#perhaps it is better I be silenced bc I was low key looking for some attention

[peachznscream]

Life is so funny, I was going to post on Lex but literally ran out of posts, so you know it’s been a rough time

[tessiete]

If you still take prompts: Rumors of the Duchess of Mandalore (bc patriarchal bs and misogynistic beliefs about female leaders) potentially getting married reaches Coruscant and Obi-Wan copes as well as can be expected. Cue sad boi sadness with maybe fluff at the end? Or go full angst I’m ok with either

I AM! I am still taking prompts, and I know this took a while to get around to because I’m also sloooooow at filling them. But here we are, dear anon. I hope you enjoy this little snippet! <3

THE GRAVITATIONAL DEFLECTION OF LIGHT

There is some silly, selfish part of him that he never outgrew, and like a weed in his gut it twists and writhes when he hears that the Duchess Kryze is to marry.

And suddenly, he finds himself thinking of her more often, and more frequently during situations where his attention would best be put to use elsewhere. In council, he is forced to ask Master Windu to repeat a question he’d failed to hear, his mind being drawn by the gleam of light off the Senate dome on the horizon. During a sparring match, he takes a hit he’d never have missed except that Anakin threatens to deliver him a close shave at the end of his saber, and he’s struck dumb by the memory of her hand upon his cheek. There are peace lilies in a vase in the Archives, and pure beskar changes hands in a deal he’s meant to disrupt at a Separatist camp, but by far the most egregious lapse comes in the midst of relief efforts in a small village on Taskeed. He is caught, for a moment, by the sight of a woman with blonde hair and a young boy on her hip turning away from him. His focus slips. A blaze of light flashes more quickly than he can see, and by the time he hears the retort of a blaster rifle he is already on the ground.

The clones close ranks around him. Cody kneels, calling in a medevac even as Obi-Wan tries to rise. 

“No, sir, stay down,” he says, laying one hand against his shoulder. Obi-Wan winces at the contact. His muscles strain at the effort, the nerves at the site of his injury ruptured and ragged.

“Cody,” he chokes out. “There’s a hostile.”

His second is a merciful man and makes no comment on the idiocy of that statement. Instead, he bites open a pain tab, and shoves it between Obi-Wan’s teeth. Then, so rapidly he has no time to protest, he removes his belt, and tears apart the fabric at Obi-Wan’s waist, sprinkling sulfa powder over the gory wound, and pressing a bacta patch down to cover it.

There is no more blaster fire to mark their passage back to the ship, but the wound is too serious to treat on board The Negotiator. He is sent back to Coruscant as a consequence of his foolishness.

There, he is dipped in bacta, where he doesn’t dream, and he spends the next week of his convalescence thinking of her.

It had never been this bad during their first separation. The months following her ascension to the duchy had been painful, that he cannot deny, and he spent hours in his room lonely, and self-pitying, but he had been a child then and he can forgive himself now of the folly of youthful indiscretions. There followed more than a decade between them and he had gone days, weeks - upon the outbreak of war even months - without thinking of her at all.

But with one touch of her hand, he’s fallen again, his resolve crumbling into dust as though his indifference to her were only a veneer grown thin and brittle with being stretched over so much time.

The Duchess of Mandalore is to marry.

Why should that matter to him? They are friends. Hardly that, and nothing more. And it was he who had defined those terms. So why should he be restless, and anxious, and fretted up like some craftsman’s handiwork at the thought of it? It is silly. It is demeaning - to her, and to him.

And yet...he wants to know.

Who is she to marry? And when? How did they meet? Is he a Mandalorian, like her? Or did she meet him here? Did they meet at the Senate while he walked in the Temple only a few klicks away? Have they much in common? Do his political aims match hers? Does he long for peace like she does? Will he stand by her side in upholding it? Would he die for it? Would he die for her? Does she love him?

She must, he thinks. She must love him. She would not choose him, otherwise.

And that, perhaps, is the cruelest thought of all.

He is confined to medbay with nothing to occupy his time but his holopad, his dispatch reports, and her when he sees a news story flash on his screen.

At Last! The Lily is Plucked

He cannot help himself as he reads about a chance meeting, a whirlwind romance, and plenty of private assignations held at various hotels and restaurants across Capital City. There are holos, too, and reels. He sees her leaving the Bal Silvestre on the arm of Corellian senator, Garm Bel Iblis.

Senator Bel Iblis is older than her, and seems a bit unkempt, his long hair pulled half back in a simple style. Obi-Wan knows of him by reputation, and heard him called a rake. His politics brand him a maverick, and a rogue, and he has been known, once or twice, to engage in backdoor negotiations in order to ensure a vote swings one way or another in his favour. Beside him, while he stands smug in his dark brocade, she shines. She is spotless. Luminous. They are not well matched.

He scours the net for more, and because he is looking, he finds it. There are many articles - hundreds. Some map out timelines of their courtship (they met years ago, apparently, at some gala held while Obi-Wan was still helping Anakin with Basic), some tell the history of their previous romantic entanglements (he was engaged to a woman now dead. She was once rumoured to be promised to a Vizsla. Obi-Wan’s name is not mentioned). Some merely provide pictures of their exploits, and comment on their mutual friends, making conjecture after conjecture about how their romance came to be, and what must happen next now that the flame has been rekindled. It is torturous. And tedious. And soon, Obi-Wan loses track of the details that appear in one article, and again in every other.

But one thing remains clear to him: Satine Kryze is going to be married. She has forever slipped his reach.

A reach, he pathetically reminds himself, he never intended to extend. All this self-flagellation is for naught. He is being ridiculous. 

So he thumbs off his pad, turns out the lights, and tries to sleep with the image of Satine, smiling and resplendent flickering in his mind. The next morning, feeling no better for the little rest he managed to steal, he deletes the history of his pad, and determines to feel absolutely nothing at all about Satine Kryze.

Then Padme comes to the Council and requests a padawan be sent to Mandalore’s aid.

It is Ahsoka who goes. Of course it is. He takes small solace in the fact that it had not been he who suggested her, but since she was assigned, he feels well within his rights to enquire about the Duchess upon her return.

“She seemed fine,” Ahsoka tells him. He has invited her for tea following her report to the Council, hoping he might, in his hospitality, coax a few more personal details from his grand-padawan. “I mean, there was a moment where Almec - that’s the Prime Minister, or rather was - anyway, there was a moment where he had her in a shock collar, but like I said, the cadets and I managed to sort it out.”

“Right,” he concedes. “As you said.”

A moment passes between them. Obi-Wan sips his tea, struggling to swallow as the fist around his throat grows tighter and tighter. Ahsoka, blissful in the aftermath of a successful solo mission, grabs another biscuit and a strip of perami gammon. 

“And tell me,” he ventures. “What of her - her consort? Any word of him? Where was he during this mess?”

“Her consort?”

“Her husband.”

Ahsoka scrunches her nose, and cocks a brow at Obi-Wan’s wild inquiry.

“She had a nephew,” she says. “But no one ever said anything about a consort.”

“Ah,” he says. “Perhaps he was occupied elsewhere.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, amicable and amenable to letting the whole thing slide. He only hopes she won’t think it significant enough to mention to Anakin later. His curiosity won’t be as easily sated with tea and deflection.

--

He is not a lucky man.

Anakin comes blazing into his room with an ambitious stride, and a grin that speaks of imminent mischief.

“Heard you were asking Ahsoka about the Duchess’ consort,” he says, throwing his cloak over the back of a chair and dropping to lounge across Obi-Wan’s low couch.

“I was asking about her mission,” he corrects. He turns his back to set some water to boil, knowing that such an entrance by his padawan indicates a visit of extended duration. “And the key players, therein. Purely professional.”

“Purely.” Anakin smirks.

The subject is dropped when Anakin is diverted by the service being laid before him, and the inclusion of several of his favourite confections.

“Noorian memba tarts!” he cries. “Where did you even find these?”

“An old recipe,” Obi-Wan says. “But I remember you enjoyed them when we dined on Belasco and thought I’d try my hand at it.”

It is not a bad effort either, judging by Anakin’s display of enthusiasm. He eats the first with some degree of etiquette, but the fourth, fifth, and sixth are gone with no display of decency or shame whatsoever.

Obi-Wan sips his tea. He is thinking of Tahl while Anakin is thinking of the sweetness on his tongue, and making excuses for his absence the previous night.

“I’m sorry, Obi-Wan, but I was unavoidably delayed after the Senate recessed for the evening. I had to - to assist a delegate with a personal matter.”

Obi-Wan says nothing, but remembers how Qui-Gon, too, used to invent reasons to disappear unchecked. He invents nothing. He only cleaves to his duty, while time and fate conspire to keep him absent anyway. 

Anakin must hear something in his silence, because his expression loses the tension of equivocation, and he falls to studying Obi-Wan’s face.

“I was only teasing, master,” he says. “Before. I didn’t think to ask Ahsoka anything about the Duchess. She spent most of her time with the nephew, but he seemed a bright kid. Close to Satine. I can ask her to ask him if he knows anything -”

“Absolutely not,” says Obi-Wan. The words are soft, but definite. He rises swiftly to clear the detritus of their meal. “Thank you, Anakin, but Duchess Kryze is only a friend. I merely inquired out of a desire to assure myself that the report issued to the Council lacked nothing in the thoroughness of its presentation. I should hate to think that such a personal association might be overlooked as an avenue for effecting harm.”

“Oh.”

“But I thank you in any case. Ahsoka’s report was well done, and you should be very proud of your padawan,” he says. “As I am of you.”

He turns to Anakin then, smiling and benign. His padawan meets his look with a vaguely skeptical one of his own, before patting him on the shoulder, and shrugging back into his cloak.

“Alright, master,” he says. “I’ll let her know how thorough she was.”

“Goodbye, Anakin.”

“Goodbye,” his friend replies. Then, just as he crosses the threshold of the door and moves into the open hall, he looks back. “Oh,” he says. “There’s a quick supply run being made to Mandalore for relief in light of Ahsoka’s investigation. Scheduled for tomorrow, but unfortunately, I’m needed back at the Senate. I meant to ask - you wouldn’t mind making the trip for me, would you? You don’t even need to get off the ship.”

---

There is nothing he can say to Anakin, so of course, as contrived and embarrassing as the whole thing is, he goes. And he does get off the ship.

Satine is there to meet him.

“Master Kenobi,” she says, extending her hand. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

He drops a brief, and reverential kiss then lets her go. 

“Cleaning up after my padawan and his padawan, it seems,” he says. “Apparently, a master’s work is never over. Congratulations on your recent engagement, Duchess. I hope you’ll both be very happy.”

The look which passes over Satine’s face is one he cannot decipher. He thinks she looks in equal parts shocked that he has heard, disgusted by his presumption in speaking of it, embarrassed by his boldness, and wearied by his presence. But she doesn’t deny it, so he makes his excuses to leave.

“Excuse me, Duchess,” he says. “But this was only meant to be a very brief visit, and I should prepare for departure.”

“Can you not stay for midmeal?” she asks, and he hesitates upon the precipice of her invitation. “Surely you don’t mean to tease me with a visit as brief as this? And surely your men would enjoy some rest and repast before you go?”

The troopers at his back shift, and he can feel their eagerness undulate in the Force. It would be cruel to deny them for the preservation of his own fragmented dignity, so he relents.

“Of course, your grace,” he says. “We would be most honoured.”

“Captain,” she says to the Protector at her right. “Have these men fed and watered immediately. The kitchens and my staff are at their disposal.”

He clicks his heels, and disappears, while she steps forward, and wraps her arm around Obi-Wan’s as though completely uncaring of any beau or consort or husband who might see.

“You, my dear master,” she murmurs slyly by his ear. “Are to be attended elsewhere, at my discretion.”

He does nothing to resist as she pulls him along.

Soon, they are at the Palace. Soon, they are sat at a small table in her private quarters, drinking Mandalorian kava, and eating freshly baked land’shun. Soon, they are alone.

She sets her drink aside, and dusts her hands on a fine silk napkin before broaching the subject trapped between them.

“Now, what is this about my nuptials?” she asks. Her blue eyes are steady upon his own, and he feels his palms slick with sweat. She is radiant. She is regal. There is no holo or reel or word that could do justice to the beauty of this woman in the flesh, and he feels that insidious root of jealousy writhe with agony.

“Satine -” he begins.

“No, no,” she protests, seeming to anticipate his deflection before he has begun. “I should like to hear why you think I ought to accept your congratulations, and why you felt you ought to offer them personally, in particular. Mandalore seems a rather dull trip for a High General to make.”

“I came in Anakin’s stead, actually,” he replies pertly. Another sip of kava lends some sophistication to this claim.

“Of course,” she says, but she does not look away. He can feel her gaze upon him. He can feel her glittering in the Force. She is laughing.

And he cannot bear it.

“Forgive me, your grace,” he says, rising to his feet. He sets the cup upon a saucer where it clatters inelegantly against the pot of sucre next to it, overturning the dish and sending the crystals spilling across the table. “Forgive me,” he says again. 

She lunges forward to right the pot, and still his hand beneath her own. For a moment, he doesn’t breathe. Then, he pulls away.

“I read about it on the net,” he says. “I saw the holos, and the reels. I only wanted to see you one last time, to see...I wanted to see that you were happy. That’s all.”

“Oh, Ben,” she says, his name like a sigh upon the breeze.

“It is nothing,” he says. “A foolishness all my own. I am sorry if I have troubled you, and I offer you my sincerest congratulations.”

He bows, though when he raises his head, his eyes do not rise with it, so he does not see the look of sorrow upon her face. Still, he imagines it as pity, and moves to make his escape. She is faster than he is. 

“No,” she says, standing between him and the door. “I will not accept your congratulations, and I will not accept your departure on such callous terms as these.”

“Duchess -”

“Ben,” she counters, leaning on the name. “I am not engaged. I am not married. And I do not intend to be, no matter how devoted to the idea of it you are.”

“I - devoted?” he asks, his voice rising to the height of his indignation. “I am devoted to no such thing. I have only - only been reconciled to it for weeks, thinking only of you and your happiness.”

“And your own misery, too, I’d wager.”

He chokes on his denial because he knows it is too big a lie to fit through his lips, and stares at her in dismay. She is smiling. Force, he thinks. She is incandescent. Like she has swallowed a star, and he can’t look away. He would that he could be consumed by her too, and finally, he gives in.

“Yes,” he says in an admission of guilt so great it brings relief. “I was miserable. I am, I think, an infinitely miserable person.”

“You are,” she agrees. “But I am not getting married, I am not engaged, and I am only as in love as I ever have been. And if you are foolish enough to forget that, then you are deserving of every misery you heap on yourself.”

“Have pity,” he begs.

“None,” she says.

“Have mercy,” he pleads.

“For you?” she says. “Always.”

They fall together like gravity and sunlight, and for a moment, whole galaxies bend to their will.

[myelocin]

Visions of The Lonely | Matsukawa Issei

-

Synopsis: Nights in Paris with a drunk tenant that wandered into the rooftop can’t be too bad, right? 

Characters: Matsukawa Issei, You, Hanamaki Takahiro

Genre/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Mentions of smoking & alcohol, Musician!Issei

WC: 2.4k+

a/n: Hello! This was originally a poem I wrote but decided to rework into a story. Thanks to voidcat for giving me the inspiration to add makki into this n reading this beforehand  <33 i luv yous

+click keep reading bc whole fic is posted! :D

-

You met a man in Paris once during an autumn night five years ago.

Personally, you had always preferred the colder months, so in order to savor the better part of the year, you developed a habit of climbing your apartment building’s rooftop every night to watch the lights flicker in the distance. It was mind numbing, but it felt familiar in the way with how this little ritual of yours became a permanent occurrence during the day.

Three minutes passed before a man, or specifically, a stranger whom you wrote off to just be another drunk tenant that found his way to the rooftop instead of his apartment door took a seat beside you. He nodded to you once before lighting a cigarette and inhaling. You nodded back and shifted closer to the right; you never were fond of the smell of smoke.

If it were any other situation, you would have turned to his direction and asked him a why, but perhaps it was the quiet of the night that made you think otherwise and the silence had been suffocating, so you decide that his shuffling, occasional sighs, and the steady gulps of his whiskey were a welcome change.

And then after those three minutes passed, he fished another cigarette from his coat pocket, lighting it up and offering it to you with an audible grunt as his verbal choice of invitation.

So, you thought to yourself, he’s a sad drunk looking for company. The stranger kept his gaze on you before you eventually shook your head no at his offer.

Another three minutes went by before he offered you a half filled glass of what smelled like whiskey. After he deemed the silence you offered as acceptance, he set the glass in your hand, grabbed the bottle, clinked it against yours, and took a swig. You winced along with him at the aftertaste that followed.

The second hand made a full rotation in your wrist watch before the stranger beside you decided to break the makeshift silence.

“Issei.” He said, and you noticed his voice sounded a little gruff. He didn’t turn to face you, so you kept your line of sight focused in front of you and nodded. The lights blinking from the Eiffel tower looked like little dots of bokeh lights in the distance.

“(Y/n).” You replied tentatively after some seconds passed, then added, “Thanks for the drink.”

From a peripheral vision, you saw Issei shrug half-heartedly before releasing a puff of smoke into the air.

“It’s only a half empty glass.” He replied after some time, and you spend the next few moments thinking about his words while the sea of lights twinkled in the skyline of Paris.

-

Meeting at the rooftop afterwards had become a sort of silent agreement between Issei and you.

 At first, it didn’t seem like it, and you gave yourself the excuse that he was just enjoying the view of the city like you were—after all, Issei is a tenant in the building too. He had every right to decide where he wanted to mope about whatever he was even moping about.

Plus, drinking with a view was never a bad idea.

Then again, on the nights where he showed up earlier than you did, there would always be an extra glass set beside his, and wordlessly he’d always begin filling it up right as the creaky door would announce your presence.

“This half empty or half-filled tonight?” You asked him one particular night.

“That’s on you. ‘S always gonna be half empty to me.” He replied, then looked straight at you for the first time.

That was when you noticed Issei looked sad.

But, sad like the sadness you feel with nostalgia. Of longing even, but you had your own bouts of nostalgia so often you liked to assume his longing was never because of something tragic; at least you hoped it wasn’t. You never took it upon yourself to ask him why he decides to drink with the company of a stranger, but then again, he never exactly voiced out his questions about why you sit on the rooftop and stargaze on cloudy nights.

You figured Issei wasn’t much of a talker, but one night he decided to bring along an old classical guitar with his usual bottle of whiskey.

You had arrived and settled in your spot close to the edge when he sat down next to you and asked if you minded if he would make a little noise tonight. The smile that crept up your face was quick to form and a verbal assurance that you didn’t mind slipped from your lips a little too quickly than you would have liked—which naturally caught you a little off guard.

Did I sound too eager, perhaps? you think. 

You’re guessing he didn’t mind because he turns to face the pegs on the guitar and begins tuning. You figured he must not mind the cold much either because despite the occasional breeze that blew in our direction, Issei didn’t shiver.

Looking at him, you saw that Issei already had his fingers positioned to a chord while his thumb on the other hand was ghosting over the low E string.  He remained quiet for a while, and the pause reminded you of the moment of silence a pianist would take before the fingers that were hovering on the keys would eventually begin to play—and you smiled because in an weird way, you felt as if you were going to understand a little bit more of this stranger tonight.

And true to your assumptions, right as he began, you could only hold your breath when the melodies began to roll out because his music proved to be as sad as the longing in his eyes.  

The nights after that, Issei began to hum along the melodies he played; you listened every night to his songs of woe. 

Some nights he would sing about a love just beginning, while other nights he’d sing about that same love ending. Your favorite ones was when he sang the same song for days on end. It expressed a different feeling every time, too—and somewhere along those nights you began to ask the questions that you were aware were present, but remained unspoken.

And it was somewhere between the lines of Bruno Major’s Tapestry and To Let a Good Thing Die, that the unspoken what ifs you kept at bay, began to prod at your head. 

And they were slow, calculated, but mostly hesitant.

And every time that his eyes would catch yours while the vibrato in his voice deepened, you’d remind yourself that Issei is still a stranger. A stranger who sang you songs of his woe—about a love that he’d gained and lost, and wanted back.

It was in his melancholic melodies did you pick up the pieces of his hope to find a love as pure as his first, and in those nights his tune delivered a message a little sadder—so you couldn’t help but yearn that love for him too.

Though it begs the question of whether you truly wanted it for him or with him.

You didn’t know his last name, what he did for a living, or even how he liked his coffee but at the same time his presence became a comforting kind of familiar.

And those questions only amplified the night he let himself laugh out loud at a wrong chord for the first time. The shift in the atmosphere was almost instant and his slight giddiness might as well have been tangible.

“Maybe it’s time for a new song.” You suggested, and for a second you didn’t know if you meant it to be literal or metaphoric, but Issei smiled and nodded before strumming a pattern that was unfamiliar to you.

If you could tell a recap of how the next few moments went down and the epiphanies that popped up to yourself five years ago, you’re more than sure you’d scoff and roll your eyes.

But at 11:37 PM on a late autumn night in a rooftop in Paris—it was in the chorus of The Bangles’ Eternal Flame, that you discovered the question of “Why not give us a try?” written in your own reflection that stared back at you along the whirlpools of Issei’s inky black eyes.  

 -

Everything about him reminded you of that fragile moment before the dawn broke into the sky. Of that fine line in the horizon before traces of purple and pink would slowly bleed through the crack of the night’s black backdrop and begin painting the sunrise.

For as long as you lived in Paris, you loved to sit in the rooftop and watch for stars, for the lights in the distance to flicker, and to listen to the sounds of lovers laughing in the distant streets.

Ever since Issei joined your little hideaway in the rooftop, his presence felt a little like stargazing. Which was odd because you can’t really find stars in the city—but it was in Issei’s eyes where you saw all the constellations that flew past you when you used to live in the countryside.

The lights from the distance flickered and reflected themselves in the black canvas that were his eyes. And you could swear that there was always something, a story that was yet to be told, in his eyes—whether they gleamed with hope or sadness, they never failed to make you feel like you’re in a space where every second and every fiber of this world was just him.

In the short hours where he let his melancholy be known through the strings of his guitar, you become entrapped in his universe. For that glimpse in time, you become a passing meteorite among the stars of his galaxies—watching, drifting, and waiting for the answers to be written in his constellations.

And the answers came in the night he kissed you. A kiss that was as fleeting as it had come, but you couldn’t bring myself to mind because afterwards Issei looked at you truly for the first time afterwards. His palm feeling warm against your cheek and his breath flush against the plains of your lips in the cool air. 

And your heart soared because in his eyes—in the galaxies swirling, were the answers.

Then for a split second, you thought back to your question of “Why not give us a try?” and felt your breath catch in your throat because in them were the tendrils of an abstract “maybe” that danced across the constellations of deep irises.

The haze that they used to hold suddenly cleared and what remained was nothing but the roots of certainty.

So you let yourself close your eyes and whisper, “Issei.”

Because Issei is the name of the man who you met at a rooftop in Paris, who sang you songs of his woe and smelled like cigarettes and day old whiskey. Through his company you learned of the love that he’d gained, then lost, and wanted back. And your heart, for the second time that night, clenched in a way that felt right; when he parted with your lips to look at you again—his eyes clear, and the confession resolute.

In that moment you remembered when he said he wanted to love again—the kind of love that left you breathless and inebriated, and you could almost open your mouth to tell him, “How about this? Why not give us a try?” ,but he suddenly cups your face, suddenly looking confused because he says, “You’re not Hiro.”

And it took the both of you to be enveloped in some silence before speaks and lets you know the story of his longing. And eventually it all clicks when you come to know that Hanamaki Takahiro is the name of the man who used to live in the unit across from his, who listened to him sing songs of life and love, and smelt of spring rain and sakura blossoms. Hanamaki Takahiro is the name of a man he addressed his unsent love letters to and the man who told him goodbye on a rooftop in Paris seven months ago.

And suddenly the answer Issei delivers ring clear in the quiet night.

The glass always being half empty ring clear in the quiet night.

The way he stares into the distance in longing rings so clear in the fucking night.

Issei is the universe in his own right. And you are only the meteor wandering within the galaxies of him. You reckon there’s no sound in space, but if there was, you’d like to think that it would sound like the strings of a guitar played in harmony with a deep vibrato. 

You will always just be among the stars and never be a part of them. Never a part of his answers.

And perhaps what you and Issei saw were just visions of the lonely because while you saw the roots of a start— he saw someone else in place of you.

And after that, when he tells you sorry, and an excuse that he got caught up in the moment, you compose yourself with a laugh and an assurance that it's okay, and grab the glass he brought with him that night and ask him to pour you a drink.

Issei doesn’t look at you for the rest of the night and he stays silent even as he strums a tune on his guitar. This time, you listened to him sing a song about spring. And you looked forward as you sipped the whiskey that smelt like him, and tightened your jacket against the chill of autumn’s air.

You try not to think about how the blurred lights of even the Eiffel tower doesn’t compare the worlds you saw in the pools of Issei’s orbs—or how for the first time, you could finally see why the glass he filled was only half empty. 

And you suppose hearing the answers was worth the wait, because when Issei looks in your direction and lifts his glass for a toast it was then that you decide that for as long as you have nights in Paris with Issei’s songs filling the white noise of the background—you didn’t mind.

You watch him and his glassy eyes reminisce about spring in the autumn and feel your heart breaking because somewhere in there you know he was still hoping to find the same bloom of sakura among the dead leaves of the present.

“You’ll be fine.” You say to him and clink your glass against his. “Spring will come again.”

Issei laughs next to you and closes his eyes. “Maybe it’s time to wait for different flowers to bloom.” He says and holds his glass out for you to fill.

“Half empty?” You ask.

“Half full.” He answers, and the both of you share a smile in the chill of autumn’s air, the dead leaves somehow looking vibrant against the cracked pavement.

 -

fin.

[tracybirds]

*grins* @gumnut-logic another one for your “to read” pile. Thanks for being so welcoming to all us newbies in the fandom and glad we can babble about the ecosystems and whales and writing and goodness knows what else together :D I don’t even hold your Aussie heritage against you (true historic international relations are happening here)

Of course it’s featuring Virgil :D Have a wonderfully Nutty Day !

Warning for non explicit nudity bc well that’s what happens when you take a shower *whistles innocently*

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

The sound of streaming water and snatches of off-key singing that floated out from the hangar bathroom told Virgil that Gordon had once again raced through his post-mission checks in order to snag the best shower on Tracy Island. There were eight showers scattered around the sprawling villa, all fitted with temperature controls and pressure jets that could wash away sweat and blood and private tears after a hard rescue. But all the brothers were in agreement, the shower in the hangar was the best, if only for the virtue of being no more than fifty metres from any of their birds and removing the requirement of climbing stairs before stripping away the muck that clung to them. The ritual of jostling each other for first shower and talking in low voices, sprawled across ancient couches while they waited their turns, provided them with a necessary boundary between rescue and rest that none of them were willing to sacrifice lightly.

Virgil couldn’t bring himself to care today. His head was pounding slightly as his body protested at the thought of more exertion and he held the railing tightly as he climbed the stairs to the main section of their home.

He wasn’t sure what he had been planning as he swayed slightly in the lounge room. All he really wanted was a sandwich and to not need to talk to anyone for a couple of hours. He collapsed on the nearest couch, groaning at the way his sash dug into him as he piled his weight on top of the utilities that adorned it. Wriggling slightly, he pulled it off and discarded it on the floor beside him. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to close his eyes for a second, he thought to himself.

---

Somebody’s finger was jabbing into his side, pulling Virgil up from the depths of slumber.

He assessed the annoyance as he groaned at its intrusion.

“Virgil,” called a voice from above him.

“Ngh,” he grunted, and turned away, burrowing his face into the back of the couch.

“Grandma is gonna kill you if you don’t get up,” insisted the voice. “Come on, you need a shower, you stink and you’re gonna get mud everywhere.”

Virgil knew all this. He wanted the voice to go away and stop badgering him with information that he was already perfectly aware of.

He considered for a moment that perhaps there was some sort of dissonance between his actions and his awareness of the fury that would rain down from above if his Grandma discovered him lying there, mud-soaked, grass-stained, and covered in unidentifiable substances that he didn’t want to dwell on.

“On your own head, Virg,” chirped the voice and suddenly all was silent again.

---

It was mid afternoon by the time Scott crashed into the lounge room, loud and cheerful as he chatted on the comm to Kayo.

He stopped in his tracks at the sight of Virgil, still snoring on the couch. His eyebrows raised as he took in the semi discarded uniform, the muddy footprints that showed how Virgil had crashed without a second voice.

“What is it, Scott?” asked Kayo.

“It’s Virgil,” he replied, holding out his wrist to allow the comm to transmit a rudimentary holoscan of the room.

“Yeesh, is he okay?” she asked. “Looks like whatever happened this morning hit him hard.”

“He should be, Gordon would have mentioned otherwise. Or at least hidden it better.”

“Should we start heading back?”

“Nah,” said Scott, moving gingerly through the room to avoid spreading more mud around. “I’ll start clean-up here and check on him myself. I’ll let you know if I need back up.”

“F.A.B., Scott,” she said and signed off.

Scott sighed as he looked around him and grabbed the mop. He could worry about the couch – and his brother – after the most immediate mess was dealt with and food was procured. He thought back over the report Gordon had made only a few hours prior, his face freshly scrubbed and skin still pink from the heat of the shower water. There had been nothing to indicate injury, just a comment about both of them being famished and Gordon looking forward to making a meal without Grandma hovering over his shoulder ‘helping’.

Virgil snuffled in his sleep and Scott looked down at him with a fond smile. He was too young to remember life before his brother was born, the two of them partners for as long as he could remember. They’d shared a room, shared toys and computer games and sports equipment and even their classroom teacher when they’d been put in a split year class. They’d always shared their responsibilities as big brothers too. But Scott was still Virgil’s big brother, and the only one he had, so it was with a gentle touch that Scott woke him.

He grinned at the sight of Virgil frowning against the light, blinking owlishly as he readjusted to consciousness.

“Hey Virg.”

“Morning?” his brother asked in confusion.

“Nah, just a nap.”

“Oh,” said Virgil, stretching out the crick in his neck. “Wow, what happened?”

Scott frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I remember climbing up the stairs,” said Virgil, looking carefully around him. “God, I was exhausted.”

He scratched at his chin and sniffed sharply.

“Am I still in uniform?”

“Yup,” said Scott. He held out a sandwich and grinned when Virgil promptly inhaled it.

The brother sat in silence, eating their way through a plateful of ham sandwiches. Food didn’t need to be fancy when you’d burned through every energy resource you had not four hours ago.

Finally, Virgil sighed and leaned back. He pushed the plate away as he bent down to remove his boots and tear the socks from his feet.

“Eurgh,” said Scott, shoving him away. Virgil threw the socks half-heartedly at the laundry chute, shrugging indifferently when they fell short.

“You’re getting those,” said Scott firmly. “I’m not touching them, that crosses a line.”

Virgil groaned and held out an arm.

“Come on, help me up then.”

Scott hauled his brother to his feet, waiting patiently as Virgil stooped down to collect his things.

“Shower, then bed,” he said firmly, as though it were the first night he’d been trusted with babysitting his brothers all over again.

Unlike then, Virgil didn’t fight him, instead leaning sleepily against his should and allowing Scott to drag him up the stairs to his bedroom.

Scott gently kicked the door open and walked into Virgil’s sunlit room. Wide windows opened onto magnificent views of the surrounding landscape, the blue ocean and lush greens of the forest that had established itself on the rocky island hundreds of years before them. He could feel Virgil sagging in relief beside him and swung into their shared en suite bathroom.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, rummaging through his brother’s drawers.

Virgil didn’t reply, only giving him a thumbs up when Scott looked up to scowl at him.

“Well, yell if you need me,” said Scott, throwing a pair of sweatpants at him. “I’m gonna go clean the couch before Kayo comes back with Grandma.”

Virgil blinked as Scott hurried from the room. He was feeling a lot more human now, the food and nap having done him a world of good, but he was now very aware of the grimy feeling that coated his skin and stuck in his hair. He peeled off his uniform, bundling it into the basket that sat in the corner and turned the tap on. While he waited for the boiler to heat the water and fill the bathroom with a steam that would clear the fog in his mind, he padded back into his room, fumbling with the sound system for a moment until the calm sounds of his favourite sonatas filled the air.

His stomach and soul fed, Virgil jumped into the shower, murmuring happily at the stream that massaged his muscles and joints and pulled the sweat and mud from his skin.

He took his time, savouring the moment and washing away the heartache of the day. Mudslides were fast and vicious, burying homes and suffocating the living without discrimination. Even though the rescue that he and Gordon had been assigned had been successful, he knew that he was saving people who had lost more that he would ever know. The emotional toll of the day had worn him down and it was only now, as the burden lifted, that he could recognise how it had weighed on him.

There was a knock on the door.

“You good, Virg?” called Scott.

“Yeah,” he called back, his voice rough against his throat.

He turned the shower off, the strains of music still floating in air joined by the slow dripping of water.

Virgil felt more refreshed than he had done in days, perhaps even weeks, but as he pulled on the soft sweatpants, the events of the day came crashing back down upon him.

He barely greeted Scott when he left the bathroom, making a beeline for his bed and flopping down on it face first, not even bothering to close the blinds in his room.

“Uh, Virg?”

Virgil didn’t respond as he sunk into the mattress, wet hair squashed down as he burrowed deeper into the pillows. A soft snore snuck out and Scott chuckled.

“Sleep well then,” he said and walked out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. “Love you little brother,” he whispered.

[emybain]

can you do some with nova and adrian in the house with hugh & simon like in archenemies

soo...I tried. im terrible at writing adults for whatever reason. also, im sorry bc I used this as self indulgence and basically continued a previous tiny group of fics that I plan to keep adding on to

anyway, this is nodrian house hunting, basically. that's it. 

Nova’s hands curled tighter around her mug as thunder and lightning disrupted the steady downfall of rain. She shifted closer to Adrian underneath the blanket they were sharing to get a better look at the new image he pulled up on his tablet.

    “Two bedroom, one bathroom,” he read off, scrolling down to look at the description of the apartment. “Sun filled updated condo in a great location...completely renovated kitchen...front porch and fenced in back patio…” He nodded, lips pursed.

    Nova sipped her tea, enjoying its warmth. “Square footage?”

    “Just over one thousand.” Adrian scrolled back up to the pictures included with the condo. Nova nearly choked on her drink.

    “Great skies, Adrian. You said you were looking for an apartment, not a house.”

    Adrian began swiping through the photos. “This is a condo, Nova. It’s just the first floor, not both.”

    “Well, they’re charging quite a bit for just the first floor.” Nova leaned in front of her to set the mug down on the coffee table.

They were sitting in the living area of Adrian’s home, looking for a place for Adrian to call his own due to the many circumstances including privacy. When Adrian had first mentioned house hunting after he returned from his Africa trip, they had planned on meeting at Nova’s place to keep away from the prying eyes of Simon and Hugh, Adrian’s nosy dads. However, they hadn’t planned on the heating system to stop working throughout the entire apartment complex during a week of storms, so they agreed to just meet at Adrian’s house and keep it low key. Lucky for them, Simon and Hugh had been gone for the better part of the day, running errands and working with other Renegades to rebuild the system. Neither of them held the knowledge that their former worst enemy and current girlfriend of their son was cuddled up next to him on their couch in the middle of their living room, doing the most domestic thing on the planet. Max, who was just in the early stages of his teen years, was locked away in his room with his video games. He had been in the living area when Nova came over, but immediately fled to the safety of his bedroom to ‘avoid gross couple-y things’.

“I don’t mind going a little over budget.” Adrian shrugged nonchalantly. “The kitchen is actually really nice for a condo. Lots of light. New appliances. I think this is in one of those old neighborhoods that they’re trying to bring back to life.”

Nova raised an eyebrow. “A little over budget is a few thousand. Your price ranger is under one-fifty. This is almost three hundred, Adrian.”

“I’m well aware.” Adrian shot her a look, eyes glinting in amusement. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “The yard’s too small anyway.” He exited out of the condo and went back to the main list.

“Now you want a yard?” Nova shifted to face him better. The blanket twisted with her. “What are you going to do? Adopt a dog?”

“I might.” Adrian glanced at her again, this time quicker than the last.

After a few minutes of scrolling, he opened up another listing. Nova resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This one was a house. Or, as the description read, single family home. “What are you going to do with a two story house, Adrian Everhart? With three bedrooms?” Upon closer examination of the description, she blinked in confusion. “Buddy. This isn’t even in Gatlon.”

“Would you like to do the searching for me?” Adrian offered her the tablet jokingly, although she could tell he was a little miffed from the tight set of his shoulders. Nova wanted to shrink back into the blanket, but she refused to.

“I just want to know why you’re looking at places bigger and more expensive than you mentioned before. Not to mention that they don’t really look like a first home for a twenty year old planning to live by himself.”

Adrian set the tablet back down in his lap. “Maybe I don’t plan to live by myself.”

Nova gave him a long look, which he returned. “And who’s going to be living with you? Oscar and Ruby are getting married, so that rules out him. One of your old friends?”

“Well, maybe I plan to live by myself at first,” Adrian paused, “but it never hurts to be prepared for the future.” He went quiet after that and tore his eyes from Nova’s. As he returned to the main list, it struck Nova, turning her cheeks a dark color.

“Adrian-”

“Look, here’s an apartment. Two bedroom, one bathroom, in the price range and in Gatlon.”

She rested her hand on his neck, forcing him to turn his head back to face her.

“What?” He feigned being oblivious, but Nova saw through it.

“Adrian,” she started again, biting her lip. “We don’t know what’s in the future. We haven’t even been together for six months yet.”

“I don’t need six months to know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Nova.”

It was Nova’s turn to fall silent. Her eyes fell to the tablet, with the apartment Adrian had pulled up. It was hideous, judging from the first photo. Definitely not Adrian’s style.

Nova couldn’t deny that she had thought of what life would be like if she and Adrian stayed together long enough to make a huge decision like moving in together. But every time that her mind brought it up, it terrified her. Almost her whole life had been spent alone, even when she lived in the subway tunnels with the Anarchists. Even now, when she had been spending the past two years surrounded by people and building relationships that had previously been made up of lies. She lived alone, she made all her own decisions, she worked independently among a group of people. The last time she hadn’t truly been alone was before her family was killed.

Sure, since she had started dating Adrian, for real, some of those things were altered. She began to be more open and friendly (because Adrian told her that she gave off a ‘I’m-better-than-everyone-else’ bitch vibe whenever she kept to herself), and she was more open to collaborating. But none of those were as big as changing her whole living situation by moving in with Adrian. Moving in with Adrian would mean exposing herself and trusting him in the rawest ways possible. Not that she didn’t already trust him. She trusted him with her life. But this was a different kind of trust, and she didn’t know if she was ready for it. For now, at least. So she told him.

“But things could change later,” Nova said quickly, upon seeing Adrian’s face fall. “And...I guess you’re right. It doesn’t hurt to prepare for the future.” To reassure him, she tilted her head up and placed a soft kiss on his lips.

Adrian reached for her hand, entwining their fingers together. “So, what you’re saying is that you’re not against moving in together one day?”

“I’m not saying no,” Nova corrected, although the corner of her mouth began to twitch at the change in mood.

A grin painted itself on Adrian’s face, and he leaned forward, cupping Nova’s face and pressing his lips to hers, not quite as gentle as before.

“I love you,” he murmured, tracing his thumb just underneath her ear.

“I love you, too.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again. As Adrian slowly moved his hands to her waist to pull her into his lap, the tablet slid to the ground with a thud that neither of them heard.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, wrapped up in each other’s embrace, kissing slowly and savoring the moment, when a click came from the front of the house, followed by the sound of a door opening.

Upon hearing the voices of Adrian’s dads, calling to Adrian and Max that they were home, Nova’s eyes flung open, meeting Adrian’s panicked ones. She all but leaped from his lap, nearly falling to the ground in her struggle to unwrap her legs from where they were previously situated around his waist. Adrian reached for the fallen tablet and straightened his collar, which was slightly disturbed. Nova pushed herself to the other end of the couch, and reached up to make sure her hair wasn’t tussled.

Adrian loved playing with her hair, she had come to learn since starting their relationship. Whether it was when they were just spending time together or an hour long of kissing and cuddling, he liked to have his hands in her hair. Because of that, her hair tended to be messy after their dates. And not just unbrushed messy; it made it clearly obvious that Nova had been doing questionable things with someone. That someone being Adrian.

His dads entered the room, Hugh leading, and paused when they saw Nova sitting next to their son on the couch, both trying to keep their breathing steady. Simon was the first to break the silence with a smile.

“We didn’t know Adrian was having you over, Nova. It’s nice to see you.”

Nova managed to smile back, eyes flickering between him and Hugh. “Uh...yeah. It’s good to see you, too.”

Hugh, who remained quiet, had been wary of Nova ever since her identity had been revealed years ago. While they were on friendlier terms, he still exercised caution around her, and he still held a bit of a grudge against her for everything she did to his family. Which he was allowed to hold. Just as she was allowed to hold a grudge against him for all the times he had wronged her. Despite the fact that both parties had apologized for wrongdoings against the other. Perhaps one day, they would find a compromise that would put the past behind them. Today was not that day, for obvious reasons.

Simon cleared his throat, glancing at their set up, made of blankets, pillows, and hot drinks. It was practically screaming evidence that he and Hugh were interrupting a date. “So...what are you two up to?”

Nova exchanged a quick glance with Adrian. “Apartment hunting,” he stated plainly, holding up the tablet to show them. “I, uh, asked Nova the other day to help me out. She actually has a knack for real estate.”

Nova nodded, maybe a little too enthusiastically. “Yeah! Who knew, right?”

“Any luck?” Hugh finally spoke, strolling over to the couch to peer over Adrian’s shoulder. Nova tensed.

“Not really.” Adrian laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck and readjusting his glasses. “At least, not in the city.”

“What about the suburbs?”

“Nova doesn’t think it’s wise to buy a house at my age.” Adrian’s tone was light, meant to come across as joking, but Nova still felt a wave of guilt roll through her when Hugh’s eyes laid on her again.

“Well, it’s not like you have to listen to me,” Nova retorted, looking down. “I’m just here for suggestions.”

She nearly jumped when the couch shifted with the weight of Captain Chromium settling into it, creating a barrier between her and Adrian. Simon caught her eye as he sat down as well, although in the armchair beside the couch; his look was sympathetic. Nova tried to hide her blush.

“You see, the key to narrowing it down…” Hugh went off onto a lecture on house hunting, going full out and using his hands for emphasis. Nova watched as Adrian nodded along, clearly uncomfortable, compared to not twenty minutes before when they were snuggled up together.

“Well, I guess I should be going.” Nova stood to leave, only for Hugh to push her back down. She had to restrain from glaring at him. She was already on thin ice with this man.

“This is important for you to hear as well, Nova. You may learn a thing or two.”

The smug look Adrian gave her almost made her throw a pillow at his face, just to wipe away the smile.

[fmdtaeyongarchive]

↬ i drank up all the memories.

date: spring 2019.

location: seoul, south korea.

word count: 1,813 words.

summary: n/a.

notes: creative claims verification. alcohol tw + substance abuse tw. also trigger warning for ash mentally romanticizing his own (and others’, i guess?) substance abuse tendencies. please don’t read this. it might be my worst verification yet.

ash’s drink of choice was a good strong whiskey, but the first drink he’d ever had had been wine. it’d been at a dinner party his parents held and they’d let him sneak a sip. it’d been entirely un-scandalous and about the furthest thing from rebellion possible, but at the time it had felt like the thrill of his life. thirteen years old and unaccustomed to the effects of alcohol besides the way it stung when disinfecting a cut, he had been taken aback by the fizzing sting it brought over his tongue and throat. it wasn’t as bad as it looked when he saw people on television throwing back shot glasses of tequila, but he hadn’t understood at the time why anyone would like it that much. it didn’t taste any better than any other beverage and being drunk couldn’t be that wonderful, he’d naively thought.

now, wine was a drink ash found to be dull. even the most expensive wines weren’t all that amazing in pure taste, and once he’d become a regular drinker, he’d learned it wasn’t about the taste unless you were a wine connoisseur, and that wasn’t a career path ash was going to be going down any time soon. if he wanted to let go of his inhibitions and worries, which was generally the only reason he drank, there were options that were much more effective by the fluid ounce. outside of formal occasions and dinners with mixed company, wine was the drink he only broke out when he wanted to torture himself with the slow burn to a hazy mind instead of the fast and easy path.

ash was a masochist certainly. that wasn’t news to him. he knew all about the difference between the slow pain-easing journey of getting drunk off of wine in place of the fast and burning pain of downing the highest alcohol content shot he could get his hands on. perhaps he should enjoy wine more because of that, but, as a masochist, most nights, he wanted it fast. he didn’t drink for the journey anymore.

yet, there was something to be said for the imagery of someone drowning their melancholy in the gradual fever of a red wine. it was a scene that had been brought to life in many a movie, and it was while watching a movie reclining in his mostly unused living room couch that inspiration struck him for the song. as happened so often in movies that capitalized on dramatic love stories, a man sat in a chair in the dark of his apartment, glass of wine in his hand as he looked over the scenic view of whatever city the film was supposed to be set in. it wasn’t the first time ash had seen the movie, but he’d forgotten the details of the setting as he let the predictable story wash over him unanalyzed.

that had been ash years ago. the drinking age in korea being years lower than in the states had been a helpful accompaniment to the way he’d started young with heartbreak, too.

ash didn’t jump on the song the minute it began to sprout in his mind, but as the first movie turned into another in the mindless marathon of romantic dramas, another similar scene appeared like a sign. this time, the man had chosen a bar as a setting for his melancholy and ash couldn’t stop his brain from gnawing away at the truth behind the cliche. it was easy to drown one’s pain in a drink. ash had done it more times than he could count.

it was after the second scene that ash paused the television and followed the familiar path to his studio. the movie could wait for later, or never if he didn’t feel like coming back to it later, but in the midst of writing an album, any inspiration for a song that came to him so easily needed to be taken advantage of. there were so many nights spent in his own studio on his own or a studio at bc with other producers, brainstorming uselessly for an idea that could spark motivation that forgoing such a convenient offering of lyrical theme would be neglectful of him.

ash slid into the cool seat of his studio chair and pressed the computer on, ideas pulling at the strings of his brain so strongly that he began testing out pressing down chords on the keyboard that wasn’t capable of transferring any of it into sound yet. he heard the keys in his head as he acted out the chord structure and rhythm. he was aiming for the sound of a piano player in a jazz bar, fading into the distance while echoing in the listeners head. ash hadn’t been to many jazz bars in his time. cinema seemed to overestimate their popularity, or there was simply a major discrepancy between their abundance in american cities and seoul. film had taught him the cinematic atmosphere of one, though, and he had enough experience plucking out jazz piano music that it wasn’t too daunting of a feat for him to create a r&b chord progression to play around over top of a more freeform and clashing, tinny piano that would ring out underneath the base melody. throw in some low bass strings and a hollow drum pattern and he had a soundscape to work with before he’d even had time to create a musical outline in his mind. instead, it had all come together naturally based on the setting in his head.

there was a slow burn groove to the composition that teetered on the line between a song that could play under the witty, flirtatious exchange of dialogue during the first meeting between two fated partners in a film just as well as it could play under the scene of one half of the pair seated alone in the same bar months or years later when the passionate affair had completely fallen apart with only treacherous memories and glasses of wine left to poison the mind.

it all played out in his head faster than he could transfer it into his music program, but by the time the sun began to rise outside of his building in the morning—not that he could see it within his studio with its meticulously blacked-out windows—ash was left with an instrumental that had full potential to be turned into something. before he left the studio to shower and get dressed for his schedules for the day, sleep be damned, ash sent the instrumental out to one of his producer contacts for feedback on what it needed to be complete. surely, he hadn’t been able to craft a fully fleshed out track in one night, but he didn’t want to wait and stress over the details for another several nights in a row when what he had now had come to him as such a simple strike of inspiration.

he returned to his studio two nights later and opened up the producer’s response. they’d praised his start, but provided their constructive criticism as ash had welcomed within his initial message. he’d also invited them to include their own edits to the track if they had time, but they hadn’t sent a new file back, either because they hadn’t had time or because they hadn’t found anything they didn’t trust ash wouldn’t fix himself. ash hoped the latter possibility was the truth, but to avoid getting too proud of his own work, he assumed the former. upon listening back to the file, ash played around with production elements that had sounded better in the moment than they did now before settling on contentedness with the track.

that’s where the lyrics came in. he already had a concept in mind and thought it’d been a few days since he’d watched the scenes that had inspired the song, the distance was good. he didn’t want to write words that were too built upon some director’s creative vision for fake characters in a dramatized love story. like most of his songs, ash wanted this one to be more personal than impersonal. placing himself too separate from his own music was a sure way to run into a creative roadblock in his brain, and he’d been told he needed to work on getting better at separating himself so that he could write more diverse music, but for now, he wasn’t looking to challenge himself with someone else’s story.

it had been a while since ash had gone through a break-up or a crack in a relationship big enough to leave him drowning his romantic sorrows in a glass, but if he searched far back enough into the nooks and crannies of his memories, he could gather a recollection of what that feeling had been like. drowning his sorrows in general was a feeling that required much less searching, so he focused in on the imagery of that as he began to sketch out lyrics ideas.

settling on the concept of the bitter memories floating in the wine itself, ash found the first verse of the song. it told a four line story of downing glass after glass of the history-laced liquid to make the past disappear into the abyss because the pain of holding on was too much.

the song then turned into a lament directed at a lover who couldn’t hear him. the false sense of security in shouting into the void while intoxicated had fooled ash once or twice, but the silence never talked back in the way he wanted. it never had the voice of the person he both ached to and feared hearing speak back, and there was both relief and hurt in that fact. instead, the silence only brought back the memories that he’d been so inelegantly trying to banish from his mind.

from misery to resoluteness, that was how the song’s tale ended. the pieces of a broken relationship couldn’t be patched together any easier than the shattered shards of a fragile wine glass, and that was a truth more bitter to swallow than the drink itself. no matter how hard it could be (and how bad ash was at it), it was something that had to be realized to move on.

no one could keep submerging the parts of their mind they wanted to ignore in wine forever. they either had to find a way to float or give in and drown. that was a thought that skirted over the surface of ash’s brain, only staying long enough to be incorporated into the lyrics before swiftly disappearing so as not to be dwelled on too long.

he had to put part of himself into every song, but he didn’t have to face the way those parts tried to look back on him in the mirror of his music.

[papa-rhys]

Temptress (John Seed X OC Deputy)

Note: I’m editing this while in the midst of a gastritis flare up so apologies if I missed any mistakes. Have some completely lovestruck John creepin on my dep from a distance bc hell yeah. Enjoy!

Find more of my stuff here!

John watches intently through binoculars with his interest peaked as the newly appointed deputy arrives at a resistance outpost. He’d only settled along to treeline to watch the outpost out of curiosity. It had previously belonged to him, until two days ago, when an unknown woman, fresh from out of town, had taken it over and claimed it as one of the resistance safehouses. He was hoping to gain information from his little stakeout; maybe uncover a secret route between resistance bases or perhaps lay eyes on some new weapons that the resistance was hoping to surprise him with. He wasn’t expecting this new face to stroll into his path, but as he sits on the top of the hill, sheltered by the surrounding trees, he finds himself oddly pleased that she has.

He adjusts his binoculars, zooming in on her as she makes the walk from her car to the front of the building, repeatedly tossing her car keys in the air as she does so. The way she walks captivates John. The way she swings her hips from side to side in those little denim shorts. Her legs are glistening with sweat under the summer sun and they have John feeling an all-too-familiar feeling in his chest. One that bubbles up and whirls around inside him, threatening to spill out of his mouth in the form of giddy laughter.

Lust.

John is familiar with all seven of the deadly sins, but it’s been so long since he felt that one and he’d thought those days were long behind him. What would Joseph think if he here now? If he could see him watching her from the hilltop. John looks nervously over his shoulder, convinced that he, too, is being watched by someone; someone who will waste no time in running to Joseph with the news that John Seed, Herald of the Holland Valley, is a sinner. That he’s impure. That he’s irredeemable.

John follows the mysterious new deputy as she stops to talk to a resistance member. She’s animated in the way that she speaks to him, throwing her hands around and turning around on the spot as the man laughs along with her. John wonders what she’s talking about. Perhaps she’s telling the man of an encounter she’d had with one of John’s own people. Maybe she’s telling him about claiming another outpost; a battle that John will hear about later. She says her goodbyes to the man and heads inside the building.

“No, no, no,” John mutters to himself. “Come back, girl.”

As if God himself had heard John’s mutterings, the woman appears in front of a window on the upper floor of the building. John gets up and quickly moves along the treeline for a better angle, sitting back down again behind a fallen tree. He adjusts his binoculars once more, zooming in as far as they’ll go. The woman moves around in an old break room that looks to be repurposed as a dormitory from what John can see of it. She closes the door and heads to the bed next to the window, where she begins to unbutton her shirt.

John looks away, knowing full well that the church – nor God himself – would ever allow this kind of behaviour. Fornication is a sin and voyeurism is just as bad. But John was never much good at self-control, and he raises the binoculars to his eyes again.

She moves around the room in nothing but her underwear now, and John’s heart beats heavily inside his ribcage, each beat thudding in his ears. She’s completely bewitching; a dangerous temptress, sent by the devil himself to lure John into a trap. John is certain of this.

So why is he willingly following?

John gathers his thoughts for a moment as the woman parades around in front of him, dancing in the sunlight that spills in through the window that he watches her through. She’s blissfully unaware that anyone is watching her… or maybe she isn’t. Maybe she knows John is watching. Maybe she likes it.

John’s jeans begin to tighten and he swallows the guilt down with a hard gulp. He reaches one hand down and fumbles with his belt. Finally unbuckling it, he thumbs open the button on his jeans. He takes another look over his shoulder, taking his time to check every single inch of the horizon to make sure no one will ever know that this happened, and – more importantly –  to make sure Joseph will never catch wind of it.

He turns back around and peers through the binoculars again, but is left deflated when he discovers the room empty.

“Oh, no… No, no, no.” He scans the outpost in search for her, his eyes gliding over the scene. He’s met by nothing but crates of preserves and patrolling resistance members. “Where did you go, my darling?”

“Lookin’ for someone?” a woman's voice asks.

John’s heart stops and he immediately drops the binoculars from his face. A couple of metres down the hill stands the woman, now dressed and with her arms folded across her chest. She looks angry – as though could kill John then and there – but there’s a kindness in her eyes, hidden behind that rage. She looks even sweeter up close and John rises to his feet, fastening his jeans as he does so.

“I was just –“

“You were just what?” she asks, raising her eyebrow. “Go on. I’d love to hear you try and explain this one.”

John is at a loss for words and he opts for a shrug instead.

“So,” she says, making her way up the hill and stopping in front of him. “You thought it’d be a good idea to watch a woman while she changed? I don’t have much love for Peeping Toms.”

John gazes at her as she stands before him, her brows furrowed and her glossy, silver hair blowing across her face in the breeze. He’s completely smitten. Falling in love was not on his itinerary when he’d gotten dressed this morning, yet here he was… though he finds it hard to complain. He hasn’t felt this alive in a long time. The blood is finally pumping through his veins again – his heart skipping in his chest. For the first time in forever, he feels good. He wants to kiss her, pick her up and spin her around, tell her “thank you – thank you for making me feel like a person again.”

But he doesn’t.

He stays quiet.

Minutes tick by as the two of them watch each other in silence. The only noise that can be heard is the wind picking up and whooshing past their ears as a thunderstorm rolls in from the mountains up North. The woman chews on the inside of her cheek and John puts his hand in the pocket of his coat. Just as the woman opens her mouth to speak, she’s interrupted by a resistance member who has approached the bottom of the hill.

“Lucy,” he calls, cupping his mouth so that his voice is strong enough to be heard over the wind. “You’re needed down here!”

Her name is Lucy. A name that means light. A name that fits her so perfectly.

Lucy looks over her shoulder and waves her hand at him. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

John turns to leave with his head hung low, sorry that his meeting with the love of his life has come to an end already.

“Wait, I didn’t catch your name,” she calls.

John stops in his tracks. She doesn’t know who he is yet? He plans his answer carefully, painfully aware that he’ll never have her if she discovers who he is. And he can’t lose her yet; he’s only just found her.

“My name is Duncan,” he smiles, turning back to face her.

“Okay... Well, Duncan, if I catch you watching me again, I’ll kill you.” She says it in slight jest, but John knows she’ll do it. He knows what this new playmate is capable of; her handy work is scattered all over Hope County – he sees it every time one of his men returns with a truck full of bodies.

“It was nice to meet you, Lucy,” he says politely.

“Yeah, I’m sure it was,” she smirks. “See you around.”

She tucks her hair behind her ear and makes her way back down the hill, trudging through the mud and battling the wind that threatens to knock her off her feet.

“Yes,” John smiles, looking over the binoculars in his hand before clipping them to his belt. “Indeed, you will.”