#recently my back has been aggravated as hell so I’ve been doing prompts as I can instead and taking lots of rest breaks

[candycryptids]

Vierapril Day 6: Bloom

So the thing about Tuesday- he’s got loyalty in his bones. He’s also incredibly soft for big women.

And. Peatie is a delicate little flower who he would, and will, swear his undying loyalty to the moment she shows so much as a hint of feeling safe/comforted around him. Everyone be nice to Peatie and her new bodyguard who will blow you up to pieces if you’re mean to her.

[barnesandco]

Eat the Rich: Chapter 1

Eat the Rich Masterlist

The Avengers are tasked with tracking down an elusive thief, and retrieving the grand amounts of money she has stolen. Even after capture, she turns out to be impossible to break, save for a mystifying interest in Bucky.

Written for @mermaidxatxheart ‘s #jamiesmadwritingbash, under the Robin Hood AU prompt, with the dialogue prompt “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing, running around with the end of the world on her his arm?” in bold in this chapter.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: mentions of nightmares, memory loss and recovery, brief mentions of Bucky’s Winter Soldier days, and canon-level violence. Lots of frustrated Avengers. A bit of flirting.

A/N: I can’t decide if I want this series to make people laugh or cry, so good luck. Please comment and reblog! 

Divider by the fantastically talented @whimsicalrogers​!

The Avengers are confused. Perplexed and far out of their depths, they’re strewed about the meeting room with variants of displeasure on their faces. Bucky wears the biggest scowl of all, sitting ramrod straight in an armchair intended for postures far more comfortable. The source of their malcontent hovers in a hologram above the conference table, somehow managing to look bored while handcuffed and bound to a steel chair in the most secure interrogation room in the Compound.

You’re a thief. A crook who has been stealing big money from bigger people, in a slew of prominent heists that eventually led to the Avengers’ recruitment to your case. High stakes burglary isn’t their field, but when certain people threw their weight around, demanding a serious investigation, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes had no choice but to play detectives to one elusive criminal.

A flirtatious one, too, Bucky thinks, remembering your first confrontation, as he traces the seams of his metal arm with the softer pads of his flesh fingers. 

Sam, Nat, and Bucky had tracked you all the way to Paris, where, one night, Sam gave chase while Bucky waited to intercept you on the predicted escape route, in an alley behind one of the classiest bars in town. Their prediction had proved accurate, and you had pretty much run straight into Bucky’s waiting arms. 

The ensuing fight should have been an easy one, and Bucky made the awful mistake -- the mistake he hadn’t made since meeting the Widows in the Red Room -- of underestimating a woman, and he ended up paying for it. 

His fists clench in his lap at the memory of how you had pulled a very Widow move on him, and he had wound up on his back with your thighs around his neck in a chokehold almost gentle. You had leaned over him to tie his hands together, and left him panting, out of breath, and with the taste of rust in his mouth. Clambering off, and wiping away the blood at the corner of his lip, you had then said, “I look forward to our rematch, handsome,” before disappearing into the dark, French night.

“Barnes?” He hears Stark call, and he blinks. “You still with us, or are you daydreaming about your girlfriend?” The room grows silent, and Bucky can sense suppressed smiles and silent glares, the latter aimed at Stark from Steve.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he grouses, letting his metal fingers dig into his kneecaps.

Sam, coffee abandoned on the table in front of him, eyes twinkling says, “We heard her through the coms, Barnes. In Paris, and in Buenos Aires.”

“And Oslo,” Peter pipes up, and Bucky falls back into the memory of autumn frost crunching under his feet, the reverberations of the orchestra in the opera house as he followed your coat-tails -- you played violin, because why the hell not -- down the busy street. Power-walking turned to running, and you had ended up in a crowded, posh bar with Bucky backing you into the wall in the hallway leading to the restrooms, holding your hands in one metal fist behind you.

Still, you had been unperturbed, trying to distract him with gemstone eyes while he called backup -- Stark, soaring in stealth mode above the fjord. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing, running around with the end of the world on his arm?” You had asked, gesturing toward his metal shoulder, no struggle, no flight or fight. 

Red-lipped smiles, you had given him, and he had been so close to pulling out the handcuffs until a trio of burly security guards had appeared, your backup, apparently, and engaged him in enough combat to allow you to escape. 

“She seems to like you,” Sam finishes piercing the haze of another battle lost, less violently at least, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like her,” is the best he can come up with, and he stands, moves towards a window overlooking the grounds, addressing the bulletproof glass, next. “What I would like is for us to get the money back so we can all go on our merry way and pretend this ever happened.”

The room falls quiet at that. Every person here is acutely aware of the fact that they’re no closer to getting the money back -- nobody could ever spend the amounts you’ve stolen recently, so quickly; FRIDAY’s run simulations on it -- and you haven’t budged under the interrogations you’ve faced thus far.

Barton enters the room as soon as he gets off the quinjet, still in his typical Bed Stuy uniform -- ripped jeans and purple t-shirt -- and Bucky, alongside Natasha and Sam in the observation room behind the one way glass, can see the angle he’s going with. 

It’s almost cliché, or maybe it’s just Clint, so relaxed and loose-limbed with too much pizza in his system and likely smelling of one-eyed dog -- Bucky adores Lucky, but he’ll never admit it -- the way he turns his chair around and sits, resting his chin on folded arms atop the back of the chair. 

For a moment, Bucky worries he’s fallen asleep right there, until his blond head lifts ever so slightly and he says, “Would you like something to drink?” 

You quirks a smile. “I’d like a proper introduction. What, were you raised in a barn?” The smirk is teasing, but there’s no bite, like you’re greeting an old friend with an inside joke. Barton traces the edge of the table.

“Almost. Ever heard of Waverly, Iowa?” He asks. 

You shake your head, and then, grin, informing, “No, but I have heard of you, Clint Barton.”

“So you didn’t need an introduction.”

“I’m a prankster, can’t you tell?” Bucky thinks of the navy blue dress in Prague, the tiny but powerful stink bombs you had kept in a thigh holster, how you had left them coughing. 

“Jokes are all well and good but, uh, stealing isn’t so funny,” Clint answers., sitting up, and Bucky can hear in his hardening tone that he’s starting to get serious. 

“Depends on who you’re stealing from,” is your flippant response.

“Also depends on who has to get the money back, too, and let me tell you, we’re a little tired of playing games.”

“Then I guess I win, right?”

“Are you sure you don’t recognize her? Her tactics seem familiar,” Sam says, and the sensation that has been aggravating the nerves in an unlocatable part of his brain since he saw her for the first time worsens, but Sam’s question is addressed to Nat.

“She’s not Red Room, if that’s what you mean. The Widows were trained to be merciless. She avoids getting more physical than she needs to,” Natasha answers, retying the band on her braid, flaming red hair coiled over her shoulder.

“She broke Bucky’s nose,” Steve points out in protest. 

Nat shrugs, leans forward to doodle on the notepad resting on her knee. “If it was me, I might have knocked some teeth out. Maybe pulled a knife or garrotte.”

“You have to tell me where you get those sting-y things,” you say the moment Nat enters the room, eyes sparkling and wide with awe. Bucky winces as he remembers the short-circuit from that little electric disc. The engineers in the bank had been pretty troubled by the thought of what could’ve caused that kind of damage to the internal systems, until he his fist around one of their necks gave them something else to worry ab--

Steve’s hand on his shoulder startles him back to the observation room instead of Hydra’s clutches, and he says, “Hey, Bucky, how’s it going?” with a nod to the room in front of them. Vibranium cuffs peek out from under the large, green hoodie that envelopes your form, making you look deceptively soft.

“She wants to know where Nat gets her taser discs.”

“You’re eager for those even after you’ve felt how much they hurt?” Nat asks calmly, and Bucky imagines an ice-cool smirk on her lips as she reminds you of how exactly you were captured. It was the tasers that brought you down, after Sam, Steve and Bucky flew and ran you to exhaustion through the streets of Algiers, costing Stark some collateral payments. He hadn’t minded too much, just been happy to have you in custody, finally.

“They look like they’d be fun to use. Pretty handy around certain metal armed men, too,” you suggest playfully.

“Yeah, he isn’t going to talk to you, but I’ve been looking forward to this chat of ours, so why don’t you start by telling me your name.”

“I don’t have one. I’m a ghost story,” you say, and Bucky assumes Nat is looking unimpressed, because you press forward with the joke. “You’re going to need a medium to talk to me.”

“And where do you suppose I find one of those?”

“You have one. Isn’t Bucky Barnes a ghost story, too?”

Sam’s about to name what is sure to be another way to cause unnecessary injury when Bucky butts in. “It doesn’t matter how she hurt me or how she could have hurt me,” this, with a glare at Natasha, who smiles down at the paper. “We have a burglar with billions stashed away and a buncha angry billionaires breathin’ down our necks to find it.”

“Well why don’t you give it a go if you think it’s so easy?” Looking up from the hangman sketch, Nat fixes emerald eyes on his, reminding him, once again, of the unusual interest you’ve taken in Bucky. One that started with mid-battle conversations of a different nature, and that has extended into custody. Something that’s been bugging Steve, his protective instinct whirring into overdrive -- Bucky sees his eye twitch from across the room at Nat’s remark -- no more so than during Steve’s turn to question the captive.

“You guys are all taking your turns playing Good Cop Bad Cop, but I haven’t seen Robocop yet. Why is that?”

“You left him tied up in Paris–”

“There’s an innuendo in there somewhere,” you sing-song, head tilting rhythmically from side to side. Bucky clenches his fists in the observation room.

“–so he isn’t much obliged to see you,” Steve finishes, bypassing your interruption.

Playful eyes with laser determination, unperturbed by locked rooms and handcuffs, focus on a spot just above Steve’s shoulder, almost looking through the glass, even though Bucky knows it’s just a mirror for you. “What a shame. I was hoping our little back alley tussle wouldn’t scare the big, bad White Wolf away.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Are you going to tell us where the money is or do you want formal charges and a jail cell?” He asks, shifting so he blocks your line of sight, folds his hands on the table, and broadens his shoulders, all-Captain and no-nonsense.

“Giving up on me so easy?”

“I wouldn’t call it easy, miss. We’ve been looking for months and tried just about everything to get you to cooperate.”

“Not everything.”

“She’s yawning,” Sam proclaims indignantly, glaring, shocked, at the hologram where indeed, the source of their troubles is yawning, like you could fall asleep, tied up and all. “Unbelievable.” He shakes his head, and Bucky stops a snort from escaping. He’s seen all kinds of interrogations, faced a fair few, too, and this woman is just warming up.

The ensuing discussion and debate continues for hours, until the sun sets behind the window Bucky’s standing by, and what silences them is the thump with which Clint puts his hearing aids on the table in front of him. Sam’s coffee wobbles dangerously, and everyone sighs as Clint wordlessly tells them to shut up. Murmurs of agreement to rest and get a fresh start tomorrow echo through the room, and Bucky catches Barton’s eye, and receives a wink. 

Later that night, in his room, Bucky knows he’s not going to get a minute of sleep. It’s just an intuition, something his very bones are telling him, and he sees no reason to dispute it. Under the throbbing ache in his head, there’s an itch in the grey matter of his mind, somewhere he can’t reach, and he twists and turns. The feeling is recognizable as the vexation inflicted when he’s on the verge of a memory, but those return either by dream or by sense these days.

Dreams are for the bad memories, the days of the Winter Soldier, his subconscious loosening whatever locks his mind placed to compartmentalize the pain, to stuff it all away. The nightmares, the terrible memories leave him shaking, but therapy helps. By a few percent, but when the load of pain is as heavy as his is, every small burden taken off his shoulder helps.

Sense brings back the time before Hydra, although it’s sometimes hard to believe there was one. Steve’s face buried in his shoulder, be careful, Buck; Romanian take out, his mother’s hands; faucet dripping, water running out; oranges exploding on his tongue, a month’s salary plus overtime from working at the docks for that sweet rush once a year. The Depression, the first war -- trench memory brought back by a rainy run in Central Park, the scent of muddy petrichor in the air -- snowfall in the Alps, Dugan’s cigar. His body remembers, and then shows his mind the way.

However, this, this infuriating personality that has him incensed and restless, she isn’t in his mind in any capacity, but Bucky thinks he knows her. Or that he might have, once. And he needs to know her, again, because he hates not knowing. The nightmares hurt, and the memories of what he’s lost do, as well, but not knowing, existing in the strange limbo between certainty and loss, it’s unbearable. If this woman knows him, if she’s another key to another past, another piece of him, he has to talk to her.

“FRIDAY?” He asks groggily, sitting up. 

The screen in the wall across from him blinks blue in acknowledgement, along with a “Yes, sir?”

“Is Steve up?” 

“Captain Rogers is awake and having a cup of coffee in the kitchen, Sergeant,” FRIDAY tells him, and Bucky curses at the idiocy of consuming caffeine at this hour of night -- whatever’s in that shit works even on the serum and that can’t be good -- replacing his sweatpants with jeans once more and heading out to find his friend.

Steve has his back to the entryway, deep in thought -- dumbass, anyone could sneak up on you like this -- when Bucky comes in and clears his throat. The mug in Steve’s hands looks comically small, and Bucky sits down across from him at the island, reaches forward to take it from him, and downs the remaining half.

It’s just one more testament to how disturbed Steve is -- as if the careless consumption of coffee at midnight wasn’t enough -- that he lets Bucky steal his coffee. Blue meets blue in the silver dusting of moonlight, and Steve tries to locate Bucky’s purpose in his eyes before asking him for it verbally. “What is it, Buck?” He’s tired, too many missions weighing on those eyelids, but too worked up to let them close, to find rest. What Bucky’s going to say won’t help.

“Let me talk to her.”

[miss-nov]

Over-Emotional: Danny Phantom Oneshot.

Original idea by @amabsis on their post right here!!

[Originally written on a reblog of the prompt but it went all screwy and left an incomplete version so I made it it's own post and I've made a few grammar and spelling edits. Sorry for any confusion!!]

(This is the first thing I've ever written for the DP Phandom so I apologize if it's a little OOC)

⚠️(TW: DESCRIPTIONS OF A PANIC ATTACK AND GORE!!!!!)⚠️

  Danny drifted through the skies of Amity Park, following the streets which were slick with recent rain. The stars twinkled merrily above and the beams from the street lights seemed to buzz through the comforting, crisp air. Not a sound disrupted the mellow atmosphere and ghosts had appeared to leave tonight alone and retired to their lairs. A soothing night such as this would have been Danny's favorite; it would have been a much needed break from his overly stressful life.

  Yet Danny couldn't shake off the creeping apprehension even as he twisted in and out of alleyways back into the lit roads.

  His parents had been working tirelessly  on a project that they wouldn't tell him and Jazz about. Jack, their father, would always jump at the chance to describe what he was doing and couldn't keep his antics quiet for long. Maddie's, their mother, eyes would have brightened as she recounted the innovate idea she had conjured and the necessary calculations she could toy around with. These facts coupled with Jazz and Danny casually inquiring about their latest project would make them incredibly ecstatic.

  But whenever the two had asked about it, put off by the unusual quiet of the parents, had only been given an amused smile and an occasional wink.

  Tonight, before Danny's patrol and during dinner, Jazz had managed to weasel some information out of them. Though, it left more questions than answers.

  "So, you guys have been in the lab a lot recently," Jazz said conversationally. "Working on some new ghost stuff? It seems important if you're spending most of the day down there."

  Maddie had given her a deliberate look like someone who'd finally decided to take a second cookie.

  "It's our greatest invention yet," she said lowly and excitedly. "I think your dad and I have found the solution to our little ghost problem."

  The siblings gulped and tried to suppress their shudders.

  "It's not going to hurt them is it? Phantom and the other ghosts." Jazz's voice was even and didn't show a hint of a tone shift.

  "Surprisingly, no. No harm will be dealt to them. It's not like they can feel anyway. That's exactly the problem," Jack chimed excitedly before going back to his ectoplasm contaminated lasagna.

  "Besides, we wouldn't want to hurt the object of our daughter's affection.  We all know about your crush on Phantom," Maddie teased but then added with a small frown. "Though it's not healthy to have a crush on ghosts at all."

 Jazz gave an aggressive gagging noise and Danny was torn between hysterical laughter and a gag of his own. Dinner resumed as normal —well, as normal as you could get being a Fenton— and Danny took note of the fact his parents had refused to say anymore.

  Danny was busy going over and dissecting the conversation and lax in his attention to his surroundings by the inactivity that he didn't notice the two shadow-cloaked figures tailing him. The taller one with a broader build was holding an intimidating gun, that looked like it was straight out of an eighties sci-fi movie, on his back.

  Maybe I should head back, Danny thought to himself. I have so much homework due and a test tomorrow. A pop quiz in calculus and a lab in science. I have to meet Nathan at my study hall period and at lunch. Liz needs my help…

  On and on the list went as Danny subtlety started flying home. Just thinking of things that needed done was making him more anxious and tired.

  "Phantom, we'll have you now," Jack cried, his voice echoing in the hollow streets.

  Danny turned around, slightly aggravated when he was struck by a violet beam and plummeted, crashing to the sidewalk.

  "Jack! I told you to wait," Maddie chastised as they walked over to Danny who had barely sat up.

  His head swam and Maddie and Jack looked like the reflections of a carnival fun house mirror. Though his vision corrected itself quickly.

  "I think you might have given him a concussion. But that doesn't make sense, ghosts don't have brains," Maddie said, slightly confused. She reached out to gingerly place her fingertips on Danny's temple and he flinched.

  "Don't touch me!!" Danny had yelled louder then he meant to and his voice came out with an extra echo; like he had been about to use his ghostly wail. The three stilled before Danny began crawling backwards, keeping his eyes on Jack and Maddie at all times.

  "I don't wanna hurt you," Danny whimpered and tears sprang to eyes like a line of men ready to battle. Why the hell was he crying!? He didn't cry easy, at least not of late, and he'd been in these situations and worse without crying so why was he breaking down now??

  Maddie looked at him with wide eyes and her hand, which had still been suspended in shock, dropped to her belt and Danny panicked.

  "Don't hurt me!" Danny tried to pick himself up to fly, to get the hell out of dodge but when he went to stand his vision and black an —god why were his veins burning with adrenaline???

  Danny's chest was caving, that was the only explanation as his ribs seized and threatened to crush his lungs. His heart had left its place and sprinted from the back of his throat down to right beneath his collarbone before starting all over again. Has his hands always been this sweaty??? Tremors wracked through his limbs —he couldn't deal with this now!! He needed to finish his Hamlet essay, and review his history notes, and hadn't Liz asked him to buy popsicle sticks for their art project??? That's what he had forgotten!! He can't think of this now!! Maddie and Jack could easily catch him now —but oh, God was he screwed when —if— when he went to school the next day.

  "Phantom, you're having a panic attack," Maddie said calmly.

  "No, shit there, Sherlock." Danny bit his bottom lip to prevent another scathing comment from escaping. Usually he had better control of his mouth believe it or not. He put his head between his knees, closing his eyes and trying to focus on, well, nothing. He felt tears slip from his eyes and barely stopped himself from screaming.

  "You know what a panic attack is?" Jack titled his head as he scanned over his shaking form.

  "Jack did you put the settings up too high while we were following him?"

  "Of course not! I was very careful not to bounce anything out of place. You've Done the math, four times, it should be perfectly calibrated." Jack twisted the purple and silver metallic gun in his hands, giving it a thorough look over.

  "What the fuck are you two talking about!!" The scientists' head whipped back to see Danny's eyes glowing a tad brighter than before and his mouth transfixed into a snarl. Maddie slid a careful hand to her holster.

  "Our newest invention. Ghosts, well most of them, are just whispers of feelings that people once had. They can't actually feel and so they do bad things or... or they mimic human behaviors really well to make it seem like they do, like they're human." Maddie's voice trailed off at the end as if seeing if he would explode.

  Danny felt that normally he would have but he started to hyperventilate. How was he going to reverse it??? Was there even a way to do so or did they not include a reverse button by mistake (on purpose?) like they had mistakenly put the 'on' button inside the portal??

  "We're going to take you to the lab. Check your... concussion and to stabilize your mood. Run a few tests..."

Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodoh—

   They would strap him down and cut and lay his chest open like a butterfly steak and their hungry eyes would roam over him and their hands would devour him by pulling at his nerve endings and removing his organs and Danny would scream until his voice was hoarse and then some like a helpless lamb. Would he bleed blood or ectoplasm when they drained him? Would they take turns as he bleed out?? Or would they flow out together like some sort of demented, holiday dinner?? Or—

  "Phantom! You need to calm down." Maddie was at his side (when had she gotten there?) and was squeezing his hand. Danny briefly noted her eyes were filled with worry as her goggles hung at her neck. "Just breathe with me okay, please."

  "Breathe with her, buddy" Jack, who sat on the other side of Danny, whispered as he gently rubbed circles on the boy's lower back. "It's gonna be okay. We aren't going to hurt you."

  Danny wanted to say a smart aleck remark about them not having the same sentiment five minutes ago but instead focused on his breathing. He faced his head skyward and tried to count the stars. Nothing but him and the stars, no home— just the stars.

  Danny was reminded of the time he went stargazing with the rest of his family. A rare occasion as Maddie and Jack seemed to always be working. They had smiled so big at him as he pointed out constellations, awestruck. Jazz had nodded along as she listened attentively with a smile of her own. The night hadn't been more clear in months and more stars then usually were out. The picnic blanket they laid on was soft and him and Jazz had rested in between their parents and God they had been so happy then—

  Danny let out an involuntary sob. The melancholy seemed to come from the depths of his chest but at least it seemed to push out the panic.

  "Phantom," Maddie asked as she huddled closer to him. Phantom, not Danny. It hadn't really bothered him before; they didn't know it was him so why would they call him by his name?

  But it still made him cry harder. He wanted to tell them. He wanted to so, so bad.

  Jazz had urged him to tell them. But Danny had always been afraid. Scared that they wouldn't want him anymore.

  Now the sadness had overwhelmed the fear and the panic. He felt so isolated even when his parents were next to him, right there, trying to coax him into being calm. He had to tell them. He had to do it now because he wouldn't be this impulsive again.

  He felt the white rings gloss over him and heard Jack yell out "Phantom". When it was over he heard them gasp.

  "D-Danny," Maddie choked out.

   "I'm so sorry," Danny said through his tears. He chanted it over and over again as his parents reassured him that he had nothing to be sorry for and that they should apologize.

  The three sat there for quite some time, huddled close and crying together.

  Soon they would head home and take care of Danny's quickly healing concussion and reverse the effects of the gun. They would ask questions tomorrow after school but, for now, they tucked him into bed, something they hadn't done since he was eleven, and gave him their good night kisses on his temple before creeping to their room unaware of Jazz watching them from her bedroom door. She would text Sam and Tucker an explanation and ask them to give Danny the answers to the homework in the morning. She slipped into bed and fell asleep.

  The streets were barely slick with rain anymore. The stars twinkled merrily and the street lights buzzed. The crisp, cool air was calm and mellow. The night soothing and the Fentons were a family once again.

[velkynkarma]

Happy April Fools Day! The fool is me for not thinking of a prompt when I had a chance. I'd like to see Ryou getting nabbed by a bounty hunter who mistakes him from Shiro. Dark results or humorous, your call :)

Of course :) It took me a while to decide which direction to go in, but I got there eventually.

——

A ringing noise fills Ryou’s ears, off key and inside his head more than something he’s actually hearing. His vision is blurry and unfocused when he finally manages to open his eyes, and they feel thick and heavy, like they’re full of sleep. The taste in his mouth is rancid, and his tongue is uncomfortably dry. 

Damn it, he thinks to himself, and his own thoughts swim awkwardly in his head. I’ve been drugged. Again. 

Again. Of course it was again. Nobody should be this used to recognizing the signs of being drugged into unconsciousness. The fact that he was so acquainted with the basic symptoms was all kinds of messed up. And yet, here he is.

In a way, it’s useful. He’s so used to identifying the issue at hand that he can already bypass the shock of being drugged into unconsciousness, and go straight to figuring out how, why, and when it happened, and even more importantly—where the hell he was now.

Where was I before this? 

It takes a bit for his struggling, drug-addled mind to shake off the remains of the chemical effects enough to access the memories, but they come eventually. The celebration festival on Takarsis. The Takarites had reached out to Voltron for protection. Ryou had set up the arrangements and been there when the Takarite queen had officially signed the Coalition agreement, aid for protection. There had been a feast afterward, and a whole party throughout the city, one team Voltron had been encouraged to attend. 

Ryou hadn’t been with anyone at the time he’d disappeared. He’d gone off on his own to check some of the farmer’s market produce, and see if there was anything he could add to his garden. He’d seen most of the festivities after a spicolian movement on Takarsis and was more interested in shopping. Not even Shiro had argued with him going off by himself—the Takarites weren’t really fighters, and nobody thought they could pose much of a threat.

Apparently they’d been dead wrong about that. Then again, grabbing somebody from behind while slapping a drugged rag over their mouth was hardly fair, or even a fight.

Okay. Not a great start to his situation, but it could be worse. The team might not notice he’s missing for a while, with the party in full swing. But they will come looking eventually, once it’s over and Ryou doesn’t come back to the Castle of Lions. They all would search, of course, but Shiro will focus obsessively on nothing else until then, and Keith will be right there next to him, both hellbent on finding Ryou and damn the need for sleep. They’ll probably both be wondering if Ryou somehow managed to wander off and forget how to come back, but Ryou can deal with that annoyance when the time comes.

That’s the ‘when’ and ‘how.’ ‘Why’ is going to be a little harder to figure out without doing some investigating. For now, ‘where’ is far more important. 

Ryou blinks his eyes a few times, trying to clear his vision. Gummy spots of sleep slide uncomfortably out of his line of sight, but at least it’s not as clouded as before. Not that it helps much. The room he’s in is dark, and most of the available light comes from a square hole with bars that’s cut into the door on the far side of the room. The room itself has nothing else of interest in it.

Lovely. A prison cell.

A few of Shiro’s memories take strong objection to this newfound discovery, bubbling up to do their best to remind Ryou about all the awful, terrible things that happened to him during his time in the Galra prisons. Ryou shoves them to the back of his mind as hard as he can. It doesn’t feel personal, like it happened to him, but he doesn’t need any reminders of what could happen to him in his current situation. He needs to focus. Shiro’s memories do not allow for much focus.

He takes stock of himself next. His head is clearing rapidly now, so whatever they’d used on him had been short-term at best. He can live with the headache. He’s sore all over, which is probably from being man-handled while unconscious, but he’s had far worse in his short lifetime. There’s strain in both his shoulders and his arms, though, thanks to the fact that his wrists are tied together above him over his head. 

“Deja vu,” Ryou mutters under his breath. His tongue still feels a little thick in his mouth, but he can talk at least. 

His arms present more of a problem. Why do people always restrain him like this? Don’t they know it hurts? 

At least he’s sitting, this time, wedged into the corner with his legs splayed out in front of him like a discarded doll. That means his full weight isn’t suspended from his wrists, which is a relief at least. When he tips his head back, he can just barely make out the chains tying his wrists together and bolting them to the wall. 

So he’s not going to bounce himself out of this one, like he had when Remdax and Vakala had caught him. He’ll just have to find another means of escape. 

He slowly and carefully pulls at the chains above his head, testing their strength and sturdiness while trying hard to not make any noise. His captors, whoever they are, don’t appear to have left a watch. He doesn’t want to alert them to the fact that he’s awake unless he has to; every tick he has to try and work out his escape without scrutiny is precious.

But when he moves his arms, his right forearm sends a bolt of excruciating, stabbing pain through him. He clenches his teeth shut, but not before a strangled, smothered scream escapes him, despite his best efforts.

What the hell was that? 

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, breathing through his nose and staying perfectly still. Once he stops moving, the pain tapers off, until he feels nothing again. 

Blinking his eyes open, he cautiously—very cautiously, so as not to move his arm again—tips his head back once more to find the cause of so much unexpected pain. 

There’s some sort of band on his arm. It’s dark colored and has a few blinking red lights on it, and is bolted securely around the white paladin armor on his forearm. It looks a bit like the cuff Vakala and Remdax had put on him to suppress his Galra arm, back when he’d first been allowed to ‘escape’ the Galra. 

Ryou frowns. Something like that shouldn’t work on his Olkari arm. Olkari engineering was unique, using a biomechanical plant-based system, and it required very specialized biomechanical technology to integrate with it. Regular electronics wouldn’t have any affect on his arm.

Then he spots the thin crack on the armor, bordering the foreign band. Very cautiously, Ryou twists his right arm, nudging the band just a fraction with his left. It sends another bolt of excruciating pain through him, but he knows it’s coming this time and braces, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw cracks but suppressing another scream. This time, now that he’s paying attention, he’s aware of something digging through the paladin armor into his biomechanical arm, tearing at the synthetic muscles as he moves.

No wonder it hurts so bad. There’s a spike puncturing his arm—or more than one, from the feel of it, studding the inside of the band. His Olkari arm doesn’t integrate with regular tech, but it does have synthetic nerves, and while that gives him a sensation of touch it does come with the tradeoff of pain as well. It’s still rudimentary, which means if he doesn’t move his arm and doesn’t aggravate the nerves, he doesn’t get the feedback of discomfort. Unfortunately, he’s going to have to move a lot if he plans on escaping.

Priority two is getting that thing off, Ryou determines. Right after priority one, getting out of these chains. 

On the plus side, his right arm is mechanical. The sensation of literal stabbing pain is unpleasant, but unlike a real human arm, there won’t be long term damage and he can’t bleed out. Ryner had made upgrades recently to make his arm better at self-repairing all but the worst injuries; that was probably one of the reasons the band was hurting him so bad. The arm was trying to fix itself around it. If he can just get it off, it should repair enough that he won’t hurt too badly after, and the wounds definitely can’t kill him.

Ryou takes a deep breath and prepares himself for some inevitable pain in his future as he maneuvers the chains. But before he can try tugging on them again, he hears a voice outside, and a shadow passes in front of his thin rectangle of light.

“I knew I heard something!” the voice snaps. “He’s awake. Knew we should’ve dosed him more.”

“Congratulations,” a second voice growls back, obviously irritated. “You want a quiznaking medal? Get off your ass and make sure he’s secure.”

“We all go,” a third voice says. “This is the Black Paladin Shiro, after all.”

Ryou whips his head around to watch the door. Whoever they are, they think he’s Shiro? That’s unexpected...although it does suddenly explain the band on his arm. If they thought they had Shiro, they probably thought they were suppressing Galra technology, not Olkarian. 

Things have just gotten a lot more interesting.

“Chorek, get another dose of that drug ready,” the third voice continues. “I want him out when we move him.” 

“Please. We could take him,” a fourth voice says.

“You wanna die, feel free. I���m not taking my chances against a gladiator champion. I got a revolution to plan.”

“Ugh, fine. Josil, you’re no fun.”

“No fun, and planning to live.”

Four voices. Four opponents. Four people who were interested in taking Shiro somewhere. And something about a revolution. Ryou doesn’t like the sound of that, and decides to hang tight, just for a little while longer. For intelligence gathering purposes. 

The door cracks open, and several aliens file into the room. One immediately turns a blaster on him, and Ryou’s been around long enough by now to recognize its make as something off the Unilu black market, not Galran. 

The alien holding the gun isn’t Galran either. He’s Takarite, same as all the others—blue-green skin, short stature, squarish features, thick hands, and with two sets of curled antennae in place of ears. Their eyes are multi-colored, more like constantly changing prisms, and more angular and multi-faceted than Ryou is used to. 

“Where am I?” Ryou asks immediately. “Who are you? And why am I restrained?” 

“Silence, Champion,” the largest of the Takarites snaps. He’s not the one holding the gun, but Ryou immediately recognizes his voice as the one that had been giving the orders. Josil, if he’s right. “You remain quiet, and we won’t have to get mean.”

A lie, obviously. Ryou had just overheard them talking about drugging him, so they plan on enforcing compliance rather than bartering it out of him with good behavior. He doesn’t argue the point.

He doesn’t correct them about ‘Champion,’ either, although that is a lot more puzzling to him. It’s not the first time he’s been mistaken for Shiro, but he hadn’t actually been trying this time. The team had been encouraged to wear their Voltron armor for the festival, and Ryou had been out in his green variation, and had never switched the colors to his imitation Shiro setting. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, so his graying hair didn’t match Shiro’s either. He’d even brokered the agreement between the Voltron Coalition and the planet as Ryou, not Shiro, so people knew there were two of them. 

Then again, the Takarites had struggled to tell the difference between most of the paladins of Voltron all day. It wasn’t polite to ask, but Ryou suspects Takarite biology and vision simply wasn’t designed to identify human facial features. As far as he can tell, they identify each other through different means—scent, vibration, and maybe some other sense humans and Alteans simply don’t have. They definitely didn’t see colors on the same wavelength that the paladins did, which meant they couldn’t tell the difference between the lions outside of general shape. 

They’d figured out their own ways to identify most of the paladins in the end at the formal ceremonies. But they had struggled with Shiro and Ryou, probably because the two of them were functionally identical in every aspect the Takarites considered significant. 

So maybe it’s not all that surprising to be kidnapped as ‘Shiro’ even if he wasn’t actually trying. At the end of the day, he can definitely play the part to perfection, and that’s all that matters.

“You have no right to kidnap me,” Ryou says, forcing a note of command into his tone. “We’re your allies. Voltron is here to help you.”

“Voltron is here to ruin us,” one of the other Takarites snaps back. “The queen was a fool for signing our freedom over to a giant robot overlord!”

“That’s not what happened at all,” Ryou says, frowning. “There was an agreement. The Voltron Coalition provides protection—”

“—in exchange for slavery,” Josil interrupts, oddly angular eyes glittering darkly with anger. “We won’t have it.”

“It’s not slavery,” Ryou says, incredulous. “The Coalition is a team effort. Planets that have agreed to provide military support for you and other non-combatant planets are willing to defend you. But that extension of their military aid means less manpower for creating necessary food and supplies to sustain them. Non-combatant planets like Takarsis agree to shoulder that burden in exchange for not needing to participate in combat. Everyone benefits.”

“It’s a load of quiznacking shit, is what it is,” the Takarite holding the gun snarls. “It’s slavery with a pretty name.”

“And where’s the great robot overlord in all this?” the fourth Takarite adds. “Not doing any of that stuff you said.” 

Ryou’s eyebrows raise. “Voltron fights at the heart of the Galra empire,” he says. “We literally take on the biggest and toughest opponents so you don’t have to.”

“That’s what you say,” the gun-toting Takarite growls. “But where’s the proof?” 

Ryou can’t believe it. He’s been captured by insurgents and conspiracy theorists. It’s almost embarrassing. 

But he schools his expression to remain as calm and neutral as possible, and says reasonably, “If you have grievances, I’m sure you can bring them up with officials. I can get you an audience with the queen; I have some pull in the palace, now. Kidnapping me isn’t the answer.”

“It’s exactly the answer,” Josil says, taking a step forward—but still, notably, remaining carefully out of range. “Kidnapping Champion means Voltron’s got no head. We handicapped the Coalition in one stroke. And once we turn you in, we’ll have the funding and the support to free ourselves from your tyranny.” 

Ryou’s blood runs cold. “Turn me in?”

One of the unnamed Takarites smiles. It’s a surprisingly toothy, unfriendly look. “Didja know you got a bounty on your head, Champion? You’re worth a lot to the Galra. Lotta money to fund the revolution.”

“And the military power to fight back the Coalition,” the fourth Takarite adds. “They’ll owe us a favor, for handing over their missing Champion. They’ll have to help us liberate the planet.”

Ryou’s heart thuds heavy in his chest. Shiro’s memories bubble to the surface again, frantic and panicked at the thought of going back to them, to her, but Ryou shoves them back. 

This time, it’s harder, mostly because it tangles with his own very real memories and feelings. He doesn’t want to go back to them, either. He knows what Haggar will do if she gets her hands on him again. He knows he won’t ever come back from that, mentally or physically. She’ll strip his mind bare, drain it of every confidential detail she can use against the Coalition, and leave him with a broken self and an empty husk. Every part of himself that he forged anew, she’ll break and toss away. If she’s feeling generous, she’ll kill him quickly. More likely, she’ll let him die of his own failsafe, as punishment for not being a good little sleeper agent.

But it’s not that bad yet, Ryou tries to calm himself. You still have options. The team will look for you once the party is over. If you’re forced, you can still call out to the Black Lion, and get a message to Shiro that way. Things aren’t hopeless yet. 

And fortunately, he has one other thing working in his favor to suppress his panic: anger. And the more ticks pass, the more of it he has. 

“You’d sell out your entire planet to the Galra?” Ryou asks, his voice cold. “Do you know what they do to planets like yours?” 

“Free them from overlord scum like you?” the gun-toting Takarite counters, scathing.

“They are the overlords,” Ryou says. He tries to keep his voice calm and unaccusing, still, but he can’t quite keep the fury contained. “They strip-mine entire planets for resources. Literally enslave the populations, putting them in camps and forcing them to participate in destroying their own homes. When they’ve taken everything they can, they drain the planet and everything living on it of quintessence. All that’s left is a broken shell of a planet. If you do this, you are consigning your entire race to death, and destroying your home.”

“Better than false slavery and servitude for the rest of Takarsis’ existance,” Josil says. “I’d rather have died fighting for something I believed in than get taken in by liars and thieves that destroy our sense of self. Takarsis forever!” 

There’s no reasoning with these people. It’s disgusting. Ryou abandons any pretense of diplomacy getting him out of this mess. He needs to get out, and report this as soon as he can to the Takarite queen. Even when he does escape, and these guys don’t have the leverage of ‘Champion’ to work with anymore, that won’t stop them endangering the whole planet.

It seems like that’ll all be on him, though. Short of calling for help through the Black Lion—and hoping Shiro’s in the pilot’s seat at the time—it doesn’t seem like anyone can hear him. Even without wearing his helmet, he should have an open channel to the rest of the team in his armor. The fact that there’s been no response yet means these idiots are blocking signals somehow. It would also explain why nobody is tracking his location; that signal is probably blocked as well. 

Assuming anybody even thought to look to begin with. If the party is still going on, nobody is going to believe anything is wrong yet. 

Ryou’s still running through his potential options when one of the Takarites checks a device in his hand, stuffs it back in his pocket, and says, “It’s time. The fireworks display’s going off in twenty doboshes. If we get to the ship in time we can take off in all the noise and nobody will hear.”

“Good,” Josil says, nodding. “Chorek—drug him. I don’t want him causing a ruckus while we move him.”

“You got it,” the Takarite on the far right says. He’s got a bottle and a cloth in his hands, and as Ryou watches he liberally douses the cloth in the liquid. A faint chemical smell taints the air, and something dark and cruel in the back of Ryou’s head tickles at his brain, looming dangerously. He shoves it back with everything he has. He’s not sure if that one’s Shiro’s or his, but he can’t let it control him. Not now, not when it’s so important to be aware.  

The effort leaves him shaking slightly. The Takarites must mistake it for fear, because the one with the cloth chuckles knowingly. “Sisret’s gonna keep that gun on you while I come close,” he warns. “You’re gonna play nice, or we’ll put a few extra holes in you. Might make your first arena match a little tough, if you know what I mean.”

For a moment, Ryou’s mind goes completely blank, like the words don’t process right. His numb mind slowly gains feeling again as Chorek’s words sink in and gain meaning, and then he says slowly, “You’re sending...me back to the arenas?”

He’d almost said him. They’d shocked him so badly he’d forgotten for a moment what he was doing here. He’s never almost broken character that badly before. 

“Sure,” Sisret drawls, as he steadies the gun on Ryou. “I hear the arenas never had another fighter quite like Champion. They’re eager to have you back, and they’ll pay a lot of gak for it.”

Ryou stares at him. In his mind, the floodgates are broken, and all the arena memories of Shiro’s he’d ever managed to rediscover come pouring in. They all feel distant, like a film he’s experiencing of the terrible things Shiro went through, but there’s so much of it. Difficult battles. Awful wounds. Emotional struggles. Hunger. Sleeplessness. Pain. 

This time, Ryou lets them. This time, they aren’t a distraction—they’re fuel for the fire.

“Do you know what that place does to its prisoners? Do you understand what it’s like?” he asks. Slow. Careful. Dangerously soft. He keeps his eyes trained on Sisret and the gun, ignoring Chorek and his cloth dripping with drugs even as he comes closer. Sisret actually shifts uncomfortably under the intensity of the stare, although he’s smart enough not to drop his gun.

The fourth, unnamed Takarite actually laughs at the question. “Yeah. A quiznacking good time!” he chortles. “I won ten thousand gak betting on you, once. Think you could give me the insider information on the next fight? I bet I could double the bounty we get off you!”

Ryou sees red. 

Forget escaping. Forget calling for help. These sick bastards would put Shiro back into that hell without a second’s hesitation, and had the gall to think about profiting off of it. Every single one of them is going to die. No one is ever going to know what killed them. 

They think Champion is dangerous? They caught something even worse—an ambush predator built for silent kills that no one ever suspects are coming.

It takes barely any concentration at all for him to activate his Olkari arm. He doesn’t doubt for a second that it will work, and his faith in Ryner’s engineering pays off. His hand glows pale green as the energy coalesces in his palm, still yanked above his head by his chains.

Sisret’s eyes gleam brighter, and his mouth opens in a perfect ‘O’ of surprise, before he gathers himself. “He’s—”

Too late. Ryou drops his fingers to point at Sisret, and fires.

His aim isn’t great, considering his arms are wrenched over his head and tied together. But the nice thing about having a hand that’s also an energy gun is that his aim doesn’t have to be great at this range. The blast hits the wall next to Sisret’s head, sending stone shattering everywhere, but it’s more than enough of a distraction to force the gun-wielding Takarite to throw himself to the ground for cover.

Before any of them can react, Ryou twists his wrist backwards, and fires at the wall and the bolt holding the chains to it.

At this close range, the blast hurts him, too. The concussive force as the wall shatters is enough to send another lancing stab of pain through his arm as the useless restriction band is jarred. He holds his scream back through sheer force of will, reinforced by a lot of fury. Chunks of stone shower around him, coating him in dust and bouncing off his armor, as the wall cracks.

Ryou barely notices any of it. He’s already moving, ignoring another protesting stab of pain in his arm, as he yanks his arms down. The chains are still secured to his wrists, but they’re free of the wall. He moves from the sprawled sit they’d put him in to an aggressive crouch in ticks, swinging around with the chains until they wrap around the approaching Chorek’s throat.

The Takarite makes a throaty squeaking noise as the chains pull taut. He drops the bottle of chemicals, and tries to flail out with the cloth, but it’s easy enough to dodge. The scent of trailing chemicals sails past Ryou’s shoulder harmlessly and splats on the stone floor. 

With a cold, efficient twist, he wrenches with the chains. A sharp, meaty snap-crack fills the air, and Chorek sags bonelessly, eyes suddenly devoid of any color.

“Quiznak!” one of the Takarites shrieks. Ryou dislodges the chains from Chorek’s neck in time to spin and catch Sisret shakily coming to his feet, raising his black market issue blaster. 

“Don’t kill him!” Josil barks. “He’s not worth anything dead!” There’s enough authority in his voice that Sisret listens, but that voice shakes with sudden fear, too. He knows he’s screwed up.

Good.

Sisret’s hands jerk as he tries to adjust his aim last minute, trying to find a non-lethal shot. Ryou has no such compunctions. He raises his still-chained right fist, letting the agonizing pull of the restricting band fuel him, and charges his fist again. 

At this range, it’s impossible to miss. The pale green blast cuts a burning, bloody hole through Sisret’s torso. The Takarite collapses, gun clattering across the floor, and stares at the damage in bewilderment before the color fades from his eyes.

In the shocked silence that follows, Ryou takes the time to blast the chains off both of his wrists. The cuffs are still there, but the chains aren’t liable to trip him up anymore. He can work on getting them removed once the threat is contained. 

“Are you having a good quiznacking time yet?” Ryou asks, as he glares coldly at the unnamed Takarite. 

He whimpers, both sets of antenna drooping, and huddles farther back into the corner. 

“No?” Ryou asks. His voice is low and calm, but unquestionably dangerous. “You mean it’s only fun to watch the slaughter when you’re not a part of it? Too bad.” His eyes narrow. “You’re a part of it now.” 

“You—you can’t do that!” Josil yelps, voice high in his panic. His multi-colored eyes flick to the gun Sisret had dropped and then back to Ryou, but the gun is on Ryou’s side of the prison cell, and clearly neither of them like the idea of getting too close anymore. Not when he’s unbound and pissed. Cowards. “The inhibitor band—”

“Oh—you mean this?” Ryou taps the band on his forearm, and then casually reaches around until he finds the latch. With his hands free, it’s easy enough to unclip and remove. It’s agony to do so, like pulling knives out of his arm, but he channels that pain into his expression as he glares across at the surviving extremists. Once the spikes are out, the pain immediately lessens, as they stop aggravating his synthetic muscles and nerves. 

He gives it an idle glance. Little wires and blinking bits adorn the four two-inch-long spikes on the interior of the band. They were probably intended to burrow into the Galra arm and lock up all weapons functions, movement, and anything else that might prove problematic for a kidnapping. All in all, a real nasty piece of work. He drops it on the ground, and crushes it under his boot heel. “Yeah, that doesn’t work on me.”

Josil’s the first one to move. He bolts for the door and slams it behind him, leaving his companion behind. There’s an audible sound of a lock clicking, and footsteps as he runs for freedom.

The unnamed Takarite slams against the door, cut off mid escape, and pounds on it frantically. “Josil!” He wails. “Josil, you can’t leave me in here with him!” He pauses mid-pound, and whirls to face Ryou, eyes glittering brighter in his panic.

“Remember when I asked you if you understood what the gladiator arenas were like?” Ryou asks, calmly. The Takarite whines in answer, and claws at the door. 

“It’s like this,” Ryou answers, when his kidnapper doesn’t. “They lock you in a room with someone else, and only the one who lives gets to leave. It’s not fun, is it? Terrified and facing down somebody who’s a lot stronger than you, with no way out? And you would have sent Shiro back to this just to make an extra buck.”

The Takarite swallows, and then says confusedly, “But...but you’re Shiro—”

“No,” Ryou says, as he charges his Olkari arm. “I’m really not.”

The Takarite blinks, but then his eyes widen in sudden understanding. “The brother—”

Ryou’s shot takes him in the eye, and that’s as far as he gets.

He doesn’t spare time for mercy, or for regrets. This nameless bastard didn’t deserve any. He would have consigned Shiro back to the arenas and his entire planet to a long, torturous death, out of his own ridiculous sense of pride and false patriotism. He deserved it.

And there’s still one more.

Busting the door open isn’t hard. Two full blasts from his Olkari arm and he’s free, and pounding down the hallway at top speed. He can see Josil in the distance at the end of the hall, and there’s no way he’s letting the bastard escape. 

Fortunately, he’s got range on his side.

At this long distance, accuracy is difficult, and it’s even more difficult moving. Ryou raises his fist and takes the shot anyway. He misses, in that he doesn’t hit Josil, but he does startle the Takarite into skidding to a halt when the blast hits the wall ahead of him. He whirls, spots Ryou, and shrieks. “How did you—”

Ryou’s second shot hits him in the stomach. The Takarite lets out a shriek of pain as he clutches at his wounded abdomen, and collapses to the ground.

Ryou jogs up to him easily, now that Josil is nothing more threatening than a squirming bit of jackass on a floor rapidly becoming drenched in dark green blood. Josil moans pathetically as he clutches at his stomach, and his eyes glitter in fear when he catches Ryou approaching.

But he forces a weak, rictus smile as Ryou approaches, and chokes through blood-stained teeth, “This isn’t the end.” 

“Oh?” Ryou asks.

“There’s more of us,” he wheezes. “We’re not the only cell. We will liberate Takarsis.”

“You’ll kill everyone, you mean,” Ryou says. “I think the queen will be interested in hearing that.”

“I’ll never talk.”

“Oh, I never meant you,” Ryou says. His voice is colder than ice as he glares down at the last of his kidnappers. Josil must feel it, because he shivers. “You planned to send Shiro back to the arenas. He’s suffered enough, and you deserve to pay for even trying.”

Like his nameless companion, Josil frowns in confusion, laced with pain. “Shiro? But you’re—” And just like that, his eyes gleam brighter as he, too, realizes just how badly he’d screwed up. “The brother. The diplomat.”

Ryou doesn’t say anything at all; merely raises his hand to start charging it again.

Josil eyes the growing pale green brightness of Ryou’s right arm nervously, but he chokes through his bloodied throat, “You negotiated the agreement that sold our souls to Voltron. You deserve to die too, you quiznacking bastard.”

“But as you’ve seen, I’m a lot harder to kill than I look,” Ryou says. “Trust me. Smarter people than you have tried.” 

“Takarsis for—”

Ryou shoots him. The strangled cry falls abruptly silent. Ryou shakes his head. “Liberate Takarsis? You would have killed them all out of greed. Good riddance.”

And he turns, and leaves the body behind.

———-

A little exploring reveals that Ryou had been taken to a warehouse on the far end of the city. It’s barely been a varga and a half since he’d been taken, and the party is still in full swing. It might have been vargas more before anyone had even noticed he’d disappeared.

That’s good, since it gives Ryou plenty of time to act. A quick exploratory search of the warehouse reveals stockpiled weapons and chemicals; this had been a regular nest for a set of insurgents. It’s something the local authorities will definitely need to know about if they intend to protect their people from Galra invasion. Josil had said there were more people belonging to this group. 

So he’s quick about removing any evidence of having been there, including the inhibitor band that was supposed to be used to restrain Shiro. The last thing he needs is that kind of technology getting out. He finds the keys to his cuffs, too, and pulls them off before melting them into slag with his Olkari hand.

Once he’s removed himself from the evidence, he calls in an anonymous tip to the Takarite police, notifying them about both the den and the ship that’s supposed to be turning him in to the Galra. They can handle things from there. 

Ryou himself is a little more of a challenge. He’s covered in dust from the wall, and while his ranged attacks meant he hadn’t gotten too bloody, there is some pretty visible damage to his arm. His Olkari arm is repairing itself reasonably well, now—it hurts less every time he moves it—but there’s nothing he can do about the punctures in the forearm of his armor. 

He has no interest in causing a panic with the team, though. They deserve to be able to enjoy their party without having to concern themselves with him. More importantly, Shiro deserves to not be bothered with the full details of what had happened. Why be assaulted by those memories, or by the threat of going back to the arenas, when he’s not in danger of that anymore?

Because he won’t be. Shiro is still at the party, but Ryou had only been taken because he’d gone off on his own. He doubts Shiro would be able to get away with that, not as the Black Paladin and leader of the Voltron Paladins. He’s safely in the middle of thousands, and not even Josil’s ridiculous extremist group would be able to pluck him out of the middle of that crowd to take him back to the Galra.

Besides, Ryou doesn’t want to deal with his overprotective fussing. He’s dealt with it enough as it is, without admitting to being kidnapped in Shiro’s place. The last thing he needs is Shiro refusing to let Ryou out of his sight. Or Shiro feeling guilty about Ryou being taken in his place. Ryou doesn’t regret that at all—if Shiro really had been taken, Josil’s little coup might have been successful. They’d obviously planned for him. This was one of the reasons Ryou had decided to be Shiro’s double to begin with.

No, Shiro’s got enough on his plate. He’s not going to be bothered with this. 

So Ryou cleans himself off as best as he can, breaking into a closed restaurant for their public bathroom, and washing away the dust and blood. He doesn’t have any visible wounds on his person—thank goodness he’d only been knocked out with drugs, and not a blow to the head, which would have left a nasty lump. The puncture wounds on his armor aren’t too obvious, as long as he angles himself right, and underneath the armor his Olkari ‘skin’ already looks smooth and undamaged. 

It will do, as long as nobody inspects him closely. He doesn’t intend to let anyone.

Getting back to the party is easy, and now that he’s outside the extremist next, his comms are no longer blocked. “Back from the farmer’s market,” he announces. “But I’m beat. I think I’ll turn in a little early, if nobody minds?”

“It should be quite alright,” Allura says. Ryou can see her up on the raised platform in the middle of the wide clearing being used for the majority of the feast, sitting next to the Takarite queen. “I can handle any additional negotiation that is needed, although I hardly think there is any. You did an excellent job.”

“Thank you,” Ryou says, smiling despite himself. 

“Did you get the plants you wanted?” Shiro asks. Ryou picks him out easily too, close to the raised platform to be backup for Allura on the off chance that something goes wrong, not that anybody expects it to. He’s safely surrounded by dozens of Takarites and within full view of Allura, Keith, and Pidge, which means he definitely won’t be disappearing without a fuss. 

“No, unfortunately. They didn’t have anything I was interested in,” Ryou says. “I was mostly just curious, anyway. We don’t really need anything.”

He’d never even made it to the farmer’s market, and he had been genuinely curious in one of the fruits they sold here. Oh, well. The safety of Shiro and the planet was far more important than that. He can swallow his disappointment and live with the lie if he has to.

“Too bad,” Hunk says. “I was looking forward to cooking with something new.”

Ryou hums noncommittally, before saying, “Alright, then. I’ll just be back in the Castle. Call me if you need me.”

“Rest well,” Allura says over the comms. And just like that, Ryou’s avoided any and all suspicion. 

Ryou doesn’t rest when he’s inside. He changes out of his armor to civilian gear after taking a quick shower, just in case. He sets the armor in one of the machines used for repairs, and for creating new equipment. He snags a holopad and brings up the coordinates of each member of the team, even Matt’s rebel tracker, like he would when coordinating a mission from the sky. And he watches the party for the rest of the entire night, keeping track of every single blip on the screen, to make sure nobody disappears.

It’s not until they’re all safely back in the Castle that Ryou finally lets himself relax. Everyone’s safe, nobody is in danger, and there’s no cause for panic. Things are finally okay.

He breathes a sigh of relief.

———

The following morning at breakfast, Allura announces some shocking news.

“The Takarites have warned us to be cautious,” she says. “Apparently, last night their police force received an anonymous warning regarding a terrorist organization. It’s a group the queen tells me they’ve struggled with for years, but apparently the recent agreement to join the Coalition has them...particularly riled up.”

Shiro frowns, immediately attentive. “Do they need our help?”

“The opposite, actually,” Allura says. “They reported that this group is particularly aggravated by Voltron, and suggested the paladins may be targets. They asked if we would be terribly offended if we cancelled some of the additional festivities while they deal with the situation, but do not want to put us in unnecessary danger.”

“Takarite festivities can go on for as long as a spicolian movement,” Ryou points out, ever the diplomat. “If they want to cancel them, this must be serious.”

“Agreed,” Allura says. “They beg us to please be careful while remaining on Takarsis while taking on supplies and planning our next course of action. But they assure us they have things well taken care of. It seems one of the cells of this organization has already been dealt with by some sort of...vigilante. They gleaned plenty of information for finding other cells from the anonymous tip.”

Shiro frowns. “Sounds like they have things in order, but we’re still willing to help if they need it. In the meantime—” he turns to look around at each of the other paladins, “—nobody goes off-ship alone, and I want everyone to be cautious.” 

“As if they could take any of us down,” Lance says confidently. But he wilts under Shiro’s stern look, and backpedals meekly. “Right, right. Staying put. It sucks, though. We were gonna get that parade today...”

“We don’t know what they’re capable of. It’s best to listen to the locals. If they want our help, they’ll get it—otherwise, we take their advice,” Shiro says. “Is that clear?”

The irony is, they would have been capable of taking Shiro. If it really had been Shiro they’d captured, and not Ryou, they would have won last night. 

Ryou hates the thought of it. Shiro could have been in a Galra prison cell again right now, agonizing over the next opponent he’d be forced to face. 

But that hadn’t happened, and it never would. And Ryou can’t let on that he knows anything about it at all, or risk showing his real thoughts on the matter.

So instead, he just says, “It won’t be so bad, Lance. We can work on that next level in Killbot Phantasm III if you want.”

Lance brightens immediately. “Oh, yeah! That’d be cool. I can’t read it without you.” Shiro shoots Ryou a grateful look, and Ryou nods back, understanding.

This is the way it should be. Everyone safe. No one the wiser, no one guilty, no one worrying over nothing. This is what he’s good at, and this is what he’ll do with those skills, to protect the universe, his friends, and Shiro however he can.

Whatever it takes.

[theateared]

You’re One Hell of a Guy. ❜

Summary:  But deep inside, you and I are still the same kids.

      Going to Murr’s house was something he barely had time for, but he refused to leave him hanging.  Though the times that he could stop by properly were few and far between, he’d become adamant on at least trying to make them happen.

                                Murr is, after all, my best friend.  I want to see him.

       As he took a swig of his coffee  ( Murr hated the stuff but kept some in his cupboard specifically for when he visited ),  Kuro leaned on the table, cheek cradled in his hand.  The early hours were always the best time for him to visit,  the time he was the least likely to be pulled away.  Over time, Murr had grown less frustrated with him.  He’d realised that it wasn’t his fault when he was called to action.  He was yanked away from everybody equally--  even his beloved wife suffered for it.

      “I’m glad ya could come,”   Murr admitted, sitting at the table with a cup of hot chocolate between his hands.   “I was feelin’ kinda lonely.  Feels like ya’ve been a little MIA recently.”

       "Just work,”   Kuro replied with a heavy sigh, trying to will the recurring ache in his forehead away.  The last thing he wanted was for the little time he did have with his friend to be plagued by the dull thrum of an oncoming migraine.  Gently does it.  Pushing hard only makes it stick more.   “Real fucked up case.  Some kinda gang activity in Vidé.  At first we thought it was just some kids fuckin’ around but it turns out they have some real dons runnin’ the show.  Shit’s a little more serious now.”

       Murr sniffed derisively.   "Yeesh.  Sounds like a fuckin’ party.”

       "Psh, yer invited if y’feel left out.”

       “No thanks, pal.  I like havin’ my organs in my body?  Ya know--  where they belong?"

       Kuro couldn’t help but snicker at the facetious remark.  The knowledge that most Huros had on gang activity was incredibly basic, based almost solely on fiction.  It was all "buying hearts” and “selling drugs”, boisterous street rats and crime lords that struck and then vanished like ghosts.  From a place so peaceful, most had no clue about the horrors that occurred outside of their cosy borders.  Sadly, it was Huron that was the exception, not the districts that were chock-full of violence.

     �� The topic of his most recent play came up, and he watched as Murr became excitable, one leg crossing over his lap as his hands began to join the conversation.  He’d always been the type to talk with his body too.  Somewhere along the way, Kuro found himself zoning out.  Something disconcerting had been on his mind lately.  Though he’d never stray from his wife,  he’d been thinking a lot about Murr lately.  Innocently, almost in passing, but frequently nonetheless.  The things he never said to his friend were beginning to irritate him, like a rash that wouldn’t go away, and an alien pang of longing arose whenever they shared space like this.  You’re just so easy to be around now that I’ve allowed myself to be.  I feel regret every day now for the way that I treated you.  Maybe if I hadn’t been so one-dimensional, I wouldn’t be feeling the way I do now--

       “Helloooo?  Huron t’Sheriff?”   He refocused to see Murr leaning over the table, waving a hand almost desperately in his face.  Despite this, his expression was full of mirth.   ❛❛ Damn!  If ya really think my ideas are that borin’ ya can just say so! ❜❜

       ❛❛ No, it ain’t that.  It’s just…  I’m thinkin’ again. ❜❜

       His eyes closed as he felt Murr flick his forehead.   “Well don’t.  Ya get sad when ya think too much.  I don’t wanna have ta tell yer wife that I made ya cry, again, so ya’d better stop bein’ a dumbass.”

       “Yeah yeah…  I get it.”   Maybe I don’t.  Maybe we should finally talk about this.  I have some conflicting feelings about you.  It’s making me feel like a bad husband.  A bad person, even.   "Actually...”   For some reason, he felt unbearably nervous all of a sudden, heart speeding up as he thought about how best to pose the question.  Eventually, he settled on an inoffensive:   "Can we talk?”   He watched Murr’s face fall based on his body language, waving a hand at him quickly.    “It’s nothin’ bad.  I don’t think.  It’s just…  somethin’ I’ve been thinkin’ about lately.  I feel like I should be honest with y’.”

       "Okay...”   Murr tugged at his collar briefly, as if to get air beneath it.   "Yeesh...  way t’make a guy nervous.”

       Kuro couldn’t help but chuckle, fingers drumming soundlessly against the pot of his mug.  He wasn’t entirely sure why the idea of saying something about this was filling him with so much apprehension.  It wasn’t like anything was going to come of it.  Not only was he happily married, he was almost certain that Murr wouldn’t be able to live with him after the things he’d done.  Forgiven he may have been, but it didn’t mean that the pain has miraculously been undone.  He’d still prompted Murr to almost take his life;  had still put his parents--  his second family-- through the terrible strain of thinking they were going to lose their son;  had still treated him with aggravated fury every time he’d tried to come back into his life despite having no right to.  In truth, it wasn’t a matter of whether he was truly bisexual or not--  it was that Murr was too good for him.

       ❛❛ … when we were kids…  y’know, befer everythin’ went t’shit, I sorta-- ❜❜   He caught himself then.  He almost wanted to laugh at his feeble attempt to utter an age-old confession.  It was as if he was 140 all over again, flushed and stammering through a halfhearted ‘’I like you!’’.  It was this thought that made him feel better, a tiny sliver of a smile forming on his face as he finished with a blunt:   ❛❛ I had a crush on you.  A pretty big one. ❜❜

       ❛❛ Aheh…  this’s a joke, right? ❜❜

       ❛❛ No. ❜❜

       He watched his friend’s body language closely.  On occasion, his face revealed itself to him too, but now was not one of those times.  He suddenly became very closed, as if trying to fold himself into a small cube and slot himself somewhere safe from his gaze.  The quiet lingered like a cloud, uncomfortable silence stretching between them like wire, and in his head Kuro could hear the same phrase repeating over and over:  please say something, please say something, please say something, plea--

       ❛❛ Oh.  Pfft.  Me too! ❜❜

       He all but gawked at how easy it was for Murr to say such a thing.  Though he knew that Murr had never been the type to act apologetically, there were some things the man treated with an air of secrecy.  His sexuality, for whatever reason, was one of them.  It wasn’t as if Huron was rich with homophobia;  he just didn’t seem to like labels like a lot of other people did.  For that reason, despite being his best friend, Kuro still wasn’t quite sure where on the spectrum Murr sits.  It didn’t matter, wouldn’t affect their relationship any in the slightest, but he was curious.  He’d almost been curious about his own leaning lately.  Had he not withdrawn from Murr during his tens, could they maybe have forged some sort of romance together?  There were certainly feelings involved, and now that he knew they were requited he had to wonder if either of them would have been bold enough to say something at some point.  It was this constant lack of knowledge that was turning his brain to mush.  The relationship he consciously desired with Murr was nothing more than a friendship, but his subconscious seemed to have other things in mind.

       For some reason, he felt a dull form of elation that caused his pulse to flutter.  It wasn’t as if he was still in love--  he never would have burdened a woman with a ring if he was--  but having Murr back in his life again, so close and personal after years of sombre silence, raised some primitive questions in his gut.  Could we have been together?  Could that ring have been yours, or would college have split us apart in a different way?  Would we not have aged well and not remained friends at all?  Did I need to lose you to be close with you again later?  What would have become of us?  Do I strictly like women?  Or was my attraction to you a one-off thing based on friendship?  What do I like?

       "Really?”

       "Well duh,”  Murr chirped airily, hopping up from his seat and beginning to rinse his mug clean.   “We spent all our time together!  And even back then, you were all stoic ‘n’ weird--  I was drawn t’that like a magnet.  It was interestin’.  You were different from the other kids.  So was I.  It made sense ta me.  Us against the world kinda thing, ya know?”  There was a pause as he set his cup down on the drying rack, eyes glued to one drop of water running slowly along the handle until it fell and met the drain below.  In a way, it reminded him of what he thought college would be like:  as if he’d be lowered from his awkward tenner suspension and be reunited with souls that his could understand.  After a moment of thought, he picked it back up, leaving it in his lap to fiddle with.   “… maybe that was why it hurt me so much when ya wouldn’t answer my calls or hang out with me much.  Maybe I was a little homesick.”

       "Homesick?”

       "Yeah.  You were my home, Kuro.  No two ways about it.”

       He should have learned by now to not grow stunned by Murr’s poetic brevity, but he’d always been partial to a heartfelt yet conveniently short verse.  You’re one hell of a guy, Murr.

      “... ‘n’ now?”

     There was a pregnant pause, one that latched onto his insecurities and fed much like a parasite would.  For some reason or another, a heavy sense of dread opened up inside of him, that familiar black hole sucking the life out of everything around him as it so often did.  Then, all at once, Murr released the tension in his shoulders with a shrug.

     “Nothin’s changed about that, bud.”   He moved then, perching on the counter much like a child would, long legs kicking gently.   “... are we good?  Why’d ya feel the need t’bring that up?  It ain’t like we’re the same people.”   His vision wasn’t impaired the same way Kuro’s was;  he could see his face clearly, knew the creases of worry in his brow almost as well as he knew his own hands.

     “I worry that you are the same person,”   he replied quietly, almost as if he’d been holding his breath prior to admitting it.   “‘n’ sometimes I worry that I am too.”

     The air fell still, both men cloaked in silence, and only when Kuro felt something wet on his face did he look up.  Murr’s face was clear  -  and it was pissed.  The empty cup in his hand sat tilted in the Sheriff’s direction, telling him plainly that he’d filled it and then flung it at him as if he’d desperately needed a bath.  Kuro wasn’t one to flinch often, but the scorn in his dearest friend’s eyes shook him to the core.

     “Ya keep sayin’ stupid shit like that, yer gonna flood my house,”   he said through clenched teeth.  There was no way in hell that he could tell the other man why he was so angry.  It would ruin everything he’d worked so hard to piece back together.   “If ya think I’m selfish enough t’split you ‘n’ yer wife up fer some dumb childhood crush then think again.”   The words hurt to say, an all-too-familiar pain blossoming in his chest like a thorn-covered rose, but he knew it was the right thing to do.  If he was ever to tell Kuro that he felt similarly--  that their convoluted history kept him awake at night, that he still fantasised about holding his hand sometimes, that he tossed and turned some nights, unable to sleep, because all he could think about was the what if that had steadily consumed his life--  he knew that they could both be led down a very dark road.  He didn’t believe in cheating, and he certainly didn’t believe in homewrecking.  He also didn’t believe in Kuro’s self-esteem enough to think that he would be above doing either if he was to open the door for him.  I’m saying this for you.  Maybe you don’t realise it now but you will in time.     “We’re not like that.  It doesn’t matter how it was when we were kids.  We’re not kids anymore.  You left.”   He internally cursed the bitterness in his voice at that, cursed the slight stiffen of Kuro’s shoulders even more.  He continued before he could lose his nerve--  before he could truly do something stupid.   “... and that’s just it, Kuro.”  He forced himself to smile, though the expression looked crestfallen at best.   “You’ve got somethin’ good now.  So don’t throw it all away for a couple’a stupid kids that don’t even exist anymore, alright?”

     Kuro stared at him a moment longer before averting his gaze completely.  When he tried to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, he found that his face was blank once again.  The static spiralled tauntingly ahead of him, the dreary squiggles ruining the clear picture he’d set his sights on just moments ago.  Even your anger is better than the static.  A large hand raised to wipe at his face, ridding it of the damp as best he could before he rose from his chair.

     “Alright,”   he said with a grunt, his usual monotone drawl returning with a vengeance.  Murr’s right.  Things are different now.  Living in the past will only fuck up the present  -  and there’s a lot to fuck up now that I’m married.  His coat was shrugged on, hands slid into his pockets.   “... thanks fer the wake-up call.  Yer right.”

     “Of course I am.”   He smiled wider despite the words twisting in his heart like a knife.  It’s selfish, but I want you to stay.   “Ya should go now.  Yer wife’s gonna be askin’ where ya are again.”

     A humourless laugh escaped the other man, head bobbing once in acknowledgement before he turned around and headed to the exit.   “Remember t’mop yer floor by the way.  Asshole.”   The front door clicked shut behind him.  It was quiet, but it echoed with an agonising finality in Murr’s head as the smile faded.

     What was that?  Was he trying to approach the topic of a relationship with me?  Or did I make that up?  Gah…  it doesn’t matter.  He’s gone.  Like he’s always been.

     He hated himself for the weakness that welled up in his eyes, hot and shameful as he tried desperately to keep himself from falling to pieces.  It doesn’t take much these days.  I used to be so much more durable.  Now I’m all sensitive and lost.  A palm dug stubbornly into one of his eyes, ridding it of tears, before he followed suit with the other.  He didn’t feel much better with them dry, but he knew that he at least looked the part now.  He hopped down from the counter, grabbing the mop from inside the utility cupboard, beginning to clean, the wet sound of water spreading across a surface filling his ears like white noise.  He welcomed it, zoned out altogether, and by the time he stopped mopping, half an hour had flown by.

     A vacant feeling had always been there since college, but it ebbed and flowed, came and went in waves, and it often left him stranded in a dangerous spot between ‘okay’ and ‘absolutely falling apart’.  It was an emptiness he couldn’t quite explain;  oxymoronic in that it was so void and yet so full, as if his head was closer to imploding with every second longer that it chose to reside inside of him.  His heart felt like a rock, his brain a grenade.  If only I could reach inside myself and pull the pin.  I want to pull the pin.  I have for a while.

     When he put the mop back in its place, he thought only momentarily before stepping inside the cupboard himself, closing the door behind him.  If I put myself away like a broom or a bottle of bleach, will people forget I exist until they need me again?  What if I’m never needed again?  Will I stay undiscovered in this closet until I die?  The smell of chemicals and damp immediately rose to his attention, though it was a welcome distraction.  His head met the closed door gently, eyes opening despite not being able to see anything.  It was an accurate depiction of the void inside of him;  that inky blackness that covered everything in a thick layer of nothing, as if all it touched simply ceased to exist

     I don’t feel real.  I can’t see.  I can’t touch.  Even the smell is beginning to fade away.  I’m just an empty vessel in an empty space.  A cat in a box that is both dead and alive at the same time.  Tired bones rather than tired eyes.

     At some point, he felt himself slip to the floor, content to remain in the dismal darkness a while longer.  He hated that the only thing he could think of was him.  Sitting there alone in the dark, wondering if he’d just ruined his one chance at true happiness, he felt both horribly and wonderfully alone.

[yogsandchaos]

For the writing prompts, 5 with Strithian

That was an interesting prompt I’ll admit, took me a bit of thinking, the like one thing I wasn’t prepared for, but I’ve done it!

“Fucking potty mouth wizards.” Strife grumbled to himself, Zoey had come around for a tech demo and she just had to have brought Rythian, the pottiest of mouths wizards. While the tech demo was going fine, he kept catching Rythian rolling his eyes or giving him unimpressed looks, and it was frustration, incredibly frustrating.

Zoey looked up from the computer prototype he was showing her and looked at him before saying “Oh uh did you say something?? Sorry I was distracted by these adorable cat pictures! They’re so cute and squishy!”

Strife cleared his throat and replied with calm business demeanor “Oh no nothing all Mrs. Proasheck, I’m glad you’re enjoying my starter sample, while currently only able to find programmed in pictures from a very close connection, proving the possibility of computers accessing information not directly stored onto it, soon I hope it’ll be able to search for information kept in separate areas, causing a limitless potential for new innovation and-” and Rythian was snickering into his hand what the hell “-plenty of cute animals for those such as yourself.”

Looking up from the computer with a grin Zoey gushed “Oh my gosh that’s so coool!” Strife was just relieved she didn’t seem to be noticing how Rythian was throwing him off his game a bit. He shot a glare at the mage, warning him.

However despite Strife’s best efforts to warn off the mage, he just raised an eyebrow and began to speak, despite Strife wishing he really wouldn’t, “Fascinating, though really if it can only access pictures of kittens, why are we here again? Seems rather superficial don’t you agree?”

Swearing he could feel a tilt of tease in the voice, Strife fumed, what a bastard, but he had to stay professional, Zoey was right there after all. “Well actually from my research Zoey is an experienced scientist with experience with the basic forms of computers we have now, used primarily for coding and storing information on itself, I was hoping to get her thoughts on how to advance this software to share information much more fluently and easily, it’s best for one not to get stuck in an echo chamber after all.” yes that was very professional in front of that aggravating potty mouth wizard, perfect.

Zoey hummed looking at the computer “Well I dunno, it sure does look interesting but can I really help when its so early in development?”

“He would be lucky to have you Zoey, I doubt he has half as much experience as you do with computers” Rythian happily supplied, a sly look at Strife, daring him to react. Zoey gave Rythian a strange look, seemingly starting to catch on to how insufferable Rythian was being.

Blowing air through his nose Strife responded smoothly “I assure you I am very skilled in computer science, I would like to bring your apprentice on as a consultant, not lay the entire burden on her actually.”

Striding towards the computer Rythian examined the machine, picking it up with surprising strength for a better look. “Hm, seems fragile and incredible bulky, are you sure Strife?”

Strife couldn’t stop a squawk at that, he was manhandling his baby “Put that down! Of course its not been optimized to all hell its a basic prototype!”  He breathed a sigh of relief when Rythian did in fact put that down.

Looking between the two of them Zoey hummed “III think i’m intruding now, you two boys play nice, I’ll think about the offer Strife! Have a nice day!” And with that Zoey bounced away, leaving as quickly as she arrived.

Finally free from his restraints of business he snarled at the endermage, this bastardly mage. “Just what do you think you are doing, messing up my pitch like this!”

The endermage just leaned against a wall, and Strife just knew under that mask of his was a cocky grin, he could tell from how his eyes crinkled. “I was doing nothing of the sort Strife, i’m not sure what you’re accusing me off?

Rolling his eyes with a huff he grabbed the scarf of the mage and pulled him into a side room, noting the potty mouth wizard wasn’t resisting as he was tugged along, good. As they entered the room Strife shoved Rythian to the ground and pinned his back to the wall, looking him in the eye without having to crane up his neck for once, stupid lanky mages. “Much better, you’ve been a bastard today you know that right? I bet that’s the only reason you came along, to bother me again.”

The mage was silent and Strife rolled his eyes “Fine fine now you’re being all silent, but you know the rules, you know how this game goes, and that is several slights against me, you need to be punished.” Rythian’s eyebrows raised at the sudden tilt in the voice to something more…exciting. He gasped as Strife shoved down his mask and furiously kissed him, teeth nipping lips.

Rythian shivered and grabbed onto Strife, kissing back just as hard, it was all going well until.. “Ow shit!”  There teeth clacked together.

Strife pulled away rubbing his mouth grumbling curses against dumbass mages and glared at the smirking mage. Who simply said “Give it back”

With a scoff Strife asked “What? You’re mask? I’m not stopping y-”

Suddenly Rythian grabbed Strife’s tie and pulled him close, hungrily making out with him again, Strife’s eyes widened a centimeter in understanding and kissed back, rough and needing, they stayed like that as long as they could before Rythian had to pull away to breathe.

Wiping his mouth Strife grumbled “Gods you’re disgusting, why do I put up with these games.”

Rythian chuckled and said in that infuriatingly smooth voice, how Strife wanted to make it rough and needy, “Because we both need it, there’s no one else that can temper your technology superiority, and no one who can challenge my views.”

“There’s Zoey for you and Parvis for me, you’re talking out of your ass”

“Parvis doesn’t temper you and you know it, He doesn’t force you to really evaluate you’re technology like your spars with me do, you have too much of a soft spot.”

“I’ve never been soft in my life”

“Yeah sure, anyways, and Zoey, she’s marvelous but she doesn’t challenge me, she prefers peace to hour long arguments and spars, I wouldn’t trade her for the moon, but she doesn’t give you what you give me, as much as we’re both cursed with this truth.” Rythian rolled his hips at this recent bout of knowledge, lunging to mark Strife’s neck, and Strife gasped, but grabbed onto Rythian’s hair and pulled him away just in time.

“Bastard, fucking bastard, we’re both fucking sick.”

“Really is there anything else we can be?”

“Shut up and fight me Endermage”

“As you wish, though I doubt we’ll make it to the bedroom in time once again.”

“Is that a challenge?!”

[lurkerdelima]

from your new prompt list, may i please have 13. silverflintham, with focus on john and thomas? thank you

13. “My hobby is making fun of you when you talk.”

So this turned into a sequel to something else I wrote recently, a post-s4 AU type thing that can be found here: https://lurkerdelima.tumblr.com/post/167668507485/18-ill-be-here-as-long-as-it-takes

As always I was sort of nervous to write Thomas but I had fun with him! Nothing porny here, just a kiss and some...implied things. I hope you like it, thank you for prompting me! ❤️

Silver expects there will be hell to pay when Thomas gets home, and really, he feels he can’t be blamed for that assumption. He has, after all, wormed his way back into Flint’s (it’s James now, he reminds himself, James) life and into his bed during Thomas’s brief work-travel absence. Flint has assured him over and over that Thomas is far from the jealous type and in fact he’ll probably be rather pleased, if a bit surprised, to see that Silver has found Flint again and they’ve made up so admirably.

But still, Silver can’t help feeling a creeping dread as the day of Thomas’s anticipated return draws near and, finally, arrives.

He and Flint are sitting in the parlor together of an evening, Silver smoking his pipe and Flint rereading one of his innumerable books, when at the same time they hear the unmistakable sound of a person striding confidently up the front path to the cottage.

“His lordship has arrived, I presume,” Silver mutters as Flint sets his book aside and hurriedly gets to his feet, rushing toward the front door. Silver pushes himself up on his crutch and follows Flint, lagging purposefully behind. He’s nervous, wary of Thomas and everything he represents.

Flint opens the door and there he is, Thomas Hamilton, looking only slightly grayer and more weathered than he did when Silver caught a glimpse of him from a distance in Savannah. He’s clearly fared better in the intervening years than has Silver himself. Bastard.

“Darling,” Thomas greets Flint as he steps inside, shutting the door firmly behind himself before taking Flint into his arms and giving him a proper kiss hello. Silver looks away, shuffling foot and crutch nervously. He can feel Thomas looking at him when he pulls away from Flint. “We have a visitor, I see.”

“This is John Silver,” Flint says before Silver can introduce himself.

He approaches Thomas, schooling his face into an expression of disinterest and mild contempt. “Long John Silver,” he corrects Flint, holding his right hand out to Thomas. “So, at last I meet the illustrious Lord Thomas Hamilton.”

“Please, call me Thomas,” he says, shaking Silver’s hand and giving him a smile that warms the pit of Silver’s belly, much to his irritation. He doesn’t want to like this man, not one bit. He doesn’t want to find him charming or attractive. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, John. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Aye, and I you,” Silver murmurs, taking his hand back and studying Thomas with his one good eye. Thomas may not particularly be the jealous type, but Silver is rapidly discovering that he personally might be. That’s a bit unfortunate, but not really surprising.

“James, be a dear and put the kettle on the fire, please,” Thomas requests as he removes his coat and hangs it on a rack near the door. “Now, John, I want to hear all about how you came to be here. Spare no details, I do love a good story.”

Silver harrumphs and retreats to the armchair he’d been occupying before, picking up his pipe again as Thomas settles on the couch opposite him. The couch Silver slept on before he found his way into Flint’s bed just a few nights prior. It’s been an eventful few weeks.

“I came here to get the location of his treasure. The stubborn cuss won’t tell me, so here I stay. I shan’t leave until I get what I need,” he says, then sticks his pipe in his mouth and stares Thomas down with the one good eye and one blind one, trying to unnerve him. He knows he looks a bit less feral than he did when first he arrived at the cottage, but he also knows how uncomfortable some people find it to look at him. Thomas, though, doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Really? That’s the story you’re going to tell?” Flint asks, returning from the kitchen with two cups of tea for himself and Thomas and a bottle of rum tucked under his arm for Silver. “You’ve left out some rather important details,” he says as he hands Thomas his tea and Silver his drink, then takes his place on the couch next to Thomas.

“It’s the truth, innit,” Silver murmurs, setting his pipe aside in favor of the bottle of rum. He needs it to quiet his nerves.

“Bullshit,” Flint scoffs. “It was never anything more than at best a half-truth, and you know it.”

The aggravation in his voice makes Silver’s blood sing, and he grins in spite of himself. “I tells the story the way I sees it. I came here because of Skeleton Island. I stayed because you were too stubborn to tell me, and if perhaps I found a decent second reason to stay, well. That’s my business.”

“You never said he had such a colorful way of speaking, in all your reminiscing about him,” Thomas murmurs to Flint, his gaze still fixed on Silver in a way that makes his spine tingle.

“He didn’t used to,” Flint murmurs back flatly, scowling at Silver.

“I can hear you, gentlemen. I’m half-blind and half-crippled, not half-deaf. Not yet,” Silver says, then chases his words with a swig of rum. He eyes Thomas, trying to decide how best to put into words what’s rolling around in his mind. “The second, less important reason I’m here is James his-self. I...wanted him. So I found him, and I had him,” he admits, carefully not using words like ‘needed’ or ‘missed,’ though both are closer to the truth. By the look on Flint’s face, he knows Silver is lying to himself and to Thomas.

“Ah, I don’t blame you,” Thomas says with a friendly half-smile, and doesn’t even have the decency to look at all surprised by Silver’s admission, damn him.

As it turns out, that’s only the beginning of Thomas being more than accommodating to Silver - he’s downright gracious to him, actually, which in turn only fans the flames of Silver’s anger. He’s caught between a curious though undeniable lust for Thomas, and an instinctive dislike of him because he had James first and, more importantly, has him still. On top of that is his ever-present want for Flint, which he’s given up on ever being truly free of. It’s a rough place for him to occupy, and in the following weeks Silver finds himself doing ludicrous things like insisting upon sleeping on the couch (Thomas is more than willing to let him in their bed but he refuses, doesn’t so much as touch or kiss Flint anymore, denying himself even those small pleasures), and throwing overblown tantrums hardly befitting a pirate king whenever anything happens to ruffle his kingly feathers. No matter how minor.

“Bloody fucking hell!” he roars one night after a dinner spent bickering with both his hosts, smashing a plate on the floor because he can and it feels good. “I’ve had it with you two!” he says, throwing himself down in his chair at the table and scrubbing his hands over his face in irritation.

“Now, John,” Thomas says softly, rising from his chair and crossing to Silver. He rests one warm hand lightly on his shoulder. “I know it’s got to be a bit awkward for you being here, but as I’ve told you before we—”

“A bit awkward! Try bleeding miserable,” Silver snarls, deliberately looking away from Thomas but not shrugging his comforting hand off even though he wants to. “Smart as paint, you are,” he mutters acerbically.

“Smart as paint? Honestly. Where the fuck did you learn to talk like that?” Flint asks from across the table, scowling. “You sound like how a child imagines a pirate would talk.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be, or something to do? A hobby, perhaps?” Silver snipes back at him.

“My hobby is making fun of you when you talk,” Flint drawls, and Silver twitches with the tamped-down impulse to lunge across the table and either stab or kiss him, he’s honestly not sure which he wants more. His control over his temper has clearly slipped in recent years, and Thomas coming home has thrown his and Flint’s dynamic into chaos in a way he’s not sure he’s equipped to deal with. Plus, he hasn’t gotten laid since Thomas’s return, and despite that being by his own choice it’s wearing on him. But he’s too damn stubborn to up and leave, so here he sits. Miserable.

“James. Let us alone a moment,” Thomas says, and miraculously Flint leaves the kitchen with no further comment. Thomas pulls a chair close and sits down opposite Silver, studying his face with that unflinching gaze. He’s got faint smile lines around his mouth and in the outer corners of his eyes, Silver notices for the first time. They’re unfairly becoming.

“John,” Thomas begins, reaching out for Silver’s hand. He lets him take it, half-reluctant. “I’m more than happy to have you in our home, but not if you’re going to deny yourself everything you so desperately want and, in so doing, cause a black cloud of frustration and jealousy to loom over this house. Either embrace living here and staying with us - for the real reason - or you’ll have to go.”

“You can’t force me to leave, Hamilton,” Silver snorts, grinning at him crookedly. “I could kill you just as soon as look at you.” He leans in close against his own better judgment, smelling soap and woodsmoke on Thomas. His heart pounds in his chest.

“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me, John,” Thomas rumbles, mirroring Silver, leaning in so close they’re sharing breath. “We both know what you want. Give in and just be happy, for God’s sake. What’s the point of torturing yourself by staying with us if you don’t—”

And then he stops talking because Silver is kissing him desperately, free hand clutching at the front of his shirt. He’s panting when he pulls back, woozy under the sudden onslaught of thundering lust.

“Will you come to bed with us tonight? Please?” Thomas asks in a rush, and Silver swallows hard, tasting him on his tongue. He knows that his answer here, now, will change the course of his life yet again. He’s not sure if he’s yet ready to let go of Long John Silver and ease into some kind of peculiar domesticity with these two.

The next morning, though, when he wakes up with one man’s head resting on his chest and the other’s lips kissing a playfully teasing trail up his right thigh, he knows he’s made the right decision.

[archivesdiveronarpg]

Congratulations, LOLA! You’ve been accepted for the role of ROSALIND. I have waited for my small, fighty daughter for so long -- and now you have absolutely blessed Diverona with her. Lola, I am completely and utterly over the moon with this all; from the interview, to the future plots, to the para sample, and the headcanons that detail her facets and characteristics perfectly. Ramona is, perhaps, one of my absolute favorite characters with her tongue-in-cheek humor and her need to fight with every breath that she takes. Bless you for bringing Ramona to the dash! I can’t wait to see what trouble she stirs up and what trouble she is bound to get into! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

Out of Character

Alias | Nicola / Lola (’ello, it’s me, i’m weak af)

Age | 21

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | I go to university three times a week and am currently looking into getting a part time job plus my own rp project is soon to open but I always try to check in at least once a day unless I am not physically capable of it whatsoever — and, in all honesty, if I really vibe with a group, I become embarrassingly obsessed and will just be around during all my waking hours pretty much.

Timezone | GMT+1

Triggers | none, actually c:

Permission | Sure, I don’t mind!

Current/Past RP Accounts | oh god I have so many that I’ll just go with the most recent ones, this smol son of mine & this fierce daughter of mine whom I only got to play briefly but there’s a nice lengthy writing sample under the diary tab of her navigation!

In Character

Character | Rosalind — also known as Ramona Marlena Aguilar

What drew you to this character? | The first thing about her that caught my eye was her attitude — seizing the day, fighting back even when the odds aren’t in your favour, never caving in because the very act of living has so much left to offer you. I love that she hasn’t allowed her grief to define her but has clung to her rebellious mindset despite (or perhaps because of) the obstacles thrown in her path, even in times when she might have been better off becoming the submissive little girl she could never stomach being. To me, she feels like a free spirit but not the spacey, reckless kind without a care in the world. Instead, she perfectly combines this aspect of her personality with ambition, determination and endurance which could one day get her far should she stick to them.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | I would hope for Ramona to keep her spirits and carry on fighting her way through the tragedy of her life with her focus set solely on a positive outcome, never risking a glance back at the dilemmas of the past. In terms of plots, I hope she can have, in correspondence to my earlier elaborations, mostly — but not only —positive development. (I’ve honestly been dreading this part a little and procrastinating it until I ended up kind of researching past events and kindly getting fed some inside info on recent happenings so I’m really sorry if it’s a total mess but I had very honourable intentions??)

1. Increased ambition. With the sudden collaboration between Capulets and Spades, I can see Ramona’s will to fight being at an all-time high, her eagerness exemplary and dedication to the Montagues’ cause admirable, verging on (perhaps) ever so slightly obsessive. In times like this, she will be looking to prove herself both to herself and to her superiors in hopes of her efforts paying off and there being a higher rank within the organisation she now views as a substitute family but would like to have a little more say in in her future  — unsurprisingly, considering Rosalind famously happens to be Shakespeare’s female character with the most lines.

2. Increased concern. After the fiasco at The Dark Lady earlier in the month, Ramona can’t seem to shake a certain feeling of discomfort looming in the pit of her stomach when she isn’t sure about Valentina’s whereabouts, her friend’s life having as much value to her as her cousin’s at this point, both of them much more valuable than her own about which she rarely worries — after all, she has always pulled through so far. With the enemy growing stronger, I could see her concern for her closest friends growing larger, eventually spanning the grand majority of the mob. While the role of the mother hen may or may not suit her, she surely shouldn’t forget to keep looking out for herself for no one has any use for a dead protector.

3. Increased sense of self. Albeit lacking blood relation, Ramona has always viewed herself, first and foremost, as an Aguilar, and deemed the family as good as holy, their cause and intent always, without exception, matching her own, transforming her into merely a puzzle piece needed to complete the bigger picture. In interplay with her carpe diem mantra, I would love for her to put more thoughts into her individuality, which she does claim to value greatly but nevertheless pushes aside with ease in hopes of it being beneficial for the others. Perhaps she could come in touch with her roots or simply take a little time to ponder what she wants out of life for herself and not just the mob, to find a goal other than staying alive and to actually live every day to its fullest which I don’t think she has fully achieved quite yet for it is certainly a task much easier said than done.

In Depth

What is your favorite place in Verona? | A coy grin took a hold of her lips, orbs formerly described as doe eyes by her late father exhibiting a fiery glimmer, unmistakable proof of wildness untamed beneath the surface. Countless options shot through an alert mind at the speed of light, some of which turned the corners of plump lips further skywards; strange concepts of a past long behind her. Quiet places, the right location for a nobody to morph seamlessly into the crowd, often recommended to her when the city was still as foreign to her as she was a stranger to it. The Capital Library of Verona, the silent façade a cover for the organisation that should turn out to be her destiny, bearing the possibility of premature membership had she taken this well-intended advice. The elegantly educational confines of the Twelfth Night Museum, strictly honourable by day to make up for the debauchery unfolding in its upper realms night after night. The Castelvecchio Bridge she loved to cross consciously in the company of mindless pedestals, fur-clad paws of her tiny companion slowing their pace as they sensed the danger in the air she thrived on. Countless options, only one would be revealed. “Since I first heard of it, I was fascinated by the concept of a nightclub in a museum. In fact, I used to take it for a wild fabrication of someone trying to screw me over when I was first told about it.” Soft laughter scattering in varying directions with every shake of her head. “The initial bewitchment of the Tempest Lounge has faded, of course, but I still like going there just the same. It’s the kind of place where you can truly lose yourself for a bit and we all deserve a break from our woes and worries every once in a while.”

What does your typical day look like? | Briefly pursed lips, accentuating a tentative expression, soon opened again with delight, some of her daily rituals evidently close to her heart. “First of all, I wake up. Obviously. Before I do anything else, I take a few minutes to meditate; align myself with the universe or whatever you want to call it. Tell myself it’s going to be a day worth living, you know? Then I have a quick breakfast — I’m not really the type to lounge around for hours before I do anything productive — and make myself look just presentable enough to walk Persephone. After that, I usually pop in at our headquarters, or wherever else I’m supposed to meet with someone, to see what needs to be taken care of. I’m not very fond of always having a perfectly thought out plan when there isn’t any need for one so I just take it as it comes, hence once there’s nothing to do for me anymore I just try to make plans with Valentina or Castora or stroll around for a while or have a nice evening in with the dog.” A nonchalant shrug. “Whatever the day ends up having in store for me, I take it — unless it’s a shitty offer, of course.”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

“I consider it a necessary evil,” Ramona noted matter-of-factly, features hardened to an extent they bordered on neutral unreadability. “There’s always going to be bloodshed in this world, especially in this city. Someone is always looking to screw someone else over, even if it’s just two cockroaches. There’s no such thing as peace and harmony in a place like this and conflict is inevitable, no matter what the motives. It’s either the Capulets or the Spades or the two of them combined or some other leech trying to creep up our leg and suck on as much of our blood as they can before they’re being squished. That’s just the way this wicked game called life is played. As long as you keep fighting,” she shrugged, “you’re doing it right. And none of us should ever cease to fight. They asked for it.”

In-Character Para Sample:

“For fuck’s sake, where the hell are they?!”

Aggravated stomps carried a petite frame through the living room straight to the bedroom, prompting a tiny ball of white and grey fur to hop onto the bed in agony, shelter found on top of the covers. It’s a rare occasion in which one can witness Ramona losing her temper to this extent over something of so little significance but when the time has come, she is set off by even the smallest inconvenience that stands between her and a good time. In this particular scenario, the pair of earrings she was set on wearing tonight was the insufferable offender, whereabouts currently unknown, no sign of life provided. Behind her laid a trail of doom, chaos lining the lingering shadow of her steps, a freshly cleaned up flat transformed into a war zone within ten minutes or less. Thus far untouched, the bedroom was soon to follow the example set by its neighbouring localities, the first step to uncleanliness being the rummaging through drawers of her vanity the woman would have loved to simply pull out, their contents to be carelessly scattered on the floor — but her chance was missed the moment her fingertips brushed against the silk surface of a small pouch stored at the back of the first drawer, leaving her frozen mid-motion. Slowly, with extraordinary care, the unexpected meaningful discovery was retrieved with trembling hands, widened pupils settling on the fabric as though they were focusing on a dreamlike vision, her grip on reality lost once and for all.

Dumbstruck, the brunette plopped down on the chair strategically placed behind her, nails dug deeply into a token of her past she had believed to have vanished, a keepsake nearly forgotten. Deep breaths. In and out. Inhale. Exhale. Lids fluttered as she concentrated on her breathing, her increased heart rate only slowing down reluctantly. What shocked her the most, more than stumbling upon this little memento, is the shock itself. Wasn’t she supposed to be over it, the girl who lived, the girl who left her past behind along with the pain it caused her? Then why did a tied up pouch clasp her throat so tightly she feared she might choke any second now? Because she knew all too well what treasures it bore, stored within its hidden confines in a haste without a second look or thought, to be dug up nevermore.

Yet nevermore had come upon her, not the most unlikely guest considering the languid measures she had taken to prevent it from returning to her doorstep; measures she had taken because deep inside, the notion locked within her heart’s chambers, she knew all too well that one day, she would want them back in her line of sight: items she could no longer refrain from revealing if she was ever to regain her peace of mind. A gentle tug on the woven string, the innocent prisoners practically breaking out without further ado, gathering atop the vanity’s stark white surface.

A pendant sans its chain, shaped like an owl, its wise eyes staring back at her uneasy expression caught her attention first, pointer tracing its outline. This one she was given by her father, his pupils clouded with paternal concern. “Now, you’re a wise girl, Ramona. As wise as an owl, aren’t you? So please,” he had implored her, “please do me a favour and act like it.” A statement that could have easily triggered offence and, alas, it did for a few fleeting moments long since lost in time, but the addressed could only still hold onto it fondly, the memory of the encounter blurrier than she had hoped it would be. These should be the last words directed at her to drip from the man’s lips, his passing inevitable and to set in merely two days later. Pursed lips gathered at the corner of her lips in a soft frown. At least she hadn’t completely let him down. Granted, her way vastly differed from his but, in her eyes, she has been wise. A wise girl making wise decisions, finding herself a new home and purpose in a world of exaggerated cruelty.

Next came a marble seemingly made of its name twin so delicately painted, once her brother’s most prized possession in days of infantile innocence far away from this city’s shameful alleys he had given to her with a heavy heart full of love, the final seal of approval ending a rite of initiation as his sister. Oh, how she craved to regain the lightness of being they both possessed then, irrevocably lost the instant their soles touched Italian ground. “Relax,” he had sneered down the line, the connection wavering along with his voice. “You’re taking things way too seriously. If you go on like this, you’ll end up just like dad.” Only that he would be the one to end up like their father, finding eternal rest beneath the soil within the same month, she had begun to fear while he hadn’t anticipated it in the slightest.

Last but not least, an almost cruelly ironic jest. A pair of hoop earrings, worn by her mother when she was nothing more than a toddler wrapped up in her arms, in such impeccable condition they looked unworn, as had all of the woman’s possessions. “You’ll be good, won’t you, baby?” She had crooned, exhaustion oozing from every widened pore of her poisoned body, a layer of cold sweat glistening on dull skin. “You’ll live a good life full of happiness. Don’t you ever let sadness pull on your heartstrings for too long.” Advice given to a girl so young she lacked the capacity to follow it immediately but she had remembered it, word for word, clung onto it in desperation and embraced it with a slight delay, just in time for it to become her saving grace.

The electronic ‘ping’ of her phone, urging to be taken out of her pocket, broke the eerie silence that had been threatening to swallow her whole, chasing away the tears she was forbidden from shedding, the faint hint of a smile taking ahold of her lips as she spied Castora’s name on the screen.

“Still coming?! Valentina says to tell you she’s freezing her ass off in an accusing tone.”

A soft sigh, a newly found warmth triggered by relief flooding her body within moments. Her fingers typed at the speed of light, features softening at long last. “Five minutes. I got held up.” For there was no chance in hell she would allow for this to be what had last been directed at her by either of the women who gave her a reason to willingly get up in the morning. Two of the three tokens were gently replaced where they belonged — the third was to adorn their heiress tonight, once more possing as the solution to a problem at hand.

“Never, mama.” A quiet whisper drowned out by the nightly breeze. “Not as long as I can fight it.”

Extras: I’ve made her a little mock blog right here c:

HEADCANONS

CLOSE TO THE HEART:

• There’s a certain silver necklace Ramona is not likely to be caught not wearing, an amethyst pendant the star of the show, one of the few heirlooms passed onto her by her late mother she managed to hold onto after the move to Verona. In fact, she wears it with such routine that she feels uneasy without it either being around her neck or at least in her bag.

• Her dog Persephone joined her minimalistic family set up about a year and a half ago, a malnourished stray running into her near Castelvecchio by sheer luck or twist of fate. Knowing all too well how helpless and hopeless the little furball, presumably a Maltese mixed with some breed or other, had to feel, Ramona didn’t have the heart to leave her behind. Her name is her new owner’s way to make final amends and peace with death, in this case the underworld, after her frequent encounters with it.

• Although she has long given up on Christianity, if anything considering herself Wiccan, she regularly visits her father’s and brother’s grave, never without a token of her affection in tow. Usually, she spends thoroughly silent moments there, her form of communication with the deceased mutely mental unless she is extraordinarily distressed — then the emotional rants may very well unfold.

INTERIOR AND EXTERIOR:

• Staying in shape has always been important to her, her first regular workout being daily yoga sessions which she originally gave a try in hopes of it helping her become the quiet, calm woman who will under no circumstances stand out from the crowd her father hoped for her to transform herself into. While it failed to magically change her personality, it has helped her calm herself down and leaves her feeling centred and grounded, hence she still pursues it whenever she can. Once she realised that yoga didn’t have all desired effects on her, however, Ramona attempted kickboxing, hoping to achieve her goal with a rather clashing approach, which she immediately found herself enjoying. She has dabbled in various martial arts disciplines since but always finds herself in boxing gloves again sooner or later.

• It didn’t take long for Ramona to figure out that she was pansexual — in fact, she never had a true moment of realisation in that regard but accepted every form of attraction she has ever felt as factual and pleasant, meant to be if you will. Due to her lack of care for the concept of sexuality in itself, she never defines herself in any way, accidentally leaving even her friends in the dark about it only because she doesn’t consider it worth mentioning.

• If asked, Ramona would describe her clothing style as ‘functional 21st century Stevie Nicks’. Flowy, bohemian fabrics as light as Verona’s summer breeze are her wardrobe stable and what she is most likely to be seen wearing on a daily basis but she cleans up well and happily so, never underdressed for any occasion. Her hair she likes to keep in braids for the majority of the time but isn’t one to shy away from bolder moves, bleaching strands to douse in semi-permanent colourful dye or weaving in little accessories that best convey her current mood from time to time. In terms of makeup, she aims for a dewy, fresh-faced and rejuvenating look, her skin well moisturised and glowy, an artificial flush of life reviving her even after long nights and her eyes being the most accentuated feature, her mascara use heavy and her eyeliner look never being precisely the same the following day, if she uses it that day in the first place.

[hellofreeblr-blog]

XXL Interviews XXXTENTACION from jail, talks Depression, Family, Drake

South Florida has one of the most vibrant rap scenes in the world right now. Ever since SpaceGhostPurrp shed a light on the underground with his lo-fi sound circa 2011, more national attention has been paid to the talent bubbling up in areas like Broward and Miami-Dade County. Smokepurpp, Lil Pump, Pouya and Fat Nick are just a few of the artists who’ve amassed a following for themselves in The Sunshine State and beyond. But while kids like Denzel Curry and Kodak Black are reaching new heights in their career, there’s a young leader emerging in the underground, and his name is XXXTENTACION (pronounced X-X-X-tent-asi-ohn).

The 19-year-old rapper, currently locked up in Broward County Jail on six felony charges across two jurisdictions, sounds unlike anything else out there right now. Songs on his SoundCloud, most of which boast millions of plays, make the leap between melancholy indie records and punk-rap rage, testaments to his desire to be more than just a rapper. And indeed, he’s quickly becoming something of a cult figure, as his popularity grows with each new day that he spends behind bars. He might be getting out as soon as this Wednesday (Feb. 8), when his first bond hearing will be held, but if not he’s expected to be free by March, a source familiar with the matter tells XXL.

He’s facing charges of battery and aggravated assault of a pregnant victim, battery by strangulation, false imprisonment, and tampering with or harassing a witness, victim, or informant in Miami-Dade County, while in Broward County he’s being charged with armed home invasion and aggravated battery.

His biggest song to date is “Look At Me,” the only single he’s released on iTunes and Spotify, and in the last couple weeks the track has gained a special kind of attention after Drake previewed a new cut with a flow very similar to that on “Look At Me.” The snippet prompted X to tweet at fellow Florida rapper Kodak Black wondering what was good with Drizzy’s obvious nod, and fans have since criticized Drake for hopping on yet another trend at the most opportune time.

XXL recently spoke to the rapper born Jahseh Onfroy from jail, and during our conversation he addressed the Drake controversy, touched on the status of his case, clarified who’s in Members Only, and spoke at length about what the criminal justice system in Florida gets wrong. Below are excerpts from that conversation.

XXL: How’d you first get into making music?

XXXTENTACION: I didn’t really know what I wanted to do. I was very lost. I felt like music was what I was trying to use to numb my pain. Music gave me a purpose and it just came to me. I just listened to a lot of artists and it was the only thing that kind of soothed me when I was feeling crazy. I always felt crazy when I was younger and I always felt different. Music made me feel like there wasn’t anything wrong with me, music calmed me. I used music as an anti-depressant at first and then it just became something I tried to do myself.

What’s some of the first music you listened to?

The Fray, Three Days Grace, Asking Alexandria, Odd Future, Immortal Technique. I really love Immortal Technique. Papa Roach.

What was some of the first music you wrote?

I wrote two or three songs early on. I had one called “News/Flap” that was more lyrical and then I got a song called “Vice City” which is super old. That’s still up, it’s super weird because I used to be on my lyrical shit, and then I started to experiment with my sound and try an alternative sound.

What made you want to explore other sounds in your music?

I didn’t want to be just a rapper because if I was just a rapper, I wouldn’t be able to touch a certain crowd. I really wanted to be able to put my emotion and my energy into everybody and everything. Being just a rapper was very typical. Being an artist is more than being a singer or a multi-genre artist, I can also illustrate things or produce things or orchestrate things. I didn’t want to be put in that category because it seemed too small for what I felt like I was capable of. I always listened to every genre, so I didn’t want to be limited by the genre [of rap] because my mind was bigger than that. I love rap, I love melancholy, I love indie.

Do you have an official project out?

I actually have no project out. I have an EP [It Wasn’t Enough], but it was just three songs. I’ve done collectives [Members Only Vol. 1 and 2] with my collective music group, I have a lot of projects coming up, I’m gonna drop an album and a mixtape and I’ve dropped an EP or two, but it’s mainly singles and shit like that.

What are some of the projects you’re dropping when you get out?

I got this really really, really good album called 17. That’s more of an alternative, R&B sound. Then I’ve got this mixtape called I Need Jesus, which is mainly rap and the underground sound I did. So I’m trying to give my fans and anybody that comes in and listens to me everything with the mixtape and album. And then I want to come out with Members Only Vol. 3. People are gonna be really surprised about the shit I drop.

Tell me about Members Only. I know you met Ski Mask the Slump God while you were locked up for a year. How’d you meet Craig Xen and Wifisfuneral?

I met Craig when I went on a tour with $uicideboy$ and pretty much, Craig made me feel super comfortable. Craig has the same mental state that I have. We’re both on the same shit. Craig thinks the same way I do and we just got along, he’s very genuine with me. I like the $uicideboy$, they’re very genuine too, but they’re very busy guys and I wasn’t really able to get as close to them as I wanted, but Craig was an awesome guy. He’s my bro. We have the same mentality.

And how’d you meet Wifisfuneral?

I’ve known him since I was young.

Why’d you decide to form Members Only?

Members Only is a brotherhood. Members Only is a family. I always felt alone, so I built a band of brothers. Members Only was literally just a bunch of people who were taking care of me, keeping me calm so I wouldn’t end up in fucking prison and I pretty much showed them how to chase their dreams. Members Only turned into a community involving my fans, because all my fans I consider Members Only. As far as the artists on it, that’s a difference.

Who are the artists in Members Only?

Right now, I actually ended it. [Laughs] Because I’m reconstructing it, so as of right now, just myself, Ski Mask and Craig Xen. But I’m gonna be recreating it and putting artists I consider very good in it. But as of right now, just myself, Craig Xen and Ski Mask.

Your music’s got a raw edge to it. Why do you make your music sound like that?

It’s real. It’s not masked up. It can’t fit into a box. It’s its own sound, and that’s what I wanted to do, is be an individual, so doing that sound made me an individual. Being as raw as possible or as depressed as possible felt real. I made music for my pain to resonate with people, so you can feel the soul in that shit, you can feel my soul and my energy in that shit.

You produce a bit, right?

To some degree. I usually just chop shit and sample shit. I come up with all my samples, every single one of them, but as far as being able to put bass and snares on shit, I got guys for that. My main producer, his name is actually Stain. He’s a phenomenal guy, I love him. He fits me perfectly. That’s who I’m sticking to. As far as programs, I use things like FL Studio and Logic Pro.

You’ve dealt with a lot of anger and depression in your life. Where do you feel like that stuff comes from?

Being alone. With everything that my mom went through… I can’t stress that enough. I’m very thankful, she did everything she could remotely do as a woman and as I’ve grown older and looked back on everything I’ve said, I’d like to give her a bit more credit. She did everything she remotely could with the circumstances she was given. I didn’t have my dad around. It was just her.

We really have nobody, so I felt like with being placed away from her and then she having to pretty much hustle to help me, it was really being alone and being placed away from people I had any attachment to is what made me what I am. Just being alone breeds a different kind of madness and a different kind of pain, and not receiving a certain amount of love. So being away from my mom and not really having anybody around, I guess I just didn’t receive enough love.

When you started making music, was it therapeutic for you?

Hell the fuck yes. I put all my pain and my insanity and dark thoughts into my music. And putting it out there for other people to listen to made me feel like I’m doing something bad but good at the same time. So it was just a good way for me to put all my crazy ass demonic thoughts out there, and people feed on it. I saw it giving people energy and healing them, so it really multiplied. I really cherish it.

While you’ve been locked up recently, what have you been thinking about?  

I found the answer to life. I’m gonna get a lot of ridicule for this in the future, but life is but a perception. The way you perceive things is very important. I’ve learned quite a few things and this may be a really off-topic thing to talk about, but life is but brainpower. Life revolves around your brain. Life is purely the brain and your thought process. Your conscious and subconscious mind rule the world, so what I’ve learned is that nothing else matters. Nothing else matters except what you desire and what your dreams are. The whole purpose of humanity is to create, and the problem is that everybody reaches a certain point of enlightenment, it upsets the balance.

As far as what I accomplish as an artist, I want to leave something good for the youth and generations to come. I want to rebuild this world and change this world to a positive end and take my artistry and really be an artist in terms of building better jails so people don’t feel like they’re living in a fucking psych ward when they’re in here and getting all types of diseases in here. Building foster homes, doing anything I can to give back to the community and help this country in any way possible yet. [Being in here] made me want to be a better person and change my world.

Where are you locked up right now?

Broward County Jail.

How are you finding it in there?

Depressing. But it’s been a learning experience and it’s making my brain stronger.

What have you been doing in there to keep your spirit up?

Meditating. I’ve been reading the Twilight series, but mainly meditating and manifesting.

Do you know when your next court date is?

[Laughs] It’s a surprise. Just know I’m not gonna be out when they expect. I’m gonna be out way sooner than they expect.

A lot of people were talking about this recent Drake snippet where he has a new flow and it sounds like your flow on “Look At Me.” I saw you tweet at Kodak about the snippet. How do you feel about it?

I’m gonna address this whole situation. I have the utmost respect for Drake as an artist. I have respect for everyone as an artist. Now, I’m aware of what Drake does as an artist, I’m aware of what any smart artist does, because it’s one of the laws of the universe. If you study Albert Einstein, he says, “A great artist never reveals their source.”

How do I feel about the whole Drake situation is if he used the flow, by all means… it’s whatever, it’s not that serious. My whole perception has changed. But if Drake is gonna take the flow, and I don’t know if he legitimately did, but if that is the situation, at least reach out to a nigga, help a nigga out in this situation, and then if you want to run off with the flow, then run off with the flow, but I’m going through a lot right now, so it would have been nice if before that happened to me, for Drake to have reached out to me personally. He could have reached out to me personally and spoken to me and it definitely would have been more respectable. But he dropped that preview and it sounded a bit like “Look At Me” and he could be a huge, huge help in this situation to get me out of jail, because I’m facing life. So that’s just how I feel. If you’re gonna take the flow, reach out to me, help me out and then take the flow, because helping me out would have been more important.

But if he took it, kudos, that’s lit, it’s Drake. It doesn’t bother me as much as people think it does, but it’s lit at the end of the day because that’s a huge artist so it just gives me motivation to see how big I’m gonna be. My whole intention is being the biggest artist there ever was or currently is.

Who are some of the labels that have been reaching out to you?

I’ve seen a lot of labels reach out to me. I don’t want to say any names but I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m just gonna distribute singles. I’m not gonna do any record label signings, I’m not gonna sign over my fucking albums or anything like that. Initially I was almost going to, but I’m just gonna distribute my singles with certain record labels.

You’ve gotten love from some huge artists recently. DJ Carnage and iLoveMakonnen bigged you up, ASAP Rocky said you’re the hardest rapper coming out of Florida right now. Who are some people that have reached out to you while you’ve been locked up?

I heard Danny Brown reached out to me. By the way, I love Danny Brown. I fuck with “Adderal Admiral.” Lil Bibby. A$AP Rocky. I got an email from Metro Boomin. There are a couple really big names that have reached out that I can’t say because it’s gonna be a surprise, but I saw Lil Uzi say “free XXX” so that was lit. And then Debby Ryan from the Disney channel. [Laughs] Shout out to Debby Ryan, she was playing my shit on Snapchat.

Hearing all the cool names that fuck with me gives me a boost, but honestly there are way bigger names, I just can’t elaborate on them. You guys are gonna be like what the fuck? I got some crazy shit planned.

Whose come to visit you while you’ve been locked up?

My girl, two of my homeboys. That’s really been it. It’s been lonely. I understand people say you’re not alone, but I’ve been going through everything by myself. My mom took a step in and has been helping me. She hasn’t come to see me or anything like that, but she’s been beside me and I be looking out for her, take care of her, throw her money because I love her to death. She understands I’m crazy now but that’s my No. 1 fan. It’s just been my girl and my business partner Garrett. He runs a clothing brand, Revenge Official. That’s my brother, I love that nigga to death.

You post a lot of snippets on your SoundCloud. Do you plan to release the full version of any of those?

No. I have the full versions of them but I’m not gonna release them because I don’t want anybody to hear the full versions and I’m just gonna forever tease my whole fan base. [Laughs] Or I might. You never know.

Did you bounce around Florida growing up?

That’s literally what it was. I never actually totally lived in Pompano, I would always stay in Pompano when my mom would drop me off over there. So the whole thing was I was born in Plantation Hospital and then I ended up moving to North Lauderdale, but I was going from North Lauderdale to Pompano and back. And when I got kicked out from staying with my mom, I went to go stay with my grandma. So I never actually had my own crib over there [in Pompano], we never actually lived there. That’s just where I was as a jit growing up.

Do you have any kind of relationship with Kodak Black?

No, I do not. I’ve got a friend that’s actually in his group, I won’t say the name. As far as a personal relationship, I wouldn’t say I know him. But he’s from my city Broward County and I support what that nigga does thoroughly. As far as agreeing with everything he does, no, but I support that nigga thoroughly because he’s from where I’m from and whoever comes from where I’m from, I’m gonna support thoroughly. He’s from Broward, I’m from Broward, salute to that nigga.

What are you trying to do when you get out?

I’m gonna be doing a lot of investing and I really want to invest in a teenage therapy where every teenager that’s happy talks to another teenager that’s depressed. Because I feel like it’s really hard for kids to go speak to a therapist because they can’t relate to them. I want to do a teenage hotline where teens contemplating suicide can call the hotline and talk to other teenagers.

I want to give a donation to the foster homes in my state and give them PS4s and TVs and shit. I’m basically gonna try to run up my money as much as possible and give back to the community. I want to take my mom and grandma to Hawaii. My great-grandma, she’s getting very old, so I want to take her out and do something really nice before she passes. Pain resonated and I just want to show everybody they’re not alone.

What’s the status of your case?

There’s no evidence in both cases. For a conviction, it all comes down to hard evidence, and it’s sad to say I’m in jail with no evidence in any case. Broward gets paid to prosecute so that’s why they’re been holding on to me—for money. It’s not for right or wrong, it’s not because I committed anything. They’re getting money from me being in here and that’s why they’re holding on to me and a couple other inmates.

I want to get a bunch of people start a movement. Broward gets paid to prosecute, and I want to do everything in my power to end that. I want to change it to where they only get paid if they win cases. Because they’re holding on to people who literally have not committed crimes. I just saw it happen the other day. A guy was in jail for three to four months, he didn’t commit the crime and they arrested the wrong guy. He pretty much got fucked over in the process of that.

That’s actually what happened in my Broward case, they have the wrong person. I can’t go into detail, but it’s not me who committed the crime. Even though the victim in the case pretty much came to court and was trying to say it to the judge, he told my lawyer and he told the prosecutor that, but because the judge wasn’t there, it didn’t get dropped. That’s as far as what I know, the victim is saying it wasn’t me and it was someone else. Florida is fucked up, the Florida judicial system is very fucked up.

How do you feel about the police in Florida?

I want to say this as appropriately as possible, because there’s good police and there’s bad police. Everybody down here makes arrests for money. There’s no right or wrong down here. Now, that’s Broward County. It’s not about whether you’re a threat to society. I’ve actually seen quite a few good police officers in Miami-Dade, but a majority of police officers in Broward are making arrests for money. You don’t have to do anything to get arrested anymore. You could be 13, smoke weed and they’re bringing you to jail for the money. It’s not about right or wrong anymore, the society down here is fucked. There has to be a change.

How would you change that?

As far as hearsay arrests, people getting arrested with no evidence, that needs to be thrown out. Holding someone in jail for over 30 days with no evidence, they should be let go. As far as judges rescheduling and pushing court dates back for months, that needs to be changed. People’s lives need to be considered. You can’t keep taking time away from people, taking people away from their kids and family.

I was in here with someone whose mother died while they were in there. Can you imagine the feeling of being in here and your fucking mom dies and you see it on the fucking news? And you could not end up being found guilty? That’s disgusting. And these prosecutors don’t give a fuck. As long as they’re eating and making money, they don’t give a fuck, and it’s sad.

I need over 50,000 people willing to protest in the streets to end prosecutors being paid to prosecute, because the state attorney’s office is running with that shit and people in here are sick and demented.

What’s your relationship with Denzel Curry like right now?

Me and Denzel are okay. He called me, he apologized, he came to my court date. With the allegations…. he pulled a fuck nigga move. I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. I ended up showing everybody that the allegations with the girl who they said was allegedly pregnant, who is not pregnant, that I allegedly beat, who I did not beat, I put all the evidence online showing that she was lying and scamming the fuck out of everybody.

She was saying she had a fracture in her brain, a fracture in her skull that was gonna make her blind and she needed $30,000, that wasn’t true. She was saying she was pregnant, that wasn’t true. She was saying I beat her, that wasn’t true. She got beat the fuck up by someone she was staying with and then came down here, got beat the fuck up, and then I let her stay with my friends.

Pretty much, [Denzel] hit up the girl and asked her if she’s alright and does she need help. I was a very good friend of Denzel and he did not consult me before he consulted the girl, so he didn’t get a chance to see whether I did the shit or not before he consulted the girl. Me and him won’t be the closest of friends due to the fact that I see where his loyalty lies, but me and him are okay now.

I saw her GoFundMe was put up and then removed.

Yeah, because everybody figured out she was lying. She was saying she needed surgery, there was nothing wrong with her. She was saying she was pregnant, but she’s not pregnant. It’s not by me. She wasn’t pregnant when I was with her. That whole situation is just fucked up. I got arrested on some fucked up charges. She stole $13,000 from me, nobody knows that. She stole $13,000 from me and fucked my friend. I just didn’t put it out there because I didn’t want to give that shit any power. Now I notice when I speak on people, it gives their names popularity and power and it helps them. She fucked me over.

What artists are you listening to these days?

New rappers? Nobody. Artists overall? Nirvana, The Weeknd and Ski Mask The Slump God. That’s it. I’m not fucking with anybody else. I’m an old head when it comes to listening to certain things, so I listen to more old shit than the new stuff. I feel like when it comes to the new stuff, I feel like I’m the most innovative as far as artistry in my generation. I feel like nobody else is meeting my standard right now. If you’ve thoroughly gone through my music… nobody’s seeing me in my generation.

How do you feel like “Look At Me” blowing up like it has?

If you think it’s big now, it’s gonna be huge. I knew when I recorded it. I’m not an egotistical person and I don’t want to sound like an asshole, but I knew it was gonna be huge, like with “can’t keep my dick in my pants,” I knew the kids were gonna love it, it’s a sound for the kids. I knew it was a hit the moment I recorded it. I expected that.

Why do you think kids gravitate to your music so much?

Because I actually give a fuck about these kids. And I mean it when I say I give a fuck about these kids. Giving certain fans money, talking to them when they’ve been depressed, answering all their questions, Persicoping shit and responding to their tweets, responding to their DMs when they message me borderline about to commit suicide, saving them. I give a fuck about these kids.

I really understand how the fuck it feels to be mentally alone. You could be in a room with a million people, but you can still be alone. And some of these kids have families that just don’t understand there’s something going on in their head bigger than everything that’s around them. I understand that feeling and I understand that feeling can drive you to the edge. I will do everything in my power to be a positive role model to these kids, because now everything I do, I’ll be held accountable for. Even if my material is vulgar or I’m seen as a bad person, as long as these kids are happy and I’m giving them something to rage to instead of being depressed, that’s all that matters to me.

How’d it feel to see all your fans show up to your court date back in January?

All of them couldn’t get in because the courtroom’s so small, they weren’t letting people in. I guess I packed it out, they packed it out. I love them. There’s no other way to say it. I love my fans. It’s remarkable sometimes and I’m very grateful, I’m very thankful for them. It was great to see the courtroom hectic and shit. It made everything a little more harder, but I’m thankful.

What’s one message you want to send to your fans?

The law of attraction is the power of your subconscious mind. Anything you can visualize or anything you believe and you give your faith to, you can create. The bad thing about the law of attraction is if you think bad things and you have too much fear within your brain, you’re gonna attract all of these things. Use the law of attraction to your advantage because they do not want you using your brain and you need to become insane to use the law of attraction. Do not put your energy into anything bad that you would not want coming back to you, and exercise the karmic cycle. Anything you give out will come back.

When I get out, I will give all of my fans and this generation information they’re not supposed to receive. The general population is not supposed to receive certain information. I’m only giving my opinion and I don’t mean to disrespect anybody, but religion is for the small-minded. All religions believe in higher powers. So if you’re gonna be a good person, be a good person. If you’re gonna be a bad person, be a bad person. It does not fucking matter. Nobody’s opinion matters. Nothing matters. Anything you put on this planet, it will stay here. If life is infinite and there’s the slightest possibility that you have to come back to this miserable fucking planet, I’d stop putting all this horrible fucking shit out here and make sure you live your life happy. Happiness is all that fucking matters. If it makes you happy, it’s all that matters, and you will struggle and struggle and struggle, but happiness will come in the end. That is my word and I promise I will help everyone find happiness or I will at least help everyone find an answer and a purpose.

[robininthelabyrinth]

I don't know if you've gotten one like this, btmut Barry's just a regular CSI, and he takes his super villain fiance to his high school reunion. Maybe bounce Len scaring the crap outta Woodward?

You know, I’ve missed writing Coldflash…

Fic: Face Blind (AO3 Link)Fandom: FlashPairing: Barry Allen/Leonard Snart

Summary: Barry’s just a regular CSI. Totally 100% boring, normal, and standard. 

Except for the fact that he’s dating a supervillain.

(Prompt: Barry’s just a regular CSI, and he takes his super villain fiance to his high school reunion. Maybe Len scaring the crap outta Woodward?)

A/N: Willing to write more in this verse, but have no more ideas. Feel free to toss me additional prompts for it.

————————————————————————

It just sort of happened, okay?

Barry’s a regular guy! He has a Netflix subscription, a part-time ownership agreement with his neighbors over their cat (who goes by the name of Number 2 and who seems to think Barry’s apartment is an extension of his property), an excellent best friend who’s getting married (Iris! Married! How?!), a regular but kick-ass job (CSI, just like on TV except for totally not like that), a standard but not excessive amount of work drama (Singh is getting better about Barry’s punctuality thing, he hopes)…

He’s also kind of face blind.

That last one is particularly relevant. Not to his job as a CSI, mind you, because he can compensate with any number of things and it’s not like he’s a sketch artist or a detective or anything, he analyzes the scenes, not the people.

Just, you know, to…everything else.

Because, you see, Barry got off late from his job and he was dying for a curry from the place down the corner and he was due to get on a conference call to discuss his most recent case in, like, two hours, except it’s rush hour and all the tables are taken and the hostess apologetically explains that a table would take at least an hour.

And they don’t do take-out.

Damnit.

That’s when Barry spots the guy. He’s got a nice little two-top, and he’s obviously alone because his jacket is tossed lazily over the second one and, well, what the hell.

Barry really wants that curry.

“Gimme a second,” he tells the hostess and skirts around the tables to get over to the guy’s corner.

“Excuse me,” he says.

The guy blinks up at him.

“I’m sorry – this is so weird, I know – but I’m, like, I would kill for a rogan josh right now and this is the only place for miles that does it properly, but all the tables are taken and they don’t do take out and I’ve got a conference call in an hour and a half so I can’t wait. Any chance I could, uh, sit here? I can be really quiet.”

The guy stares at him for a second, then smirks. “Yeah, sure,” he says, kicking out the chair across from him. “But only on the condition that you make conversation with me. I don’t do quiet.”

“You’re amazing,” Barry says gratefully, and sits down.

The guy ends up ordering a couple of extra dishes – Barry has a ridiculous metabolism, okay?! – and they split them all, loading everything onto warm naan and waving their hands in the air as they debate, well, everything. The Central City Cougars’ miserable performance, the benefits of hockey vs. football, the current political climate (City Hall: mess or hot mess?), musical tastes (they’re both eclectic, have a guilty pleasure for musicals, and think that Supernatural is worth watching only for the stellar soundtrack)…

Honestly, Barry’s had worst first dates, and this one wasn’t even one.

Well, it’s not right up until the end when the guy – Len, he introduced himself as – grins and says, “That was fun. We should do it again sometime.”

“I agree,” Barry says.

“Let’s make it a real date this time,” Len continues.

Barry blinks, and blushes. “Uh, sure,” he says, unable to fight a smile. “Real date it is.”

While Barry’s distracted fidgeting with surprised pleasure – Len’s really hot, okay? Barry’s inability to remember faces doesn’t mean he’s blind-blind – Len manages to snag the check and pay it.

“Hey,” Barry protests.

“Relax; I’ve got the cash,” Len says, and smiles for some reason.

“Still,” Barry says. “Next time, I cover.”

“I’ll let you think that if it makes you feel better,” Len teases.

Barry kicks his shin lightly.

Len laughs and programs his number into Barry’s phone.

Barry’s having a great time right up until his conference call, where instead of talking about the most recent cases – Julian’s covering a jewelry store robbery, while Barry’s focused on proving a domestic abuser’s involvement in harassing his ex-wife – Singh clears his throat and says, “Allen, what were you doing just now?”

“Having dinner,” Barry answers, frowning. “Why?”

“The having dinner part we understand,” Joe says, sounding aggravated. “But why were you having dinner with Leonard Snart?!”

Leonard Snart, as in Central City’s first supervillain. Leader of the Rogues. Regularly named in the same tier as the Green Arrow’s bad guys, or Superman’s in Metropolis’, or even Batman’s in Gotham’s, even though Central City doesn’t actually have a superhero as of yet.

Leonard.

Len.

“Oh crap,” Barry says. “I think I just went on an accidental date with him.”

“Allen,” Singh says. “I mean this in the kindest possible way: How do you always do this?!”

Obviously Barry’s not going to go on another date with him.

Except, well, it turns out that there’s a really important money transfer going on the next Thursday evening, hard cash involved, just up Snart’s alley, and Julian’s the first one to suggest that, well, you know, you don’t have to do anything, Barry, that would be unethical, but theoretically if Snart – notorious control freak that he is – is sitting in a restaurant having dinner with you, he and his Rogues are probably not going to be hitting the transfer.

“You’re joking,” Barry says.

Except he’s not, and neither is Singh, Joe, or Patty.

So Barry calls Len and sets up a date for the appropriate time and place.

“– if that’s not a bad time for you?” he concludes.

“For you, I’ll make time,” Len says.

“That’s incredibly smooth,” Barry says skeptically, because, well, he has had dinner with the guy before. “Who fed you that line?”

Len sniggers.

They have dinner. It’s amazing. Len is funny without trying too hard, interesting, listens to Barry and actually thinks about what he’s saying instead of just brushing him off; he’s attractive, friendly, and tips the waiter well after he steals the check again. He walks Barry back to the subway and leaves him with a short brush of the lips without even a hint of disappointment when Barry indicates that he’s not taking him home tonight. Basically a perfect date.

(The money transfer goes off without a hitch.)

And, well…

It’s not that it’s, like, an officially condoned relationship or anything. No one’s pushing Barry into anything he doesn’t want to do, you know? It’s just – well.

If Barry happens to be going out with Len again, then his co-workers would be interested in knowing when and where and what else they might be able to schedule at the same time. Especially given that Snart’s Rogues continue their reign of more or less impossible-to-pin-on-them-but-everyone-knows-who-it-was thefts and robberies without even the slightest hint of anyone, even the police, being able to stop them.

Singh just stops assigning Barry to the Rogues’ cases, that’s all, and ta-da! No conflict of interest.

The dates continue to go well.

Very well.

Very well.

Let’s put it this way: no one’s forcing Barry to do anything, but Barry is very much okay with doing it all by himself.

They’re curled up one evening – Barry’s apartment – and Len says, out of nowhere, “You should meet my family.”

Barry blinks. “Your family?” he echoes.

Because as far as he knows, Len’s only family – Leonard Snart’s only family – is Lisa Snart, aka Golden Glider, aka the femme fatale of the Rogues.

“Mick and Lisa,” Len says. “You’ll like them.”

Oh, yeah, and Mick. Mick Rory. Heatwave. Pyromaniac, Rogue, second-in-command.

“Uh,” Barry says.

“I know I haven’t talked about them that much,” Len says, like he doesn’t reference his sister and his best friend every three minutes in conversations, though never by name. “But you’ve read their records, right?”

“Their…records?” Barry squeaks.

Len laughs and leans in, resting his head on Barry’s shoulder. “Barry,” he says fondly. “I know what you do for a living. You literally rant about it every time we go out. Especially Julian.”

“Well, Julian,” Barry says automatically, because Julian’s kind of a dick.

“I’d be amazed if you didn’t know who I was and what I do by now,” Len continues. “It’s okay, I don’t mind. The precinct uses times when we’re hanging out to try to run important money business, right?”

Barry sighs. “How long have you known?”

“Oh, basically since the beginning,” Len says. “Second time we met, you were all shy all over again – at least until I got you to relax. Then you were fine again.” He pauses, considering. “You’re an extremely trusting person, you know that?”

“So you’ve told me,” Barry says. “Several times. I assume by the way you’re talking about it that you don’t mind?”

“Nah,” Len says. “I know that they’re doing it, and if they ever try to pass something I really want I can still get it, but in the meantime I kind of like it.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah,” Len says. “The CCPD is planning around me now. They’re not even trying to take me down; they’ve accepted me and my crew as a force of nature.” He smiles. “What’s not to like?”

Barry rolls his eyes.

“So?”

“As long as they don’t kill me,” Barry says.

“Don’t piss them off, then,” Len advises.

“That’s so comforting.”

“You’ll like them.”

Barry finds, to his incredible bemusement, that he does.

Mick is hilarious. Legitimately hilarious. He’s got this excellent deadpan thing going and he’s got a sly little sense of humor that bounces off of Len’s just right, and the stories he tells (many about Len, given that they’ve been best friends for thirty years) are side-splittingly funny. And Lisa is just – well, Barry’s never quite gotten the shovel talk like that before.

“Iris would love you,” Barry tells her before he thinks better of it.

And, well, after he’s met Len’s family, it would be rude not to invite him in return.

Well. Maybe just Iris and Eddie first.

Joe later.

(Later meaning never.)

Iris is the one who brings it up.

“A reunion?” Len says, grinning.

“Oh god,” Barry moans. He’d forgotten about that.

“Oh yes,” Iris says, grinning evilly and high-fiving Lisa. They loved each other on sight, naturally. Eddie is glaring at Barry.

Barry acknowledges that he deserves it.

Mick is making sandwiches. “I think it’s a great idea,” he opines. “You’ve never been to a reunion before, have you, Lenny?”

“Dropped out of high school,” Len reports. “Never got a chance.”

“You should take him,” Iris says, her eyes glowing. “I’m in his class; I’m taking Eddie. It’s traditional to take your significant other.”

“Iris,” Eddie says through gritted teeth.

Mick plops the sandwiches down in front of them. “Eat,” he says.

“Don’t ‘Iris’ me,” Iris tells her fiancé. “Have I said a single untrue word?”

Eddie rolls his eyes and picks up one of the sandwiches.

Barry watches as his face does something interesting.

“Eddie?” he asks, a little concerned.

“These are amazing,” Eddie says, mouth still half full. “Oh my god. Iris, try one.”

Iris does.

As does Barry.

“You’re cooking for our wedding,” Iris announces.

“I am not,” Mick says.

“I’ll make Barry take Len to the reunion if you do,” she bargains.

“I’m taking Len anyway,” Barry objects, though he hadn’t known he was going to do it until he said it.

He blames Mick’s sandwiches.

Len just laughs at all of them.

And that’s how they end up RSVPing “yes” to Barry’s stupid high school reunion.

“This is such a bad idea,” Barry says.

“Probably,” Len says.

In fairness, Len takes to bad ideas like a duck to water. Barry should’ve known better than to let him anywhere near Iris.

It’d be bad enough on its own – Barry did not enjoy high school – but naturally, Len goes all out, in his own inimitable fashion.

Some people going to a reunion and wanting to show off might show up in a nice suit, rent a limo, maybe a flower or something, something like that.

Len shows up in head-to-toe black, a wicked smirk, and his motorbike, which is only the sexiest thing Barry has ever seen and which Barry has been trying to wheedle his way into a ride ever since he saw a picture of Len escaping the cops on it.

(The parka Len always takes with him on heists? Very distinctive.)

“Okay,” Barry says. “I’ll go.”

“Thought you were planning on cuffing yourself to the stairwell?” Len inquires.

“You brought out the motorbike,” Barry says, scowling at him. “You know that’s cheating.”

“Iris is paying me off to make sure you make it there,” Len confesses cheerfully. “Totally worth it.”

“I don’t even want to know what she offered you,” Barry says, but lets himself be coaxed onto the bike anyway.

Wrapping his arms around Len’s waist, helmet blocking the wind from his eyes and letting him lean in close…

Yeah.

“That as good for you as it was for me?” Barry asks at the end, a little dazed and more than turned off.

“You’re giving me inappropriate associations,” Len grouses. “I have to ride that for work, you know.”

“You don’t have to anything for work, Len. You’re a supervillain.”

Len waves his hand dismissively.

“You sure we can’t go home?” Barry asks, eyeing the door to his high school cafeteria warily. “I’d make it worth your while…”

“You always make it worth my while,” Len says. “Now get.”

“I just didn’t have the best time at school, okay?” Barry grumbles. “I don’t want it rubbed in my face or anything.”

“It won’t be,” Len says. “I promise.”

Barry should’ve asked him how he was so sure.

He really, really should have.

At any rate, Len answers the first casual “so what do you do” question with “Oh, you know, this and that - bit of high-end theft here, terrorizing the city there. I don’t like to be pinned down too much.”

Nobody even notices Barry after that point.

“This is really quite fun to watch,” he tells Iris, smiling fondly as Len tells his captivated audience about that time he (allegedly) stole a sculpture out of the Louvre. In copious (alleged) detail.

“You totally won the reunion,” Iris agrees, grinning. “Told you you would.”

“How was I supposed to know that everyone would be really into mingling with a supervillain?”

“He’s a Rogue,” Iris points out. “He’s on TV every few months. Doesn’t matter what side, he’s a celebrity. A charming celebrity.”

“He really is very charming…”

“And all yours.”

“And all mine,” Barry agrees, and grins.

Barry is sent to get more drinks while Iris goes to dig Eddie out of the hole he seems intent on making in the wall using his head, because he’s promised Iris he won’t arrest Len and Len seems to be taking that promise and running with it all the way down the football field the way he’s talking about the highlights of his criminal career tonight.

(Alleged highlights.)

Barry’s smiling the whole way there.

Right up until -

“Hey, look who it is!”

A heavy hand falls on Barry’s shoulder.

Oh, and the night was going so well, too…

Barry fixes a smile on his face. “Hi, Tony.”

“Barry Allen,” Tony says with great satisfaction. “How you been doing, man? It’s been ages!”

You don’t say.

“I’ve been doing fine,” Barry says, trying unsuccessfully to edge away from Tony’s steel-fisted grip on his shoulder. “Uh…you?”

“It’s cool, it’s cool,” Tony says cheerfully. “Got a job at the ironworks, pays well enough. Got a gym back at my place. Man, Barry Allen. Who’d have thought? We used to have so much fun together back in school.”

Barry’s brain temporarily shorts out. Total blue screen of death.

Fun?!

Tony “you were born to take a beating” Woodward thought they’d had fun?!

“Hey, that cute pseudo-sister of yours still around?” Tony says hopefully, looping an arm casually around Barry’s shoulder like they’re friends or something. “You ever hook up with her? I know you had a serious thing for her back at school.”

“No, I’m dating someone else,” Barry says shortly. “Iris is around here somewhere. Actually, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to –”

Tony snorts. “The shrimp’s actually dating someone? Guess there’s someone for everyone. You should set me up with that Iris chick.”

“Uh, no,” Barry says. “She’s also dating someone. A cop, actually.”

“Pssh, cops,” Tony says. “Who needs ‘em? Gimme her number. I know you know it. C’mon, do an old buddy a solid.”

“We weren’t buddies,” Barry points out, but it’s not helping; Tony’s reached over and grabbed his phone out of his pocket. “Hey! Give that back!”

“I will in a minute,” Tony says, breezily ignoring Barry the way he always had. “Let me just –”

A hand plucks the phone out of Tony’s meaty hands like it’s nothing.

“Hey, I was using that!” Tony protests.

“Because I have such a respect for other people’s property,” Len drawls. “That’s what I’m known for, me.”

“Listen up, punk,” Tony starts. “I don’t know who you think you are –”

“Captain Cold,” Len says, the smirk on his face cold as ice. “And unless your plans for the evening involve visiting the hospital for a severe case of frostbite, I suggest you rethink who you’re picking a fight with.”

Tony squints at him. “You’re not…” he starts uncertainly.

“I most certainly am,” Len says. He’s doing the thing he does with Mick sometimes, where they both seem to get taller and broader and infinitely scarier than they are normally, eyes going hard and deadly and suddenly reminding everyone that the Rogues’ code of non-killing is a fairly recent invention. “Now I’m going to say this just once, and it’s going to stick: stay away from my boyfriend.”

“Your –” Tony sounded befuddled, his eyes casting around the room in puzzlement before landing on Barry. “Allen?!”

“Bye, Tony,” Barry says, unable to keep from smiling.

“I –”

“Oh, and we were never buddies and high school wasn’t fun,” Barry adds. “Just, you know, fyi. So go take a hike before Len decides he’s going to ice you anyway.”

Much to Barry’s amazement, it actually works: Tony retreats, still looking somewhere between puzzled and affronted.

Len loops an arm over Barry’s shoulders. “Let me know if anyone else is bugging you,” he says, smirk still sharp and dangerous. “And I will ice ‘em.”

Barry laughs. “No, Tony was the worst,” he says. “Good thing you didn’t bring your cold gun.”

Len is suspiciously silent.

“Len,” Barry says. “You didn’t bring your cold gun, did you?”

“Just a miniature version.”

“Len!”

[thebeechbitch-blog]

Raising Hell

Most of you know me for being outspoken and opinionated about everything. Hell, some people might call me an “over-sharer” (for anyone following my Instagram account). The truth is, I’m a private person where it matters. I want to share a deeply personal story with the hope that it’ll spark a dialogue about women’s health and open lines of communication between other women who feel alone in their quest for answers and advocates.   I’ve been struggling with a silent and undiagnosed illness for roughly five years. I should preface this by saying that it’s actually been much longer than five years; I’d experienced symptoms in high school that were eventually mitigated by using hormonal birth control for nine years. Every month, like clockwork, I would start my period and the first day would be a nightmare. I would often barrel through the nurse’s office in high school, begging for Advil, writhing around in her office until the pills kicked in. At home I would lock myself in the bathroom and assume fetal position on the floor because the cool tile was the only thing that kept me from passing out. My mom explained to me that cramps were part of being a woman, so I never thought my experience was an abnormal one. I went on birth control in college. For the most part my cramps got better, but a host of nasty side effects cropped up with birth control. For the first two years of starting a new pill, I had debilitating depression with suicidal ideation, something I find difficult to admit even 13 years later. My freshman year of college was spent sleeping and watching independent films in a dark dorm, seldom leaving for social interaction of any kind. Years later when I moved over to a different prescription, I experienced the same sadness: constant weeping over nothing (to the point where my roommate and friend said she couldn’t deal with me anymore) and cystic acne that only exacerbated my depression. The painful cramps were gone for nine years but I still took Advil for slight cramping. And, I would spend years in dermatologist offices, using medicated creams to keep my breakouts at bay. When I was 25 I decided I wanted to live more holistically and stopped taking birth control. The side effects during this phase were horrific for my skin. I say this with no hyperbole – it took my skin three years to fully recover from the damage that hormonal birth control caused. I also suffered from unexplained GI issues that prompted a colonoscopy. Results showed I had an inflamed lymphocytic layer, presenting colitis-like symptoms, though the doctor told me “it’s probably IBS.” I started noticing other strange symptoms off birth control, one that I’d never experienced before. For those of you who really know me, you know that I love to exercise. I was running regularly in my early 20’s; I could run a 5K in 30 minutes with general ease. Several months after I stopped birth control I started having debilitating uterine cramps (for reference, it feels like a strong wave of contractions that knocks me to my feet and makes me clammy) about 10 minutes into a run. I would find myself doubled over in pain, on the brink of vomiting or passing out. Eventually, I realized that if I sat it out for five minutes when an episode occurred, I’d be able to continue my run like nothing happened. I started getting paranoid about having an embarrassing episode in front of people, or not being near a bathroom when I might need one, so I stopped running outside. I tirelessly scoured the internet for other women who might be experiencing similar symptoms. I found several forums where women documented the same scenario I’d been experiencing on my runs, but no answers from medical professionals. When I raised the issue to my OB-GYN during a routine check-up, she shrugged, claimed she had “never heard of that,” and sent me on my way. That was the last time I saw that particular doctor. It was around this time when my painful periods came back with a vengeance. In 2016, my periods became so intense that I was vomiting regularly from the pain on the first day. The first bad episode that comes to mind is when I got sick at work and had to puke into my trash can. I left early after my coworkers stopped me in the hallway to tell me that I looked pale. The pain was so severe that I continued to throw up all over myself on the drive home. One bout in December 2016 landed me in the hospital. I had to lie to my supervisor and say that I came down with a bad case of food poisoning, which, incidentally, would be my crux each time I had to stay home from work. My (now) husband (then fiancé) grew worried that I was dangerously dehydrated. I couldn’t drink water without vomiting. Any pills I took to lessen the pain were quickly eliminated into the toilet, and heating pads weren’t helping. This went on for hours.

I sat in the hospital waiting room that day, vomiting into a bag, and feeling like death might be a better option. The hospital staff were quick to put me on a bed in the hallway, where I continued to hurl into a bag while staff and patrons looked on. Once the morphine and anti-vomiting meds kicked in, the doctor came by to tell me I was experiencing “dysmenorrhea,” which is clinically defined as “painful menstruation.” I ripped into him with what little energy I had left from the day. I explained that this wasn’t normal and that I wanted something more to be done about it. He looked me in the eyes and said, “I’m not sure what you want me to do,” then slinked away. Two hours and my full deductible later ($1,500, in case you were wondering), I exited the hospital depleted of energy -- hopeless and angry as hell. I dreaded that this was the new normal, so I decided to make some life changes. I decreased coffee intake and started a new exercise regimen that didn’t include running. I researched vitamins to take for inflammation (fish oil, garlic, turmeric). I introduced spinning classes and yoga, which ended up being such a great thing for me. I even lost some weight leading up to my wedding in 2017. Periods were still bad – I was living on eight Advil and portable heating pads one day a month (shout out to Thermacare) – but I felt more in control of the symptoms. I was experiencing the dreaded exercise pain during spin class but could manage it by slowing down for five minutes or by avoiding third position movement (riding out of the saddle seemed to aggravate my uterus and GI symptoms). Sadly, my exercise pain started getting worse and more frequent from 2018 to 2019 and I started tracking symptoms using a fertility app (shout out to Flo). There was no continuity or pattern, except I noticed that there was a two-day window right after my period ended when I could exercise without pain. Two days. Otherwise, pain would occur ~10-15 minutes into any cardio activity. Any time I’d go to a group spin class I would have to stop pedaling or worse, leave the bike for a mad dash to the bathroom. It has become too embarrassing for me to exercise with or around other people. To date, I experience exercise-induced uterine pain with GI symptoms 95% of my cycle. And new GI symptoms have appeared in 2019. I feel a stabbing pain in my intestines right before I relieve myself and debilitating constipation most weeks. I almost never feel the relief of an empty colon. I feel bloated on most days, regardless of what I eat. Some other symptoms related to this illness include fatigue (check), bladder fullness (check), lower back pain (check), and a host of other fun things I experience regularly. I’ve gone to different doctors for all these symptoms over the years, with very little relief and even fewer answers. For those of you who have read this far…thanks! I realize that I haven’t revealed the big diagnosis, which is an allegory for my entire journey thus far. I’ve been to four different OB-GYNs over the last five years. I’ve had countless ultrasounds and different hands feeling my organs through my vagina, only to be told that I am “completely healthy.” These diagnostic tests are an invasion of privacy. Imagine if a man complained about frequent urination and had to go to four different doctors for multiple prostate exams. Can you imagine a man being anally probed on multiple occasions, only to leave the office without a diagnosis? Probably not, because it simply… Would. Not. Happen. With a hurried tone, my most recent doctor told me I could either go back on birth control or try to conceive. If I had trouble conceiving, he would consider exploratory surgery as a next step. I was 28 at the time and not looking to conceive. I had also explained that birth control made me suicidal as my body adjusted. He told me to come back when I was having difficulty getting pregnant.

Can you imagine? A woman’s two options are synthetic hormones or pregnancy. I didn’t want either option at 28, so I chose the third option – live in pain. Miss work, cancel plans with friends, cease exercise altogether. This is the path I chose. The next time I visited his office was after a particularly bad month in February 2019. He stuck to the same routine: ultrasound, probing, followed by “you’re healthy” dialogue. I broke down in tears when he showed me my “healthy” ultrasound. I had to prove my misery with tears and whimpers for him to finally start taking my pain seriously. He said we should go ahead with an exploratory surgery “if that’s what I wanted” and passed me off to his assistant to make an appointment. I put the appointment on hold because I didn’t feel right about how this doctor had treated me. Did I really want this guy doing an invasive procedure after years of rebuffing me and my very real, perceived pain? I sought answers online and decided to make an appointment with one of the only three (vetted) specialists in New York state qualified to correctly diagnose and remove unhealthy tissue from my abdominal cavity. My appointment in November will be out of network because our healthcare system has failed women. We’re told that women should be checked regularly for HPV during pap examinations and the annual exam is covered by insurance. It’s also worth mentioning that HPV rarely develops into cancer. And yet, this is the gold standard for annual exams. Anything falling outside of the annual pap is billed. Any other complaint or exam… billed. Here it is. The diagnosis! It’s estimated that 1 in 10 women in the world suffer from Endometriosis and there are currently no diagnostic tests that accurately identify the disease. Exploratory surgery is the only way doctors can diagnose Endometriosis with certainty. Endometriosis is severely underfunded, but very common. It can affect all abdominal organs, in addition to the liver and lungs (more rare), and hormones fuel the development of diseased tissue. Finding a specialist in the field is daunting, and surgery is often too expensive for most women. Most non-specialized OB-GYNs will use ablation, a surgical technique not recommended for full removal and recovery. I received a call from Dr. Masahide Kanayama’s office after filling out an online form. The office manager ran off a list of questions: “do you experience painful cramps, nausea, vomiting, constipation, diarrhea, back pain?” I said “yes” to all of these. I told her I’ve been vomiting from the pain for years. I asked her if anyone had come into their office with constant, exercise-induced pain. She said, “oh sweety, it sounds like you have Endometriosis.” Nobody believed me. Nobody explicitly stated the obvious to me, out loud. I’ve had to advocate for myself for years. I’ve had family members brush me off, calling me a “hypochondriac,” but I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life! We need to do better for women’s health. We need to believe women. We need to advocate for women. We need to fund research for women’s health and specialize in women’s diseases. I have my first appointment with Dr. Kanayama, an out of network doctor, in November. He’s a specialist in the field and may be able to see signs of Endometriosis on 3D ultrasound. If I’m comfortable moving forward and he thinks I’m a good candidate, I’ll schedule a surgery to excise the nasty tissue that’s been plaguing me for years, robbing me of my happiness and sanity. Who knows how severe or extensive it is; I just hope they can get it all. If you are a woman who has been experiencing any of the symptoms I’ve shared, or have had similar experiences in doctor’s offices, please reach out to me. Or better yet, share your stories. I want to hear from you and let you know that you’re not alone, you’re not crazy, and your pain is real. I realize that not everybody is as candid or willing to share, but we must start somewhere. We must raise hell. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”