#i feel like towards the end its spurred on by her fear of judgement; shes convinved they all hate her and are laughing about her

[technicolorxsn]

oh okay

[sandpumpkin]

Dear to the Heart

This was a secret santa gift for the wonderful @elliemehl​ and she said I could post it. So! Please enjoy some soft mochi. 

Warning: mild angst.

Fluff. 

under the cut because it’s a litte long.

Being able to peek into the future was a gift most people would kill for, and it was a skill Katakuri had honed for many years; yet now he was almost reluctant to use it. Every dawn he woke feeling a piece of him was missing, every day he cursed those painful words. And every night, he thought of how he missed her curled up in his arms.

But it was the right thing to do.

-3 years earlier-

“What do you mean?” she asked, tears already threatening to spill from her eyes as she looked up at him. Katakuri reached with his giant hand to carefully wipe the tears away.

“You have to leave.” he replied sternly, “for your own safety.” He  moved away from her to sit behind his desk, knowing that if he stayed close he would want to hold her and never let go. “You have yet to pay your soul tax – you cannot stay. I have already prepared a ship and residence for you out of Mama’s territory.” It was a battle to remain impervious to her tears.

“I don’t- I don’t want to go.” Her voice cracked as she struggled to string a sentence together.

“You will leave,” he said with his usual cold tone and not the softer tone he used with her, “Go now while Mama is too busy planning another wedding to notice a ship slip out of the area.” 

Clutching her shirt tightly, she swallowed back more tears and smiled at him. It pained him so much to see how her smile quivered every second it was upon her beautiful face. “Goodbye Katakuri...I love you..” she sniffled and hurried out of his office, breaking into sobs. 

Katakuri balled his hands into tight fists and tried to calm his own frantic emotions.

As do I. One day when it is safer I will come for you.

-Present Day-

Another day had rolled by and he found himself in the Seducing Woods, home to his sister Brulee. He used to walk here with his beloved, she loved this eerily spooky forest and Brulee had been overjoyed to know her dear brother had finally found someone special; she always made sure the forest homies kept their eyes closed when Katakuri came here, giving him some privacy from prying eyes. “Kata! My sweetest mochi!” He could almost hear her sweet voice in his ears, almost feel her beside him holding his large hand in her far smaller one.

He sat down by the lake hidden away by the trees in the centre of the forest and reached into his waistcoat pocket to pull out a delicate silver locket which he carefully opened. His bright pink eyes softened as they gazed upon her sweet face; running a thumb over the portrait he wanted  nothing more than to have her here in his arms.

So many times he was tempted to use his future sight to see what her future held but he was scared. What if her future wasn’t with him? What if she had found another?

But the gifts he had sent her had been delivered –  unless she was selling them? So many unanswered questions that stabbed at his heart like knives.

He remembered their first kiss in this very forest on a full moon when she tumbled into the river.

-

Katakuri had been so focused on making sure no one was around that he had failed to even consider that she might slip by accident. She slipped and Katakuri had moved to grab her but instead her hand had clutched at his thick scarf pulling it clean over his head and into the cold lake. He remembered the shock as he stood with his hand still outstretched like a stunned deer. It had all happened so fast and now she would surface and see his hideous face. It took a lot to make Katakuri jump but when she surfaced taking a gasp of air, he felt his body jolt slightly, and he watched her as she shook the water from her hair.

“I am so sorry, Kata..kuri..” She looked up at him, holding his scarf which had probably soaked up plenty of water. She was staring and Katakuri moved to cover his face, backing away from the water's edge and turning around. “Katakuri, wait!” she called frantically, and he heard the sound of his scarf slopping onto the ground as she clambered out of the water.

A gentle hand came to rest on his forearm. “Katakuri?” She hesitated. “I know you’ve always hidden your face and I understand if you do not wish to show me but I want you to know that I love you. I love every aspect of you. Everything about you fills my heart – you’re  so strong and unyielding, and so gentle and caring, so loyal and understanding of others with or without your future sight. Please know that there is nothing in this world that would change how I feel about you. I shall say it over and over - I love you, Charlotte Katakuri, and always will.”

Swallowing his uncertainty he turned back to her, a gloved hand still covering his face as he knelt down to breach their difference in height No battle he had fought could compare to the anxiety thudding in his chest. What if her words were hollow and would shatter the moment she glimpsed at his face properly?

Gingerly she touched his hand,  gazing into his eyes to seek his permission. At a slight nod of his head  she guided his arm to his side, leaving him defenseless to her judgement.

He turned his eyes away, unable to bear the sight of the disgust that probably lingered  in her eyes, but warm hands came to cup his face as though he were made out of the most delicate of meringues. Her soft fingers traced his facial features: the long scar that spread from his lips and his huge teeth. “How handsome,” she said, after what felt like an eternity of silence. He finally looked back at her and was shocked: she was smiling at him so gently, not a trace of fear in her beautiful eyes. Her fingers ran through his short spiky hair and guided his head to her chest so she could plant a kiss into his hair “I am glad you showed me your face and I stand true by my words. I love you.”

Katakuri closed his eyes in relief. His whole body eased into hers, savouring this foreign gentle touch, and he raised his hands to wrap around her body, holding her close. He might be one of the sweet commanders and most feared people on Totto Island but right now he felt like a normal man being loved by his sweetheart.

“Katakuri?” she asked hesitantly, “could we...could we kiss? Or maybe..is it too soon?” she stammered out as though she had just proposed the most illicit action ever. Katakuri peered up from her chest to see her cheeks tinted red. The butterflies swirling around his stomach made him feel like a young man again, when he had missed out on these feelings. People were so scared of him that none dared approach him and now here he was pondering his first kiss with someone he loved dearly. He nodded and the look of excitement mixed with nervousness in her eyes. 

Katakuri allowed her to take the lead - he was no expert at romance, all this completely new to him. Cradling his face still, she closed the gap between them to plant little kisses all over his face before placing the softest kiss on his lips. The moon had been shining down upon them like the lovers in a melodramatic play: it was a moment he could never forget.

-

Katakuri looked up at the sky where another full moon cast down its cold rays upon him. Another act without its leading lady. How many years do I have left on this earth?. He was in his forties now and still he felt incomplete. How many years had he wasted without her by his side? Despite his status and branding as a pirate all he wanted was to live out his days with her, perhaps have a family of his own, or maybe just pets, whatever she wanted as long as she was by his side. Snapping the lid closed with a quiet click, he pocketed the locket and finally headed home. Though is it really a home without her?

One of the servants greeted him urgently as he entered his home. “Sir, you have a visitor.” Tensing as Katakuri glanced down at him sternly.

“This late?” he questioned flatly, he was tired and had no intention of pandering to some uncalled for guest.  “Send them away.” He headed toward the living room only to have the servant give chase trying to keep up with Katakuri’s much longer stride.

“Sir. They came earlier and insisted they wait for you.” Katakuri stopped in his tracks and grumbled, running a hand over his short spiky hair, “They have a seal of the Charlotte family. I thought you would be angry if I sent them away-” Sighing in defeat, Katakuri turned on his heels marching towards the far end of the hallway, his spurs clinking on the well polished marble floor.

As he headed through the hall his chest tightened that the sight of  a familiar form sitting in the grand main hall. No. It can’t be …. 

He must remain resolute in his decision and send her away again. With long strides he walked past her, not even sparing  her a glance.

“Will you not even look at me?” she asked. He stole a quick glimpse over his shoulder;  she was standing, clutching her coat nervously the same way as the day she left, though now her eyes watched him sternly.

“We will talk in my office,” he said coolly and marched off to his office, her soft footsteps following behind. He took his spot behind his desk, leaning back in his large chair to maintain his aloof persona. Folding his arms around his wide tattooed chest, “Why-” he began.

“I came back for you,” she interrupted determinedly, “I need to be beside you, Katakuri. I’m ready to face Big Mom with you. I want to spend the rest of my days with you.” She studied him carefully, making sure her eyes never left his. 

“I assumed you have moved on.” he admitted quietly. Looking away shamefully. Why would she want to come back?

“You thought I had found someone else?” she asked in surprise. 

“Why did you come back.” His question was cold and abrupt but after how he sent her away, he needed to know.

“Brulee explained everything to me. I know why you sent me away.” She explained, smiled softly, walking around the desk to stand beside him and reached for his scarf. He tensed but then closed his eyes, allowing her to pull the heavy fur scarf over his head. Her soft hands grazed his face, turning it towards her “How I have missed your handsome face.” she cooed, leaning in to gently pepper his face in light airy kisses “How could I have loved anyone else knowing that my sweet donut was here all alone?”

Closing his eyes, Katakuri allowed her to continue to shower him in kisses. This..this is just like that night.  A smile tugged at his lips and carefully he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer to him. How he had missed her touch, her scent, her warmth. 

“Forgive me,” he mumbled into her chest “I sent you away thinking it was for the best and never thought about how you would feel. I wanted to keep you safe from all this.” he felt her face nuzzle his hair gently which spurred him to carry on talking “Thank you..Thank you for coming back to me. Not a day passed where you weren’t at the forefront of my mind.”

“I missed you Katakuri.” she said, trailing her fingers in little circles over the back of his neck.

“We’ll conquer this future together,” he said, his voice barely audible. He looked up at her and saw that joyous sparkle of happiness in her eyes.

“Forever and always, my sweet,” and she sealed her words with a tender kiss to his lips.

It was as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders: Katakuri felt whole again. Complete. Nothing would ever separate them again, not even the will of his own mother.

[orionares]

BTHB: Comatose- Part 2

A/N: Don’t have a title yet. Here’s part 2. =] -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She dreams of possibilities. 

These possibilities had been buried in the back of her mind a decade ago into the category of ‘broken dreams’ when her partner had disappeared. The particular possibility crossing her mind is a new one, spurred by the day she had jogged away from him with her son in tow on a snowy afternoon.

Noah’s fifteen, tall and lanky with his reddish brown curls, standing with a group of teenagers in matching shirts, black pants and tap shoes. He grins ear to ear with his troop as parents in the audience cheer for an encore.  

In this possibility, she’s standing in the second row, clapping and letting tears of pride run down her cheek. Her not-so-little boy has fought like hell for this moment. An arm wraps around her waist and pulls her close to the only person outside her son who has a piece of her heart. 

"You did good."

She laughs at the compliment  from her once again partner and rests her hand against his cheek. "We did good!”

Her once again partner’s blue eyes sparkle with admiration and love that she’d gone ten years without seeing. In this possibility, they move fluidly as they had before as partners but with a new level of intimacy. 

“This isn’t real,” she whispers, barely audible over the cheering and his attention turned towards her son. She knows she shouldn’t lose herself in this possibility. 

But this possibility is free of saving the world from predators, abandonment issues, lingering fears of the pandemic and pain. And she’s emotionally exhausted. 

So maybe she can stay a while. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elliot’s woken by a kick to his chair leg. 

Expecting Bell and a well needed cup of coffee, Elliot opens his eyes to a blonde haired, blue eyed woman looking extremely unimpressed at the sight of him. The woman had been in Olivia's office, leaving her likely to be one of her detectives. 

"Get up," the blonde commands with a southern drawl. Rollins or Rowan, he guesses as her last name from a foggy memory, turns away from his makeshift cot and gives a lingering sad look towards the unconscious Olivia. She huffs out a breath and returns her attention back to Elliot, saying, “Let’s go for a walk.” 

"Do I get a choice-" Elliot stops mid question at the I freaking dare you glare very similar to Olivia’s. Ignoring the sudden urge to smile in reminiscence, he coughs and swings his legs off the chair serving as the foot of his 'bed' and tweaks his question," What can I do for you, Detective…"

"Rollins, Amanda Rollins," she finishes. "First off, I don’t like you, Stabler. I don’t like how you up and disappeared without a word for a decade,” Amanda continues as she ignores Elliot’s pained expression. She notices Elliot's flinch at the mention of his disappearance. "Come on. I don't have a lot of time."

Elliot takes a beat to read Amanda- she holds onto a coffee tightly as its a lifeline, wears a grey sweater and black slacks with a small stain likely to be from a marker near her knee.

"Are you a parent?" Elliot probes. Standing elicits a yawn and a useless stretch to fight his tight, aching muscles. 

Amanda's expression lightens briefly for the briefest moment. "Two girls. Captain's the godmother for both my girls. Let's head to the garden and chat. Come on.”

------------------------------------------------------

Manhattan is grey and unusually cool for a summer day in July. The hospital's garden has only a handful of visitors that scatter throughout the stone garden. Elliot instinctively scans every face he sees for any ties to Wheatley, even with Richard Wheatley sitting in a jail cell. Amanda leads the way to black steel bench and sits, giving him ample space to sit. 

"So why’d you leave her?" Amanda asks as Elliot lowers himself onto the bench. She avoids his anxious look by eyeing the lukewarm coffee in her hands. 

"It's complicated-"

Amanda scoffs before taking a sip of her coffee. She fidgets in her seat briefly before leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. "That's bullshit."

Elliot runs a hand over the back of his neck and sighs. He replays bits and pieces of his conversation with Noah in his head whispers he fishes for the most diplomatic answer to say. Amanda narrows her eyes at the silence before snapping, "You broke her trust, you know that? My old partner, Nick Amaro, had to double our efforts to gain Olivia’s trust because of you!" 

"I know, " he answers weakly. The weeks after landing in Rome are a blur, thanks to alcohol and sleepless nights. "I can't imagine. "

"No, you can't."

The silence that follows is thick between them. The blonde haired detective stares straight ahead with a small white dove statue surrounded by colorful peonies. She takes a long sip of her coffee and mutters, “She’s been through a lot in the last ten years- things that…”

Elliot flinches. Among the suspicious glances of the infamous rogue detective, he’s heard whispers and vague references of “with all she’s been through” whenever he’s been within arm’s reach of Olivia. 

“Did something-” the question that’s been buried between his grief for Kathy and hatred for Richard Wheatley spills out, “-did- what happened?”

Amanda finally turns her head to meet Elliot’s eyes. He can read hesitancy in her eyes to trust the man that abandoned Olivia. He also reads a desire to either punch him in the face or shoot him that he’s seen from Fin, the young dark haired officer he met briefly in Olivia’s office, the ADA and oddly, Chief Garland. 

“It isn’t my story to tell,” Amanda replies carefully. “There’s actually multiple stories but the big one is something you need to hear from her. Look, Stabler- I’ve only heard bits and pieces about you and Liv and I want to say that I trust her judgement.” 

Elliot pushes past his mind already fervently making a plan to scour his ex-partner’s file once he’s back upstairs. A lone raindrops hits his cheek, warning a need to go inside and an end of their conversation. “I’m not going anywhere. I-I’m not- I can’t lose her again.”

Amanda rises to her feet and tosses her empty coffee cup into the black garbage bin next to the bench. With a quick glance to her cellphone screen, she sighs, “Stabler, don’t screw this up, ok?”

He unconsciously fidgets with his wedding ring and only nods in response.  There's a never ending list of screw up he carries in the back of his mind where Olivia and Kathy sit. 

Two women, lives affected by his indecision. 

"Stabler?"

Elliot glances up to Amanda who hasn't moved from where she stands. She sighs before stating ,"William Lewis. He's the big one."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You got a good group of detectives," are the first words Elliot stammers fifteen minutes later once he's back alone with Olivia. "I met Amanda Rollins and she's tough. I like her."

He can imagine her nodding in acknowledgement at the comment with pride. Instead, the heart monitor continues to beep steadily. "She mentioned that things happened while I was gone, "he pauses as his guilt once more bubbles up," Bad Things."

Elliot lowers his head into his hand. "Liv, if I'm being honest, there's a selfish part of me that doesn't want to know. I want to live in a world where- I'm terrified of what I'll find."

Although he had never told her, the near rape at Seaview Corrections Facility had forever seared a permanent place in his mind. He's eternally great full for Fin's save but the could have's sitting in his mind,  flaring up with every glance or comment by a suspect-

"I don't…." Elliot pulls his cellphone out of his jacket pocket and notices how much heavier the object feels. "William Lewis- did he try to kill you? Did he ra-"

He cant even finish the sentence before he chokes back a sob. "If he...I shouldn't have left!"

The image of her shifting in her seat, her brown eyes shifting from item to item in her surrounding in a tact to prepare herself comes to mind. Elliot reaches out to brush his hand against her right hand resting on her stomach in an unconscious attempt to comfort her.  

And if he's honest- himself.

With two quick inhales, Elliot opens the NYPD database on his cellphone and maneuvers to case search. He sneaks another glass to her before typing William Lewis in the search bar. When a dark haired, empty-eyed man appears, Elliot flinches. 

September 25, 2013

January 8, 2014

April 30th, 2014

"Christ," Elliot mutters. 

Three different dates. 

Three separate incidents.

 Less than one year. 

The detective readies himself to open the file before his guilt, now running rampant in his mind, flashes a memory of what he had been doing in September 2013. 

Camogli. 

He had finally slipped into some form of normalcy with his family and had gone to the quaint fishing town on the coast of Italy. 

Elliot takes one more glance at his unconscious partner- ex-partner - and opens the file on William Lewis. 

And cries.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

She now dreams of Elliot in a jail cell. 

He's sitting on a silver bench, leaning forward with an elbow on a bouncing knee. She can see his knuckles to be bloodied and torn and follows the trail of dried blood running up his arms to the bloodied dress blue shirt.

"El," she calls out. Her eyes droop even as she stands on four days of food and sleep deprivation. "You didn't-" the words spill out, "You didn't have to kill him."

There's an emptiness in his eyes that shares space with the lack of regret. "I had to. Lewis hurt you."

Wait- realization comes in dread. Elliot's never been arrested, she's never found him bloodied and bruised in this state and overall, when it comes to William, Lewis- he wasn't there. 

She staggers back into the wall.

This isn't right- he wasn't this isn't a memory or a blissful possibility now that he's home. 

No, this is 2013 and he's killed William Lewis.

No. This isn't right at all.

[annerly-san]

Our Happy Ending | Risotto Nero | Chapters 1-7

A03 Link:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/25862377/chapters/62838787

The warmth aroma of freshly baked bread and the wafting smells of the starting day’s espresso carried itself in the air of Naples.

She inhaled with great vigor before contently letting her breath out with elated content.

It was the smallest things that she appreciated in her life.

Whether it was the sun shining brightly as it peered over the horizon and began its way across the clear blue sky to reach its pinnacle straight above her head, the wind gently ruffling the loose fabric at the hems of her sleeves, or the quiet scratching of pen against paper as she wrote out fantastical stories where she could aptly convey the best imagery and tales that her mind could muster.

A street musician was playing in the background of the patio she sat in.

The server had arrived with a freshly baked cornetto-- a golden brown that shone with the glisten of butter on top-- as well as a cappuccino with a gracefully drawn flower in the foam of the milk.

Her pen inked the final letter of the word she had just finished writing before she allowed for the pen to be set down against the notebook.

Gratefully thanking the waiter, she wrapped the band of the notebook around the cover as to bind its contents neatly together before stowing the book into her bag.

The sensation of light, bubbly foam transitioning to warm, creamy milk and then hot, bitter espresso glided over her palette as she took a sip of her cappuccino.  The croissant, not going unattended, was soon picked up, peeled back to reveal its many flaky and steaming layers, and nibbled at.

The solace of this routine gave her an ease of mind as she finished up the last of her breakfast -- leaving her payment on the table before clutching her satchel and heading towards the streets.

She wondered where she would go today.

Perhaps the seashore and the rhythmic clashing of waves could lull her to a new productivity as she put her pen to work on the final chapters of her novel.  Or maybe the gentle ambience of a meadow by the orchid of lemon trees and its growing fruits would provide the relaxation to conclude her story with a satisfying end.

Her recent novel about an underdog of a high-crime syndicate working his ends off for his greedy and self-serving superior had been a massive hit with the masses.  The most recent book had the gang-member killing his capo in retaliation for the endless bloodshed and crimes that he had stained his hands with by the order of the higher ups.

The story was intense and interlaced with drama and the general reception of the mafia novel had been so well-received that she was urged to write the sequel or a follow-up to the poor man’s tale.

Her mind wandered as she walked down the busy sidewalk-- catching glance of her reflection in a boutique’s window as a strange inspiration struck her.

Maybe she would write to the tale of him returning to his family.  A father coming back to see the wife and daughter that he had left behind as a means to keep her safe from the mafia.

The thought prickled at her heart with a gleeful delight and a resonating ache of reflection as she wondered if that was why her father had abandoned her mother so long ago.  Her mother had long since passed, but her lips remained still on who her father was and why he had left them.  The curiosity of her mind grasped at straws and drew traces in her imagination as she pondered if there was ever a chance she had a father entangled in the mafia.

She found herself smiling happily at the notion and, by extension, the idea of a father leaving his family behind for their safety.  The reflection of herself smiled back-- lips parted slightly and turned upwards in a faint smile.  But as she stared in the glass, the corner of her eyes noticed a pair of intense red irises surrounded by an obsidian sclera glowing in the background of her reflection.

Alarmed, she turned around.

There was nothing.

Perhaps it was just a figment of her imagination, but she couldn’t not help but feel the quickening pace of her heart and slight shivers running down her back.  She turned back to the glass to only see herself and nothing else.

Blinking the remainder of the daydreams from her mind, she turned back to the direction that she was walking in and continued strolling down the street-- telling herself to calm the rapidly growing pace of her heartbeats and the prickling sensation on her back that made her feel like she was being watched.

She found herself at the entrance of an alleyway as she immediately began to panic.

This was one of the furthest places from a shoreline or meadow that she had hoped to be in to continue writing the extension of her novel.  In hindsight, the moment she felt some sort of discomfort and indication that she was being followed, she should have immediately gone to a busier place with the police nearby.

She needed to leave.

While she didn’t dare enter the alley, she somehow managed to walk down a more quiet street with less foot traffic.  Internally hoping that good luck and fortune would grace her, she turned around only to bump into an invisible force that caused her to stumble backwards from the collision.

She felt herself being dragged into the darkness of the alleyway.

A scream grew in her throat, but before it could leave, a hand almost twice the size of her entire face clamped over her mouth and forced her stumbling backwards in the direction of its force.

Her back was slammed against the brick wall of the building and she felt the stinging press of a thin cold metal at her throat.

A knife.

A jolt of scalding cold blood pulsated through her veins as her body tremored uncontrollably from fear.

The fear that she had hopes to convey in the eloquent words of her novel were nothing compared to the actual reality.  No matter how well and fluent she was with her words, they were reduced to simple lines and phrases that bordered on the threshold of incoherency.

“P-please, if it’s money you want-”  She looked down at her side and stumbled to grab her wallet from her satchel.  “Y-you can have it!  P-please!  I-I’m just a novelist!”

The blade pressed against her throat with greater pressure as a dull sting broke across the surface of her skin and a disturbing sensation of warm fluid was felt trickling down her neck.

Her eyes pressed shut as she retreated back to feeble resignation of being held at the mercy of her aggressor.

Shuddering and forcing her eyes to pry open, she was met with the eyes of the reaper.

Towering above her, she had to strain her neck at an uncomfortable angle to meet his eyes.  And those eyes.

Haunting.

A pair of crystalline rubies floating in a pool of endless obsidian.

Eerily beautiful.

Had she not been so initially encaptivated by the intensity of his eyes, its contrasting play of colors that elicited fear and radiated threat, she would have sooner noticed the sharp features of his face.  His expression was solemn.  Nearly devoid of human emotion to the extent where she would be compelled to believe in tales of demons and grim reapers that were sent to fetch the souls of humans to torment in the afterlife.  The grim death glare that he had would have been sufficient on its own to send her into a horrible mess of tears and intelligible pleas for him to just kill her quickly as to not have her suffer whatever amount of torture and torment he was capable of.

But with that ominous look on his face, the overbearing presence that radiated off of him to the point of suffocating her, as well as the knife that was drawing blood from her neck, there was simply too much simulation for her brain to handle.

And as often the case in dangerous situations, the fright, anxiety, pain and shock caused the blood pressure in her body to drop.  Combined with the quick intake and exchange of oxygen in her lungs as a result of hyperventilation, she felt light-headed.

There was a sudden brightness that there wasn’t supposed to be in a dark alleyway as the sensation of falling flooded into her senses.

She fainted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~END CHP 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Risotto wasn’t sure what to do with the unconscious woman.

He had the orders to kill her.

But from his judgement, the lady seemed to be a completely innocent civilian.

Was the information incorrect?

The orders from his capo were based on an arguably flimsy correlation.  The murder of one of Passione’s capo’s by a lower-ranked gang member that had defected was linked to a similar description in one of the recently published novels about mafia drama.

He was ordered to find the author and eliminate her if she was indeed the culprit that spurred the treacherous deed to fruition.

“...It seems that the two occurences just happened to be coincidental.”

He examined her.  Having caught her right before she crumpled to the ground and saving her from a potential concussion from hitting her head on the concrete floor.

Risotto made sure to scrutinize her carefully.

There wasn’t a trace of violence or ill-will evident.  The way that she passed out at the slightest threat and his appearance was also proof that she had no prior exposure to violence or threats of any kind.

It was either she had no hand in the betrayal and murder of one of Passione’s capos, or she did play a part-- but was unaware.

While the members of Passione were ordered to avoid civilian casualties the best they could-- and Risotto would rather not kill an innocent civilian unless he was forced to-- the prospect of her potentially involved in the capo’s death made him lean towards the choice of gathering more information on her before doing anything decisive.

He took ahold of her a little better-- easily picking her up and holding her body to rest horizontally in his arms.  Using Metallica to attract microscopic iron filaments in the surrounding alleyway, he cloaked the both of them in iron to conceal their visible presence before heading off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a dull ache that awoke her.

Her limbs felt weak and she had a strange shake in her hands.  There was little to no energy left in her.

Adjusting her eyes and blinking a few times to clear them of the foggy layer that had obscured their vision, she made out her surroundings.

She was resting on a bed in what seemed to be an apartment room.  She tried to sit up.

“You’re awake.”

The abrupt sound of a low and deep voice startled her as she yelped in surprise only to flinch at the sudden pain in her neck.

“The cut isn’t deep, but you should be fine,” the voice continued.  “I’ve cleaned it and wrapped it already for you.”

She was suddenly aware of the gauze wrapped around her throat as her fingers gingerly touched the wrapping as her stomach sank.

The prickling sensation of eyes staring into her back was present again.  There was a reluctance to verify the identity of the person that was speaking to her.

That timbre.  That cold tone.  It was unfamiliar to her, but she had an inkling as to who it belonged to.

She forced herself to turn around and look at her reaper in the eyes.

There were those eyes again.  The eyes were considered the windows to the soul and often the first place where people would focus their attention when they stared at someone’s face for the first time.

Those brilliant red and black eyes tantalized her with coinciding emotions of crippling fear as well as dangerous curiosity.

Her abductor leaned against the wall by the windowsill locking eye contact with her.

She was surprised that she could still speak.

“D-did you need something from me?”

She wasn’t sure if she imagined the slightest quirk of his lips into a smile.

“That’s the first thing you choose to ask?”

She wasn’t sure how to respond, but it didn’t seem that he was expecting an answer from her.

“I want you to write a story for me.”

If he had not taken ahold of her fear and attention by suddenly approaching the bedside to place himself close to her, she would have questioned the absurdity of his request.

Before she had the time to inquire, he already continued speaking.

“What do you need to write?  I’d like for you to have it done for me by… tomorrow morning.  Does that sound fair?  It can be a short story”  He seemed to be freely speaking now.  The words flowed from his lips naturally as it swayed in sync with his thoughts.  “Can you write the story exactly how I ask for it?   I want it to be about someone.  And I want something very specific to happen to this man in your work.”

She didn’t register his hands enveloping hers as he placed a pen and notebook in her hands.

Going purely off of the texture, size and feel of the items, these weren’t hers.

Where did he put them?

The pen had fallen out of her hand, bouncing off the bed and rolling to a halt on the floor.  She was shaking too much it seemed.

He let out an almost silent sigh before picking it up for her.

“I won’t hurt you.”  His voice made her shiver.  His voice was gruff, low and deep.  It made the ribs in her chest vibrate with each syllable that he enunciated.  “But I need you to do this for me.  I also can’t have you go anywhere until you finish either.”

Those intense eyes captured hers again.

She wasn’t sure how to interpret the emotions in his eyes.  Was there sincerity?  A sign that she could trust him to his words?

The endless black voids of his eyes answered with nothing.

She looked at the pen he held out for her and took in carefully.

This was a compromised situation.

If she did as she was told, it could only increase the percentage of her leaving unscathed.  But that didn’t necessarily mean that she was given an absolute guarantee either.

She cautiously uncapped the pen and tried to stabilize her hand over the notebook.  The pen pressed against the paper-- leaving a pooling circle of ink on the otherwise pristinely clean page.

She inhaled sharply before letting in an uneven exhale.

Looking at him, she mustered the courage to ask.

“W-who is this person I’m writing about…?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Risotto had phoned Melone and Ghiaccio to uncover more information on the woman before he decided his next course of action.

“She’s a civilian.  It doesn’t seem that she’s even remotely aware of Passione, much less the capo’s death,” Risotto reported.  “Can you provide me any other information?”

The results were interesting.

The novel that the woman had published was written a good amount of time before the capo’s murder which could only mean that the only possible link would be that the defector took inspiration from the novel a month after it was published and took to betraying the gang.

She was also blood-related to a higher-ranked official of Passione that had passed away a couple of years ago during a drug deal heist.  There was no motive that could have spurred her to create discord within the organization.

Risotto hung up.

He’s come across something valuable.  He only needed to affirm it.

Walking back into the bedroom of the apartment that he had reserved for instances of missions such as this, he took a quick glance at the bed to see that the woman was still out cold.

Arriving at the nightstand, he cleared away the roll of gauze, scissors, and antiseptic before taking note of the woman’s satchel which he had set on the floor earlier.

Opening it, he noticed the notebook which seemed to be her journal of notes, stories and excerpts that she wrote in.

The outlines were detailed; it listed everything from the characters relationships to symbolism to plot development and even chapter to chapter layout.

He noticed the small movements on the bed-- an indication that she was stirring closer to consciousness.  Risotto quickly stashed the notebook away.  He would look through it at his leisure later.

As she began to stir awake, he began to ponder the various prospects of her ability.

A novel that correlated to a gang member’s betrayal.  A blood relation to a potential stand user.

He needed to test her abilities and confirm it for himself.

Watching her stumble to sit herself up and look around, he leaned against the wall-- spectating with mild amusement.  The look of horror in her eyes as she met his, the fumbling of her words as she asked him what he needed something from her made him, and the nervous fidget of her fingers gripping for the comfort of something that wasn’t there drew out the rarest and faintest of smiles from him.

“I want you to write a story for me.”

He would test his theory.

There was a pending assignment for the assasination of a politician that had been lobbying for certain policies that would levy power against Passione.  This was a perfect opportunity.

He found a pen and empty notebook on the shelf nearby and handed it to her-- watching as she took it in shaky hands.

She dropped it.

He would need to be a little more careful when speaking to her.

The intimidation that he was so used to pressuring on others always served him well in this field of work.  This was probably the first time that it happened to put him at a disadvantage.

Risotto let out a soft sigh as he picked up the pen and placed it in her hands.

“I won’t hurt you.”  Given how their first encounter played out, he didn’t place blame on the high amount of guard and caution she put up to defend against him.  He tried to soften his tone.  “But I need you to do this for me.  I also can’t have you go anywhere until you finish either.”  He stared at her in the eyes, internally commending her for her ability to hold his rather daunting gaze.

He noted the way she tried to steady her hands almost feeling some penance of guilt for putting her in such a compromised situation.

But he couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride and satisfaction for her as she looked straight at him and asked, “Who is this person I’m writing about?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   END CHP 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She never liked politics in the first place.

The name of the protagonist that her abductor wanted her to write about sounded familiar, but she wasn’t in touch with the exact details of his office or campaign.

“Have him die of a heart attack or something.”  He had told her.  “Car accident, anything really…”

The pen was making a trail of flowing ink on her paper as she thought.

She sat at a desk with pen in hand and a blank notebook opened and resting in front of her.  Her kidnapper sat in a chair by her side as to watch her write.

Her mind was semi-occupied as to why this man had specifically requested this story of her, and the other part of her mind, the writer’s imagination, wondered how the politician should die, what death he deserved and how to play it out.

Maybe the man hated this politician.  Psychologically, a method of coping is to simply project your more unacceptable wishes and desires into other mediums such as art or writing in order to create some sense of ease to cope with an unfair reality.

Regardless of his reason, she was asked to write.

It wasn’t an unreasonable request to demand of her.

“What does he look like?”

Her abductor raised an eyebrow before pulling out a photo and handing it to her.

The image was that of a man in his early thirties with bright eyes and a wide smile.  Dressed in a plain dress shirt, he seemed to be in the middle of a political rally lobbying for the good of the common folk.

“...he looks like a nice person…” she commented to no one but herself.

“Does he now?”

She almost forgot that he was there and dropped the image in surprise.  The paper floated down and landed against the notebook, and she left it there for reference.

“He doesn’t seem like the type of person that would have a lot of enemies…” she pondered as she stared at the fallen photograph on the desk.  She had already immersed herself into thought and paid no heed to the intent onlook of the man at her side.

“What if he got poisoned?  Who would poison him?  A political rival?” she began to mutter to herself.  “But that wouldn’t make for an interesting story, don’t you think?  What if he got murdered by someone who didn’t support his campaign?”  Her pen met contact on the paper as words slowly started to appear with each loop of her hand.

Unintentionally, her thought processes ran too close to reality.  A large hand had grabbed hers preventing her from writing any further.

“No.”

Despite being startled by the sudden interjection, the grip on her pen and the stability of her hand floating above the paper did not falter.

“I-I’m sorry?”

His gaze was unreadable.  Despite his overbearing strength and ability to snap her wrist with ease, the hold on her hand was surprisingly more gentle than what she thought he could be capable of.

“Don’t make it a murder.  An accident.  Do something like that.”

“B-but-” she wasn’t sure what compelled her to fortify her mental resilience to dispute him.

“But?”  He didn’t seem to mind the pushback against his commands.  She interpreted the slight tilt of his head and the relinquish of his grip on her wrist as an unspoken urge for her to continue.

“...That won’t make for an interesting story…”

He laughed.

She felt her face redden.  It was unclear as to whether that could solely be attributed to embarrassment.  He had a low pitch laugh that seemed to reverberate in his chest.

The sound caught her breath.

“W-what’s so funny about wanting to write something interesting?” she mumbled to herself.  She placed her pen down and placed her balled-up hands down on the desk.  “I’m an author after all...”

He let out a couple more chuckles before picking her pen with one hand and her hand with the other.  Carefully uncurling her fingers and setting the pen in he asked, “Why don’t we come up with an interesting way to kill him together, hm?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He found her intriguing.

“What if you made him jump off a building?”  This was the tenth suggestion that he had made for her so far.

The utter look of dissatisfaction that she gave him was enough to make him chuckle again.  When was the last time he managed to laugh like this?

“...that’s it?  ...you’re unbelievably boring…”

He raised an eyebrow at the whispered comment.

“I’m boring?”

She must have not meant for him to hear that as she flusteredly denied her words and stated that she’ll write about a politician jumping out from the twentieth story of a building.

Risotto grabbed her wrist again.

“How would you go about killing him then?” he asked.

“W-well.  I just think that there should be a reason-” her words came out in a stammer.  “M-maybe I’d make him drink a little too much and get into a car accident.”  The nervousness was out of her tone now.  “He kills an innocent pedestrian which makes him lose his favor with the public.”  She had turned towards him with a inquisitive look in her eyes-- seeking his opinion.  “He then spirals into despair, and flings himself off of the tallest building he could enter!  What do you think?”

There was a strange, but alluring, sparkle in her eyes as she poured forth her imagination and ideas to him.  He gave her a rare smile.

“I think it’s great.”

The corners of her lips turned upwards into a wide smile expressing her joy.  She made a content hum of agreement as turned back to the desk and immediately began to write-- completely immersed in her own world.

Risotto left her to work.  The scratching of pen against paper filled the room as he left quietly so as to not disturb her.

She had an endearing smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  END CHP 3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She didn’t notice the blanket on her shoulders at first as she stirred awake.  It slid off and pooled around her waist as she sat up straight on her chair, wiping the drool that had pooled down her cheek while she was sleeping.

Her neck and back ached.  It was an all-too-familiar sensation of the times she fell into a trance of high concentration and wrote until her head hit the table from pure sleepiness and exhaustion.

The door creak helped pull her from the morning grogginess and daze.

She blinked a few times at the man who stood in the doorway-- taking a few moments to recollect the events of yesterday.

He walked over towards her, setting down a plate of pastries on the table.

“I-It’s finished-” she began as she picked up the several sheets of paper covered with her writing on it.  The last page, which she had denoted with an elegant print of the word ‘finish’, was taken from the top of the stack and neatly placed at the bottom and handed over.

“Thank you.”  He gratefully took the story and pulled up a chair to sit beside her.   “I brought you breakfast.  Eat up.”

“T-thanks.”  She picked up a blueberry lemon scone with large crystals of sugar baked into the top and took a bite.  The refreshing combination of tart lemon and sweet blueberries tingled in her mouth as she watched him read her work with an intense interest.

She watched the rise and fall of his breaths as he read.  Those crimson irises moved back and forth in his dark shadowy sclera as they traced over the lines of her words.  She watched as he would raise a brow or quirk his lips as he reached the different parts or climatic events of her work.

The blueberry lemon scone, as delicious as it was, was deprived of her attention as she was solely focused on him reading each penned word.

She watched as he arrived at the last page; eyes lingering on the final word before he shuffled the papers back in order and looked up at her.

“Thank you for this.  It was very well written.”  His voice was soft, as if he was careful to not break the comfortable lull of silence they had between the both of them.

The praise gave birth to a warm blossom in her chest as elation filled her heart and lungs.

“I’m glad to deliver,” she spoke with a smile.

He captured her attention with his eyes as he leaned in and asked, “Can I ask for you to stay here for a couple more days?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  END CHP 4 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She thought that she would be able to leave by now.

After he had finished reading her work, he keeped content with what she had produced and didn’t ask for her to write anything more.

The two of them sat at the dining table in silence as she drank her coffee and ate the rest of her scone.  He sat across from her reading her most recent novel-- the one about the underdog in the mafia killing his boss.  He was close to the end; the book was probably already started on before he had gone to abduct her that day.

Did he kidnap her because he liked her work?

Her mind tried to grasp at any reason without regard to how flimsy the logic was.  Why else did he simply kidnap her to write a story for him?  There wasn’t any further attempt to maim, hurt or kill her.  In fact, he seemed to be extremely civil once she agreed to his request to write him a story of his choosing.

She took a sip from her coffee again as her mind wandered off.

“What happened to him at the end?”

She looked up to see that he had already finished the novel.  He was a quick reader.

The tone was inquisitive.  She smiled.

“What do you think happened to him?” she asked him back.

He scoffed.  “The likelihood of him being hunted down for killing his capo and brutally killed is nearly a hundred percent.”  The book cover closed shut with a soft thud.  He set it on the table and slid it towards her.

She let herself smile at his immediate response grounded in reality with no leeway for creative freedom.  “But that’d be boring, don’t you think?”

“You say that a lot,” he mused.  

A faint smile was barely visible on his lips.  She couldn’t help her mind from wandering about what his own story was to lead him here today.

It was contagious.  She couldn’t help but follow in his steps as her smile widened further.

“But wouldn’t you agree?  As close to the truth as reality would have it, a story -- with its infinestinal possibilities that extend beyond the scopes of the real world-- should be interesting!”  She waved both hands up to exaggerate her point.  “If we can’t live out the dreams that we seek in reality, shouldn’t we at least be able to escape to a world of our creation and mold it however we wish?  And that world should be at least interesting!”

She was proud of her speech.  It was rare that she could verbally string together words and convey herself beyond the medium of pen and paper.

Her listener was watching her with interest and she felt even more pride swell up in the fact that she managed to provide enough entertainment for him to continue smiling.

“That makes a lot of sense,” he contemplated.  She noticed the mild distraction in his eyes as he seemed to be speaking to a different matter.

She let out a sigh, picking at the last of her scone.

“My editor told me to write a sequel for him…  I don’t want to do that at first… I always like to leave the endings up for interpretation by the readers.  Did he get caught?  Did he escape?  No one knows, and therefore anything could happen.”

She noticed the small shift in his attention.  He seemed to be pondering something.

He finally looked up at her after some time, capturing her attention with those hauntingly alluring eyes.  Lips parted, his low voice smoothly articulated his next few words.

“Can I ask you to write another story for me?”

She was surprised that her kidnapper-- an intimidating, gigantic man with red and black eyes-- could come up with something of this caliber.

He sat next to her as he told her about each character to write about.

“Formaggio.  He has a buzz cut.  Short guy.”  His large hands almost entirely enveloped the pen she was holding as he drew a -- shockingly good-- sketch of a man with an easy going smirk on his face.

“His name is Formaggio...?”  She wondered how he decided to name someone after cheese.  He was more creative and less boring than what she had originally given him credit for.

He continued.  “This one is Melone.”  He drew a man wearing a transparent mask covering his right eye and his tongue deviously sticking out.  “He’s… interesting… says ‘Di Molto’ a lot.”

She resisted the urge to laugh when he was trying so hard to draw and explain these characters to her.

“Ghiaccio… short-tempered… has a problem with metaphors and analogies and gets angry when he takes them too literally…”

She listened attentively as he continued to draw and explain the various cast of characters that he wanted her to write about.

There was Pesci, Prosciutto, Gelato, Sorbet, Illuso, Formaggio, Melone, and Ghiaccio.  She found the description of them to be very endearing.

“What would you like for them to do?”

There was a pause as he seemed to gather his thoughts.

“I want you to write a story where they find the man in your novel.”  He seemed to want a short one-shot story on the capture of her previous protagonist.

“Ahahaha!  How could you ask me to kill my other character off like that?”  She burst into laughter as he spoke of his request.  “Ok, ok!  I’ll do it.”

It’s been awhile since she wrote a more light-hearted comedical piece.  This was a good change of pace.  There were apparently some fantastical elements that he wished to capture as well.  Using a power called “a stand”, each character had their own stand which they could utilize to get the job done.  She was told in detail how each of the powers worked.

He stared at her intently as she took notes.

As she neared the end of her complex web of story mapping and outlines, she felt a small poke at her shoulder.

“When they’re done with the job, maybe their boss can give them a raise.”

The pen twirled around in her fingers as she chuckled.  “They did do a good job-”  The tip of the pen met the surface of the paper again as it was noted down.  “But what would they do with the extra money?”

The man beside her was silent.  Taking a glance at him, she noticed he looked a little abashed as he mumbled, “...maybe they can get their leader a present.”

She laughed at the unexpected answer.  “Which one’s the leader?  Is it Prosciutto?  Ghiaccio?”  She was ready to have the team get a solid gold nameplate embossed with ‘Best Leader’.

She looked at him for an answer.

It was interesting to see him get a bit flustered as he avoided her inquiring eyes.

“...Just have them stop complaining and fighting for a week or two after they get the raise…”

She couldn’t suppress her mirth as she grinned widely and giggled to herself-- writing down that the team would celebrate their pay raise, giving their leader his much deserved credit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  END CHP 5 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The man who caused this entire situation to unfold was still on the run.

No one was able to catch him.

After reading the novel and asking the author of the man’s situation once the deed was done, it all made sense.

A day or two after Risotto had asked her to write on the politician’s death, everything played out in the exact manner of the story she wrote.

He was dumbfounded.

It was good foresight on his end to have her stay in the apartment for a little while longer while he confirmed his theories.

He took a deep breath.

The ability to change reality based on writing…  It was a formidable power.

It was a power that he should keep to himself as leverage against his enemies down the road-- especially since no one else knew of her ability aside from him.

It was an hour after dawn broke and Risotto knew that she would still be sleeping in from staying awake all night on the story he commissioned from her.

It gave him enough time to do several things.

Upon giving orders to the rest of the team to chase after the man who had killed the capo, Risotto left the base to pick up a few items before proceeding to the apartment.

Passing by the bakery, he picked up a variety of pastries-- specifically asking for blueberry lemon scones.  His eyes caught the shining glint of a gold and black metal pen with red crystals in it on display at a store and decided to purchase it on impulse.  He asked for it to be wrapped nicely and tucked it into the bottom of his bag where it would be safe and secure for the rest of his trip.  Right before he left the shopping district, he picked up a small bag of freshly ground espresso to bring back to brew.

It didn’t take long for him to arrive at the apartment.

Unlocking the door as quietly as he could, the slight creak of the door was unavoidable as he stepped inside.

He set the bags on the dining table before taking a quick peek into the bedroom.

She was asleep in the chair again.

Her face was completely flush against the table with her hand still somehow clutching the pen upright.

Risotto let out a small sigh as he walked over towards her and removed the pen from her grip.

Carefully, he picked her up and placed her on the bed-- pulling a blanket over her as she snoozed through the entire operation.

He walked over to the table and rearranged the papers and tools.

The story seemed finished.

A curiosity and rare excitement filled him as his eyes lingered on the papers that he had rearranged and set nicely on the table.

He shook his head.

He can wait.

Risotto made sure that she was comfortable in the bed before he headed back out to the dining room.

She was out for another two or three hours, and it gave Risotto enough time to run out again and grab some groceries to fill the fridge with.

Since she couldn’t leave the apartment, he asked her what kinds of food she liked so he could at least bring her some sustenance and not leave her to starve to death.

She had told him that she liked to make pasta; it was like making a story since the process is the same but you could make as many dishes as you want by simply changing the ingredients, sauce and pasta shape.

He bought around five different types of pasta.

Arriving back home, he started to begin brewing coffee as he heard her begin to move about in the other room.

He started to put all of the produce away and laid out breakfast on the table for her in anticipation for when she came out.

As he began to put the bags away, he realized that he had left the gift-wrapped pen at the bottom of one of the bags completely forgotten.

He tucked it away in one of his hidden pockets, making a mental note to remember to take it out and give it to her before he left.

She walked into the dining room trying to rub the sleep from her eyes.

“Good morninggg-” she droned as she stumbled towards her chair at the table.

“Good morning,” Risotto greeted back.

“Oh, a scone!  A blueberry lemon scone!”  She picked up the scone that he had set out on a plate for her and watched her take a bite at it.  “M-mhm!  My favorite…”

Risotto let himself smile as he walked over with a just-brewed, hot cup of espresso.  “Here.  To wake you up.”

The cup was eagerly taken with much gratitude and sipped from.  A few blinks of her eyes restored her full consciousness.

“Oh, thank you!” she hummed.

She had warmed up to him considerably in the past couple of days.  Given how he had abducted her from the normalcy of her life, wounded her in the process, made her follow through with his requests and refused to let her go home, he was surprised with her more friendly and easy-going behavior.

“Oh, the story you wanted is done!”  She got up from her chair and rushed back to the bedroom-- emerging only seconds later with the stack of papers that Risotto had cleaned up for her earlier.

He was handed the pages with an eager look of anticipation.  She sat down at the table and picked up her coffee cup again; her eyes didn’t leave his as she seemed to sit at the edge of her seat, waiting for his reactions as he started to read the words she wrote for him.

Risotto rarely laughed.

These past few days were interesting as he found himself letting his more scarce emotions show.

Her story made him laugh several times.

The way that she happened to depict each one of his team members impeccably down to their smallest habits or features made him feel as though he had been by their side watching them bicker in the moments before they stumbled into the man they sought to capture.

It wasn’t before long that he had found himself deep into the fantastical world of writing that she had written; his mind let go of his surroundings for the first time as he completely immersed himself following his men through their journey.

There was a slight frustration at the end when his eyes reached the clean print of ‘finish’ at the bottom of the last page.

His eyes narrowed and he let out a sharp breath.

“U-um-”

Risotto didn’t notice the attempt to grab his attention at first as his eyes began to flip back through the story for a second time.

“U-uh, Signore-?”  She was fumbling with her words, but Risotto’s attention was solely focused on the print of the pages.  It wasn’t until he heard a small squeak and a slightly louder voice call for him that he realized that she was attempting to get his attention. 

“Mr. Kidnapper?”

He quirked his eyebrows at the title she had given him as he looked up to see the interesting expression on her face.  Risotto couldn’t suppress the coy smile that grew on his.

Was that what she decided to call him?

In all fairness, he never did once tell her his name.  And he did indeed kidnap her.

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat before he set the papers down to lock eyes with her.

“Risotto.”  He watched as her eyes widened and she tilted her head just the slightest bit.  “My name is Risotto.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were a few times in her life that she was left speechless and without the constant distraction of her mind running amok with how to phrase, describe or speak of certain things that happened around her.

This was one of those times.

Her kidnapper typically would read her story and comment on certain things after he finished reading-- providing her a great joy in how he would relay his appreciation of certain characters, plot choices and decisions she made throughout the work.

Perhaps the singular instance of his feedback on her work, a rare instance in which her reader would tell her their thoughts on the story, made her feel needy to garner his thoughts immediately after he read it.

To her mild horror, he didn’t say anything and started to re-read through her pages again.

She knew that this man didn’t express much emotions, so she took immense joy at the instances in which he would let out a small chuckle or show the faintest smile on his lips.

The chair must have turned into pins and needles as she watched the very evident dissatisfaction and annoyance grow on his face near the end of the last page; he had immediately turned the page over and started to re-read the entire thing again.

“U-um-”  She wanted to ask him what was wrong.

Did she write an unsatisfactory ending?  Was there something that he didn’t like?

Her anxiety spun uncontrollably as the mere thought of him being dissatisfied made her stomach uncomfortable as she could nearly feel the blueberries and coffee churn in the pit of her abdomen.

“U-uh, Signore?”  She tried to get his attention again.  She could feel the trembles and shivers of anxiousness manifesting itself in physical form as she failed to get him to respond to her yet again.

He didn’t tell her his name.  How was she to call for him.

Without thinking too much, she said the most immediate thing that came to her mind.

“Mr. Kidnapper?”

He finally looked up at her.

Did that actually make him respond to her.  A mixture of shock, embarrassment and satisfaction at finally getting him to look up must have made for the world’s most silly face.

The small upturn of his lips into a coy smile and the tilt of his eyebrow in mild amusement obliterated any coherent thought from her mind as her ears were enveloped with the sudden thundering of her heart.

The low chuckle that resonated in the silent room sent radiating shivers down her spine.

To her, it seemed like an eternity before he decided to speak.

“Risotto.”

Risotto?  Her eyes widened and her head tilted in mild confusion.

“My name is Risotto,” she heard him speak again.

“R-risotto,” she felt his name annunciate on her tongue.

He smiled at her-- interlacing his fingers in front of him as he leaned in slightly towards her.  “Yes?”

Despite her lips moving to mouth the words she wanted to speak, her voice came out unsteady and the only thing that could be heard was a jumble of mumbles and stammers that lack comprehensible composition.

“It was a good story.”  He seemed to already know what she wanted to ask.  “I thought that there would be more to the end, that’s all.”

Ah, so that was it.

She was still flustered.  Her cheeks were still hot as she marinated and stewed her emotions.

Tucked away in a corner of her notebook was a small blurb for the story’s ending.  She had left it out of the sheets of the story that she had presented, but wrote it to give her some amount of closure and peace of mind.

Walking back to the bedroom and finding the folded sheet of paper that she had tucked away in the nightstand, she handed it to him shyly.

The change in his expressions were encaptivating as he saw his eyes glimmer with faint amusement when he took the paper from her.

But before he had the chance to open it and read the contents, his phone rang.

She watched as he quickly stood up and left the room to answer it, slightly bothered by the postponement of watching him read and react.

She barely heard his voice in the other room, but it didn’t seem as though he spoke much.  He soon came back.

“I have something to attend to, but I’ll be back to check up on you in the evening.”

There was a slight disappointment that befell her as she felt an irksome prickle in her chest that closely resembled annoyance.

“O-oh ok-”

“Do you need anything?  I brought you some groceries earlier this morning, but if you want, I can get you whatever else you’d like.”

He had put his phone away and was preparing to depart.

A small portion of her mind wanted to ask him if she was allowed to go home finally, but there was a strange reluctance to form that thought into words.

“N-no, I’m alright.  Thank you,” she managed to say instead.

She watched as he made his way towards the door-- an uncomfortable feeling clenched at her chest.

“Ah.”  His grip on the door knob slackened as he turned around to face her.  “I almost forgot this.”

Reaching into a nearly unnoticeable pocket on his coat, he pulled out a meticulously wrapped parcel and held it out for her.

“I got you this.”

Her eyes widened as she took the gift into her hands with pleasant surprise.

“O-oh!  T-Thank you.”

He smiled before turning back around and closing the door shut behind him.

There was almost no time for her to react otherwise.

She stood there for a few moments, simply staring at the door before she was brought back to reality.

A smile found itself onto her face as she clutched the box fondly.

She wondered what he got her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ END CHP 6 ~~~~~~~~~~~

Risotto was surprised to get the call from Ghiaccio telling him that they managed to catch the guy.

He had just read the story detailing their mission just moments prior and was shocked at how quick the execution was.

“AND WE FINALLY GOT THAT FUCKIN’ PAY RAISE-!” he heard Ghiaccio scream to him over the phone.  “IT’S ABOUT TIME WE GOT SOME FUCKIN’ RECOGNITION FOR ALL OF THE FUCKIN’ WORK WE DO!”

Risotto had to hold the phone several centimeters away from his ear to avoid going deaf as he continued to listen to Ghiaccio explain the success of them being able to trace down the traitor.  The boss, surprised that the team had gone out of their own accord to hunt down the traitor for him, wired a good sum of money straight into the team’s account alongside an email expressing his thanks.

Risotto was sure that good fortune such as this would have never graced them if he had not an external force in play.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” was his response.

He hung up the phone and made his way back into the dining room area where he saw her anxiously looking at him to ascertain the situation.

“I have something to attend to, but I’ll be back to check up on you in the evening.”  He avoided looking at her and kept his words brief.

The cold and calculating side of him spoke words of reassurance that he didn’t need to feel anything for tricking her into doing stuff like this for him.  She would technically be dead by now if it weren’t for him.

But those words did nothing to console him as a strange guilt rooted itself in his mind.

Her stuttered words imbued with confusion nagged at a conscience that he had thought he lost many years ago.

He found himself with his hand on the door and ready to leave before he knew it.

Right as he began to turn the knob, he could feel the slight press of a box against his leg.

Her present.

 “Ah.  I forgot this,” he muttered to himself.  He let go of the doorknob and pulled the present out from his pocket.  “I got you this.”

He watched as her expression morphed into appreciation and gratitude as she took it from him-- happiness evident on her face.

Risotto felt a smile unconsciously manifest onto his face.  It was unfortunate that he couldn’t stick around for too much longer.

He opened the front door and left.

He watched as his men cheered and celebrated around the center table.

Risotto had taken out the whisky-- pouring it into the rarely used glass cups that was only taken out for extremely special occasions.

“Let’s make a toast to celebrate our achievements today.”

Glasses were raised as everyone took a swig of the strong alcohol.

“Pesci, Pesci, Pesci, you got to learn how to drink.” “I’m sorry, bro!”  Pesci was already queasy when he took the first sip and Prosciutto was already criticizing him for it.  “It burns my throat…”

Formaggio laughed as he pat Prosciutto on the shoulder.  “Cmon, don’t give Pesci a hard time!  We’re supposed to be happy!  It’s a celebration!”  He was on his second cup already and had gotten twice as loud in his festivities.

Prosciutto sighed as he leaned back against the couch, leaving Pesci to swirl his cup around and watch the amber drink race around the clear glass.

“Fine.”  He ran his hand through his blonde hair, careful to not undo and mess up the tight braids that held his hair neatly back.  “This is a rare celebration.  To think that we were the ones that caught the bastard…”

“Right?”  Illuso smirked as he leaned forward to input his fair share of the gossip.  “All the other teams that the boss sent couldn’t catch the guy.  But we-”  he put heavy emphasis on the ‘we’.  “We did.”

“OF COURSE WE DID!”  Ghiaccio slammed down his glass on the table.  “WE’RE BETTER THAN ALL OF THOSE OTHER BASTARDS!  WE’RE THE HITMAN TEAM!  THE BOSS SHOULD HAVE SENT FIRST!”

“That is our job, after all,” Sorbet mused as he poured Gelato some more whiskey.  “I don’t know why he chose to send every other team besides us?”

“He doesn’t trust us, probably,” came Gelato’s begrudging answer.  The lighter haired man stared at the whiskey in his glass with distaste.  “This turn of events definitely helped us though.”

“Wouldn’t that mean Risotto telling us to go catch the guy was rather risky on his part then?”  Melone mused as he reclined back in his seat.

Suddenly all eyes were on him.

Risotto took a sip of the whiskey in his glass and didn’t answer.

He couldn’t tell them that he made things play out in this exact fashion.  He had already sent them out to gather information on the man yesterday afternoon before he had even commissioned the story.  From having the man successfully evade the other teams that the boss had sent, giving Risotto the ability to gain permission from the boss to send in his team, and having his team flawlessly capture the target leaving the boss completely satisfied with the work done, everything played out perfectly.

He smirked as he pondered over the thoughts.

His team took that for an answer as they all looked at him in awe.

He knew that he had his secret little author to attribute this success to.  Risotto would get her something nice later.

Speaking of which, despite thoroughly enjoying the celebration of his team’s success, he wanted to get back to her as soon as possible.

He excused himself from the room and proceeded up to his office to finish up some paperwork before heading off.

He entered the office quietly, noting that there was something on his desk for him.

It was a small, wrapped parcel waiting for him on his desk, and he wondered if one of his men had left it there.

Unwrapping the parcel, he was met with the sight of a mahogany name plate with the words, ‘Best Leader’ embossed on the gold plate.

Risotto let out a perplexed chuckle wondering if this event had any correlation to the writings that had essentially dictated his day thus far.

Pulling the small sheet of paper out from his coat and unfurling it, he looked down at the neat print of the paper tucked in his hands and read:

‘Together, the team put together their funds and before their leader arrived back at base, they placed their present on his desk for him.  In the best wrapping job that they could muster, the nameplate that they had picked out for him to commemorate their success.  This would be the one of their first steps in attaining the respect that they deserved.’

Risotto smiled as he tucked the paper away and arranged the nameplate to a good spot on his desk.

“You could have had them just shut up for a week,” he mused.

~~~~~~~~ END CHP 7 ~~~~~~~~~~

[fc5holidayexchange]

FAR CRY 5 HOLIDAY EXCHANGE 2019 FIC

‘redemption’

Deputy Rook Gordon/John Seed

@seedsplease

“Here’s my gift to you Tia! I hope you enjoy it - Rook was a joy to write, and I hope you don’t mind if I write something else for her again someday! Happy holidays! <3”

'Deputy Rook Gordon x John Seed, sharing a bed, fluff, humor, very slight angst, a little hurt/comfort, very very vague description of minor injuries’

Rivulets of icy water drip from the damp ends of her hair and collect in the crease of her neck, soaking the collar of her coat. Rook’s lived in Montana her whole life, knows the cold as well as anyone else that calls Hope County home, but she doesn’t think she’s ever felt it quite like this. Her cheeks are chaffed and numb, she can’t feel the tops of her thighs any longer, and if the tips of her ears aren’t frostbitten, it’ll be a miracle. Cold leeches from her wet clothes into what feels like her bones, and Rook finds herself longing for her tiny apartment above the Spread Eagle and the electric heat that rattles from the radiators.

Still, she thinks, there’s a silver lining to be gleaned from all this — she’s so cold that she can no longer feel just how battered she is from the car accident. Black ice doesn’t care if you’re the leader of the Resistance, she’s learned.

Wind bites at her skin. Rook doesn’t know how long she’s been walking. It feels like hours, but it’s probably only been half of one. When she’d first left the car, her steps were steady and strong, despite the shin-high snow licking at the denim of her jeans. Now, she can barely lift her feet out of the divots they make. Instead, she shuffles forward, leaving behind trenches that lead straight to her.

Over her shoulder, the wreckage of her car looks like a black dot against a white canvas. Ahead of her, she can see the smoky-grey silhouette of what looks like a cabin. She stops in her tracks, snow freezing her feet through her cheap boots, and weighs her options.

Bunker? People in Hope County are paranoid enough that Rook’s been able to find an empty bunker on just about every property she’s stumbled upon. If she’s lucky, there’s one close by, fully stocked with food and blankets. Based on the way the rest of her day’s gone, it’s probably buried under six feet of snow, too.

Cabin? The place looks as empty as anything else in the county these days. The windows are dark and covered in a thin sheen of frost, and snow has started to pile up against the door. Rook hasn’t seen a car for miles; if people live here, they’re doing it off the grid, and they’re doing it very well. She wiggles her frozen fingers and wonders if she has a chance in hell at picking the lock.

Her only other option is trying to find her way back into town before dark. The threat of nightfall has already started to tinge the edges of the sky dark grey, and as much as Rook wishes she could proclaim to know this place like the back of her hand, everything looks the same in the snow. There’s no way she’ll get back to Fall’s End before sunset – especially not on foot.

A shiver forces its way through her body, and Rook clenches her teeth against it, wrapping her arms around herself in search of warmth. It doesn’t come, but it does help her make her decision – if she doesn’t find shelter, if she doesn’t get out of her damp clothes, she’ll freeze to death in the middle of the Montana wilderness.

Too many people are counting on her for her to give up that easily. Too many lives depend on her.

Rook trudges forward, slow but steady. One step becomes another, one foot after the other after the other. Snow tumbles down the crevice between her boot and her foot, soaking through her sock as she walks. It’s another stab of cold to her already frozen body, but it spurs her on. Somehow, she finds herself at the front of the cabin, the door less than a foot away from her. Salvation in the form of pressure-treated wood. 

She wiggles her fingers again, trying to get the feeling back, readying herself for a fight with the lock, when instinct tells her to try the knob. It’s unlikely, improbable, a last ditch effort.

It works. 

Rook turns the knob and finds no resistance. The hinges creak when she pushes the door open, but it still swings inward, offering her a way into the inviting shelter of the cabin. 

She steps inside, feet slippery wet against the wooden floor, and shuts the door against the winter nightmare behind her. Immediately, she feels warmer. A figment of her imagination, maybe, but with the wind off her cheeks and the snow out of her shoes, Rook finds she doesn’t particularly care.

“Looking a little worse for wear, aren’t we, Deputy?”

Fear jolts her into action. Instinctively, she spins in the direction of the voice, dragging her gun from the holster on her hip. The grip feels like ice between her palms as she aims toward her attacker’s head. 

“Oh, fuck.”

John Seed stands in the middle of what looks like the living room, his back to a fireplace that roars with a heat she can feel, even from six feet away. It’s newly lit, the logs dry and hardly singed, and the only conclusion Rook can come to is that John’s only just made it here himself. 

“Language,” he chastises, watching her weapon sway in his direction. 

“Get your hands up,” she demands, hoping her voice sounds steadier than it feels coming out of her mouth. “Up. Get them up.”

To her surprise, he does as she asks. John lifts his arms, palms facing outward and elbows bent. Rook follows the lines of his body. There are clean, dry clothes here, she learns, because John isn’t swathed in his usual getup.

He doesn’t fill the borrowed shirt and sweatpants the way she imagines his eldest brother might - he’s too slender, not as defined, and the baggy clothes make him look more like a confused frat boy than an accomplished lawyer, businessman, and cult leader.

“Now, now, Deputy,” John drawls, a self-satisfied smile plastered across a face that’s paler than Rook remembers. “There’s no need for violence.”

Against her better judgement, Rook snorts.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” she spits out, trying desperately to keep from shivering. Her damp clothes stick to her skin uncomfortably as she adjusts her stance. “Little Johnny have a change of heart? Or is your torture room not doing it for you anymore?”

“Wrath,” he sings quietly, seemingly unfazed. He points a single finger in her direction, the smile still settled in place. “Come now, darling. Surely we can resolve this peacefully. What can I do to make things copacetic between you and I?”

End this fucking holy war, she thinks. Leave Hope County and go back to whatever pit you came from.

Give me back my friends.

“You know, John,” Rook says, filtering the words out through teeth that scream for her to let them chatter, “I could just shoot you. End this now.”

“Oh, you could,” John agrees, his hands steady next to his head. “But I think I have something you want.”

Ice floods her already frozen chest. She has a hazy idea of what he means. 

“Joey Hudson,” he drawls, before she can ask him what he’s talking about. He must catch the flash of desperation that crosses her face, because he nods just once, just like he’s coaxing a frightened animal out of its hiding place. “Hm? An impromptu truce, just for the night, and I’ll let you have your little friend.”

Admitting it to him would be unwise, but she knows she won’t kill John, even if he weren’t agreeing to give up his bargaining chip. There’s blood on her hands, no matter how hard she’s tried to avoid it, and Rook would give her right arm if it meant an end to all the savagery committed across the county - her own acts included. No, she won’t put an end to John Seed in this tiny, barely habitable cabin, but he doesn’t need to know that.

She doesn’t want to die alone in the cold, either. If that means cozying up with the enemy in picturesque Bumfuck Nowhere until her clothes dry and the sun comes out, well - Rook thinks she’d be willing to have a slumber party with just about anyone at this point, just to get a reprieve from the cold.

It’s apparent that she’s been waiting too long to answer. John is watching her with sharp eyes, the gaze of a man who knows what he wants and knows how he’ll get it.

“Well, Deputy?” John taunts, wiggling his fingers. “Do we have a ceasefire? Benevolence in exchange for your precious Joey Hudson?”

She won’t kill him, but god, she wants to hit him. 

There’s a telltale twitch to her hands that says that if she weren’t gripping her gun, they’d be shaking. John picks up on it almost immediately, his eyes flashing, and before he can get a word in edgewise Rook cuts him off.

“Fine,” she agrees, lowering her weapon. “Fine. A ceasefire.”

It’s not a perfect deal, but it’s something. Satisfied, she sets her gun down on the kitchen counter and looks around the cabin. She can feel John’s gaze on her, and out of the corner of her eye, Rook sees that he hasn’t yet moved from his spot by the fireplace. 

“There’s no power,” he supplies helpfully, even as she flicks the light switch next to the kitchen doorway up and down. “No water, either, though the former occupants were kind enough to keep some bottled water in the fridge.”

As thirsty and as famished as she is, the only thing she can think about is getting warm. Her clothes are sticking to her skin, chaffing in places she didn’t think could chafe. Rook turns to John, her damp curls stuck to her neck, and gestures at him with her chin. 

“The dry clothes. Were there more?” 

John nods, eyeing her sodden jacket.

“In the back bedroom,” he says. “There are a few drawers. You may find something that fits.”

She’s halfway to the bedroom before he even finishes his sentence, shedding her layers as she goes - her coat first, which she splays across the floor in front of the fire, then her shoes. When she hears him snicker, Rook looks up.

“What?”

“Nice socks.”

She’d forgotten about those. Her favorite pair, shin height with cat ears and a little nose. The surefire way to brighten a bleary, grey day - that had been her thought process as she’d tugged them on that morning, smiling at the printed whiskers. 

Now they’re soaked, probably ruined, and the center of her enemy’s amusement.

Rook balls one up and chucks it at his head.

—

There’s only one bed. 

It’s the first thing she notices as she steps into the bedroom at the back of the cabin, 

She doesn’t find any pants, but she does find a shirt she could fit inside of three times over. It’s grey and ratty, with the words ‘Testicle Festival’ plastered on the front in faded writing. Beggars can’t be choosers; Rook shrugs it over her head and curls into it. The hem sits just past her knees - her very own oversized nightie - and despite the lack of power or electric heat in the cabin, it makes her feel warm. 

There’s a fur throw tossed over a rocking chair in the corner of the room, and Rook snatches it up before she leaves the room. 

“That bed?” she calls, wandering out into the living area to find John seated on the rickety old couch, “It’s mine. Part of the ceasefire terms.”

The look he fixes her with is toxic, and it makes her unreasonably pleased with herself. 

Rook can feel his eyes on her as she crouches in front of the fire, holding out her hands to leech the heat from the flames. It’s positively heavenly; this cabin may not have running water or functioning electricity, but the warmth of the raging fire mixed with the blessedly dry clothing makes her feel like she could take on the world.

“You’re bleeding.” 

“Hm?”

The warmth is so inviting that she barely hears him as he points out the splotch of blood on her shoulder. Rook twists, body aching, and peers at the bloodstain, tugging at the shirt to get a better look. She’s bleeding, alright, and she’s suddenly more aware of her injuries than she ever was as she trudged through the snow. 

“Shit,” she mutters. So I am. “Is there a first aid kit around here?”

Springs creak as John shifts himself off the couch, his feet gentle against the floor as he pads down the hallway towards what Rook assumes is the bathroom. While she waits, she presses a finger against the spot of blood. It’s wet, fresh, and the pain that follows her own touch makes the corners of her eyes burn with unshed tears. 

A hand on her shoulder brings her back to herself, and she ducks away from the touch. John stands over her, a medkit in one hand and the other clutching the empty spot where she once sat, looking at her curiously.

“What the hell?” Rook frowns, staring at the offending hand like he might just use it to strangle her. When he reaches out for her again, she smacks him away, a noise of discontent tumbling from between her lips. “Quit it!”

“Stay put.”

“What, and let you carve me up like a piece of meat? I’ll pass.”

“I think you’ve done a decent job of that on your own, my dear,” John says. Through the haze of pain, Rook is surprised to find that he sounds genuinely concerned. “Let me help you.”

It’s not a tough call to make - she can’t reach the wound on her back, and she’s pretty sure John isn’t going to make an example of her here. With nobody to show his handiwork to but her, Rook can’t imagine he’s interested in carving her sins into her skin.

Hesitantly, Rook lets him tug the shirt up over her head. His fingers nudge the still-wet band of her bra down a little, giving him better access to whatever cuts and scrapes litter her back. 

“It’s a wonder you’re not dead, yet,” John mutters. “How did you manage this?”

The first brush of an alcohol swab along an open wound rips a hiss from her lungs. Rook jerks from John’s grasp and whines at the pain. 

“Car accident,” she bites out, trying not to twist as he holds her in place. The warmth of his skin against her battered back is an odd mix of pleasant and disquieting. “Ruined my favorite one, too.”

“Better than ruining you,” John muses, though he seems more focused on dressing her wounds than the words that leave his mouth.

The comment makes her cheeks flame. Rook thinks she’ll have to catalogue that particular response for later, so she can work on never reacting quite that strongly again. 

It’s quiet as John works, but Rook’s thoughts swirl around in her head like a storm. Her parents, thousands of miles away and across an ocean - do they think of her as often as she thinks of them? She misses them ferociously, wishes she were there with them now in her homeland instead of sprawled in front of a fire with a man she’s considered a monster playing surgeon on her open wounds. 

That’s another thought that nags at the edges of her consciousness. Why is he helping her?

“Why are you doing this?”

For a while, he doesn’t speak. His hands are unexpectedly gentle as they work along her midsection, washing away spots of blood and tracing over battered skin. The image is oddly dissonant coming from him; Rook remembers being duct-taped to a swivel chair in a room that was tangy with the smell of blood. She remembers the eerie red lighting, the terror in Joey’s eyes as John had entered the room, the manic expression he’d held as he leaned over her with a tattoo gun clasped tightly between his fingers.

She didn’t think those same hands could be capable of kindness.

“You’re hurt,” he says eventually, eyes drifting to her face. He’s just finished taping a thin piece of gauze to the wound in her side, stark white against the bruising just starting to settle in beyond it. “Hardly fair to kick the enemy when she’s down, hm?”

“Fair?” Rook forces herself not to jerk away as John wipes at the gash in her shoulder with the damp cloth. “When have you ever been interested in being fair?”

For what feels like a lifetime, John is quiet. She feels him work at her wounds, hears the sounds of bandages crinkling as he unwraps them and his murmured apologies when she hisses as he presses them to her broken skin. 

“Your definition of ‘fair’ is different than the Project’s.” 

Understatement of the year, Rook thinks. John keeps speaking. 

“You deserve to be saved,” he says softly. Fingers brush against her jaw and tilt it up, until John has her chin clasped between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re strong, smart, capable - everything we’ll need when the Collapse comes. I’m trying to save you, Deputy. I can’t very well do that with you frozen in a ditch somewhere.”

Rook jolts as his fingers skitter over what must be a cut on her forehead. It stings, but it’s still more tolerable than being the recipient of the intensity of John’s stare. A feeling she can’t quite place starts in her chest, fluttering along to the beat of her heart and spreading out toward her fingertips.

His sentiment is skewed, Rook knows, but a far-off part of her thinks that as wrong as it is, it’s also kind of sweet. 

Without thinking about it, she reaches forward to grab John’s wrist. He’s been in the cabin longer than she has, moving around and getting his blood flowing, and his skin is warm where her fingers graze it.

“Thank you,” Rook murmurs, voice low and earnest. “I—thank you.”

John stares at her a moment. His gaze wanders from her eyes to where her fingers curl around his wrist and back again.

“Careful, Deputy,” he says eventually, twisting in her grip just enough so he can grab her hand. “If I didn’t know any better, I might think you’ve grown fond of me.”

The heat fades from her hand as John lets her go, turning toward the living room. 

Eden’s Gate is manipulative, wrong, dangerous. John, his brothers and his sister, their followers - at best, they’re disillusioned believers feeding on the tragedy they hear and see in the world. At worst, they know exactly what it is they’re doing. At worst, they’re hiding their horrors under the guise of a religion that claims to save.

Eventually, she relents.

“We can share the bed,” Rook says tentatively. John looks up at her curiously, one of the fur throws still clutched in his hands as he stands next to the sofa. “It’s probably better that way.” 

The grin he gives her is uncannily sharp. It’s predatory; all teeth and curled lips, compensation for his brief moment of vulnerability, and it makes her wonder if she’s just made a terrible misstep. He looks thrilled, like he’s never been offered a more lucrative deal in his life. Slowly, that awful, smug smile crawls back into place.

“Change of heart, darling?”

“Shut up,” she scowls, regretting every nice thing she’s ever said to him. “We can both use the body heat, that’s all.”

He follows her down the hall, past their still-burning fire and into the bedroom.

“This,” Rook says sternly, patting out a thin strip of space in the middle of the bed, “is the demilitarized zone. Stay out. Don’t get any ideas.”

When she looks up, John is standing at the edge of the bed, eyes dancing with what looks like amusement. A fluttering starts low in her stomach, and Rook has to swallow the feeling down. She tenses her shoulders and focuses on the stab of pain that radiates from her wound – a distraction from the nervous energy she feels as John stares at her.

“You have my word,” he agrees, placing his hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor.”

Rook can’t help the way her eyes roll back into her head. She tugs the blankets down and slips into the bed, curling on her side. The covers offer a warmth she’s been missing since the minute she stepped out of her ruined car, and as she pulls them up to her ears, she feels safer than she has in hours. 

Next to her, the bed sinks as John slides in next to her. 

It’s a dark night. Rook has her back to the window, but she can tell the moon is only a sliver in the sky based on the depth of the shadows in the bedroom. Nights like this, she wishes she could be outside, staring up at the inky black sky and the stars that lie across it.

Their skin doesn’t touch, not with Rook’s mandated safe-space between them, but she can still feel the heat that John’s body generates as he lies next to her. Something about it is comforting - she doesn’t remember the last time she was this close to somebody. 

The bed shakes as John jostles around next to her. A curious part of Rook wonders if he’s always like this – always moving, always trying to settle himself, always looking for comfort.

“Tell me something, Deputy.”

John’s voice startles her. She rolls over to find him on his back, gazing up at the wooden boards that make up the ceiling. Talking to him as she lays next to him in bed seems too intimate, too close; it’s not something she’d planned to spend her evening doing.

“It’s late. We should sleep.”

A weak effort to shut him down, Rook learns. A smile quirks his face, and he huffs out a sound that might be a laugh. 

“Humour me,” he murmurs. “How did you end up in Montana?”

Rook settles on her back next to him, perplexed by the question. Is this a new game he’s playing? Is this another tactic to play with her emotions? She tugs the blankets higher, curling them just under her chin. The thought of looking John in the eyes has her skin itching, so she keeps her gaze firmly on the ceiling.

“My parents are from Fyvie, Scotland,” she says. Her voice is quiet, but it sounds loud and echoey as it travels through the room. “My mother got a job teaching, so she and my father moved here before I was born. I grew up in Helena.”

Silence settles over the room. Rook finds it deafening, almost unbearable, and the nervous energy settling in her chest implores her to speak to fill the void.

“What about you?”

The words come so suddenly, so unbidden, that Rook almost doesn’t realize she’s said them until John turns his head towards her. 

“I—” John starts, then cuts himself off suddenly. A few quiet seconds pass before he speaks again. “I followed Joseph.”

“I read his book.”

She knows her voice is tentative. She’s read the Book of Joseph – know thy enemy, and all that – and the stories of John’s childhood had all but gutted her. If it’s all true, then it explains a lot. If it’s a carefully crafted lie, well – the Seeds were never very trustworthy to begin with. 

“Then you know most of the story already,” John says easily, as if it isn’t a story filled with horrors. “Joseph found me in Atlanta, a shell of the boy he once knew, and rescued me. The life I was living before he found me…it was shameful. I was shameful. But Joseph, he looked past it. He saved me.”

The room is silent, save for the gentle noise of their mingled breathing. Outside, the wind has died down. The cabin no longer creaks under the pressure of snow squalls and ice pellets, doesn’t ache quite as much with the vestiges of the cold outdoors. Next to John, Rook is warm and comfortable despite the cuts and the bruises. 

“When my brothers and I found each other again, it was like all the broken pieces had finally settled into place. My sins, my addictions - they were my weaknesses, but they served a purpose. They helped put my family back together. After twenty years apart, we were suddenly back together, eating the wrong kind of soup in the dining room of my apartment, reminiscing about the night our biological father was arrested. All of those things brought me here.”

It’s not a story Rook expected. It makes the empath in her ache, makes her want to soothe this man who’s done nothing but torture her and her friends. It makes him a human, flesh and blood, for the very first time.

“You know, Deputy,” John muses, “I think you might be the first person I’ve ever told that story to.”

Rook’s heart stutters uneasily in her chest, an unexpected reaction to the vulnerability in his words, and she rolls her head to the side. John’s jaw is tight and tense, and she can almost feel the uncertainty that seems to roll off him.

Tentatively, she slides her arm toward him under the covers, past the safety net of space, and takes his hand. John freezes, like her touch borders on painful, then relaxes into her hold, squeezing her hand tightly. His skin is warm and soft where their fingers lace together.

Time seems to pass slowly the longer they lay there together. Dim light, just the light of those handfuls of stars, filters through the window. In the corner of her eye, Rook can map the profile of John’s face.

“You’re full of surprises, Baptist,” Rook murmurs sleepily. “Didn’t think you knew how to be kind.”

It’s so quiet that she thinks John may not have heard her, that he may have finally, mercifully fallen asleep. Waves of exhaustion lap at the edges of her consciousness, begging her to give in and rest. 

If he has anything else to say, Rook doesn’t hear it. Their hands still linked together, she lets herself drift away. 

—

Rook wakes, eyes heavy with the last dregs of sleep, and very nearly forgets where she is.

It takes longer than she’d like to realize that she’s not in her homey apartment above the Spread Eagle. There are no colourful pillows in this bed, no throw tossed over the back of the chair in the corner. The shadows don’t fall across the hardwood floor in quite the same way.

She’s warm in a way she didn’t think possible. It melts into her clothes from the body pressed against her, seeps into her bones at all the junctures where they touch, comforts in a way that’s unfamiliar but not at all wrong. 

Jagged lines of scarred lettering greet her as she blinks the sleep from her eyes. Sloth, it reads, a sin carved into flesh in a desperate attempt at absolution. The realization that this is John Seed she’s curled against, that he has his arms draped over her and her head tucked beneath his chin, doesn’t terrify her the way she thinks it should. 

He looks content. That’s the only word she can use to describe him as she follows the lines and scars of his body, the inky black marks of his tattoos that tell more of a story than any book ever could. John’s face is slack, relaxed, and for a moment Rook thinks she looks more like the boy she read about in the Book of Joseph than she ever thought possible. He’s soft, gentle; he’s not the monster the Valley has made him out to be. Not in this moment. 

Rook reaches out to drag the tip of a finger across each letter. She curls the pad of it around the ‘s’, scrapes the edge of her nail down the ‘l’, feels the bumpy surface of the ‘o’, the ‘t’, the ‘h’. 

Her mind is hazy, but she knows she has to get up. People will be looking for her, and if they find her wrecked car, the Resistance will send out the cavalry. This isn’t the place she wants to be when Sharky shows up wielding a flamethrower. 

Tentatively, hesitantly, she slides out from John’s embrace. His arm is loose around her, slack with sleep, and she knows he won’t wake as she slips out of bed and stands next to him. Rook can see into the hallway, sees her clothing spread out in front of the dying embers of the fire. With any luck, it’ll be more or less dry when she wanders out. With any luck, her socks won’t be destroyed. 

Sunlight filters in through the one window in the room. The warmth of John’s body is fading from her skin, but she thinks the worst of the cold is behind her. 

There’s a blue, fur throw crumpled into a ball on the floor next to the bed. Rook picks it up and shakes it out, then leans forward to drape it across John’s sleeping form. She gets close enough to brush her lips against his forehead.

Then, she’s gone. 

[saoirse-argentum]

PROMPT #20 BISECT

(Continuing on from where I left off in prompt #19. The thesis comes at the end. XD)

HEAT LEVEL: SENSUAL Cue the euphemisms and spicy kisses. 

*Also brief Wyrm violence.

It wasn’t long before everyone knew about Saoirse and Estinien’s relationship, and the more anyone called attention to it the more embarrassed Saoirse was and the angrier Estinien became. She knew they were only teasing, but Estinien wasn’t so forgiving. And to make matters worse, Estinien’s opinion on Haurchefant made Saoirse question their friendship.

She’d tried to explain that Haurchefant’s actions meant nothing, but Estinien wouldn’t hear it.

“I don’t care what lies that deviant said to convince you he was innocent, but if he’d wanted to merely spur my jealousy, he could have done so without a confession! I cannot tell you what mad method he’s schemed to do it, but he means to have you, so stay away from him,” was all he’d say on the matter.

But even Estinien’s sour attitude made her happy. He cared enough to be jealous and to endure the others despite the embarrassment. And when they were alone…nothing else mattered.

Saoirse was in the middle of organizing her gear for their journey into The Aery when Estinien entered her chambers.

“Ready for tomorrow?”  She set her staff aside and took Estinien by the hand. She worried what this next quest would bring. It was true that he loved her, but Estinien’s life was consumed by his want for Nidhogg’s end…and she was afraid he’d pursue it even if it meant his death.

“Aye. I’ve been ready for some time now.” He brushed his thumb against the top of her hand. “There’s just one final task I must attend to.” Estinien sat on the edge of the bed behind him, and guided Saoirse toward him by the hand. He looked up at her and waited for her emerald irises to meet his before leading her gaze to his lap.

Saoirse’s face reflected the warmth of her body, but she didn’t let her nervousness keep her from him. She straddled his hips and wrapped her arms around the back of his neck. She met his eyes for a moment before looking away. It was too much. He was too much, and she was certain her heart would burn out if it continued at its current pace. “If you have other things to do, don’t let me keep you.”

Estinien placed his hand to her cheek and forced her to face him. “All that’s left is you.” He traced the skin of her thigh with his fingertips as he kissed the nape of her neck. “Stay with me tonight.”

Saoirse bit her lip to stifle her excitement and she placed her hand on Estinien’s before he reached the hem of her skirt. “Estinien, I…this is a little sudden.” She looked down at him and ran her fingers through his hair. “Don’t get me wrong, I want to be with you…but the timing…is everything alright?”

“Impeccably so.” He undid the top button of Saoirse’s blouse.

“Estinien, stop trying to distract me and talk to me.” Saoirse grasped his wandering hands. “You’re not telling me something. I can tell because it’s unlike you to be slow and sweet.”

“Oh, then what am I like?”

“A feral beast.” Saoirse smiled and kissed his forehead.

“Is that what you prefer?”

“We’re getting off topic!” Saoirse’s face flushed red and she diverted her gaze. “You’re up to something.”

Estinien sighed. “Fine…I suppose what’s to come has some bearing on my motives, but it doesn’t change my want.” He used his index finger and thumb to turn her chin back to him. He brushed her bangs aside and smiled softly. “You are a capable woman with exceptional gifts, and full proud am I to have fought at your side but…Nidhogg is my foe to face, and no matter what befalls us, should I fail…You are not to fight in my place. Even if it means my end.”

Saoirse’s mouth parted slightly, and she looked at Estinien with a deep sadness. “Is that what this is…one night together just in case it’s our last?” She stood and backed away from him. “I won’t…I won’t stand back and watch you die. We either come back together or we don’t come back at all.”

“Saoirse, you know that’s not an option. Eorzea will see another day without me, but not without you. This is not a request.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Nor is this an admission of doubt. Our victory is near certainty, but I won’t leave room for regret should my confidence be misguided.”

“Well, then I guess you’ll just have to be absolutely certain you’ll live.” Saoirse grabbed Estinien by the shoulders and forced him to turn around.“If you want to know me…then you’ll have to do everything you can to return safely with me to Ishgard.” She pushed him toward the door. “There a warm bed will be waiting for you.” She swung the door open and gave a final shove.

Estinien dug in his heels before she could push him out and he looked back at her. “You would use our union as a tool to bargain?”

She nodded, a resolute look in her eyes.

“Hmm.” He looked away in thought before returning his attention to her with a smile. “Then there is no other path to follow…I will succeed.” He kissed the top of her head. “Rest well, Saoirse.”

She embraced him a final time, holding a little tighter than normal. She wanted to believe Estinien would return with her at any cost, but she knew in her heart that he’d die there if it meant Nidhogg fell with him.

******************************************************************************

With the use of Cid’s latest airship prototype breaching the howling barrier surrounding The Aery had been a simple enough task, and while facing Nidhogg’s followers was certainly troublesome, they’d done so without sustaining any major damage.

Nidhogg no longer had anyone to stand behind. Saoirse used her magic one last time to heal their wounds before facing him. Estinien marched up the steps ahead of her and was first to engage him.

His strikes were effortless with such precision that there was little reason for Saoirse to attack. Instead she focused her magic on protecting Estinien.

Nidhogg was weakened, and Estinien could sense it. He drew back, putting space between them.

Nidhogg seethed but Estinien said nothing. He merely grinned as he greeted Nidhogg with his stolen eye.

Nidhogg roared in fury. “Thou wouldst use mine own eye against me!? Time has done naught to dilute thy kind’s depravity. I have not forgotten thee, dragoon. Mine essence claimed thee once…and shall do so again.”

Estinien raised his lance unmoved by fear. “No, wyrm. This ends here!” He leaped to deliver a final blow, but as he did a large group of smaller wyrm lying in wait in the surrounding rock appeared and knocked him from the air before he could change his trajectory.

“Estinien!” Saoirse ran to his aid, wielding stone to push back the dragons surrounding him. She knelt beside him. “Are you alright? Can you stand?”

“Saoirse, you must withdraw.” He moved her aside. “Now.”

She glanced back and saw Nidhogg charged and ready to attack. She quickly stood in front of Estinien and cast a barrier to repel Nidhogg’s flame.

“Don’t be a fool! Your barrier will not hold!”

Saoirse looked back at Estinien and smiled softly. “I know.” Her barrier caved to Nidhogg’s might and she bore the brunt of the blast. The impact sent her body backward, but Estinien caught her, letting her weight crash against him. She was still, her eyes closed, and there was a tranquility to her features despite the debris and lacerations along her face and body.

“Saoirse?” It was faint but he felt her chest rise and fall. She was alive, but she wouldn’t be for long. “We will return to Ishgard together.” Saoirse’s barrier had maintained long enough to restore his strength and he wouldn’t let her sacrifice be in vain. He gently laid her down and enveloped her in Draconian Light before turning his red gaze on Nidhogg. “You will feel every moment of her pain.” He raised his lance and soared one final time, driving his weapon into Nidhogg’s head. Nidhogg raised his wings and attempted to shake Estinien free from him as he took to the sky, but Estinien would not be satisfied until Nidhogg breathed his last. He held on and struck Nidhogg again, this time piercing his eye. “You gifted my people a thousand years of suffering, now I gift you an eternity in darkness!” Estinien twisted his lance and ripped Nidhogg’s eye from his socket, sending him spiraling to the ground.

Estinien jumped back to the platform where he’d left Saoirse and lifted her with care. Though he fell his greatest foe, it would mean nothing if she paid the price.

******************************************************************************

To everyone’s relief, Estinien had made it in time. Saoirse would recover, but the event had been too close a call for some.

“Lord Commander?” Estinien entered the Seat of the Lord Commander to meet Aymeric who sat at his desk looking over a map.

“Ah, Estinien, how are you fairing?”

“Well enough. You wished to speak with me?”

Aymeric nodded. “I’m sure you can presume why I requested an audience with you, so I will be to the point on the matter.” Aymeric set his elbows against the desk and folded his hands before him. “The incident with Saoirse at The Aery is concerning, and while I do not blame you, I do believe that had it been anyone else, the Warrior of Light would have acted with more sense, as is her normal decorum.”

Estinien narrowed his gaze. “And this means?”

“It is evident to everyone that she cares very deeply for you, Estinien and perhaps this clouded her judgement in the moment…and emotional response in lieu of a tactical one.”

“Say what you mean to say, Aymeric.”

Aymeric sighed. “I hate to be the one to do this, but perhaps it would be best if you distanced yourself from her. Your relationship may not be what’s best for her in the end…not now when so much else is at stake.”

“You would have me leave her? And pray tell, how do you propose I go about hurting her further? Or have you mapped out those steps to serve you as well?” Estinien slammed his hands against Aymeric’s desk and leaned toward him. “You would neglect her feelings to serve your needs?”

Aymeric stood to meet Estinien and met his gaze with the same fierceness. “This is bigger than you, Estinien. For once consider someone besides yourself!”

“It is her I am concerned for!”

“Is it? She almost died protecting you! You would subject her to that again?”

Estinien grabbed Aymeric by the collar. “So long as I am beside her I will shield her!”

“But you didn’t protect her!” Aymeric grabbed Estinien’s wrist. “You can wish and want for all your worth, but you have already failed her once. Next time she may not be so lucky.”

Estinien grew quiet and his hands slipped from Aymeric. “Ask nothing of me again.” He turned his back to Aymeric and headed for the door.

“Estinien, wait!” Aymeric watched as Estinien disappeared through front doors. He sunk back in his chair and looked to the ceiling. “She matters not only to you.” He covered his eyes with his hand and let silence take him. It was done.

******************************************************************************

Saoirse was awake and talking with Alphinaud when Estinien entered her quarters.

She smiled in his direction, but when he did not return her smile she worried. “Estinien? Are you feeling alright?”

He ignored her and looked to Alphinaud. “Might I have a moment alone with Saoirse?”

“Yes, certainly.” Alphinaud gave Saoirse one last smile and patted her hand. “I’m glad you’re well…You too Estinien.”

Estinien waited for Alphinaud to shut the door behind him before he brought his attention to Saoirse. “Could you not listen to me? I asked of you one plain matter.”

“I wasn’t going to stand back and do nothing. You were asking me to watch you suffer. I couldn’t do that.” Saoirse’s voice was soft, she didn’t want to argue, but she wanted him to see her side.

“But you would allow me to bear that guilt?”

“Estinien…That’s not…I didn’t want to lose you.” Saoirse pulled the covers back and turned to face Estinien fully. Her legs still too weak to stand.

Estinien looked to the floor and his voice was quiet, “I am not yours to lose.”

“What?”

“I was not in need of your help.” Estinien lifted his gaze and his cadence grew louder as he continued to speak, “I was well enough alone. I have always done well enough alone. Therein lies my mistake with you!”

Saoirse fought to swallow her tears. Her throat was tight from suppressing her sorrow and she struggled to reply.

“Whatever lust I disguised as love is not worth your burden.”

“You don’t mean that…You can’t…” She could no longer hide her hurt. Her tears stung as they traced the cuts along her cheek.

“You would do best to forget hollow words.” Estinien turned his back to her and placed his hand upon the door. “Though it hardly served a purpose, I will thank you for your selflessness…And know that I am sorry…had I realized how hopelessly asinine your feelings for me are, I never would have entertained the notion. I was mistaken not to let Haurchefant have you…spare myself the headache all this has caused.” Estinien opened the door and found Haurchefant standing on the other side with a tray of food and drink in his hands. “Ah, ‘tis fate. Your knight has come to care for you.” Estinien pushed past Haurchefant before anyone could respond. 

At the end of the hall Aymeric stood. “Estinien I know—”

Estinien drove his fist into the wall beside Aymeric’s head. “I have failed her twice now…be swift in picking up the pieces and do not presume to speak to me again.” Estinien withdrew his knuckles and walked away.

Aymeric looked from Estinien’s fading figure in the distance to Haurchefant who’d been watching, but once the scene was done he turned to Saoirse who he’d originally come to see and noticed her head buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with every sob.

Haurchefant quickly set the tray on the table nearby and rushed to her side. He knelt before her and forced her hands from her face. “Saoirse, what’s wrong? Has something happened?”

Saoirse opened her mouth to speak, but no words would find her. She slid from the bed and laid her head against Haurchefant’s chest and continued to cry.

Haurchefant sat back onto the floor and took her into his arms. He ran his hand through her hair and cooed, “It’ll be alright.”

She wanted to believe him, but in that moment, she wasn’t sure she believed anything anymore. What had so recently become one was once again two…and this time, she feared the divide was too great for their halves to ever make whole again.

 To be continued?

[skaylanphear]

The Voltron Project

What is it? The Voltron Project is a retelling of the Voltron story following Season 6. Like many in the fandom, I was left dissatisfied with Season 7 for many reasons. The Voltron Project is a fan endeavor to give others feeling similarly the content that was lacking in Season 7. I won't rehash the discourse here, as this is meant to be a positive move forward, and while I think a lot was learned as a result of Season 7, I want to carve out a positive place for both myself and others should they so wish to partake.

I also want to make it clear that this is not a project resulting from spite or a desire to hurt the creators of Voltron. It is simply a fan (me) retelling the story in a way that I will find more satisfying. It is for that reason that I invite everyone to be involved and to have fun with it. You're not unwelcome if you enjoyed Season 7, but you're definitely going to get a lot of what was missing if you didn't. This project isn't meant to spur hate, but to simply take Voltron in a different direction. An AU, if you will, though it takes off following Season 6 of the canon.

I'd also like to add that this is not connected to the "Reboot" or the Leakira stuff going around. This is something entirely different. I am not involved in any of that.

With that out of the way, I can actually TELL YOU ABOUT THE PROJECT!

Details: The Voltron Project will be a novel length fic taking place following Season 6 of Voltron. It will be divided up episodically, meaning that there will be 13 chapters in total. It is meant to reflect the best of what we've seen of Voltron, while doing away with the worst. That means focusing on the main characters and their arcs, interactions, and development, as well as keeping alive the space epic atmosphere of the show. This is not a ship-spurred project, being that the goal is that anyone who enjoys the show or any of the characters in it will also enjoy. Fanfiction is a place for people to explore the character dynamics of those they love most, which means that most fics focus solely on only a few characters. Which is great! But the goal of The Voltron Project is to bring the team dynamic of the show to the page. Each character will get their story and their spotlight, and those that have fallen on the backburner will finally get their due (yes, this means hefty arcs for both Lance and Hunk that will actually be pertinent to the story and related to the plot, though these arcs will be spread over the "Season 7" rewrite as well as the newly written "Season 8" finale book that would be written if this project is a success). That isn't to say there won't be ships at all (because there will be), but this isn't a ship driven narrative.

It is a Voltron and character driven narrative.

So what does this mean? Well, I've outlined the story fully, so I can provide you with summaries of what would be to come. If only to get y'all interested, because it won't be worth me writing if people aren't interested in reading ;)

The Voltron Project: Season 7 - Summaries

Episode 1: Keith struggles to find his confidence as leader with Shiro back, leaving him to reflect on all the times Shiro was his guide growing up. Certainly it'd make more sense for Shiro to take over the team and get them through this difficult journey back to Earth? Meanwhile, Allura struggles to find her confidence and place on the team following Lotor's betrayal. Stranded on an unknown planet, she fails to find a peaceful resolution with the local population, leaving Hunk to step forward with a new perspective and perhaps a new way of looking at Voltron's previously tried and true methods of diplomacy.

Episode 2: Having set out on the long journey back to Earth, the paladins struggle with close-quarters as well as the fear that with their lions not fully charged, they may be unable to defend themselves should the situation turn dire. Luck is not on their side, as they encounter an invisible force that seems to enjoy toying with their insecurities. Left to soul-search their way to answers, each paladin must grapple with the fears holding them hostage in the hopes that they—and their lions—might come out stronger on the other side.

Episode 3: Discovering an old altean base from the days when Daibazaal and Altea were allies, the paladins make a pit-stop in the hopes of salvaging supplies for their trip. While Romelle and Coran indulge in Altean culture and history, Allura must face the heartbreak Lotor inflicted on her emotionally as well as how his actions shook her faith in the art of altean alchemy itself. But as Lance points out, Allura must shape her own story with her own actions, not reflect on the misguided deeds of others against her. Without her abilities, they may not escape the faulty altean base alive.

Episode 4: While the team attempts to get the archaic teleduv up and running, Lance is left to ponder his own relationships with the other paladins, as well as his many mistakes. But if there's anyone who understands interpersonal missteps, it's Shiro, who divulges the many regrets he's accumulated since he'd made the decision to go to space. But the team's ultimate goal is Olkari, as that may be as far as they can get with the questionable teleduv. Personal reflections may have to take a backseat to the bad news that awaits them. Meanwhile, Haggar and Sendak strike up an alliance.

Episode 5: Since Sam Holt's return, the Earth has been informed of the war beyond its solar system and prepped as best as possible for an inevitable attack. But Earth's technology is too far behind to catch up, and so the citizenry must hope for Voltron and the coalition when Galra ships appear on the horizon. Hopes that are devastated when news that Voltron was destroyed reaches Sam Holt via the Olkari. And without an altean, the coalition can't provide aid in time. Earth is, seemingly, on its own.

Episode 6: Back on Earth, the paladins are finally reunited with their loved ones. But things aren't the same as when they left and the paladins aren't the same people they were on that fateful day the blue lion carried them into space. Pressures are mounting and tough decisions must be made, many of the paladins having to face their positions in ways they hadn't considered before. Meanwhile, Shiro attempts to deal with the politics of Earth, Voltron, and the Coalition, all while trying to work around personal obstacles from before he'd left on the Kerberos Mission.

Episode 7: All the paladins need a break, so Lance invites them down to Varadero for a day out under the sun and on the water. After all, what better solution is there for stress and doubt than a relaxing day on the beach? Yet even as the team seems to be embracing Lance's idea and having a good time, he's eventually the one left floundering and uncertain. But none of that may matter soon. The notion of peace is fleeting and everyone knew the Galra would be back sooner rather than later. Even with Voltron and the Coalition, Earth may yet be in danger.

Episode 8: Everyone is scrambling to Earth's defenses, which are far from being prepared for another attack. Team Voltron is tested both together and apart by the combined forces of Sendak and Haggar's forces. With so much to defend and so little on their side, they may have no choice but to separate their priorities if only because so much has to be done and so little is possible. But Voltron is always stronger together and Haggar's new weapon may be the strongest foe the paladins have faced yet.

Episode 9: With their focus on Haggar's weapon, Voltron depends on the coalition and Earth's own forces to deal with the assault. But even their faith in the strength of Voltron may not be enough. There's tragedy waiting in Earth's devastation. The most personally weighted and important battle the paladins have ever faced may be one that's impossible to truly win.

Episode 10: Humanity will never be the same, nor will team Voltron. In the wake of the attack, Earth has been tested in ways never before seen, while the paladins must try and pick up the pieces of their own team. With a lion and a paladin captured and another paladin overwhelmed with grief, they must continue to push forward despite the giant fractures that threaten to crumble everything Voltron has worked so hard to achieve.

Episode 11: Having located the energy signature of the captured lion, the paladins and the coalition move in. But retrieving the missing lion—and hopefully the paladin that goes with it—will prove challenging without the ability to form Voltron, and that's if things go as planned. But knowing the Galra, things are bound to go wrong.

Episode 12: The paladins are working on borrowed time. Infiltrating the Galra ships proves perilous. While Allura is faced with Haggar—as well as the misdeeds of Lotor and their effects—the rest of the team searches for their missing comrade. But traversing Galra ships is challenging, especially when they've got so much riding on such a short time allotment. That some of the team's judgement is clouded in anger and grief does little to help the situation. In the end, the paladins are left rushing toward an end with no clear answers.

Episode 13: With one of the lions having vanished through Haggar's wormhole, it falls to Keith to do something, as his lion is the only one capable of bending space swiftly enough to catch up. Meanwhile, Sendak awaits, having used the paladins' weaknesses against them to the point that team Voltron may never recover if Keith, and the rest of the team, can't find him in time.

So those are the summaries for the entirety of "Season 7." I've tried to include enough to explain where the story is going while also leaving out as many spoilers as possible ;D

This is the fic I'd like to write, if enough people are interested in reading it. But a lot of my investment in it is dependent on readers' investment in it. I'll write with or without the help of others if enough people want to read it. And in the case that others want to be involved, I have a few propositions to be considered. Different potential "packages" of The Voltron Project, if you will:

Basic – I write the fic and upload it over the course of 13 days to AO3 for everyone to read, simple as that.

BigBang – The fic itself remains a digital interface, while artists that are interested in being involved treat it like a BigBang, as in, artists work on illustrations of each chapter like they would separate stories during a BigBang. These will be released during a thirteen day period, with appropriate credits being given. But this is only possible if at least 13 artists are interested. If there are more (which would be amazing), I would like the project to be as inclusive as possible, meaning that multiple artists would work on illustrations for one chapter, etc.

Zine – The ultimate goal, which I think is unlikely, but a dude can dream, yeah? In this case, the book will be released as a digital zine (which would be free) with options for different tiers following. For example:

Tier one: Free—get a digital copy! Awesome!

Tier two: Black and white softcover copy (text and illustrations would be in b&w) with all proceeds going to charity (what charity would be up for discussion at a later date).

Tier three: Color softcover copy! All proceeds would go to charity!

Tier four: Color hardcover copy! All proceeds would go to charity!

(This is only an example of potentially what could be done and could change later)

I also imagine that different tiers would offer different extras, like pins, bookmarks, etc… But again, this is the ultimate thing that could happen and I'm really not holding my breath for this being possible.

In any case, that is where I stand on The Voltron Project at the moment! I'm looking forward to hearing what everyone has to say! 

And if y’all want this project to get off the ground, tell your friends, tell your fav artists, and, of course, REBLOG!

PS: Also, I'll need beta readers, so if people are into this idea, I'll open some kind of application for that as well, as would be done with artists ;D Just something to keep in mind!

PPS: THIS IS A HATE FREE PROJECT! ANY HATE BY ANYONE WANTING TO BE INVOLVED WILL NOT BE TOLERATED AND YOU WILL BE TAKEN OFF THE ROSTER POST-HASTE!

[letsperaltiago]

We’ll sweep out the ashes in the morning |CHAPTER 2|

If you're new here: welcome! And if you're returning for second chapter: bless you :')

Here's to some Peraltiago banter and pining !!

Read it on AO3 or simply enjoy it here! I appreciate comments more than you know <3

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

CHAPTER 2: I say we don't know what comes 'cause that's on the way

“I’m home,” Jake called out as per routine as soon as he set a foot inside the walls of his home as the clock stroke 8 PM. The winter darkness had swallowed New York whole multiple hours ago, and the dwelling feeling of this specific day being that longest in a while was stuck in Jake’s tired, cold bones. Yes, today had felt torturously long, but it wasn’t because of the dark season (a national depression and whatnot) or the fact that he’d been out the door for 12 hours by now. No, all day long it’d felt like his phone and hands were constantly burning in what was clearly a move with the intention of provoking him. His body wanted to text Amy so bad; the faster he did that, the sooner he’d (hopefully) get to see her again. Yet he managed to refrain from doing so, figuring that Amy Santiago wouldn’t give anyone or anything but her job the time of day during official work hours.

Next thing he knew and before his thoughts could carry him elsewhere, the sound of a few light steps approached from the living room. Meanwhile he shrugged off his coat to abandon it on its designated hanger; right next to hers and above the already kicked off shoes.

“Hey,” he heard a warm voice welcome his eyes to switch in the direction of its owner. Here they met a pair of beautiful, welcoming brown irises. Not Amy’s warm brown irises though, he caught himself thinking… This was so wrong.

Immediately upon realising the betrayal his mind had just presented to him, Jake Peralta felt his heart skip a beat - the guilty kind - along with his gut dropping. It was indeed very wrong (even a rule he’d say) to compare ones current girlfriend, who was currently leaning against the doorframe connecting the living room to the entree, to an old friend slash colleague. Especially when you’d only talked to said old colleague for 3 minutes the very same morning. Her leaning hip elegantly as ever nudged the rest of her figure out of her resting position with his direction as target. “How was your day? It’s kinda late and I was getting worried about you.” Slender hands slid onto his waist as if they were making their way back home, reminding Jake of the fact that there was indeed nothing to worry about. Not when the incredibly stunning and smart Sophia Perez was gripping onto his knitted sweater in order to keep him in place for a welcoming kiss to his purple, frozen lips.

“Sorry,” barely made it out against her lips. Pulling away was his next move. “I had a perp that didn’t exactly feel like confessing, so I had to stay in order to get him to talk. He was not a fan.”

“Always the hero, huh?” Sophia smiled cheekily before turning back around prior to walking back to whatever she’d been doing before he walked in. “I had to bring home an important case that’s due tomorrow, so I’m working on that and already ate… But I made sure to keep a portion of dinner for you. It’s ready to be put in the microwave.” Then she disappeared back into the living room.

“Thank you,” was all there was left for him to call out after her, before making his way to their kitchen. ‘Their kitchen’ was still such a weird concept to Jake; sure they’d been together for 4 years now and had lived together for almost two, but sharing his home with another person still seemed surreal to him. This was of course nothing personal against Sophia, but it’d taken Jake a while to get comfortable enough with the idea of sharing a home with a romantic partner - hence why it’d taken Sophia two years to convince him of the fact that his apartment was a hazardous climate and that sharing the bills in two would ease their respective economies. All that aside, they now shared a quite nice apartment not too far from the 99th precinct and once again there was actual food on the table instead of his usual ‘chocolate milk with whatever cereal was in his cupboard that day’-combo. Not that he expected Sophia to cook or do anything for him… It was more a case of Sophia not really letting him, because she was afraid of him messing up, which to Jake himself seemed to be a fair judgement of character. What a chaos it would’ve been if he’d ended up with someone who couldn’t cook.

Whilst waiting for his food to be heated by the microwave as it quietly purred in the background, Jake suddenly realised he’d actually managed to forget about the burning phone in his pocket. For approximately three minutes. Nice. Without any further hesitation he grabbed the device from the right front pocket of his jeans and  swiped it open before immediately clicking the green ‘contacts’ button; dear God, he hoped he still had her number. If not, he’d probably kill- Oh wait, there it was. Jake instantly felt his heart settle again. Yet just as quickly as it had settled, his veins started pumping and of course his heart followed behind, racing again just as his shaky thumb clicked her name then ‘send message’.

Elsewhere, still in her old apartment, Amy Santiago heard her phone give off a rumbling sound that was too loud to ignore. A sigh escaped her otherwise relaxed body in frustration caused by the fact that she’d forgotten to take her phone off vibrate. Trying to fight the global phone-addiction, she liked her evenings undisturbed and preferably without unnecessary use of any gadgets. Though she had to admit that this interruption was no one else but her own fault; and Jake Peralta’s, she mentally added shortly after having put down her book and pushed herself off the couch to check on whoever was trying to reach her after 8 PM. A small, some would say guilty even, grin let its presence be known at the sight before her. Of course it was him; who else?

Jake Peralta: Didnt have ur email saved in my contacts. Sorry:(

Creative, funny enough for her to breath out a chuckle. Even though it was just a few words, Amy had to admit that she was pleasantly surprised by how unquestionably their dynamic fell back into place; something she’d lacked ever since her transfer.

Amy Santiago: I’ll let it slide this one time.

Waiting, staring at the three taunting dots, holding her breath.

Jake Peralta: cool cool cool. so i was thinkin saturday. shaw’s. 8 pm. cool?

Jake’s lack of upper case letters was a mess, which could only cause Amy to feel physically uncomfortable. She was just about to allow herself to comment on it; had he not gone to school? Though she refrained and thus it was quickly replaced by more important matters such as verifying her neatly structured calendar. It would be a lie though, if she claimed to not have made a mental note; Jake really needed to step up his texting game and formal requirements. Simply the thought of his supposed, messy work mails caused yet another shudder, whilst her fingers directed the conversation in a completely different direction.

Amy Santiago: Just checked my calendar and we’re in the clear. Saturday at 8 it is. Hope you’ve gotten better at pool.

In his comfortable spot on his and Sophia’s couch as yet another episode of Queer Eye introduced itself, Jake tried to act if he wasn’t actually afraid of not getting a reply; as if he didn’t fear the fact that Amy had agreed to meet up just to be polite and get rid of him that very same morning. He tried to act as if that would be okay ‘cause it’s not like they meant more to each other than the average old friend slash colleague. People came and went; Jake knew that better than anyone. Though that didn’t mean that he was actually good at playing it off as okay - especially when ‘people’ could potentially be Amy Santiago. Mercifully, a buzz coming from the arm rest beside him drew his attention away from the warm dinner before him and spiralling thoughts. There was no questioning the fact that he did indeed reach for the buzzing device way too fast, but all that fell aside when the lock screen’s preview of the text caused his heart to swell with joy.

Jake Peralta: deal. and dont worry. i’ve been practicing. ur ass will be whooped by 9

A feeling of a potential catastrophe came rushing through his entire body as soon as his finger had pressed the ‘send’ button. Perhaps your third text in five years to an old friend shouldn’t include her ass; especially when you own ass was far from single and definitely had felt… emotions towards said old friend at some point in time. Fumbling fingers quickly typed out a desperate, probably pointless, redeem before yet again hitting ‘send’.

Jake Peralta: sorry!! that was really inappropriate!

“Fuck,” he furiously locked his phone, mad at himself, at the exact same time as the back of his head hit the back of his couch in defeat. Well, if she had no reason to back out before, she definitely had now. Billions of minutes went by (or so it felt) before another buzz drew the heavy head off the back of the couch in a quick snap. In a spur of moment it all very much felt like the pivotal moment of his entire life.

Amy Santiago: Title of your sex tape?

Oxygen once again poured right into his lungs, allowing his chest to open up and his breath to unhinge from the brief, horrid intermission. The widest smile in forever (compared to what, he didn’t exactly know) formed on his tired yet now very content face. Their relationship really hadn’t changed and apparently the student had become the teacher.

Though ‘Saturday at 8 PM’ had seemed lightyears away on that Wednesday, for both Jake and Amy, the weekend and day finally emerged. Unbeknownst to the opposite party, one was more nervous and excited than the other. They’d sent each other a few texts during those few days; small jokes, remarks and other whatnots without importance. Little did they know that every single notification made the other’s heart jump to their throats for just a nanosecond - every damn time.

Amy Santiago: I’m at Shaw’s. Got us two seats in the right corner booth. Where are you?

Jake Peralta: its only 7.48!.. whatever. shouldve known i never had a fighting chance. see ya in 10

Amy chuckled to herself after leaving her phone face down on the oh so familiar, wooden table. Seemingly out of nowhere, the strong familiarity of the situation hit her like a ton of bricks: Sitting in a booth at Shaw’s, the smoke from multiple lit cigarettes mixed with the smell of alcohol, waiting for an iconically late Jake, sipping on a cheap beer… If she hadn’t known any better, Amy could’ve sworn that she was back in 2014. There was no way she’d ever say it out loud, because that would mean actually acknowledging it, but she sometimes wished she actually was back in 2014. This would imply still working at the Nine-Nine and more importantly the fact that she’d get a second chance at choosing a different path for herself. A path that didn’t bring her away from what she’d forever consider her favourite work place and best friends; more precisely a path that didn’t bring her so far away from the possibility of getting closer to a certain idiot, sweet manchild. Sometimes she even caught herself redhanded thinking, daydreaming about what they could’ve possibly resulted in if she’d just stayed. If only she’d just stuck around long enough for her to realise that Teddy wasn’t a match and Jake possibly was… If not perfect then maybe at least better.

She must’ve been staring at the tip of her beer bottle for quite some time seeing that as soon as she allowed her eyes to leave it, she gazed right at a smiling Jake Peralta. Almost like he’d walked right out of her guilty daydream.

“7.59,” he briefly threw a glance at his phone, before putting it down on the table. “Nailed it.”

There was that stupid, racing heartbeat again, Amy thought to herself in the midst of trying to play it off with a welcoming smile and what she hoped was a smooth answer. “I’m impressed. Just for that? First drink is on me.” She pushed a second beer, unopened, in his direction. Prepared as always.

“First drink? Damn, Santiago,” he slid himself into the narrow booth and seated himself next to her. “Are you planning on getting me drunk?”

“Shut up.” Honestly? Yes. But she couldn’t admit to that so she settled for a classic eye roll. That at least always seemed to get her out of these kinds of situations, where she hopelessly needed to run from her secret wishes.

“Here’s to reunions and old friendships,” Jake raised his beer into the air, implicitly asking Amy to make this their little moment.

“I’ll drink to that,” Amy complied, clinking her bottle against his before taking a slurp.

Moving forward, flow of the conversation was smooth and seemed infinite. As a surprise to no one, they had a lot to catch up on and there was no sparing of details or sidetracks. The rabbit hole that was their five years apart was wide agape, and with alcohol added to the mix, there was no stopping them. Their phones never left their screen down positions on the table before them, and their eyes never left the other’s. This was continuously the case until they were both three drinks in and Jake’s phone suddenly pinged.

“Sorry. Just a sec,” the beer in his hand was replaced by his phone. “Must be Sophia asking where I am.”

Sophia. Amy mentally repeated the name, analysing it, trying to put it into a fitting context but alas failed. It must’ve shown on her face. She was never good at hiding her true emotions - especially confusion, where her frowning brows would always act as snitches.

“Oh, wait…” an almost regretful, nervous even, expression presented itself on Jake’s face. “You don’t know Sophia, right?” Why did he have a culpable feeling of not wanting her to either? Things were going so well. It might not have been morally right if so, but Jake couldn’t help but consider that an evening without mentioning Sophia would’ve been easier… He knew things with Amy could never head in certain directions, but he also knew that there would’ve been nothing illegal about forgetting about certain things for just a couple of hours, right? Temporarily allowing himself to forget that Amy had left, eliminating alternative fates for their relationship, thus leading him onto a path right into Sophia’s arms. Alas, it too late. There was no way around it, and Jake had to act like he didn’t absolutely loath the cards that were now clearly on the table. “I met Sophia about a year after you transferred to Major Crimes. She’s…” Jake interrupted himself by taking a finishing gulp of his now empty beer. “She’s great. We live together in an apartment near the Nine-Nine and we’re enga- she’s uh-… my fiancée.”

If he didn’t know any better, Jake could’ve sworn that his old friend’s otherwise golden brown eyes were suddenly eclipsed b a darker shade that he couldn’t quite recognise. All he knew was that it could compare to the way sinister thunderclouds would overtake a clear spring day.

“Oh, that’s…” He saw her struggle to form words, her dark eyes returning to the old habit of centralising on inanimate objects rather than people, whenever she needed a second to form her upcoming sentence. “That’s… amazing!” her eyes were redirected back to his, paired with a weirdly contrasting smile. “I’m so happy for you, Jake. You deserve that.”

If it wasn’t because he consciously forced himself to not overanalyse every single thing she said or did that evening, Jake would’ve been worried by this immediate switch of mood. Yet he let it be, acting as if everything was as it should be. “Thank you.” That was a start, Jake thought. “Yeah, I’m… very happy.” He begged to God that he sounded more convincing than he felt. Why was he feeling like this? He was far from unhappy with Sophia and there was no justifying his opposing thoughts nor his feelings.

“Good. That’s the most important, right?”

God, he hated that he loved the way she tilted her head, whenever she would ask a rhetorical question. “Of course… But uh- what about you? Got a lucky guy?” Though he was definitely tipsy by then, he was nowhere near drunk enough for this conversation. Just the fact that he felt the need to be drunk for this particular conversation was reason enough to get drunk.

“No,” she smiled. Not sadly, because Amy Santiago surely didn’t need a man. But maybe her smile was just unaccented enough to imply that she needed something. This alone gave Jake a devilish and false sense of consolation. False in the sense that it was so wrong. On the other hand he also suddenly feel the need to figure out what this something was. “It’s just me, myself and my job,” she added.

“Well,” a comforting smile countered hers. The last thing he wanted was for her to interpret his question as criticising or demeaning. On the contrary, he actually admired (and always had) her professional drive and independence. “That’s not a bad thing. I’ll have you know…” He pushed himself out of booth for the first time since he’d arrived two hours prior, earning himself a confused look frown from Amy. “… I’ll drink to you and your admirable devotion to your job. Beer?”

Amy couldn’t point out if it was caused by the change in the way the lamp’s warm light hit him now that he was standing up; or if it was caused by him taking off his hoodie before throwing it where he’d been sitting, only to reveal his iconic and flattering flannel; or if it was caused by the buzz in her head and heating cheeks that made her wish he would peel of the remaining layers of clothing. Whatever it was, Amy Santiago was frustrated, yet happy - that collision of feelings itself was extra frustrating. She needed to fight it off the deeply wrong and forbidden thoughts with something. “Shots?”

“Shots.” He concluded, checking for his wallet. “Definitely.”

When Jake came back with four tiny glasses of some clear liquid. Amy didn’t recognise that nor the taste, when she downed her first shot seconds later with Jake back by her side. They’d gulped down one each, followed by Jake explaining her what it was, but she didn’t care at this point. All she wanted was to get back on track and forget the pre-shots conversation about the future Mrs. Peralta.

[try-and-try-and-try-again]

Appointment - 08.08.19

Yesterday my appointment consisted yet again of a series of hard hitting comments about my struggles to find the motivation to change. As usual, it also included a supported lunch during which I also had to answer questions about weight goals which made the situation even more uncomfortable. I planned to write my thoughts on it yesterday, but I wasn’t really in the right headspace to write anything. Putting this under ‘read more’ as it could be potentially triggering.

Last week, we ended up going to the hospital canteen on the spur of the moment because the sandwiches from the fridge were frozen. This week my key worker was congratulating me on how well I handled eating there. It’s strange but when I’m made to do such challenges, I’m usually fine when I’m actually doing them, but it’s afterwards that I start to panic. I find myself getting so caught up in the ‘must do everything I’m told without putting up a fight and be a good patient’ mode and my fears of letting people down/being told off etc. that they override everything else. In many ways I hate it and I’m not really sure I can explain why. It doesn’t make a lot of sense. I should be glad about managing difficult situations successfully. Instead I just feel ashamed of myself and like I’ve been defeated. Perhaps it’s because its not really determination that gets me through them but fear - and a fear that overwhelms the part of me that wants to restrict, so I end up feeling completely out of control. I find myself wanting to fight back so badly, wanting to refuse, wanting to scream, wanting to walk out and do everything I can to avoid eating, but instead I sit in silence and eat anyway. At least, I think to myself, once I’ve done this I won’t have to do it for another week.

However, it’s not really that simple. I’ve been told I’m in danger of not being allowed to go to university even if I get the grades if I continue as I am. Yet despite the goals I set myself I still keep sabotaging myself. My key worker was asking about what weight I’d be happy to work towards/if I had a certain number that made me uncomfortable. She explained that ideally she wanted me to aim for a BMI of 20 but that if I really couldn’t manage it she wouldn’t push me. We worked out a place to try and get to, and it still feels too high but it is what it is. This was an incredibly awkward conversation to have. I feel so embarrassed by my fear of weighing more than Xkg and a BMI of Y. Logically it makes no sense - the numbers I do feel okay with are unhealthy. Being within a healthy weight range would be much better for me, but somehow I just have this feeling that I absolutely can’t go above a certain weight, I absolutely can’t get into the range I logically know I should be in. When I did get towards a healthy weight in the day programme, I struggled so much with everything feeling so wrong, feeling so uncomfortable in my own skin and feeling like I couldn’t bare to go on. For some reason, when things started slipping again I felt much more calm. What is wrong with me? I’ve never really paid great attention to the way I look but when it comes to weight I am obsessive. Is it because I want to look a certain way to people? I don’t even know. That seems so shallow and I don’t like to think that but what if it is on some level? I guess I shouldn’t be ashamed of it, nobody is perfect. Is it because of the feeling of having extra weight? That is definitely something that bothers me - having clothes fit differently is not nice. Having curves and a more feminine figure(why is that an issue? I am a woman and it is normal to have curves) just doesn’t feel right - somehow it doesn’t feel ‘me’ (if that makes any sense). Whatever it is, it’s quite a huge barrier to me, one that despite being very illogical is one I have not been able to break down even in the past two and a half years.

Lunch left me feeling uncomfortably full and I really struggled with tea. I may have had a bit of a break down at the table when my sister was pushing me to eat more which just made her cross. She’s going through a really rough time and I’m worried about her. She’s stuck in a job she doesn’t like, has been applying to other ones and being turned down due to lack of experience. (It’s sad that having a first class MA doesn’t really mean much at all when getting a job. How can you get experience when you can’t get a job in the first place?) She keeps talking about how she hates herself and everything, and how she’s ruined everything. Last night she was crying and hitting herself. I wish I knew how to help her. When I try to be supportive or make suggestions she says I don’t understand. She says the same to my parents too. I wonder if talking to a counselor would help her but who am I to make such judgements? I think that all I’m doing right now is making things worse for her. I just don’t know what to do...

[ddbdiariesindia]

ME BEFORE US?

In a world that is constantly evolving with time, that most celebrated of all human emotions – love – is no exception. We explore its changing discourse.

There are few topics on which people around the world agree – but our idea of what love means could be the exception that proves the rule. Long drawn conditioning and cultural conversations have found love to be an act of completion, fulfillment, closure. This perhaps owes to Aristophanes’ argument in Plato’s Symposium. In it, he brought forth the then novel, now conventional idea of the ‘Other Half’. Aristophanes’ argument was an outlandish account, describing early humans as hermaphroditic beings, outfitted with two faces, four hands, and four legs. These monstrosities were also described as very fast – moving by way of cartwheels – and quite powerful to boot. Aristophanes described them as so powerful, in fact, that they made the Gods nervous, leading to them being split into half. Each half was left longing for their detached ‘other half,’ the partner that would ‘complete’ them.

This long-forgotten theory has been played out extensively and almost universally in our popular culture, making it clear to young men and women through the ages that they were ‘incomplete’ without a lover or a mate.

Finding one’s romantic counterpart was a cultural imperative, spurring the era of Mills and Boons and powering the entire genre of romance dramas and romantic comedies. This has also been the driving force behind the recognizable commercialization of love which began in the West, and then took root globally. Occasions like Valentine’s Day have been revamped into a celebration of having found a partner, a sign one’s personal life was blossoming. The corollary being that those still ‘single’ or unable to find a romantic partner are excluded from festivities.

Closer home, India’s classical art and literature also tell the tragic yet legendary tales of Laila-Majnu and Heer-Ranjha, besotted lovers, one incomplete without the other, who meet their unfortunate ends due to the shackles of society. This idea of an undying, unrelenting love has in turn inspired the country’s most influential source of popular and mass storytelling – Bollywood mainstream cinema – reminding audiences that the quality of their life is irrevocably tied to their ability to attract the right partner. Memorable lines in the movie Aandhi (1975) “Tere bina zindagi bhi lekin, zindagi toh nahi, zindagi nahi” have had the country singing along, collectively longing for the one true love that would seemingly make us all whole.

More recently, 1995’s Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge achieved cult status, with Simran (the archetypical young Indian girl, played by Kajol) yearned for her one true love to feel whole. It’s portrayal of unlikely but loveable partners is so revered that the movie still runs at Maratha Mandir in Mumbai, today, 23 years later.

What explains the endurance of this idea of love? Is it societal conditioning, gender/power dynamics in the common Indian household, access to or exclusion from financial resources? But as with everything else, society has changed, norms have changed, culture has changed, and love too is changing. Which brings us to the distinctly contemporary concept of self-love.

Among the chief advocates of self-love, was American author and feminist, bell hooks, who wrote:

“One of the best guides to how to be self-loving is to give ourselves the love we are often dreaming about receiving from others. There was a time when I felt lousy about my over-forty body, saw myself as too fat, too this, or too that. Yet I fantasized about finding a lover who would give me the gift of being loved as I am. It is silly, isn't it, that I would dream of someone else offering to me the acceptance and affirmation I was withholding from myself. This was a moment when the maxim "You can never love anybody if you are unable to love yourself" made clear sense. And I add, "do not expect to receive the love from someone else you do not give yourself.”

Bell Hooks and several other writers championed self-love to build a healthier imagery of love – one that did not hinge on validation from others and built something of value for oneself.

In Bollywood too, we saw the beginnings of the emergence of a heroine who desired someone who made her a “better version of herself,” rather than someone who completed her. In notable films like Kal Ho Na Ho (2003), we see the protagonist Naina (played by Preity Zinta) take a unique journey of love – with the man who made her a better version of herself and with the man who eventually became her life partner. She marries her best friend, but initially falls in love with someone who helps her grow and change for the better. Since then, we have seen multiple cinematic stories where the protagonist chooses to define his/her personal identity before choosing to love another. Films like Queen and Manmarziyan are glowing examples of how self-love is slowly being normalized, as opposed to being perceived as a selfish act of individualism. What matters increasingly is the journey to self-love, an arduous one for sure, but one which ends at self-actualization rather than completion – “O Safarnama… O jise dhoondha zamaane mein… mujh hi mein tha.”(Tamasha, 2015).

It’s fitting that perhaps the best articulation of the new definition of love has been offered by Indian-American comedienne Mindy Kaling, a cross-cultural and millennial icon, in her hit comedy “Mindy Project.’ It’s encapsualted by a conversation where the lead protagonists, unaware of their own feelings towards each other, discuss finding the ‘one’:

Why does this particular idea of self-love resonate with the much-maligned millennial generation? To attribute it to a culture of individualism would be simplistic. It might be due to their self-awareness and criticality, an inherent need to find flaws in themselves. The germ of doubt is birthed and nurtured by society and uniquely amplified by social media. Therefore, the idea of self-improvement or little boosts of confidence to become the best version of oneself is appealing. Partnership is ideal when it’s a means to this end. Self-love is not always a solitary pursuit but instead could trigger the quest for a person who makes people the best version of themselves.

As a result, millennials are foraying into new kinds of relationships. There’s an entirely new vocabulary of friendship and companionship that has emerged as a result – ‘friends with benefits,’ being only one example. Another such kind of relationship is a ‘situationship’, where both parties are emotionally and perhaps physically involved, but there remains an inability to commit, with fear and doubt clouding judgement, since both parties are yet to master self-love. This too comes with its own challenges. The question arises, is it possible to love oneself completely and accept another person’s love at the same time? Which kind of love is better? Is the idea of completion futile? While we fumble trying to find the answers to these questions, perhaps what would help us are even more new stories about this new kind of love, with its even more complex confusions.

Niyanta Mirjankar

Niyanta works as a Strategist in our Mumbai office. She believes that everyday conversations with people are an invaluable source of insights. She finds her peace in reading, singing and loving dogs, and hopes to adopt a llama some day.

Editor’s Note

All our blog posts draw on and add back to DDB Signbank, a proprietary repository of thousands of signs collected over time from across the world. These signs, when looked at collectively, point us in the direction of significant shifts in culture and consumer behaviour. Follow @DDBSigns on Twitter, or drop us a line at diariesindia@ddbmudragroup.com to learn more