mouth, dripping from her chin, she stumbled toward the tree… toward the Fountain of Youth. If she was careful, if she thought it through properly, she could find solace elsewhere. Panting for air, Estela wiped her face hurriedly. She couldn’t be crying for this, no matter how much she was tearing up inside.

She’d told herself she wouldn’t do it. It was risky; she’d need to be certain not to say or do a thing that could alter the events that would shape, well, everything. But it was different now. She needed it; she needed her mom to tell her everything would be okay. Because the person she’d otherwise have turned to was lost forever, and… because it wasn’t okay…. She wasn’t… she wasn’t.

Raising her hand to the tree’s surface, Estela closed her eyes and imagined her mother’s face… the words of comfort that would come. Just enough… just enough to keep her from crumbling. But as her fingers were about to graze the bark, she hesitated. That face in her mind warped with shock and fear. Of course. That fucking scar. She wouldn’t even be able to get a single word out before it would be clear to Olivia that something had gone wrong… that she’d been badly hurt. Estela felt the cold weight of her heart sink down to her toes. She… couldn’t do that to her mama.

A tortured cry wrenched itself from Estela’s lungs as she threw her body forward against the hard, cold bricks. There were no more loopholes… no cheats that could give her even a moment more of an existence that wasn’t this fucking, fucking nightmare. She screamed into the damp ground, and screamed until her throat and lungs were raw.

Why did she have to go on living?

It was like she was drawn to people who were like her-- people who cared too much, people who would die for a cause. They’d die and they’d leave her. She’d tried to warn Taylor off; ‘you get close to me, you’ll get hurt’. Bullshit. Because no matter how Estela might put her life on the line for what she believed in, somehow she ended up the one still breathing. But she didn’t fucking want to. She didn’t want to live anymore. She didn’t… want to….

She howled.

_________________________

A small party emerged at last from the thickest part of the forest, the ruins of No’ox Naj illuminated by a flash of lightning as if to welcome them to shelter.

Shivering from the wet that sent a chill to his bones, Diego huddled close to Varyyn, who guided him with a gentle steer of a long and muscular arm.

“You must watch your step. It would be easy to slip on the wet moss.”

Gazing around the temple, taking in the gloom that hung there, Raj shuddered violently. “Maybe it was all that talk of ghosts and the whole ‘dead Zahra’ thing, but this place just gives me the heebies….”

“Well, yeah. That’d… that’d do it.”

“Estela?” Quinn called out, her voice echoing off the stone walls. “Esteeelllaaaa…!”

No answer. Diego’s heart sank. He’d been so sure he’d been onto something. Not only was this place a strong connection to the Endless-- and by association, with Taylor-- but it held within a magic gift that could never be more tempting than it was right now.

“We should go further in,” he decided. If this ‘Fountain of Youth’ thing did work, maybe they could ask…? The thought made a hard lump rise in his throat. The thought of seeing Taylor again. But they couldn’t… they couldn’t.

“You’re right,” Michelle agreed. “As if Estela ever comes running when anyone calls her name at the best of times…. If she’s anywhere, she took herself there to be alone; she was never going to make this easy.”

Diego winced so hard he was certain it hadn’t gone unnoticed by a single one of the group. She’d have come running for Taylor. Every time. He cleared his throat. “We should at least check around the tree. Um, maybe check in with the others?”

Somehow, he’d found himself leading the search party. A role, he was so painfully aware, that would usually have naturally fallen to Taylor. That should still be falling to Taylor. His imaginary friend had left him, so… so it was time to grow up. To step up. He supposed it helped that everyone was handling him with kid gloves just as they were Estela; if Diego needed something to happen, everyone just about fell over themselves to make it happen. Right now, all he wanted-- all any of them wanted-- was to know that Estela was safe. If anything happened to her now….

Quinn checked her phone; still a bizarre feeling after so many months without such communications. Her face fell, even expecting no different to the response she got. “Still nothing on their end. But the Elysian could take days to check properly, even with whatever scans Iris has access to, and all the cameras-- just because they haven’t found her there yet, doesn’t mean….”

“We’re not losing anyone else!” Michelle said shrilly as she paced the floor. “I’ve just lost one sister and I’m not about to… about to….” She gasped and dissolved into sobs. “…Taylor would be losing her mind.”

There was a shuffling sound… stumbling feet. Everyone hushed, a joint breath held.

Limping into view, one hand-- stained with blood as were her forehead and knees-- propping her up with the wall as she came forward; Estela.

“It’s okay. I… I’m safe.”

Safe. Not ‘okay’, but safe. It was all she could give them.

She could have hidden away. Her friends--- though she loved them so much-- were living reminders of what had been torn away. She could not look at a one of them and not see Taylor.

“Oh, thank god!” Michelle exclaimed, and she rushed forward. She had a moment’s hesitation, holding back from taking her friend in her arms and squeezing her to within an inch of her life, not knowing if any physical show of affection would be welcomed. But Estela reached out, her eyes welling, and Michelle guided her into an embrace.

The feeling of being taken in a friends arms, of being held… it was wonderful, and yet it hurt, and all at once the dam broke and Estela could not have held back her tears if she’d wanted to. She collapsed to the cold, damp floor, eased down by her friend's steadying arms.

Raj was next in-- never one to hold back when a group hug was in the offing. As he got down on the ground, Estela flopped forward and cried into his chest. There was nothing to say, so he just wrapped her in a hug and squeezed her there, while Diego and Varyyn, and Quinn piled in too. There they wept together. Sharing in loss and relief and exhaustion and a deep and overpowering sadness.

In the centre of the mass of arms and bodies, Estela closed her eyes against Raj’s warm chest… surrounded in a scent so reminiscent of happy memories and better days when the world was not so dark… feasts and laughter and… her. Her Taylor. She sighed deeply… and let herself feel it.

The comfort she needed was right there. It wasn’t enough-- how could it be when her world had ended?-- but it was warmth and it was love, and her heart was not breaking alone.

[starksvixen]

Part 2 - Two Makes Three

Masterlist

Summary: The Child wasn’t the first time Mando broke a contract to save someone. You were the first, presumed dead thanks to help after he was supposed to capture you. Now, you work under a false name with Mando to pay off your dues. However, as time drags on and he breaks another Guild contract, buried feelings between you two bubble to the surface.

Warnings: More (Y/N) and Mando bickering/sarcasm, some sexual themes, obvious violence

A/N - Sorry for the hiatus! I was having a hard time figuring out what to write about for this chapter. So enjoy the extra long one ahead of you!

-~- 

Your and Mando’s latest bounty had gone...awry, to say the least. Little did the two of you expect to have a baby on your hands. You let the 50 year old label deceive you into thinking this was easy. Now you were co - piloting the Razer Crest with a small youngling in your lap. You had to admit, the small green child had begun to grow on you. 

“What are you doing you little womp rat?” you whisper softly as you look down at him, receiving a small coo in return.

“(Y/N)...” Mando warns.

“Calm down, metal head. I’m not getting attached, I’m being nice. Look it up sometime,” 

A soft breath through the reverberator of the Mandalorian’s helmet is heard in place of his human chuckle. You smirk in return, turning away from your control station to play with the Child.

It had been close to 5 years with Mando, joining him on his bounties. Throughout your time together, you grew closer then some partners might. You trusted each other greatly, watching out for the other every step during a bounty. Sometimes you would watch his six outside of missions, the same being said for the warrior on your behalf. Even though you had never seen his face, never heard his name, you trusted him with your life. You did technically owe your freedom to the ice cold warrior seated to your left. 

However, your feelings had quickly changed for him. You couldn’t tell if it was because he was the only guy you had spoken too in depth for a while, or if there was something else attracting you to him. But your feelings almost went to far when the Mudhorn attacked him, threatening his life in the process. You quickly stepped in front of the fallen Mando, only to be saved by the tiny green child with his magic hands.

Mando continually asked why you didn’t listen to him and escape with the bounty. Each time, you refused to respond. 

“We’re here,” Mando says as he turns off the main controls to the ship.

Your gut hits the floor as you are forced to place the innocent child in his bassinet, closing the lid. Something about this deal was unbelievably fishy. And you didn’t trust it, the people that wanted the Child, their supposed intentions you weren’t allowed to speak about. 

Navigating through the streets of Navarro, the Child’s bassinet in tow, you made your way to the agreed upon rendezvous. Every damn bounty hunter in the vicinity trailed your curvy frame with their hungry eyes. With each wolf whistle and cat call, Mando’s shoulders squared up in their intensity. You assumed it to be protectiveness as that of a sibling, quickly pushing off any thought that it could be jealousy. 

You guarded the entrance of the building as Mando disappeared inside with the Child. Keeping your head tilted to the ground so that none of the nearby stormtroopers could see your face. However, through the small space you had given yourself, you could clearly see them, keeping a tight hand on the blaster resting on your hip. 

Mando quickly exited the building, payment in hand as you followed him into the crowded city streets. Looking up a bit more now, you looked towards his darkened visor, wishing you could read his facial expressions at the time. 

“We did what we had to do,” Mando says, obviously sensing your apprehension.

“Doesn’t mean it was right, Mando,” 

He doesn’t respond.

“Meet you back at the ship?” you sigh.

“Yes, ma’am,”

“Stay safe, Mando,”

“You too, Dar’manda,”

With that, you tug your hood further down your head and disappear into the crowd, leaving Mando to his people. 

You would never admit it, but you already missed the little squirt. His soft cooing and presence was much like your Mandalorian’s, quiet yet comforting. Now all you do is guard the ship, casually flipping your blade in hand with your ears on patrol for any noise. 

A soft hiss followed by the soft clanking of boots against metal alerts you to someone’s return. The blade’s handle sits nicely in your palm as you grip it tightly, listening for any clue to who had arrived. 

“(Y/N)!” Mando, yells up to you. 

“Yeah?!” you yell back, sighing a soft one in relief at his presence and not someone’s ass you had to kick.

No response. 

“For the love of-” you mumble to yourself, getting ready to rise from your seat when the familiar Mandalorian mask peeks it’s way through the hole in the wall.

When Mando is fully on board and turns towards you, he freezes, like he’s stunned to see you’ve taken off your top layers. It was a usual thing for you, but you would quickly get it back on before he ever saw you. Through your embarrassment at him seeing...everything, you put on a confident facade.

“If your jaw is open in that tin can you can shut it,” you smirk.

“I thought I told you to guard the ship,”

“And I did, I just got comfortable while doing it”

You grab your vest that lay nearby and slip it on, slipping it over your breast band with ease.

“What’s the next bounty?” you ask as your green leather jacket slips on with ease. 

“Some Prince that escaped his bounty,” he sits in his seat, flipping a few switches that bring the control board to life. 

You simply nod, helping him with the pre-flight checklist, flipping switches on your end, when you see something out of the corner of your eye. The kid’s ball in Mando’s hand. He gently twists it back onto the lever, getting ready to push off into flight. Your bottom lip traps itself between your teeth, hoping Mando will change his mind. 

And he did.

In the blink of an eye, he turns the ship back off. You follow suit, quickly grabbing onto the army green jacket that lay on the seat behind you. 

“Joined the Dark side have we, Mando?” you slip the jacket on with ease, securing the weapons within it’s pockets.

“That’s a horrible joke,” he replies, the soft puffs of air that make it through to be translated alerting you to his chuckles.

“But it made you laugh,” 

You had him stumped, making Mando choose silence as he stands and grabs his weapons. As he secures them in place, his visor points towards you.

“Let’s go get the kid,”

Within a matter of minutes, you and Mando were quickly making your way through Nevarro’s streets once again. Gently slipping his hand into yours, he pulls you down a dark alleyway, probably leading to some secret entrance you weren’t aware of. You would be lying if you said you didn’t have goosebumps spreading like wildfire up your arms, that you weren’t squeezing his hand to give you a modicum of comfort. But when you turn the last corner, and peer upon a small trash bin your heart plummets. 

The Child’s bassinet lay abandoned in the heaps of garbage.

“C’mon,” a static filled voice fills your ears, his hand squeezing yours as he continues to lead you down the alley. 

Mando abandons your hand once you stop at a building with roof top access. Without a word said between you, you stand guard of the building while he formulates a plan of what to do. He knew the place best, you trusted him. 

Once he returns, he points you in the direction of a door, a small slot for a camera droid completely covered by not abandoned. 

“Think you can work your magic?” he whispers just loud enough for his modulator to translate.

“Looks easy enough,”

You walk over to the door as Mando find a place to hide. Once you place yourself in front of the door, you grab your knife just in case and knock on the door. As the droid comes out to scan you, you quickly rip it off it’s base and walk away with grace but speed. 

A couple stormtroopers quickly flood the scene but you were already back in the safety of Mando’s presence as you both maneuvered in the alleys once more. He leads you to a small opening, a blank wall to your right that you knew was his focus. Keeping a steady hand hovered over your blaster, you listen for any disturbances coming your way.

Once the beeping began, Mando gently wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you into his chest as he took cover behind another wall. In a matter of seconds, the wall was blasted open and you were thankful for the orange hues surrounding you to hide your imminent blush. 

As he released you from his grip, you readjusted your clothes and you both headed in. The entire way as you searched for the child, you protected each other. He had your back and you had his. And you couldn’t deny, watching him fight like that made you a bit flustered from the distraction.

You fight your way to a lab, blasting the door open to see a weaselly looking doctor and a drone with a needle you didn’t trust. From behind Mando, you lifted your blaster and shot the droid down without a second thought. His helmet turned towards you slightly, and you could tell he was annoyed at how close the shot was to his head. All you could do was offer him a weak smile. 

Focusing back on your mission, Mando advanced towards the doctor with his blaster raised as you rushed towards the Child. He was sleeping soundly, god knows what had happened to the little guy. Your heart hurt for him, knowing what it was like to be pushed to your limits and used. Searching the lab, you find a small blanket that you grab quickly. You gently pull him from the machine he was under, wrapping him up to keep him safe and warm.

“What did you do to him?!” you hear Mando yell at the fearful doctor.

“Mando, it doesn’t matter! We got him so let’s go.”

You listened as the man repeated the word ‘please’ like a prayer. Walking over, you gently lay a hand on the outstretched arm of the warrior, giving it a reassuring squeeze to bring him back to you.

Blaster still in hand but arm now relaxed, Mando quickly walks out with you trailing behind, your own blaster at the ready. 

You make your way through the base once more, running into more stormtroopers on your way out. The Mandalorian quickly shoots out the lights, gently laying his hand on your lower back to escort you to the cover of shipping boxes that littered the room. As you crouched under them, you looked up at his visor for your next move. A finger to where his lips would be, his hand moving downwards. Stay quiet, stay low. You nod in response. 

Without warning, Mando quickly leaves you to protect the sleeping infant in your arms. Peering over the boxes, you watch him quickly shoot down the stormtroopers searching for you in the room. Goddamn, he’s hot when he does that...

“Hey!” a stormtrooper says from behind you.

Quickly, you pull out your knife and stab him in the arm to make him drop his blaster. Before you could do anymore damage, Mando’s spear appears from above you and electrocutes the trooper where he stands. 

“You okay?” he asks quickly once the trooper collapsed. 

“Yeah, I got distracted by the kid sorry,” you lie.

“It’s fine, let’s just get out of here.” 

He holds out a hand which you gratefully take, standing up and continuing to try and escape the maze of a base. As you walk down a hallway, you hear the signature hiss of a door opening behind you. On reflex, you grip your blaster tightly and twist on the heel of your foot. After a few well aimed shots, the stormtrooper falls dead. You hear Mando’s flame thrower cooking another alive. But as you look down, a pair of big brown eyes meets yours drowsy from sleep.

“Shh, it’s okay little one,” you coo.

You run your pointer finger down his small cheek, coaxing him back to sleep as you wait for the sound of collapse from behind you. Once it comes, you quickly turn and resume following Mando.

You’re quickly cornered by some very angry stormtroopers in a larger room. All you can do is hold the Child protectively against your chest, hoping they don’t see your face well beneath your hood. You follow his lead, kneeling to the ground, releasing your weapon.

You knew it wasn’t surrender, rather it was Mando using yet another one of his elaborate weapons to help you escape. For once, you were thankful for all the tricks he had up his sleeve. Quickly returning to your feet, blaster in hand, you make your well deserved escape from the base. 

Of course they alerted all the hunters in Navarro. You just wished you had more time to escape. Everyone must have been here to corner you, and you knew your time had come. Gently, you switch the Child into his arms, your free hand dropping to your side.

“(Y/N)...”

“Just get the kid back to the ship, I’ll be right behind you,” you whisper.

Before either of you had the chance, however, you were completely surrounded, Greef Karga at the head of the pack. You zone out for most of their conversation, focusing on how many bounty hunters there were instead and how to kill them. There was no way you could take them all down, not on your own. You become desperate, facing the crowd before you.

“Let us pass!” 

“I can’t do that Dar’Manda,” 

Looking towards Mando, the nod of his head told you of the long battle ahead. Quickly taking refuge in the speeder, you both take many shots at the hunters before you. A few go down before you crash and your partner is forced to use one of his more...formidable weapons. All of it still wasn’t enough, and you were eventually surrounded by gunfire. 

You try to ward them off, give Mando time to think a plan through. But as you peek over the slightest bit to get a better shot, someone else’s wizzes by your face, searing the skin close to your eye. Blood pours down your face as you collapse to the ground, holding your face from the pain. 

“Cyar’ika!” you hear Mando exclaim in Mando’a over the gunfire, your brain to fuzzy to process the translation. 

All you feel beside you is the Child and above you your masked partner as the shootout continues. Looking to your side and above the lip of the speeder, many more warriors that resemble Mando join the fight. But instead of fighting against you, they were fighting for you. 

“Is this them?” you ask, your lips trembling from the pain.

“Yes, (Y/N), they’re Mandalorian. Just like you.” 

Besides your Mando, you had never met another of your kind that you could remember. Your brain was in awe, your heart swelled at the thought of belonging. 

You shakily sit back up, still protected by Mando above you, and grab your blaster once more. With your one good eye, you fire at the other hunters to aid the Mandalorians in their fight to help you. 

“Get out of here! We’ll cover you!” one of the warriors spoke to Mando.

“You’ll have to relocate the Covert!”

“This is the Way.”

“This is the Way.” 

Looking down towards you, Mando gave you silent permission to follow suit. With a soft nod towards the heavily armored warrior beside the two of you, you reply:

“This is the Way.”

Mando helps you to your feet as you scoop the Child into your arms. Slipping away from the fight, you quickly run into the Razer Crest with him, your mind racing with all that needed to be done to get the hell out of there. 

He quickly disappeared into the cockpit as you turned to close the doors, only to be met with Greef Karga and a blaster.

“Hold it, Dar’Manda.” 

You glare at him, something he probably couldn’t see from beneath the one side of your hood that hadn’t been burnt to a fringe. For a moment, you realized it didn’t matter if Karga saw who you were. So Dar’Manda took off the hood, the pain of the cloth tearing from your fresh wound making you grit your teeth. (Y/N) (Y/L/N), the assassin that many bounty hunters sought after looked at him now. 

And he knew he was in trouble. 

“Leave...don’t make this any harder then it needs to be,” you say, your grip on the Child tightening. 

“I can’t just leave, you broke the Code!”

“You see, you’re wrong. That’s Mando you’re talking about. But I...” you wildly gesture, slowly moving your blade concealed from beneath your sleeve closer to your hand. “I never took the Code,” 

With the flick of your wrist, you send the knife flying to the control panel, making a gas fill the area quite fast. Backing up quickly to make your way to Mando, you bump into his metal frame. With his arm raised in the air, he shoots Karga off the ship and quickly closes the door.

“Let’s the get the hell out of here,” you sigh, climbing into the cockpit, settling into your co - pilot chair with the still sleeping Child in your arms. 

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[oumaheroes]

Earthbound: Matthew’s Story

Context:

Hundreds of years after the fall of Earth, mankind is slowly starting to return. Some people have a stronger urge to return than others, confused by fragments of memories from a life already lived.

Full fic can be found here.

Arthur’s story can be found here.

-----

Matthew is four. His family have got their first dog and it’s a large, fluffy creature, all flank and tail and teeth. Matthew is horrified, at first, at this large thing that has suddenly appeared in his house, and he cries and tries to get away from it when it approaches him in the living room.

‘Just come say hello,’ Daddy says, hoisting him up to sit on his knees and taking his small hand in his larger one. His father’s body curls around him and, enveloped in arms, Matthew feels safe. His daddy reaches out his hand, thus, Matthew’s hand, giant thumb in the middle of his palm so that it is pinned there, and holds it aloft in front of the creature.

A large wet nose immediately descends and Matthew squeals because it is cold and strange and scary and Daddy shushes him, bouncing him on a knee. ‘He won’t bite’, Daddy says, ‘I won’t let him hurt you. He’s just trying to say hello; doggies say hello a little differently, is all.’

He kisses Matthew’s temple and rocks him, gently. ‘Want to try again?’

He is not but he nods and says yes because he wants to be brave and strong and he trusts Daddy, he does, or he really really wants to. At his reply, Daddy holds out their hands again, in front of the thing’s mouth, and whispers soothing nothings in Matthew’s ear- he’s not paying attention, too focused on the mouth with the teeth.

The creature snuffles their hands before giving them a lick, pink rough tongue and slobber; Matthew gasps, surprised, and then laughs. Daddy chuckles, and Matthew feels the vibrations rumble through him. ‘See? I told you; he only wants to be your friend. He’s called Kumajirou.’

The name doesn’t quite stick, too long and cumbersome for Matthew’s tentative tongue and he becomes Kuma, instead. It fits.

Matthew is eleven and wishes people could be more like dogs, open and friendly and honest about all that they are. He finds people too quick, children especially: too sly and fast and always with something hidden behind their smile. He’s figured out that he isn’t really a people person, anyway- it’s not that he doesn’t like people, exactly, but he doesn’t really know how to act around them; doesn’t know what to say or how to read them properly and now the whole process of opening his mouth to speak to someone feels daunting, like standing on the roof of his house and forcing himself to step off.

Matthew likes to sit on his thoughts, chew them about in his mouth a bit and be sure of the shape they will form before he lets them go. This means that he takes too long, is silent more often than not because kids his age don’t have the patience to stop and wait for him to get himself ready, lining up his words like soldiers about to march.

He’s known as the silent one at school, blending into the environment like a piece of furniture. Whether it’s in lessons, in sports, in games, or anything in between, his classmate’s eyes glaze past him and he knows that they’ve forgotten he’s there, forgotten that he’s an option to speak to. They’re not mean to him, they just don’t think about him, anymore. Even adults are not immune, more used to handling the demands of the louder kids, dazzled by the brightness of the smarter ones, fond of the affectionate children. Matthew is only half there, he supposes, sitting in the background with a mouthful of words that won’t come out when he wants them to.

Sometimes he wonders if he’s even really there at all, because that’s what life is all about, isn’t it? Memories of things and people and places and conversations- moments you share with other people that plant you in time, leaving a mark of your life like a footprint in their existence. He feels like a ghost of a person, a shade of parts that resemble someone else and it leaves him more tongue tied than ever.

But if Kuma is there, wherever he is, it’s instantly better because Matthew can be himself, can feel something loosen inside him and let him act like a person because Kuma loves him no matter what. Dogs act the same to everyone as long as you’re good to them- love them even a little. Kuma doesn’t care if Matthew doesn’t want to talk, or doesn’t know how he properly wants to say something. Kuma doesn’t care if Matthew struggles to find his words, tripping and stumbling over them as they clog his mind, clumping awkwardly on his tongue.

Kuma will sit there, patient and still, as Matthew whispers his day into his fur, words clear and strong and unsullied by fear in a way they never are with people. He will lick him on the nose and shove his head onto his lap when Matthew has curled himself into a ball in his room, replaying his day over and over so much that his mistakes blur together like paint, colouring everything with a smear of shame.

Matthew is fourteen and he feels as though he finally understands something. It starts as a small something, creeping and pattering through him and leaving tiny tracks in his mind, but now it’s growing larger and stronger, moving within him and sending his thoughts racing.

Kuma died a few months ago. This is what started it, Matthew knows, seeing Kuma slow and slow, more so each year, before, towards the end, it took all he had left to just lift his head. Matthew had felt terrible, of course- at a loss and helpless sitting there with him, stroking Kuma’s head and whispering final goodbyes. His father had joined him on the floor, both of them cocooned by a companionable silence in a way they couldn’t be at any other time, and Matthew felt truly heard, to the bottom of everything he was, in the depths of his grief. This was a moment that needed no words, was a thing that could not be named- only felt and experienced.

His father is a research scientist at some big lab in the heart of the colony and is more used to theory and hypothetical than practical application, but he had found some e-tab journals on dogs, about how their bodies worked and how to fix them, and used his skills to pour over them with Matthew on the floor, studying the miniscule entries as much as he could to provide some help.  Matthew watched, days lit by the flash of the e-tab as story after journal after analysis was checked and rechecked by his father beside him. There was no medicine that could save Kuma, no special cure for age, but there was some information about helping it, easing it- gentling death until it was as soft as sleep and Matthew’s father tried each and every one that he found. Kuma left them with a shift and a sigh and Matthew was surprised at death’s kindness, how easy it could be.

His father, haggard, tired, and sad, had given something of himself for Kuma, and Matthew felt so proud of him, thankful for the benefit it had given his oldest friend. Kuma is gone, but Matthew thinks of that shared peaceful end, of those journals filled with age old accounts from long dead men. He realises that there must be many of these e-tab entries about so many other animals, the few that are left and the thousands that there were before and he flicks onto one, in passing, just to see.

That’s all it takes. One leads to another, which leads to another and another and another and then Matthew can’t stop himself from drinking up as many as he can sync to, allowing himself to be pulled down through trees of evolution, skipping through the classifications of mammals to haunt reptiles and glide past the wingspan of birds. There used to be so many animals, more than he can ever name, more than he can ever conceive being possible- in the seas and the skies and the land and all at once. In, out, around- a planet teeming with things besides humans, living alongside the hulking toxic growth known as mankind and breathing life into the skies.

When earth fell they were lost, all apart from the few that the survivors managed to cling to, stolen away in their bags and clutched under an arm. Small animals and creatures that could be carried and fed easily with scraps that weren’t needed by another fleeing human life, or domesticated food that was herded and pushed, clueless, into a slaughterhouse of spaceships. It is redundant, of course- a pointless skill for him to nurture but Matthew is hungry for all of it; drawn in and hooked to something beyond his control he syncs file after file, strange creatures taking shape in his mind to migrate the past into his waking day.

Matthew’s colony is one of those ones where they like to push people, like to specialise their children early and drive them to great things. They’re good at what they do, structurally organised to churn out success and Matthew see the benefit of this, finally. He hadn’t really taken part before, hadn’t really shown an interest in pushing himself into a single category, but now, all of a sudden, he wants to do what his dad does.

Well, not exactly what his dad does, numbers and figures and study of physics, but the process of it. The breaking down of information, the mythological categorising of data; the calm soothing expectation of silent contemplation. So, he picks to try to become a research scientist too, selects classes that will give him access to greater libraries and archives and locked journals for deeper study, searching for fur and teeth and claws amongst them.

Matthew is eighteen. He managed to find a uni that taught a few classes in veterinary studies, the medical beginnings for those wanting to specialise as a vet. Matthew doesn’t want to do this, exactly -he’s more interested in how animals work and what they’re like, what colours they come in and how big they are- but if he becomes a vet it will allow him to work with animals all day and this, small as it is, could be enough. He isn’t sure, really; doesn’t really know exactly what he wants other than to learn but he hopes that if he takes enough classes, he’ll eventually figure something out.

The bell rings and he stands, gathering his things and heading out of class -anatomy of canines, his favourite- and turns a corner, slinging his bag over a shoulder and aiming for the canteen where he hopes they’re serving pancakes. He keeps missing them, never making the queue in time, but today he’s hoping that maybe he can manage to push his way through. Suddenly, as he turns a corner someone bumps into him, not seeing him at all, it seems, and everything crashes to the floor, e-tab skidding away out of sight.

There’s a mumbled ‘watch it!’ from someone whom Matthew doesn’t see, just a mouthless shout from a sea of strangers, and then he’s left scrabbling on the floor, parting students like a boulder in a river. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glint of metallic grey and a flash of Kuma’s tail across the hallway by a wall. He sighs in relief and scoots his way over, bending to snatch his tab up before it can get trodden on and straightening to come face to face with an e-board, notice shining bright and loud.

Matthew blinks at it, then shakes his head and blinks again when the advert doesn’t change, displaying something he never thought possible. It’s Earth, there and large and green and Matthew can’t read the words properly because, out of nowhere, his eyes are filled with tears and he’s crying- great shuddering breaths that turn heads and rip his voice from out of him.

Earth. Earth, there, open. Looking for people. He’s crying, crying so hard he can’t breathe, just gasp and choke and cry and people stop to stare at him because all of a sudden he’s the centre of attention, the loudest thing there is. He can’t control himself, can’t reign it in because at the top, under a heading for ‘Looking for skills in:’ he sees-

Animal care.

He doesn’t need to think, doesn’t need to read any further, doesn’t even stop to feel shame for his outburst; class forgotten, lunch forgotten, life forgotten he sprints home, avoiding the shuttles and cars he runs as fast as his legs can carry him, pounding on the electric walkways that shoot through town and feeling himself grow lighter and lighter with each step.

His mother and father don’t want him to go, mother clinging to him with arms wrapped tight around his neck. They feel, briefly, like a noose and Matthew chokes to think of listening to them- at the thought of staying here.

He loves them, he loves them- they’re his parents and he loves them so fucking much but this is something he needs to do, has to do and as he pulls away from his mother and meets his father’s eyes he can see that his father knows this too.

‘You may not get to work with animals,’ he says seriously, ‘at least not the ones you want.’ Matthew’s mother steps back to look at his father in horror, betrayal raw on her face as she realises that his father isn’t saying no Matthew can’t go, that he must stay. She reads the acceptance there, understands the truth of it and leaves the room to compose herself, Matthew staring after her sad but determined.

Matthew nods. ‘I know.’

His father steps forwards and puts a large land on his shoulder, rooting him in this moment. ‘If you’re not happy, will you come home?’

Matthew feels his eyes begin to burn, throat tighten, and thinks of the birds he’ll see even if he works in a lab, the insects he will find and small animals he can watch from a window; life spilling over the edges to bleed into buildings. ‘I’ll be happy.’

[wordynerdygurl]

Sticky, Sweet

Author’s Note:  I’m so pleased to tell you that this is the first of my 1000 Followers Requests!  Again, how do 1000 people like me enough to read my words?  I don’t know!!  But I love you all!   Also, bless my beta - @sammy-jo1977​ ... she lets me drag her to hell and back, and goes willingly.  Lots of Love, lady! Pairing:  Loki x Female Reader, appearances from many of the Avengers Tower residents Summary:  This was requested by the amazing, adorable and always supportive @alexakeyloveloki​ ... As I hit my milestone, she was having a birthday, and this, I hope will be a gift she’ll enjoy.  You deserve it girl! The request was:  One with Loki and a Curvy Reader where she works in the Tower, maybe the canteen, and people are mean to her and Loki likes her for some odd reason and... smut ensues. I did make some changes, but I hope you’ll enjoy it either way, @alexakeyloveloki​ !! Warnings:  This one might give you a toothache!  There’s smut, but it’s sweet!

“Uh, yes.  Might I trouble you for a chocolate croissant and… a cappuccino, large, please.”

You knew the owner of that voice without raising your eyes.  Today he was wearing charcoal grey slacks with straight creases all the way down.  A shirt, starched, bright white, with rolled back sleeves revealing the articulate length of his forearms.  All of his dark locks were gathered over his open collar in a low man bun, which is something you had laughed at other men for doing.  Somehow, the tall, trim man in front of you was making it work in a way that made your mouth water.

Flashing him a megawatt smile, full of promise, “My pleasure!  Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“No.  Thank you, though.”, warm and caramel sweet, his response made you melt.

Clearing your throat, struggling to maintain some sense of composure, “A name… for the order?”

“Loki… that’s L, O, K, I…”, his own grin widening at the request.

You knew his name.  He’d been coming to your little dessert cart for months now and every time you asked, just like you did for all of your customers.  And each time he spelled out the letters for you, as if you were taking his order for the first time.  Handing back change only for him to drop it into the tip jar, you let your eyes linger over Loki just a moment more, enjoying the view.

Most of the visitors to Avengers Tower paid you little to no attention.  Outside of offering a cup of joe and a giant cookie, you had no bearing on the day to day business of the super hero syndicate, and that was just fine by you.  Everyone else?  They all had important things to do.  Meetings and appointments were near constant as apparently saving the world took a lot of planning.  And, thankfully, a lot of coffee, danish and muffins.

Of all your customers, the actual, swear to God heroes were the most colorful.  They were also the most loyal of your clients, stopping in at least daily, although, there were occasions where you would see Wanda two or three times in a day.  Especially if you had made those little mille-feuille stacks that reminded her of home.

Thor would buy out your stash of jelly donuts, to the chagrin of the office workers in line behind him, but then divvy them up as a way of apologizing.  Ms. Romanoff had a tendency to whisper her order, lest anyone realize her secret desire for a sinfully sweet White Chocolate Mocha with whipped cream.  Captain Rogers?  His routine was the most straight-forward.  Black coffee, ma’am, Blueberry muffin, thank you so much.

Loki, from the start, had been different.  Unlike Mr. Stark, Loki looked you in the eye when placing his order.  He never seemed distracted by the technology buzzing around or the high ranking officials clustered in these hallowed halls.  Loki also didn’t order 12 shots of espresso, steamed skim milk, no foam, and one donut hole.  No, that was Tony to a t.

But Loki?  This giant guy, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, always ordered your daily special.  Frilly pink cupcakes, jam filled eclairs, fruity hand pies, Loki had tasted them all.  And he still turned up, day after day, eager and kind.  That had to mean something, right?

Honestly, it was the pinnacle of your day when, looking up from the grinder, you’d see him towering majestically over the office drones all in a row.  Knowing that smooth voice would soon be speaking to you, even if it was just to get a snack on the run, was almost enough.  Almost.

Letting your gaze linger after Loki’s retreating figure, you got lost in a daydream, one where you were making Loki coffee in your kitchen.  His lengthy legs tucked under your tiny table, a tray of fresh cookies in front of him as he read, sometimes with his shirt on… sometimes without.  Feeling your cheeks warm up at the image, you shook your head, ready to refocus on the caffeine craving customers still in line.

As closing time drew near, you began the daily task of cleaning up your cart.  Sweeping, wiping, sterilizing, washing, drying.  There was a rhythm to it all and you often found yourself entrained in the work, as usually there were few distractions at this time of day.  

“Excuse me?”  

Spinning, surprised, you barely kept hold of the carafe in your hands as you spotted Ms. Pepper Potts standing at your kiosk, “Oh gosh!  I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there!”

Waving away your worry, Pepper took a moment to introduce herself properly before getting down to business, “I was wondering if you had ever considered catering before?  You were highly recommended by a colleague and I am looking for assistance with an event we're hosting in a few weeks.  What I really need is someone to help with an after hours sort of thing.”

Your heart leapt in your chest, thumping wildly, threatening to bust out of your chest.  Now, you’d be lying if you said that expanding your business wasn’t part of the dream.  Always hopeful that your little cafe cart could somehow be expanded into a little sweet shop or bistro bakery, you had been hard at work for the last two years, slinging lattes and refining recipes until the right moment arrived.

When you said as much to Ms. Potts, her gracious smile lit up, “Then this, my friend, is that moment.”

Details were exchanged, pricing negotiated, plans put in place.  In ten days you were going to be providing The Avengers and their guests with pastries, cookies, coffee and tea.  There was a select menu so that you wouldn't be running around like crazy, which would make prep time easy, but Pepper had told you to be creative.  In short, you were getting your shot and the excitement of that put you on cloud nine.

As you had arranged with Ms. Potts, while the guests attended one of Mr. Stark’s lavish galas downtown, you were given access to the Avengers Suite near the top floors of the tower.  Seeing the building, well past your normal 5:00 pm, was energizing.  Getting to sneak a peek at where the most important people working here spent their days was overwhelming, but you were giddy at the prospect.

In a sweet spot, just inside the expansive glass doors which led to the sky rise patio, you set up your display.  Feeling pretty proud of yourself, you only had to wait a few minutes before the elevator dinged on the first arrivals, including the host and hostess for the night.  "Here we go!", whispering to yourself, you took an anxiously excited breath.

It was hard not to get wrapped up in the glitz of it all.  Tony Stark, wearing a plum colored tuxedo, had his Rolex draped arm around Pepper.  She was stunning in her black column gown, purple jewels at her throat and ears, the perfect counterpoint to Tony’s ensemble.  You struggled not to stare.

More people filtered in, some went to the bar, where champagne popped regularly.  A few grabbed frosty glasses of fresh beer.  And for a time you thought you were invisible among all the glamour around you.  Honestly, you were surrounded by the type of people who graced magazine covers and had in depth chats with Oprah.  That wasn’t you by a long shot.

Then, of course was the difference in your shape and size compared to the elegant group assembled for the evening.  You certainly weren’t as stately as Ms. Potts, nor as thin as Ms. Romanoff because she was trimmer in hip and bust.  Carol, stately and graceful, was a sheet of well hewed muscle.  All of them shone tonight, regal and lovely, while you wore your best black pants and white button down, the uniform of catering professionals world wide.

Chewing the inside of your cheek, temping your coffee pot, your mind churned.  There was no shaking the idea that even though you had been invited here, hired to be here, you were woefully out of place.  And just as your confidence was at its lowest, you heard it… or rather, him.

"Um… yes.  May I have… well… I don't know what to have.  Normally you have something special prepared."

Even over the din of chatter and softly played music you heard his baritone register.  A little flustered, disarmingly charming, Loki’s buttercream smile triggered your own.  Laughing, lifting a small tray towards Loki, "I am keeping it simple tonight.  These here are individual peach melba pies, topped with homemade whipped cream."

"And, what’s that?"  Looking like a little kid, ready to tear into a birthday present, Loki's face lit up with anticipation of what you might be hiding under the cover of a chafing dish.

"Mocha mini-cheesecakes, or-" Here you lifted the silver lid of your best party dish, "-my grandmother's chocolate chip cookies!  What would you like, Loki?"

Hearing his name in your lilting voice, Loki couldn't avoid the hot blush that rolled over him, turning his cheeks pink.  As if your delicious snacks weren't enticing enough, the way your shirt buttons could barely contain the bounty of your bosom made Loki's hunger real in a different way.  It was true that Thor had plied him with a great deal of Asgardian mead at the gala, even as the others drank up the less potent Midgardian spirits, all getting well past tipsy.

And maybe that's why he felt so bold, flirting with you casually, teasing you about your treats.  Also, he was shamelessly ogling your rounded ass in those tight black pants as you bent to retrieve a napkin.  Deep down, Loki longed to know if you tasted as sweet as your sugary confections.  Would you be slick like syrup?  Sticky like cinnamon buns?  Dark and delicious like chocolate fudge?

Shaking those long locks, which you couldn't help noticing were down and free tonight, Loki was struggling to decide among your snacks.  If his thoughts were lustful, your own weren't too far behind, because it was hard not to appreciate the fine figure in front of you.  At some point Loki had shucked his tuxedo jacket and the slim black bow tie that accompanied it.  Again his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows making him casual and cool, red cheeked and rambunctious.  Never had Loki seemed so at ease.

There was virtually no one else around, most of the remaining people were clustered by Clint at the piano singing show tunes, oblivious to you and Loki.  Looking from left to right, leaning in conspiratorially, "Ya know… I could let you have one of each, then you wouldn't have to decide."

Those dark brows arching, bright eyes smiling shrewdly, "You'd do that… for me?"

“That and more.”  It tumbled out of your mouth unbidden, your eyes widening in surprise at your own admission.

Leaning against your table, a lascivious smile on his face, “Do tell.”

And in the low light of the Avengers’ loft, with the soft smell of sugar filling the air, you felt yourself drawn to Loki’s aura.  Biting into your bottom lip, looking at him through your thick lashes, “Um… well… I could make you a little snack bag.  Ya know for later tonight…”

“Later tonight… I really like the sound of that.”  And to his unending surprise, Loki really did.  Maybe he’d find out about your favorite flavors in the dark of night, under the covers in his bed.  And if not, if he was somehow mistaken about your interest in him, then Loki would welcome some little cake that would make him think of you while he sat in his solitary room, brooding over you.

He shouldn’t have worried.  Genuinely smiling, Loki was beyond grateful to see the same look of desire reflected in your own face.  As you busied yourself packing up the little box of selected snacks for the sweet toothed stud, a voice called out, "Lokes!!  Get over here!!  Thor says you can dance and I need proof!"

Wavering slightly, Loki ducked his head in the direction of Sam Wilson's shout, not entirely eager to end your chat.  He was worried that somehow the sugar spun bubble you two were in would burst, and that, well that just couldn't happen.  Conspiratorially, invading your space across the narrow table, "I will be back.  Please, don't go away?"

Feeling like a movie heroine, you felt yourself nod, giggling a little at the spectacle of Loki's clear need.  In the glimmering low-lights, under the clink of champagne flutes and husky hum of conversations, Loki wanted to spend his time with you.  It was surreal and surprising, but you wanted him too.  There was no shame in that, right?

Glued to the spot, feet unmoving, Loki wouldn't leave until you said, "Go on, then.  Show me what you've got.  I'll be right here."

With a cocky grin, Loki loped toward the waiting circle of people and the makeshift dance floor.  Tinny, tinkling piano music was replaced by electronica, pumping through Tony's beyond state of the art sound system.  It felt like you were inside the speaker, thumping and bumping, in time with the dance hall beat.

What a sight!  You guessed it shouldn't have been so surprising, but seeing Loki, normally so reserved in your daily interactions, grinding and bouncing to the rhythm… it made you feel things.  Pulse pounding, deep sighing, clenching your muscles things.  Sexy things.

You could have stood there, enchanted from afar, for hours.  And you would have too, if Thor hadn't stumbled to your stand, nearly toppling the table with his unsteady bulk, "Oof!  A thousand apologies, my dear sweet bakery maiden."

Diverting your attention, you quickly stepped back into vendor mode, "No trouble!  No trouble at all!  What can I get for you?"

"Well, I have been wondering, what did my brother get a taste of that made him smile so wide?  It must have been a truly delicious nibble."  Thor, mimicking a mouse nibbling at cheese, was clearly past the point of sobriety.  

Turning thoughtful for a second, you realized Loki hadn't eaten anything of yours tonight… at least not yet.  So it had been your easy back and forth that made the frosty boy happy.  Smiling secretively,  suddenly supremely pleased, "Um… I have some special items this evening.  Would you like to try a peach pie?"

Blowing a raspberry, rolling his eyes, "Did Loki like it?"

"He hasn't tried it yet!  You'd be first!"  Trying to redirect the sloshed slab of man in front of you, offering the pastry up on a dainty napkin, it’s funny how quickly he snatches it from your hand.  Looking tiny in Thor's enormous paw, he devours it whole, swiping at the leftover crumbs on his chest.

"Delicious!  Another!"  Even shouting, Thor's voice doesn't crack through the party goers busting their moves. Sighing, you hand over another, only to watch it be gulped down without thought or consideration.

Spitting crust at you, Thor bows over the display you painstakingly built to showcase your wares, his weight making the table creak, "You know, my brother normally likes little women."

"Excuse me?"

Waving his hands, pontificating, "Small, shapely… you know the type!  Waifs.  Skinny, like him.  Narrow hips and-" attempting to whisper, "-tiny breasts."

Clearly, Thor was hammered, you knew that.  But what he was saying was just hard to hear.  You didn’t want to be compared to other women Loki had known, and you certainly didn’t want to hear that they were prettier, or smaller, or skinnier than you.  But your roller coaster ride of emotions was derailed when Thor slapped his hand on your table, making you jump.

"Now, you… you're a woman.  Strong, sturdy.  Could really ground him, you know?  Give him children worthy of Valhalla."

In his stupor, Thor couldn't read the warning in your expression.  Willing him to stop, shut up, go away with just your monosyllabic responses wasn't working.  But, alas, the Space God continued on, "It's all your sweets, you know?  Candy and cupcakes and… all those little… What do you call them?  The circles, fried and filled with jam?"

Flat, without feeling, "Donuts."

"Donuts!  Yes!"  Pausing for a breath, which you hoped would last all night long, Thor caught your eye.  "I approve.  Of the match… that is.  Loki has been alone too long.  He needs a thick woman to warm his bed, a fair, faithful filly to take-"

Thor's voice cut out, a thin line of shimmering red glowing around his throat, stopping his words.  You could still see his mouth moving but the sound was, thankfully, muted.  It was then that Wanda slunk close to Norse God, wide orb-like eyes full of knowledge, "I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner."

Mumbling, struggling to sound bright as you gave too much attention to arranging cookies on the tray, "It's ok."

Her delicate hand rested on your own, "No it isn't.  Thor's a buffoon when he's downed too many bottles of mead.  I hope he didn't say anything too… unpleasant."

Waving her off, working hard to regain your composure, "Naw… it's fine… Thank you, though."

Thor, shrugging off Wanda's limited charm, "What's the big idea?  I was telling this lady that my brother likes her!  Her ample bosom, her gracious bum… and he always talks about her tasty cakes!"

Steve, sidling up at the first sign of trouble, grabbed Thor's arm, "Come on buddy.  Time for bed."

"But!  I am not tired!  I want more pie!  And mead!"

Wanda, rolling her eyes, "May I have another?  For the road?"

Quickly wrapping up a few of your crusty delicacies, you handed them over, now eager for the night to end.  It seemed tarnished somehow, spoiled by Thor's observations, like an unrisen souffle.  Glancing at the clock, you were amazed at the time!  It was late even for a late night event and you began packing up regardless of the people still partying their evening away.

You were hoping for a quick departure.  Seamless, silent, without distracting anyone, including a certain raven haired hottie.  No one would notice if you snuck away now, you were sure, and you had already fulfilled your obligation to Pepper.  In fact, with Thor's little outburst, you were well over your allotted time.  And, you reasoned, Loki could find some small little twig, more to his taste, if you weren't there to distract him.

That thought made your throat burn and your eyes water as you quietly broke down your area.  Even now you could see him, a head above everyone else, spinning with a smile on his face.  Loki looked so at ease, you refused to be the wet blanket on his good time.  Besides, flirting was one thing, but Loki wasn’t yours and you were old enough not to be crushed by a crush.

With one last, longing look over the assembled Avengers, you bumped your bottom into the exit door, shuffling toward the service elevator.  As the doors closed, shutting out the jubilation inside, you slumped against the wall.  How could you think Loki would want you?  

Having spent a significant amount of the late evening busting a move, Loki had managed to keep one eye on you most of that time.  Noticing Thor bumble your way, he was nervous about what his brother might say, but Natasha had challenged him to a dance off.  How could he resist?

By the time Loki stopped to catch his breath and collect his cookies, you were gone.  Vanished.  The only trace of you?  A small, golden box, stuffed with your divine delicacies.  Loki needn't see the name scrolled on the label to know it was for him.

But like Cinderella, you had fled and Loki had no way to find you.  Sinking his heart, Loki clutched the box, padding away to his room and the solitude of silence.  At least he had your thoughtful gift of goodies to keep him company.  It was almost enough.  Almost.

For all the numerous things The Avengers were good at, it was a non-hero who observed Loki slide away, sad and silent.  Never one to let a party end on a low note, a new plan was formed to unite the Trickster and the Treat Maker.  But it would need time to rise, like decadent cinnamon rolls, and like those sticky sweet buns, would be totally worth the wait.

When Monday dawned, you loaded up your goods and trudged to work.  For the first time since starting your business venture your heart wasn't in it.  Not when you plated blueberry buckle with lavender scented whipped cream, not when you swirled almond milk into fresh brewed coffee, not when you bagged cheesy bagel bites.

And it was, apparently, to be a day of firsts.  Because this was the only day that Loki failed to make an appearance at your stand since you’d opened.  Thor, pushing people aside, had made a point of apologizing for his behavior.  It was kind and honest, yet, hollow since it didn't make Loki materialize in your line.  But you appreciated it, nonetheless.

Before long, the day was done, your cleaning ritual initiated, your mind wandering.  That it circled back to a certain blue eyed mischief maker over and over wasn't shocking.  Where had Loki been?  Had you driven him off?  Would he come back tomorrow?  

"Ahem… Excuse me!"

Squealing, you dropped the tray you'd been wiping with a clanking clatter, "Miss Potts!  You startled me!"

"I didn't mean to!", stooping to hand you back your platter, she lifted her smart eyes to yours.

"I know… I'm so sorry!  I've been… a little off today."

Shrewd, searching, Pepper looked you over, "You're not the only one."

Laughing nervously, “Oh?  Who else is having a tough Monday?”

“A friend… listen, I wanted to thank you for the other night. It was really wonderful having your exceptional snacks at the ready.”

Allowing yourself a small smile, nibbling your lip nervously, “The pleasure was all mine.”

Pepper, shifting on her high heels, “I’d like to hire you again.”

“Really?”  Snapping your head up at the offer, you were a little surprised by her request.  Even though that night hadn’t ended the way you had hoped, necking with Loki like a teenager after prom, it had still been a lucrative evening for your little start up company.  But so soon?

“Yes! This is a smaller event.  Actually, more of a date than anything.  This Friday evening.  Would you be free?”

Grabbing your phone, confirming the date on your calendar, “It works for me!  What time were you thinking?”

Blinking, Pepper took a minute to contemplate before answering, “Let’s say seven.  Upstairs, on the outdoor deck?”

“That sounds great, Ms. Potts!  How many people are you expecting?”, making notes, head down you missed her gentle smile.

“Just two.”

That made you giggle.  So, it was a night of romance with Tony she was after.  Flashing your benefactor a knowing smirk, “Sounds lovely.”

“I hope it will be!”

You didn’t see Loki all week.  There was rumor going around the tower that he was off on a mission somewhere, very hush, hush.  Your limited intell was gained only because of Thor’s inability to lower his booming voice while waiting for a croissant on Tuesday morning.

It got easier.  Not seeing him in your daily line, not giving him his cappuccino, not buttering his scone.  By Friday you finally felt like Loki was out of your system, which was a good thing, because you knew Ms. Potts was expecting you to knock it out of the park tonight.

“Things are going to be a little different for this evening, if that’s ok.  I thought you could set out your dessert courses here, on the counter, and we’d have someone bring them out to the patio area.”

Unafraid to go the extra mile, you were quick to volunteer, “I’d be more than happy to act as a server if-”

Talking over you, “Oh no, dear!  I have someone for that already.  Really, all you have to do is make sure your treats are in order.”

Slightly crestfallen, but always a good sport, you agreed.  As she’d requested, you had prepared three special desserts for the night, hoping you covered all of Tony’s favorite flavors.  First, lemon cake with a cracked sugar glaze and fresh raspberry sauce to garnish.  Next would be the white chocolate cheesecake studded with plump blueberries and piles of fresh vanilla flavored whipped cream.  Last, and perhaps most importantly, was your personal favorite, tiramisu.  Simple, delicious, and perfect with a strong cup of espresso.

Clapping her hands, Pepper was so pleased at the thought you had put into each plate, “Wow, does this look amazing!  There’s really only one other thing that we need for this.”  

Wiping a stray stripe of sauce from the plate, a piping bag cupped in your hands, you lifted your head, “What’s that Ms. Potts?”

“Why, you of course.”

Stalling in midair, you slowly lowered the tool of your trade, wiping your sugary fingers on the seat of your jeans.  “I’m right here!  What can I do to help?”

Coming around the island now, Pepper drew close enough to take your hands in her own, “You’ve already done it.  Tonight is my way of saying ‘Thank You’... and I hope you’ll accept a small gift as a token of my appreciation.”

As the last word hung in the air between you, the lift doors parted, and Loki stepped into the room.  

Pepper had summoned him, asking only that he arrive on time and not “look a mess”.  Since Loki had never been anything less than elegant in all things, he had no intention of breaking that streak this evening.  If only he knew what to dress for?

So, he split the difference, going for casual cool.  A jet black polo shirt, unbuttoned, clung to him like a second skin, caressing every muscle.  Black trousers and a black belt made him look dangerously seductive as he sauntered closer with each step.

Your mouth went dry at the sight of him.  Missing Loki all week made seeing him like this stupefying.  Fuzzy brained and dull minded, you weren’t capable of wrapping your head around what was happening.

“Pepper?  What… what is all this?”  Loki’s husky baritone questioned the set up, your presence, the pretense.  At least you weren't the only one who was confused.

Pulling you along, Pepper maneuvered you next to him, “Loki, It’s all arranged.  Dessert by candlelight, under the stars… FRIDAY, start my Date Night playlist.”  The strains of “In the Still of the Night” by the Five Satins filled the air.

It was right then that Loki got it.  The strange summons, the dress code, the secrecy.  He knew why you were here, with your bespoke baked goods, looking like a snack yourself.  Pepper had listened when Loki recommended you for the first gig, and somehow she had heard the unspoken recommendation of his heart.  A rush of feeling flowed over him at the idea.  

Looking sheepish and flustered, Loki caught your eye, “Hello.”

“Hi…”, bashful yourself, you struggled not to look too giddy.

“See, you’re already on your way.  Have a good night kids!”  

You and Loki stood there, staring, until the click of Pepper’s heels on the marble had faded away.  This is  awkward, you thought, unsure of what to do next.  Here with the man you wanted, you weren’t entirely sure what to do, but luckily for you, Loki knew how to take charge, “Shall we?”

Lacing his fingers with yours, Loki led you to the open deck where a small bistro table was waiting, already set for the two of you.  Pulling out your chair, Loki made sure you were comfortable before taking his own seat at your side, as opposed to across the table.  It was a cozy and romantic scene.

The song shifted.  Now The Platters crooned, “Only You”, and your hand was itching to grab Loki’s under the table.  Before you could, Pepper’s hired server for the evening brought your first plate, and a bottle of Prosecco.  

So far, neither of you had really spoken.  Words seemed too difficult to use when the situation was so formal.  And yet, it really was lovely of Ms. Potts to do this for you… and for Loki.

“Did you make all of this?”

Picking up your fork, giving Loki a small nod, “Yea… I thought Pepper was planning a date night with Tony.  I had no idea that this… any of this… was happening.  Did you?”

“No.  But, I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised.  She did hire you because of me.”

Taken aback by his admission, “Really?  Care to elaborate?”

Tucking into the lemony piece of heaven in front of him, Loki closed his eyes in bliss, “Hmm… that is delicious.  You are really so good at this!  And that, my purveyor of pound cake, is what I told Ms. Potts.”      

“Well, thank you!  I mean, I knew you liked me!”  

Hotter than opening your oven, a blast of heat swept over you, reddening your cheeks in shock.  Flustered now, you could barely speak, cursing yourself for letting your real feelings slip out like that unfiltered.  Mortified, you grabbed your glass, slugging half of it down in a second.

Loki’s fork froze, almost to his lips, as his own eyes widened.  Sighing, he placed the utensil, covered in lemon and raspberry deliciousness down gently.  Feeling his scorching gaze, you sat stock still, Loki’s wry whisper reaching you, “I do.  And I should have told you that before… before Pepper had to go to such great lengths to prove it.”

“But Loki… I’m just… I’m not…”  Stammering, you couldn’t quite find the best way to explain the reservations you had been carrying, the reasons Thor had so clearly defined.

“You are though.  You are so kind hearted… to everyone.  Even the dullards and bores.  I hear you, you know?  What you say, how you say it.  No one leaves your little station without being complimented, enlightened, enriched.  It is the best part of my day, coming down to see you… and taste whatever marzipan masterpiece you’ve graced us with.”

Starting to feel the bubbles of Prosecco in your brain, your lopsided smile spread at the emotion Loki expressed, “Loki… it’s the only thing that gets me through sometimes.  Seeing you, knowing that you’re in line.  And how cute you are when you spell out your name, like I haven’t written it a hundred times before.”

It was his turn to blush, “I knew that.  I knew it was adorable.”

Playfully pushing against his shoulder, you chuckled, “Loki!  That’s not fair!”

“Then you won’t like this, darling.”  

Catching your arms in his firm hands, Loki tucked your body into his, finding your mouth as you laughed at his antics.  Using his top lip to trap your own, Loki’s bottom lip gently parted, as the softness of his kiss blended into the lemon scented sweetness of his sigh.  His tongue, probing slowly, pressed between your lips stealing a shaky breath for Loki to treasure.

Rising, Loki’s hands cradled your cheeks, ensuring that you couldn’t break away from his kiss.  As if you wanted to!  Your own hands wandered, with one resting on the warm slope of his wide thigh and the other pressed against Loki’s broad chest.

Deepening the kiss, you pushed forward, nestling between Loki’s spread legs.  Trailing a hand along his hip, scooting closer, you moaned at the luscious texture of his tongue on your own.  When Loki pulled back, you followed, unwilling to break the beautiful bond your mouths had sealed.

Swallowing hard, unable to believe that he was really here with the flavor of your candy kisses filling his senses, Loki shook his head.  Seeing your own dazed expression made his heart soar.  He was going to have to write Pepper a thank you note or have you bake her a cake, because this was the best thing that had ever happened to the Prince of Asgard.

“Are you ready for the next course?”  The server, having popped out of the compound, was struggling to hide his own smug smile at the sexy little show you two had put on.

A new song started, the notes drifting through the air, making you smile.  Sam Cooke’s eternally youthful voice sang, “Cupid… draw back your bow…” and Loki slowly stood.  “Uh, please, hold the next one, if you don’t mind.”

Coming around behind you, offering you his hand, “Loki?  What are you doing?”

“What I should have done last week… Ask you to dance…?”   Voice brimming with hope, Loki quirked an eyebrow, anticipating your acceptance.

“About time.”  

Rumbling through Loki’s solid torso, his laugh greeted you as you fell into his arms easily, chuckling yourself.  It was so familiar and yet so different.  His hands rested over the curve of your back, pulling you tighter, controlling the sway of your hips.  Circling the delicate strength of his neck, your fingers teasing into those long locks of tousled hair, you let Loki take the lead.  

Tipping you back, over balancing you but still in control, Loki’s look was pure lust, “I apologize for running late.  I should have-”

Cutting in, husking into the shell of Loki’s ear, “Don’t.  We’re here now.  And besides, you were worth the wait.”

Squeezing you, putting every ounce of feeling into his hug, Loki found it hard to loosen his grip.  Now that he had the thing he wanted, he never wanted to be separated from it… you… ever again.  

Twirling you out, tugging you back in, as the song came to its close, Loki took the opportunity of dipping you low enough for your head to graze the ground below.  Breathless and giddy, you were lifted back to standing, clinging to the demi God before you.  Parting your lips, anticipating another of Loki’s kisses, your eyes fluttering closed, “Sir?  Madame?”  

Shifting his focus from your glossy, eager mouth to the server once more, Loki’s own giggle shining in his face, “My good man, please… just pack it all up!  We’re not staying.”

“We’re not?”  A hint of surprise colored your tone as you took in the ecstatic look on Loki’s face.

Nodding at you, “Nope.”

Waiting only a moment or two for a bag stuffed full of your goodies, Loki slung it over this wrist before taking your hand and leading you through the Tower’s maze of floors.  Of course, he stopped at almost every corner to sneak a peck, pat your tush or cage you against the wall so that his hips were flush against your own as he licked the soft spot under your ear.

“Hmmm… Loki… That feels so good.”  Mewling softly, your nails scratching into his scalp, as he swung open the door to his room.

Ushering you inside, Loki paused only to set his blistering, needy eyes on you once more, “We are not children, you and I.  If you want to wait, I will be patient… but, believe me, my darling little patisserie, when I say this:  I want you.  I want to devour you… I want to know if you’re as sweet as strawberry shortcake or tart like key lime pie.

“I need to see if you-” here he swallowed so hard his Adam’s Apple bobbed, “-sigh when I kiss you the same way you do when you slide a hot cup of tea over the counter.  Or how you’ll sound when you call my name in ecstasy.  Because I’ve already thought about these things a hundred times over.  While I wait in line for a moment of your attention or when I taste those lovely delicacies, you fill my thoughts.

“Do you always smell of vanilla and butter, I wonder.  Will my sheets be scented with marshmallow and marzipan?  Almond and cherry?”

Advancing on you now, hunger heating his look, “But just know, little one, if you do come to my bed, I will make sure it’s the last one you’ll ever need.”

Stepping closer, baiting the bear in him, you bit into your bottom lip, “Are you saying that everyone will know I belong to you… L, O, K, I… Loki?”

“My sweet, sweet thing.  That is exactly what I mean.”

In a flurry of movement, Loki swept you against his kitchen table, the wood strong and sturdy behind you.  Kisses, hot and happy melted you like butter, as Loki spread your legs to stand between them.  When you heard the sound of paper crumpling, “What’s that?”

“Oh!  Our to-go bag!  Your luscious desserts!”  Sounding slightly panicked, Loki quickly removed the items from inside the bag, before turning to you with a look that said trouble.

“What?  What’s that face?”  

“I’ve told you how much I fancy your food… and now you know how much I adore you... “

“Uh huh…”, still unsure about where this was going, your eyes followed Loki as he pulled your tub of whipped cream from the ruined sack.  Snapping off the lid, his long finger scooping out a big glob, only for Loki to brush the airy confection over your mouth.  

Licking the cream from your lips, Loki tongued the seam of your pretty pout, moaning at the burst of vanilla he tasted there, “I don’t know what’s more delicious, your frothy garnish or this mouth.”

“What if I want some, huh?”  Grabbing at Loki’s finger, the one he’d used to snag the sample with, you pulled it into the warm inlet of your mouth, sucking lightly.

Growling low in his throat at the erotic scene before him, Loki issued a command, “Bedroom.  Now.”

Sliding off the table, right into Loki’s space, “Bring the whipped cream though, ok?”

Clothes were shed in a rush.  Each piece unveiling soft skin and new places to explore, reminding you of a creme brulee’s hardened caramel layer.  The way you crack it open, revealing the cool custard beneath the scorched sugar crust, a gift unwrapped for all your senses.

By the time Loki lowered you onto his bed, he had already sampled swatches of your skin, leaving behind the marks of his possession.  His hands never seemed to stop.  First they were dusting over your shoulders, then across your thighs, next on your generous bottom, squeezing hard.

Sighing in contentment, you closed your eyes, lost in the moment of making love to Loki.  As he lay down over you, the press of his rigid planes met the soft curves of your figure, you wrapped yourself around him.  Tangling those rich, dark locks in your hand, forcing your mouths together, panting with shared passion.

Connecting with his hip, you slid your palm over the rise of his bottom, squeezing just a little, “You know, you have a great ass, right?”

Sucking against the ridge of your clavicle, Loki kissed over your jaw, “I do?”

“Oh yea… I watch you walk away everyday thinking, damn.  That ass.”

Brushing stray strands from your face, “That’s funny, because I think the same thing every time you bend over to get those little swizzle sticks for stirring coffee!”

Setting off a fit of giggles, the pair of you with arms and legs akimbo, laughed like children.  There was something so freeing about being naked and comfortable with the man beside you.  Quieting only when you heard the pop of the frosting bowl's lid coming off, you sucked in a breath as Loki lowered his lips to your waiting nipple.  

Playful and pleasing, he released you just long enough to sit back on his heels, surveying the state of you.  "Now, It's my turn."

"Your turn to what, exactly?"

"Decorate!"  Producing an assortment of sprinkles and frosting, sanding sugars and coconut shreds, caramel sauce and raspberry coulis as if from thin air, Loki grinned at you wickedly before setting to work.

For every place that was home to a dollop of icing or a squirt of sauce you were licked, nibbled, nuzzled or bitten.  As Loki worked lower, you squirmed in anticipation, as your pastry chef in training sucked your inner thigh free of chocolate fudge.  Before you could prepare, Loki's tongue parted your slippery center, making you call out, "Oh!  Yes, Loki!"

Parting your swollen sex, circling your stiffened bud, Loki lapped at your sensitive skin gently.  His fingers, long and reaching, stroked into your sticky channel, stretching you sweetly.  Rocking against Loki's oral affections, the beginning of bliss burning in your belly, you gripped him tightly seeking release.  

For his part, Loki needed no encouragement.  Bringing you to the pinnacle, alternately sipping at your slick core, and sucking on your sweet pearl was making Loki ache with want.  Even when you pulled at his onyx locks, inner thighs trembling, struggling to stave off your peaking pleasure, Loki only worked harder, "Don't hold back.  We've already wasted too much time!"

"Uh huh… um… shit… Loki…"  mumbling was the most you could do as you felt a third finger enter you, widening you, readying you.  It was enough.  Cumming hard against him, stiffening and then softening like taffy, you gave yourself over to the pleasure Loki provided.  

Smacking his lips lewdly, licking his fingers, "I knew it… I knew you'd be delectable."

Grinning broadly, happy and satisfied, "Am I gonna get a taste?  You're not the only one with a sweet tooth, ya know!"

"Only when I've had my fill… and I'm not close to being finished, darling!"

Sticky, sweet and satiated, you and Loki lay in each other's arms smiling.  He'd asked about a gift for Pepper and you were already planning a cupcake basket for your matchmaking mentor.  You had just licked the last of your lemon curd from his abs, curling into his side, "I need a shower."

"Oh, yes!  Let's do that!"  Rising, dragging you with him, Loki could picture you under the steaming water, begging him to please you.  He liked that idea!

"And after…"

Pausing to look at you, "After?"

"Can you find me something salty to snack on… ya know, for a change?"

Pressing a kiss to your hand, Loki flashed you that megawatt smile, "Absolutely, darling.  Absolutely."

~~

My Minxes:  @alexakeyloveloki​ @vodka-and-some-sass​ @just-random-obsessions​ @brokenthelovely​ @lots-of-loki​ @thefallenbibliophilequote​ @iamverity​ @iluvsumbucky​ @unadulteratedwizardlove​ @wolfsmom1​ @procrastinatinglikeabitch​ @mizfit2​ @shxdowofdarkness​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @ahintofkiwistrawberry​ @jessiejunebug​ @rorybutnotgilmore​ @crystalizedcaramel​ @lokislittlecorner​ @scrumptious-finicky-illusion​ @capcapcapsicle​ @jamielea81​ @caffiend-queen​ @thenatilie @sammy-jo1977​ @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore​ 

[livingcorner]

12+ Ways to Make $1000 a Month from Your Garden (Year Round!)

They say when you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.  Well, I love my garden and given a choice I’d be out there amongst my garden beds day and night.  There’s a big difference between gardening and farming though, and while I love my garden I’m not cut out for the life of a farmer. 

While bringing in a full-time gardening income is a bit tricky, making a side income from your garden is easier than you’d think.

You're reading: 12+ Ways to Make $1000 a Month from Your Garden (Year Round!)

Most people see gardening as a seasonal endeavor, that starts in the spring and ends in the fall, coming and going each year.  Up here in Vermont, our summer growing season is only a sad 100 days or so, and if I confined my efforts to those short months it wouldn’t make for much of a side hustle.  I think it’s important to find a way to earn a consistent side income, so I’m providing options for every month of the year (even in a cold climate like ours).

Beyond that, our land is mostly forested, which means the definition of “garden” is a bit loose.  We grow mushrooms in the shady spots and tap maple trees in season.  We also forage the wild bounty that nature’s garden has provided, meaning that we don’t have to limit our “gardening” to a small tilled section of the yard. 

Even if you’re lacking space in a small suburban lot, expanding outside of the traditional garden into local parks, or taking your garden indoors with salad sprouts, closet mushrooms, and seedling trays will allow you to make use of the space you have year-round.

Here are a few options to earn a substantial side income from your garden every season of the year, with ideas for both city and country folk. 

(Be sure to check local laws and restrictions before you start with anything, as those vary widely from place to place.)

Winter Garden Income

While you’d think winter would be the slow season for backyard garden income, believe it or not, it’s actually the best time for making money from your garden.  You’re generally less busy with planting and weeding, but everyone is stuck inside dreaming of the garden bounty to come.  

Indoor Salad Gardening

January is when everyone’s making new years resolutions to live healthier and eat more salads, but it’s a pretty rough time for gardening in most places.  If right around the end of the year you plan ahead with an indoor salad gardening setup, you’ll be in the perfect position to market microgreens and sprouts when they’re in high demand.

Local farms around here sell winter micro greens CSA’s and unlike summer shares where they net less than a dollar on a head of lettuce, winter greens command high prices.  A small bag of specialty microgreens runs $12 to 15 each.  And I really mean a small bag, maybe 3 cups of at most.

The trick is to grow high-quality, specialty greens that get people excited when the grocery store options are minimal.  The book Year Round Indoor Salad Gardening is a great resource to get started, and covers all you’d need to know to grow your own greens.  At that point, the problem is scaling up and marketing.  

Start a Small Backyard Seed Company

You may think you need to be some kind of multi-national to sell seeds, but in reality, customers are looking toward sustainably grown seed for specialty heirloom varieties these days.  It doesn’t get much more sustainable than a backyard garden, and buying seed locally ensures that you’ll get varieties perfectly suited to a particular growing region.

Choosing the right crops is key to generating a good income selling seeds.  Tomato seed, for example, is very easy to save and a single tomato often has enough seed to supply a dozen seed packets.  The flowers are self-contained, and it actually takes work for plant breeders to hybridize a variety, which means they’ll come true to variety even with many different types grown in the same garden. 

Most importantly, people get really excited about tomatoes.  Ever wonder why 1/3 of any seed catalog seems to be tomato seed?  With all that love for tomatoes, customers are liable to drop $5 for a locally grown packet of seeds for a really great variety.

While tomatoes are really easy, there are many varieties that aren’t much harder.  You need to know a bit about seed saving, not only harvesting and cleaning the seed, but about how pollination and selection works by variety.  Some varieties require a minimum population size to avoid inbreeding in the long term, and all that’s important to know before you get started. 

Seed to Seed is generally recognized as the most encyclopedic book on seed saving, covering just about every variety you can imagine.  It has great breadth to get you started, but not a whole lot of depth.

The Seed Garden is hands down my favorite seed saving book.  It’s well written and covers varieties in great depth.  It’s authored by The Seed Savers Exchange which does great work in the field of preserving heirloom varieties.

The Complete Guide to Seed Saving has a lot of stellar reviews, and it’s the next one I’m going to add to my gardening library.

Even in a small town environment here in Rural Vermont, there are about a dozen local seed companies.  High Mowing Seed started out really small just down the road from us, and now they’re a big national brand.  Milkweed Medicinals sells specialty seed that’s hard to find, and they now sell in all the local coops. 

Find your niche and there’s a great income to be made with homegrown seed.

Selling Cuttings

Even easier than saving seed, selling cuttings is an easy way to make a healthy income from your established plants in the winter months.  There are a number of varieties, like grapes for example, that need to be cut back or pruned in the winter.  Those cuttings are perfect for starting new plants and many gardeners are willing to pay good money for tiny pieces of your established crops.

I just bought 30 elderberry cuttings from Norms Farms at $4 each to propagate at home.  Elderberries grow readily from cuttings, and it’s an economical way for me to get a huge bed of them started.  Elderberry plants from a nursery cost about $30 each, so I’m happy with the transaction and the seller just made $120 off a tiny box of trimmings.

There are a number of plants that grow well from hardwood cuttings, some like black currants, are as simple as snipping off a tip and sticking it into the ground.  Others require a bit more attention and prep work to the cuttings, but they’re still beginner level.

Scion wood, or cuttings from apple trees to be grafted onto rootstock, is similarly lucrative.  All you need is a couple of established apple trees of known varieties and you can harvest cuttings for sale. 

Usually, each cutting is only a few inches long, so shipping them isn’t a big issue.  There’s a marketplace on the seed savers exchange website, and a scion wood cutting sells for about $4 each.

Start by learning a thing or two about plant propagation, first so that you can establish your own cutting beds, and then so you can educate customers on how easy it is to grow plants from cuttings.  Try reading Practical Woody Plant Propagation for Nursery Growers to get you started.

Read more: Why Does My Garden Hose Keep Bursting? | GardenAxis.com

A handful of elderberry cuttings that sell for $4 each.

Growing Mushrooms Indoors

Learning to grow mushrooms is a bit different than most standard garden crops, so this one will take some studying for even seasoned gardeners.  Still, there’s the potential to grow large crops from a small indoor space year-round.

The book Organic Mushroom Farming and Mycoremediation describes in detail how to set up a back closet, extra nook or spare bathroom to grow mushrooms with minimal time investment (2 hours a week). 

He has a great breakdown of costs, inputs, and yields…but in summary, you can make about $100 per week from a small setup that takes up a 4’x4′ footprint.  The system scales easily, with minimal extra time investment, meaning you only need slightly more space to increase that to a grand per month.

The best part, they can grow in recycled 5-gallon buckets picked up from restaurants, and they consume waste products like spent coffee grounds, that you can often pick up for free.

If you have access to outdoor space and hardwood logs, growing shiitake mushrooms is also a great place to start for beginners, but outdoors, harvests would be in the warmer months rather than winter.

I don’t know about you, but when I had an office job my co-workers would have loved to buy fresh mushrooms to take home for a fancy Friday night meal.

  Spring Garden Income

Spring is when everyone’s mind is dead set on their own gardens, and it’s a great time to capitalize on the surge in interest in all things green.

Selling Dandelions (and other wild weeds)

While countless suburbanites are spraying their lawns trying to eradicate the dandelions, more savvy gardeners are realizing that one person’s weed is another’s delicacy.  Dandelions are edible root to shoot, and better yet, they’re also highly medicinal. 

Dandelion root tincture sells for about $12 per ounce, and it only takes a root or two per ounce.  The spring greens are highly sought after by local food coops, where they sell for $4-5 per bundle.  Not bad for a pile of weeds.

Beyond dandelions, there’s all manner of early spring green “weeds” that can command high prices if you know how to identify, harvest and process them.  Chickweed is incredibly invasive, but also delicious, and chickweed tincture has plenty of medicinal uses too.  

There’s nothing like making a bit of side income from weeding your garden early in the spring.  You’ve got to do it anyway, might as well make it pay.

Dandelion roots harvested for homemade tincture.

Growing Spring Ephemerals

An ephemeral is a crop that has a very short season, and it may only be around for a few weeks before the plants go dormant (or unharvestable) for a full year.  Ramps, or wild leeks, are a slow-growing ephemeral that’s only around for a few weeks in the spring, but during that time they’re in high demand by both home cooks and fancy chefs.  Knowing where to find a good wild patch is hard, but they’re actually remarkably easy to naturalize in your own backyard.

Growing ramps from seeds just requires the right conditions.  Moist soil, under the shade of deciduous trees.  The more leaf cover the better. 

You’re not growing anything else in that much shade, so growing your own ramps is a great way to earn top dollar from an otherwise unproductive patch of land.  This is a long-term venture though, as leeks are slow-growing, and they’ll require about 5-7 years before your first harvest, but after that, a well-tended and sustainably harvested patch can last indefinitely.

Fiddleheads are another crop that’s generally wild foraged, but it’s remarkably easy to cultivate.  They can actually be pretty invasive, and I spent a long time weeding them out of my garden so I could grow anything else.  I just dug them up and tossed them into a heap, and they kept on growing and spreading from there as if nothing happened. 

Fiddleheads can be really productive, and they sell for about $20 a pound here in Vermont where they’re common.  You might get even better prices somewhere they’re more scarce.

Since they’re productive, fern heads can be pickled to extend their season, so you can market the bumper crop a bit longer.

My daughter holding a harvest of fiddleheads and ramps.

Selling Spring Seedlings

Selling spring veggie seedlings is an obvious choice.  Tomato seeds cost about a tenth of a cent each, but a healthy started plant can easily sell for $5.  Sure, there’s the cost for potting soil and pots, but the profit margin is still huge on seedling sales. 

The trick is, you’re investing your time and energy into starting plants off right, so others don’t have to.  This is one of the most lucrative ways to make money from your garden if you invest in the right equipment and can master the process. 

A greenhouse, even a small backyard model, is essential for producing seedlings early enough in the season.  As for resources to get you started, The New Seed Starter’s Handbook covers everything in detail, including troubleshooting guides if your plants aren’t performing.

Beyond the income from selling seedlings, you’ll also save a boatload by starting your own seeds instead of purchasing starts.  That’s one of those penny saved is a penny earned propositions, and any seedlings you don’t sell can just go right into your own garden.

Take a look at the local market this spring, and see if there are any gaps.  Do all the tomato seedlings sell out quickly, or is the market flooded?  If there’s plenty of other vendors, consider growing something niche like medicinal herbs.

Start a Backyard Nursery

Similar to growing out your own veggie seedlings, starting your own backyard nursery extends the income beyond the busy spring season.  If you’re growing perennials, you don’t have to worry about any unsold plants at the end of the year.  Just tuck them in for the winter and try to sell them next year.

Propagating plants from cuttings is remarkably easy, and all it takes is a bit of time and patience.  Those elderberry cuttings that sold for $4 each (above) as trimmings will sell for $25 to $30 as full-sized potted bushes in a few years.  Just the patience, time and space required to grow out the plants pays back in dividends later. 

This is actually a big part of our retirement plan, and we’re putting in perennials throughout our land to serve as cutting sources later when we open our nursery.  In the meantime, they’re beautiful, and most are edibles like elderberries, so we’re harvesting the fruit for our table while we patiently bide our time to retirement.

Backyard plant nurseries don’t require that much space, as potted plants can be stored fairly close together.

Summer Garden Income

Summer is peak growing season and it’s a great time to earn income from what you’re growing at home.  The big farms and CSA operations have the lettuce market cornered, but backyard gardeners can break into the market by offering really novel crops.  Start by focusing on high-dollar items and unique crops that get people’s attention.

High Dollar Specialty Crops

You’re never going to compete with the 100 acre organic CSA down the road on most generic crops, but those big operations cant grow everything.  They can grow a lot of the staples most families use every day, but backyard gardeners can grow small amounts of truly specialty crops that demand high prices.  Here are a few good options:

Husk Cherries – Also known as ground cherries, these plants produce huge crops of sweet pineapple/strawberry flavored fruit.  They grow on plants similar to tomatoes, and each bright orange fruit is wrapped in a papery husk.  Just one taste and you’ll want more. 

Before we were growing our own, I’d buy them for $5 a pint…now I know that each plant can produce more than a gallon of fruit even with neglect.  If you hand out samples, these will sell themselves.  It also helps if you give people creative ways to use them.

Cucamelons – Also known as mouse melons, these tiny little grape-sized cucumbers taste like a cross between a cucumber and lime.  They’re really wonderful fresh out of hand, and they make great pickles or mixed drinks.  The cuteness factor means that these sell for about $5 per half-pint.

Berry Pick Your Own

To complement our backyard nursery retirement plans, we’re also planning a pick your own operation.  This requires more space than most of the other ideas on this list, but after the initial setup, labor is pretty minimal. 

A while back I calculated the rate of return on a raspberry pick your own, and you’d need about 250-row feet to produce $1000 worth of raspberries.  For us on 30 acres, that’s a drop in the bucket, but that may be more space than you can devote to any one crop.

Strawberries are similar, in that a plant generally yields about a pound of fruit in a season, and requires 1-row foot.  At $4 per pound, you’d need the same amount of row feet as raspberries.  The benefit there is, strawberry rows are much more closely spaced so this may be more practical for some.

  Read more: 37 Garden Border Ideas To Dress Up Your Landscape Edging

Garden Tours, Tea Times & Classes

Though it’s not my cup of tea, garden tours and country tea times are a good option for flower gardeners.  A local nurseryman around here makes a good side income hosting tea time in his home garden, and runs an annual tour of his extensive plantings, along with specialty days for big blooms (like daffodils).  Our gardens are more down-to-earth and “homestead” than they are attractive, but many people’s are just the opposite.

All it takes is a few tables, a decent scone recipe, and a few good teapots, and you’re ready to run a weekly afternoon tea time in the garden.  Add in tours and maybe a few gardening classes and you’ve got yourself a ready source of income from your own beautiful backyard.

Medicinal Herbs

With the increasing demand for more alternative remedies, there’s never been a better time to grow medicine in your backyard.  Locally grown herbs are still hard to find in most areas, but plenty of people are looking for them.

Many medicinal herbs are perennials, which means you plant them once and you can harvest them for years.  And the same compounds that make the plants medicinal also make them resistant to deer and insects, which means less maintenance than garden veggies.  For the most part, they’re perennial, persistent and more importantly…profitable.

There’s a high demand for medicinal tinctures since they’re ready to use, and our local coop has half an aisle dedicated to them.  Tinctures sell for $8 to $12 an ounce, but they only cost about $1 to $2 an ounce, even if you’re buying in the herbs rather than growing them. 

Add in another $1 for the tincture bottle, and you’re still making a pretty sizable profit per bottle.  Choosing crops that are common and in high demand, like echinacea tincture can help you break into the market.

As you’re just getting started, I’d recommend Backyard Medicine as a way to dip your toe into harvesting and making your own herbal remedies, especially from wild crops.  If you’re considering growing herbs for profit I’d highly recommend The Organic Medicinal Herb Farmer: The Ultimate Guide to Producing High-Quality Herbs on a Market Scale.  It’s written by farmers that grow just a few towns over from us, and they’ve inspired a lot of people to take up growing medicine for the market.

The Herbal Academy of New England also has a course designed specifically for herbal entrepreneurs.  The course walks you through the basics of creating your own brand identity, marketing, sourcing herbal ingredients, manufacturing herbal remedies and creating a business plan around herbs and herbal remedies.

Fall Garden Income

The end of the garden season, fall is generally when the crops come in.  In my mind though, it’s one of the more challenging times to make income as a small producer. 

There are a lot of products on the market,  and it’s hard to stand out.  With the holidays right around the corner though, marketing yourself as a niche producer of really unique homegrown gifts can work to your advantage.

Honey & Bee Products

Gardeners need bees and bees need gardeners!  Raising honey bees is a great way to support pollinator communities, but with all the challenges that face hives these days, it’s best to be educated before you start.  There’s a really great book called Natural Beekeeping: Organic Approaches to Modern Apiculture that covers just about everything you need to know to keep your bees healthy naturally.

In a good year, with our short Vermont growing seasons, bees can produce as much as 100lbs of honey for harvest.  The current bulk price at our coop, meaning bring your own container nothing fancy…is $7 per pound.  Pre-packaged just in mason jars, honey goes for $10-12 per pound, and considerably more in specialty gift packaging.

Add in things like bee pollen or propolis for medicinal use, or comb honey, and you have yet more high-dollar items to market.

Honey, especially locally sustainably raised honey is in high demand just about everywhere.  People are realizing that bees are important to our environment, and many will be happy to pay for local honey just knowing that it means supporting someone who is stewarding such an important resource in their neighborhood.

Apples, Cider and Cider Press Rentals

My doctor has a small apple share side hustle that she runs with her sister, selling harvest shares to neighbors in her spare time.  They have a few full-sized apple trees, and each one produces around 100 to 120 pounds of apples per year.  These days, conventionally grown supermarket apples are about $3 per pound…and locally grown apples fetch a premium above that.

She sells shares ahead of time and then divides the harvest as each tree comes to bear.  Distributing them to shareholders every week or two as each variety ripens over the season.

We have other neighbors who sell fresh cider that they press from their trees, at $12 per gallon.  Last year we pressed nearly 80 gallons from our trees, most of which went into hard cider and homemade cider syrup (like maple syrup), but we easily could have sold it instead.  Instead of selling our cider, we have a different strategy for earning our income during apple season. 

We invested in an efficient double-barrel cider press, with the thought that we can rent it out to other small apple producers.  People with one or two trees in their backyard love the novelty of pressing their own cider, and around these parts a press rents for about $50 for the afternoon.  Over the course of the season that can really add up…

Year-Round Garden Income

Beyond different things you can do seasonally to earn a few thousand a couple of months a year, there are things you can do year-round to earn a steady income related to your garden.  

Garden Blogging

I know, making income from blogging seems too good to be true, but writing about diy, gardening, and self-sufficiency is now my full-time job. Within 6 months of starting this blog, I started making an extra $1000 a month.  After 9 months of writing, I was able to quit my day job, and now at 18 months in I bring in more each month than any job I’ve ever had.

The best part?  All I do is write about what we’re already doing here in our daily lives, and I spend my days playing in the garden and out foraging in the woods with my kids.

I was inspired to take the leap into blogging when I read the book Make Money Blogging at Any Level by my blogger friend, Victoria at A Modern Homestead.  She outlines in detail how to earn a substantial income, even from a very small blog.  

She was able to retire her husband and supports her family exclusively with her blog.  If you’re considering blogging as a source of income it’s worth the investment.  It’s $27 for the book, and I made that back in my first week with my blog following her tips.

She also has a much more comprehensive blogging e-course that takes you through everything you need to know to launch your own profitable blog.  It’s a bit more of an investment, but it’s the perfect way for a beginner to learn everything they need to know to launch their blog fast and start earning money.

Garden Micro-Influencer

Making money on Instagram is all the rage these days, and you’d be surprised how many companies are willing to send you free products just for a promise that you’ll post at least 1 picture of it to Instagram with honest feedback.  Once you have even a small following, companies will pay you for your time reviewing it (and you still get to keep it for free…)

Looking for a little inspiration?  You can always follow along on my Instagram for ideas…

Hopefully, this helps inspire you to turn your gardening passion into a meaningful side hustle.  If you have any other ideas, let me know in the comments below.

More Income Inspiration

How to Make a Full-Time Income Off-Grid

8 Ways to Make an Extra $1000 a Month on a Small Homestead

Making Money with Small Scale Maple Sugaring

Related

Source: https://livingcorner.com.au Category: Garden

source https://livingcorner.com.au/12-ways-to-make-1000-a-month-from-your-garden-year-round/

[walpurga-nacht-academy]

Isle of Phantasmagoria

Located near the Isle of Sages, the Isle of Phantasmagoria is the home of Brocken and Walpurga Nacht Academy. Considered a site of great magical energy, its culture and history were largely shaped by the multitude of unusual events that have taken place there. 

Geography & Population

The Isle is rather small, being only about 33 square kilometers in size, and being for the most part overtaken by vegetation with only a few particular spots being inhabited by humans. It has a mild climate where the winters are comfortably cold and the summers tend to be humid, but pleasant. The lowest temperature recorded on the isle was -10 degrees Celsius, while the highest was 25 degrees. It seems to be primarily characterized by an autumn and spring aesthetic, with winter and summer passing by rather quickly. Precipitation is an unexpected phenomenon, with warm showers starting without warning and ending just as quickly. The flora is surprisingly diverse with a variety of flowers and plants being native to the island, yet its famous fertility means that anything planted here is likely to take root. The same cannot be said for the fauna, as mammals tend to be quite small in numbers. Instead birds and fish seem to be rather plentiful which has influenced the gastronomy of the place as well. 

In regards to demographics, humans are the majority, with a smaller number of beastmen and other races living there. Fairies, however, are unfamiliar to the Isle and have never settled there as far as records show. Currently the island population is 18,738.   

Culture

Despite its small size, the Isle is a place teeming with customs and festivals, making for a very lively atmosphere. Its people are famous for their hospitality and easy-going nature so many sailors who had the fortune of being washed onto its shores ended up taking residence there. The Isle has been ruled by the Tauros family since olden times, though their exact aristocratic title is unknown. 

Origin Myth

Locals often claim that the very first inhabitants of the isle were pixies, small little fairies that would command the weather and welcome in the seasons with their dances and songs. They were said to fly above in the sky and sprinkle drops of dew on every flower and stem to help them grow and bloom. Due to this the earth became so fertile that when the first humans stumbled upon the island, they were able to plant anything there and even the smallest seed would produce bountiful harvest. 

Modern science has discredited this claim as the product of intoxication at the hands of a type of mushroom unique to the isle. It seems that consumption of the fungi causes one to experience potent hallucinations which require a few days to wear off. It is most likely that the locals consumed the mushroom and in their haze, aided as well by the refraction of light, they mistook the native Sylphs living on the isle for pixies due to their seemingly colourful appearance.

Interestingly enough those very mushrooms have been shown to help fertilize and make the soil richer in nutrients. Mushroom rings are thus quite common on the island, and it is considered bad luck to uproot or cause them harm. 

The King on the Bald Mountain

A mythological figure that is said to have ruled over the island back in ancient times. Locals claim that the King would wake up every year and along with his congregation of witches would torment the souls of the townsfolk of Brocken. Though it is a popular folktale on the isle, the existence of such a creature is still under question as very few sources can be found regarding its authenticity. 

Wine

The most popular alcoholic beverage on the island. Wine is considered the official drink of Phantasmagoria and is present at every celebration as a result. Due to the extensive orchards that have made the isle famous, wine from this place is considered a luxury and one of the most expensive brands in Twisted Wonderland. Every year, the Tauros mayor donates a huge casket of wine for the Cydalise Rite.

Thistles and Orchids

The official flowers of the isle. It is said that back in ancient times, the flowers of the island were blessed by fairies so they were able to walk and dance together in harmony. The flowers were also rumoured to be the favorite of the first Tauros mayor and his wife, and thus they were emblazoned everywhere. Official letters from the island all sport a stamp with a drawing of a thistle and an orchid intertwined. 

During wedding ceremonies it is considered traditional to have the venue decorated with these flowers so that it would bring the newlyweds good luck.  

Ostrich, Hippos and Elephants

Characters in the popular “Dance of the Hours” play. It is unknown how exactly the legend came about to exist, as none of the animals are native to the island. The Tauros mayor who is credited for the creation of this story said that the image came to him as he was napping in a ring of mushrooms in the Golden Pasture. The play became such a success that it was made an important part of the Cydalise Rite. 

A point of consternation for the locals is deciding which one of the three animals should become known as the official representative of the Isle. This debate has been going on for at least 1.000 years and is no closer to being resolved.     

Festival

The Cydalise Rite 

The most anticipated event of the year, the Cydalise Rite is the festival that celebrates summer and good luck. The Rite is said to have existed for centuries, its main purpose being to cause disruption and merriment so that the King on the Bald Mountain and his minions would be driven away from the homes of the locals and back on the Bald Mountain where they would be caged in by magic. Though few believe in the legend anymore, since the construction of the Selene mansion and later the Walpurga Nacht campus has demystified the area, the festival continues to be held every year in honour of that old tradition. 

In the past it used to involve a parade of horses going through the main street of Brocken, following the path through the forest and heading straight into the Pasture where the event-goers are able to enjoy a little masquerade play called the “Dance of the Hours”. It is a romance piece about three sisters (an ostrich, a hippopotamus and an elephant)  who wander into the palace of alligators by mistake. As they try to escape the dangerous place, the middle sister falls in love with the leader of the fearsome group and vice versa. The play ends in a marriage, after which all the spectators are invited to join the dance to celebrate future good tidings. A huge casket of wine is broken open by the mayor’s wife for all to enjoy. The festivity lasts until dawn when all those present are given special lanterns lit with magic crystals found only on the island and proceed to return to the town in a column singing in celebration for the coming of a new day. 

Ever since the founding of Walpurga Nacht however, it seems that the task of leading the parade of horses through Brocken has been awarded to the students as a show of good faith on the town’s part. The leader of the parade is usually the Prefect of Monarchia, who, along with her dorm members, lead a blessing of unicorns and Pegasi dressed in the dorms’ colours. Due to the rarity of such creatures on the island it has become one of the most anticipated sights during the Rite, with people usually gathering around the parade route to take pictures and sing loudly.      

History

Few historical sources detailing the early history of the island remain, however from what historians have been able to piece together it seems that the island has existed for a long time. The main argument in favour of this theory are the large animal bones that have been discovered all over the island, and which are believed to belong to a primitive species of dragons that has since gone extinct. The first settlements on the island precede the discovery of magic around the world, but the first concrete piece of evidence that proves that the isle had been inhabited for a long time are the mentions of the annual meeting of witches on the Bald Mountain to honour their King. References to this event can be found in the grimoires that the Eight Witches have passed down to their followers, along with several anonymous texts written by natives of the island. 

More recent discoveries have also found a journal kept by a member of the ruling Tauros family, which mentions that these annual meetings would cause great havoc among the population of the island. Among the effects he described were the “raising of foul ghouls from the depths of the earth, the theft of souls from among [our] village and the horrific calls of harpies, vultures, imps and firewomen as they danced around his monstrous figure.” In response to the threat posed by the emergence of the King from the mountain every year, the townsfolk would be forced to keep vigil together at night and guard themselves from the evil spirits with lanterns powered by pure magic.

Years later, another Taurous aristocrat would mention the commercial exchange that had taken place between them and a member of the famed Selene family of magicians in regards to ownership of the mountain. Having acquired property rights over the site, the Selene noble built a mansion at the very top and restricted all outside access to it. This building would later fall into disrepair once the aristocratic family fell from power and were forced to abandon most of their dwellings. Another member would repurpose it later and transform it into an education center, rather elevated to the rank of international boarding school and institute for magic.  

Notable Locations

Brocken

The only large settlement on the island. A pleasant town that is considered a wonderful tourist spot, Brocken is well-known for its welcoming attitude and laid-back atmosphere. The people there enjoy a ‘stress-free’ life in which they work, eat and sleep at their own pace. Siestas are recognized officially on the island as mandated periods of rest.

The town’s economy revolves around fishing, vinification, agriculture and tourism. It is a popular spot for location weddings and something of a cultural landmark due to the existence of places such as the Bald Mountain and the Golden Pasture. Tourists who often come here are able to make use of special programs which offer them housing, food and the opportunity to participate in some of the town’s vinification and fishing business.  

Because it is difficult to gain access to the island, Brocken has become rather isolated from the rest of the world. Thus its technology is considered old-fashioned by modern standards so things like television, mobile phones and cars are quite rare and seen as luxuries.

The Bald Mountain

One of the most well-known landmarks and the home of Walpurga Nacht Academy. The mountain is perhaps the oldest point of interest on the island, and legend has it that it was and still is the prison where a King of demons is said to slumber. Every year he would awake for one night to cause havoc on the island, aided by his congregation of witches. 

Now the mountain is associated with Walpurga Nacht, a world-famous institute of magic. 

Due to old legends and rumours surrounding the mountain, locals are known to keep away from it for fear of being cursed. Among the most popular beliefs is that anyone who dares come across the school at the top of it will be immediately struck mad. This is a concept that has been inherited since ancient times when the Eight Witches were said to dance in revelry in that spot and their fury at being glimpsed by strangers was so great they would curse them in retaliation.

The Mad Mage’s Tower

An old derelict tower, hidden far into the wilderness. It is said that there once lived an old magician whose years of isolation had driven him mad so he enchanted the objects around him to come to life and do his bidding. Though the mage had long since died, the objects still seem to be capable of sentience and continue moving around unhindered. Sylphs can be seen circling the highest point of the tower at dawn and dusk. 

Another rumour regarding the tower is that the magician might have had once a goblin apprentice that as revenge for the poor treatment he received bashed his head in with a rock during the middle of the night. 

The Golden Pasture

An idyllic sight, the pasture is one of the most famous locations on the isle. Considered a natural wonder due to its extensive flora, the Pasture is a site beloved by all citizens of the Isle, but due to the increased littering among tourists has been closed off to outsiders. It is also the location where the Cydalise Rite takes place every year. 

An interesting rumour regarding the Pasture is that those who dwell in it for too long are liable to experience hallucinations. Among those, the most commonly reported sighting was that of dancing flowers, colourful fairies, spinning mushroom rings, performing goldfish, flashing lightning and, more terrifyingly, erupting volcanoes.

[sylvain-writes]

Guarded Hearts and Safe Houses (Leonardo x Reader) Chapter 2/9

Rated: T Gender Neutral Reader, canon typical violence/injury, light angst, strangers to lovers, supportive family. -for @melodiousmelodrama

Your father stumbles over his words as he asks you to repeat yourself. He's caught whispers of a faction of vigilantes working in the shadows, but he could have never imagined mutants. Mutant turtles.

Your mother, of course, takes one look at the state they're in and any concerns she has about who and what they are are swept under the rug. She sees people who need help. People she is in the position to help. So she gets right to it.

The couches usually give ample seating as they wrap around the walls of the living room. Tonight, they make do as beds for the turtles with their firm, but plush cushions and their deep seats. Father covers the cushions with sheets to catch the worst of the blood and grime, but Mother is so caught up in the hustle and bustle of these strangers in need that she doesn’t seem to notice her white carpet is getting stained with it all.

“Grab me the big kit, sweetheart,” she says to you in a rush. “The one under the bed.”

You’re on it. You turn so quickly, you don’t notice the turtle standing behind you until you’re pressed against his armored chest. “Oh, sorry.”

You look up at him and he looks down at you, eyes narrowing. Their crystal blue color is mesmerizing, so much more human than you would have guessed possible given the rest of him - shell, tail, and all. But beyond the remarkable color of his eyes, you see a depth of pain.

“Excuse me,” he says. His voice is rough with exhaustion, and his gaze slowly turns to his injured companions. “I must see to my brothers.”

You nod as you pass and hurry down the hall to your parents’ bedroom. The first aid kit under the sink was one thing, full of adhesive bandages and a small roll of gauze. Some spray for bee stings and antiseptic wipes. The medical bag your mother stores under her bed is a whole other story. She’s used this kit to stitch your father’s finger after he sliced it making her anniversary breakfast in bed. And set your broken arm while you waited for a taxi to bring you to the hospital.

By the time you return to the living room, Mother has the turtles arranged along the couch. The one with the most pressing injuries lies in front of her. She’s removing his orange bandana and wiping his head with a damp towel. Mother gives you a small word of thanks for placing the bag beside her.

“Injuries need to be cleaned. Whomever is able is welcome to use the shower. If not, use bottled water to help flush out deeper wounds.” You could see the pinched expression on her face. None of this is ideal. But she has enough sense to keep these men far from the hospital.

The red-banded turtle shifts in his spot. His mouth twists and his shoulders roll as if anxious to get moving. Instead of asking if he’d like to go first, you tell him straight, “The bathroom is down the hallway. The first door on the right. Come on. I’ll get fresh towels from the closet.”

He looks to Leo and receives permission by way of a hum and a nod.

“Go on, Raph,” Donnie says as he cradles his injured knee. “I’m better off having the doc take a look at this first.”

The couch and Raph both groan as he stands. He follows you to the shower and the look of relief on his face when he finds the wheelchair accessible shower Father had installed for Gran is wide enough for him. The knobs of the shower are self-explanatory and since he doesn’t ask for help, you don’t offer.

You stack a few towels on top of the sink, place extra bars of soap beside them, and leave him to the rest.

Mother meets you in the hallway with her jacket and purse in hand. “I need to run out for more supplies. Your father is keeping Gran busy in her room so she doesn’t ask about the commotion. Those young men will be fine while I’m gone, but I want you to continue helping them clean up. Leonardo is wonderful, but he’s trying to do more than he should in his condition.”

She cups your face with her gentle touch and gives you a soft smile.

“Ma?” you ask, wondering why the tender look in her eyes.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says.

You smile back at her and let her go.

In the living room, Leo kneels at Michelangelo's side, taking up where your mother had left off. He's silent while Donnie bites back a hiss of pain.

You rush over to help him with his knee. As you watch the wound, no longer soaking the towel with blood, your brows knit together in curiosity. "Are you... healing already?"

"Our healing factor is quite remarkable... compared to humans. By my calculations the tissue damage done to my knee will take only a few days to heal, while the cartilage and bone may repair within the week. Based on my study and understanding of human biology, the same injury in a human would require reconstructive surgery."

You slowly nod as he speaks, in awe of him - his existence, his healing factor, his knowledge, his fearless confidence in his body's resilience.

Behind you, Leo huffs and a pair of tweezers clatters in the metal bowl beside him.

Your gaze darts between Donnie and Leo. Leo’s mouth is set in a hard line, his brow is furrowed with concern. Donnie flexes his leg and wraps clean bandage around his knee. Since it looks like Donnie has things under control, you shift your focus to Mikey and Leo.

You stand behind Leonardo, the sight of his swords sheathed across his back reminds you of his skill and leadership. But as you watch over his shoulder, you see the source of his frustration as he stares down at his hands. Broad, blunt fingers would be ill-fitted for the delicate work of picking shards of glass and metal from his brother’s wounds. Even if his hands weren’t shaking.

You gently clear your throat and pick up the tweezers from the pan. You kneel beside him, trying to ignore the way his gaze lifts to watch you settle down but finding it impossible to ignore the bulk of him at your side.

Your arms brush as you reach toward Mikey and he makes a small move to give you room, but the full mass of him is right there, hovering. He’s warm and solid. His breath on your shoulder comes and goes so steadily you think he must be counting each inhale, pause, and exhale.

Instinct tells you to talk to fill the silence between you. Talking with Donnie was easy. Heck, even getting Raphael into the shower wasn’t too hard.

But Leo is an imposing figure. He’s their leader. He’s all strength and seriousness. He’s in mourning. He looks over his youngest brother and you can see the weight of his failures in the stoop of his shoulders and the drawn down corners of his mouth.

“My mother will be back any minute,” you say as you pull shards of metal wire from Mikey’s palms. “She’ll have you all patched up and ready to go as soon as she can.”

“We’ll be out of here before her return.”

His confession halts your progress and you turn to get a good look at him. “I think you should stay.”

His eyes widen at your insistence, but you know that you’re right. You think Raph may back you up, if he were around, but he seems mighty comfortable spending his night in the shower. Donnie’s eyes are on the ceiling, pretending he has nothing to do with the conversation. So, you continue.

“Mikey, right?” Delicately taking hold of the unconscious turtle's limp hand, you bring Leo’s focus to his youngest brother. “He stays. If you go, fine. But he stays.”

“I’m not letting him out of my sight.”

“Well, neither am I.”

Raphael finally shows up with a towel over his shoulders. “Who’s doin’ what now?” He favors his left arm, but you wonder if that’s due to injury or handedness in general. Even the wounds to his side have started to heal, leaving light, smooth scars in the place where stab wounds and slashes were before.

“Mikey stays here," you say with conviction. "He hasn’t woken up yet and my mother would kill me if you all left in your condition.”

“Well, I’m not going yet,” Donnie replies lightly, “I didn’t get my shower. And Raph probably used up all the hot water, so we gotta wait for the boiler to fill.”

Donnie heads to the bathroom while Raph lies back on the couch. He folds back the sheet so he can lie on the couch. And you let him know there are throw blankets and extra pillows in the basket beneath the end table.

“Thanks. Dunno why you’re anxious to leave, Leo. This is real hospitality.” Raph’s jabs would have landed harder if his eyes didn’t flit to Mikey’s unconscious form while he spoke. Raph grabs a book from your father’s stack of crime thrillers and thumbs through it while he waits for Donnie’s return.

As you fish debris out of Mikey's wounds, Leo paces through the open layout of the apartment. From the kitchen counter to the electric fireplace, he stalks back and forth. Raphael grunts when his brother blocks the lamp light, but he stopped turning pages ten minutes ago.

Your work on Michelangelo is almost done. His wounds are clear and clean, free to heal without trapping debris under the skin. You can feel Leo’s eyes on you as you spread antibiotic lotions over his cuts and check under the rest of his bandages to see the healing progress of the rest of his wounds. It’s incredible how fast their bodies repair themselves. It makes the fact that Mikey hasn’t woken up yet even more unsettling.

Donatello returns and crashes on the couch next to Raph who’s trying desperately to look like he’s not ready to fall asleep. “Though we heal quickly," Donnie explains, "the process takes a lot out of us. To heal most efficiently, Mikey’s energy is being diverted to his deeper wounds, keeping him unconscious. Raph, on the other hand, is embarrassed by how bad he snores.”

“Hey.” Raphael smacks his brother's chest and Donatello crosses his arms, laughing to himself.

“I don’ care if ya hear me snore. I just don’ wanna fall asleep and then get woken up by our fearless leader over here, who’s gonna make me carry our little brother back home.”

A quiet voice speaks up from the kitchen. Leo sounds tired and beaten, “We’re staying here for the night. I won’t move Mikey in his condition.”

It’s as if the room itself breathes a sigh of relief.

Donnie and Raph quietly raid the basket for pillows and blankets, making themselves comfortable enough to sleep on the couch. They're making themselves at home, you think, and that settles some of the anxiety you’d been feeling at not having more room for them to rest. But Donnie and Leo are only half of the story. You tuck Mikey, giving him a whisper of hope and a caress on his cheek, then you join Leo in the kitchen.

Leo stands, hands braced against the counter top, as you approach.

“You’re doing the right thing.” You say, trying not to startle at the way his head snaps up at you. Trying not to shrink away from the raw emotion in his eyes.

It’s not your place to judge what’s best for his family, but you can’t help but follow the feeling in your gut. And that’s telling you that the brothers came into your life for a purpose. You try to reason with him. “My mother can monitor Mikey and check that everyone’s injuries are healing properly when she returns. And again in the morning.”

He turns his face away from you with a huff and grumbles through his teeth. “We’re not accepting charity.”

You take a step back, confused. They had just fought off an army shouting plans to take over the world. If anything, you were looking for ways to pay them back for their protection, for their sacrifice. “You needed help. We’re doing the best we can.”

Leo doesn’t respond right away, but when he does, his tone doesn’t have the same edge of frustration. “We shouldn’t have come here.”

Careful not to encroach on his space, you approach the table that stands between you. “Well you’re here now. And your brothers are healing. Why don’t you let me take a look at your shoulder?”

He looks at you once again and his icy resolve has been replaced by surprise. As if he thought no one had noticed the way he’s been stooping and favoring his right arm. You’d catalogued his injuries when standing over him as he kneeled tending to Mikey. The lacerations to his shoulder had looked thin but deep and the burns on his shell spanned most of the upper rim.

You pull out a chair. “Sit.” Your word is gentle but firm. There’s no room for argument.  

He sits.

You take a deep breath as you assess the damage done to his trapezoid. It’s nasty stuff, clean lines but if he doesn’t take it easy and let himself heal, then the cut is going to separate. Your mother may be able to save him from a thick scar if you can convince him to let her stitch it up. For now, you’ll make do as you can with butterfly bandages and gauze.

Your work on him is delicate. He doesn’t say much, but neither do you. You pay close attention to his reactions as you move from his shoulder to his shell. Every hitch of his breath pierces your heart.

Though he tries to remain silent, it’s clear by his gasps and the way he holds his breath that the burns have made his shell and the skin behind his neck far more tender than his shoulder. After a few minutes, he’s no longer hiding his pain.

You console him with a smooth drag of your hand over his arm. His thick muscles twitch under your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t make any sound for you to stop.

“I think I got all of the gravel,” you say, giving his bicep and encouraging squeeze. “I’m going to apply some burn ointment. It stings before it soothes. Are you ready?”

Leo sits straighter and gives a short nod.

You squeeze the ointment onto the wound and spread it with your fingertips.

Leo grips his knees and pulls in a sharp breath between his teeth. His breaths come in quick, harsh puffs. You pet a wide patch of uninjured shell to ease him through the worst of the pain.

“Think I prefer Father’s poultice to this,” Leo says through clenched jaw. “Makes me want to gag but it doesn’t pack such a punch.”

“You have a father?” You feel like it’s a stupid question the second it comes out of your mouth. They’re brothers, they are a family, it makes sense that they’d have parents.

Leo looks over his shoulder at you. His eyes still wet from the pain of his shoulder. “Our sensei. He took us in when we were first mutated. He’s looked after us all these years. Taught us the way of the ninja.”

“Master Splinter,” you recall from the story he told your parents.

“He’s like a father to us,” Leo explains. “He’d never let us accept help from humans. We were never supposed to be seen.”

“So, now what?” You’re not afraid of Leo, but the way he speaks about his father with reverence and deference, has you worried for your family about what it means to be the only humans who have encountered these mutant vigilantes.

Leo places his hand on yours. “We’ll protect you.”

“From your father?”

“No. No, he’d never want any harm to come to you. Especially not after all that you’ve done for us. But you’ve placed yourself at great risk with the Krang. And the Krang isn’t the only danger out there.”

You look down at your joined hands. Leo’s thumb brushes your inner wrist as he speaks. You wonder if he realizes the movement at all.

“We’ll protect you,” he says again. He seems to notice his hand is still on yours and drops it quickly. He turns so you can no longer see his face. “As payment for your kindness and medical care. We are in your debt.”

Your stomach twists at the loss of his touch. You stare at the back of his head for a moment before turning to the table to pack away Mother’s supplies. “Thanks,” you say shortly, zipping up the bag. “Looks like the shower is free. And your brothers left you plenty of space on the floor to sleep.”

“I won’t sleep. Someone needs to keep watch.”

You nudge the burn ointment over the tabletop. “For after your shower,” you say. And, with your stomach still in knots, you bring the medical equipment back to the living room.

[radbeetle]

|Call to Arms|

wow these screenshots are so old. do you know why i’ve been sitting on them for so long? because i wanted to finish the writing about this mission before I posted them

AND I DID. Check it out on AO3 or under the readmore.

“These robots were assaulted by institute synths.”

Katherine scrunched up her face and shielded her eyes as she looked up at Danse , who insisted on keeping his headlamp on.

“Um, sorry, I - I gotta ask… what are… synths?” and what’s the institute, for that matter, she thought to herself, but one question at a time.

“Technological abominations created by the institute, and let loose to run rampant throughout the commonwealth.” Danse’s voice was heavy with disgust, even through the buzzy modulation of his power armor.

“Danse. That’s… I get that you don’t like them, but what are they?” Katherine pleaded. “Just… in simple terms? Please?”

He scoffed. “I would have thought you familiar with them. Most in the Commonwealth seem to be.”

Katherine deflated, shoulders sinking. “Well… just… I’m out of the loop. Let’s leave it at that.”

The blank stare of the T-60’s helmet concealed Danse’s puzzlement. Regardless, he provided explanation. “Robots, built in the shape of man. A mannequin brought to life by machinery. They’re a mockery of humankind at best, and a blight upon this world at worst.”

Katherine bit her tongue, and suppressed her curiosity. As much as she wanted to know more, it was obvious Danse was biased. “I guess things have come a long way from the Mr. Handy, huh.” There was still a little bit of awe in her voice - she very much wanted to see these synths. Truly humanoid robots had always been a lofty goal of the industry… she had heard of RobCo’s Assaultrons, but they were still miles away.

Danse scoffed. “Unfortunately. Keep your eyes open as we move deeper into the facility. It’s highly likely that the Institute’s forces still have a presence here.” The paladin was already moving on, and Katherine was quick to follow.

“Mmm-hmm.” She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Part of her was brimming with curiosity about these synths… and part of her knew that if they could take down those protectrons, they could take down her.

“This place has really been trashed, huh? What do you think it was like back in the day?”

“Filled with men making poor decisions, I’m certain.”

Katherine pressed her lips. So much for small talk. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the hallways opened up into another room. Two dust coated windows framed a sliding door, which Danse was quick to investigate.

“This is the way forwards, but it seems to be locked tight. There’s no apparent way to open it from here.”

Katherine straightened up, and holstered her 10mm. “Oh, if there’s no visible controls on the door, they’re likely wired into a local terminal. It’s technically required for them have a way to bypass the lock through the hardware, in case of emergency, but they never make it easy. Security stuff. Uh…” she trailed off for a moment, glancing around the room. There were a few desks still standing on the opposite wall, terminals still intact. “Um, give me a moment.” She kicked a toppled chair away from the desk, and bent over the keyboard. “Mmm, this one’s still logged in. I guess there’s not really time to properly disconnect from your workstation when they’re bombing the city.” she muttered as she scrolled through the inbox.

“Any luck over there?” Danse inquired.

“I’ve got access to the internal mail system, uh, lots of reminders about security protocols and - ah-heh. Automated password change reminder. Looks like it’s for the lab access?” Katherine had a gnawing feeling in her gut that she was over-explaining things. Surely the paladin didn’t care about the specifics.

“That’s where we’re headed.”

“Great, yeah, uh.” She scanned the room again and scampered to the other still functional terminal. “Let’s hope…” she trailed off.

Danse took a few steps away from the laboratory door, turning to watch Katherine with mild curiosity, hidden behind the power armor helmet. She seemed quite at home amongst the terminals and technology. An unusual trait, compared to most of the wastelanders he met. Though he was initially skeptical of her claim to being a Vault Dweller - the Brotherhood had no record of a Vault 111, after all - he wondered if perhaps there was some truth to her statement.

“Hey!” Kate’s head popped up over the top of the terminal. “Got it.”

“Excellent. Let’s not waste any more time. If you could open the door?”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah.” A swift keystroke and the door opened with the whnk-hsss of pneumatics.

Paladin Danse formed around, set once again to lead the way onward, through the facility - but the incandescent blue laser bolt that buzzed his power armor brought those plans to a standstill.

“Hostile detected.” The matter-of-fact statement and computerized voice carried no overt aggression, a sharp contrast to the flurry of laser fire passing through the now opened doorway.

“Synths! Take cover!”

Katherine didn’t need to be told - she dove for cover behind a fallen file cabinet the instant she caught sight of the laser’s flash. Her grip tightened around her pistol as she heard Danse shout - a cautious glimpse revealed that the synths - that’s what he said they were? - were prioritizing the Paladin as a target, paying no attention to her. She wasn’t sure if they had even noticed her.

A dozen thoughts all raced through her head, tangling together as she stared at the machines. Mannequins was the comparison Danse had drawn. He wasn’t too far off. They were battered, damaged, rubber skin torn to reveal steel skeletons and plastic components. Only a moment had passed before one of them turned its gaze to Kate. The faint yellow glow of its eyes and the exposed grimace of its metal skull was an eerie sight - and one that quickly exploded in a shower of sparks and shrapnel.

Danse had taken it out with a single headshot.

The moment was enough to jolt her back into action, and she followed up by returning fire. Her 10mm pistol wasn’t nearly as effective as the AER-9 laser rifle Danse carried, but it did the job.

“Hmph. Sent them to the scrap heap.” He noted the laser weaponry carried by the synths, and had a realization. He glanced at the pistol carried by his current associate, and offered her the backup laser rifle he had brought. “Take this. I’m certain there’ll be more of them, and they’ll be carrying microfusion cells. Energy will be more effective than a weapon of a ballistic nature.” The Paladin tossed the rifle towards Katherine, who caught it with a startled yelp. She turned the weapon over in her hands. She had a passing familiarity with the AER-9 - though she had never personally handled one, she understood the basic mechanisms, and microfusion cells were something she was well acquainted with.

She fastened her 10mm pistol to her belt and kept the laser in hand. Danse had already stepped over the smoldering wrecks of the synths, but her curiosity was too strong. She stopped in the middle of the room, and crouched down over one of the robots.

They had been shooting at me only minutes ago, she thought, and there was still part of her that was worried they might spring back to life. Yet despite that lurking fear, she had to get a closer look.

The situation struck her as a little morbid, perhaps. Moreso than examining a broken-down Mr. Handy, at least.

It was the faces, she thought. The eyes.

The Institute. That’s where Danse said they had come from. Katherine had seen how the world was torn apart, still ruined from the bombs dropped so long ago. But it seemed that somewhere out there, something had not just survived, but thrived. Moved on past the limits of the world she knew, developed things that General Atomics could only have dreamed of.

A weight settled somewhere deep in her chest as she turned one over. An aching sort of sadness.

She didn’t have a chance to process those feelings, to figure out the why behind them.

“What are you doing? Hurry up. We can’t waste any more time.” Danse snapped, irritated by what he saw as Kate’s dawdling.

“Oh.” Katherine’s response was quiet. She got to her feet, gaze lingering on the remains of the synths, before turning away to follow Danse once again, through the ruins of ArcJet.

Katherine was worn down by the repeated encounters with the institute synths - after the first firefight she stuck closer than ever to the paladin - and stayed behind him, too. The power armor could take a laser much better than she could.

She was sure Danse was scowling at her cowardice, under his helmet.

“This way leads to the engine core. We’ll have to pass through here to reach the location where they’ve likely stored the transmitter.”

Danse looked back to find Kate dragging her fingers through the dust on a long abandoned desk, staring at a box of long faded files and folders.

“Everything here stopped so suddenly… how many people do you think made it out?”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“When… the bombs dropped.” Katherine clarified, her voice tinged with sadness.

Danse cocked his head. “I couldn’t tell you, and I doubt anyone in the commonwealth has that information, given how many years have passed since those events.” He scoffed. “Regardless, I would suggest against concerning yourself with the people of the past. Their actions brought the war upon themselves.”

Her only response to Danse’s declaration was to go very quiet.

The elevator ride that took them to the engine core was awkward; Katherine pressed herself into the back corner of the car and wondered how much a suit of T-60 power armor weighed. Every time the elevator creaked, or groaned, she flinched. The thought that it had gone two centuries without maintenance scared her.

Kate’s knuckles went white as she clutched the pitted railing, just leaning barely enough over to stare down to the depths of the room. Her eyes followed the length of the rocket booster back up, and turned to look back at Danse, whose attention was drawn upwards, assessing the staircase - and the massive gap where it had broken away over the past two centuries.

It wasn’t filling Katherine with confidence, that was for sure.

–

It was only a short few flights to the floor of the test chamber, thankfully. The ash crunched under Katherine’s feet, and she walked a line around the edge of the room, idly looking over the footprints she left.

Danse placed an armored hand on the cowl of the engine, which had laid dormant for over two centuries. He wondered briefly if the brotherhood would have a use for it.

Maybe if it were smaller. As it stood, there was no way to transport the thing.

“See if you can find a way to turn the power back on. Perhaps redirect it from other parts of the facility.”

“Yeah - yeah sure.” There were only two ways out of the room, aside from the stairs. An elevator, unpowered and unusable, and a set of heavy steel double doors, halfway open and leading to what looked like a maintenance hall, judging by the wires and pipes running along the concrete. Seemed promising - or so she hoped.

There was a… she supposed it was some sort of control room, judging by all the consoles and buttons present, but she didn’t pay much attention to it - another doorway at the rear of the room exposed a fusion generator, and that was much more promising when it came to potential power systems.

Not just one fusion generator, but two - and a terminal at the back of the room. She nudged the chair away from the desk, wheels leaving a trail in the dust. As she settled in, Kate’s fingers ran across the terminal keys. There was no elaborate security down here in the depths. It didn’t surprise her. But it did make her current task easier - and she was glad. She tapped her way through various options, scanning every choice and setting .

Ah. There we go. Auxiliary power. A few confirmations and…

She could hear the power systems coming to life in the walls around her, the faint buzz of electricity through wires, and the hum of mechanical systems powering up. That should have done it, if everything was still connected.

The fusion generators she had passed has turned quiet, and her gaze lingered on the fusion core left inside. Well… if that was no longer connected, no longer needed.

Push, turn, and a click as it disconnected, slipped into her pocket on the way out.

It was the sound of gunfire that made Katherine snap to attention once again. Or, more accurately, laser fire. Flashes of blue and red through the reinforced glass window of the control room.

The paladin’s shouts confirmed her assumption.

“Synths!”

She froze up, eyes darting across the room, tracking the barrage of blue bolts in front of her.

It felt like hours before Danse called out again, directed at her. “Do something, Vance! Don’t just - urgh - stand there!”

It was enough to jolt her into action.

She slammed her open palm down on the big red button on the console in front of her.

The sounds of laser fire weren’t enough to obscure the pre-recorded countdown that initiated.

“Command accepted. Test fire commencing in five… four…”

Katherine’s heart was doing backflips in her chest. “Test fi- oh god oh no job on that’s not -” She pounded on the window. “Danse!”

“Three… two…”

Danse didn’t have time to muster a response, under the onslaught of synths.“

"One. Engine firing.”

The roar of the engine was deafening, and Katherine’s immediate reaction was to cover her ears. The sound was matched in intensity by the engine’s output - even here behind the safety of the blast shield, she still felt the wave of heat.

Danse dropped to one knee, arm raised to shield his face. The steel of his power armor picked up a faint red glow around the edges under the engine’s flames.

The synths weren’t nearly as durable. Any of them immediately under the test engine were swiftly reduced to ash, and those with a little more distance crumpled to the floor within moments.

“Test firing completed with an efficiency rating of ninety-six point seven percent.”

Katherine was already at the blast doors by the time they swung open. Her footsteps crackled in the ash as she ran to Danse.

He hadn’t moved since going down, and that made her fearful.

But as she approached, he groaned, reaching for the laser rifle he had dropped.

“Danse? Oh my god I’m - shit, shit I’m sorry I didn’t know - I didn’t think - *are you okay?!” She was on the verge of panic.

“I’m fine.” Danse grunted, getting to his feet with a little more effort than usual.“Thanks to my power armor. Without it I would have fared no better than those damn synths.”

Katherine reached a hand out, a gesture of support, but as she placed it on his arm…

“Ouch!” She yelped, flinching backwards. The metal still held quite a bit of heat. She shook her hand - that was gonna leave a mark.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Maybe it wasn’t the wisest decision, but the results are acceptable enough.” The paladin gestured toward the elevator, where the call buttons were now lit up. “I strongly suggest we keep moving on. I don’t know how many more synths are in this building, or if they’re on their way to us again, and I’d rather not stand around to learn the answer.”

Perhaps it was more of a command than a suggestion, as he didn’t wait for a reply before heading towards the elevator.

“Um…” Kate hurried after him, still worried, though now for a different reason. “How much does that power armor weigh…? Is that going to be within the weight limit? I don’t - that elevator is two hundred years old and I know it hasn’t had regular maintenance, what if it -”

Danse turned around to look at Katherine. Even with his helmet obscuring his expression, she could sense his disapproval.

“Sorry.” She offered lamely, before going quiet and squeezing into the elevator car beside him.

It was a tight fit.

“All the information I’ve gathered indicates that the deep range transmitter is most likely stored in this control room,” Danse explained, “and there’s almost no evidence of scavenger activity in these parts of the facility.”

“What about the synths?”

“They arrived not long before we did, from the looks of things. If the deep range transmitter isn’t in the control room, one of the synths may have taken it. If that’s the case, we should hope they haven’t yet left the facility - if they’re still here, recovering the transmitter will be a simple task.”

“… more gunfights?”

“Very likely.”

Katherine clutched her laser rifle just a little tighter as they made their way towards the control room.

She was very conscious of her choice to keep behind Danse. The power armor protected him - and anyone behind him.

The tinny statement of “Hostile detected.” was the first sign of synths ahead, followed by the pchew of laser fire overhead.

“Contact!” Danse was the superior marksman between them and was quick to take out a trio of synths. They crumpled to the ground in rapid succession, and the third found its plastic skin burnt to ash as it fell.

Katherine was quick to offer fire against the last two synths as Danse reloaded - though none of her shots missed, she was far less accurate. It took more than twice as many shots for her to take them down.

“Well done.”

“Oh - um. Thank- thank you.” She never was great at handling praise, and was quick to scamper off in search of the transmitter, investigating the destroyed synths while Danse searched the room.

A few recovered microfusion cells found their way into her pockets, before a larger item caught her eye. She nudged the synth aside with her boot, uncovering… well, she wasn’t certain it was the deep range transmitter but it did have the look of a very complicated and very expensive piece of technology.

Katherine made her way back to Danse with the device slung under her arm. “Hey - I found this and um. Is this what you’re after?”

“That would be it, yes. Excellent! And it doesn’t appear to have sustained any damage.”

“Yeah, that’s good news.”

“There should be a way to exit the facility from here, so there won’t be any need to backtrack. Follow me.”

Danse wasn’t one to loiter - Katherine found it hard to keep up with him.

“… oh, another elevator.”

The service elevator led to an exit behind the ArcJet building, up a hill, sheltered inside a concrete structure. The commonwealth was quiet - there were no signs of any synths lingering outside. They were both equally relieved by this.

Danse took a few steps past the aged, rusting fence, and turned back to face Katherine. With his rifle holstered he reached up to remove his helmet, tucking it under one arm as he spoke. “well, I’m certain that could have gone smoother, but mission accomplished.”

Kate winced. She really had no frame of reference here. “I’m - I’m sorry. I didn’t…” She trailed off, deflating.

“While the operation was flawed, your contributions were still invaluable. Without your assistance I would certainly have been overwhelmed on multiple occasions. I’m not certain I could have retrieved the transmitter on my own.”

“Oh…!” There was surprise in Kate’s exclamation. She shuffled her feet a bit, awkward. “I’m… glad to hear that. I think.”

The paladin continued onward. “With that said, I believe we have two important matters to discuss. First and foremost is the deep range transmitter. If you’ll hand it to me, I’d like to compensate you for your assistance during this operation.”

“Yeah, yeah okay, here, this is, um. This is yours.” Kate offered Danse the device, which was swiftly packed away and secured.

He unholstered the rifle at his side, presenting it to Katherine. “Here. You clearly have an aptitude with technology - and with energy weapons. I think you’ll benefit from this; It’s my own personal modification to the standard issue AER9 laser rifle.”

“…really? Don’t you need this?” Katherine gingerly accepted the weapon, scanning it. She could see evidence of tinkering - and, of course, the brotherhood’s symbol stencilled along the barrel. She ran a thumb across the paint.

“It’s not the only weapon at my disposal. Besides, I believe in paying my debts.”

“Well then… thank you.”

“You’re welcome, civilian. Now, onto the second matter.”

Kate bit her tongue, unsure of what to expect.

“I wanted to make you a proposal. We had a lot thrown at us back there, and for the most part, you handled yourself exceptionally.”

She found herself wanting to disagree, but said nothing.

“Our op could have ended in disaster, but your determination kept that from happening. I believe that with a bit of training, you could be a valuable asset to the Brotherhood.”

“Erm.” Was she being recruited? She would have flunked out of the pre-war military almost instantly.

“The way I see it, you’ve got a choice. You could spend the rest of your life wandering the commonwealth, scrounging for supplies and trading your skills for a meager reward. Or, you could join the Brotherhood of Steel and make your mark on the world.” Danse shifted his weight, grip tightening on the helmet he still held.

“So, what do you say?”

Kate bit her lip. “The Brotherhood of Steel, huh? You guys are… aren’t you military?”

“Essentially, yes.”

Her hesitation was obvious. “Is this something I can think about? I don’t think I know enough here to, uh. to make a decision so quickly.”

“Of course. It’s a big decision. The offer still stands, and when you’ve made up your mind, you know where to find me.” Danse took a moment to put his helmet on once again, and his voice crackled out from within. “With all that said, I need to return to the police station. The deep range transmitter ought to be installed sooner, rather than later, so we can get in contact with the rest of the Brotherhood. Thank you again for your assistance, Vance. I wish you the best.”

Katherine found herself staring after Danse as he turned and left, heavy footsteps echoing off the hills around them. She shook her head as if to clear it. This whole thing had taken her off track, and she sighed. She had always been praised for her willingness to help, but so often that kept her away from her own tasks.

She certainly wasn’t going to make it to Diamond City today, she realized - the sky was still light, but she knew that wasn’t going to last much longer.

There weren’t enough hours in the day. That had been true two hundred years ago, and it was still true now.

She wasn’t looking forward to setting up camp for the night.

[thephantomofthe-internet]

Read into Me Chapter 4: North and South

Steve Harrington x Reader

CATCH UP ON THE SERIES HERE

Words: 4,753

Warnings: Swearing, bullying, i reference the plot of Wuthering Heights and that has some icky stuff in it idk what to tag that though

Author’s Note: How’re you guys liking the series so far? I’m really enjoying it, I’d love to hear what you guys think, good or bad! Also, is over 4k too much for you guys? I used to strive to hit that mark when I first started but the fandom’s changed so much, I feel like an old fart lmao

Tag List: @divinity-deos @thecaptainsgingersnap​ @wolfish-willow​ @scoopsohboi​ @herre-gud-nej​ @clockworkballerina​ @maddie1504​ @i-am-trash-so-much-its-scary​ @buckysarge​ @wildcvltre​ @stanleyyelnatsiii​ @unusuallchild @alwaysstressedout @linkispink1995​ @asharpkniffe​ @a-big-ball-of-idk​ @mochminnie​ @used-avocado​ @sledgy14​ @the-creative-lie​

You didn’t hear from Steve after that, save for him returning your essay with minimal markings and a graded ‘A’ on the top. He’d gone back to his people as quickly as he’d left them, letting Vicki talk his ear off from across the aisle. You didn’t mind too much, her voice was grating on the ear, but her hair was pretty and she actually seemed to ask him questions. You didn’t know why it mattered to you that she seemed genuinely interested in Steve, but you decided that he deserved someone who cared enough to know him. Everyone deserved someone who cared enough to know them. Tina just talked about herself for the whole class when everyone was supposed to be discussing the book at hand, Wuthering Heights, and it got very annoying. You just filled out your discussion questions and did your best to be invisible. No one seemed to notice except for Mr. Lawrence, who’d scolded you twice now for not participating in group discussions.

“I know that you know this stuff, but I can’t give you participation points if you don’t participate with others.” He handed you back your discussion sheet for chapter four. You’d gotten everything right; Mr. Lawrence was lobbing low balls at the class to try to get them to read the book. You didn’t change your tune; you didn’t want to talk to your peers. It didn’t matter anyway, no matter what you said to them you’d still write down the same answers and get the same grade.

You didn’t hear much about your failings to participate after he handed back your first essays. You weren’t surprised that you’d gotten a low ‘A’ on the paper; you hadn’t tried that hard on it. You noted that he’d given you a good grade on your editing, which Mr. Lawrence noted on the page that he could count it for your participation for the class, since you did so well with it. You couldn’t complain because it was a decent way to pass.

When the bell rang, you made your usual break for it, excited to be on your free period and free to sit in the sun for the afternoon. Tracy Lords was in Samantha’s gym class and with the weather so lovely they’d do class outside, giving you a chance to work on front profiles with her flat, pretty features.

Steve was dreading getting his paper back. He didn’t trust himself to get a decent grade and even with your help he was certain he’d pull above a ‘D’. Mr. Lawrence always handed out pairs face down, so no one got their grades till they were ready to flip over the page. This was the moment that he always dreaded. He found that it was easiest to rip it off like a Band-Aid, just flip it and see so it can be over. He never read comments, he just needed to know if he failed, but the bright red writing on the top of the page caught his eye immediately-‘I’m impressed, Mr. Harrington’ with a 81 percent seeping through to the back of the page. He stared at the grade until the bell rang, unsure if it was even real, if he was even awake. Once he woke up from his beautiful dream, he knew he had one thing to do.

He burst in the hallway like a golden retriever out an open gate, searching for you without really knowing where to begin. He spotted you at your locker. “Y/N!” he called. You flinched, your shoulders hunching into your neck. You could feel people looking at you, which turned you beet red, almost purple, from embarrassment. You didn’t move from your space, hoping that the tile under you would pull back into a trap door and make you disappear from the scene. It didn’t, of course, and Steve found you quickly.

“Look at this!” he held up his paper to you, beaming like a child. You looked at the paper slowly, taking in the grade and the note at the top of the page, then his face.

“Oh…that’s great.” You said, unsure how to really respond. How was supposed to respond to someone else’s B?

Steve didn’t take in your uncertainty, continuing on “Thank you,” he said earnestly, lowering his voice to add “This is probably the best grade I’ve ever gotten in that class.”

“I’m glad I could help.” You couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in how you’d helped him out. Usually, the only people around that you could help was your grandparents with chores or Samantha with getting out of her house for an afternoon and while you enjoyed helping them out, you didn’t get the same joy from it, having done it for so long. Helping Steve made you feel full in a way.

Tommy Hanson had been trying to call the new kid, Billy, over to him when he saw the whole scene go down. And he didn’t like it. Not one bit. There was a hierarchy to Hawkins, rules to follow until you graduated and either solidified your choices or moved the hell out. Steve was popular, the home town hero, the sports star. That kind of power was not something to throw away on a little nobody. Tommy wished he could be that popular, to have that sort of accessibility and he got close when he kept his friends in the right station. Steve had already fucked up once, that little Nancy Wheeler bitch had already demoted him from sex god to weepy heartbroken sad boy, but that was still working for him. And he needed his backup plan to still be cool.

Tommy stalked up to Steve, throwing an arm over his shoulders. “Hey, dude, come over here, Stefanie Tomlinson’s panties are showing, you’ve gotta see this shit.” He whispered at him, loud enough to make you cringe and look away, turning back to your books and the stickers on your locker door.

“Dude, don’t be gross.” Steve said, turning his attention back to you “Like I said, thanks for the help.” Tommy kept trying to pull him away, but Steve was taller than him and harder to move around.

“Yeah, like I said, no biggie.” You kept your gaze firmly locked on your locker door. You refused to be mocked by Tommy Hanson. He practically pulled Steve away from you, looking you over with a sneer as they walked off. Tommy didn’t like you, which you already knew. It wasn’t easy for him to hide his hatred in a small town. You didn’t know why, but he’d always been like this, ever since you were kids. He used to push you into the mud and chase you off the swings in elementary school. Since you’d grown up, his cruelty had mostly subsided, but the animosity remained, especially after your mother had threatened his family with albeit an unrelated law suit, which succeeded in getting the whole family away from yours. That was the last helpful thing your mother had done for you.

Tommy kept his arm locked around his friend’s shoulders, escorting him away from potential social suicide. Steve held up his arms in defeat, laughing all the way. “Come on dude, she’s not anything to waste your time on.” Tommy said in a voice loud enough for you to hear, but quiet enough to seem like a whisper.

You shrunk in place, unable to pull your eyes away from the scene, a silent plea echoing in your mind for him to look back if he wasn’t a dick head like Tommy, left unspoken but felt in the depths of your soul. You didn’t know why it hurt you as badly as it had; you knew in your head that he no better than his friends. But your heart had hoped that he was different, that he could be better than him. You turned away before it hurt too badly, collecting your books in your arms and rushing off towards your spare period, hoping to find a bit of quiet to recover from what you’d just experienced.

Steve turned back to see you walking away, his laughter dying in his throat, what Tommy said bouncing around his mind. As soon as Tommy released him, he smacked the freckle faced boy hard in the ribs. “Can you try to not be a dick for five minutes?” he asked, getting a laugh out of Carol, who’d been filing her nails without much interest in the whole thing.

“What? Who gives a shit about her?” Tommy asked, doubling back with his hand on his chest.

“She’s a nice girl, dude, don’t be an asshole.” Steve replied sternly. That piqued Carol’s attention. She turned up from her chipped red nails to look Steve over with a discerning eye.

“Oh god, don’t tell me that you’re trying to bring in another Wheeler type chick into this.” She groaned, brushing away a strand of red hair from her cheek.

“Jesus Christ…” Steve rubbed the bridge of his nose “I don’t know what Nance did to you, but you need to calm down on that crap.”

“But you’re not dating her, right?” Tommy asked.

“Dude, all she did was help me with an assignment, that’s all.” Steve groaned. He felt like a dick, being so dismissive of you, he did like you, but he didn’t really even know you and neither did his friends. He didn’t like anyone assuming who he was or wasn’t with, and yet he still felt like a shithead. He didn’t know why but he did.

When you came home from school, your grandmother was waiting for you by the front door, red plaid kitchen rag draped on her shoulder, apron hanging low on her hips. “Your mother called when you were at school, wanted to see how you were.” She said, wiping her hands on the apron. She shook her head, obviously annoyed at the thought of her absent daughter.

“What’d you tell her?” you asked, kicking off your sneakers and putting them back onto the rack. You didn’t hide your distaste in your mother’s asking about you.

“That you were at school and to call back for you later. She told me to tell you that she’d be back in June and that she was bringing back someone special.” Your grandmother replied, turning back into the kitchen to return to whatever she was making. Your grandfather was passed out on the couch, his snores emanating from the living room almost comforting to you as you trekked up the stairs. You knew that your mother wouldn’t call again for you. She could never remember to call you at a time when you might be at home. She certainly wouldn’t be able to remember to call back.

Before you could even set your bag down, the phone on your desk blared from your desk. Samantha was at soccer practise, so you didn’t believe it was for you, but with your grandmother busy in the kitchen and your grandfather passed out, you grabbed the phone, asking “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Steve,” from his own room, Steve had thought about talking to you again for most of the day, but he’d only found the confidence what the day was over and he was home, where he didn’t have to look at you to speak to you. “I’m sorry if Tommy was weird to you today, he’s an idiot.”

You frowned, brow furrowing “It’s cool, no worries…” you replied. You didn’t feel like explaining how you already knew how much of an idiot he was.

“Yeah, so I was kind of wondering…if you’re not busy…would you mind maybe helping me with the readings? I don’t get this shit at all.” He chuckled awkwardly. In truth he’d had no plan to actually read the novel they’d been assigned, that’s what Cliff’s Notes was for, but he wanted to be around you more, so if homework was a reason to get to be around, then he’d actually read.

“Um…sure, I guess I could.” You didn’t really know what the right answer was for you. You weren’t sure that you trusted him, especially after what had happened that afternoon with Tommy, but your gut told you to say yes.

“Great! What’re you doing right now? Could you meet me somewhere, the reading for the tenth chapter is due tomorrow and I don’t even know what’s happening.” He felt a tad desperate, which was not a feeling he was used to around girls.

“I mean…where would you wanna meet?” anxiety was creeping up the back of your neck. You tried to wipe it away like sweat, but it was stuck to your brainstem.

“You could come over to my place or like I could meet you at the library or something.” Steve didn’t exactly have an answer to that one, he wasn’t even sure he’d get this far. He looked around his messy room, wondering if he’d made the right choice.

You didn’t exactly want to be in his house, but you didn’t have a car and it would take you forever to walk back into town to get to the public library. With a heavy heart, you accepted your unfortunate fate. “I could come over to your place.” You said, squeezing your eyes shut. You hoped that he wasn’t going to take that the wrong way.

“Yeah?” Steve hoped the panic wasn’t evident in his voice. His mother was still out of town and his father spent more time at his office in Carmel then he spent at home as it was. He’d let the mess pile up a bit and he didn’t want to look disgusting.

“Yeah, sure.” You tried to sound casual, but your blood had run cold and your hands had gone clammy. You gripped the receiver far too tightly, your eyes shifting around your room.

“Alright, cool, yeah cool…” Steve said, trying to sound casual “How long do you think it would take to get here?”

“I mean…you still drive the rust coloured BMW, right?” you asked, pulling your curtains back to peer out your window.

“Yeah?” Steve asked.

“I can see your house from my window, I’ll be there in like a minute.” You said.

Steve’s head turned upward, looking around worriedly. He bid his goodbyes quickly, turning his full attention to his messy bed and dirty floor, trying to get every pair of boxers laying on the floor into a basket. He hadn’t expected you to agree to come to his house, and his stomach churned at the idea of freaking you out. He didn’t want to scare you away because he was messy and gross.

You felt as if you’d swallowed your tongue. You rushed for the door, uttering a quick goodbye to your grandparents and pulling your backpack straps tight on your back. It was only five feet away. Five feet. Cross the street and up the driveway and you’re there. You took in a deep breath through your nose and took the first tripping step down your driveway, your body not co-operating with your mind and trying to escape where you were trying to bring it. You needed to calm down, your palms were starting to sweat and your knees had turned to Jell-O. You stopped in the middle of the empty street, huffing out another breath, trying to remind yourself that nothing could hurt you over there. That you could handle anything thrown at you.

Somehow, you made it to the front door without blacking out. You went to knock on the door, but it opened before you made contact. Steve looked frazzled, his hair flopping into his eyes, his expression panicked. “You’re here!” he said, his body blocking the doorframe.

“Am I not supposed to be?” you asked, your hand coming to clutch the top of your opposite arm.

“Nah, nah you are I just-never mind. I’m going crazy I think, come on in.” Steve stuttered, moving his arm out of the way, letting you inside. He didn’t know why he was nervous, he was never nervous to have a girl over. But you weren’t like the usual girls he would invite to hang out by his pool.

You stepped into his house cautiously, entering the dark space like it was a well-preserved colonial mansion. The Harrington household was cold. Everything was navy blue, steely grey, and white. He’d left the lights off in the entryway and the kitchen, although the lights above the grey brick fireplace were on, three white pot lights lighting the whole space. It made his house look ominous. Nobody was around either, you knew that Steve was an only child, but in your house your grandparents were always milling around; sound and voices were everywhere. Steve’s house was silent. The white vertical blinds were left open, and you could see the pool outside, which hadn’t been cleaned yet that day. The carpeting throughout the downstairs muffled your footsteps, adding to the eerie silence.  Overall, the house looked expensive. They had all the latest technology and aesthetically the house was very stylish, it made you want to not touch anything in fear of breaking something. You shivered involuntarily, letting your eyes wander around the house, taking in the massive TV and the matching stereo. All his money didn’t make the space feel like home.

“My stuff’s just upstairs.” Steve pointed a thumb up the stairwell by the front door. You hadn’t realized that you’d wandered out of the foyer and into his house. You swallowed, nodding hard and bounding up the steps ahead of him. You noticed that there weren’t any photographs around the house. That felt a bit homier to you; your grandmother kept most of the photos in intricate albums, only keeping a singular family photograph on the mantle of the white tiled fireplace. That felt a bit right to you, that it really was a home and not a showcase home.

Steve’s bedroom was also blue and dark. His walls were dark blue plaid, with matching curtains. The colour was only broken up by a few posters and a floating bookshelf, which held a couple small trophies and a couple books held between black metal bookstands. His bedspread was a navy quilt,  and his desk was dark wood and heavy looking. The signs of childhood were clear in the plaid wallpaper and curtains, clearly still remaining from a younger life. But beyond it, the room lacked a bit of personality. The only signs of life were the full laundry hamper and the papers on his desk. Everything else in the room could be in anyone’s room. It looked like a guest room or a hotel room. You dropped your bag on the grey carpeting, unsure where to put yourself in the space. Steve was much more casual, pulling out his desk chair and taking a seat, gesturing for you to sit across from him on the bed. You did so, sitting gingerly on the wrinkled bedspread. It was strange to sit on a boy’s bed, much less it be Steve Harrington’s bed.  

“Alright, um…where to begin?” you asked, more to yourself than him. “I guess we should go over what happened in the chapter, yeah?”

“Yeah sure…” Steve replied, picking up his copy of the novel, flipping it open to the chapter. “Uh…so the main chick is in love with Heath and she loves him and they all live happily ever after?”

“That’s…not the plot of either this chapter or the novel.” You said slowly, not looking down to flip your own copy of the book to the marked chapter.

“I mean…that’s what I got from the Kate Bush song.” Steve muttered awkwardly.

“So, you haven’t read the book? Like nothing at all?” you asked. Steve shook his head. “Cliff’s Notes then?” you guessed, looking back to the shelf to see a few of the black and yellow striped covers of the versions of Little Women, Robinson Crusoe, and King Lear. You’d used the reference guides yourself, albeit not as a replacement for the novels themselves.

“You got me…” Steve muttered. He felt like an idiot. It had only taken a minute for him to get caught in his fib.

“Then what’d you need me for?” you replied, setting your book down on the bed next to you, looking him over carefully. Cliff’s Notes would cover everything he needed, they’d answer the questions for him.

“Look…I’m shit at this stuff. I don’t get it. I don’t get why we’re reading this, the book is so boring, even the notes are boring!” he groaned.

“The book is shit.” You replied, deadpan. “Mr. Lawrence is having us read it because it’s one of like three books the county mandates that we read and they gave us Robinson Crusoe last year.”

“What am I supposed to get from it then if he doesn’t even like it?” Steve chuckled, turning to address you fully.

“Well…it’s a tortured love story.” Steve raised an eyebrow at you. You pressed on “Catherine and Heathcliff are in love, but because Heathcliff’s of a lower station than her, they can never be together. And even though Catherine marries someone else she can’t bear life without him.”

“Aren’t they like siblings or something?” Steve’s lip curled upwards in a disgusted expression.

“Adopted siblings and if Emily Bronte doesn’t think it’s weird then we have to ignore it.” You explained with a shrug. You leaned back on your palms, kicking your feet casually. With the windows open, his room was warm and sunny. It faced the woods behind his side of the road, and they looked beautiful from up near the treetops. You’d heard the rumours of Jonathan Byers taking photos of little Nancy Wheeler on the same bed you sat on from the woods. It made you feel icky at the time and uncomfortable now. You didn’t like the idea that anyone could be watching you.

“Then what is Kate Bush singing about? She makes it sound like they get together.” Steve asked. He watched you with a careful eye, his nerves making it hard to even try to catch your eye. You seemed happy, calmer too, and your hair was catching the sunlight from his window, making a pretty crown of light around your head.

“I mean…Catherine dies trying to return to Heathcliff across the moors, Kate Bush is like being her ghost, trying to come back to her love from beyond the grave.” You said simply. Steve pulled out his notebook, the questions written out in wide, square letters. He quickly began scribbling down what you’d said. He pulled out his copy of the Cliff’s Notes and flipped to chapter ten, filling out the questions. You wondered if you should stay or go, but Steve’s profile was partially shaded by the angle he sat at, and the way his jaw jutted out made him look like the statue of David. You slowly pulled out your sketchbook and flipped to a new page. Graphite in hand, you slowly began drawing out his sharp, angular jaw and strong neck.

“So, when did you find the time to read the whole book?” he asked; only briefly looking up from his notes to look at you. Your hair was still pulled up in the bun you’d put it in that morning and your gaze was focused on whatever was behind that heavy looking spiral bound pad.

“It was on, like, the seventh grade summer reading list.” You replied, not looking up. You could feel his eyes on you and the copy of lips weren’t matching the real life counterpart. You pulled your lip between your teeth, using your thumb to blend out a thin line.

“You remembered all that from middle school?” Steve asked.

“Well…I mean the book is kind of weird. Like, it doesn’t make sense, the narrator keeps changing and the speaker isn’t always made known. It was really hard to read, but the story itself was pretty run of the mill. I don’t really get why we have to read it at all…” You explained quietly, switching to a piece of charcoal to add thin, textured lines to the lower lip.

“It’s really shit, eh?” Steve chuckled, turning his attention back to the thin book. “Who’s Isabella again?”

“It is crap. And Isabella’s Catherine’s sister-in-law. She has a crush on Heathcliff, you can write on that, that’s revealed in this chapter.” You explained. You didn’t blame Steve for not understanding the book, you absolutely hated the book when you read it the first time and it was by no means an easy read.

“She’s in love with him, but he’s in love with Catherine?” Steve was scribbling fast, writing down whatever you said.

“Yes and Catherine’s in love with Heathcliff but married Mr. Linton for status.” You replied. Steve and you worked in silence for awhile. Mr. Lawrence expected answers in full sentences and provide reasoning for everything you sourced. Meanwhile, you set a high standard for your art. While you didn’t expect perfection from yourself, you wanted to try to do good work, even just for yourself.

You’d never drawn Steve Harrington before. You’d done pictures of tons of your classmates, Steve just never seemed like someone who needed to be drawn. He had tons of people looking at him and praising him all the time, to his face and behind his back. He seemed like a little celebrity in Hawkins, but sitting on his head, with the sun hitting half of his face and making pretty shadows in the hollows of his face, you saw the small beauty in his features. You knew that he was attractive, that was a universal truth, but now sat on his bed alone in his room, you understood that he really was beautiful. Maybe not on the inside, you didn’t know if he was a truly good person, but on the outside he was golden. Your hands demanded to recreate his features. You felt as though you were carving one of Greek gods of Hawkins high, the best of the town’s beauty.

Steve finished his work soon after and looked to you with a lopsided grin. “I say, and you can totally disagree, that we work better together than apart.” He said triumphantly, jabbing the cap onto his pen.

You looked up with a smirk from your drawing. It was nearly done and you weren’t mad at the work either. It certainly looked like Steve and the shadows were intriguing.  It would’ve made a better painting, but the little sketch was nothing to sneeze at. “I mean, you certainly do.” You replied easily. Steve chuckled, you weren’t wrong; he knew that you were much smarter than him.

“But sure, if you need the help then I’ll help. No big deal.” The words left your mouth before you’d thought them through. But they were true. Despite not knowing him, despite being freaked out by every phone call and conversation, you found yourself still coming back. Your mind was pulled in two very different directions, between adrenaline laced panic that made your hands go clammy and shake and genuine curiosity and intrigue.

Steve couldn’t hide the surprise on his face. He was certain that you’d already on the porch steps, running towards your house as fast as you could. Something in his gut told him not to expect anything. But you agreed. He broke into a lopsided grin, brushing a piece of long brown hair out of his eyes. “Cool, yeah, that’d be great! So, I’ll call you?” he asked tentatively, trying to still give you an out to his own request.

“You already know the number.” You smirked, a yellow sticky note catching your eye. You could see your name and number written in Steve’s wide handwriting stuck to the wall in front of his desk. It made you smile, the small detail of him even looking you up made you laugh. You’d been across the street from him your whole life, but him trying to find you made you strangely happy. You gathered up your things quickly, heading back across the street as another car came into his driveway, an immaculately made up woman in the front seat. She didn’t look you in the face as you passed, focusing on the opening garage door in front of her. You made a mad dash for your house. Everything felt…calm. Strangely calm. You didn’t know if you liked it.

[scripttorture]

Hello! I've browsed this blog a bit and came across the idea that torturers often develop mental illness because of their repeated exposure to the violence/trauma of seeing another person in pain, which I'd never considered before. A) Do you believe torturers can therefore be a type of victim as well, depending on the circumstances, and therefore deserving of compassion/therapy? B) Can you point me to more information about this/what kinds of mental illnesses develop in torturers? (1/2)

C) Do you think it's possible for a mass murderer/torturer character to have a realistic, satisfying redemption arc? Do you know any media that's pulled it off believably? Thank you so much for taking the time to read/answer this if you do! And for this excellent resource!

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The most accessible sources that cover this are O’Mara’s Why Torture Doesn’t Work (good grounding, start with him), Rejali’s Torture and Democracy and the appendices to Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth where he describes treating two torturers.

 The most current research is about 600 pages of print on demand untranslated French. If you’re fluent in French (I am not and lock down etc has got in the way of me getting this translated) Sironi Comment devient-on tortionnaire?

 Broadly speaking the symptoms appear to be the same as those survivors and witnesses develop.

 And I will go into this in more depth later but keep in mind there is not anywhere near enough research on torturers for us to be entirely sure about most of this. I’m working with the best information we have right now.

 The other two questions are subjective and sort of complicated. By definition a lot of this is going to be my opinion because well that’s what you’re asking for.

 I think we need to be really careful about describing torturers as ‘victims’.

 Yes they’re put in this situation by social structures beyond their control. It is not their fault that they weren’t given training or support in their job. It’s also not their fault that we have this global message that violence is effective or that so many workplaces are unnecessarily pressured/stressful. Most of the time they are drawn in to abusing others because of the social groups and structures within the organisation they join.

 Oversight (with a drive to eradicate torture), funding, training and clear consistent messages about the right way to handle difficult situations would probably prevent most cases of torture.

 This does not change the fact that on an individual level each of them chose to hurt other people.

 Some of them will have made that choice understanding there was a threat to their own safety if they did not. Some of them will have made that choice just because it was what everyone else was doing. Some of them genuinely believe what they did was the ‘right’ decision at the time.

 They still made that choice. And given that we have records of people in similar positions refusing, even when it put them at risk of attack or death, I don’t have a lot of sympathy with the choice torturers made.

 The fact I’m a pacifist factors into this. Consider my biases.

 Torturers typically show a very low understanding of the impact their actions have had on other people.

 They might regret their actions but this is typically framed in a very self-centred way. They usually don’t express more then cursory regard for the victims. They regret it because they’re suffering now, because they have nightmares, because they can’t keep a job. And oh it’s all so unfair.

 I don’t know why this is the case. But it’s a feature Sironi described in interviews about her work. And I’ve seen it over and over again in interviews with torturers.

 Yes torturers suffer. The symptoms they develop are terrible and have a lasting impact on their lives. They typically can’t hold down jobs and struggle to re-integrate into society in any meaningful fashion.

 And yes I believe they should be treated. I believe that anyone with a disease or condition which requires treatment should have access to care and treatment. Whoever they are. Whatever they did.

 I believe that as fellow human beings torturers are entitled to a degree of compassion. When I say that torture and mistreatment are wrong I mean it. My position doesn’t change just because the theoretical victim is a former torturer.

 I do not think that treatment and compassion should be dependant on a person being suitably victimised. For me the only thing it depends on is their need and their humanity. In the literal physical sense of them being a human.

 But we tend to think of ‘victim’ as a simple category that doesn’t overlap with mass murderers.

 And I don’t believe the position of torturers is that simple.

 Especially when so few of them are charged. Torture trials are rare. Convictions are rare. And sentences are short.

 And their victims deserve justice too.

 I feel conflicted about calling torturers ‘victims’ because of this complex reality. And because in fiction we have a tendency to focus on the torturers prioritising their voices over the survivors. I feel like presenting torturers as simple victims of society could risk adding to that.

 For me the focus has always got to be the survivors.

 And I think all of this feeds into how we handle redemption arcs.

 I don’t think that writing redemption arcs for villains, even torturers or mass murderers is ‘wrong’. In fact I think that it can be a really good idea. Showing how toxic the environments these people are in is a good thing. Puncturing the way it’s romanticised is a good thing. And showing a way out of it, even if it’s imagined, is not a bad thing.

 But if we’re going to do that in our stories then I think we need to think about what redemption means and in whose eyes the character is redeemed.

 There’s also a small problem: we don’t really know what recovery for torturers looks like.

 There isn’t enough research on them. Partly because of lack of interest but partly because the low conviction rates means sample sizes are small. We’re talking about a limited number of individuals who are jailed and we can’t really ‘prove’ that individuals who weren’t convicted were torturers. We don’t really know what the long term outcomes are, what treatments might be effective or- Much of anything.

 Studies on torturers are typically based on very small numbers of individuals. (For a long time Fanon’s work was the only example of a mental health professional talking about torturers specifically. He saw two of them.) They are not statistically sound. And a lot of resources were simply journalists or mental health professionals compiling notes on the handful of individuals they talked to.

 Everything I say about torturers is based on things like interviews, a handful of studies that have flaws and anecdotal evidence. Unfortunately as of right now it’s the best we’ve got.

 Personally I don’t think there’s enough research on torture generally. Or enough attempts to collate relevant research from other fields. But that’s a rant for another day.

 Let’s get back to that central question: what does redemption mean?

 I think that it’s pretty easy to write a character changing for the better. You can build up the character’s level of insight into what they’re doing/did over the course of the story. You can show them choosing to stop. You can show them shifting to oppose their former allies.

 But bundled up in the idea of a redemption arc is this: is it enough? And who is it enough for?

 I don’t think survivors should be obliged to forgive former torturers. I also don’t think they’re likely to interact positively.

 I’ve talked about this now and again when asked about the difference between legally defined torture and abuse. Because of the organised and widespread nature of legally defined torture there are usually communities of survivors. And communities that are collectively moving through a recovery process because even those people who weren’t directly attacked are likely to be witnesses, carers and relatives or friends of survivors.

 These things echo down generations.

 Cyprus gained independence from the British in 1960, my father is too young to have any real memory of the violence during the colonial period. But he referenced it in arguments with my English mother during my childhood. There are people throughout China today who won’t buy anything Japanese because of Japanese war crimes there during World War 2. There are people who won’t eat fish from the Black Sea, because the bodies of their ancestors were thrown into that sea during a genocide over a hundred years ago.

 I know that as a both a Greek Cypriot and an English person there are people all over the world who will not want anything to do with me based on what my people have done to theirs. And the fact I wasn’t alive at the time does not really factor into it.

 What I’m trying to illustrate here is that this is much bigger, broader and more complex then individual acts of forgiveness.

 Survivors are a highly varied group of individuals. And each torturer can have thousands or tens of thousands of victims. Expecting each impacted individual, and any witnesses and all their family members and friends, to forgive these people is… let’s say ‘unlikely’.

 So does redemption require forgiveness from the wounded party? Is there any possible action that can atone for the sheer scale of these atrocities?

 If we play a simple number game causing this level of harm can be achieved in months or years, but saving the equivalent number of lives takes decades of skilled, dedicated work. If we look at concepts like wergild or jail as ‘paying your debt to society’ then how do we measure something like torture where the numbers are so big?

 I haven’t seen a piece of fiction seriously tackle these questions. But then again I also haven’t actively looked for that fiction.

 I feel like a lot of fictional redemption arcs judge a character to be sufficiently redeemed based on audience sympathy and the main cast forgiving the character. They don’t typically go on to broaden the scope of the narrative and question whether any one else impacted by the former villain’s actions also sees the character as redeemed.

 One of my stories has a former torturer as a major character and I think they are a sympathetic character in many ways. I think that my readers would empathise with them through a lot of the story (which takes place decades after they stopped torturing).

 They’re a mentor figure to some of the younger cast members. They’ve acted as a protector to them and taught the younger generation a lot about the minority culture they themselves are from. And they do genuinely care about these people that they helped to raise, consistently sacrificing to protect these ‘kids’. (The ‘kids’ are 30s-20s at the time of the story.)

 But they’re also incredibly self centred. They don’t really interact with or have a lot of sympathy for the people they hurt. And while this particular family loves and forgives them society at large views them as a monster. Albeit one that is now leashed.

 Is this a redemption story? Is this character redeemed? I genuinely don’t know. In fact that’s part of my interest in writing the story: trying to work out if there is a point, as this character grows, develops and helps others, when I believe they’ve done ‘enough’.

 I think that redemption means different things for different people. A satisfying redemption story is different for different people. And if we can disagree so strongly about it with much simpler, smaller scale crimes then where does that leave us with torture?

 There isn’t a simple answer or a one-size-fits-all writing solution. There can’t be.

 My approach is to try and use the story to see if I can find an answer. Even if it’s only a limited one. For me the story itself is a forum for exploring human complexity and difficult ethical questions.

 I don’t think we have a good solution for how to deal with these people in reality yet. But I do hold out hope that a good solution is possible. Fiction is an arena where we can safely explore possible solutions.

 I guess in the end I’m not sure if there’s any story or arc that will work for everyone. I don’t think there are any hard rules for writing anything and I don’t think there’s ever a way to please everyone.

 Redemption and forgiveness are complicated topics. I think we do a much better job when we engage with that complexity then when we assume a character just has to do a, b and c in order to achieve it.

 When you consider someone to be truly redeemed is an ethical question that I can’t answer for you. I don’t think I should. The chances are you’ll know when you think your character has done enough.

 Just be open to the fact that it won’t be enough for everyone. Consider reflecting that with the characters, because that can make for truly powerful moments.

 In Midnight’s Children Shiva never forgives Saleem, even though Saleem isn’t responsible for Shiva ‘losing’ his life and family because they were both infants at the time. And damn there are a lot of flaws in the movie adaptation but that scene between them in the jail, when Saleem throws that in Shiva’s face hits hard. It shows us so much about both characters.

 And I think that’s a better way to approach it then trying to figure out if a character is redeemed yet: figuring out how they’ve progressed, how others respond to that progression and why.

 I hope that helps :)

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[studentville-struggles]

A Double Life

Chapter 5!!

A self-indulgent Daniel Ricciardo fic.

Summary: Returning to old passions results in the start of chaos and living a double life. We say we hate chaos, but the thrill is unlike anything else.

Words: 1,941

Masterlist // Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

F1 was no joke.  

PhD’s were no joke.

You were exhausted. Exhausted didn’t even begin to cover how you felt. Were you dying? Who even knew at this point.  

One monday your legs finally gave out as you were walking into university, collapsing from the exhaustion you were fighting. Thankfully you had just made it into your building, the porters quick to call a medic. You actually ended up having to take a couple of days off of lab work and go home and just spend some time sleeping and spending time with your parents. Your supervisors were so worried for your health and the stress you had been putting yourself under they pretty much banned you from the lab for a week.  

You still did the workouts you needed to and prepped for races from home. You just did everything on more than five hours sleep. The luxury. It was so damn needed.

Speaking on the phone to Lando one night, the two of you becoming closer friends since being team mates and him checking in more frequently since finding out about you collapsing, you had been joking about how nice sleep was. 

“I used to think that being ordinary was boring. Now I’d do anything for a 10 hour nap and a chippy.”

Your little exhaustion moment had scared you a little bit. You’d always managed to do everything. You could have two intense lives and work it. You had felt that for the last three years you mastered juggling a double life. Was it finally coming to crumble around you? Was this it, was the dream over?  

You wouldn’t allow it. You couldn’t. Youd fought so hard for this, to have your cake and eat it. It was never meant to be easy and you knew that, this was just one more thing to overcome. Once you had your PhD you would be able to live any life you wanted. You might even be able to sleep seven hours a night on the regular.  

You would make this double life work for a little longer, you had to.

Having re-evaluated routines and switching things up so that you could make the most of both lives whilst still being healthy, you were feeling confident, comfortable and it was growing with each race that passed. Sure, not all of the results were what you dreamed off; after all you were yet to tip Lewis off his pedestal, but you were getting there. Getting the car to do your bidding was the first half of the challenge. Now you just needed to do that, but better than every one else on the track.

The other thing to come out of your health scare; especially after some of the drivers have commented on your less deathly appearance was an interesting change in your friendship with a certain Australian.  

Sure, you had the big change from thinking he was rude to being caught smiling at his texts, to hanging out in Australia at the start of the season. That you had kind of seen coming; but this? This was unexpected, and you weren’t quite sure what to make of it currently.

After finding out about your little incident, Daniels’ entire energy changed. He was visibly concerned about you, whether you were better now, how you were doing getting everything under control for good. His reaction to discovering the in-depth extremeness of your routine having binged watched your show – he claimed it was a curious interest to occupy his flight but you knew it was to be nosey and you didn’t mind that – was even stranger He had effectively cornered you at the paddock in China with a written out list and spluttering of expletives with the general message of “what the fuck, no wonder you're exhausted.’.  

The frequency at which you two texted and chatted was steadily rising as your friendship bloomed but after his discovery of ‘the incident’, it had sky rocketed. Both in general conversation, but also in his concern for you overdoing things. He’s started to make a point, like Lewis often does, to ensure you take a bit of time for you and to relax; so movie and game nights are now a little thing you get when you meet up for a face to face catch up.

The vibes between the two of you were shifting ever so slightly and you weren’t entirely sure where there were setting themselves.

---

You were very lucky in that your family would often come to support you, especially your mum and dad. Albeit your mum couldn’t watch half of the races due to her fear that her little girl was going to be hurt, but she was there every chance she had.  

As the season progressed and you were getting some races closer to home, you felt it was about time to invite the main group of people who were yet to see this side of you. Given the intense patience and grace they had given to you, supporting you though everything and allowing your camera crew all access; it was time to invite your boss. Well your other boss. Your supervisor.

Getting back into the swing of things at work in the lab after the Spanish Grand Prix, you felt it was finally time to give back to your lab family.

“I’d like to take you to work next week, and maybe a few others once I check numbers.” Your supervisor knew what ‘work’ meant for you but with more and more people questioning your regular three day weeks, you were starting to feel like letting your two worlds collide a little more.  

“Where is work next week? Monaco?”  

“Yup. I’ll give my media team a ring and see how many we can take including hotels and go from there”  

“Including?!”  

“Full VIP, would be rude of me not to.”  

A short phone call later, with some rough numbers figured out, you had five full VIP passes at your disposal. Given you rarely have guests at Grand Prix’ they allowed a few extra tickets this time. As one would imagine with a free weekend in Monaco, the academic staff in your research group snapped up those tickets in no time. Of course, with the amount of time spent in your offices and labs, you were safely assuming three of the five had no idea what your job was, though were very curious as to how and why it was taking you to Monaco.  

Academic life was no joke. Everyone was busy, everyone had very little free time. Watching sports was only done by super fans really. There weren’t any motorsport super fans in your office and somehow both your show and driving career had still remained unquestioned. How that was true with the camera crew still following you around, you had no idea.  

You had sent out a rough, and very vague itinerary, reminding them to be ready to leave work at 6 pm on Wednesday, heading straight to the airport. You had also sent strict dress code instructions- the smarter end of smart casual, knowing that they would likely, if not definitely, be appearing on camera.  

With some of your team meeting you at the airport, ready to get your race weekend media started, the confusion of your university colleagues was growing. It peaked as they had you film a short clip to start the weekends media off, it was only a short Instagram story, post hair touch up, to say hi to fans.  

“Hey guys, just me taking over the Instagram stories! We’ve just arrived at the airport to head over to Monaco! Can’t wait to see you guys this weekend and I’ve even brought a few colleagues from the university so you’ll be seeing my two worlds collide as well! See you soon!” Waving at the camera, you cut the video. With all thumbs up from your team, you uploaded it to your team Instagram, views piling in almost immediately.  

“Rachel what the hell do you do?!”

“Oh you’ll see soon enough, I don’t want to ruin the surprise now.” You teased, surprisingly enjoying the suspense.  

Walking up to the private jet having gone through security with ease, the shock was only increasing, though you everyone was feeling very excited for the flight now they saw the plane. Things were fairly calm after this, the journey quick, smooth and you avoided giving too much away.  

Arriving at the hotel you sent everyone off to their rooms, giving timings for meeting the next morning. You would be leaving before them to start greeting the media and doing some press conferences before your track walks, and so had arranged for a few cars to be sent for transferring the rest over to the main hub. Once they were all happy with the plans, not that you’d given many details, merely timings, you could head to your room where Daniel had snuck over waiting to reunite.  

He had many complaints about spending the evening having your catch up in a hotel when he had a perfectly good home a few minutes away. At some point during the evening, after the food had been demolished, the words said and a crappy Netflix original on the tv, the two of you had fallen asleep. When you woke a couple of hours later, you were awkwardly hunched on the sofa still, somehow having entangled yourself with Daniels body.  

Realising that it was far too late to send Daniel home, you both needed sleep if you were to survive the media day, and you couldn’t send him on his way in the small hours of the morning. Trying not to wake him too harshly, you start untangling yourself from the mess of legs. With Daniel starting to stir, you grab his hand, wordlessly pulling him from the sofa, over to the hotel bed.  

Still in the silence the middle of the night brings, Daniel shed the majority of his clothing, slipping under the covers in only his underwear, with you following soon after as you quickly change into your sleepwear.  

For something so foreign in your friendship, the ease and comfort at which you snuggled together, falling asleep again under the covers, was almost unnerving. Almost. In your sleepy state, you couldn’t recognise that, only time would reveal that.  

--

Having snuck off to begin your media day trackside, you were eager to see your lab colleague's reaction to where they were. It was as you were heading back into McLarens hospitality that you, as well as the whole group, could see the full magnitude of this job and how it differed to the Rachel they were used to seeing in the office.  

“You’re a driver?”  Shock? Disbelief? You couldn’t quite tell but the reaction was  

“Yes”

“What the fuck? But you’re in the lab like 10 hours a day”

“Now you know why I don’t have time to get things done otherwise in my three-day weeks.”

Once the shock wore off, the excitement and initial questions had settled, you set the group up with timings for the day and let them wander round the paddock freely as you headed back to your meetings, promising to see them during the lunch break.  

Having your worlds united felt good. It felt as though some of the pressure you hadn’t realised was there from keeping them separate, was melting away.  Although the feeling that was beginning to bubble away every time you bumped into Daniel was very close to being a distraction.

You needed to drive; just get in the car and block everything else out. 

[ask-crimson-weaver]

Dangerous Waters

Melly still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened. Well, perhaps some part of her did, but with the scattered state of her thoughts, it was nigh impossible for her to think back over and string things together in any meaningful order.

She remembered showing up to Fort Tilden with the Cobwebs, and she had sensed Oliver as they approached, along with four other sources of danger. They had moved in, and a fight had started, with her facing off against Oliver. But at some point… her memory lost focus. That crawling, writhing sensation had wormed its way back into her mind-- hadn’t they undone that spell?-- and her coordination had slipped. At the time, she had had enough sense to try and retreat, but with her steps unbalanced, he had caught up quickly, catching her and dragging her down into the dark of… wherever they were.

She could tell that she was in a small room now, dank and cold air filling the underground space. At this point, the name wasn’t important anymore, seeing as her mind’s focus was drawn to other things. Every dark corner had the potential to hide danger, and every crack and chip in the concrete walls was just another space for some twisted, unfathomable thing to stretch outwards from. The paranoia from before had been straining, though manageable, but this time she felt like it was completely overwhelming her. On top of that, her spider-sense kept going off at unknown things as she had been dragged past them, and now its scream of warning was focused on the figure of green energy and metal that had a clawed arm clamped around her.

“You still think you can get out of this?” Oliver said, a smirk on his face as he watched Melly kick at the air with her still-free legs. “It’s admirable, if not pointless. I mean… all that work, all that searching and fighting… and look where you are now. At my complete mercy. And my associate’s, I suppose. I’m looking forward to watching you as she… feeds you to her Patron or whatever. In any case, it will be one less little Spider that I have to deal with.”

Melly only really took in about half of what he had said, the induced fear and confusion driving most of her thoughts. She could feel it drawing out her spider instincts, which urged her to escape and hide, and for once, she was inclined to do just that exact thing, though the former would have to be done before the latter of the two. She stared back at Oliver with glowing red eyes-- her mask had come off early on, back when she had still been near the others-- and she began to grunt and hiss in her frantic, paranoia-fueled attempt to break free. Where she felt her own strength make headway against Oliver’s arms, more green-tinted metal crept up to mend and reinforce it.

“I suppose it’s sad, in a way,” Oliver continued. “You and your ‘friends’ always talked about all of the great things you had done with your Shard… and even with that, here you are, writhing like a child with a tantrum. Honestly, I could just-- oops!”

The claw of Oliver’s arm suddenly opened, and gravity jerked Melly downwards, causing her to smack into the floor. Not a moment later, though, she had scrambled up onto her hands and knees, making a break for the nearest wall in an attempt to scale it. She’d only made it a handhold or two upwards when Oliver’s tentacle darted out again, clamping down on her leg and pulling her back over. There was a loud crack as two fist-sized chunks of the wall were pulled along after her, dropping off of where they had stuck to her hands.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Oliver said, sarcastic and unapologetic. “I just get butterfingers sometimes, that’s all.”

He’d pulled Melly off the ground again at this point, though this time she hung upside-down by the leg Oliver had grabbed. He lifted her higher, so that her face was just about level with his.

“Now, where were we?” Oliver said. “Ah! I was just about to further emphasize the true depths of your--”

He found himself cut off as Melly’s hand swung up, launching a spray of webbing directly at Oliver’s face that soon solidified from its glowing state into an angry red color. Oliver stumbled back, growling as his eyes flashed green with a surge of rage. The arm holding Melly snapped to one side, releasing her and sending her flying through the air. The far wall cracked as she collided with it, knocking her breath out of her as she dropped to the ground-- it hadn’t been enough to hurt her significantly, with her energy welling up to help her take the blow, but it still hurt.

“You think that was funny, Spider?” Oliver hissed at her, bolts of metal from his assimilated mass curving up to cut the webbing away. “You think that you’re still able to--”

At that moment, Melly could feel a different arm wrap around her and yank her away off the ground. Even in her state of mind, this tendril that held her in the air was definitely not one that belonged to Oliver. It was far more slimy… with that distinctive energy of the Writhing One spiking all around her. She managed to catch a glimpse of Oliver’s associate: it was the exact same woman she saw in her mind. 

 “Juice Man, remember what we agreed on? I’d like our dear Weaver here to stay alive for the time being,” Odyssia sighed as her other tentacles undulated in the air, “I know she’s a Spider and all and she could probably take a lot more punishment than your average Joe, but I’d like to keep her just functional enough so I can properly study her.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t intending to kill her before you had your chance to do your research, if that was your concern.” 

He re-oriented himself, lifting himself off the ground with his tentacles. 

“I suppose there will be more time to gloat later-- do what you want,” he added, waving one of his upper arms dismissively. “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting another Octavius’ studies without good reason.”

“Right,” she replied, before turning to face Melly with a fascinated smile, “While I may have learned a lot from information that I’ve kindly been given access to… there is nothing like being there to study something up close and personal.”

With that, she swiftly took Melly away with her into a new room somewhere deep in the bunker. From what Melly could barely make out, this room looked like a makeshift laboratory that didn’t look out of place in a horror movie. Strange organs and other loose body parts were compartmentalized in various containers. Tables covered in glassware and arcane books, drawers filled with various equipment, several aquarium tanks filled with unfamiliar sea life… coupled with the darkness, the debris that speckled the floor, and the cold, musty air, this place hardly looked sterile in any way. 

Odyssia brought her over to a stolen hospital gurney and laid her down onto it, using her tendrils to hold her down as her human hands began to strap her down with the restraints. 

“You know, you’re pretty lucky as far as my test subjects go,” Odyssia rattled off to her. “Between you and me, most people who get this treatment from me personally are looking at a new, monstrous form in their future. But, you… I’m having a feeling that you’re definitely not a lobbyist who tries to shut down environmental protections for their down lines… or some fuckwit politician who spews misinformation to spark irrational fear or hatred in people… or some idiot who doesn’t ‘believe’ in science and would much rather trust in some pseudoscientific homemade ‘remedies’.”

Odyssia snorted at the thought. 

“You know, Weaver, we never really spoke to each other in person, but I know you are brilliant in your own right,” she continued as she tightened the restraints, “It’s a real shame, though. Your Shard is an incredible source of power. And such power rightfully belongs in the hands of the Writhing One. Unlike Juice Man, this isn’t personal for me.”

Melly had kept up her kicking and fighting all down the hallway, and as Odyssia tightened the restraints of the gurney, she kept straining against them with as much force as she could muster. This room was full of danger-- spider-sense easily told her that-- but as the hallucinations made the dark corners deeper and the creatures and scattered parts more monstrous, a swarm of paranoid thoughts started to close in on her.

She’s going to hurt you. She’s going to make you writhe and bleed like all the others. She wants to take what is yours, and what is you.

Somewhere, deep in Melly’s mind, her coherent self managed to reach through, and she renewed her effort to fight the spell’s effects and push back against the mental flood of the Writhing One’s influence. Her brow furrowed, and her glowing eyes started to flicker to and from an even stronger crimson hue as she made her effort.

“Get… it… out…” she managed to mutter, voice strained through both panic and effort.

Odyssia adjusted her glasses, examining the glow of her eyes with increased interest. 

“Well, if I did that you’d fight back. Besides, seeing you manage to power through this from sheer force of willpower is something I’m far more invested in. If this is what one Shard is capable of… I wonder what an entire Prism could accomplish,” Odyssia mused, her demeanor going still to aid in her observations. “Not many people can just power through my spells like you’re doing right now. Not only does that require an insane amount of mental resilience but the magical prowess to accomplish this is just as an extraordinary feat.”

Odyssia, of course, already knew where such mental prowess and willpower had come from-- at least, it was easy to assume from the memories she had gleaned from Melly. Her soul torn out, fighting for control of a body that wasn’t hers. Both mind and soul shattered by a creature of dreams, pulled back together by both Shard and friends. Her fights against Brevi’s control, her mother’s attempt to change her memories again, even against the toxic shards that had leaked from Itzi’s blade, poisoning her all those months ago. She had fought hard to keep herself her, and she would certainly defend it with all of her strength.

Melly squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the twisting room around her as she pushed harder and harder to bring herself back, each push feeling like she was dragging her mind through thick ink. A few flickers of red light raced upwards along her neck, fading just as quickly as they had appeared.

“Get… out,” she repeated, voice a bit stronger. “Get. Out. Of. My. Head.”

Once again, as Odyssia allowed herself to dive deeper into her pursuit of knowledge, that one memory of Melly’s mother kept nagging at her. She furrowed her brow in frustration, this time having her tentacles come in to hold Melly down further. 

“I can’t! I-I won’t! This is my breakthrough! This is for the Writhing One,” Odyssia hissed at her. “Don’t make me make this have to hurt.”

“You’ll... hurt me. Either way,” Melly mumbled out. “Change my head. I can’t… I won’t… let her. You. Anyone. Break me again.”

Odyssia grimaced slightly as she stared down at her. 

Go on. Why aren’t you choking her or something? She’s not going down without a fight, Odyssia was starting to wrestle with herself. Prove her wrong. You’re smarter than her. Don’t let her win. 

Unconsciously, a tentacle began to entertain the idea of wrapping around Melly’s neck. Just as it was about to constrict her, Odyssia realized what was happening and quickly pulled it back from her neck. A sinking feeling in her stomach began to take hold as the internal debate within her mind set in. 

Why did I do that? I’m not supposed to kill her! 

“... T-This is my last warning, Weaver. You need to understand that I’m being far nicer than I could be. I could be breaking you right fucking now but guess what? I’m holding back on you! Want to know what breaking you could look like? I could’ve turned you a monster, make you feel what it’s like to be at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, or take you apart and dissect you but no, I’m giving you the chance to make this easy. Don’t throw it away,” 

Melly was quiet for a moment. Realistically, there wasn’t much she could do in her current condition to fight back against anything worse than what she was dealing with now… but to stop fighting would be to spit in the face of all her prior triumphs of self. Her thoughts were still jumbled, but if there was a way to get things to where they could talk.

Melly’s head turned towards Odyssia slightly, eyes opening to look directly at her.

“...all of that… is that really what you want to do?”

Odyssia froze, for the briefest of moments. She turned away from Melly, running her hand over her face. 

This is what you want to do. 

But why was she still fighting herself on this? She forcefully pounded her fist onto the gurney, cursing underneath her breath. 

“Of course it’s what I want to fucking do… Why would I continue to do this if I didn’t?” Odyssia mutters although her tone suggested that she was beginning to struggle. 

“Want...” Melly said, pausing for a moment as she tried to put a solid thought together. “We want… things. You want things from me. I want to stay me. There’s want… but there’s need too. All of the hurting… is that what you need to do?”

“You… Y-you’re just saying that to get out of this,” Odyssia replies as she shuts her eyes, still refusing to look at her, “Why would my needs matter to you?”

“Because if you need it… and you can choose it… you will. Would’ve.” Melly said. “I can’t make you do anything. Can’t make you…” Melly trailed off for a moment, shutting her eyes for a moment as she had to pull her focus back in. “But… I can fight. Or I can talk. And you… do you need… want to fight? Or do you want to talk? Which will get… what you need?”

“Alright, alright, stop right there. I… I cannot continue this if you're going to talk to me like that. I am barely getting by with following this conversation,” Odyssia groaned as she runs her hands in her messy hair. She turned to face Melly, making direct eye contact with her before continuing, much more quietly, “Tell you what: if I… lessen… the spell’s effects to at least let you speak coherently, you’re going to stay right there and not move. Then I’ll let you talk. If you try to pull the wool over my eyes, I will get mean. Got it?”

Well, though Melly certainly couldn’t make any guarantees that she wouldn’t eventually try to escape… for now, it was the only break she was probably gonna get, and her own mental resistance would only get her so far before exhaustion won out.

“...I understand.” she said.

Odyssia rubbed her forehead, already feeling a headache coming on from the tension in her body. Slowly releasing a deep breath, she closed her eyes to focus on something. 

As she did so, Melly began to feel that Eldritch presence dwindled… not enough to release her from paranoia or the sickness she had felt, it was just enough for her to at least think a bit more clearly. Melly let out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding as the strain on her mind lessened, and took a moment to recollect herself-- man, it was good to be able to think mostly clearly again. The observing Odyssia would be able to see the red glow in her eyes recede, and though it was still present it no longer burned with as much intensity as it had been.

“You wanted to talk? Then talk,” Odyssia said coldly, although there was a slight hint of wanting to know what Melly was going to tell her. 

“Look…” Melly began, “this whole thing with the Shards… What exactly is your end goal for all this? And you mentioned the Prism too… if you’ve been in my mind, you know that I’ve already done the rounds with someone who wanted to do the exact same thing you mentioned. And you know what happened to him when he tried it.”

Odyssia would indeed know who Melly was talking about-- Alexander Hobbs, aka the Beholder. She knew he had tried to control the Shards in a bid to access their combined energy… and she knew that it was what had ultimately killed him, the energy he sought burning him away to nothing.

“The Shards aren’t for me to use. I told you, this is for the Writhing One. I know those Shards are clearly not meant for a mere mortal to use. That’s why I’m giving it to my Patron. They don’t abide to human limitations,” Odyssia said, “I devote myself to the glorious Writhing One. Without it, I’d go back to being some repressed, pathetic shrinking violet who can’t fucking stand up for herself or the causes she cares about. So to show my gratitude, I must give back.”

Melly was taken a bit aback by some of what Odyssia had said-- it seemed that there was some baggage behind what course she had chosen to take. Even with it catching her notice, though, she wasn’t sure how Odyssia would react to having it be brought up here and now.

“How do you know if it can use them?” Melly asked. “With all due respect to the power and influence they do have in this world-- which, as you’re aware, I’m currently the subject of-- how do you know that they’ll be able to harness the energy of the Shards. Energy Weaver said they couldn’t alter or control it. The Being said it was out of their jurisdiction. The Palpitors-- they were willing to kill us when we encountered them. Wouldn’t it have been easier for them to just kill a wielder, take their Shard so that one of their Nobles would have access to an unlimited amount of energy? Why else would they have not done that, if not because they couldn’t claim it? Look, what I’m saying is that there’s things about the Shards and how they work that neither of us know. Would you take the risk of sending a Shard to your Patron without knowing what effect it might have? How would they react if what you gave it harmed them?”

“...To act like I know everything regarding my Patron’s full capabilities is to indulge in pointless hubris,” she scoffed, “And either way, you grossly misunderstand how Patrons operate. Patrons—unless some astronomically universal level apocalyptic circumstances occur—never leave their realm of magic. If they did, there wouldn’t be a need for them to bestow an incredibly tiny fraction of their power to mortals like me to do their bidding, right? If they want something, they’ll have people like me to accomplish what they need us to do. This is something they’ve been interested in for a while now. And who am I to object to the Writhing One’s wishes? While I can’t pretend to know how exactly they will deal with whatever a Shard brings… what I can tell you is that they’re approaching this with curiosity and they know the risk; after all, they know what I know.”

“And what you know is what I know-- I’m presuming that’s why you went rooting around in my mind in the first place,” Melly countered. She thought for a moment, deciding that pushing that point further wouldn’t do any good. “Okay… new question. If they never leave their realm of magic, how exactly are they planning on using my Shard? Are you intending to magically mail me to where they are so they can get at it or something?”

Odyssia chuckled at that, “That’s a very crass way of putting it but, essentially, you’re right. I am going to send the Shard directly to them.”

“‘The Shard’,” Melly repeated. “The way you say that has a very conspicuous lack of me included in it.”

“What? You want me to send you in there as well? I highly doubt that you’d be interested in being in the grand presence of the Writhing One. Honestly, I thought the way I planned was more humane, not subjecting you to such unspeakable terrors,” Odyssia laughed. 

“And your plan is… to kill me?” Melly asked. “Or try and remove it yourself? Because I have experience with that second option, and I’ve gotta say… hard pass.”

“It’s worth a try,” Odyssia sighed, coming down from her brief amusement, “And if I can’t remove it without killing you, well… I suppose that doesn’t leave many options for me, unfortunately..”

“Well, even if you do get it out without killing me... I’m still gonna get a one-on-one with the Writhing One,” Melly said. “The whole soul thing, remember? You pull out the Shard, and my soul comes with it. The whole point of sparing me is kind of moot there-- doubly so, considering that Ollie would have no problem killing me without the Shard there to do its thing. And obviously, you don’t seem inclined to kill me if you can help it… which I appreciate, even given my currently unfavorable circumstances. Other than that…”

Melly did think of a third option, but even thinking about it made her blood run cold. One of the Writhing One’s things was manipulating minds, right? If so… what was stopping them from just brainwashing her, or something similar, to try and control the Shard through her?

In a nervous gulp, she swallowed her words, glancing away from Odyssia as she hastily tried to think of any alternative thing to propose-- the more time an option gave her, the better.

“... Were you going to say something there?” Odyssia asked, “And before you do, I’d like to at least thank you for being appreciative. At least you’re more engaging to speak to than any of the previous people who once were strapped in here just like you. I generally hear the same boring, mundane things from people who end up here… In a strange way, I’m almost glad that I gave you the chance to talk,” 

Gee, I wonder why everyone else was less engaging, Melly thought to herself, not thinking further on that. Better to keep those mental images at bay.

“Have to appreciate the little victories, I suppose,” she said, words both sarcastic and sincere. “Punching and the like isn’t always the best way to solve things in the hero biz-- sometimes trying to talk through things first can go a long way. Never hurts to try, I suppose.”

Melly went quiet, debating whether to bring up what she had meant to say. Odyssia had clearly heard her odd pause, and she wasn’t fully sure whether or not she would be able to tell if she was lying or not.

“And… yeah, guess I thought I had something to say,” she said. “Wasn’t anything good, though.”

“... Yes,” Odyssia muttered. 

… Why did she sound so much like Amari just now? Nononono, I can’t let myself think like that. I can’t let myself see her in the Weaver or I’ll really be in shit, Odyssia thought to herself, now actually beginning to feel worried, Goddamnit, Odyssia, stop this right now. You can’t afford to do this. 

“... And what makes you think that?’ Odyssia said, trying to avoid thinking further on her realization. 

“Because it’s something I’ve had people try to do to me before, in one way or another,” Melly said. “And I doubt I’d be able to do much about it if it’s what you or your Patron decide to do to me, hence my aversion to bring it up.”

“...Let me take a wild guess,” Odyssia began, if a bit hesitant herself, “Are you trying to appeal to my humanity in some way? As if you knew anything about me? I mean, you’re welcome to try it. I will at least humor you.”

“Wasn’t really expecting it to be an appeal-- in the regard of me getting out of this, at least,” Melly said. “You don’t seem like the type to be easily convinced to change your mind when you commit to something-- Ollie was the same way. The point being-- seeing as I’d rather not go through something involving that again, I’m refraining from bringing it up as an option at all.”

Melly wasn’t sure how many of her non-Shard memories Odyssia had gleaned, or if she had come to the conclusion of what she was meaning by her words-- it was entirely possible that she’d be able to put the pieces together if she had all of them. For now, though, she sat tight and hoped that that would satisfy her.

“... Fair enough,” Odyssia replied, although something about the way she said this made her tone waver a bit. “I have been described as ‘ride or die’, I suppose. But make no mistake—and don’t tell Juice about this—I’ve come to understand that aside from tenacious tendencies… we don’t really have much in common. Consider this food for thought.”

“Juice?” Melly said, amused by the apparent nickname. “And… yeah, I think I’ve noticed that— and that’s coming from someone that knew him before all of this Shard business.”

“Long story,” Odyssia replied cheekily, “In the nicest way possible… did he always have a stick up his ass? Was he born with it? Because I’ve worked with many people and I have to be honest, he’s not the most fun person to be around.”

“Well…” Melly said, thinking of where to start. “He was always a bit stuck-up, but he knew his tech stuff— was in classes with someone I know. I think he’d been doing the Ock stuff behind the scenes for a while… not that I ever picked up on it. Kept that hidden up until I had already handed the Green Shard over for him to claim. Was originally hoping that he’d be a part of our team, but, well… you’ve seen where he’s ended up in that regard. In hindsight… it was pretty dumb of me to hand it over to anyone, whether or not I trust them. I was new to the hero stuff, and definitely more naive than I am now with a few more years under my belt. Sure, I may wield a Shard, but after that, I don’t think I’m qualified to be the one that decides who stuff like that gets handed out to.”

“Hmm. Sounds like someone I know,” Odyssia commented to herself before replying to Melly. “I suppose I could relate to you hoping someone you care about would join you.. but that’s besides the point. Probably wasn’t anything like what you went through anyhow, considering that the one I’m talking about is… a much different person from him, let’s say.”

“That’s fair,” Melly said. “Even with the similarities… there’s plenty of differences more often than not, especially between dimensions. I guess the whole mess— the Shards getting involved and all— sort of make ours a bit of a unique case, at any rate.”

Melly paused, thinking something over.

“You know… how did you and Oliver end up coming across one another anyway?”

Odyssia chuckled at that. “It is in my best interest not to be a snitch. I might be more amicable towards you than most people that find themselves on this gurney, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll spill everything about myself or my whereabouts. Nice try, though.”

“Eh, it was worth a shot,” Melly said, shrugging. “Guess you’ve got to be an Ock to get in on all the secret Ock meetings… or however else you two ended up meeting.”

“Well, I’m sure you can come up with your own conclusions, considering that you somehow managed to start working with Spider-Glass,” she sighed as a tentacle of her stretches out to reach a clipboard and a pen on her desk. 

“I suppose I can, yes,” Melly replied-- like Odyssia, it was probably in her or the other Spiders’ best interest not to go into detail on how that came about. Her eyes followed Odyssia’s tentacle as it reached over to the desk. Despite all of the pleasant conversation, she had to remind herself that she was on borrowed time. The Spiders would probably come after her eventually, but without a solid sense of how long it had been since was brought down here, she couldn’t be sure how much longer it would be before the others returned. The longer it took, the more time there would be for Odyssia to start trying things.

Odyssia, while not wanting to press further on how the two met, there was something on her mind in regards to her own spider. She took the clipboard and pen and began writing her observations on Melly down as she continues to speak. 

“Speaking of… what are your thoughts on her, exactly?” she sincerely asked with no trace of joking around or cheekiness to her tone. 

“What?” Melly said, admittedly caught a bit off-guard by the question. “She’s, uh… nice? Good teammate, good… all-around person?” She wasn’t exactly sure what Odyssia was trying to get at with that question, but knew it was better not to give specifics away freely.

Odyssia considered what Melly said for a moment. There was a gleam in her eye and a satisfied smile crossed her face as a subtle sense of pride exuded from her. 

“Yes, she always was… I don’t expect anything less from her…” she muttered to herself, “You’re not alone in that assessment, Weaver. Many will agree with you on that front.”

“As I’ve seen-- and met,” Melly said. The way Odyssia had said that… she knew a bit about Amari and Odyssia’s history. Whatever connection they had outside of the hero stuff, in some regard she could still say that it was a good one.

“Yes… I suppose that’s one thing that me and old Juice Man can’t really relate to each other on,” Odyssia sighed. 

Before either of them could say anything else, the tell-tale sound of metal stomping on concrete echoed down the corridor that Odyssia had brought Melly down. Feeling him approaching, Melly went still, keeping her head facing away from the door-- hopefully, she could avoid having Oliver know that she was more coherent than before. A moment later, Oliver entered the room, looking rather annoyed. His eyes scanned the room for a moment before locking on Odyssia.

Speak of the Devil, Odyssia thought to herself as she looked back at him. 

“So… What is it this time, Oliver?” she asked, putting the clipboard and pen down on the gurney’s surface. 

“Your… pet keeps bothering me,” he said with contempt. “I’m trying to review the notes on the Shards that you took from the Weaver, but I can’t focus with that thing constantly trying to pester me!”

Odyssia grimaced a bit, shifting her weight as she stepped closer to him. Upon doing so, she noticed Adorabilis, now clinging onto his leg with her tentacles. 

“I see,” she said, nodding tightly, “Let me get her off you.”

Oliver let out a huff in an expression of ‘finally’, holding out his leg and shaking it impatiently.

“Hold still, Juice Man,” she sighed, “You don’t need to shake her around like that.”

Odyssia gently coaxed Adorabilis with her tentacles, using them to remove her off of Oliver’s leg. Oliver could feel the sensation of suction cups being pulled off of him as she was taken away into Odyssia’s arms. 

“Alright, alright, you’re free now,” Odyssia said to Oliver as she heads over to one of the tanks. She opens it up to gently place the flapjack octopus inside. 

“It’s appreciated,” Oliver said, reaching up to straighten the collar of his shirt with a punchy tug. “While I’m here… I might as well ask. How has your research gone, thus far? Anything… interesting?”

“Sure thing,” she replies casually as she shuts the tank’s lid tight, “I suppose, but this was more me wanting a closer look at her and her Shard’s energy.”

“You ‘suppose’?” Oliver said, raising an eyebrow. “And have you been able to glean anything from that as of yet?”

“I will have to make some minor adjustments on my method of offering the Shard to the Writhing One but otherwise, I’m sure you already know enough extensive information from that mind retrieval that I did,” Odyssia replied coolly. 

“Indeed,” Oliver said, sounding mildly disappointed. “Speaking of which-- perhaps I should get back to reviewing that information. Perhaps she knows more about the pesky inhibiting devices that she’s used in our past few encounters. Quite fortunate that she had some spares on her this time around-- they usually burn out and damage themselves before I have the chance to inspect them more closely.”

“Sounds good to me,” Odyssia replied. “I will keep an eye on our guest here and make said adjustments to the plan.”

“And as I said before, I am quite looking forward to seeing the results,” Oliver said. Without another word, he turned, moving quickly out of the room back the way he had come.

As soon as he was gone, Odyssia groaned a little. 

“Man, if I didn’t know better, I would’ve believed he was an energy vampire or something,” she muttered underneath her breath. 

“Of the metaphorical sort, I’m assuming,” Melly said once she was sure Oliver was out of earshot. “I’ve met some actual energy vampires, and they tend to be a bit more direct with their energy-taking intentions.”

“Of course,” Odyssia chuckled, “A strange little man, he is.”

She picked up her clipboard and continues writing things down.

“... Now listen,” she muttered, recalling something, “I hate to admit it but I prefer you like this over when you could barely speak a coherent sentence. I… know that we really couldn’t be all that friendly after what I did to your mind and what I’m planning on doing. But even so, I feel like I should at least let you know this: Spider-Glass is… someone who is this very smart, very capable young lady. I know full well she’s going to show up eventually. Should she inevitably come to set you free just at the nick of time, promise me one thing: keep her safe. Her survival is… important to me.”

Melly stayed silent for a moment, taking in Odyssia’s words. It felt a bit strange, hearing that from someone with the intent to harm her… but she could tell that the Ock’s words were genuine.

“Us Spiders… we protect each other,” Melly said. “If she needs my help, if she ends up in danger… I’ll do what I can to make sure she’s safe at the end of things.”

There was a slight flicker of red in Melly’s eyes as she spoke-- a spark of determination and resolution, one could say. It was only there for a moment, though, before fading back to their usual crimson hue.

Odyssia smiled at that. Whether it was due to Melly’s promise, the brief glimmer of red, or a mixture of both, it was hard to say. 

Both knew it was only a matter of time until Spider-Glass would return. Until then, Odyssia resolved herself to scribbling down what she had learned from her talk from Melly that she had neglected to inform Oliver about. And Melly, biding her time until the others returned, resigned herself to wait.

[teentitanimals]

Carrie Kelley in the Batfam

I freaking love Carrie Kelley, she’s so awesome. I desperately wish to see more content of her (I say, never even having read the comics she’s in- so sue me, I’ll get to it eventually). So, I’m taking it upon myself to write how I think she’d function with the rest of the Batfam! In ‘my’ version/understanding of the Batfam, she becomes Robin when Damian is AWOL. She quickly assumes the identity of Catgirl after Damian returns (angry, of course), and then eventually becomes Batgirl when no one else takes that mantle.

I personally view Carrie as someone who’s really, really eager to have a true family, and if she gets to kick criminals’ asses to have that family, then that’s just a big bonus. In basic, I see her as someone who’s very outwardly bubbly, energetic, eager to please, full of determination, enthusiastic, and somewhat stubborn, but has layers of doubt and anxiety expertly pushed down (as is the Bats’ way). In more depth, I see her as someone who knows what she has to do, and will do it no matter what. When she’s given an order, she will go through with it. When she needs to lead, she will. When she needs to follow, she will. Still though, she is inexperienced and untrained compared to the others, both on the physical side and emotional side. While she can put on that facade of coldness, strictness, when she no longer needs that mask, she can break down. For example, when she unhesitatingly punished that Batboy (Mutant guy) for killing some one, but later cried about it. She does what she believes needs to be done in the moment, but can often doubt or regret afterwards, when it’s safer to do so.

Anyway, here’s how I view her relationships with the Batfam! I might do this with some of the other Batfam as well, like Duke :)

Bruce - Carrie instantly views Batman as a parental figure. Her parental figures barely even remember she exists, so when Batman finally accepted her temporarily as Robin, she immediately started to view him as a positive adult role model in her life. She’s always very eager to impress him and relishes in every moment she’s near him, but she can get super anxious when he’s silent, often interrupting it as him ignoring her, just like her real parents do.

Alfred - Carrie loves Alfred, no surprise there. Who doesn’t, after all? She’s only seen her grandparents a few times, so it’s much like what she did with Bruce, instantly viewing him as a grandfather figure. She loves getting him little gifts and enjoys helping him with the work he does around the manor. She would spend every moment telling him how much she appreciates him, if she could.

Selina - She’s a bit hesitant with Selina, because she doesn’t really know much about the woman past her sort of being Batman’s “lover” and also a criminal dressed in a catsuit sometimes. She wants to view Selina as a mother figure, but she gets nervous and shy around her. The two do bond over a love of cats and dogs, though. (I actually have an idea/AU where Carrie becomes Catgirl but as Catwoman’s ‘sidekick’.)

Commissioner Gordon - She has a good amount of respect towards the Commissioner, along with a certain amount of pity. Sometimes, when she’s able to, she’ll prompt him to tell stories to her, and just sit down and listen. She wants to know him better, maybe become like uncle and niece, but she doesn’t really know how to do that.

Kate - Carrie takes well to Batwoman, admiring and respecting her a great deed. She adapts easily to viewing Kate as an aunt. She isn’t as eager to impress Kate like she is with Bruce, but she does value her opinion a lot. Carrie really enjoys hanging out with Kate outside of their masks too, and finds her to be really fun and cool, especially compared to Bruce- although, she would never tell Bruce that to his face.

Dick - Carrie was really, really anxious for Dick’s approval. No, not for being Robin, but rather for being accepted into the family. He was the eldest sibling. The first sibling. Needless to say, getting his immediate acceptance was so relieving it was almost addicting. And, not to mention, Dick was the first person to really hug her in a long while. A full on, arms wrapped around, tight squeeze, warm, loving kind of hug. She about cried on the spot. An unfortunate side effect is that having Dick hug her and seeing him hug everyone else made her Dick’s rival as the most touchy-feely of the Batfam. At least the fam has better luck escaping Carrie’s hugs than they do Dick’s.

Barbara - Carrie also was really anxious for Babs’s approval as well, this time more focused on being a Batgirl than with being accepted into the family. The two aren’t super close, or super chatty, but Carrie always appreciates Babs’s easy and quiet acceptance of her. Even when Carrie feels ignored and forgotten by the rest of the family, she can always count on having Babs simply just greeting her, or sending her out on a mission, just a casual acknowledgement of her existence. In return, Carrie also enjoys giving her small gifts from time to time like she does with Alfred.

Jason - She was a bit nervous initially meeting the infamous Red Hood, but she covered it well with guts and confidence. After she overcame her wariness of him, she definitely tried a bit harder to impress him, viewing him as the ‘cool older brother’. Jason isn’t all that touchy-feely with her like Dick, but every pat on the head, shoulder or back feels like ‘He Accepts Me as His Little Sister’ heaven to her. The two don’t always mesh well together, but they don’t have any animosity or history between them, so it’s easy for them to get along well.

Cass - Cass both fills Carrie with anxiety and love. On one hand, Cass is often very silent, and that really activates Carrie’s ‘She’s Ignoring Me, She Doesn’t Care About Me’, but on the other hand, Cass is very warm and comforting, even without words. Carrie would compare her to a ‘blanket’- warm, soft, comforting, always there for you, even without saying anything, but sometimes when it gets too hot (too silent), you need to get rid of the blanket until its colder (too loud) again. It’s an odd simile, but Cass finds it amusing. Cass more than makes up with her silence with many friendly pats and hugs to her new little sister (which Carrie was ecstatic to find out Cass viewed her as such almost as immediately as Carrie viewed her as an older sister).

Luke - Carrie doesn’t see Luke or Batwing all that much, but she kind of enjoys that. It’s like having a distant cousin you see on holidays that you get along well with. It really solidifies the whole ‘family’ thing for her. She likes hanging out with his siblings, too.

Harper - Harper, too, is more like a cousin, but one Carrie is just in awe of. She definitely wants to get to know Harper better, but they haven’t found the time too.

Tim - She often finds it hard to get along with Tim. Not that they clash heads or anything, it’s more like an awkward silence (and you know by now how much she hates silence). Carrie is loud and energetic even without coffee, yet Tim sometimes can barely stay awake even with coffee. She also isn’t as good with tech as the other, having less experience and access to even the more simpler digital devices due to her parents neglect of her and her childhood. She admires his intelligence and skill greatly, and often feels inferior to him because of it. It’s weird, because she also knows and acknowledges that the rest of the Batfam is greater than her in most skills simply due to more experience and training, but for some reason Tim’s skills make her feel worthless and unimportant to the family. Still though, the two find ways to get along, even if it is just something as minor as Carrie offering to get him some coffee and watching him work. Tim has offered to teach her more on tech too, which she’s pretty eager about, even if a lot of it flies over her head.

Steph - Once again, Steph is one of those people Carrie highly admires. Steph was, after all, both a Robin and Batgirl like Carrie too. Plus, Carrie just really loves Steph’s personality, humor, and wit. She’s the older sister Carrie wants to impress the most. The two got along immediately, personalities bouncing well off each other, like an echo chamber but better. Steph greatly enjoys having a little sister to teach ‘girl stuff’ too, and is happy to pull Carrie along on any trips to the mail, or to paint nails with her and Cass. Inviting Carrie to watch reality TV and musicals with her and Damian. Their text messages between each other consist solely of memes and random ramblings done at 2am. Bruce often has to separate them on patrols or missions, because Steph brings out Carrie’s ‘lack of brain cells’ side, making her more eager to just jump head-on into danger without a proper plan or instructions to do so.

Duke - She and Duke are both the ‘new kids’, but Duke knows just a little bit more about the Batfamily than her. He enjoys showing her ‘the ropes’ when getting used to the family’s insanity. She’s more rambunctious and eager to join in on the chaos than he was, but they can still bond over giving each other those little glances of ‘Are you seeing this too? I’m not crazy right?’ and ‘They can’t be serious.’ Carrie enjoys the more calmed down energy she can have with him. Everyone else in the family’s high energy brings out hers, but Duke has that perfect balance that she appreciates. Even someone as eager for familial attention can be overwhelmed at times. Sometimes they just enjoy calmly, casually talking about whatever, relaxing as they eat, or read, or watch TV.

Damian - Damian is by far the one Carrie admires the most. She’s the one she craves the most acceptance from, and Damian being Damian, it’s very hard to get it, especially since she was a ‘copycat’, a ‘temporary replacement’, a ‘little girl scout looking at the big leagues’ to him. Despite Damian’s many, many insults and jabs and overall disrespect to her, she took it as best she could in stride, not wanting to upset him further. Much like Jason was Tim’s Robin, Damian was Carrie’s Robin, the one she looked up to. It’s why she so easily gave up being Robin and became Catgirl when Damian came back. It was his role, and Carrie didn’t mean to ‘steal it’ from him, or to ‘replace him’, just to help Batman when he didn’t have anyone else. It takes awhile, a long while, but Damian begins to warm up to her, slowly, slowly, accepting her as his sister. Eventually, he actually becomes pretty protective of her, after all, Robin and Batgirl are just as iconic a pair as Robin and Batman. Despite Damian being younger than Carrie (in my eyes), Carrie views him as a protective older brother. They enjoy taking care of all their pets and animals together, and complaining about school to one another, and crashing on the couch after a long day, watching random shows until they fall asleep and one of their older siblings has to carry them to their respective beds.