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tragedyc · 9 months

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GALLIA LUGDUNESIS, 21X BC

his charge is the emesan julia domna. a wretched woman with immediate ties to the high priest of baal and consequently, a finger dipped in every political controversy within range for her benefit of leverage. she calls him forth through arcane summons, blinded in self-absorption as most mortals are. upon the bind of their contract, she avows to become the sole empress dowager of rome, inciting a decades’ long campaign for mephisto, who’s forced to navigate her droll ravings as she steadily ascends to power.

he takes on the guise of a humble slave, cassius, under septimus’ charge and is thereto assigned to domna, a well-educated young man, infinitely loyal to their names. aelian is born of praeneste, a gleaming orator under the tuition and guidance of septimus himself. this is how their paths cross. his guise suits to pass under radar, scrounge for secrets of domna’s husband and his associates alike. he comes to aelian in the middle of the night, where opportune is ripe like quinces and pomegranates of the season. despite his burning eyes and foul stench of liquor, his soul tastes clean, bland and sweet in a way that disinterests him, but his words and mind emerge sharp. mephisto, despite the necessity of his guise, the sweet, effectuated mannerisms of his guise , is thoroughly intrigued.

it’s not a matter of if, but when and how frequent his mannerisms slip through the guise. there is a quality of aelian’s self-assured, yet quiet preach that draws him in, and he wants, to scrub off the stubborn layers of deception and bury facets of himself just underground so that aelian may peel the grime away to discover him. he spends most of three summers idyl, with julia domna insistent on his cover, his official duties do not tend to the empress consort herself, but the cleanliness of her quarters and the tidiness of her belongings. she calls deep into the night, where she or her husband are wounded or faltering, for his presence to aid their strength and knit their wounds.

privately, he is grateful. he spends most of his free time piecing aelian together like a puzzle. his writings are a window into his philosophy. the drawn comparisons between human and animal, the use of biological anecdote to moralize the person; such writing he relates sorely to, because there is at the heart of his identity, he finds there the beast and ego intertwined. his pressing, consuming hunger tamped by a sudden longing for companionship. mephisto thinks that maybe by way of closeness, by experiencing life from minute perspective, may he learn the act of mortals, embrace the pain of mortality and the maxims of being, however feigned.

his admiration is not well hidden. aelian takes the time to discuss his works with him in great detail, which is how they jointly develop an observatory method for his second work. aelian believed higher purpose in his work, to give a true reflection of civilisation as it was, a depiction of the time, for hands of the future. the idea seems to sweep aelian into the eye of the storm, and by the end of the year, the tenth month sweeps into the first, and he has a thick pile of succinct notes at his table. mephisto hungers for it, that passive reception of the ordinary.

when aelian starts to compile the greco-roman myths, mephisto finds his own moniker listed, speaks, “what are your thoughts on orcus?”

he laughs, honey-tongued, “his work may be fearsome, subjectively malevolent, even. but i do not doubt the fact that he is just.” fingers trail the crude depiction of his one-eyed guise, almost pondering the way he appears. “it is a necessary evil, for there to be a punisher of broken oaths in a world of good. without mediating matters of the underworld, there would be chaos for all innocent parties of the land.”

his eyes are bright as they regard him, under the weight he feels transparent. “and pray tell, what do you think on the matter? you show a fair bit of interest in my work, cassius; i’ll make a disciple out of you yet.”

“it is a wretched curse, on the being forced to bear it. i don’t suppose a deity would enjoy it’s work very much. the obligations and sanctions doled by those above are arbitrary and cruel.”

“that is...” he taps his lower lip and cassius’ eyes follow, “rather unorthodox. i assume you know best to keep what is said in confidence,” he laughs, “but privately, i shall say it is what i like best about you. your ideas seem...out of touch with the time that they are utterly unique, and lovely because of it. yet, you appear to me... lonely somehow, connected intimately with the ideas and wishes of man in a way that most people are not, yet removed from the very same.”

he shakes his head, helpless at the observations. all he can do is speak the truth, “we have spent much time together, you and i. my psyche is unsafe, i fear you will one day open pandora’s box to flooded with a naked truth, and oversee the components of my being that render me wretched, and find me one day to be a fraud.”

“you flatter me,” aelian replies, “i promise, that no matter what you reveal, i only hope to observe. despite the difference of our statuses, i feel you understand me in a way many of my peers do not. you call me a lost soul, while others label me misguided, lost in observation and no judgement.

“i apologise, if i have led you to feel discomfit, that you feel no right, or worth to be open to me.” he steps forward into mephisto’s space, grips onto his hands like he is something tender and worthy. mephisto lets him, “i hope someday i may peer beyond your reservations.”

to something so heartfelt, mephisto only notes the one course of action.

---

“what you said earlier,” aelian says after a while, after they’ve spent time breathing, no talking at all, “i’d have to agree. there are beings intended to shoulder certain obligations, however disproportionate, and it does not always appear fair. judgements of the gods are harsh and beyond mortal comprehension. take zeus’ punishments to prometheus’ for gifting humanity with the privilege of fire.

“i don’t suspect it is for us mortals to comment upon the fairness, or morality of matters; gods have the clearest understanding of the truth. the only option we have on earth is to examine the beauty of what gods have designed for our stead, and receive the wills and word of the gods through its design.”

fingers stroke the pooled moisture at his back. he shivers, curls into the warmth as an excuse.

“what say you, cassius?” hushed and sleepy.

“for all the answers i’ve provided you with, i’m clueless,” mephisto concedes, “it’s been on my mind.”

fingers card into his hair, insistent, and he proceeds with the gentle insistence, dipping into the warm curve, body against body.

silence draws out, and upon hearing the heartbeat slow, breaths long and face slack, mephisto leans closer still. with the excitement of a child, secret a lingering temptation between lips.

“that is what must be believed, that there is purpose to suffering,” mephisto amends, voice muffled against the closeness. after careful consideration of the words. quietly, a graver tone than aelian has, will ever hear in this guise, too solemn for a boy claiming to be not more than twenty summers, “i would surely go mad with such reception; in engaging my powers i have equally shackled my self. without respite to the desire … i fear of losing myself.”

there is no reply forthcoming; slumber has taken his confidante. he eases closer, whispers into skin, a soft plea he would never so choose to utter again in his long life, “i wonder if you would understand? or if you would turn me away from your step with knowledge of the truth.”

---

as co-empress, domne orders him to stage the disgrace of caracalla's wife, which he easily does so easily by framing her paterfamilias with treachery. he oversees the execution of plautianus for treachery, and thusly plautilla is seen exiled, tortured, beat and then strangled by his own hand. takes great deal of satisfaction in the success, eyes gleaming as the life is taken from the piteous man, and he is one step closer to glut. to the new empress dowager’s satisfaction. her reign is tyrannical and controlling of her two sons, though her public front is largely successful as to have her receive the title of ‘pia felix augusta’. a great honor.

as contracts go, validity and scope depend heavily on the wording, and as a heavily disadvantaged party, he takes any leeway he may get. there is much this woman has subjected him to, and he would be inordinately pleased to have the last laugh. thus, when he hears of caracalla’s plot to murder her beloved kin, he inclines an ear with great satisfaction. as she had ordered the disgrace of caracalla’s family so many years ago, history was to rewrite itself.

he takes satisfaction in informing her as such, watches her misery seep out of her soul in waves.

---

when he returns, he takes his familiar perch in aelian’s quarters. he grows more aware of it every day, how farcical cassius truly is, and how many facets of his demonic heritage he’s kept shadowed away from sight. however much he would like to show aelian his true colours, the difference from the truth is too wide a gap to cross naturally. much time is spent circumnavigating the lies. he has slaughtered many today, in the guise of battle. he stares down at clean, neat palms; hidden carnage. wonders what he would think of his casual brutality.

that night, aelian’s return is soured, coloured by a weighty gaze. there is no contempt, but mephisto sees the heavy waves of suspicion marring his usually bland scent. he steps into the room with confrontation in mind, and mephisto does nothing to prevent him. “you have been sighted by troops; wanted for the murder of septimus’ kin. i would hardly believe so, since i have only known you as a humble slave to the line of septimus, yet you have conveniently shirked your duties in the armoury all evening. i do not know how you have travelled so far; even the speediest of chariots would not have carried you to and back from the scene fo tragedy. yet, this is too much of a coincidence to brush under the rug.”

silence ticks between them. he sees aelian’s mind turning, yet the judgements and connections beyond the shutter of his eyes are unknown. mephisto is rarely afraid, but today he fears the worst.

“who are you?” there is no warmth to be found there.

“i’ve been what i’ve always been,” while the topic of the conversation is strained, he slips back into familiar habits, winding talk catching up to him in speech, “i have tried best not to hide myself from you. my words do not set out to deceive. rather than uncovering a dastardly plot, you have lifted the blinds, and you are assaulted by the glaring light of truth,” he is tumultuous under the searing heat of judgement. he has not thought to lie, and remaining aligned with his insistence to tell truth, there is no good justification to spare.

“i dare say it so,” he does not humor the discussion, cuts to the chase with a simple sentence. there lies a deep chasm of weariness as he speaks. “how much of you is unknown to me? what of you is true, you heritage, your name, your face? i dare say i have allowed foul play to soil my chambers, as you stand so unguardedly in my space, as if to suppose i would harbour a deviant, a traitor to the good name of septimus - cassius, you must know this, you ask too much of me.”

“aelian... do you recall summers past, our conversation about the necessities of evil? please let me speak the truth before you dole your final judgement,” desperation-driven truth emerges.

silence is taken as permission to speak. when he finishes the iteration, aelian is silent. cassius wonders if he is gripped by grief, with a brief glimmer of hope, but when aelian looks up, his eyes are dry. fierce.

“mephistopheles,” he says, and his name on his tongue is sweet as a knife. “and you have come into my house to ridicule me? to toy with my affections and indulge in my kindness as a false companion … all the while, you keep your contrary alliances and devilish secrets close at chest. i shall scorn you for asking me to dole any mercy; any more than i already have.”

“this life, i daren’t say it lightly, but it truly could make me happy. days i woke to see you beside me, and i … wanted what i could not have. all that i wished for was nothing more than the ability to forget,” he concedes, “but this ache within me … it is inexplicable. it compels me to do things without reason, and as such my desires are powerful; my abilities to enact them stronger yet. you were - are - the one person i never hoped to hide from. but such is selfish of me; i know you are a good man, and that your conscience would not allow it. i do not ask for your forgiveness.

“i would hope for nothing more to stay. i have tried,” he says, and there is nothing but weariness; “tried my best to follow customs and live peacefully the best i could, but there is nothing that can curb my instincts.” and he reaches out, to place a shaking palm, warm against aelian’s cheek, “not even you.”

aelian’s eyes are wide, troubled; he hates to be the one that to evoke such an expression, smooths the crease of his brows gently. aelian does not flinch, in spite of his knowledge, and his eyes have softened into something like regret. aelian leans into his touch, and mephisto knows that he will miss this. the slant of light through the talc windows awash features in a soft glow, “you know me well, to say with surety i would not forgive you. i obey by maxima and aphorisms, and such reigns supreme in my conduct. you tempt me with weakness.”

“we are of different worlds, you and i. mortals cannot understand or seek to judge the motivations of gods, you have told me so,” he steps forward, lingers in this bubble of nostalgia. it surprises him when aelian chances a press of soft lips to his brow, the ridge of his nose. the kisses are tender and slow, unspoken goodbye. mephisto cannot help himself, angles so that lips may touch.

eyelashes cast his cheeks dark as he lowers them. chaste, almost, if mephisto did not know him better. he daresay he looks disappointed, “i also recall the words you uttered in supposed secrecy; i shall admit, your troubles that carved into you that night, i tried to understand you to no avail. i see now.

“i hope you become someone you can live with. I would not be so presumptuous to advise such being, touched by kronos himself or no, but it is my conclusion, from the understanding of the facts.” he pauses, laughs privately, “the observation of life as i have been doing.”

mephisto aches. there’s no possibility of that, for all his delusions and bad decision making, he knows that much. he stands there, a beggar for the last morsel of their interaction, no dignity.

slowly, aelian draws back. he walks over to his desk, sits, picks up his iron stylus. the dismissal is a familiar, but the finality of it scares him. he resists the urge to surge forward, to press aelian’s weakness and draw him down into misery with him, plea until hoarse for sympathy. there is no dignity in his thoughts, only unabashed, desperate want. instead, he ignores the way aelian’s shoulders are shaking, the grief dripping like honey over his soul in a sweet tang of flavour, and leaves, closing the door softly, as if he had never been there.

despite the ache, it comes along with the relief of absolution. he is free from expectation, at last. miles out of the city, he grins: a sharp, sad, lonely thing. turns to better distractions - licks his lips as eyes burn bright, hungry for opportune, the world his oyster. his horns and claws curl up from under the guise, the truth rising out of the woodworks.

he thinks: maybe he’ll travel mysia a while, just for a change of pace.

dark wings spread, and within minutes, he rides the thermals of hot wind, past the sworls of dust, eddying through the civilization. the air overhead is cool and fresh, providing new clarity to his troubles. upward and away from the empire, the cocktail of dreams, envies, desires, and losses; what could and couldn’t be are left behind him.

#⸸ [ study. ] ⸸#⸸ [ mephistopheles ; study. ] ⸸#pity i never released this piece of writing when meph was on his single blog #3k of character development that i kept to myself wtf #probably thought it was too long for dash or something #also the bar is so low that it's underground but the fact that he loved him enough to not kill him... 🥺#that isn't even a joke unfortunately

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weepingwitch · 1 year

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the medical doctor who sexually assaulted me still has overwhelmingly positive online ratings, with a number of people commenting that they love his bedside manner and consider him not just a doctor but a friend

#i mean i guess i've had worse doctor interactions #the bar is so low it's underground

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superhell · 1 year

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house asks wilson if he can have the bagel wilson immediately suspicious. mayybbeee seek help

#his bar is SO LOW. its underground #house #wilson #hilson

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indiiglow · 1 year

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Y'know, all of my questions about who let all those shitty drivers on the road were answered when I passed my driving exam lol

#no but I'm serious the bar is So low it's underground and some people are still digging #and manage to fail #I've never dissociated harder in my life than when driving a car my anxiety meter is so high it loops right back into calm #as I enter the fifth dimension of Not Being There #and somehow they still let me have a license #so I can see how other shitty drivers do manage to get it

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ceilidho · 2 months

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prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 1; ghoap x reader)

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately.

Ghost listens because the periods between missions are long and colourless—he fills the time with paperwork, PT, exhausting his muscles in the gym, and dissociating in a booth at the only good pub on base when Johnny drags him along—and it’s better to tune out the thoughts in his head and replace them with something else. Besides, for as much as he gripes about poorly trained dogs barking too much, he enjoys the sound of Johnny’s voice. It quiets the faint ringing that follows him wherever he goes, an agitated humming that leaves him, on his best days, on the brink of rage.

“Tinnitus,” a doctor says when he brings it up during a routine check-up. Can you shut that fucking noise up?

“Best we can do is get you hearing aids.” Apologetic, sincere even. Stained, as always though, by a trembling, noxious unease. It emanates off the doctor in waves.

Hard not to feel uneasy around a man in a mask, Ghost assumes. That’s all part of it though. He doesn’t cultivate comfort, doesn’t attempt to engender soft feelings or put the mind at ease. His body and persona are designed to put the body and mind on the knife’s edge of fear, and then tip it over. He leaves the sweet talking and charming to men like Johnny, who babbles red language in a tongue like larkspur.

Ghost’s first language is oil slick. It stains and it covers and it darkens everything it touches.

And now, Johnny’s talking about a bird.

A couple months after Las Almas, the first picture comes out. Not a folded up keepsake tucked away in the pocket of a bag or a wallet or the inside of his jacket, but right on Johnny’s lockscreen on his phone. He disapproves at first glance. Not of the girl, but at the thought of keeping something so valuable on display for anyone to see. It’s not how he functions. Everything sacred is burned, destroyed, or—if precious enough—buried so deep underground that salt miners might greet it on the way down.

“Pretty, eh?” Johnny goads, nudging Ghost with his shoulder. He’s all wide grin, eyes electric-blue like the flames of Kawah Ijen.

She is pretty. Pretty as pie. Not a speck of grit or blood on her; if there’s any edge to her at all, it’s tempered by her smile in the photo on Johnny’s phone. A sugar sweet cunt, by the looks of it, sure it’d taste like candy if he got his mouth on it. He angles his eyes with Johnny’s lips and wonders how many times he’s eaten her out, if hers was the last cunt he ate. Likely. His boy’s the loyal kind, hard to shake off once he’s got his teeth in. Swapping spit or blood, he doesn’t leave once he’s got a taste.

“Where’d you find her?” he asks instead of agreeing, and takes a swig from the bottle in front of him. The bar’s hardly filled out yet; the two of them come early because Ghost’s an old man—that’s what Johnny would say—and doesn’t like to be around people once the sun’s set. It’s a burnished gold now, sun hovering low in the sky when Ghost turns an eye to it.

“Florist. Met her when I picked up flowers for mam’s birthday.”

Nearly a month then. “And I’m just hearin’ about this now?”

Not in this same pub three times a week since then. Not on the tarmac, suited up and sweating already beneath two layers of gear. Not in the shower beside Ghost’s, fingers reaching over the side for a bar of soap because Johnny can’t be arsed to get his own. Not with his head slumped to let Ghost shave the sides of his head nice and neat, thick fingers splayed over the delicate bone of his skull that Ghost knows would take nothing to break.

It rankles him until he looks back down at the phone in his hands—the one he’d plucked from Johnny’s fingers even while he whined about Ghost always stealing his shit—and feels his heartbeat slow. It levels out like staring into the scope of a rifle, the molecules of his breath melding with the molecules of the air until even the sound of his heartbeat dulls to the insects around him.

Johnny purses his lips. “…Wasn’t sure then. Am now.”

“Cunt’s a cunt. What’s there to be sure about?”

“No.” Johnny shakes his head vehemently. “She’s no’ like that. She’s special—I’m telling ye, Lt—” he stresses when Ghost snorts, the sound thick with scepticism, “—she’s a good egg. Smart one. Sweet as pie.”

Sweet as pie. Mutt half-shares his thoughts these days. They must have brought more home than just shellshock and keloids.

Johnny squawks when Ghost unlocks his phone and thumbs through his photos, trying to wrench it out of Ghost’s hand to no avail. He’s easy to hold back. All he has to do is put down his beer for a second and get a handful of hair and jerk, and there it is. Peace and quiet. A wince bleeding into his peripheral vision while Johnny mumbles something under his breath about him being a mean bastard.

He snorts again. Even from Johnny, he’s heard worse.

There isn’t much left of him these days. A tired husk and a taste for Guinness. He bleeds and shaves and wipes it off, smells the viscera still staining his mask that he hardly ever washes, can’t bear to honestly. Waste of fucking time, as far as he’s concerned. Just going to get dirtied again, soaked in blood again within the week. Shaves his head too just to have less to deal with, less to distract him from the single-minded intensity he brings to the job. He’d dematerialize if he could, become a ghost in name and shape, if only the laws of physics allowed.

Instead he’s saddled with a body that echoes back his age in creaking joints and low back pain. Scar tissue that aches when it gets cold.

In the months he’s known Johnny, he’s never let himself think about the world outside their bubble. His rank demands a certain level of socialising, and while he doesn’t schmooze with the brass like other lieutenants might, Ghost hardly has the privilege of isolating himself all the time, but still he can count the people he considers close on one hand.

Not family, but close. The thought of family is sheathed within him; he knows to leave the knife in lest he bleed. Still, Johnny’s fought his way onto the list and now he has to pay with his pound of flesh.

There’s a switch that’s been off for years, closer to a couple decades, and it flips back on when he finds this man that trusts him without question, that follows his orders and looks up at him with these big, puppy blue eyes. It twists something in his chest. It turns him into a thing that says maybe it’s better to take than just covet.

There are other photos of the girl in Johnny’s phone, some likely not meant for present company (Johnny flushes red when Ghost flips to a picture of his bird in a pretty little number, lace cupping her tits and ass, sitting on Johnny’s bed back home and looking back at him over her shoulder with a little grin). Still, it interests him to see this side of his boy; he’s maybe thought of it before in abstract terms. He knows that Johnny’s no stranger to a wandering eye, not with the way he’s built and his pretty boy face. He’s well acquainted with Johnny’s dick, hard not to be in such close quarters; it’s a nice, pretty thing, just like him, a good handful. Nothing like the ruddy battering ram in between Ghost’s legs. The one Johnny once got a glimpse of in the showers after a two week long stint in Kyrgyzstan and paled, mouth gaping open while he stared until he could finally laugh it off.

Ghost remembers thinking detachedly about how lovely that little gaped open mouth would feel around his cock.

Surprising that it took this long for him to cotton on to his own desires.

“Bring ‘er around then. I’ll see for myself how sweet she is.”

Johnny scowls at the sudden uproar from a nearby table. “No’ a chance in hell. Dinnae trust any of these fuckers to behave around her.”

Ghost hums. He’s not wrong to be wary; under the table, Ghost runs a hand over his bulge and gives it a squeeze, lifting his thigh to readjust. She has a lovely mouth too.

He’s been breathing fire and brimstone recently. Hungering to hear something break. It takes Johnny’s hand on his arm to hold him back, every cigarette puffed down to the filter. The pictures on Johnny’s phone make it seem easy though.

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately, preening at every opportunity to show her off. He doesn’t know that it takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost’s brain to file the girl in Johnny’s phone under mine, slotting her right under Johnny in that category and isn’t that just perfect because it also takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost to imagine what she might look like under Johnny.

He hands Johnny back the phone, face down. “You get one week. Then I wanna meet your bird.”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost/soap/reader #ghoap x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #ghoap x you

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dragon-age-sideblog · 1 year

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me: Plaio Lavellan is my most diplomatic Inquisitor

also me: boy the song lyrics "I will burn your kingdom down if you try to conquer me and mine" fit Plaio perfectly

#me and mine by the brothers bright #plaio lavellan #i mean he is the most diplomatic out of all of them. but i gotta say the bar is so low its underground #da:i #inquisitor

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chuuyrr · 6 months

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LOWKEY — NAKAHARA CHUUYA

⊹ CW(s): f! reader, pining, falling in love, drunk confessions, kissing, pet names, reader is a pre-med college student

⊹ SYNOPSIS: in which he takes his chance and keeps you as his secret

inspired by: lowkey and urs by niki !

chuuya lifts an eyebrow when he notices you sniffling from the corner of his eye as he sips the burgundy red liquid from his wine glass.

it was late at night, he had just gotten off work and wanted to have a drink or two from a neighboring local bar, but he wasn't alone.

there was also you, another customer sitting near the end of the bar stools by the counter.

he sighs to himself as he takes a sip from his glass and musters the confidence to turn to you and speak to you, as he is really worried as to why a young woman like you was crying in the bar late at night.

chuuya was a port mafia executive, a criminal from an underground organization, but in truth he was far from heartless.

"hey, miss, you okay?" he asks, tapping the wooden surface of the counter near to get your attention.

you gaze up at him, your eyes tearful and somewhat puffy red as you sniffle, and the sight of you made chuuya's throat dry for some reason.

he wasn't expecting someone as breathtaking as you. apart from your tears, the alcohol in the high ball whiskey you were drinking was also contributing to the blood pouring into your cheeks.

"m'fine," you sniffle softly, wiping at your tears which makes chuuya sighs.

"is someone giving you a bad time, doll?" he asks, concernedly blinking at you and scanning the room for any suspicious people, but there were only the two of you in the bar.

you shake your head, giggling a little at this redhead's genuine care for you. it was quite sweet of him to be honest. as you glance up at him again, you take a long breath to calm yourself and wipe away any leftover tears.

"i was just crying over.. exams." you blurt out, little embarrassed because he appeared to be an influential man involved in something bigger, like a corporation of sorts, given his fancy and expensive coat, bolo tie, and suit that were of black and gray colors.

"exams?" chuuya repeats your answer, blinking as he looks down at you, making you feel even more embarrassed because he appears to be judging you in some way for it.

"mhm," you mutter gently with a nod, rubbing your arm as you stare down at your lap, feeling glum about it, "i failed one of my exams, and it was a major subject of mine, too."

"that's it?" chuuya sighs quietly, which causes you to become quiet, but instead of something more judgmental, you perk up when you hear a chuckle rumble from his throat and escape his lips.

your cheeks get heated, as if from the whiskey you were drinking or your tears weren't making them flushed enough, and you narrow your eyes at him, "h-hey, it's not funny!" you cry out.

chuuya snickers as he shakes his head, and you wonder if it's the wine making you hazy and all, or if it's something about him—the way he sounded as he laughed and smiled.

he also appears to be genuine, despite his arrogant looking-exterior, and you could tell there was some sort of mysterious allure behind him, as if he was a part of something bigger that you couldn't quite pin down.

"sorry, doll," he sighs, still grinning at you, "you just had me worried there for a second there, you know? you cry like you're on the big screen."

"it was a major exam," you sigh, turning away from him as you finish the last of your whiskey, "and it might not mean anything to someone like you given your status and appearance, but it is a big deal to me."

"i'm failing quizzes, and now an exam, so yeah, it's all a big deal to someone like me because how else am i gonna be a doctor someday with low grades, you know?" you continue, feeling your eyes become glassy with tears again as you pinch the bridge of your nose.

"hey, now. hey, i didn't mean it like that, sweetheart," chuuya says softly as he realizes he has offended you in some manner, "i just thought you got hurt or something, and you're the one here in the bar drinking apart from me."

"well, thanks for your concern," you say softly, sniffling and fidgeting with the empty glass that was previously full with whiskey to escape his stare, "i just needed a pick me up.."

chuuya feels an unpleasant pause following the end of the conversation. he watches in silence and nibbles the inside of his cheek as you you call the bartender's attention to order another glass of whiskey.

he could still see the melancholic glint in your pretty eyes. it makes him feel bad for laughing about your circumstance. it's a big deal for you, and it was quite strange for chuuya as well.

chuuya was a port mafia executive, and considering his line of work, he shouldn't be distracted, let alone this soft, but he can't stop himself. he's growing soft for someone like you.

"her drink is on me," chuuya says, drawing the bartender's attention just as you were ready to pull out some cash from your wallet, "and i'll order some chocolate-drizzled hazelnut brittle for her."

your eyes widen as the bartender nods to chuuya and serves your beverage beside the chocolate brittle that actually complements the new glass of whiskey he's got you as well.

"why?" you murmur, blinking at him, confused.

"you said you needed a pick-me-up, didn't you? and besides, you seemed like the type to get something sweet with your whiskey." chuuya shrugs as he downs his wine, turning his face away with his gloved hand covering half of his face, just so you wouldn't see the growing blush on his cheeks.

he says in a hushed tone, "just think of it as me making it up to you for earlier, okay?"

with his kindness, you find yourself actually smiling, having forgotten about the exam and how you were crying about it.

maybe he wasn't so bad after all.

it doesn't take long for him to know you were a regular at this bar, and how you frequently come here and drink when you're stressed out as he learns from the bartender.

chuuya isn't even aware of it, yet he's gradually becoming comfortable and used to you, and it was all because of how he just happened to see you crying that evening when you were drinking your sadness away with some whiskey.

it was a pleasant change of pace for once because he wasn't talking about work that included killing or any underground organization businesses like smuggling.

instead, chuuya was conversing with a college student who is more concerned about failing the exams or receiving a low mark from her professor than with being mugged or shot.

instead of being entranced by gunpower and blood, it was the the familiar aroma of your high ball whiskey and his red wine, and the vanilla scent of your perfume clinging on cardigan every time, and he takes solace in that in secret.

and chuuya listens to everything you say, even if he considers the medical jargons and chemistry-related things you talk about puzzling and nonsense as he didn't really quite gets them at all.

but, in fact, these nights became his favorites—something chuuya grew to look forward to like an addiction, and he misses it whenever he can't come to the bar because you're so busy with college.

he was clearly beginning to feel things for you, because why would a port mafia executive like himself have time for an mere college student that was constantly stressed-out, but he resents it in some way.

he despises how sincere and nice you were because it caused him to lose his guard. his stomach was doing flips all the time around you, which was driving him mad.

at the end of the day, or rather evening, it makes him hopeless to think about you and everything, and it's unfortunate.

you and him come from different worlds in the sense that he revels in the darkness and violence as mori's executive, and the fact that he kills makes him a bad person, and you?

you were so good—too good to be true for him, living in the light, going out with your friends and peers, and studying your love-hate pre-med course. you even aspire to be a doctor someday to help others, which contrasted with him having to kill and do such things as a member of an underground organization.

eventually, from his plethora of thoughts and wild emotions, it all comes down to him beginning to wonder what would it be like to be loved by someone like you.

would he wake up to you rushing to get ready in the morning? would he be able to accompany you while you studied and memorized terms? to comfort you and listen to you recite mnemonics he'll never understand?

would he be the one to give you a bouquet as you hold up your college degree someday?

it was all simple domestic notions invading his head now instead of work, but he had never wanted it so badly before, and it was suddenly as important to him as your college course was to you.

it really makes him sad.

still, he was a port mafia executive.

what would your family think? your college friends think? what would you think if you learned the truth about chuuya, from what he does to the kind of person he really was?

would you run away from him if you knew?

it was another of his late evenings with you, and you were drinking whiskey again—a drink to which chuuya had grown accustomed to.

tonight, you were drinking a little too much tjan usual, but to be fair, you had just passed another round of examinations this month, and you were drinking both in joy and in dread.

while you were relieved to have it over with, you are still concerned about the outcome.

your cheeks were red from all the alcohol you had consumed, but you've also been starring at chuuya for quite some time now, blinking in a haze, not realizing you had been staring since half past two.

your gaze travels from his plush cheeks and lips to his ocean eyes. how come you're only recognizing how handsome he was in person after spending so much time with him? was it the alcohol affecting you?

hmm, or maybe it was something else? you do feel your chest warmer and fuzzier than usual.

in any case, you continue to drink your whiskey while giggling to yourself and shaking your head.

chuuya lifts a brow, finding your little giggle as you drink rather endearing, "what's so funny, doll?"

"hmm, someone's getting tipsy," he murmurs softly afterwards, extending his hand out subconsciously to cup your face. chuuya bites his lower lip, watching you lean against his palm as his thumb tenderly carresses your cheek.

"and someone's pretty right now," you giggle again, looking up at him with flushed cheeks.

"huh?" chuuya hums in confusion, though he was finding the words you were uttering quite silly.

"you're.. really pretty, you know?" you murmur softly as you place down the now empty glass on the bar table, smiling softly at him.

"don't you mean yourself, sweetheart?" chuuya chuckles and shakes his head as he finds himself booping your nose, making you smile and giggle even more. yeah, you were becoming tipsy, and he thinks it's adorable.

your [color] eyes gradually narrow as you push your body forward towards him. chuuya's eyes widen for a minute as he notices you leaning against his chest, resting your head against the crook of his shoulder from your seat.

"[name]? y-you okay, doll?" chuuya sputters out, blinking as one of his hands gently moves to your back to rub it comfortingly for you while the other remains on your cheek.

"and you smell so nice too.." you murmur softly, continuing to speak and closing your eyes, not really answering his question at this point.

chuuya takes a deep breath, burying his face in your hair, before wrapping his arms around you and pulls you to his chest, as you softly mumble more stuff at him. as his gloved fingers begin to comb through your hair, his chest rumbles a chuckle.

you two continue to sit on your cushioned seats at the bar like this, and right now, it was just you and him, together with the fragrance of whiskey and wine, and the mellow ambiance being provided by the soft and quiet jazz music playing from the bar's radio.

he eventually rises up from his seat and decides to pull you out of the bar not long after, seeing that you need some fresh air and to be taken home right away.

chuuya was a gentleman, and he wouldn't want you arriving home too drunk, let alone late in the evening.

he wraps his arm around you as he gently pulls you outside, but it sinks into his skin again. the dreadful truth.

even if chuuya really wanted to, he can't be with you like this.. at least that's what he thinks.

you open your eyes, lifting your head when you feel chuuya pull his arms away from you all of a sudden.

"chuuya?" you mutter softly, tilting your head.

"sorry, sweetheart," chuuya sighs shakily, attempting a chuckle, but his smile this time held sorrow as he glances at you and curses under his breath, closing his eyes, "it's just... fuck, i don't wanna ruin this night for you."

"huh, w-what are you talking about?" you ask, blinking in confusion and sobering up as you realize just how serious chuuya was right now.

"baby, an angel like you can't fly down hell with me," chuuya says, looking deep into your eyes before leaning in, his lips to your ear as he whispers, "i'm from the port mafia, and an executive at that too."

as he speaks, his eyes are filled with sadness and perhaps shame. it was apparent that chuuya was not as proud of his work or his life as you were. in fact, how could he compare to someone as good as you in the first place?

it was quite pathetic of him. really.

who would have guessed that someone as arrogant and influential as him would be confessing like this outside a local bar in the middle of the night?

if his friends and colleagues were to see him like this, they would probably laugh, and most importantly think he was an entirely different person.

he finds himself holding his breath, already bracing himself for your reaction with a part of him anticipating you to freak out or get angry.

chuuya watches your eyes widen as he confesses, his heart pounding in his chest. he then lowers his eyes, his head bowed in shame, but he manages a shaky response, "but really, it's okay, baby. you don't even have to love me."

chuuya, however, is surprised to just feel your head rest against his chest again instead of a furious reaction.

"doll?" chuuya asks in surprise, blinking at you.

"i don't have to love you, yes," you whisper softly, your hands reaching for his sleeves, reluctant to let him go, "but i do."

"w-what?" chuuya was in disbelief, and now his eyes were wide—the tables turned.

"i don't mind if you're a port mafia executive," you remark, looking up at him, your hands clenched so tightly around the fabric of his coat that it was bunching in your grip, "i don't wanna ever leave this, these nights we have.. chuuya.."

"fuck, c'mere," chuuya curses under his breath in a hushed tone, and before you two even knew it, his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you to the back of the bar with him, being impossibly closer to you than before.

you feel your back press against the brick wall of the place where you and you him had just left. for a brief time, his forehead brushes against yours, and you find yourself leaning in and melting into the warm skin contact.

chuuya cups your face in his hands and talks quietly, his breath and the whiff of wine hitting your face, "guess you're flying down to hell with me then, hmm?"

"then, to hell with it," you say back in hushed tone, looking into his eyes, "i'm already yours."

chuuya then slams his lips to yours.

"m-mmh," you quietly moan into the kiss. it feels so warm, and you can taste the wine on his tongue mingling with the whiskey on yours, as well as the hint of tenderness in the kiss.

the alcohol intoxicated your mind, but in a nice way that all you could think about in the heat of the moment was his lips against yours and his arms holding you so closely to him, as if you were going to run away from him.

"hush now, love," his words came out in whispered yet sweet mumbles, punctuated by every press of his lips on yours as he continued to kiss, and oh, you tasted so heavenly.

chuuya could taste the whiskey on your tongue, combined with the minty flavor of cherry gloss on your lips, and smell your ever familiar yet soothing vanilla perfume lingering on your skin and sweater, and he adores it.

it was something he could become hooked to—something he looked forward to every time.

in between kisses, you see a smile pulling on your lips, and you giggle, and he laughs as well.

you glance up at him, swaying slightly from the glasses of whiskey you've just had, and it makes him chuckle even more since he honestly feels the same way, and his hands grip you even more securely and closely as a result and to steady himself too.

"guess we're a little too fucked up to stay still from the drinks, huh?" chuuya chuckles as you rest your head against his chest, nestling it beneath his chin, his arms still encircling you.

"you know, my apartment is just nearby, and it's vacant," you say softly.

"noted, love," chuuya hums, knowing exactly where he'll be tonight, and honestly, he doesn't mind. his penthouse was just as empty and lonely even, and the thought of being with you tonight in yours was all he needed.

you giggle again, unable to stop smiling at all as you close your eyes and bury your face in the fabric of his clothes, finding comfort in the aroma of wine and cigarettes from him, as well as his cologne.

"wonder what i'll do when the cops come through and the whiskey's run out?" you murmur softly, a random thought arising from the alcohol in your system, but you continued to smile, "or worse.. when my parents find out?"

"well, that's too bad, because i'm already yours, doll," chuuya says into your hair, his nose tracing your forehead and cheek before leaning in for another kiss on your lips, closing the distance between the two of you again.

he then brushes a loose strand of your hair behind your ear and presses his forehead against yours once more, "but that's easy to answer, doll."

"then how?"

"we keep it lowkey."

"lowkey?"

"no one's gotta know, just us and the moon til' the sun starts wakin'"

you like this night. everything was just right and you couldn't care less about anything.

⊹ A.N.: i know what you're thinking, and yes, niki writes a fic that isn't inspired by a taylor swift song for once—i had picked up on niki again while i was listening to lowkey and urs, i couldn't help but imagine chuuya !! ⊹.(⁎˃﹏˂⁎)˚. <3

⊹ P.S.: reader may or may not have been inspired by me, your stressed out biochem college girlie (except i haven't drank in months so FAHEHDJSK pls don't drink if ur underage smh)

#📝⸝⸝﹕misc #bungo stray dogs x reader #chuuya x reader #bsd x reader #bsd x you #chuuya nakahara x you #bsd x y/n #bsd imagines #bsd oneshot #bsd fluff #bsd fanfic #bsd chuuya #nakahara chuuya x reader #nakahara chuuya x you #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya x y/n #chuuya x you #chuuya x fem!reader

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hyperactively-me · 4 months

Note

Okay but king ghost if his queen was kidnapped or held for ransom?? I just want some protective ghost in my life

the way i had this idea planned for a while already, but anon, our brainwaves are connecting. i’ve gotten literally countless requests for this same idea. if you sent in a request similar to this, i’m so sorry, i wasn’t ignoring you, i've just had this planned for a while! (word count: 5.8k)

king!ghost x reader -- taken

warnings: kidnapping, physical fighting, physical injuries/blood/bruises, semi-vague descriptions of torture, torture tactics, throw up, restraints, heavy angst, i guess a happy ending? maybe??? idk 😭, ummmm idk what else... please please please let me know if there's anything i've missed. this is a dark chapter! check your media consumption based off the warnings!

It was a quiet night. Eerily quiet. The sounds of the summer insects ceased, the hot air still, unmoving. You were in bed, trying to sleep. You had no clue what time it was, all you knew is that you were hot and exhausted.

You roll onto your side, huffing as you throw the covers off your body. You close your eyes again, trying to will yourself to sleep.

A moment later, you hear a creak coming from the far side of the room where the doors to the balcony are.

You immediately sit up, scanning the room.

“Hello?” you call out, your voice wavering as you slip out of bed. You immediately grab your knife from the drawer of your bedside table, walking around the side of your bed to stare at your slightly ajar balcony door.

Your heart drops in your chest, but before you can say anything, a hand holding a rag clamps around your mouth. Soap was right outside your door. If you could just— Your scream is muffled as you try to fight off the intruder, swinging your knife back and hitting flesh, trying to stomp on their foot, kick them, anything. The intruder lets out a strangled cry from your stab, pulling your head back farther. You know you’ve made contact when you feel blood trickle down your hand. Serves them right for trying to kidnap you. The intruder wraps their arm around your torso, yanking you back as they shove the rag over your nose, forcing you to inhale the fumes.

Your movements become more sloppy as the fumes enter your nostrils, your eyes fluttering as you fight with everything in you to stay awake. Your knife clatters on the ground as you become limp.

“That’s it, go to sleep,” a man’s voice whispers in your ear, sending a cold chill throughout your body. And with that, you succumb to unconsciousness.

. . .

You wake up in a cold, damp cell. You go to rub your eyes, but are stopped by the clanking of metal chains. You look down, and your hands are bound together by heavy, metal manacles.

“What the—” you say, pulling at the restraints multiple times to no avail, the iron bolted into the wall to prevent you from running. “No, no, no no no—” you cry out, flailing as you try to free yourself from the cuffs. Your heart is racing in your chest, how could this happen? The overwhelming urge to cry washes over you, but you bite your lip to stop yourself.

Your body shivers at the low temperature of the cell, the stone keeping the cold air stale in your cell. You’re still in what you wore to bed which was…not much. You push yourself to standing, walking up to the bars of the cell, trying your best to peek out into the hallway.

The hallway is dimly lit, revealing the cold, unforgiving walls of what appears to be an underground dungeon of some sort. The air is cool, and the distant sound of footsteps echoes through the corridors. Panic tightens its grip on you as you assess your surroundings.

“Hey! Is anyone there?” you shout, your voice bouncing off the stone walls. There's no response, just the eerie silence of the place. You take a deep breath, fighting against the rising sense of despair.

As you peer down the hallway, you catch a glimpse of movement. Footsteps approach, and your heart races anew. A figure emerges from the shadows, wearing a uniform that tells you all you need to know. It’s a uniform from the Southern Kingdom. You back away from the bars, pressing your back up against the wall behind you.

“Your majesty,” the figure says, their voice devoid of any emotion. “You won’t be leaving anytime soon.”

Your mind races with questions, but the figure remains stoic, indifferent to you cowering in the corner. The reality of your situation sets in, and a mix of fear and frustration swirls within you.

“Who are you? Why am I here?” you demand, desperation lacing your words.

The person ignores your questions, producing a set of keys to unlock the cell door. The heavy door creaks open, revealing a corridor lined with more cells. The person steps inside the cell, much to your dismay. Your breathing picks up as he steps towards you, afraid of retaliation. Instead, he makes his way towards the wall where your manacles are attached. With a key, he releases the chain from the wall and takes it in his grip. Shortening the length of the chain, he yanks on it, causing you to stumble forward.

“Walk,” he commands, basically dragging you behind him out of your cell. You contemplate pulling against him, but not before you spot the sword on his hip. Without further thought, you lunge forward, pushing the man to the ground in front of you as you reach for his sword with your bound hands.

The man grunts as he hits the cold, stone floor. Seizing the opportunity, you manage to grab the hilt of his sword with your restrained hands, the metal feeling cold against your skin. Adrenaline surges through you as you pull the sword free from its scabbard.

Without a moment’s hesitation, you point the weapon at the man. “Who are you? Why am I here?” you demand again, your voice trembling with fear and anger.

The man on the floor looks up at you, a hint of surprise crossing his face. Despite the advantage of the sword in your hands, he doesn’t seem intimidated in the slightest. The nonchalant look on his face makes you even angrier, and you don’t hesitate pressing the tip of the sword against his shoulder. “You won’t find answers by waving that around,” he states calmly.

Before you can react, the man kicks you out from under your feet, causing you to drop the sword as your hands instinctively go to catch yourself – that is, catch yourself the best cuffed hands can.

You hit the ground hard, the impact jarring through your body. Groaning, you roll onto your side, the cold stones digging into your skin, surely leaving a bruise where you fell. The man swiftly rises to his feet, his expression unchanged.

“Come along, now,” he says as he yanks the chains, completely unbothered.

You struggle to your feet, the manacles limiting your movements. Glaring at the man, you reluctantly follow as he leads you through the labyrinthine corridors of the underground dungeon. The man, seemingly unfazed, leads you through the dark, winding corridors of the underground dungeon. The chill in the air makes you shiver, both from the cold and the anxiety that tightens your chest.

As you walk, you try to gather your thoughts. How did you end up in the hands of the Southern Kingdom? How did the man breach the castle walls and enter your bedroom? How long have you been gone? Where are you? Where is Simon? Johnny? The questions swirl in your mind, but the stoic silence of your captor offers no answers.

The dimly lit passageways seem endless, twisting and turning without rhyme or reason. Eventually, you arrive at a heavy, iron door guarded by two Southern Kingdom soldiers. They exchange a nod with your captor, who proceeds to unlock the door. It creaks open, revealing a dimly lit room.

The room is adorned with flickering torches, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. A wooden table sits in the center, surrounded by a few mismatched chairs. You notice there’s a guard standing watch in the corner of the room, and two other people sitting in chairs, most likely waiting for your arrival. The air is thick with tension as you’re pushed into one of the chairs.

“Watch it,” you growl, slightly folding into yourself in the chair.

The figure steps back, motioning to the other two people in the room. One of them is wearing a mask that conceals their features, leaving only their cold, calculating eyes visible. You try to read any emotion in their eyes, but they remain expressionless.

“Who are you, and why am I here?” you demand for the third time, your voice wavering between defiance and desperation. You look between the three people, anger bubbling up within you.

The man who brought you here remains silent for a moment, studying you with an unsettling intensity. Finally, he speaks, his words measured and devoid of any warmth. “You wouldn’t have gone with us willingly, so I am sorry you have to be here this way.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

The figure’s eyes narrow at your display of defiance. “Your insolence won't change your circumstances.”

You move to stand up from the chair, but you’re pushed back down by the guard lingering in the room. “We’d appreciate it if you didn’t resist.”

You stare at him, the glare still plainly visible on your face. He seems satisfied enough with your cooperation.

“Now, you’re here because your kingdom has assets and resources we need. Your husband, the great King Ghost, won’t give up easily, but we have leverage now, don’t we?”

You should’ve known.

A chill runs down your spine. You clench your fists, frustration and fear fueling your determination.

“Tell me what you want,” you demand, your voice firm despite the tension in the room.

The figure leans forward, resting their hands on the table, their face just inches from yours. “Your cooperation, your majesty. Tell us what you know, and we won’t hurt you.”

Your blood runs cold at that. Hurt you? Now that caught your attention.

You raise an eyebrow. “So, what? You plan to use me as a bargaining chip to force Ghost’s hand?”

“Yes. You’re one of his only weaknesses,” says the man who hasn’t spoken until now. “Ever since you sent your reinforcements, our army has been experiencing some… setbacks. We were going to come to this as a last resort, but the time came to use you in our strategy.”

He’s rolling up his sleeves with care, pulling some intimidating tools out of the drawer of the table.

He notices you eyeing the tools warily. “Oh, don’t worry. We won’t be using these unless you really won’t listen.”

“And, just a brief mention before we start the questioning, you should really do more thorough background checks on your staff. You were given over to us by one of your own. Within the palace, might I add.”

With a swift motion, the man wearing the mask pulls it off their head, revealing a face you didn’t expect. It's someone you recognize, someone from your own court—an advisor you thought was loyal, someone who had been with you especially over the past few weeks.

“Edmund?” you gasp, disbelief and betrayal coloring your voice. “How could you?”

Edmund avoids your gaze, his eyes fixed on the table. “It was never personal, your majesty. The Southern Kingdom made an offer, and I couldn’t refuse.”

You seethe with anger, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you. “Greater good? Kidnapping me in the middle of the night? Betraying me? What greater good could possibly justify this?”

He shrugs. “Money.”

With that, Edmund slinks out of the room.

The word echoes through the room, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. Money. The one thing that could corrupt even the seemingly loyal. Edmund’s betrayal stings deeper than any blade, and you struggle to comprehend how someone you trusted could sell you out.

“Cooperate, and you won’t have to endure unnecessary pain,” one of the men states coldly, motioning to the tools.

Your eyes narrow at the proposition. “And if I refuse?”

A hand slaps your cheek, the sharp sound echoing through the room. “Refusing won't make this any easier for you.”

Your cheek throbs from the slap, but you meet his gaze defiantly. You won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you break. You can’t.

The man with the tools takes a step forward, his gaze fixed on you like a predator closing in on its prey. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. The choice is yours.”

You glance at the guard, a mixture of anger and disappointment in your eyes.

“Now, let’s start with something simple. Kastron’s silver supply. Where is it located?” he demands, his patience wearing thin. “Start talking, little princess.”

. . .

You’re not sure how long it’s been since you were dragged into this interrogation room, but all you know is that your body positively aches. You were treated relentlessly, punched to your gut and slapped at the expense of one of your captor’s short tempers. Thankfully they haven’t used the tools on you, but you can’t help but be weary of them. Your body slumps in the chair, pain radiating from your abdomen. The cold, harsh reality of your situation weighs heavily on your shoulders. Sweat beads on your forehead, a mixture of fear and physical exertion.

The interrogators stand around you, unsatisfied with the information you've provided so far. The room feels suffocating, the air thick with tension and the acrid scent of burning torches.

“Last chance,” he sneers, the coldness in his eyes sending shivers down your spine.

You grit your teeth, your jaw aching from the force of their blows. The loyalty to your kingdom surges within you. You won't betray your people, no matter the cost.

“I won’t... betray... Kastron,” you manage to spit out, defiance in your eyes.

The interrogator scowls, and without warning, delivers another brutal blow to your stomach. The pain is unbearable, and you gasp for breath.

“Stubborn little thing, aren’t you?” the man with the tools taunts, a sadistic grin on his face.

As the interrogators prepare for another round of questioning, the heavy door to the room swings open. A new figure enters, their silhouette backlit by the torchlight. The men exchange glances, a hint of surprise in their eyes.

“Alright, that is enough for today,” a commanding voice echoes through the room.

The figure steps forward, revealing a man, dressed in military attire. His eyes are stern and hold no compassion.

“Release her,” he orders, her voice brooking no argument.

The interrogators, albeit reluctantly, step back. The guard unlocks your restraints, and you slump forward, breathing heavily.

The man turns to the interrogators, his expression stern. “That’s enough, you may go.”

The two men scowl but don’t argue. They exit the room, leaving you alone with the mysterious man.

He turns to you, his gaze assessing. “You’ve endured more than necessary. My apologies.”

“You’re not sorry. Go straight to hell,” you spit.

The man’s stern expression falters for a moment, but he quickly regains his composure. “I understand your anger, but I’m here to explain to you what’s going on. I’m General Shepherd. I lead the Southern Kingdom’s military.”

You’re silent. You recognize the name from a few brief mentions around the castle whilst receiving intel about the war, but you’ve never seen him before.

“We’re not here to hurt you—”

You glare at him, still seething with anger and distrust. “Do you hear yourself? What the fuck are you talking about, when I’ve been kidnapped and tortured? Why should I hear anything you have to say?”

Shepherd grabs your jaw harshly, fingers squeezing your cheeks. You claw at his wrist gripping your face, but he doesn’t let go.

“If you would listen to what I’m telling you, then you wouldn’t be sitting in this room. Don’t wear my patience thin, your majesty.”

His words are sharp, and you can feel the intensity in his grip on your jaw. Shepherd releases you, allowing you to lean back into the chair. You shoot him a venomous look, but he seems unfazed.

“Your husband, King Ghost, has been a thorn in our side for far too long. Quite the nuisance. The war between our kingdoms has dragged on, costing our side quite a lot. We need a resolution, and we need it soon,” Shepherd explains, his gaze locking onto yours.

“So, what? You think kidnapping me and torturing me is going to make Ghost surrender?” you scoff, annoyance evident in your voice. “He won’t surrender, if that’s what you want. He’s going to fight back harder, and you’re going to wish you never had me here.”

“Still, it’s a means to an end. A desperate attempt to force his hand,” Shepherd replies, frustration in his voice. “We have leverage now, and we plan to use it to bring about a swift end to Kastron’s military. We’re not heartless, your majesty. We aim to minimize bloodshed.”

You can’t help but laugh bitterly. “Minimize bloodshed? By kidnapping me and using me as a bargaining tool? Very noble and humanitarian of you.”

Shepherd narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t respond to your sarcasm. “Your husband won’t let harm come to you. He'll do whatever it takes to secure your safety.”

“He’s not going to surrender,” you mutter under your breath. He’s going to do much, much worse than anyone could ever imagine.

“He will. This war has dragged on for too long. We need a resolution, and we need it now,” Shepherd emphasizes, his tone stern.

Your mind races, considering the weight of the situation. You hate Shepherd for this, subjecting you to a cruel game that you never wanted to be part of in the first place. It wasn’t even Kastron that started this war, it was the Southern Kingdom. The hypocrisy of the Southern Kingdom and unjust treatment of your own kingdom has driven you up the wall. You think about your people, your kingdom, and the lives at stake.

Your gaze pierces through Shepherd’s cold exterior.

Shepherd sighs, as if he anticipated your skepticism. “You don’t have to trust me. But you should consider the bigger picture. Your cooperation can save lives, including your own.”

A conflicted expression crosses your face. The idea of cooperating with your captors goes against every instinct, but the desire for an end to the war lingers in the back of your mind. You weigh your options, knowing that every decision carries significant consequences.

“What do you expect from me?” you ask, your voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Shepherd studies you for a moment before responding, “Information. Insight into Kastron's military strategies, resources, weaknesses. Anything that can expedite the end of the war and give Kastron over to us.”

You laugh humorlessly. “See, that’s exactly what I don’t want.”

Shepherd’s gaze remains unwavering. “Your wants are not the priority here. The fate of your kingdom is on your shoulders. If you truly care about your people and your husband, you’ll consider the bigger picture.”

Your jaw clenches, frustration boiling within you. You know Shepherd is partially right, but the resentment toward the Southern Kingdom clouds your judgment. You take a deep breath, attempting to push aside your anger.

“What guarantee do I have that you won’t just use me and murder me when it’s convenient?” you challenge, searching for any sign of honesty in Shepherd’s eyes.

He leans in, his expression serious. “My word. Betraying the terms of our agreement would not serve the interests of either of our kingdoms.”

Agreement, you scoff inside your head. As if I had any choice in the first place.

You find his words hard to believe. The events leading up to this point have shattered your trust in anyone associated with the Southern Kingdom. However, you can’t deny the urgency of the situation.

You decide to not say anything. Shepherd nods, seemingly satisfied with your response. “All we ask is that you provide us with information. I’ll give you time to think this over.”

Shepherd motions for you to stand, and you do so with a glare. Your body protests, every movement sending pain coursing through you. He leads you out of the room, the guards following closely behind. The dimly lit corridors of the underground dungeon stretch ahead, and you realize that you’re not being taken to the same cell you were initially in.

Eventually, you arrive at a somewhat more comfortable room. It's still a cell, cold iron bars keeping you prisoner, but there's a cot and a small table.

Shepherd removes the manacles from your wrists, allowing you to rub your raw skin.

“I’m going to leave these off. Don’t get smart.”

The heavy door clanks shut behind you, finally leaving you alone with your thoughts. A guard stands watch outside your cell, giving you no privacy.

The reality of your situation settles in, and you can't help but feel powerlessness. The fate of Kastron rests, in part, on your shoulders. You sit on the cot, your mind racing with questions and uncertainties.

As you ponder the road ahead of you, a small opening in the door slides open, and a guard hands you a meager meal. The gesture is cold, impersonal, but you accept it nonetheless. The guard retreats, leaving you alone again.

The hours pass slowly in the dimly lit cell. You wrestle with conflicting emotions—anger, fear, determination. The echoes of Shepherd’s words linger in your mind, and you can’t help but have doubts in your mind. Would Simon come rescue you? Or would you have to escape on your own? You don’t even know where you are being kept. Your thoughts flicker to Kastron, what Johnny must be doing right now. Surely they’re looking for you.

As the torches flicker and the dungeon remains shrouded in darkness, you brace yourself for the challenges that will come with tomorrow. Shepherd needs your cooperation, and you’re not going to give it to him, no matter the cost. The journey ahead is uncertain, but one thing is clear—you will not surrender easily, and the fight for Kastron is far from over.

. . .

The next two days, you’re dragged back to the same room for interrogation. Again, you refuse to speak, each blow raining down harder on you. Your nose was bloodied, face battered and red, and ribs surely bruised from the blows. You’ve been in a perpetual state of fight or flight, adrenaline and pain racking your body in devastating amounts. You were plain exhausted, body reaching its limit.

But you didn’t really care. You wanted to keep Kastron and Simon safe, so you stayed silent. Save for your screams of pain.

On the third night, you found yourself alone in the dungeons. It was unusual, as there was usually a guard in place to make sure you didn’t do anything out of line.

You move to the iron bars, trying your best to peek both ways before pulling out a stolen fork from one of your meals. The metal of the fork feels strangely empowering in your hands as you work on the lock. The dim light in the dungeon barely illuminates your surroundings, but you're determined to seize any opportunity for escape. The occasional distant sound of footsteps echoes through the corridor, reminding you of the ever-present threat of getting caught.

As you manipulate the lock with the makeshift tool, you can’t shake off the nagging feeling that this might be a setup. Perhaps Shepherd or someone else in the Southern Kingdom’s monarchy is testing your resolve, observing whether you’d take advantage of a momentary lapse in surveillance. You can’t bring yourself to care that much.

The lock finally clicks, and the cell door creaks open. You hesitate for a moment, listening intently for any signs of approaching footsteps. The dungeon remains eerily quiet. Slipping the fork into your clothing, you step out cautiously, avoiding the patches of cold, damp floor. Your battered body protests with every movement, but the urgency of your situation fuels your determination.

You move silently, keenly aware that any noise could betray your escape. The cool air sends shivers down your spine as you head towards the direction you’re taken in for interrogation. It’s a risky venture, and most likely a stupid venture, but you don’t want to be holed up in this godforsaken hell hole for much longer.

After what feels like an eternity, you reach a heavy, iron door. It's slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of dim light from the other side. Your heart pounds in your chest as you inch it open, revealing a narrow staircase leading upward. The ascent is slow and agonizing, each step a reminder of the physical toll the past days of torture have taken on your body. You wince with each step, taking deep, steadying breaths. As you approach the top, you hear hushed voices and the occasional clank of armor.

Peeking through the crack in the door, you spot a guard stationed at the top of the stairs, seemingly engrossed in conversation with another. Their attention is diverted, providing you with a small window of opportunity.

Summoning the last reserves of your strength, you push the door open just enough to slip through without making a sound. The corridor beyond is dimly lit, and you stick to the shadows, hugging the cold stone wall. Pressing yourself against the wall, you listen carefully to the conversations around you, trying to piece together an escape route. Your gaze falls upon an entryway that has the last hints of the sunset pouring through the crevices.

You reach the entryway, and a sense of trepidation washes over you. Before you could push open the door and make a run for it, a hand grabs your upper arm. Without hesitation, you clench your fork in your hand and stab the perpetrator with the prongs.

The guard lets out a pained scream as your makeshift weapon finds its mark. They release their grip on your arm, stumbling back in pain.

“You bitch!” They cry, and a few more guards appear on the scene after hearing their scream.

Adrenaline courses through your veins as you realize that your window of escape is rapidly closing. Without waiting any further, you burst through the entryway, darting into the fading light of the setting sun.

You bolt as fast as you can across the cobblestones, the sounds of yelling guards and footsteps hot on your tail. Every step makes it feel as though fire is shooting up your body, but you push through. Just as you think you’re about to make a clean getaway into the forest outside the bunker, you’re side tackled to the ground.

The impact is brutal, and pain shoots through your battered body as you collide with the hard ground. The guards quickly swarm around you, their faces contorted with anger. One of them wrestles the stolen fork from your hand, while the others pin you down, restraining your limbs.

“Bloody rebel,” one of the guards snarls, spittle flying as they speak.

“Get the fuck– off of me!” you scream, trying to swipe and hit at anyone in your reach.

Your attempt at escape only intensifies their aggression. The guard you wounded with the fork clutches their side, a seething expression of pain etched across their face.

The leader of the guards, a stern-faced man with a scar running across his cheek, steps forward. “Thought you could just waltz out of here, did ya?”

He delivers a swift kick to your ribs, making you howl in pain. The guards show no mercy as they haul you to your feet. You go deadweight in their grasp, making it harder for them to drag you back to your cell. When they manage to pull you halfway back to your cell, you start kicking and screaming again, not wanting to make this easy for them.

“Fuck all of you, let go of me!” you scream, trying to yank your wrists from their grasp.

“Shut the fuck up,” a guard yells at you, digging their fingernails into your wrist.

As you're thrown back into your dark, dank cell, the manacles are back on, alongside chains on each ankle. The heavy door clangs shut behind you, and the bitter taste of defeat settles in your mouth. Two guards now stand outside your cell, watching you intently.

A few minutes go by, and General Shepherd strides into the hallway. His eyes, devoid of warmth, fixate on your battered form.

“Leave us,” his voice commands, and the guards retreat from the dungeon.

He stands just outside the iron bars, his gaze cold and calculating.

“You’re a persistent one,” he remarks, his tone devoid of empathy.

Despite your battered state, you summon what strength remains within you and glare defiantly at Shepherd.

You glare at him, defiance burning despite the exhaustion. “Fuck off.”

He doesn’t say anything, which enrages you.

“I said, fuck. Off. Leave me alone!” you yell. Shepherd's stoic expression doesn’t waver. Instead, he observes you with an unsettling calmness that sends shivers down your spine. The silence stretches, and you can feel the weight of his gaze.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low and measured. “You have spirit, I'll give you that. But it's time to realize the futility of your resistance. It’s been nearly four days. More than half a week. I don’t have the time or patience to keep you around.”

“I’ll never bow to the likes of you,” you retort.

Shepherd sighs, almost as if he’s disappointed. “You’re not seeing the bigger picture here. Your defiance only prolongs the suffering. Kastron can have peace, Ghost won’t have to face such difficult decisions. All we need is your cooperation.”

“I’d rather die,” you spit out, every word laced with venom. “And I don’t think Ghost would appreciate it if I turned up dead. You think he’ll surrender just because you beat me to a pulp? Think again. He’s coming to get me any day now, but that doesn’t mean he’ll show you mercy or pull back the troops. You’ll see. And you’ll be sorry you even looked at Kastron’s borders.”

His gaze doesn’t falter. “Perhaps. But, death is a choice, too. And it’s not just your life at stake, is it? There’s a kingdom relying on your decisions.”

You clench your fists, the chains rattling with your restrained anger. “I won't betray my people for your false promises.”

Shepherd leans against the cold stone wall, crossing his arms. “Think about it. Reflect on where you are right now. I’ll be back tomorrow, bright and early. I hope you’ll have come to your senses by then.”

Without waiting for your response, he turns and leaves the dungeon, the heavy door slamming shut behind him. Alone in the cold darkness, you curl up on the cot as best you can given the heavy chains.

. . .

Shepherd keeps his promise, returning in the morning.

“Well?” he prompts, a hint of impatience in his tone.

You meet his gaze with defiance. “Go. To. Hell.”

His expression remains unreadable. “Very well. You’ve made your choice.”

You’re dragged back to the interrogation room, only this time you’re silent.

You’re met with the tools set right in front of your chair, and a scary looking person you’ve never seen before.

As you’re restrained to a chair, your eyes glaze over.

For once in your life, you’re quiet. No snarky comments, no sharp words. You’re silent.

Because you’re truly afraid.

. . .

The metallic scent of blood fills the air. You don’t think you’ve ever lost as much blood in your life.

The room is spinning, and your body feels detached from your consciousness. The pain, once sharp and immediate, has dulled into a throbbing ache that permeates every fiber of your being. The interrogator’s methods have taken a drastic toll, and you’re teetering on the edge of consciousness.

You think your wrist is sprained, if not broken. You glance down at it, the swollen and bruised flesh causing your stomach to churn. You definitely look worse for wear right now.

Eventually, they tire of their methods, leaving you slumped in the chair, bloodied and broken. The tools they used on you lie abandoned on a nearby table. Every movement, no matter how slight, sends waves of pain through your form.

As the interrogator steps away, their job seemingly done, a faint groan pushes past your split upper lip. The throbbing in your head matches the rhythm of your heartbeat, each pulse amplifying the pain. Your vision swims, and you struggle to keep your eyes open.

Shepherd approaches, crouching to meet your gaze.

“I had hoped you would see reason," he says, almost conversationally. “The pain will continue until you cooperate.”

You manage a hoarse chuckle, the sound more bitter than amused. “Sorry I can’t be of use to you.”

He straightens, his gaze unwavering. “I have all the time in the world. You however… I’m not so sure. I suggest you reconsider. Your defiance harms not only you but those you claim to protect.”

With that, Shepherd turns and exits the room, motioning the guards to take you back to your cell.

The guards, their expressions cold and indifferent, unshackle you from the blood-stained chair. Your body protests as you’re hoisted up, pain shooting through every limb. They guide you out of the interrogation room, each step a painful shuffle. Your vision is blurring, and you lose your footing a few times. As they lead you back to your cell, you catch glimpses of other new prisoners, faces worn and defeated. The stench of dampness and decay fills your nostrils, and you throw up on the floor in front of you. You think some of it has traces of blood.

The guards show no reaction to your vomit, their faces remaining stoic and indifferent. You stumble forward, the world spinning around you, and your steps become increasingly unsteady.

The door to your cell creaks open, and you’re unceremoniously thrown inside. The manacles and chains are back on, securing you in the darkness. The guards, their duty done, exit without a word, leaving you alone with your pain.

You lie on the floor for who knows how long, focusing on your breathing and attempting to not fall asleep in the fear that you won’t wake up for a long time due to the severity of your injuries.

In, and out.

A few hours pass, and you manage to calm your swirling vision and headache. With a grunt, you pull yourself up to your cot with your good hand, dropping onto the solid mattress with a grunt.

You’re not sure how much longer you could go on like this. It was all too much.

As you lay there in the dimness of your cell, a distant noise catches your attention. Footsteps, echoing through the dungeon. At first, you dismiss it as another patrol, but the rhythm and urgency in the steps hinted at something different. A figure emerges in front of your bars, and you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the return of the guards or another round of interrogation.

To your surprise, a familiar voice cut through the silence.

“Dove?”

- - - - -

(masterlist)

#simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon “ghost” riley x reader #simon “ghost” riley x you #hyperactivelyme

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xiaoalexy · 1 year

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the bar is so low it's underground but considering that solomon lives with us im not surprised

#xa #nightbringer #obey me nightbringer #obey me #obey me!#om #obey me solomon #obey me barbatos #you just know Solomon's blown up the building several times already

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mizusnose · 3 months

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Heaven is not fit to house a love like you and I

Summary: your lifelong crush on your best friend Akemi’s best friend turned girlfriend is something you’ve learned to deal with.

heavy on the angst, yearning, and sadness/anger that comes with a love unrequited…

Akemi is beautiful. She’s pale and her lips are naturally pink, no need for any tinted lip palm, her eyelids naturally double lidded—you admire her openly. It’s the same way you regard your jealousy whenever Mizu is around too.

It’s been a lifelong thing: this love you hold. Insistent like a stream in the summer, constant like rivers unnamed underground. A yearning you’ve come to deal with.

The thing is this: Mizu is beautiful. Not the kind of beautiful that Akemi is, with her pink skirts and dainty wrists and pink lips. Mizu is large palms, tall with broad shoulders, a shaved undercut that fails to hide the freckle on her nape. The bones of her chest that flutter whenever Akemi kisses her.

You turn away, tucked away in the corner of the bar. You’re single—always have been. It should be easy, and yet the warmth of the wine on your tongue sits heavy, strong and pungent.

They make a good match, you remember telling your friends, They’re meant for one another.

And you’d laugh, and you’d sit there and watch them whisper to one another, Mizu’s hands on Akemi’s tiny waist, her ribs, her shoulders.

The first time you’d wrote about it, the thudding of your heart, the heat of your face, Mizu’s face in your mind as you touched yourself, you realized: you were in love. The letter didn’t see daylight for years. Felt like a part of yourself from a past life, one now fallen away from and so distant.

You remember it now. As Mizu pecks Akemi’s jaw, her chin, the underside of her ear. How she walks away to get more drinks and Akemi sidles up to you, a flush on her face, the skin of her neck.

“You look angry.”

“Ah, just work stuff..you know..”

Akemi nods, sipping the melted ice of her drink. Her chest isn’t covered. It reflects the dim lights. You look away.

Mizu returns and sets wine glasses down. You meet her eyes, the blue of it an electric thing in your gut. She grins as a hello, and you nod back, tipsy and unbalanced.

Your letter would likely never see the light of day. Instead, it would sit where you’d left it, the half-life of truth on paper an eternity—double that. You remind yourself to burn it when you return home. Maybe get drunk while you do it, really make it dramatic as possible.

Yet, as the night stumbles away from everyone, Akemi leaves early for her early work call tomorrow morning. A slurred I hate it, I hate it, god I wish I could quit urghhh as Taigen took her home.

And then Mizu was there, against the wood of the bartop. Her glistening golden chains reflecting in the low light. She rarely ever wore anything too revealing: liked turtlenecks more than anyone you’d ever known. But her puffer jacket had been long set aside, now just an indigo outline of her. A person against the backdrop of the bar, a watercolor in the night. A thing of desire in your mind, your heart.

You’d talked, somehow managed not to make a fool of yourself. Maybe have given away you’d drank too much, so now she was directing you into a cab: her hands steady and distant from your waist, your hips.

She helped you back into your apartment, stopped to drink some water, give you some as well, and now here you both were: in the darkness of your room, a mess of yourself thudding against your entire body.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Mizu doesn’t respond. She lays you down and walks around your room. steps over the mess of your floor and the disheveled state of your desk, your drawers, your walls pinned in posters of bands and music and prints.

Her hands would stop, start again at different points of the room and mouth the words of the poster or the messily scrawled note you’d written weeks ago. You’d watch her, unfocused and smeared in anticipation—of what, you couldn’t tell.

And then—

“A letter.” Her voice broke the silence. The hum of your fridge started up again, and you went still. Felt the blood in your body rush, felt it in your face, could hear it in your ears, “For me?”

———

ok this is too long snd idek if i’ll continue this but lmk what you think. i watched little women and needed some angsty yearning so here we are! maybe a part 2??

#blue eye samurai #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu x fem!reader #mizu x reader #akemi blue eye samurai #mizu x akemi #angst #wlw yearning

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spiralsdrop · 1 month

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This is a hypnosis story I've always loved:

“My friends and I were at a bar across town. It was dark, a little loud, underground, with dim red lights and drinks that cost too much. But there were lots of plush little booths and we managed to snag ourselves a corner, so we sat and got deep into drinking and chatting.

After an hour or so, there was a big commotion going on in one corner with people falling around laughing. Before we saw what was going on, everyone involved had stumbled away hooting and giggling. But my friend Rachel leads me over and there’s this young guy kind of holding court.

“What’s going on?” Rachel asks, over the music.

“Oh, I’m hypnotising people,” he says, casually, like people do that all the time.

“For real? You’re a hypnotist?”

“Yes I am,” he says.

Rachel thinks this is hysterical. I think it sounds ridiculous.

“We should dooooooo this!” she says, waving over the two other friends we’re out with.

“Should we?”

“We should! YOU should.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, but she’s already tugging on this guy’s arm… and pushing me towards him.

“Hypnotise Emma!”

“Yeah?”

“She REALLY wants to!”

He looks at me.

“Do you want to?”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure I’m un-hypnotisable.”

“Well,” he says. “Wanna find out?”

“You can try,” I say. I’m smirking a little bit. Silly me.

“Well, OK then. Here, take a seat.”

Like I said, I thought it was ridiculous.

There are two small wooden chairs facing each other and I sit in one. I smooth down the short, tight little dress I’m wearing. He – neat grey t-shirt, jeans, a tattoo of swirling black lines, like a soundwave, on one arm, a mischievous sparkle in his deep brown eyes, like someone who’s just had a sinfully good idea – sits on the other one, pulls it closer so our knees are almost touching. I’m a little nervous… but determined not to let it show.

“OK,” he says. He takes my arms and places them on the arm of my chair, palms up. He holds my hands with his and gives them a reassuring squeeze.

“You OK?”

“I’m fine.”

“This is going to be fun, OK?”

“Well, if you say so.”

Three of my friends are now gathered watching us. I hear Rachel say “I bet she thinks she’s a chicken five minutes from now.”

He lets go of my hands and wraps his gently around my wrists, his thumb on each, like he’s taking my pulse. He starts talking to me low and urgently, looking into my eyes warmly.

“So what’s your name?”

“Emma.”

“Where are we?”

“A bar.”

“What colour are the lights here?”

“Red.”

“Only red?”

“Some white.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Emma.”

”OK, Emma. We’re good.”

His thumbs are tracing circles on my skin.

His questions became… rhetorical. Think of my feet on the floor. Were they heavy? Did it feel good to just rest them there? Doesn’t it feel warm? Isn’t the chair comfortable?

It did feel comfortable. It felt like the second when an elevator stops descending and you’re that little bit heavier. I felt warm like sinking into a fresh bath. He put his hand on my bare shoulder. It felt solid and good.

Didn’t I feel calm? Isn’t it nice? Try closing my eyes. Keep listening to his voice. Even raised over the music is voice, is like a heavy blanket on a lazy Sunday. His hand slides to rest under my hair, on the back of my neck. Weren’t my wrists relaxed? Like they could rest on the arms of the chair forever. His other hand taps out a rhythm on my knee. Calm like warm sunshine on my skin. The sounds around me drift off into a dull hubbub. This was more relaxing than I th…

…I open my eyes and time has jumped just a little. Maybe it’s a few seconds later – or a few minutes? Which was weird. But it can’t have been long. My friends were all still there. And I still felt good. Calm. Nice. The rest of the world feels a little muffled, like the air is thicker.

“All awake, Emma?”

I nod.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel… fine.”

“That’s good.”

He rested his fingertips on my wrists and… oh.

“How does that feel?”

For some reason, it felt SO good. It was like one of those feelings that ran all through your body, like the feeling I get when my neck is being kissed, or my nipples are teased, or having ‘good girl’ growled quietly in my ear.

“It feels good,” I murmured. I was still sort of sleepy.

His fingertips started running slowly up and down my wrists, from my up-turned palms to the crook of my elbow. It was like the sexiest teasing I’d ever felt. Tingles rushed up to my shoulders and through my chest. I could feel my nipples getting hard under my dress.

“Do you like the way it feels?”

I nodded. The tingling was spreading through my tummy and between my legs. I was calm and floaty and burningly turned on all at once. He pulled his hands away. I bit my lip in frustration.

“More?”

“Yeah.”

He picked up his chair and moved it. I felt him sit down behind me. He leaned in close and whispered “Close your eyes…” into my ear. I did what I was told.

The moment his hands touched my back I gasped like lightning ran down my spine to my crotch. Every tiny hair on my neck stood up in reaction to his touch.

“Fuck.”

Each stroke of my shoulder blades felt like being stroked… everywhere, all at once. My clit was getting harder and more sensitive with each rub. My underwear felt hot and wet. I could barely control my breathing.

His hands slid over my shoulders and teasingly over my upper arms. It was like ecstasy. Just the fabric of my underwear against my clit was delicious. I slid my ass against the wooden chair instinctively trying to find some friction or relief. As he blew gently on the back of my neck I leaned back and spread my legs in the confused hope of being touched. I fucking ached with pleasure.

“It’s such a strong feeling,” he murmured in my ear, “when you think about it.”

He pulled his hands away once again. My heart was thudding in my chest, my nipples were hard through the fabric of my dress which had ridden up from my accidental grinding against the seat. Even with my eyes closed, I looked like a hot mess but I was so turned on I was beyond caring. I was just glad the club was so dark.

He puts brought his chair around to my side and just in front, so it was perpendicular to me. He sits in, close.

“How are you feeling?”

I open my eyes. I’m dimly aware of the giggling of my friends, and the gaze of some other onlookers over me. I feel a wave of heat as my face reddens.

“Don’t worry about them,” he says. “Look at me.”

“This is crazy,” I mouthed.

”I told you it would be fun.”

I’m speechless.

“Keep going?”

I was nodding before I even thought about it.

He scoots in front of me a little more. “Put your leg on my lap, Emma.” I lift my bare leg and place it tentatively across his knees.

His hand rests on my knee and a jolt of pleasure hit me. It snakes up my thigh to my wet cunt and fizzles deep me, my hips twitching. To my embarrassment I let out a moan of pure pleasure.

His fingertips are stroking my skin in soft, little circles. My thighs are starting to shake. Laughter among the crowd sends me blushing. He shakes his head in their direction and then looks at me.

“Emma, look at me.”

His twinkling eyes lock mine.

“You’ve been doing really well. Don’t worry about them. Listen to my voice.”

I nod in breathless agreement. His fingertips start drumming slowly on top of my thigh, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two three..

It feels like a fluttering feeling inside me and I scrunch my eyes closed in delight. I squirm in my seat, squeezing my thighs together tightly just for a hint of pressure on my clit.

“Emma, look at me.”

“You’ve been doing really well. I know it feels intense. It feels so strong…”

I’m trembling with each quickening tap. One-two-three-one-two-three-one-two-three-one-two-three…

“It’s getting stronger and stronger, Emma. Like you can’t hold back.”

The drumming moves imperceptibly up my thigh, to the edge of my dress and it feels 100 times stronger. I’m arching my back. My hands grip the arm of the chair like they’re my bedsheets when I’m touching myself. I’m so close…

“Emma, listen to me.”

“Oh my god.”

“Emma, listen.”

“I’m… please… I…”

“Let go.”

With those two words the orgasm hits me like an explosion, my thighs clamping together, the contractions in my cunt are so strong I bend double in my chair.

“Let go.”

It feels like I’m being fucked hard and deep while I cum, my g-spot is spasming with pleasure. I cry out helplessly.

“Let go.”

His hand gripping my thigh sends another orgasm shivering through my clit and then bursting inside of me. I feel a hot flood of wetness soak through my panties as I involuntarily squirt a little.

“Let go.”

I slump back in the chair as my hips jolt into the air. I can hear my friends shrieking with laughter as they watch me orgasm uncontrollably. I try to hold back but I can’t stop cumming. Each squeeze of my thigh sends another wave of powerful juddering contractions through my pussy, makes me moan, twitch, gush, gasp, grind, shake, cum.

I’ve never cum for so long.

“OK, you. Come here.”

He takes my leg off his lap and comes in close to me. He wraps his hand on my neck and pulls me toward him, my forehead resting on my shoulder, exhausted and trembling. “Just relax,” he murmurs. “Listen to my voice…”

I sink back into a calm darkness.

A few moments later I wake up, sheepish and embarrassed… but even so, I can’t stop grinning. He strokes my wrist one last time – no unbearable pleasure, this time – and smiles. I tentatively stand up, and my legs are like jelly. Rebecca grabs me incredulously and says “OH. MY. GOD.”

“I. KNOW.”

I tell her I have to excuse myself to use the bathroom and shakily stumble in that direction. It’s busy with girls streaming in and out, but in the mirror, I see my face and chest are flushed pink. And my hair’s a mess.

I shut myself in the cool dark cubicle and slide off my panties, down my ankles and over my shoes and step out of them. They’re so drenched from my cum I throw them in the trash can. I instinctively reach between my legs and fuck, I’m still so wet and sensitive. I lean back against the cubicle door and let my fingertips find my slick, hard, throbbing clit. It feel so good to finally feel the touch my body had been craving.

Around me were the sounds of doors opening and closing, girls talking, water running, the throbbing music from next door and the hand-dryer blowing.

I was so hungry to feel full inside and I greedily pushed two fingers deep inside, sliding in deliciously easily. My knees buckled with satisfaction as I slowly, quietly fucked myself. Each time the hand dryer switched on, I pumped my fingers in and out hard and fast, the noise of the motor covering the sounds of my wetness, until it stopped and I had to wait for more agonising seconds.

When I couldn’t take it any more, with one last blast of the hand dryer, I frantically rubbed my clit, my other hand grabbing my tit, and then those commanding words “Let go… let go… let go…” suddenly reverberating in my head, until, my hand clamped over my mouth, I came for the second time that night, my legs buckling in shock, sliding down the cubicle door until I was sat on my heels, waves of pleasure still shuddering through my thighs.

I sat on the toilet for a few minutes and straightened myself out, until the red flush of orgasm had faded from my chest. Then I went back out to join my friends… embarrassed, sans underwear but oh-so-satisfied.

And when I’m alone, the words ‘let go…’ can still push me over the edge sometimes :)”

I would love to give proper credit to this author. If any of you know who wrote this please let me know so I can tag them and give them the credit they deserve.

#hypnosis #hypnotized girl #hypnogasm

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hwaightme · 1 month

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Feel alive

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🌑 pairing: strictland!seonghwa x gn!singer!reader 🌑 genre: fluff, angst, dystopian, sci-fi, noir, music, lovers to enemies to lovers 🌑 summary: after escaping the confines of prestige academy you find yourself singing at 'morpheus' - an underground bar and club for strictland outcasts. except this reality, too, crumbles before you. your fate is again in the hands of the same man, and you are forced to ask yourself: what does it mean to 'feel alive'? 🌑 wordcount: 9.5k total 🌑 warnings/tags: semi-edited, authoritarian regime (strictland/z/universe z), lore-inspired, guns/gunshots, implied attack on club, implied violence, crime, alcohol/drinking, implied organised criminal networks, discussions about death/murder/execution, nihilism/existentialism, 'bout as dark as the diary entries, long lost lovers, starcrossed, hope, blue bird, jazz, uprisings 🌑 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🌑 a/n: noir hwa, ateez synthwave song quartet, and lore ponderings. hope you enjoyed <3 any notes, reblogs, comments, asks are always welcome! much love!

The lights dimmed, and it was as if the jazz bar never existed in the first place. The worn seats occupied by drunks who liked to pretend they had taste, sofas in the far corner reserved for big shots and well-established scum with pretty young accessories on either arm, the bar that sold everything under the rays of the dying sun and evil moon, it all disappeared with the dawn of the spotlight falling upon your alluring silhouette. A simple, yet elegant sleek black dress with a hint of shimmer that graced your curves seemed to shine in the glimmering illumination. The delicate silver accessories were stars in the hypnotising sky, the allure of an unreachable universe becoming overwhelming as your hands glided over the length of the microphone to find purchase on the stand. The music, starting from a low rumble, was an echo of the abyss surrounding you, manifested only at the softest inhale. After what could have been the drums and trumpet, or could have been the heavens announcing the beautiful singer’s presence finished their spontaneous introduction, Seonghwa had the pleasure of forgetting his purpose, at least for as long as the song lasted. He could drift into a sultry paradise, seduced by what had to be a siren’s call, and regard the customers of the Morpheus bar with something less than loathing.

As soon as he cleared the last of the russet coloured drink he had ordered in one gulp and set the glass down on the bar, shutting his eyes momentarily to focus on the warmth of the alcohol running down his throat, Seonghwa found the fingers of his right hand softly drumming out the song in accompaniment, each digit hitting one note, another, again and again. Back in the day, it had not been often that his visits to the bar occurred at the same time as the one and only Y/N’s performances, but when they did, he swore he could see the smog clear and tomorrow become a certainty. The music consumed him whole and even though he knew down to the second when the magic would be extinguished, a part of him still retained the hope that the spell would never be broken. Not when the only encore he could guarantee for himself was another torturous raid on an establishment such as this one, or another feverish witch hunt for those who had regained their ability to feel and to think freely. All in the name of a faceless leader who even Seonghwa himself had only met a handful of times despite being in a high ranking position of Guardian Inspector - above the standard white-clad machines, above the so-called officials clad in military uniform, he was in charge of ‘keeping civil hands clean’. At what cost? Perhaps his own emotions were the price.

The dark-haired man caught himself wondering how many people in this bar could enjoy themselves to the fullest. How many of these poor unfortunate souls that succumbed to the rush for easy money and easy love were true followers of hedonism, and were spending their days in an enviable bliss? Biting his lower lip, Seonghwa regarded his surroundings with a subtle scorn. He was well aware that he was to blame for it all too; The regime, to retain the ultimate, unwavering control over the citizens, even those who wholeheartedly believed they were well-hidden from the authoritarian judgement, was a supplier of one of the many pleasures after all - toying with people's weakness before the formidable seven sins only to lead them into full submission. The Strictland government, despite propagating ‘human emotion being a disease’ had anything anyone could ever desire, and Seonghwa was one of the many agents to guarantee long term partnerships, addiction to the illusion of a better life, and most importantly, stability and security for the people who had taken him in all that time ago when no one else would, and had given him a chance.

While he was the bringer of demise, the counter of profits drenched in crushing dread and the hand of twisted and subjective justice, at the same time, Seonghwa believed that it gave him all the more right to judge the society he was a part of. After all, he was not the one being fooled. Inevitably, his glimmering orbs settled back on the singer’s gently swaying form as they broke into the chorus, and nearly shuddered as your gaze, from languid, half-lidded but oh so appealing eyes, met his, only for a split second but it was as if hellfire itself embraced him and greeted him like an old lover. Each lyric - a personal address as you moved along at a sensual pace, the song smoother than the most expensive silk. He smirked to himself as he caught his ponderings accelerating uncontrollably, attempting to squash them under a sober, calculating fist. You were no fool either. An entertainer, measuring out each attack like a venomous serpent, not threatened, seeking fun in the reveal of vulnerability of your listeners - each one believed that you existed for them and them alone, and in the hypnotic state added bill after bill to their already hefty tips in the hopes that at least some would reach you, and you would give them that beautiful smile, maybe something more. Truly, a shame that the owner of Morpheus owed the regime a lot more than all the tips, so-called donations and what, compared to the rest of the money, was "honest" earnings all combined. The Captain of the Inspectors in charge of this little project had gotten a little too nice as of late, at least that was what Seonghwa had concluded, but it was not him who was going to pay for it, naturally.

Twisting his head, Seonghwa took note of the familiar faces that appeared at the entrance to Morpheus to join the rest of the Inspectors that were posing as regular customers, cleverly dispersed among the filth that reeked of dependence. Of course, dependence on what the regime was selling. There was no other way about it. Nodding the two men a curt hello, Seonghwa let his eyes trace back a swift path to the magnificent performance. He paid attention to how your dainty earrings glinted even in the lowered light, and how, with every subtle movement, he could see the gorgeous dress tighten just a little around your body. You were so out of place in this scene, an angel in the darkest pits of hell, a little bird struggling against the wiring of a cage, curling inwards, growing smaller until the last flutter of the wings. As he was caught up in admiring your beautiful style, grace, and listening to your sweet, warm tone, one of the two newcomers, a fellow brother in governmental salvation to Seonghwa, tapped him lightly on the shoulder and occupied the seat beside him.

“As flashy as ever, Woo. Might as well tattoo ‘trouble’ on your forehead,” he motioned towards his not so inconspicuous suit that made him look more like a mafioso rather than an average joe. Seonghwa had to admit, however, that the outfit looked too damn good on him, but this was going to be just one of those things he was to take to his grave. The man did not need his ego fed any more than what the ladies he finds as company for the less busy nights not hounded by the lower ranking Guardians provide.

“I’d carve a pretty smile on that face. Not even a hello?”

“Hi San,” Seonghwa deadpanned, looking past his friend who he noted had tied his hair into a low ponytail, and right at the other half of his duo. Wooyoung and San, two peas in a pod, and probably the last people one would ever wish to see if they were in trouble with any of the Inspectors.

“Aren’t you mean today… what, pretty star over there didn’t give you attention?” Wooyoung retorted with a smirk creeping onto his lips. With a raise of an eyebrow and a shake of the head, Seonghwa dismissed any thoughts of peace that he had been imagining, settling back to regular business.

Rolling his shoulders back, he let the scene come and envelop him. It was no coincidence that so many of the Inspectors had gathered, especially with Wooyoung and San now closing in the arrivals. It did not take a genius to guess that Captain had changed his terms, and this was no longer going to be an ordinary shakeout for money or customary information gathering from the owner of Morpheus. The owner had stalled for far too long, had strayed from ‘good practices’ of a loyal rat, and it was time to set an example for others. Disease was the human emotion, and this bar was a breeding ground for thought crime, was it not?. Lowly, lonely creatures who gathered here were all examples of where society had gone astray from the perfect vision Z had put forward, at least… most were. Those who had forgotten the meaning of feeling despite having regained the ability, those, to Seonghwa, were the true vermin. He regarded the few gathered who were most definitely not meant to be part of this story. A middle aged, haggard man with flushed cheeks and what had to be his fifth glass of the cheapest liquor on the menu. Some bigshot from another town who he recalled some of the Inspectors in charge of patrolling the area identifying this morning - no ties, no money, just a lot of ambition that was to amount to nothing. A few lowlives here and there who were faceless, in shades of grey. All not meant to be here, and yet by some stroke of fate, here they were to remain. Finally, he drifted back to the main act, still at the centre of the stage, the sole luminance among the tainted - those who had no hope in making Seonghwa feel anything but numbness. You were the only one working here. Earning your meagre pay - he had discreetly checked the bar’s balance books when the old man behind the counter was too distracted to care for a person of his kind strolling into his office that was concealed in a dark corridor. It was shameful how you were still in this far less than grand establishment, sharing your angelic vocals, despite obviously not having any compensation nor appreciation of your efforts. Perhaps the moments on stage were the only time when you felt alive; the thought would not leave Seonghwa. After much investigation playing pretend, he was confident in his conclusion: you had not changed.

You were on the tattered poster plastered up outside - the one and only, shows every Friday night. Perceive and behold the spectacular ethereal being as you sang songs that spun threads out of a spectator’s very soul, blood trickling from the cracks in their shattered form turning to gold. You sang their… his pain, promised him his glory, soothed and comforted him. Seonghwa was well aware that you were the sole reason that he had shifted his visits to Morpheus to this particular day of the week and monitored the illegal location so closely, otherwise, your face would never grace his corrupt, bleak vision. You did not deserve to go with the rest. When breaking free, one was not supposed to fall into another trap, and yet, here you were. You were not meant to be here, littering the ground that you stood on as the last of the gunpowder would settle on your perfect skin, your long, alluring eyelashes. The onyx-haired man felt a shift within himself as he mused the outcome of the unspoken plans - by the way in which Wooyoung leaned back onto the counter, a grin dancing on his features and by the way San was acting particularly kindhearted to the lonely staff who was rushing about, struggling to keep up with the visitors’ habits, he knew that tonight, they were not planning on hearing any cries for mercy. They were here to complete a mission for a higher purpose. And that mission was far from the sweet music which he had loved his whole life, and finally found again.

“They’re not supposed to be here.” he mumbled, his voice obscured by yours, echoing across and elevating to a sensual culmination.

“Aren’t we all? We’ve got to do what we’ve got to do. Think of them as a sculpture or something if it makes things easier,” Wooyoung took out a rolled up bill to put between his lips - a habit that he had formed after a few too many hits on the back of his head by San, an interesting approach to make a man quit smoking. He called it ‘smoking capitalism’, earning quite a few chuckles from the Inspectors, Seonghwa included.

“So say someone’s going to scope the ring to clean it up a bit, would you let them hit our favourite auntie?” he asked, referring to the friendly cleaner who was probably the only one in the entire city who did not bat an eye at the violent matches that Wooyoung managed under the wraps for the regime, instead cooing over the fighters he brokered for and giving the men an extra helping of her home-cooked delicacies. In many ways, she was a mother figure for the Guardian Inspectors, despite her being at risk, every day, of being taken to the Red Humans should one of them be in a ‘different kind of mood’ on an arbitrary morning.

“Definitely not. But this singer. Who are they to you?”

“A pawn.”

“A pawn?”

“Mhm. I can pawn them in for rewards.”

“Suppose they are pretty enough, if that’s what you’re thinking of…”

“Goodness, take the pimp out of the bordello but can’t take the bordello out of the pimp. That business was shut a while back for you, no?” with a groan, Seonghwa retaliated at Wooyoung’s rather out of pocket suggestions. Over the many years of serving Z in not so ethical ways, the man had tried on a few too many hats and seen a few too many hats to retain even a sliver of compassion towards anyone except those closest. It was understandable. Odd, but understandable.

“Kidding. But for real though, what’s the use?” Wooyoung bit down on the bill softly, gaze following San who had moved towards a couple of underlings that had gathered in a booth off to the side, towards the far corner of the bar. Clearly, he was checking if they had read the room.

“Say, isn’t it Captain’s niece’s birthday soon? We don’t exactly have a musical act to hand since…” Seonghwa trailed off, knowing that Wooyoung knew what incident he was referring to, involving an accusatory phrase, a short temper and a very professional shot from a sniper rifle from the boss’s office window into the temple of a figure that was storming away from one of the many Inspector accommodations. Another one to fertilise the soil with.

“Smart. I’ll give it to ya. If you sort the business out before showtime, pretty thing’s all yours.” Wooyoung responded, patting his side where, underneath his shirt, Seonghwa knew was a holstered pistol. Pushing himself away from the counter he stood up, adjusting his long, leather coat and glove. It was not that he had a particular preference, but ever since entering the new life upon being pardoned for feeling, a life where he had to say found a home, he could not help but wish to always look just that little bit more put together, even if only to appear loyal.

“Cheers. I’ll get them a nice candle-lit dinner to soften them up and then inform Cap’,” sounding purposefully sarcastic, Seonghwa mumbled under his nose, well aware that this was not a method that had ever been in use. One glower and curt phrase had always been enough - the rest was simply the heart’s doing masked by odd humour.

“Awh, look at you, how sweet and lovely. What a darling,” Wooyoung teased, sending Seonghwa a wink. The music was fading away, the last notes landing on his ears, marking every moment.

“One more word and you’ll be the main course.” with his index finger he poked the centre of his fellow Inspector’s chest in threat, maintaining a cold expression.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’m going to be roasting out here tonight, so make it hot with pretty thing.”

“Filth,” the taller man spat, knowing that attempting to counter his friend was nearly impossible - out of all the people he knew only Captain could fully round him in, and even then Wooyoung had a smile on his face, much to Seonghwa’s confusion.

“It’s not me who is with the heart eyes.”

“I just saw an opportunity,” playing with the leather piece that buttoned up to protect his neck, he eyed you, waiting for you to finish. Unknown to you, you did not have much time left before your very life would be placed on a scale and thoughtlessly pushed to lose against the weight of usual Strictland business. Such was the violent, catastrophic illusion of order, such was the structure that had been Seonghwa’s twisted saving grace. He was going to be doing you a favour by taking you away, won’t he? Either way, you would be out of work, and he was helping you with a little job search from one of the highest payers - chivalrous and kind hearted, that was who he was. How else could the Inspectors form any partnerships and feast on forbidden fruit otherwise? Who was he kidding - a soul like you was not meant for a life like this. But he had to try. He needed time to think.

“Sure. Sure. An opportunity to grab the gorgeous star for yourself.”

“Oh shut up will you?” snapping, Seonghwa were desperately trying to cut the conversation short, seeing the window for him to make a beeline for the edge of the stage, towards which you promptly setting off after finishing your set, and receiving a dismal lack of applause - what else would he expect from the crowd gathered in Morpheus? Especially when the stench of iron and the final judgement was mere minutes away from materialising.

“You know that’s not my style.”

“Yeah, yeah. Be good. Hope you did not block my mustang,” throwing one last comment behind him, the solemn man was off, only barely catching Wooyoung’s half-hearted response.

“Have I ever…”

The mission was simple. Since he was dismissed from the less than pleasant task of wiping out the bar, considering that two more senior Inspectors had made their appearance and were clearly more in the know of what was brewing, Seonghwa had only a couple of minutes before all freedom would cease to exist. And then, no heaven could bestow mercy upon neither him, nor the beauty he had come here to save for no logical reason, instead relying on some hazy version of hope and nostalgia. He had parked his ink black ride around the block - out of sight for unwanted eyes, and perfectly positioned for getaways just like this. If you could catch the Inspector’s drift, that was. One could only pray that the dazzler on stage was just as dazzling when it came to reading between the lines. He had perhaps even less than the estimated time to explain himself before Wooyoung and San would call the owner over to get the real evening show started. Time was ticking along with the skyrocketing pace of his heart as he stopped you on your tracks with a slightly outstretched leg, only to move forward and cast a shadow over you.

It was difficult to remain level-headed when, even at such proximity, in the normally less than flattering lighting, you were nothing short of a deity. Something out of fairy tales, stories of royalty or angels in kingdoms far far away, those that were not supposed to exist. But here was one, staring right into his eyes with your beautiful expressive orbs, as deep as the history that Seonghwa had raced here to try and reignite. A universe in your irises, an all-consuming black hole in your pupils, beckoning Seonghwa, leading him into a stupor before he stuffed his hands into his pockets, bringing himself out of the momentary trance by force. Time was not on his side, and he knew that it would never be unless he kept on running.

“Lovely song, that was.”

“Indeed. ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ is one of my favourites. Did you enjoy the performance?” Your speaking voice was different, of course, but nonetheless struck that stunning familiar chord within Seonghwa, one that should never see the light of day if he were to remain how he had to be. It was terrifying, how he was ready to let go of his resurrected image as an Inspector for a chance to turn the past into the present.

You were polite. The features of your alluring face were hinting at a genuine interest, an appreciation of every movement, every breath you were taking. Though, in Seonghwa’s own line of work, particularly in the stage of undercover investigation, this was simply the usual. Show a smile, bat the eyelashes, make business, disappear. Genuine interest was an artform, but even if you were indeed expressing it in the way with which he was familiar, it felt so natural that he almost wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe this daydream who had come to change the colours of his occasional Fridays, his hunts for those straying from what Z had deemed ‘right’, leaving glimmers of memory to last him through the weeks when he had to be numb to life itself until he could come and see you again. It did not mean much to you, most likely. You were strangers in your respective new lives, and had Captain not made the decision to teach the owner of Morpheus a lethal lesson, you would have remained that way. Drifting together for a few hours, remaining distant, and drifting apart again. A forever flowing story that was to rekindle a starcrossed ‘once upon a time’ but never have that sought after resolution. A dream that reminded Seonghwa of why his unlikely survival was a blessing. As your eyes revealed a hopefulness, a plea for praise, Seonghwa gave you a soft smile.

“Of course.”

“I look forward to seeing you, you know.”

“O-oh?” Seonghwa could barely contain his surprise, the previously cool demeanour cracking into a raised eyebrow. Could you remember?

“Yes! You always sit at the bar, second stool from the left. And order… what is it… a brandy, right?”

He would be lying if he were to say he was not surprised by your suddenly chipper attitude. Almost like you were a kid who entered a candy shop for the first time to see all of your favourite treats, you excitedly revealed to Seonghwa your observations. While it was endearing to see, the shuffling behind him, along with the idea that he was not the only one intently observing left the Inspector with a sense of unease, nearly throwing him off from the initial goal that motivated him to brave talking to you in the first place.

“In…deed?”

The singer, who was previously an astounding yet distant figure captivating all who cared to look even once, rapidly transitioned into someone who he almost found endearing, the keeper of far too many qualities that cemented the rightness of his decision. You were not meant to be here, he repeated to himself. Mutters around the bar were getting louder, and as the rest of the musicians filed out of the main hall and crammed into a tiny room off to the side, in Seonghwa’s peripherals he noted San’s steady, seemingly innocent amble between the scuffed round tables and equally unpleasantly antique chairs.

“You are the only one who listens, so, how could I not notice? Actually, I wanted to talk to you properly, or at least say thank you but didn’t want to impose.”

As much as he wanted to sink into the warmth of your words and allow you to recognise him on your own accord, the rippling commotion that was finally rearing its ugly head spurred him on and struck his heart with an icy, calculating mace. He had a minute tops, knowing Wooyoung’s love for never counting down to zero before beginning.

“Well, let’s talk. Outside,” The black-clad man tried to walk off, aiming for the dark corridor at the end of which was the fire exit, but when you did not move, rolled his eyes.

“I was thinking I could buy you a drink-”

“Cute. Another time though,” seeing the tinge of disappointment in your gaze was new, and entirely unexpected, but gave Seonghwa plenty of leeway to sway you into following him, “since you watched me enough, I bet you can guess who I am. Or, what I do for work. Right?”

A steely glare, leaving nothing open to interpretation. For additional evidence, he demonstratively adjusted his coat, loosening the belt he had tied around his waist to reveal a leather holster, discreet, gun always within reach. Attentive to detail as ever, you took note of the inconspicuous design of the pistol before he let it disappear once again under the fabric - in this city, there were few who had access to any form of weaponry, the items being so highly regulated by the government that it was nearly impossible to purchase or get licensing. Your mind began to list off options; Seonghwa clearly was neither a standard Android Guardian due to the lack of mandatory uniform, nor a scruffy criminal whom you had gotten used to over the time that had passed, nor part of the police force, nor a Class 2 Prestige Academy student. It only left an answer that shook you to the core. Of course, it was not that you did not hold the assumption in your heart. As a matter of fact, you had previously assumed that you were used to greeting people from different walks of life, all gathered in the same place, at the same time for what you wanted to believe was a ‘good time’. That was what drove you to live the life that you were living. Exist in this space, despite your pay and your security almost always not being enough, but you would give even that up if that meant you could keep your freedom.

Seonghwa was effortlessly graceful, determined in every step and gesture, not a single movement wasted. In a sense, it was as if he had purposefully learned and memorised the most efficient adjustments of the body, letting himself metamorphose into a lithe, agile animal. It was terrific, and terrifying, how at any moment he could pounce, and you would never know when until it was too late. For this hint of a reason, you decided to follow the man’s unspoken command, only whispering an airy inquiry after the other musicians, which he coldly dismissed:

“You need a better band anyways.”

---

The gravity of the situation only began to settle in when the biting breeze outside of the stuffy bar hit you, seeking opportunity to tousle your locks. The strands that had managed to fall over your face were trembling, the only sign revealing your suppressed distress as the last of Morpheus's dusk-like illumination was shut from your vision with a confident slam. Your eyes widened as you watched the Inspector, or in other words, your personal grim reaper, flip a lock on the door - previously thought to be inaccessible to anyone except the owner, done so masterfully as though he were the one who had installed it in the first place. An exit, a saving grace for innocents inside, turned into a dead end - more symbolic than one would ever initially assume. He trailed up the length of his arm stopping for a moment at the material that covered his shoulder, listening to leather hit leather. Seonghwa could only find calculated resolve within himself. This was the usual for him, and that after weighing all the options, he had logically come to the conclusion that the demise of the people inside was indeed the most attractive option.

As you heard the first shot resound inside of Morpheus, you shuddered, but did not dare stop following the man in the trench coat as he strode on ahead, hands remaining in his pockets. To any onlooker it would seem that he was relaxed as ever, out for a late night walk in a neighbourhood he knew better than he knew himself. Breath in, breath out; you were trying to remind yourself of the simple act, focusing harder than you had ever done during your performances. Imagining your diaphragm stretching, letting the lungs take in as much air as possible and-

Another shot. Breath knocked from you, balance off kilter, you desperately wanted to run. Anywhere. Maybe you should have stayed, not picked up on the subtle offer of your life being spared. In that way you would not have to live with the guilt of not having said anything to your fellow bandmates, not having said thank you to the owner for… what was there to thank anyone for? Out of habit, you lifted a hand to brush over your ear, echoes of the time when you had first felt emotion rippling across your body, making you shiver. You were all fools misled by hope for a brighter tomorrow in a world that was permanently overcast. Where did this running lead you? Where did your wistful song guide you? Back into the arms of the apocalypse - broad-shouldered with hair the colour of ink, the last thing you would see before disappearing for good. At least you should thank your former so-called colleagues for the information about the common demise. Tears welled up in your eyes as you obeyed the lean man’s orders and practically toppled into the black vehicle parked by the Morpheus, a lonesome yelp masked by the gunfire and indecipherable orders.

You had no idea where he was taking you, and you did not dare ask. The man reminded you of all you had been trained to avoid in your new life, a threat, a weapon, a soldier. His gloved right hand remained resting beside the gearshift, while his left coldly gripped the steering wheel. Not a single one of his muscles appeared to be relaxed, and not a single movement had a semblance to anything natural. An automaton in the driver’s seat, you wanted to feel comforted by the idea that you were the only one truly human in the car, for the idea that someone as brutal as a Guardian Inspector could be conscious or decisive was too strong of an agony.

At the same time, in the moments where the Inspector turned his head to check the surroundings, you noted something familiar. He dashed past the blue, purple and aquamarine signs that lined the streets of the district you had learned to love, himself turning into a painting. Be it in the angles that formulated his stern face, or in the elegance that he was unable to conceal, the past crawled out of a long-forgotten cavern in your psyche and gnawed at your nerves, just out of reach of realisation. Perhaps in another time, you had known him. Perhaps in one of the banned art pieces, you had seen him. At the same time, this could not be the first Guardian Inspector you had encountered - they were all similar enough in demeanour, so what was another face? Equally as entitled, above the law. Above a runaway like you. You were vermin. The enemy. A traitor to the Academy, to Strictland, to Z himself. Or so you were told. The only thing that could be different about this Inspector, was that he could be your last.

A sharp stabbing sensation spread from your temples and what had to be through your skull, jabbing into bone and into the cerebellum. Nauseous, you shut your eyes and clutched your head in a futile attempt to seek some form of relief. The car roared, and a sudden stench of rubber and concrete penetrated through every crevice, choking your senses and making you taste the acrid pollution. One turn, another, your organs were being jolted back and forth as the monstrous engine urged on by none other than the embodiment of oblivion dragged the car across eternal misery of long-abandoned districts.

“Oh goodness…” a feeble whisper left your lips. You reached out to grab hold of the door handle, peering at the grooves to find at least something to focus on. His vision was swimming in your eyes, etchings of your surroundings morphing into repressed memories.

A boy marching beside you to class, head held at the angle commanded to all academy students. A young man, dressed in all white with black locks parted in the middle. A solemn stare, unreadable, though not fully blank as it should be. But at the same time, how could you, another student of Prestige, detect that something was not quite right? Since when could you feel? You lifted your head cautiously to try peeking at the Inspector again, but he was frozen. Only the abrupt tightening of his gloved hand around the steering wheel and a determined turn reminded you that he was not quite an automaton.

“I must be dreaming…” you blinked away a teary blur, and clenched onto your dress for the remainder of the journey, feverishly recounting whatever lyrics you could. Your little safe haven, your precious prayers to the arts - truth which you had discovered after abandoning everything you could have been.

Your hand moved on instinct to the side of your head, feeling for what once had been the hub of your consciousness. A chip that made you feel right at home, heartless, but with a purpose. Forty years of education, an eternity to serve something greater than you; clear goals, a mission for your generation and many that would come after you. Hand in hand, you were soldiers of a catastrophically closed-minded society; at the time, however, you could not be ‘happier’. Or rather, more numb. Because you did not know of negative nor positive, you could not experience either, and so remained in a stable equilibrium, just as the superpower of this forlorn land had instructed. Disease was the human emotion. You were ‘healthy’. Until that boy appeared in your life, and revealed himself to you.

Bright-eyed, hopeful, excited. So unlike anyone. And against better judgement, you let the inklings of curiosity drip over your heart, and the beginnings of affection take flight. Dark hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, a smile brighter than the sun, a soothing mellifluous voice, vowing to you that you could build another life together. A life much more beautiful than one constructed with deception and hollow propaganda. What could a little tap of a breaker do to you? Apparently, it could change your destiny.

As you massaged your temples, you locked gazes with the man in front of you, but met the boy from your past in the mirror. That same worry, knotted eyebrows, concern and care so evident you could touch it if your fingers grazed his cheek. You could not move, even when he turned back to the road, and continued to stare at the rear view mirror in the hopes of seeing your daydream again. You had to be wrong. This had to be you hallucinating. You must be just… afraid. Out of your mind. And so you were recalling one of the few times when you thought the world could do you no harm.

“Get out,” a command. As cold as steel. The engine was still roaring in your ears, despite the surroundings having gone dead silent.

A click. The doors unlocked. You could run if you wanted to. Though you were fully aware that the action would shorten your lifespan to a mere few seconds. You remained seated, gaze falling onto your lap, and listened to the painful succession of sounds that led the man to open your door, and roughly grab your upper arm.

“I said, get out,” you followed him like a rag doll, knowing that any attempts to resist would put you into even more danger. At the same time, even though the Inspector was obviously attempting to instil terror and a twisted respect for him, he could not face you. Consciously he made an effort to barely raise his lashes, thus keeping his scrutiny concealed. Reading through his hesitation was easy enough.

He could not keep his hand on you for a second longer after you stood up straight, darting away as though you were an open flame. The man cleared his throat and locked the car, before gesturing towards an abandoned building that loomed over the gravelly opening where you had completed your journey. Comically, it reminded you of Prestige, even though the latter was of much larger proportions and possessed a more unique shape. Perhaps it was the fact that this block, what used to be an apartment building, was crumbling, made you think of the academy’s inner workings. Rotting away. The cogs in the machine tearing each other apart.

This might be your end or your beginning, you were not sure which one. With an astounding loyalty, you let yourself be guided into the long-forgotten cement fortress, up exposed stairs with metal railings, past walls left bare, illuminated by an exposed moonlight, laying down a carpet of silver. It was oddly easy to think that life was beautiful when it was likely going to be taken away from you. The walk was silent, and the longer it lasted, the more at peace you felt. The odd step rang out and echoed like the gunshots you had heard, so surreal that you could barely believe it. It must have been a joke. Fireworks, or someone just being a little boisterous. Morpheus had seen so many colours of Z’s regime, it could not disappear now… oh who were you kidding. It was done for. You little version of an escape. Your space to feel.

As you made sneaky glances at the Inspector to your right, who not so ceremoniously had loosened his coat’s belt once more to have easy access to his gun, you could not help but think of the boy. You had followed his advice, made a run for it while he had been taken away by the Red Humans. Two youngsters who betrayed the regime. But who was truly free? The one who had been exterminated, or the one who had to live in fear, but at least felt the ruthless emotion?

The enigmatic man slowed down, and so did you. He made a turn, so did you, acting as his shadow. You were certain that you were probably breathing at the same rate. An empty hallway, lined with equally empty rooms and destroyed apartments. From a humble abode to rubble, you could see the horrific vistas of the district, and the drop to the cold ground below. No wall, no security, no certainty. It was only you and your fate in the form of a man who seemed to possess too much of a likeness to the keeper of your fragile adoration.

The Inspector walked in front and turned to face you. You froze, burning under his scrutiny. Eyes like scalding cold ice, assessing you, condemning you. Your best listener, now listening to your terrified heart. For what could be the last time, you felt alive. As the man reached into his pocket, you prepared for the worst, however, he only motioned with his head for you to follow him. Confused, you obeyed, finding yourself in a more secluded corner of the floor, one which had remotely retained the appearance of an actual room. Stuck in the same few seconds, there were no further commands from the Inspector, causing your mind to wander, and lips to move on their own accord:

“I should not be here.”

“Neither should I,” he deadpanned, though his choice of words was unsettling. Wasn’t he on a mission?

“I should be dead,” you persisted.

“I should have more blood on my hands.”

A pause. You were in shock, pointlessly clinging onto your own upper arms, stuck in a false embrace. Like prey that had been cornered, you were beyond the point of trusting survival instincts. You simply wanted for the interaction, or dare you say, interrogation, to be over, so you could be given away to the Red Humans, to whatever the afterlife had to offer, in peace. If you were to be melted, then so be it. If your departure were to be short and sweet, so be it. But a little question in your head still remained, a persistent worm which you decided to unleash given your hopeless circumstances:

“Then why-”

“It is pointless to ask when there is no answer,” the man answered coldly, not sparing you a glance as he picked at a filthy off-white tulle which covered a blown out window - now just a frame, with his gloved hand, glaring at the pitiful greyness outside the abandoned building before wiping the hand off with a handkerchief produced out of the pocket into which he had stuffed his hand.

A few steps separated you, but you knew better than to try and make a run for it – the man was armed, and you assumed that the gun you spotted was not the only weapon in his arsenal. He was menacing, unpredictable, and very dangerous. Alongside that, as much as you hated to admit, but the Inspectors were nothing short of extraordinary when it came to their expertise and training. Unlike Android Guardians, they were the leading forces, capable of high-risk decision making and unparalleled critical thinking. If you were to try to describe them, you always ended up thinking of chess. That was what they were playing whenever they were out in the field.

In fact, it was for this exact reason that you were concerned about this Inspector’s behaviour – it was out of line. Inefficient. Sub-optimal. You wondered if this was a new strategy or there was a higher plan; there were so many possibilities that your head could start spinning. You dug your fingers into rapidly cooling flesh, waking yourself up from the distressed rumination. What was the Inspector going to do to you? You had followed his demands so far, and weren’t putting up a fight - what more could he want?

He was unreadable. Gestures unpredictable, expression stoic, he regarded you with an air of superiority characteristic of people from his class. Serpent-like and calculating eyes, regal nose, facial structure reminiscent of a statue, plush perfectly shaped lips – all were a nod to his upbringing, you bet. He did not feel real. Reminiscent of automatons that the regime sometimes used in place of regular Guardians during high-volume riots, he was what one would call the ‘ideal specimen’. Down to the strand of wavy hair that fell on his face, he was a beautiful painting of your worst nightmare. Life had been unkind to you, you decided. It only showed you something prettier than the night lights when it was the last thing you would see.

The man stepped towards you, and your eyelids slammed shut automatically. You did not wish to see your death. The sound of leather against leather, the tied coat belt, the creaking of ancient rotten wood planks under lacquered ankle boots. He must be getting ready to end you. Were you too high profile to be lying with the other bodies in the club? Were you more dangerous in the Inspector’s view, being a singer, or as one could say a ‘spreader’ of inappropriate entertainment. Was this treason? Terrorism? You were not sure – the sentence changed more than the weather. But were you an enemy? With confidence, you had to answer with a Yes. Having escaped the regime, and according to those who had helped you regain some parts of your past self, having had a part in the uprising within Prestige Academy, you were the worst kind of citizen of Strictland. Disobedient, unchanging, and influential. You were waiting for the cocking of a pistol, for cool metal to hit your head, and for the world to go even darker as you collapsed on to the floorboards. The man had to be taking out his gun. He must have taken you away from the raid to be particularly ruthless. A sadist? Maybe. You had no time to judge.

You felt the fabric of your shimmering dress under your fingertips, and imagined you were preparing for a show of a lifetime. You counted your inhales and exhales like you would do before a performance, and conjured an audience in your mind. More rustling, another step. He, that boy, no, young man, was in the audience. Still in the Prestige Academy uniform, but the chip was long gone. He was giving you an encouraging smile eager to hear what you had achieved in your time away from the academy. Leather caressed your hand and you flinched, comforted only by how cautious the action was. Hand turned to raise your palm to the omniscient skies, your illusions combined with reality - what was Seonghwa to give to you?

Funny, how in critical moments, the mind could give you what you had longed to forget. Seonghwa. His name tasted sweet, with a bitter aftertaste. A fine wine, dizzying, addictive. A handsome, talented student who had the future ahead of him, only to throw it away for the taste of something more ‘real’ in his eyes. Something cold was being pressed into your palm, reminiscent of a large bullet or a device your fingers could remember before your mind. Your eyes shot open and were met with a dream and a nightmare. Finally, it hit you. Behind the Inspector’s facade, a mask crafted by years of experience and brutality, was the same boy, who, just like now, pressed a breaker into your palm.

“Wake up.”

Your gaze fell to the intricate metal handiwork, spotting the carving of an ‘A’ contained in a circle right at the base. The taste of anarchy, an uprising, revolution, a hope for something better flowing through a tragic story you two had written. At last, it had a resolution, and you were more than content with who was holding the lethal pen. You stared at the breaker. The very thing that brought you out of an eternal somnolence, submission to a regime. You had woken up then, and never could sleep.

“Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer… the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune…” you lifted your head once more, staring into Seonghwa’s softened eyes. He had matured, his features having become siren-like, dangerous, seductive. Befitting his character. You smiled sadly, “...or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and, by opposing end them?” He remained quiet, as if he was the one waiting for you to decide your own destiny, “Shakespeare. Hamlet. Ever read it? Or do they not let you?”

“I-” he cleared his throat, concealing a pang of nervousness, “I am familiar with his work.”

“Mm, isn’t that a criminal offence?”

“What is?”

“Reading work exploring human emotion… sounds like treason to me.”

“Reading does not imply sympathising.”

“But you do.”

Again, a heavy pause. Seonghwa rocked from one foot to another one time, another - an old habit? Or an attempt to convince you that he was at least a fraction the same?

“I… I do not,” before you could scowl, he continued, “‘Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once’. I am more partial to this way of thinking.”

“Ah, the irony of it all.”

Your hand formed a fist around the device, and you kept on searching for fragments of the man you loved inside of the new Seonghwa before you. In flashes, you spotted glimmers of gold, feeble hints for something that could be concealed in the depths of his soul.

“So, are you going to make me a valiant person?”

“What?”

“Wasn’t that what you were supposed to be doing?” feeling a little more brave, you taunted him, wishing to see what his limit was. Whether he was lying to you just to set you at ease and make his job easier. So he could see one final sense of betrayal in your pupils.

“We are already dead, Y/N.”

---

Music. A universal language. The biggest risk for a community that someone wanted to silence. So you hummed one song after another, head leaning against Seonghwa’s shoulder as you sat on the concrete floor, in the corner of the room that was barely holding itself together. Bathed in silver light, you shared with him the luxury of reminiscing, mourned what had been lost only to have the feeling be replaced by a budding desire to wish upon anything at all.

Seonghwa might have lied to many of the Inspectors, and was in danger of facing a fate worse than extermination, but at least he did not lie to you. And because he did not lie to you, you were here; you were real. He could have the pleasure of having you beside him, wrapped up in his leather coat; your dress was not exactly ‘inhospitable conditions’ material, as pretty and befitting as it was. You were refusing to let go of the breaker as though it was the tether to a more sunny past, not that Seonghwa would ever dare pry it out of your hands. So long as you could keep singing for him forever. Even when music were to cease existing, and when the sky would fall down, he would still hear your voice. How many times had he visited Morpheus in secret, outside of his official inspections and scouting missions? How quickly had he transferred into a field role just for the chance to find you? How had he managed to remain alive even though his sentence had been supposedly set in stone, and he was still feeling? With each question, the answer grew blurrier and blurrier, until it no longer existed. Perhaps this was a manifestation of destiny. You were supposed to meet again after so much turmoil, so you did. Curious.

“What song do you like?” your voice, sleepy, serene, cut through his ruminations. Seonghwa looked down and to his side, meeting a gentle gaze.

“What song do you want to sing?”

“Mm, no that’s not an answer,” you snaked your hands around his arm and pulled him closer.

“But I like everything you sing. Because you sing it.”

“Sweet, but I’m at a loss.”

“Then let’s be quiet. Together. For as long as we can.”

“There’s not too long left, is there?”

Your question was rhetorical. Both you and Seonghwa were aware of it. Time in Strictland was not governed by the individual but by an unforgiving system. A person, or perhaps a symbol, holding the clock with an iron grip and making the hands fly faster and faster until a second was an impossible measure. Involuntarily, he sighed, causing wisps of steam to escape his lips and rise to the exposed armature of the floor above. With cooling temperatures came the cooling heart, and it was difficult to tell what it was that you loved. What was it that made you feel alive?

“You know, they gave me a choice,” Seonghwa began. There was no reason why he should be telling you about what had happened to him, but the sombre atmosphere seemed to bode well for a confession. You did not interrupt, choosing to remain passive, resigned, “either die for what I believe in, or admit I was wrong.”

“Funny how they gave you a choice,” the infamous ‘they’. The Guardians, the regime, the enemy. Now turned into a friend. Interesting how life changed.

“Definitely was not what I expected.”

“You sure they didn’t say ‘sike’ at any point and you just got lucky?”

“I don’t think they can miss,” a simple, but sharp fact. You bit your lower lip, “...anyways. You can probably guess what I chose to do. The only caveat is that I admitted I was wrong… for a different thing.”

“Do tell.”

“I was wrong for putting you in danger, Y/N.”

“Nothing we could do about that. We were two fools in love.”

Seonghwa detangled himself from you, only to grasp your free hand in his, place the other on your thigh and meet you face to face. Misty-eyed, his rationality was growing frantic, and you knew that at any moment he could snap, and only the clearing night knew what would happen then.

“But I was the one to jolt you out of a peaceful existence. I was selfish-” After years of doubting himself, sinking into a destructive illusion where he would march alongside others like a machine, he was breathing. Much to his regret, it was a sensation far too sweet and heavenly, worth every revolution and rebellion.

“I don’t regret it.”

“...What?”

“I would put this thing to my head time and time again if I had to,” you raised the breaker to eye level, attempting to get at least a smile or a chuckle out of Seonghwa. Much to your dismay, it did the opposite. You would be lying if you were to proclaim you were euphoric.

“I- I’m… Y/N I’m so sorry…” you shook your head and pulled him in, until his exhales and inhales were tickling your neck. Hunched over you like a black-clad shield, Seonghwa was unmoving. Eyes darting down, you spotted that he had taken the pistol out of the holster, and upon a second glance to where he had been sitting, you noted its lonely presence, tucked away with debris and gravel.

“You are alive. And clearly still care enough to remember me. That’s your apology. And your punishment,” in a soothing gesture, you ran your fingers through his hair, cautiously at first, then turning your ministrations continuous, measured out when Seonghwa sat back down on the concrete, only this time nuzzled into you.

“Sorry…” he forced out, choking up.

The moon counted down the time while lazily passing over the building. You were at a crossroads. In haste, Seonghwa had told you of the opportunity to serve the Guardian Inspectors, being a private entertainer of sorts, but he knew you would refuse. Fast. Becoming one’s own enemy was the one thing you would not follow Seonghwa into doing. And that is why he admired you. You were strong. You were truly alive. A bird soaring in the skies in spite of the risks of being hunted, being shot. Simply for the feeling of the wind under your wings, to be closer to the stars and to sing your song loud and clear, every note a celestial blessing.

“Blue bird…”

“Hm?”

“I think I have an idea… if you are willing to go into hiding, that is.”

“Planning uprisings are we?”

“Oh they’ve been long in the works, my love. It is part of my job to close my eyes when necessary, and when convenient.”

“Are you about to be wrong again?”

“Maybe. Or very, very right. Depends on how the song sounds to you.”

---

Walking down the corridors of the headquarters, hands behind his back and appearance pristine, Seonghwa was nothing short of a model Inspector. Low ranking employees cowered before him and bowed, while his immediate colleague Wooyoung smirked, attempting to hook any information out.

“So… where'd the pretty star go?”

Silently, Seonghwa handed him a slip recording the disposal of an ‘unnamed entity’.

“ Oh… well that’s harsh. What did they do, reject you?”

“Apparently once gone so far astray, one cannot be changed. I had to do what was best for the regime.”

“Such an example for others. Wow. Almost too good to be true, Park. Well, I’ll be reporting that the extermination and cleanup of Morpheus was successful.”

“You do that.”

While Wooyoung turned the corner, Seonghwa continued to walk straight down the metal corridor, eyes locked onto the very end. Morpheus was no longer, indeed. But your song was still ringing in his ears, and no doubt, there would be a time when it would resound over the many speakers planted all across Strictland.

Blue skies smiling at me

Nothing but blue skies do I see

Bluebirds singing a song

Nothing but bluebirds all day long

Never saw the sun shining so bright

Never saw things going so right

Noticing the days hurrying by

When you're in love, my how they fly

Blue days, all of them gone

Nothing but blue skies from now on

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