#ever eroding middle class

[leveragecreditrecovery]

Building Bridges to Financial Empowerment: A Call to Read and Engage

Dear Community of Changemakers,

I am thrilled to share my latest article, Welcome to Yonkers Young Entrepreneurs: Building Bridges to Financial Empowerment.

https://open.substack.com/pub/tyroneglover/p/welcome-to-yonkers-young-entrepreneurs?r=1rkcyh&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

This is not just another piece of writing; it is a bold and transformative call to action that highlights the untapped potential of youth in marginalized communities and the power of financial literacy to ignite change.

Why You Should Read This Article:

1. A Vision for Impact: The article outlines a clear, actionable framework to empower communities through education, mentorship, and financial literacy. It’s a roadmap for anyone seeking to contribute meaningfully to breaking cycles of poverty and fostering generational wealth.

2. A Shared Mission: As philanthropists, donors, nonprofit organizations, educators, and advocates, your work is already aligned with the themes explored. This article amplifies that alignment, offering insights on how collective efforts can create lasting change.

3. The Stakes Are High: With economic disparities widening, the time to act is now. By building bridges to financial empowerment, we can unlock the potential of youth—our greatest asset—who are eager for guidance, opportunities, and a seat at the table.

4. Engaging and Inspiring: The article captures real stories, innovative strategies, and an unwavering belief in the transformative power of collaboration. It’s written to motivate, inspire, and challenge us all to do more.

What You Can Do Next:

• Read and Reflect: Dive into the article to better understand how your contributions are vital to the movement.

• Share Widely: Pass it along to your network, colleagues, and peers who share our vision for an empowered future.

• Join the Conversation: Reach out to explore partnerships, share ideas, or simply lend your voice to this important cause.

Together, we can leverage the tools of financial literacy, entrepreneurship, and mentorship to pave a brighter future for all, particularly for youth of color in marginalized communities. This article is an invitation to be part of something greater than ourselves—a movement toward equity, opportunity, and prosperity.

Thank you for your unwavering commitment to making a difference. I look forward to hearing your thoughts and collaborating to turn ideas into action.

With deepest gratitude and high hopes for the future,

Tyrone Glover

Co-Facilitator Leveraged Financial Literacy Investment Club / Executive Director and President Nonprofit Organizations Yonkers Young Entrepreneurs / CEO Leverage Credit Recovery / NAACP, Economic Development Committee Chair / Advocate / Activist / Honorable Discharged Veteran United States Army

P.S. Every share, every read, and every conversation counts. Let’s build bridges together

[after-witch]

Death by Stereo [Yandere Chrollo x Reader] [Vampire AU]

Title: Death by Stereo [Yandere Vampire Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You’re just a nobody living in a small town when a mysterious stranger with a leather jacket, good looks and a penchant for kissing your hand rolls in, just in time for the ever-popular summer carnival. Things are going great, until dead bodies start piling up. 

Word count: 17,510

Notes: yandere, vampire AU, descriptions of dead bodies, some violence, gore, abuse

Thursday

Is there anything more wearisome than a small town? Small towns grind you down so slowly that you don’t realize your feet have been eroded into useless nubs before it’s too late, and you have nowhere to run, even if you had the inkling to get away. 

A small town has its charms, as they say--but it has its burdens, too. You know all the faces, but all the faces know you; some of them have even known you since you were just an ultrasound picture carried dutifully in your mother’s purse, pulled out at coffee shops and book clubs. 

They know when you got your first period (age 13, in the middle of gym class--you were wearing white shorts); when your first boyfriend dumped you (at the school dance, right before he made out with the third most popular girl in school); what colleges you applied to, and later--why you dropped out (your dad got sick) and how he was doing (not so great but getting better) and where you worked, how you liked your coffee, and all these impersonal and personal details that made up the monotony of your life. 

It was a trap, this small town life. A faux bubble of intimacy that your parents embraced, but you’d never fully believed. Because despite knowing so much about you, no one here really knew you. They could tell you that you looked just like your mom at her age; they could sling down a mug with your coffee order without you opening your mouth (black, 1 sugar, 1 cream, no milk)--but they didn’t want to hear about how much you wanted to travel; how much you wanted to see.

Did it matter? You weren’t getting out anytime soon, anyway.

Like all small towns, yours had a claim to fame. While others might boast being the hometown of some B-list celebrity or the site of an all-you-get-eat seafood festival, your particular small town had one edge over the others: a summer carnival right on the beach, designed to appeal to nearby tourists who came to much larger, resort-friendly beaches for the summer season. 

The tourists loved to flock here on that singular summer weekend, pretending they were enjoying a quaint local carnival where they got drunk on cheap beer and sampled funnel cake until they puked. And if the locals hustled them as much as possible, overcharging for drinks and parking and sightseeing maps, was that so bad? Small towns needed to leech off new blood once in a while, after all.

The carnival was four days long--Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Sunday was, of course, the grand finale. There was a massive fireworks show on the beach, a huge concert with local and sometimes vaguely familiar bands. A lot more booze traded hands on Saturdays, and the beach was lit up with more than just fireworks; the local volunteers always spent the next week picking up cigarette butts and discarded joints in the sand.

The carnival can be fun. Although like anything that happens every single year in a small town you’ve lived in your entire life (save the one year of college you managed before your dad’s test results came back) it gets wearisome.

Still--you go. What else is there to do? Besides, you’d be stupid to deny that it’s more fun to spend your summer weekend wandering the carnival, riding a few rides, speaking to people, than to sit at home or pick up an extra shift at the diner. 

That’s why you’ve wandered into the carnival today--Thursday. Thursday is your favorite day of the carnival, because it’s the most quiet, relatively speaking. There are tourists here, sure, but they’re not rowdy yet. Not as overcrowded. There aren’t gaggles of kids running around with lobster-red faces and arms because they’re parents didn’t understand the necessity of sunscreen; there aren’t groups of women traveling in packs with matching sunglasses and hats, enjoying a summer break away from their rich and distant husbands.

It’s mostly locals on Thursday. People like you, bored coffee shop workers with nothing better to do on a Thursday evening.

Or people like Jake Jenson over there, currently aiming a colorful dart at a row of balloons in one of many carnival games that would hustle drunk tourists out of their money this weekend.

Jake was the town drunk--a title he gave himself, and others were only too happy to oblige him. He stuck to himself most of the time. During the carnival, he won as many carnival prizes as possible, and traded them to tourists with shitty aim for beers or cigarettes. 

And over there--the early birds. They’ve come three years in a row, you think from somewhere in New  York. They’re attached at the hip, constantly rubbing their noses together like some twee movie couple, and you’ve heard them complain that the boardwalks in their part of the country are a lot more “authentic.’ 

Sure, there’s the familiar faces, but unfamiliar ones, too. An older gentleman and his wife, who walks next to him more slowly, with a cane. He’s balancing a plastic plate with a fresh funnel cake in his hand. They’ll find a bench to sit down and enjoy it, maybe people watch, like you.

It’s time for one of your favorite games: making up stories for the various tourists you probably won’t ever see again. This couple--this is the last trip they’ll take together, because the wife got an awful diagnosis, and they’re spending what would have been the rest of their retirement savings on the dream vacation she always wanted to take. They met during the war, decades ago… he was a soldier and she was a nurse, and he hurt his leg, maybe, and wound up in a field hospital.

It would have been terribly romantic. 

Your eyes shift away from the couple and onto a few other new faces. 

Maybe that’s why you liked the carnival. It was nice to look at new people and imagine where they came from, what they did. The kind of life they had, which was surely more interesting and worldly than yours.

With people watching in mind,  you abandon your bench in front of the games and head deeper into the carnival, weaving yourself in between snack and ticket booths, stepping over large black cables that kept the rides running. 

Dusk had already settled in, and the warm glow of the summer had been replaced with a deepening sense of evening. The carnival lights had already begun to play against the darkening sky, creating that magical atmosphere that couldn’t be replicated during the day.

You don’t notice the stranger at first. It’s dark, the lights are a bit dizzying, and there are plenty of people simply wandering around and taking in the sights. What’s one more stranger, when over the course of the next few hours and days, the summer will be increasingly filled with them?

But this particular stranger shows up in the corner of your vision and immediately strikes you as… odd. He’s just standing there.

Watching you. Staring--right at you. What the fuck?

He’s wearing all black, and there’s some sort of scarf or cowl over his face. His eyes look impassive but there’s something awful in them, even in the brief glances you get from catching him from the corner of your gaze.

What a creep. 

It sours the mood, and you decide to leave, or at least take a break and shake off whatever out-of-towner decided to pull off his best edgy horror movie impression to creep you out. It wouldn’t be the first time a tourist behaved like a jerk, or a weirdo, especially if they’d be drinking. 

Something about nighttime at the carnival made people go wild. 

So you head away from it all, from the couples trying to win stuffed animals, from the giggling shrieks of people on rides that spun them upside down until they wanted to puke. And maybe you should just head right home, but it’s not fair to waste a night of good weather.

Cool, but not too cool. Pleasant. The moon is out and the stars twinkle overhead.

Heading out on the dock might be nice. Tourists don’t bother with it, at least not on Thursday, when the beach isn’t lit-up and there’s no particular reason to head out this way. 

But you’d been to this beach in the evening before; you weren’t scared of the dark. By contrast, you liked the way the beach sounded at night. The water moving in and out, slow and sure. The occasional sound of wildlife splashing in the water. And the din of the carnival behind you, all rainbow lights and indiscernible human happiness.

Your joy is cut off by the sound of footsteps. Your heart leaps in your chest and your hands slam into your pocket instinctively, fumbling for your keys. Fuck, how were you supposed to use these in self-defense again? Put them between your fingers?

Your heart hammers and you slowly turn around, squinting as you make out a figure approaching you in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” a voice calls out, penitent. “Did I scare you? I’m trying to get reception.” The man wiggles a small silver object in the air, raising it above his head. A small LED screen lights up and your heart rate begins to calm, slowly but surely.

After a few beats, he sighs, and shoves the phone in his pocket. 

He turns, apparently to leave, but then looks back at you. “Are you all right? I really didn’t mean to startle you.”

You swallow, lick your lips. Feel stupid for the keys in your fingers. He seems nice enough. A typical tourist. “Um, yeah.” You laugh, an empty sound. “I guess I’m just a little jumpy tonight.”

The moonlight doesn’t give you a clear view of the man’s features, but you can see him tilt his head a little. “Jumpy?”

The keys in your pocket rattle when you let them go, and pull your hands out to point back towards the carnival. The man follows your finger with an almost studious interest.

“Someone was following me, maybe? Or he just seemed a bit creepy.” You laugh again, a habit ingrained after years of dealing with men in odd situations--defuse, tread lightly, always. “He was staring at me, but I couldn’t see his face. He had a scarf over it, I think.”

The man in front of you hums in acknowledgement after a moment. He almost seems a little amused, which is both irritating and relieving in its own way. You were just being silly, jumpy, overreacting, weren’t you? Maybe the guy wasn’t even looking at you in the first place.

“Can I walk you back to the carnival? It doesn’t feel right to leave you here alone.” 

Ah, no, you think. Sure, the man in front of you might just be a tourist in search of reception, but that doesn’t mean you’re stupid. This is how people get murdered. Or attacked. Or like, hoisted into white vans and never seen again.

“No, that’s okay. I was going to stay out here longer and look at the stars. I’m going home soon, anyway.” Not a complete lie, since you did really want to go home. Something like this is usually enough for most people to take the hint, right? 

The man doesn’t turn around. Instead, you see the shape of his smile, lit only by the moon in the sky above.

“You want me to walk you back to the carnival,” he says simply, and offers his arm out, like some kind of old-fashioned gentleman. 

Oh. Of course you do. What were you thinking, staying out here on the dock at night? Mosquitoes would eat you up, anyway. 

You smile in return and take his offered arm, stepping lightly as you make your way back to the carnival with a complete stranger.

Only by the time you make it back to the threshold of the carnival, which seems to be eaten up by the darkness surrounding all of the twinkling lights, he’s not really a stranger, is he? 

And as you get closer to the carnival, the natural darkness of the beach gives way to an abundance of artificial lights that allow you to see him better. He’s cute--no doubting that, with dark hair that frames his face, and a bandage around his forehead. Maybe an accident, or an unfortunate birthmark. 

Even if you weren’t familiar with most of the town’s residents in one way or another,  you’d know he was an outsider from the way he’s dressed. A slim motorcycle jacket and dark jeans… not the type of guy that hangs around here for long.

As you stop at the border of the carnival, he asks where you live, and you tell him--”around.” He admits that he’s only in town for the carnival week. 

“I figured,” you say lightly enough.

He raises his eyebrows. “Is it that easy to tell?”

You put your hands into your pockets and look around you. 

“I mean, it’s a small town, right? Everyone knows everyone, after a while. A new face stands out pretty easily.”

His smile is charming. Practiced, but charming. Or maybe being practiced is how it’s so charming in the first place.  “That makes sense.” He considers you for a moment. “You like to watch the tourists, then?”

You shrug and gesture with your chin towards a mom with a toddler clinging to her hand, pulling her along towards one of the games with enormous stuffed animals.

“I like people watching, I guess. Sometimes,” and as you’re saying it, you don’t know why you’re telling him this so openly. “Sometimes I like to make up stories about people I see. Like, where they’re from or what they do or a backstory like they’re from a movie or whatever.” 

Your cheeks feel suddenly, stupidly hot. Christ, you meet a handsome stranger on the beach and your first major conversation involves you admitting you make up stories about people? You’ve got to get out of this town more.

But he doesn’t seem like he’s judging you. If anything, he looks interested. 

“And what would you imagine for me?”

The question is unexpected. 

“I think…” You try to force your mind to wander like it does when you people watch organically. What would you imagine, if you came across him walking around the carnival in the evening? He’d be on his own, surely, maybe his hands in his pockets. Quiet. A soft smile on his face, maybe? 

“I think you’re some sort of… librarian. Or a curator. A collector?” You shake your head, unsure of exactly where you want to go with this one. “The point is, you’re traveling around the country, looking for things to add to a museum or library or something like that. And you came across an ad for a summer carnival and thought you’d take in some local culture.” You gesture towards the carnival--the lights, the crowd of people, the humanity on display. “But walking around here makes you feel lonely. So you walk down to the beach in the hopes of distracting yourself. Only,” you add, with a cheeky grin. “To come across the most amazing small town waitress in 100 miles standing on the dock like a weirdo.” 

He doesn’t smile at your story. Not exactly. Instead--and you look away when you notice, feeling too rude for staring--his eyes widen just a smidge and he purses his lips in a thoughtful way. 

“My name is Chrollo,” he says. “May I have yours?”

Chrollo is kind of old-fashioned, you decide. Perhaps you were more spot-on than you realized with your story. 

Maybe you shouldn’t give your name. But there’s a giddy feeling inside your chest. Something akin to what you used to feel when you were a teen and you snuck out in the middle of the night for bonfire drinking parties.

I mean… a handsome stranger in a motorcycle jacket who escorted you back from the beach wants your name? You’d be stupid to say no. 

So you give it. 

At that, he finally smiles again.

“Well, then,” he says softly, saying your name in such a way that makes you hope he’ll say it again in the future, “I hope I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

--

“Help! Someone help me! For God’s sake!”

Jake Jensen cried out these words as loudly as he could--as clearly as he could, with booze slurring his words and making his mouth all mumbly. But he wasn’t loud enough. No one heard him. Not over the music and delighted screams of the carnival.

He had been chased away from the beach, past the dock, into a little storage shed used for kayaks rented to tourists during the summer. His worn out body protested with every movement, his lungs hacking from years of cigarettes. 

His attackers, who blocked the door frame, said nothing. They only looked at one another, silent words passed between them, and the taller of the two grinned in the darkness. 

Jake Jensen died screaming.

--

Friday

You tell yourself that you’re only sitting here on this bench, munching on fresh hot popcorn, because you had a hankering for carnival food. Definitely didn’t come here in the hopes of seeing a certain someone. You tell yourself this even as your eyes dart here and there, looking for any sign of the not-quite-a-stranger from last night. 

The sun has just set, and it’s a bit hard making out faces in the glow of the early evening. There are a lot more people here tonight, a new wave of tourists drowning out the familiar faces. Not that the locals shy away from the carnival--you spot your former best friend from high school, your old math teacher, one of the regulars at the diner… Jake Jensen isn’t in his usual spot at the games, but maybe he’s sleeping off a hangover. He never misses a summer carnival.

“Hello again.”

Oh--you choke on your current handful of popcorn just as Chrollo appears suddenly in your line of sight, hands in the pockets of his motorcycle jacket, a casual smile on his face.

“Hey,” you say, coolly, like you didn’t just nearly spit chewed popcorn kernels in his face when he approached. The silence between you doesn’t last long, but you fill it anyway. “You um, want some popcorn?”

But when you hold out the now half-filled container, Chrollo only looks at it curiously. Like he’s never seen popcorn before or something? But then he takes a small handful and pops it in his mouth. Chews--but he might as well be chewing broccoli, for all he seems to enjoy it. Oddly, he watches you while he chews, seemingly studying your face. Did you have popcorn in your teeth?

Better to fill the silence again.

“Well, what do you think?” You ask, grinning, popping another handful in your mouth. “It’s my favorite because it’s fresh, and that booth actually uses real butter. Not the fake oil stuff.”

Chrollo hums in agreement. “I see. I thought that tasted like real butter. Thank you for sharing.” 

You decide on the spot that you’re going to make the most of this evening, popcorn-in-teeth or no. So you shrug and give your best smile. “No biggie. Buuut… you will owe me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh? And what will I owe you?”

It’s your turn to hum as you look out towards the carnival, scanning past the numerous faces, the booths, children running with balloons and sticks of cotton candy. “A ride on the Ferris wheel once it’s properly dark would be nice.”

A snort, though his nose. “I think I can manage that.”

He offers his arm again, and you take it, not minding how old fashioned it was. Somehow, despite his jacket, his sleek hair, the hint of motorcycle oil mixed with cologne, old-fashioned seemed to suit him.

Lots of things seemed to suit him, actually. You learn this as the evening wears on. He’s great at carnival games, choosing only a select few that he claims to be an expert in. He wins you a few stuffed animals that you pass on to little kids, save a smaller teddy bear that you can shoved inside your purse. 

You learn other things, too. Like, he’s a great listener. He lets you talk--about yourself, about the town--and doesn’t interrupt or tell you that you talk too much or make it clear he’s not listening to a thing you say. He even asks you questions, which shows he’s actually listening, and not just thinking about other things and waiting to ask you to go somewhere “private” like some other guys.

It’s nice, surprisingly nice, to find someone from out of town who’s so thoughtful.

The line for the Ferris wheel is always long once the sun goes down, and you’re one of the last rides of the night. 

When the carnival worker locks the bar down over your waists, you kick your legs and wait for the strange rush of adrenaline and pleasure that comes with the Ferris wheel. It’s a beautiful sight--all colored lights contrasted against the night sky, whisking you high into the air and giving you a view of the entire carnival and the ocean beyond.

But your body always reacts to the imagined danger of being carried so far away from the safety of the ground, and when the Ferris wheel reaches the top and begins to circle over for the first time, your stomach lurches and you gasp.

“Are you scared?” Chrollo’s voice is low--you could swear he’s teasing, but there’s something else in there, too. 

“Yeah,” you say, breath catching as you're brought back closer to the ground, only to be whisked away again. “Of course. What if something goes wrong, and I fall off and break my neck?”

Chrollo tilts his head. “You’d be dead.” 

You can’t help but grin. He’s so to-the-point sometimes. It’s charming in its own way, although you can’t exactly describe what “its own way” means with Chrollo. It’s like he stepped out of some old fashioned film but also came out of a cooler city. A biker who carries around an embroidered handkerchief, or something like that.

“And I don’t want to die, hence--the stomach flipping.” 

Chrollo looks ahead, then, taking in the view as the Ferris wheel carries you over again. “No? How long do you want to live, then?”

The snort is involuntary. A philosophical question on the Ferris wheel--not exactly what you expected from tonight. But maybe it’s not so bad. He’s good company. And Chrollo looks earnest in his question, too, which makes you feel guilty for snorting in the first place. 

Maybe it’s the lights of the Ferris wheel that dazzle you; maybe it’s the way being on the Ferris wheel at night makes you feel like you’re in some wonderful haze of a dream. 

Whatever it is, you fling your hand into the air, towards the carnival, towards the stars.

“Long enough to achieve my dreams,” you breathe out, earnest, almost sing-song. “Whatever they might be. I haven’t figured them out yet.”

Chrollo turns his head to look at you. His eyes almost seem magnetic against the night sky, with the lights of the carnival playing in them. 

Then, as the Ferris wheel brings the two of you down towards the ground, you see him. The man from yesterday, with the cowl over his face. He’s looking right at you, and it’s no mistake or figment of your imagination.

Your head swivels to the side and you grip the bar of the Ferris wheel until your knuckles hurt. You jerk one hand out and point to the stranger on the ground with a trembling finger. 

“There--look! Look!” 

Chrollo takes a moment to respond, and follows the sight line of your finger.

But now--there’s no one there.

“What do you see?” He asks, clearly unknowing that the object of your terror has vanished into thin air.

“The man… the man from yesterday. He was right there. I swear.” Your chest hurts; fear hurts. 

Unbidden, Chrollo pulls you close to him, and you let him hold you tight.

“You’re all right. I’m here.” 

He holds your chin in his fingers. “You’re safe, do you understand?”

The fear in your chest seems fuzzy now, like it had almost never been there in the first place. How silly of you to be scared, when Chrollo was right here. It doesn’t even seem strange that he’s touching you so intimately, does it? So you nod--yes, yes, you understand. 

Chrollo smiles. 

“Let me kiss you,” he says simply.

And you will. Of course you will. What else would you want to do? 

But as you lean forward, eyes already closing, he pulls himself away.

“Wait.” You blink, head clearing, and he continues, words slow, careful. “Would you like to kiss me?”

Now, you think about it. Maybe it was too hasty. But the lights of the carnival are beautiful and Chrollo is beautiful, and he’s been so thoughtful all day, and now he’s here, holding you, promising to keep you safe from carnival creeps.

A summer carnival is the time for a flirty romance, after all. 

“Yes,” you answer, simply. “I would.”

Chrollo’s finger strokes your chin as you lean in and share your first kiss on the Ferris wheel, glittering lights and carnival music dancing in your mind. 

--

The wife died first. Too quickly, but perhaps it was all the alcohol in her system; $1 margaritas at a local watering hole on a Friday night did nothing to make her more agile when being chased by predators while running in black city heels that had no place in a small town carnival.

Well, to the dying woman’s credit: it was the heels and alcohol and the sliced tendons in her ankle. Taut wires cut through her flesh like butter and she was down for the count, crawling, sobbing, begging for her husband, for God, for anyone to help her.

No one did.

Those pitiful cries, too, were cut down by a wire pressed into her throat; silencing her vocal chords, yes, but spilling blood over her neck that was as pretty as a sight as anything to those watching her choke and scrabble her hands against the ground, eyes wide, gaping, wondering--how is this happening to me? 

The margaritas may have hindered her before her unfortunate ankle accident. But they did make her blood taste sweet and tangy. Metallic, rich, with a twist of lime. All that was missing was a miniature umbrella.

This joke was said aloud, once everyone had a taste of her. A few laughed, blood on their teeth. 

Her husband didn’t seem to find it funny, but perhaps he was more preoccupied with his own current slow death. An arc of his blood spurted into the air--”Don’t fucking waste it, Uvo”--before a greedy mouth latched onto the wound, beginning to suck him dry.

The husband, like the wife, would be shared.

Soon, though, there would be no need for sharing.

There would be enough for everyone to have their fill--and beyond that.

There would be enough to gorge.

--

Saturday:

Three people are dead. 

You didn’t know them know them, but the shock is still there, making your hands tremble a little as you pour morning coffees and deliver plates of steaming eggs and overcooked bacon to tables of locals and tourists in almost equal measure.

Jake Jensen is one of those people. The identities of the other two are unknown--”Due to the state of the bodies, no identification could be provided at this time,” said the sheriff, above a rolling news ticker that had been on the diner’s singular TV all morning--but they might be a couple. A man and a woman.

People die all the time. Sure. But…  dead bodies are not often found in your small town, where gossip typically revolves around couples breaking up or a local store not putting up enough holiday decorations to appease the older crowd. 

Yet now, in one morning, there are three. 

Jake Jensen, who was found near the beach.

And an unknown man and woman (John and Jane Doe) who were found in a wooded area near the carnival.

“Mighta been a bear,” says one of your regulars, gnawing on a piece of his burnt bacon. He liked it that way.

“I heard they were drained of blood!” Your head--and others’ too, you suspect--turns to the voice. It’s not a local. Someone who’s far too dressy for the diner, sipping on a coffee they brought from home while they sample your diner’s less than stellar fruit salad option. He’s oblivious to the stares, to the eye rolls, to the immediate dismissal that his outsiderness earns him. “Two puncture wounds on the neck. Heard it from a cop while I was walking in this morning.”

Someone murmurs a joke about vampires and the locals chuckle, then go back to their coffee, their eggs, their eyes now and then glancing up at the old TV screen.

Your eyes roll, too, but then you wonder.

If they were murdered--and it’s an if, of course, because it could have been animals and Jake Jensen could have gotten so plastered that he fell off the dock or something, murders just don’t happen in your town--then… could it have been that creepy guy from before? The one who’s been following you around the carnival?

Shit, maybe he was waiting for the chance to get you alone, so he could drag you off to the dock or the woods and slit your throat. The thought gives you goosebumps, and acrid coffee tries to climb its way up your throat, before you swallow it down.

It was a good thing you had Chrollo around for the past two days.

And you’d be seeing him again tonight.

They weren’t canceling the carnival--it brings in too much money. And while a part of you is all sore and soft for poor Jake Jensen (who was never mean, just drunk) you try to brush it away. It’s sad. But life is sad. 

You don’t want to be sad tonight. You want to look nice--for Chrollo? He wasn’t the first out-of-towner that had flirted with you, that you’d flirted with back. He was the first one that you’d ever genuinely looked forward to seeing again, though.

So.

You want to be wearing your best smile when you meet Chrollo again tonight. 

And you can’t do that if you’re thinking about Jake Jensen’s body washing up on the beach or if there’s a small, tickling question dancing through your mind--

What sort of animal leaves two pretty little puncture wounds on the neck?

--

You sit on the same bench as before; the bench, in your mind, where you and Chrollo have taken to meeting up these past few days. 

There’s no room in your stomach for popcorn tonight, though. Or rather, there’s room--your stomach growls--but you can’t imagine chewing anything rich, hot and buttery right now. Your thoughts flit between horror (poor Jake Jensen, one time, when you were younger, he helped you fix a flat bike tire) and romance (Chrollo’s lips on yours, warm, the breeze tickling your neck, the lights of the Ferris wheel twinkling around you).

You feel bad for wanting to enjoy tonight. But that’s not fair, is it? Another small town tragedy: caring too much about someone you didn’t really know as anything more than a passing familiar face that you can’t even focus on a hot date. 

Fuck. 

“Daydreaming again?” 

The evening sky above you is a wash of deepening colors, devoid of actual sunlight but clinging to the last vestiges of it like a child refusing to let go of his mother’s hand on the first day of school. 

He’s holding up a stick of bright pink cotton candy in one hand, while the other arm is offered for you to take--the contrast between his leather jacket, the ball of fluffy sugar he’s holding, and the way he sometimes acts like an old timey gentleman out of the movies is enough to make you smile.

Perhaps there’s bitterness in it, because as soon as you’re standing, Chrollo regards you with a measured look.

“Are you all right?” 

Well. You don’t want to ruin your evening, but it would be stupid to pretend everything was all sweetness and sunshine, wouldn’t it? It’s better to get it out of the way. 

“Sorry, it’s… I don’t know if you saw the news?” He says nothing, and you continue. “Those people that they found dead this morning.” Your lips press together. “I mean, the guy--I knew him, sort of? Everyone did. He was drunk all the time, yeah, but he wasn’t a jerk about it.”

Chrollo hums.

“I can imagine that would be shocking for you to hear.” 

Your smile is shaky, and you nab a piece of cotton candy from the stick and shove it in your mouth. The sweetness contrasts awfully with the words that pass through your lips. “For you too though, right? I mean, it’s not every day three people turn up dead at some small town carnival.”

Chrollo raises an eyebrow in a way that seems to say that he is not particularly shocked by the news. 

“Shit, really? What are you in your non-touristy life, a mortician or something?” A sudden realization washes over you, that Chrollo has an entire life outside of you and these carnival evenings; he has a past, and family, and friends, and a job. Hopes, dreams, the whole nine yards.

“Something like that,” he says. When you move to apologize, he shakes his head. “It’s alright. I’m not terribly shocked by these things, I suppose, because of what I see in my day to day.” He looks at you a little curiously. “But I can see how it would rattle you.”

You open your mouth, but you don’t know what to say. Sugar sticks to your teeth.

“Come on.” Chrollo drops the cotton candy into a nearby trash can, and leads you towards a row of carnival games. “I know what might take your mind off things.”

For once, you’re glad to see the carnival games; the fast-paced spitting words of the barkers trying to hustle money from kids and couples, the sound of darts popping balloons, the triumphant music that plays before the obnoxiously difficult water shooting game. 

You’re even glad to see the tourists in all of their Saturday glory, which isn’t so much “glory” as it is a sort of restlessness. Saturdays were always a strange day at the carnival; the last middle day before the grand finale. An unusual mixture of sleepiness, anticipation, and a buzz that held everyone together until tomorrow.

Strange day, strange faces. Some stranger than others. Staring up at the bell at the top of the Test Your Strength game is an exceptionally tall man with wild dirty blonde hair. By the size of his muscles, he might just break the game, which hadn’t been replaced in the many years you’d been coming here in the summer.

You tug on Chrollo’s arm and point the man out. “What do you want to bet the carnie will try to get him not to play? He might just break the thing…”

“I don’t doubt it.” Beside you, Chrollo snorts, but doesn’t linger on the man as he leads you further into the carnival. 

The two of you walk, and talk. About nothing and everything. He asks you to come up with stories for a few tourists, and you do. Light ones. It really does take your mind off things. At some point, Chrollo buys you fries, which taste slightly sweet; probably cooked in the same oil as the funnel cakes. 

You dig in your heels in front of the fun house, but Chrollo shakes his head, and won’t go in.

“Are you scared?” You tease. At night, the fun house was all lit up, and the clowns painted on the front had a ridiculously sinister air to them.

But Chrollo doesn’t smile or laugh. “They make me dizzy,” he says, quietly. There’s something behind his words, but you don’t know what. A medical problem? A bad experience? You apologize and then he does smile, shaking his head, at himself, or you, you’re not sure. “Think nothing of it, dear.”

Dear.

You want to hold onto that bit of affection like the sky holds onto the sunset on summer evenings. At least as long as you can, which tonight, seems to be until Chrollo takes you on the Ferris wheel again. 

This time, he holds your hand as soon as the attendant locks the bar down. Your fingers interlock and squeeze and it sends butterflies rushing through your chest. What was there to worry about, to think about, when you were sitting next to him? 

It takes a few turns around the Ferris wheel to remember what you were supposed to worry about, because on the trip down, your stomach fluttering from romance and gravity alike, you see him: the strange man. The stalker. The maybe-serial-killer-on-the-loose. 

He’s standing still in the crowd walking here-and-there around the Ferris wheel, couples intent on getting in line, children running from tired parents as they beg for another carnival game.

And he’s staring straight up at you.

You don’t think this time. You grab Chrollo and point straight down and practically screech out the words: “There! He’s there! Look, look--look!” 

And the stars must be aligned, because Chrollo actually sees him. His grip on your other hand tightens and he pulls you closer to him as you make your way back around the Ferris wheel and the man goes out of sight. By the time the two of you are at the top again, the stranger is gone.

Your goosebumps remain.

“We should talk to the police,” you murmur, a quiet, scratchy whisper.

Chrollo turns towards you. You recognize the look. The “Do you really think the police will do anything about this?” sort of look. 

“I’ve been thinking…” You squeeze Chrollo’s hand and he squeezes back and that’s all you need to keep going. “That maybe he might have something to do with those people? The ones they found this morning?”

Chrollo’s eyes widen just a little. It’s both comforting and worrying to see him look taken aback, even if it’s only a bit. 

“I heard…” You feel stupid saying this. But you shouldn’t feel stupid, not with Chrollo. He hasn’t given you a reason to feel like you can’t tell him things. “Someone at the diner today said they were found with puncture wounds on them. I was thinking, maybe… like an ice pick? Or a screwdriver or--I don’t know. But maybe they were killed.”

“Perhaps he’s a vampire,” Chrollo offers, voice low, lips curled into a smile, and your face must reflect the flash of offended shame that rushes into your chest, because he immediately apologizes. His sigh flutters against your cheek. “Well. He wouldn’t be the first killer to prey on crowds or small towns, would he?”

At least he didn’t say you were crazy to connect the two things, vampire joke aside.

He keeps you close once the ride is over, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“I’ll inform the police,” he insists, when the two of you finally stumble on a pair of deputies patrolling the carnival. He leaves you standing next to the Test Your Strength game, where the carnival barker has agreed to keep an eye on you. It made you feel like a child, but for once, maybe that wasn’t a bad thing--to be watched and protected.

You watch, biting your nails now and then, as Chrollo and the deputies talk. In the end, they shake his hand, and you feel cool relief in your stomach. The police will know what to do with the information. If this guy’s a killer, they’ll catch him. If he’s not, well. The carnival was almost over, and you wouldn’t have to worry about him much longer.

Things will be normal soon.

When Chrollo returns, you take his arm without hesitation, but this time he begins to lead you away from the carnival.

“I was thinking,” he says, “that we might go for a walk. Get away for a bit. If you don’t mind, that is.”

You don’t mind at all. 

“Do you like trails?” You ask, steering him towards a trail that leads from the beach to a popular hiking spot for locals. “It’d be a bit more private. As long as you’re not scared of the dark.”

Chrollo chuckles. It’s a warm, dark, rich sound, and it sends a delightful thrill right through you. 

“I’m not if you aren’t,” is all he says, and that’s enough for you to point out the way.

Thoughts of dead bodies and stalkers fade away with the carnival, whose sights and sounds fade bit by bit as you and Chrollo leave the beach and begin making your way into a wooded area with a paved hiking path lit on the other side by electric trail lights. 

“I’m surprised to see these,” Chrollo says, quietly. He pulled his phone out at the start of the trail to give the two of you more light, though the trail lights were decent enough, especially since you’d been up here more times than you could count.

“Mm,” you murmur. “Locals come up here all the time at night. Especially teens. Usually to make out and stuff.” Chrollo gives you a look and your cheeks hit up, but you don’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to know about your high school escapades. “They added them to avoid the inevitable lost-teen-in-the-woods-at-night rescue scenario, I think.”

“Clever,” he says. 

--

The waterfall is loud when you’re this close; so loud you can’t hear anything in the moment but your own thoughts, which have grown louder and louder somewhere between the hiking trail and this popular waterfall spot. So popular that it’s lit with a flood light near the top--supposedly a teenager slipped in one night and drowned in the shallow pool, though you’ve never been certain if it was a true story or not.

Regardless, you’re not sure you want to stay. No--you know you don’t want to stay. 

This is a bit much, is what your thoughts are starting to scream. Chrollo is nice, but you don’t really know him, do you? And you just walked somewhere alone with him in the dark after being surprised by a maybe-stalker, the day that three people were found dead around here.

Yeah. A bit much might be an understatement. You should really get back to where there’s more lights and people and civilization in general. If Chrollo is a nice person (and he is, you insist, you’re just being smart!) he won’t mind. 

“I think we should go back,” you say, but Chrollo can’t hear you. So you cup your hands around your mouth and lean closer to his ears. “I think we should go back!”

You expect him to nod and take your arm and lead you carefully down the lantern-lit trail, perhaps still using his phone to guide the way. Instead, he takes your chin in his hands--you move to jerk it out, you’d rather wait until you’re back at the carnival to kiss again--but his grip is impossibly strong.

“It’s all right,” he says, and it’s the strangest thing, you can hear him so clearly despite the roaring waterfall just a few feet in front of you. “You know that you’re safe with me. You don’t want to go back yet.”

How strange. How silly. Why did you want to leave, when you just got here? You didn’t even show him the best part yet.

“Come on!” It’s your turn to pull him along as you carefully walk the path leading to the front of the waterfall, which has already begun to soak water through your clothes. 

“Is there a cave?” Chrollo asks--and again, you’re struck by how easy it is to hear him, despite the water rushing down in front of you. 

“You sure know your way around local watering holes,” you jest. 

He merely smiles. “I travel a lot.”

With that, you grip his arm tighter and run through the waterfall, shrieking in delight. Both of you emerge on the other side soaked; you, grinning, and Chrollo, looking around with interest.

The inside of the cave was lined with endless rows of fairy lights, courtesy of a local high school group. They had also brought in the two couches--used leather, frayed and flecking, but good enough for a hang out. When you were younger, there were only folding chairs; which were great for sitting, not so much for much less. 

“Do you like it?” You ask, then feel stupid. Why do you care so much what he thinks of some local hang out spot, especially one you hadn’t been in for ages? The same reason why you’d spent all day telling him about your daydreams, about small town memories, bits and pieces of local lore that he didn’t brush aside but seemed to enjoy hearing.

Chrollo was so different from the others you’ve met at the summer carnival. 

Maybe that’s why your heart begins to beat fast the moment you catch his eye again. His skin looks almost dewy in the glow of the lights, thanks to the water; his eyes shine, reflecting a soft, warm twinkling glow.

It’s just the two of you. No tourists, no locals, no would-be stalkers. Even the carnival itself seems far away; the lights blocked from view by the rushing water and canopy of the forest, even the wafting smell of popcorn and stale beer was long gone out here.

It was just you and Chrollo in a cave at the end of the evening. 

But… it didn’t have to be the end of the evening, did it? 

You ask him, this time. 

“Do you want to kiss me?” 

“I do,” he says. “Very much so.”

This time, your kiss is tinged with the tang of river water.

--

Five bodies lay scattered in the grass. Young men, young women. Teens that had been giggling and stumbling through the forest, flasks of pilfered whiskey in their bags. 

Now some dead and going cold, their limbs twisted, their mouths open in silent screams.

Two were still alive, whimpering, weak hands beating against monsters’ chests as open mouths hungrily lapped up their life blood. They had screamed, all of them, but no one could hear them in the woods--over the water. 

“This is a lovely spot,” said a woman, brushing back her blonde hair. A bit of red gore had stuck to the strands and she tsked at the sight of it.  “The waterfall adds a nice touch.” 

The man hummed, and stuck his hands in his pockets. The slightest touch of red showed on his lips; like a woman pressing her lipstick-covered mouth onto a bit of tissue to get rid of the excess. 

The carnage made him indifferent; the whimpers of the dying, even more so. But as he looked around at the carefully placed lights on the trail, the way they flickered against the waterfall and its hidden cavern like delicate stars, he smiled. 

“It came highly recommended.” 

--

Sunday: The Final Day

Chrollo was in your bed last night, and you thought he’d be there in the morning. But when the sound of birds pulls you delightfully out of a restful sleep and you blink your eyes open to dappled sunlight through your blinds, you realize that the bed is half-empty.

Just you and the sheets and the leftover smell of Chrollo--cologne and, more faintly, sweat and sex. 

You freeze, listening for the sound of someone meandering about an unfamiliar kitchen. He could be up and about already--making coffee or breakfast. The image of him serving up a plate of bacon and eggs almost makes you laugh.

But the apartment is silent, save for your breathing, the sound of a clock ticking in the living room. 

Your heart lurches and shame pricks at the back of your eyelids. He fucked you and ran, didn’t he? Just like the others, just like--

But just when you’re about to give into the temptation to scrub yourself all over with hot water and erase every trace of Chrollo that ever existed in your presence, you see it: a piece of paper, torn from a notebook you keep on your dresser. Carefully folded over and placed on the side table next to the bed.

Your name is on it, written in a surprisingly beautiful, scrawling hand. 

Curiosity and leftover shame-tinged dread curl together in  your stomach as you sit up and slowly pick up the note. 

Dear--

Your heart lurches again, for a different reason this time.

I apologize that I did not give you a proper farewell. I had an urgent matter to attend to. Forgive me, won’t you? We will see each other tonight, I hope, for a memorable and unforgettable evening.

Of course he didn’t fuck and run. He wouldn’t do that. And tonight would be--well, memorable and unforgettable, just as he said.

The pitter-pattering inside your chest takes on a new delightful cadence as you get yourself ready for the day. No work--you had Sundays off, thank God, maybe literally, for that. It was a shame Chrollo didn’t tell you where he was staying; presumably, the only hotel in town. But maybe he was at one of the B&Bs or was shacking up at a room for rent.

It would be nice to see him in the daytime, too.

But he didn’t, so you’re left with nothing to do but flick on the TV and make yourself a cereal bowl. Well, that’s wrong.  That’s not the only thing you could do. You could go to your parent’s house and help out your mom; she could use a break with caring for your dad.

But… was it wrong to be selfish, just a little, for just one day? You didn’t want to see Chrollo tonight with something unpleasant sticking inside you, on the potential chance that your dad was having a not-so-great day.

It was better to approach your last evening together with a sunnier attitude.

Although you don’t really have a choice, because the first thing you see when the news returns from a commercial break is a giant banner scrolling across the screen: TWO MISSING TEENS FOUND DEAD AT LOCAL WATERFALL. POPULAR TRAIL CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

In the background, the sheriff recites familiar lines about respecting the privacy of the dead, about putting the full energy of the police force into finding the investigation, about how there is no need to panic. He says that it may not have even been foul play.

Somehow, you don’t believe that.  You just know. 

Sugary cereal seems to lodge itself inside your throat. You were just there. You were just there, kissing Chrollo, holding his hand, and now two teenagers are dead and lifeless and, and--

And if it was that same man… the one who was staring at you, stalking you… how close did you and Chrollo come to dying last night?

Tears prick at your eyes and you grab your purse. Maybe you would spend the day with your parents, after all. 

--

You should be more excited to see Chrollo. And you are, truly. But between the news this morning and the dull realization that this would be your last evening together ever, it’s hard to feel too enthused. 

Chrollo would be going home after tonight. Tourist trap over, no need to stick around. Something childish in you thinks: maybe I can convince him to stay a little longer. And if he stays a little longer, he’ll see how nice it is here (it’s not) and maybe he’ll want to settle down (he won’t). 

Oh, how stupid. It’s like when you’d meet the endless stream of New Best Friends every summer weekend as a kid, and you’d beg their parents together to extend their vacation.

It wasn’t going to happen. You’ll never see him again after tonight, and you’ll go your separate ways, and that’s that. 

Reality sucks sometimes.

You’re still stuck in the dreary shit cloud that is reality when Chrollo’s now somewhat familiar footsteps approach you on the bench. The bench, your spot--your spot? As if you and Chrollo had anything that could be called an actual relationship that warranted the use of “your” plural. 

You shake your head, hoping it shakes those silly childish delusions, and force yourself to smile.

Chrollo, to your surprise, doesn’t smile back.

Instead, he leans down, and takes your hand. His eyes roam over your fingers like they’re something special and it makes your stomach flutter stupidly.

“You seem a bit sad,” he says, bringing your knuckles to his lips for a kiss. The way that makes you feel is something you love and hate in almost equal measure. It’s not fair, is it, that he makes you feel this way--when he has to leave, and you’ll never see him again.

Perhaps it’s the knowledge that you will part ways after tonight that makes you speak freely.

“I’m just sad that you’ll be leaving.” He blinks at you, and turns his head a little. “That we won’t see each other after tonight,” you clarify. 

You expect him to nod and agree, and perhaps say something trite but comforting, like, “We’ll just make the most of it.” 

Instead, he gives your hand a squeeze.

“We don’t have to part, you know.”

It’s your turn to blink. A silly, little-kid-in-you hope does a twirl. He could stay--and this could maybe, possibly, in some far off millimeter of a chance, turn into something more serious than a summer fling. “You could extend your vacation? Your job would do that?”

Chrollo finally smiles at you. 

“My life is flexible. But,” and now he pulls you up so that you’re standing. It’s a fluid, easy gesture for him, almost too easy--he’s stronger than he looks. “I was thinking that instead of staying here, you would come with me.”

The world around you is not silent. The carnival is always producing an eternal cacophony of sounds--screaming patrons hung upside down on the more thrilling of rides, cheery carousel music, laughter, popcorn endlessly beating like a fast paced drum, everything and anything all mixed together into a swirl of sound.

But it might as well be silent, because you feel like all you can hear is your heartbeat in your eyes for a few stretched moments. 

“What? You’re not serious.” You smile, too, but it feels fake. Like it’s plastered on and cracking underneath. There’s a brief thought--maybe he means, like, for a weekend?--but you instantly know that’s not what he’s talking about.

This is too much, too fast. Too out of the blue. 

Chrollo looks at you in a way that almost makes you uncomfortable. Like he wants to see something inside you that you’re keeping for yourself. Then that gaze is gone and he’s smiling softly, charming, a little bittersweet.

Bittersweet is familiar territory, and the ringing in your ears fades in favor of a carnival barker offering 2-for-1 prizes on the Test-Your-Strength game. 

Chrollo’s voice cuts through it all, jovial, unassuming. 

“We can talk about it later, if you’d like. Let’s go enjoy the carnival a bit more before the concert.” 

That would be nice.

“I’d like that.” 

And you mean it--you do. You shake your head and let Chrollo intertwine his fingers in yours, and it doesn’t take long for his question to fade away from your mind as you weave in and out of the crowds.

If you weren’t so distracted, so disarmed, you might have noticed an uncomfortably familiar figure clad in black watching the pair of you intently.

--

The Ferris Wheel worker should have kicked you off several spins ago, but Chrollo had slipped him a twenty as he buckled the safety bar down. It’s nice, this extra time with him--it’ll be the last time you ride the Ferris wheel together, after all. 

What did it say about the state of your love life--or your life in general, actually--that slipping a carnie 20 bucks made your heart soar (and twist, and ache) even a little bit?

The night is prettier from the Ferris wheel. The world, too. Up here, you can’t see the grit and grime. The fermenting candy apples littering the ground, dropped two days ago by careless kids; the too-drunk couples arguing about whether they should stay for the concert or not; the exhausted carnival workers smiling hard no matter how much they get yelled at for their rigged games.

All you can take in from up here is the broad vantage point. Crowds and happy sounds--squeals and music interplaying above crowds of people, including a growing crowd on the beach in front of the black stage, waiting for the concert to start.

Chrollo’s grip on your hand tightens and draws your attention back to him. Even he looks more beautiful from up here, with the rainbow lights of the Ferris wheel playing on his face. 

“I’ve enjoyed our time together,” he says softly.

Ah, you realize. The extra spins were for the inevitable “we’ll never see each other again but it was a blast” speech. You knew it was coming. Doesn’t make it any less bitter in your mouth. But what good is holding bitterness against your tongue?

“Me too,” you say, and it’s not a lie, even if you hate the way the conversation must end. You try to focus less on the sourness and more on the sweet that came before. After all, Chrollo was… well. Handsome, yes, magnetic, yes. But more than that. He seemed thoughtful. He listened to you prattle on about yourself and your small town, and he didn’t even make fun of you for knowing so many local stories.

He was good in bed, too, wasn’t he? You blink and realize you don’t actually remember all that much about last night, except that he wasn’t there in the morning. Vague snatches rush through your memory. You remember his mouth on your lips, his hand trailing against your skin, removing your clothes. You remember his mouth against your neck, then this teeth, nipping, and--

It’s all fuzzy. But you weren’t drunk. So why--

“Have you thought about what I said?” He asks, and once again you’re pulled away from your thoughts, although this time you’d like to focus on them. Why couldn’t you fully remember last night?

When you don’t answer, he raises his eyebrows.

“About coming with me,” he says, a bit louder, as if you can’t hear him over the carnival din.

You let out a soft puff of a breath, then, and force yourself to focus on the current conversation. For now.

“You’re serious?” You don’t mean to sound so flippant, but you do. Chrollo frowns, just a little, and you feel like a bitch for it. “Sorry. I just--I didn’t know if you really meant it.”

“I am,” is all he says.

You didn’t like the idea of the conversation headed towards Chrollo leaving, but you like the idea of him genuinely asking you to come with him even less. Partly because you know you never could, and partly because there’s some small, stupid, fantasy-of-your-hair-blowing-in-the-wind-wearing-a-leather-jacket-on-a-motorcycle part of you that wants to say yes.

“Chrollo, I can’t do that. I have a job here. A life.”

Chrollo doesn’t let go of your hand, but you can sense the way his muscles tense. 

“A job at a local diner slinging hash browns,” he says, voice dry and almost hurtful. You must look offended--are you? You can’t tell--because he turns a little in the seat, trapping you with his gaze. His voice is earnest now, drawing you in.

“Don’t you want more out of life? The ability to pursue your dreams--to figure out your dreams?” One hand goes to your cheek, and his knuckle brushes against your skin. “You could travel. See so much more than your little town. Imagine it.” 

An image starts to build in your mind. Unbidden by you, but there, somehow, nonetheless. Of you riding behind him on a motorcycle, holding onto his waist as he takes you wherever you want to go--wherever he wants to go, together. Life would be wild and unpredictable, but easy and fun and--

“My family,” you murmur, and Chrollo seems surprised that you’ve spoken. 

His lips press thinner. “You could write to them, call them. No matter at all.”

Whatever fantasy has built in your head gets swept away and the Ferris wheel finally comes to a stop. The seat rocks back and forth and the bored (but $20 richer) carnie lets you off. Chrollo helps you as he’s done every time.

You wait until he’s escorted you away from the Ferris wheel to turn and address him. 

“Chrollo, I can’t--” You try to find the right words, but there are no right words. “I don’t know you. Not… really. Not enough to give up my life here.”

Chrollo is quiet. He considers you, turning his head a little. You feel awful--maybe you should just end the night here, on this shitty, sour note, because you’ve probably ruined the rest of the evening anyway.  You wish he hadn’t asked again before the night was over, but there’s no way to fix it now.

You’re ready to leave, to bite your cheek so tears don’t come. You’re prepared for Chrollo to say something low and insulting, to dismiss you, because why should he waste another minute on someone who would rather stay here in this shitpot of a town than--

“Come along,” is what he says, finally, holding out his hand--to your utter confusion. He still wants to go to the concert? With you? Now?

But you take his hand anyway. 

“It would be wasteful to end our evening early and miss the concert.” 

His grip is harder than it has been, but maybe you’re imagining it as he pulls you along, weaving in and out as the crowds grow larger and a little more drunk the closer the pair of you get to the beach.

This doesn’t feel right, suddenly. He’s upset, that’s why he’s holding you so tightly. Or maybe you’re upset and imagining it. Either way, it doesn’t feel good. Your primal gut instincts are telling you that it’s better to cut your losses and leave now, then to spend the night with a flipping stomach. 

“Maybe I should just go home,” you yell over the crowd. 

Chrollo stops, and you stumble forward a little, but he catches you in both arms before you make an ungraceful acquaintance with the ground. The hand not gripping your own gently grasps your chin and he leans in, not quite kissing you. His breath smells off, like rust. 

“And miss the grand finale?”

You should insist on going home. Everything’s gone shitty. It’s too crowded and the music will be too loud, and Chrollo is clearly irritated with you--

“Come to the concert,” he whispers, and none of that seems to matter anymore. Of course, you’ll go to the concert. What else would you do? 

He keeps his grip on your hand as you walk onto the warm, crowded sands of the beach, even though you have no intention of leaving. 

--

Booze, sweat, and popcorn. That’s all you can really smell now, surrounded as you are by crowds of people jumping and swaying to some rock band you’ve never heard of before; but no one really cares what the music sounds like on a night like this, when alcohol has been flowing and summer is at its peak.

Even Chrollo seems to be enjoying himself, although he’s not dancing. Just holding you, his arm around your waist, pressing his lips now and then to your forehead.

You feel bad. That must be why there’s a pit in your stomach. You were being rude to him. Of course he’d ask you to come with him--if he’s the type to live so freely, he wouldn’t think twice about making the offer. He just doesn’t understand what it means to be rooted down, willingly or not, the way you are.

You can’t hold something like that against him, so you don’t. 

Instead, you sway to the music, hips bumping against Chrollo now and then. Maybe after this, he could come back to your apartment again, for one last…

All thoughts in your head are stomped into the stand when you spot the strange man with the cowl in the crowd. He’s standing stock still while everyone around him jumps and dances and flaps their drunken arms. 

And he’s looking right at you.

“Chrollo--” There’s no time to waste, and you grab his arm and jerk him towards the direction of the stranger.

But he’s gone. He’s just fucking gone. Cold terror seizes your chest.

“What is it, love?” 

The nickname doesn’t even register.

“That--the man--the guy from before--he was there.” Your voice begins to tremble, frightened tears welling in your eyes. “Can we leave? Please?” 

Chrollo pulls you closer to him and you feel dim comfort as he wraps his arms around you and presses his lips against your head. But he doesn’t tell you that of course, we’ll leave, of course, I’ll get you somewhere safe, of course, let’s talk to the police. 

“Hush.” One hand begins to pet your hair. “Not much longer now. It’ll be over soon.” 

“What do you…”

Behind Chrollo, you see another familiar face. Vaguely familiar. The tall man with wild blonde hair, the one who looked like he could snap the Test Your Strength Game in half if he really wanted to--he’s standing still, like the man from before, while everyone jostles happily around him. He’s not looking at you, but that doesn’t make it any less unnerving. 

Your eyes dart over the crowd.

There are others, standing still. Others who seem out of place immediately, either because of their appearance or something awful you can’t describe. A woman with pink hair looking impassively as she scans the crowded beach, keeping her body perfectly still. A man with long black hair and something shiny and thin strapped to his shoulder. A woman with blonde hair in a smart black tailored suit that no one in their right mind would wear to a summer night carnival concert. Others, too, all out of place and making you want to be anywhere but here.

And then in a few blinks, they’re all gone. Like they were never there.

Dizziness overtakes you, along with a strange sort of fuzzy fear. Is this what a heart attack feels like, maybe? No, it’s just panic. Understandable but undeniably awful panic. 

“Chrollo,” you manage, voice shaky. “Something’s wrong. There’s people, they seem--it’s---I don’t know how to explain, we should--I think we ought to--”

Chrollo doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns you around, keeping you in his arms as he makes you face the stage.

“You’ll miss the concert,” he whispers in your ear.

Helpless irritation courses through you. Who cares about the concert right now? You have half a mind to ask him why he’s not listening to you, but that impulse is gone the moment you see the tall man with blonde hair and impossibly large muscles leap onto the stage.

The guitars and drums come to a confusing, stuttered halt. The lead singer, clad in an oversized black t-shirt with a skull on it, looks like he wants to throw his guitar at the intruder.

“Dude, what the fuck, we’re playing up here, you can’t just--”

Even from your vantage point, you can see the large grin the blonde man sports on his face as he raises his fist and knocks the lead singer’s head off with a single punch. 

The body remains standing for a moment before collapsing without grace onto the stage. Blood spurts from the wound, spritzing high enough that it sprinkles the faces of those closest to the stage. 

There’s a noise from the crowd that almost, for a moment, sounds like a burst of startled laughter.

And then the blonde man leaps onto the corpse, opens his mouth until it’s gaping far too wide to be human, and begins to suck on the headless neck like a crawfish.

It’s that moment when people finally begin to scream.

Your head jerks towards one of the screams, and she’s there--the woman with the pink hair. Latched onto someone’s neck while blood dribbles from her mouth and the person, eyes bugged out, cries out in wordless pain. His body is cross-crossed with strange cuts, like someone pressed him through a sieve. 

You spin around, looking away from horror, only to see it again: the man with the long hair swings something out--a sword?--and strikes someone’s arm clean off his body, then pins that person down and begins to suck at the spurting blood. 

That’s not all he hit.  The person in front of them, a woman holding two drinks, staggers to the ground. Half her face slides off, revealing bone and brain. Lukewarm beer and gore meet the ground together.

You’re not entirely sure if you said Chrollo’s name, or when he let you go, or what you should do. All you know is that when you finally pull yourself together enough to look at him, he’s simply watching the events around you like a boring television show.

Like people aren’t screaming and running and bumping into you. Like blood isn’t flying. Like you aren’t seeing things that you’ve only seen in shitty horror movies. 

He’s in shock. Fuck. So are you, maybe? But it will be up to you to get the pair of you to safety, so you grab his arm and shake him hard.

“Chrollo! We have to go! Now!” 

He doesn’t move. You shake him again, and he finally looks at you. 

He smiles, and holds out his hand, ignoring your jostling.

“You’ve had time to think about it, haven’t you? Will you stay with me?” 

Oh, he’s definitely in shock. That doesn’t stop the impulsive words that flee your mouth as quickly as the people around you are trying--some not successfully--to flee the beach. 

“You’ve lost your fucking mind. Let’s go!” 

You don’t register what’s happened until you’ve hit the ground. Someone finally ran smack into you, and something--their elbow, maybe--strikes your head, hard. Pain blossoms in your knees and the side of your head when you hit the ground, then explodes when someone steps right on your hand.

There’s a feeling of lost gravity when someone yanks you up--Chrollo--but when you’re on your own two feet, he’s not there anymore.

You call his name. Once. Twice. Three times, four. He might not be able to even hear you over the din, if he’s nearby. Maybe he got swept away by the panicked people. Maybe his shock wore off and he ran to get help. Or ran--and left you.

There are a few moments where you almost run deeper into the crowd to look for him. A stupid thought. But then the wild, shock of fear inside you turns to complete ice and you’re not sure of anything in the world because he’s there. 

Standing in front of you.

Close enough to touch. 

Your stalker. The man with the cowl. Only the cowl is down, now, and his mouth is covered in a smear of blood. He smiles at you, and it’s not a nice smile at all. His smile grows wider, and you have to blink several times to realize what you’re seeing.

He’s got fangs.

Two of them, red tinged. Sharp enough to puncture your neck. 

They’re vampires. Actual vampires. Actual, damn bloodsucking vampires. 

There’s a brief, panicked thought--where’s Chrollo?--before your flight kicks in, and you’re scrambling through the crowd like everyone else. You stumble, of course you do. Over bodies, some dead, and you almost fall flat on your face when you make it off the beach and your ankle rolls on the uneven grass-covered ground.

If you were thinking logically, you might have run to the car park, and hopped into your car. You might have run in the direction of the crowds thinking the same, and gotten lost in them.

But there was no logic. Only pure primal panic, the realization that you people were being murdered all around you like animals, and you were one of those animals because one of the monsters was chasing you.

You didn’t dare to look back to see how far away he was; you just knew, deep down, that he was following you now. Running wouldn’t work: you couldn’t run forever, not with the pain in your ankle, and he’d catch up with you even if you weren’t panicked and in pain.

You had to hide.  But where? The carnival was all lit up at night, and the beautiful lights that had been fun to see just a day before now made you want to scream. He could see you, just about clear as day, no matter where you ran.

Unless you can find somewhere to hide inside.

It’s this thought that pushes you to dash inside the fun house, sneakers pounding on the silver ramp leading into the entrance painted over like a mouth devouring any children who enter.

The stillness inside startles you more than anything else. The lights are on. The music is playing, quiet, delightful. It’s hard to hear it over the dulled screams coming from outside, and from the awful, pounding rush inside your ears.

You follow the short hallway until it leads to something which you’d forgotten about; but it wasn’t your fault. Panic made you stupid, and you hadn’t actually been inside a fun house in years. 

The glass maze. All-see through panels that you’d smash into on an ordinary day, much less this one, where your mind is fried from panic and adrenaline keeps your body from coordinating properly. You smash against the panels a few times before you see it… something, behind you. 

No. Not something. Someone behind you. Or near you. Or far away. 

You can’t tell exactly where this person is, because of the fucking glass maze, but the fact remains:

He’s there--he’s here--he’s going to get you and kill you and it will hurt so bad.

You scream, at some point, and it’s dumb because the sound simply bounces off your current glass predicament and hurts your ears.

Maybe panic pushes you through, or maybe you’re just good at completing mazes when you’re in fear for your life; whatever the reason,  you make it out. You stumble through a hallway made of rollers that nearly send you sprawling, until you’re at the end of the hallway. 

A small red spiral staircase, barely usable for adults, is your only hope. 

You don’t try to be quiet now and the metal stairs clang under your feet as you run up them, feeling dizzy, feeling like this might be the last thing you ever do in your short, stupid life.

The second floor isn’t entirely enclosed. It opens out onto the carnival in the front, and there’s a slide to take you down near the end. The wall behind you is covered in a series of mirrors--the kind that make you tall or short or wide or impossibly thin.

It’s not the mirrors that catch your eye, though. It’s what’s down below. 

They’re all down there. The monsters from the beach. All covered in various amounts of blood and gore. Splatters. Smears. Like they’ve all gotten into different scrapes--killed people different ways. 

All of them have blood around their mouths. 

Fear rings in your ears. You want to wake up, more than anything. This is a nightmare and you want to wake up. 

You don’t wake up.

Instead, you hear a metal clang.

Then another.

And another.

Someone is coming up the stairs.

Thoughts dart here and there, but there’s nowhere for them to go. If you go down the slide, well. There’s a gang of monsters waiting to kill you down below. If you stay up here, well. There’s still a monster waiting to kill you.

The metal clangs again, and again, and again.

He’s coming up the stairs and he’s going to kill you. You’re going to die. Today. Now. 

Warm urine runs down your leg and thoughts come, too quick to really process: Mom-dad-school-work-never-did-anything-my-childhood-dog-that-one-time-we-went-to-Canada-to-visit-my-aunt-I-kissed-a-boy-under-the-bleachers-I-forgot-to-tell-dad-I-loved-him-yesterday-I-I-I--

It’s not the monster with the cowl who comes walking up the landing of the stairs. 

It’s Chrollo.

It’s like you blink and you’re in his arms, clinging to his shirt and sobbing like a child. He presses a kiss to your hair and you realize, gratefully, that he doesn’t look hurt. No blood on him, no scrapes, no bruises. 

“Thank God you’re here. Thank God you’re okay,” you say, reflexively. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

Chrollo pulls you tighter against his chest, and murmurs, “God? An interesting choice, my dear, considering…”

You aren’t even really listening. You’re just happy. Delirious, even. Chrollo’s here. He’ll help you. You can make it out together. Somehow. 

There’s an almost giddy sort of hope in your chest--until you hear the metal stairs clang again. And again. And again.

You whimper stupidly and pull on Chrollo’s arm. 

“We have to get out of here. Somehow. I don’t--maybe we can distract them?” Your eyes glance down at the monsters below you, who only seem to be watching more intently. The man with the blonde hair, which is now caked in blood, has an awful grin on his face. You imagine you can see his fangs, even if he’s too far away for you to properly make them out.

Chrollo doesn’t move. Shock again? Or he sees them, too, and knows the two of you won’t make it a step off the slide before being attacked.

The footsteps on the stairs stop. You look behind you, and your bowels clench at the sight of the monster with the cowl, pulled down, that same small, mean smile on his face.

Your hand tightens on Chrollo’s arm. A sentimental, if selfish, thought: At least I won’t die alone.

Chrollo turns, too, and looks at the man who’s been haunting you for days. Looks at the monster who has already killed people and feasted on their blood; at the creature who will now undoubtedly kill the both of you. Lovers for only a few days, but forever in death.

Chrollo sighs, and inclines his head towards the man. 

“Wait a moment, will you, Feitan?”

There were many things you might have said in this moment.  Eloquent things. Meaningful things. Things borne from inner betrayal and horror and anger. But all that comes out of your mouth, which gapes ridiculously, is: 

“Huh?”

And then something clicks, and realization dawns like a morning you don’t think you’ll live to see. The idea comes naturally, somehow. Borne of a childhood reading books and watching movies about vampires. Bloodsuckers. 

Your head turns, and you look over towards the wall of mirrors. You’re stretched thin like taffy about to break, your features a jumble in the dirty, cheap material. 

In the mirror in front of Chrollo, which should make him ridiculously short, there is nothing at all. 

When you look back at him, your eyes wide and pupils blown, he’s no longer the person you met a few days ago; the person you took to your bed, the person you were lamenting leaving. The person who kissed you and made you feel good, inside and out, if only for a while. 

He’s a vampire. 

“I advise you not to run,” he says quietly, if not, perhaps, a bit sympathetically. 

You do, because you aren’t a fucking moron. Though you don’t make it far, as it doesn’t do you any good to run towards the staircase. You run right towards the other monster--Feitan--who grabs you with ease.

He’s faster and stronger than he looks. Maybe they all are. Your body and brain don’t care about that, though, so you struggle with all of your might.

In response, your arm is deftly twisted behind your back and you expect this monster to stop, you expect your arm to meet its natural resistance while you struggle.

He doesn’t. It doesn’t. Your arm snaps and the pain is so sharp, so sudden, that your vision goes blind for a few seconds. In those few seconds, you scream.

When you’re aware of the world again, there’s still the pain. Sharp and awful and renewed every time you jostle your body in any direction.

Chrollo, walking up to you, hums in sympathy. 

“I know it hurts, dear. But this is what happens when you don’t listen to my orders. Do you understand?” 

The strangest thing (and in a world where the man you fucked last night is currently standing in front of you with fangs, that is saying something) is that Chrollo’s expression is not wild or monstrous at all. If you thought about it, and you’re having a hard time thinking with the pain of your arm and fear of impending death, you might say he looks hopeful. That you will understand. That you have learned something.

And you have. You’ve learned that he’s a liar, that everything he ever said and did was just to keep you around long enough to literally eat you, that he has no morals, no empathy, that he’s not even a person.

“I understand,” you manage, voice tinged and weak with pain, “that you’re a fucking monster.” You spit at him. Or try to. Your mouth is too dry to manage more than a stringy dribble that sticks to your chin. 

At this, Chrollo sighs. He shoves his hands in his pockets and frowns.

“You didn’t speak so crudely to me earlier this week.” A little smile. “Last night notwithstanding.” 

Bitter tears well up in your eyes. It was all just a game to him. Cat and mouse. Every smile, every thoughtful word. Every kiss. Your bodies pressed together, his mouth on yours--

“I didn’t know you were a… a… fucking vampire earlier this week.” 

Chuckles, from down below. Feitan, behind you, snorts. 

Chrollo doesn’t look angry, but you can feel a flash of it ripple through the air. It quiets the chuckles. Feitan tightens his grip on you, and the flash of pain makes you groan and slump forward.

“Regardless,” Chrollo says, “respect must be maintained. I expect you to refrain from these little outbursts. Do you understand?” There’s still a tinge of cooing sympathy in his voice--it makes anger bubble up in your chest. 

“Fuck you.” This time, the spit flies, and hits his cheek.

The gestures are slow. Unassuming. He wipes the spit off with the back of his hand. He wipes the back of his hand on his pants. And then he nods at Feitan.

Feitan’s hand reaches around your throat and when you glance down, you see that his nails grow. And sharpen. Sharp enough to cut, sharp enough to--

He drags his hand down your collarbone, and you feel the awful, deep sting of it before you see the blood spill out from your flesh. It coats the bare skin between your collar and the top of your shirt like some sort of morbid camisole. 

You cry out, you shriek, but he doesn’t let you go until Chrollo gives him another nod. You’re shoved towards Chrollo, who doesn’t grip you, but merely lets you stand, swaying, in front of you.

When you finally get the courage to look up at him, his pupils are blown up like a shark’s. 

“I’d like you to stay put this time,” he tells you, voice deeper, richer, at the sight of your blood. “And not run away from me. I’d like you to listen, and refrain from being… impulsive.” 

He leans in, and the scent of rust hits you, but this time you know what it means. “I could make you do it, you know. I don’t have to ask.”

Realization hits you again, and it hurts even more this time. That night, on the dock. And on the Ferris wheel. And how many other times he’d told you to do something, feel something. What was really you, and what was him? 

And now, despite all this, despite the scent of blood in the air and the wails of horror coming from the beach, he wanted you to listen to him? The audacity of vampires--it might have been funny, if you were in the mood to laugh.

“Like hell,” you mutter.

Chrollo breathes out through his nose. Impatient.

“I don’t believe I heard you, dear.”

You look up at him, gaze sharper. Heart sharper. 

“Like. Hell.” 

The slap you give him is weak. You’re surprised your good arm even managed it, all things considered. 

But the shock of the act that ripples from Chrollo to Feitan and even down below is what gives you a few microseconds to escape, to run, ears ringing from the pain of your jostled broken arm, and throw yourself down the slide.

You don’t have a plan. How could you? As soon as you get to the bottom, you’ll just run. Run and maybe die but maybe you’ll get away, someway, somehow.

You don’t get more than a few steps before you fall. Not fall, exactly. Trip. You trip over something that shouldn’t be there, something taught and thin. A wire? 

You see, from the corner of your vision, the woman with pink hair yank her hand backwards and the wire that shouldn’t be there slices deeply into both your ankles. Blood seeps through your socks before you even hit the ground. 

Your ankles burn and bleed, and new sparks explode behind your eyes when your broken arm smacks the ground at the worst possible ankle. You think you scream, but it’s hard to tell, over the pain.

Chrollo and Feitan jump down from the second story of the fun house. It should break their ankles--it does not. 

Someone turns you over on your back with their boot and you’re left staring up at the sky, ink black and throbbing with stars. It was such a pretty night, before all this. 

Above you, Chrollo and Feitan look down with decidedly different expressions. Chrollo regards you coolly, with no real expression on his face; it’s like a porcelain mask, indifferent, never-changing. Feitan, on the other hand, is smiling--he’s looking not at you, exactly, but at your blood.

It’s Chrollo who speaks.

“I would like an apology for your behavior.”

If your eyes were not safely attached to their retinas, they might bug out of your face entirely. You are laying on your back with bleeding, mangled ankles; your arm is broken, flopping, useless; a collar of blood adorns your neck. Vampires are standing above you, fangs at the ready, having already spread carnage through an entire beach of concert-goers.

And he wants an apology?

You want him to go away. To not be real.

You want your mom, and your dad, and your childhood bed with covers big enough to hide you.

So you shake your head, helpless, like an infant lying on their back.

Above you, Chrollo says your name. Sternly. Just once. 

When you muster up the words, you taste copper. You must have bitten your tongue after tripping. 

“F…fuck you.” 

Stupid words, you know. But you’d rather your last words be this than pointless begging. Now that would be stupid, begging for your life in front of grotesque creatures who want nothing more than to devour your blood. 

Somewhere above you, a gruff voice says, with a hint of glee in his voice:

“Want me to do it, boss?”

Your eyes dart around, but you can’t see anyone else. Even Feitan seems to have stepped back, leaving you with no one but Chrollo in your line of sight.

Chrollo tilts his head a little, considering.

“No,” he says, finally. “Feitan will handle it. I appreciate your methods, but you might break something a little beyond repair.”

Whoever spoke chuckles, but doesn’t disagree.

The words reach you, but you don’t take them in for a slow moment. 

Break… break… what else can they break, what else can they possibly do--

There’s a weight above you. A dark one that smells of blood and metal. It’s Feitan. He blocks out everything else, just for a moment, staring into your eyes with their big pupils and blurring tears.

When he pulls back, you see him move, but don’t know what it means until you feel an explosion of red hot pain in your hand--the hand you slapped Chrollo with. Your fingers crunch and break and you try to pull your hand away, but Feitan’s boot keeps it pinned down, grinding his heel until you shriek so loud that you think the inside of your throat will blister.

Time itself is hot and painful. You’re not sure how long it goes. You’re only sure that when you try to move your mangled fingers, they don’t move. Hot, thick pain shoots down them and it makes you stop trying to get up. 

It’s not like you could run, anyway.

At some point, you hear a new sound. Sirens in the distance. Police? Ambulances? There’s no hope in your chest, no thought that they’ll save you. Even if they got here in time, the monsters would kill them. 

Somewhere above you, Chrollo talks, though his words sound like they’re being spoken through water. 

“Take care of them, will you? We’ll meet up near the waterfall before we head out.” A question from someone. A pause. “Yes, I’ll handle her.” 

The voices fade away. Either because they’ve walked away, or you’re finally going to die from the shock. That might be a mercy compared to whatever grisly end Chrollo has in store for you. Is this how he planned for you to die, after all? Or was it meant to be swifter? You might have screwed it all up with your running and spitting.

Before Feitan broke your hand, you might have been proud of the spitting. Now you just wish you’d let them kill you quick. 

Finally, Chrollo returns to your line of vision. He’s a bit blurry from your tears, from your pain. Probably a bit from your blood loss, too.

He kneels down next to you, and you tense. Even tensing hurts, and you whimper. 

“Are you going to kill me now?”

Beside you, Chrollo coos. A soft, sticky sound. He takes your broken hand and your voice wants to shriek, but all you can manage is a strangled cry. He kisses your broken fingers like a gentleman.

“Kill you? Of course not.” He presses a last kiss to your mangled hand. “I do want to see that sweet girl from before.. the one who daydreams about strangers and holds onto my hand so tightly on the Ferris wheel.” An indulgent look crosses his face and he gives your broken fingers a painful squeeze that has you groaning.

“She’s still in there, no doubt.” His thumb brushes against your cheek, pushing away the dried salt of your tears. “Buried under fear and pain and newfound knowledge, no doubt.” He smiles nostalgically. “But those can be remedied with time.”

He’s crazy. I mean, you know he’s a vampire, sure. But he’s also fucking crazy.

“I want to go home,” you croak. Even though you can’t reason with crazy.  “Please. Please.”

His eyes blink down at you. How old is he, anyway? Centuries? Longer? To him, you must be nothing. Insignificant. Ridiculous. 

He doesn’t mock you, though. He only continues stroking your cheek with his thumb. “I’ll be your home now, wherever we go. And we will go so many places.” There’s some sort of dulled excitement in his expression that turns your stomach. “And from now on, you’ll do what I say, won’t you?”

Tears spill over your eyes, trickling down over his thumb. You don’t have the energy or the lack of survival instinct to say no. But you won’t say yes, either. You can’t. 

“Well. I can make you obedient, if you’d rather be stubborn.”

You’re about to ask--”What?”--when he kisses you, shutting you up entirely. 

You’re afraid to move. Your lips tremble against his, thinking only of death--of his fangs. His lips move and brush against your neck, and a mocking forgotten memory of last night flashes through you. He kissed your neck last night, too, a wet, sucking kiss that had your toes curling. Your toes curl now, too, out of fear. The blood from your ankle makes your toes slick inside your shoes. 

And then his fangs sink into your neck and hot, searing pain shoots through your entire body, masking everything else. Your ankles. Your broken hand.  Your brutalized arm. The cut on your collar. None of them matter compared to this pain, which is not localized at the sight of the bite but spreads throughout your bloodstream, making it impossible to think of anything but how much it hurts.

You’re dimly aware of your screaming. A helpless sound you heard from countless others tonight. Your legs kick, and you realize, vaguely, that you can’t really feel them anymore. They hurt, yes, but there’s a numbness behind it. Are you really moving them at all?

There are more screams now--from the beach. You don’t know how you know, but you do. It’s like you can see it in your mind although you’re flat on your back in front of the fun house with a monster draining you of blood. 

The world spins as you imagine how the first responders must be dying right now, while you’re dying. Are they wishing they never responded to the emergency calls? Are they thinking about their families, their friends, and their little dogs, too? 

Chrollo’s mouth is against yours again, and you taste yourself on him. Bitter metal, still warm. He’s blurry as he pulls back and bites against his wrist. What should be vivid red blood is dark and ugly--dead. He hovers his wrist above your mouth and the substance drips onto your lips. It’s cold, vile.

A final insult before you die, making you drink this nasty stuff. Vampires have a sick sense of humor.

But what did you know about vampires, anyway? 

You black out as Chrollo murmurs something above you.

At least, you think, this is finally over. 

--

You do not wake up in heaven or in darkness, either.

You wake up in a man made clearing, sitting against a tree, with a blanket draped over you. In front of you there is a fire, not roaring but alive enough in the night; a pot with spilled chili lay on the ground. Behind the fire is a camper van with its door wide open. 

The corpse of a man is propped against the door of the van, keeping it open. His mouth is slack and ah, he’s not dead yet, is he? There are two glaring puncture wounds on his neck, but he’s still around. His fingers twitch  and seem to register you with tired eyes, that drift from your face over to the far end of the camp.

You follow the look, and oh. There are two dead teens piled next to the fire. Already drained, already dead. His children, you think. 

The world seems to come into more focus then.

You are, as far as you can tell, alive. You’re propped up against a tree. It’s night time. The people--the monsters, the vampires--are here, in this campsite. Some of them glance at you once they realize you’re awake, but no one says anything.

Strangely enough, you’re not in much pain. Soreness, yes. But you should be in agony. Your hand feels okay--sore fingers, but no longer blinding pain, and you can bend them almost normally. Your arm, too, feels sore but mended. Your hands reach up to your collar, your neck, but there’s no trace of the wounds except a thin scar on your collar and two small bumps on your neck.

How did it heal so fast? Did they bring you here to hurt you again? Keep you like some sort of blood bag?

Your eyes travel down to the blanket draped around you. It’s heavy, comfortable, and stained with blood. 

You jerk like you’ve been electrocuted and throw the soiled blanket from your body.

Someone nearby laughs. “Picky princess, huh?” You vaguely recognize the voice--the tall man with wild hair. The one who knocked a man’s head off at the beach.

Just as renewed panic begins to awaken inside you, Chrollo appears from seemingly nowhere.

“You’re finally awake, I see.”

You shrink against the tree, and look around. Could you run into the woods? Were you still in the trail by the beach? How far could you run? 

Chrollo smiles, and sits down next to you like this isn’t horrifying or unusual at all. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. There’s nowhere to go.”

Your throat is dry and your words stick to your mouth several times before you can speak.

“Where… are we?”

If you’re close enough to home, you might still get out of this. Somehow. Find a gas station or a rest stop and beg for help. 

“Far away from that little town, I assure you.” Chrollo jerks his head back and you finally see the row of motorcycles parked near the campsite. “We won’t stay here for long. We rarely do. Just long enough for you to get healed up, this time.”

Which means he plans to take you with him--with them. For how long? And where? And why? Why take you? Why not kill you, why not drain you dry in front of the fun house and leave your corpse for survivors to find? 

You could ask all of these things, but you’re not sure you want the answer. Instead, you give the only answer your mind can manage, which is to curl up against yourself and cry. 

“I want to go home.” You whisper, out of practicality more than anything. Your mouth is so damn dry. 

“None of that,” he says, a little sternly. His expression softens when you flinch, and he brushes the hair from your face. “Don’t waste your breath on such a silly sentiment. You’re not going anywhere I don’t want you to go.”

“You said you didn’t know me well enough to leave with me,” he continues, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, then a warmer one to your unwilling lips. “You said you hadn’t had time to figure out your dreams. Now, you can take all the time you need for both of those things. We’ll have eternity, after all.” 

Dull, cold horror pools in your gut.

Eternity.

“Did you… am I… did you make me--” 

Your hands shoot to your mouth, to your teeth, feeling for fangs. But there’s nothing new inside your mouth, unless you count the awful cotton dryness that blankets your tongue and teeth like film. 

He smiles indulgently, and you hear someone nearby snort. 

“No.” A pause. “Not yet, not quite.” He smiles at your ignorance and takes your hand away from your teeth, giving it a kiss that feels like mockery even if you get the sense that he isn’t trying to make fun. “That may come later, if you behave. For now, I’ve made you…” Another kiss, this time with a smile on his lips, as he seems to debate on what to say. “… let’s say, mine.”

You shiver. From fear, and from cold.

Chrollo presses another kiss to your lips, until he can shove his tongue in between your teeth and run it against your own. You taste yourself on him, still, that rusty taste. It makes you gag, and he pulls away.

“You must be cold. I don’t want you catching a chill so soon. Why don’t you go sit in front of the fire and warm up?” 

You shake your head, wanting to spit out the taste in your mouth, but not having the courage to do so.

He watches you for a moment. Calculating, cold. He makes you think of an animal, in this moment. An animal thinking on what to do when his prey does something odd in the wilderness. 

“Go sit in front of the fire,” he tells you. 

And without wanting to, without meaning to, you do. Your body jerks up and you walk over to the fire, with its spilled chili and corpses left in its wake, and sit down. 

It’s like before, at the carnival, but different now. There’s no warm suggestion, no soothing manipulation. Only an order that you obey, and that’s that. When you try to push yourself up,  you find that you simply can’t make your body do it.  You can flex your fingers, your toes. You can move your arms up and down. But you cannot, in any way, stop sitting in front of that fire.

“I’d prefer you to do things willingly,” Chrollo says from his spot near the tree. “But I don’t mind giving orders either, love.”

Love.

You’re not sure he knows the meaning of the word.

But neither do you.

Despite the fact that there are two dead kids and their dying father just feet away from you, you find the fire comforting. It’s warm. It’s bright. It’s everything that the monsters around you aren’t; and you aren’t one of them, not exactly (not yet, your brain screams, he said not yet) and maybe you can cling to that. Cling to your humanity, to get you through this. 

The fire crackles in front of you. At some point, Chrollo sits down, and offers you a bowl of chili that they must have set aside for you before knocking the pot down. 

It’s lukewarm, and a bit bland. The dying man wasn’t a great cook. But you eat it, slowly, carefully, while Chrollo watches with an almost serene expression on his face. Like watching you eat was the most endearing thing in the world. 

Above you, the night sky watches the scene with indifference. 

[artemisia-black]

The Deatheaters as a metaphor for the far right?

The Death Eaters as a metaphor for a far-right movement doesn’t quite work because they do not need to seize power (they already have it). Historically, far-right movements emerge as a means for individuals or factions to gain or regain control, often by mobilising a discontented base that believes it has been displaced.

For example, the KKK was a reaction to abolition, an attempt to violently reinforce white supremacy after the formal structures of enslavement were dismantled. But crucially, the rank and file committing the violence were not the old plantation elites—they were overwhelmingly poor and working-class white men who had far more in common, economically, with the newly freed Black population than they did with the Southern aristocracy they were fighting to uphold. The ruling class did not need to get their hands dirty. Instead, they manipulated the lower classes into doing their dirty work for them, convincing them that the real enemy was Black Americans, not the wealthy landowners and industrialists who were actually responsible for their poverty and disenfranchisement. 

To be absolutely clear, this is not to excuse or diminish the horrific violence carried out by these groups, nor to suggest that those who participated were merely victims of manipulation. They were fully responsible for their actions. The point here is to highlight how ruling elites have historically exploited economic and social divisions, ensuring that the people carrying out their violence are often those who stand to gain the least from the system they are defending.

This pattern is a hallmark of far-right movements. 

Nazi Germany functioned in much the same way—the rank and file of the Nazi Party came from the lower and middle classes, particularly those who had been left economically devastated by the Treaty of Versailles. Hitler’s rhetoric was designed to redirect their anger away from the actual causes of their suffering (economic collapse, wealth inequality, and an industrial elite profiting off their desperation) and instead blame minorities, mainly Jewish people, as the supposed architects of their misery. MAGA operates on the same principle today: working-class white Americans are convinced that immigrants and minorities are stealing their jobs and eroding their culture, while the billionaires bankrolling the movement continue to hoard wealth and exploit labour. 

These movements rely on the ability to manipulate people into defending a system that actively works against them, maintaining elite control without the elites ever having to expose themselves.

The Death Eaters do not do this. They do not mobilise a desperate lower class into fighting for their cause.  They do not appeal to a disenfranchised group with promises of restored greatness or economic prosperity. Instead, they come entirely from the aristocracy and fight their own war - they are marching out themselves, openly declaring war on a society that already benefits them.

Their violence is not a tool for gaining power, nor is it a smokescreen to consolidate control and profit from chaos. It is simply indulgent, self-destructive, and utterly unnecessary. If they had any real understanding of how power works, they would be letting others do the bloodshed for them while they remained hidden in the shadows, pulling the strings. 

Which is actually  what they’ve been doing all along. 

The Muggle-borns have no real power—they are allowed to exist, but that is it. They are tolerated within wizarding society, but only as second-class citizens, never as equals. The structures of pure-blood dominance do not need to be enforced through mass violence because they are already woven into the fabric of the system. Muggle-borns may be permitted to attend Hogwarts, but they do not rise to positions of power within it. They may enter the Ministry, but they do not shape policy. They are granted just enough space to exist within wizarding Britain, but never enough to threaten the status quo. The illusion of inclusion is maintained, but the mechanisms of control ensure that they remain peripheral.

And the most effective form of oppression is the one that does not feel like oppression, the one that convinces those at the bottom that their place in the system is simply the way of the world (you know like the enslaved creatures who like being slaves). The ruling elite does not need to actively suppress anyone when the entire structure of wizarding society is already designed to keep them out of meaningful positions of power. 

This is where the series does utterly fail to grasp how power actually works. While Voldemort is attempting to seize power, once he has it (once he has the pure-blood aristocracy under his control via the knights of Walpurgis and later the death eaters), what is the purpose of waging a war? He doesn’t need open terror when he controls the people who move the levers of power. He should let the bureaucracy do the oppression for him, enacting banal evil. 

The Death Eaters, then, are not a metaphor for real-world far-right movements because they do not function like one. They are not manipulating the lower classes into enforcing their ideology. They are not trying to reclaim lost power. They are not using violence as a strategic tool to seize control. They are a ruling elite that already had power, throwing away the advantages of hegemony in favour of mindless brutality.

[inamindfarfaraway]

I love how Paul's character in The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals is defined entirely by a lack of desire, or desire defined only as 'not what I don't want'. "What Do You Want, Paul?" is a big joke about what a terrible narrative protagonist he is. But it's deeper than that. Throughout the show, even in the smallest, most insignificant phrasing, this man only ever expresses wants in these negative forms, as if he's incapable of feeling attraction in itself rather than simply avoiding what he dislikes. And only avoiding! He never says that he hates anything, either! That would give him passion, drive, perhaps the goal of actively removing that thing. No, he exclusively uses the verb hate in past tense.

He doesn't like musicals, singing, dancing or public performances. He makes this very clear, to the point that it's one of his most significant character traits. At no point does he ever talk about liking any media.

He doesn't want to do social activities.

He doesn't want to give away his money. About both this and the above, he can provide no logical explanation or moral justification. He just doesn't feel like them.

He always gets black coffee because it has "no cream, no sugar, nothing in it"; that is to say, he might not necessarily love it, merely prefer it over its sweeter or more complex alternatives.

He doesn't believe that Emma should have to sing and dance at work - he doesn't want her life to be so unfair and annoying to the both of them.

He doesn't want to obstruct the workings of his office (saying "that's the last thing I want" triggers "What Do You Want, Paul?").

He says, "I wanna go home!" when Mr Davidson is singing at him, but means that he wants to be somewhere safe and not stuck in this incredibly uncomfortable situation.

He doesn't want to die.

He specifically doesn't want to die in Clivesdale, because fuck Clivesdale.

He doesn't want to join the Hive.

He doesn't want to leave Hatchetfield, even when it's the site of an alien invasion that is his personal worst nightmare. He actually says that "All things considered, I like Hatchetfield", arguably an exception to the standard. However, he's also well aware of the town's flaws and problems. He grew up one of its poorer residents, attending the inferior, underfunded Sycamore High School where he casually admits the students "hated [themselves]" and having to watch its more respectable rival Hatchetfield High's school play. He has no strong investment in his tedious middle-class office job. He doesn't get along with some of his fellow townsfolk, like his coworker Ted and all the employees of Beanies except Emma. He awkwardly evades giving to charity and the homeless every morning on his way to work. His life is decidedly not one of utter bliss, and yet it's good enough for him in that he doesn't have the energy, ambition or imagination to want anything more. Since he's "been here [his] whole life", his affection for his hometown could be more an aversion to everywhere else or the hassle of travelling. Sticking with the devil he intimately knows.

He doesn't think badly of Emma, and says so because he doesn't want her to or believe that he does after learning that she helped make a "hated" experience of his happen.

He doesn't want to let Bill die, which is why he goes with Bill to rescue Alice. His heroism and proactiveness at the turning point of the end of Act One start to notably erode his apathy, but his phrasing reaffirms his negative motivations: "Hey, it's not like you're asking me to go see Mama Mia!", "Emma, there comes a time in every man's life when he has to draw a line in the sand. And I will never be in a fucking musical."

He doesn’t want Bill to blame himself for Alice's endangerment, stay in the area once Alice is revealed to be a vessel of the Hive or kill himself.

He doesn't want to do some light reading on the universal truth of love and the strength of the human heart.

He has no positive motivation. He breaks one of the most basic rules of being a fictional character, let alone the main character the audience is supposed to root for. He isn't just an antihero, he's an anti-protagonist. Although this could easily make him boring or unsympathetic, he manages to seem relatable. Real. Human. He captures so genuinely an ordinary person living an ordinary life suddenly trapped in a horror story. How many of us can honestly articulate "one concrete goal that motivates all [our] actions"? Even if you can, you wouldn't undergo a narratively fulfilling and thematically cohesive arc related to that desire the way a fictional character would. We're all essentially just trying to survive each day. To make or keep our lives however we define 'good enough'. We may not have a crystal clear picture of our ideal life, but I bet we all have a long list of things we don't want in it. We're all Paul. He even says, “I want what anyone wants”.

What more appropriate antagonist for this man to face, then, than a force that exists to strip people of their autonomy, their individuality, their personhood, and force them to play archetypical characters in a conventional narrative? The Hive observes that Paul is an anti-protagonist and takes offence to this. It seeks to convert him into his antithesis, the "bold" "leading man" of its musical who the audience can "sympathize with". The Infected highlight this in the opening song, in which they eagerly anticipate and prepare the audience for his entrance... and he misses his cue. He isn't following their script. Perhaps that's why the audience is able to believe in this average, unassuming antihero's potential to succeed, to defeat the Hive or at the very least escape it, despite how fraught and grim the situation becomes. The story certainly proves itself to be cruel to its characters; but Paul doesn't operate like a normal character. The Hive promises to fulfil people's desires and make them happy throughout the play. Charlotte, Bill, Hidgens and Ted's deaths are connected to, by either direct causality or thematic relevance, their respective desires for Sam's love, Alice's safety, world peace (and the glory of a musical career) and Ted's own survival. Paul is uniquely immune to this pattern of death related to a core motivation.

Until:

"I can't leave without Emma”, “a friend of mine."

"Is there a chance of something more?"

"I think so. I'd like there to be. I want there to be."

He wants Emma, her life and her happiness and maybe, just maybe, her love. He wants to love her. To spend time with her. For the first time ever, he wants more out of life, not less. He's a little bit more of a character. After the Infected reprise the "Did you hear the word?" section of the opening song, building up to his appearance, this time he does enter the theatre, coming down the aisle just as he was meant to. Right on cue. Paul is now vulnerable to the narrative - the Hive's narrative. And the Hive's control.

Still he resists, even while doubting if he was ever really happy before. Not only does he use his final words, fittingly, to declare that he doesn't like musicals, but before that he firmly refutes the Hive, and the philosophy behind it and all the pressures and temptatations it might represent: "It doesn't matter what I want." What matters is the good of the world. Emma. Love. Hope. Freedom. Integrity. Humanity, which must be wonderful if we can make sacrifices like this for all the right reasons.

Rest in peace, Paul Matthews. You were the opposite of a conventional protagonist, but a true hero.

[nizhspo]

hi!!!! since summer is finally here at the east coast, i was wondering if you could write an established relationship w osamu at the beach, also associated w the song Edge of the Ocean by Stick Figure?

p.s. i don't think i'll ever get over ANY of your oikawa fics. god tier.

hi! first and foremost thank youuuuu what was your favorite? i feel like i have a couple of oikawa fics atp lol,,, but now for the fic :p

you went to ole miss. osamu went to uga.

you were both born and raised in maryland, twenty minutes outside annapolis.

country club kids. private school, boat shoes, summer internships you didn’t have to apply for. both of you learned how to drink white wine too early. learned how to argue in public without anyone knowing. learned what it meant to be expected to turn out well.

you met when you were fourteen. kissed when you were fifteen. fell in love like it was just what you were supposed to do, because how could you not? you two made sense. people said so all the time.

your moms swapped tennis partners. your dads did business. your names had shown up side-by-side on every guest list since middle school.

he kissed you under the bleachers sophomore year when it was raining and no one else was there. said “you drive me crazy” like it was a compliment. gave you his hoodie for every football game, every late-night drive, every early morning class when you forgot yours on purpose.

he was steady. quiet. a little guarded. but he was always yours. until he wasn’t.

it didn’t fall apart fast. it just… eroded.

freshman year of college was too much. the space between you was too much after spending half your lives together.

a missed call, a text left on read, study groups that turned into nights out, you making friends he didn’t know, him mentioning girls from class like it didn’t mean anything—like their names weren’t little needles when they dropped into conversation.

he wasn’t cheating, and neither were you.

you were both just too friendly. raised for appearances and easy conversation. taught to be gracious, magnetic, to know how to smile even when your heart was tired.

but you’d never been like that without the other by your side.

so when you tried to stretch that charm across two different states, two separate lives—it broke.

too careless. too proud to admit when “just being nice” meant staying on the phone with a girl from chem lab who always called crying when your girlfriend wanted to debrief her midterm meltdown.

too proud to admit that sitting on another guy’s shoulders at the homecoming bonfire wasn’t something good girlfriends did, even if it was just for the view.

you were both networkers. both the type to float through parties, shake hands, remember names. you could own a room without trying, but you didn’t know how to own each other anymore.

because when the trust started slipping, you didn’t fight for it. you just tried to look unbothered.

“i’m not doing anything wrong,” he told you, once. arms crossed, over the phone, tired.

“you’re not doing anything right, either,” you said. voice thick, angry.

he was used to being right. you were used to being wanted. neither of you wanted to be the one to bend first, so you cracked instead, and when it ended, it ended hard, in silence and stubbornness. in things unsaid that still haven’t stopped echoing.

you didn’t stop loving each other. you just didn’t know how to love like that.

not across state lines. not through pride. not as versions of yourselves still figuring out who you were without the “you” in us.

…

thanksgiving was hell, and your mom invited him anyway. “it’s tradition,” she said.

he came in a pressed button-down. brought a bottle of wine he knew your dad liked.

you barely looked at each other. you stood on opposite ends of the room, pretending it didn’t ache.

atsumu made a joke that didn’t land. your aunt asked where your “sweet boy” was. you saw his jaw clench and turned away before it broke you, but it still did.

and it broke him, too. he just didn’t show it the same way.

…

spring break was the turning point.

the first time you touched him again, it was with hesitation and hunger both. the kind that made your hands shake when they cupped his jaw, made him pull you close like he didn’t believe you were real.

you saw him under the striped cabana umbrellas at the country club pool. the same place your moms used to gossip over lemonade and your dads shook hands over real estate and alma mater pride.

he waved first. you didn’t smile, not right away.

but you walked over.

and by the end of the week, you were in his car, parked at the overlook, telling him about how lonely it got at ole miss sometimes. how tired you were of pretending like he didn’t ruin every playlist and every half-dream you still had at night.

he’d said, real quiet: “i never stopped loving you.”

you’d whispered: “then do something about it.”

and he did.

…

so now, watch hill.

rhode island’s softest secret, all white fences and sailboats and summer homes that smell like family money and french linen. the kind of town that has one general store with overpriced jam, and a bookstore with crooked shelves, and coastal fog that rolls in like a lullaby.

his family’s beach house is three stories of sun-bleached cedar and old furniture that still smells like his grandma’s perfume. the porch wraps all the way around and creaks under your steps. the whole place feels like something preserved in amber, untouched, familiar, yours.

it’s just the two of you here.

atsumu’s in miami, probably being loud and tan and too much. the miya parents are god knows where, maybe europe. so osamu said it so casual, like it didn’t carry the weight of everything in his voice:

“you wanna stay with me there? just us. for a while.”

you said yes like a reflex. like a memory.

it’s early june when you get there.

you drive up alone. he asked you to, told you he wanted a couple days at the house first, to get everything ready. his family had offered to send someone—housekeeping, caterers, florals, all that pretentious background noise, and he just rolled his eyes. said, “i want it to feel like us. not like a resort.”

he changed the sheets himself. fluffed the pillows. stocked the fridge with your favorites. lit the good candles, the ones in the heavy glass jars that smell like bergamot and driftwood. played music while he swept sand off the porch: otis redding, al green, a little sade. he left the windows open and let the salt air clean the corners of the house.

said it helped him breathe better. helped him miss you right.

the drive felt too long and not long enough. the sky was wide and blue, the kind that makes your heart ache a little. the air, thick with humidity, tasted like heat and honeysuckle. by the time you get to the porch, you’re barefoot, blisters from your sandals rubbed raw, dust clinging to your legs, lips dry and mind buzzing.

he opens the door before you knock. he always feels you before he sees you.

he’s wearing a soft navy t-shirt, sleeves hugging those broad arms, collar a little stretched from sleep. his gray sweatpants hang low on his hips. there are sun-flecked streaks of silver at his temples now, just hints, but they shimmer like something sacred in the golden light.

he smells like sea salt and clean cotton and lemon from the hand soap in the kitchen. his smile is small. tired.

“hey,” he says, voice low and warm, like he’s holding it gentle just for you.

you just look at him. heart a mess in your ribs. then step inside.

his family’s beach house is three stories of coastal perfection.

sun-bleached cedar siding, shuttered windows, wild roses climbing the porch railings. the front door’s painted ocean blue, a little chipped. inside, it smells like old wood and sea breeze and something new—something waiting.

the kitchen is big and bright, all marble and glass and brushed brass. the kind of wealth that whispers instead of shouts. the kind that’s been here long enough to not need proving.

the bedroom’s upstairs, in the corner with the best view. it’s got floor-to-ceiling windows that open to the sea. the sheets are linen, ivory and soft, rumpled from him sleeping alone the past two nights.

he left one side turned down for you.

…

watch hill is quiet opulence. white picket fences that never yellow. manicured lawns edged with seashells. hydrangeas so big and bright they almost look fake. a marina where the yachts all have names like whisper and persephone.

he grew up coming here every summer.

you did, too, just across the cove, different family name, same country club invites.

the locals still remember you.

the guy at the corner café, fisherman’s son, always in an apron, nods when he sees you, grinning like you’re part of a secret.

“’bout damn time,” he says. “you finally put a ring on her yet?”

osamu just laughs. blushes down to his chest. “workin’ on it,” he mutters.

…

you wake up that first morning tangled in his arms. your cheek pressed to his chest, legs laced together, his palm warm on your bare hip. his body is solid heat, broad, sturdy, familiar. the kind of warmth you’d forgotten you missed until it swallowed you whole.

you breathe in the scent of him: salt, cedar, the clean smoke of last night’s candle.

“you awake?” you whisper, not sure why you’re whispering.

“mm,” he hums into your hair. “been awake. jus’ didn’t wanna let go.”

his voice is gravel-smooth with sleep, and there’s a scratch of stubble on his jaw when he nuzzles your temple. he kisses your forehead like it’s instinct.

your breath still tastes like sleep. he kisses you anyway.

…

the second morning, the air is warm but breezy. gulls cry in the distance. the house creaks in that lived-in way, the ocean humming its slow, steady rhythm outside the open window.

you smell lemon, butter, something else—brine, smoke, rosemary.

you blink sleep from your eyes and pad downstairs.

osamu’s in the kitchen, shirtless this time, gray cotton pants sitting low on his hips. he’s barefoot, curls damp from a rinse, salt-crusted and curling soft at the nape of his neck.

there’s a plate in his hands of striped bass, fresh from the dock he fished off that morning, seasoned with herbs and grilled with lemon slices thin enough to see through. next to it, there’s soft scrambled eggs, sourdough toast, and a little ramekin of honey.

“caught it this morning,” he says, proud in a quiet way. “thought you might be hungry.”

you sit up on the stool by the island and he feeds you the first bite, gently, with the back of a silver fork, careful not to drop anything.

“s’good?” he asks, like it matters more than anything.

you nod, mouth full, eyes watering a little. “you always do too much,” you whisper.

“you deserve it,” he says. presses a kiss to your cheek. “you always have.”

…

the rest of the mornings are slow.

you wake up in the bed upstairs, tucked under a cream-colored quilt with his arm draped over your stomach. his breath is warm against your shoulder. sometimes he pulls you closer in his sleep, mutters something about the smell of your shampoo, the way you kick the blankets off.

you’d forgotten how it felt to wake up next to someone who knows your rhythm. not just the way you move in sleep, but the way you carry your tiredness, the way you go quiet when you’re overthinking, the way you get still when you’re scared to ask “do you really still want me?”

he always knows when that silence hits. always breaks it with something small—his hand brushing your thigh, a kiss to your temple, murmuring, “yeah. i do.”

…

you spend afternoons barefoot on the beach, sand clinging to your calves, the hem of his hoodie brushing your thighs. he keeps offering to buy you another one that actually fits, but you keep stealing this one. it’s stretched and sun-worn and smells like sunscreen and him.

he grills shrimp on the back patio while you sit on the deck with a book, your legs stretched across the porch swing. sometimes you don’t even read. just close your eyes and listen to the ocean, the crackle of the grill, the way he hums under his breath when he’s focused.

and the way he touches you now—

it’s so much gentler. deliberate. full of patience and something like reverence.

like he knows what he almost lost.

…

in the evenings, you ride bikes into town.

you go to the corner ice cream shack and get soft serve with rainbow sprinkles. osamu always gets vanilla dipped in cherry shell. he lets it drip on his fingers and doesn’t care, just laughs when you lick it off.

you walk through little galleries and pick out ugly postcards. you call him “sammy” when he’s flustered and he calls you “baby” like he never stopped.

most people think you’re honeymooning. you don’t correct them.

…

the conversations still happen.

curled up on the porch swing, wine glasses warm in your hands, the sky spilling stars across the ocean.

“i hated not talking to you,” you admit. “it felt like being underwater all the time.”

he leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

“i hated myself,” he says. “for letting it get that far. for acting like you were just… someone i could stop needing.”

you kiss him for that. not because it fixes it, but because he said it. because he meant it. and because the porch light flickers behind you like a slow heartbeat, and the tide’s rolling in gentle, and everything feels like it’s exhaling.

…

you wear his hoodie over a bikini and nothing else. he watches you walk down to the water like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you.

he follows, carrying a speaker and a blanket and an umbrella he insists on setting up even though the sun’s “not that bad.” you lay down, press your cheek to his chest, listen to the low thump of his heart while stick figure plays in the background:

at the edge of the ocean, there’s a place to start over again…

…

he grills fresh clams for dinner, tossed in garlic and white wine, served in chipped ceramic bowls. you drink cold sauvignon blanc from glasses etched with the miya crest, half-joke, half-tradition. he toasts to nothing in particular.

later, when you’re curled up on the porch swing under a knit blanket, your head in his lap, he brushes your hair back and says, “i almost lost you.”

you tilt your face up.

“but you didn’t.”

his hand slips into yours. fingers rough and warm and steady. “i won’t again,” he says.

and you believe him.

…

you fall asleep to the sound of the ocean, the porch door creaking gently in the wind, and the feel of his thumb brushing across your ribs like he’s mapping the places he wants to stay.

this isn’t young love.

this is old love, rewound. softened at the edges. fierce, chosen, real.

and in the golden hush of watch hill, rhode island, where the sea meets the sky and the mornings come in slow and forgiving—

you let it all begin again.

slayyy ty for rq!!! | m.list

[snnrinc]

Dance of Hearts

[AO3 Portal]

— PAIRING : Wyll Ravengard x GN!Reader/Tav

— TAGS : NSFW, jealousy, oral (Wyll receiving), overstimulation, fluff and smut, gender neutral reader, reader is insecure, Wyll is a loving husband, no mention of reader's genitals but they are the receiving partner

SUMMARY : You needed more, you needed to see him crumble beneath you, begging you to push him right over the edge. You needed him to chant your name and sinful declarations of love and devotion until it was the only thing you could hear falling from his sweet tongue, until the image of those bastards putting their hands on him and keeping him away from you all night was replaced by the one of Wyll coming undone and looking up at you in adoration.

And being the ever doting husband, Wyll was more than happy to make your fantasies a reality.

— WORD COUNT : 4.7k

— AUTHOR'S NOTE : Since Larian didn't give us a scene with Wyll, I have taken it upon myself to ensure I write this man as satisfied.

The liquid in your glass swirled with each rotation of your wrist, holding your attention if only for a few moments. It was enough of a distraction to allow you a second to regulate your expression, lest your eyebrow twitch in annoyance again right in front of some of the most influential people of Baldur's Gate. You attempted to sip again from the glass, but the way your drink burned down your throat like liquid fire was enough to have you pull back and hurriedly mask how your nose scrunched up at the sensation. Some draconic alcoholic drink, you recalled, one that you didn't bother to remember the name of, but that you should've expected would be so strong since it was crafted by people who can breathe actual fire.

You set your drink down on a table in your little corner of the room, abandoning it for whatever butler was quick to snatch it to maintain the spotless appearance of the ballroom. Now without your distraction, you scanned the room, noting how even while basking in the brilliant glimmer of the chandeliers hanging above, you still managed to blend into the shadows. Something told you it wasn't your well-honed stealth skills that kept the nobles' attention away from you. Rather, you were sure the hostility came from being akin to an intruder in the upper class, the hero of Baldur's Gate that married into nobility, your background be damned.

The air was thick with rare alcoholic drinks and expensive perfumes, enough to make you nauseous as arrogant laughter and shameless gossip intermingled in a cacophony of upper city superiority, a tune that you always begrudgingly played to. Or tried to, at least. You were sure the fake smiles and sugar-coated pleasantries shared amongst the nobility around you were enough to make even Astarion gag, let alone you. But perhaps your attitude towards the entire event that you were attending was also contributing to your unwillingness to mingle and meddle in affairs you had no interest in.

At last, your scrutinising gaze fell on the person you were most excited to see: your husband Wyll. His presence shone from the middle of a group of lords and ladies that were engaged in a political discussion like a ray of sunshine slipping through the cracks of a dull wall eroded by corruption. You felt your shoulders relax the moment your eyes met and his smile softened just for you. With a polite wave and a sweet smile, you began walking towards him, making sure to use a proper posture so as to maintain his image and yours.

You saw Wyll excuse himself and exchange handshakes and smiles with the other noblemen, bowing politely before he began his journey to meet you halfway. You sighed in relief that finally you'd have the opportunity to dance with your husband, spend some time holding him close so you could drown out the world and focus on his calming presence, but your plans were cut short the moment a woman stepped in his path and bowed her head with reverence, asking him if he'd spare a dance. With an apologetic look sent your way, he politely accepted her request and led her towards the centre of the ballroom, taking their place in an elegant dance amidst the other couples.

It wouldn't have been a problem for you, if it didn't keep happening.

One after another, more and more men and women began interrupting you and your husband, stealing him away for whatever political or business conversation, getting too close whenever they requested a dance or offering drinks too insistently. It had your blood boiling.

Your mood only continued to sour whenever you'd notice people leering at your husband, their hands far too comfortable on his waist, their heads bowing in much too close of a proximity to his, their eyes narrowing and lips turning into arrogant smiles whenever they caught you glaring from across the room. The fact that you felt out of place certainly did not help your feelings.

Before you knew it, the night had ended without you having any chance to even talk to your husband, let alone dance with him, and your thoughts had been left alone to marinate for longer than it was healthy.

Which is why you now felt on the verge of tears whenever you caught a glimpse of Wyll from the corner of your eye, walking beside you towards your shared bedchamber. You could tell he was tired, could see it on his face as his eyelids fell heavy half-way through. You blinked away tears of anger and frustration and fiddled with your sleeves as you tried to collect your thoughts, but whenever you managed to put them into place, they fell apart and spiralled once again.

You were a burden, one to be ashamed of. To think that Wyll just graciously took each and every insult thrown at him about his new demonic appearance only to now have yet another stain upon his reputation, his spouse no less, the one who was supposed to be lifting him up and enhancing his image, not tarnishing it further. You were aware most of it just came from ruthless gossip, but being marginalised either out of arrogance or out of jealousy was starting to get to you. You began to see the images all the mean-spirited whispers were trying so hard to project into your mind: perhaps Wyll would be better suited at the side of a better person, maybe one of the people that kept stealing him away for a romantic dance, a more handsome man with power over commerce, a more graceful woman who could charm others into agreeing with Wyll's plans to better the city. Someone who was not you.

By the time you reached your room, you didn't even realise just how obvious your feelings were on your face. You opened the door more forcefully than necessary and stepped inside, a confused and worried Wyll following you closely. You sat down on the bed unceremoniously and began to unlace whatever strings were holding your emblazoned jacket tied neatly.

“Love, is everything alright with you?”

You looked up, ready to brush off any concerns Wyll would voice, but your train of thought was cut off right as your eyes met with his. He regarded you with such care, worry swimming in his soft eyes as he kneeled beside you and placed his hand over your knee. You shook your head and tried to tell him he can just sit beside you, but you knew he wanted to have a direct line of vision to your troubled gaze.

“You've been acting off this evening. Do you want to talk about it?”

His gentle tone pulled at your heartstrings. It made you want to wrap your arms around him and kiss him while also wanting to just break down crying in frustration.

Instead, you decided that he had dealt with enough stress for one night.

“Nothing, dear. I'm okay, just tired,” you said through a fake smile and reached out to brush your fingers across his cheek.

“Don't lie to me.” His firm response had your expression drop, and although his touch was gentle as he leaned into your palm to kiss it, his eyes were almost admonishing you for trying to deflect. “I won't pry if you don't wish to tell me, but just know you don't have to hide from me.”

Oh how easy it was for him to slip through the cracks of your armour, it was almost scary. With a frown, you decided to come clean, unable to resist the need to fall into his comforting arms, wishing just to hear his voice whispering vows of his undying devotion to you as you drifted off to sleep.

“You deserve the world, Wyll,” you said, voice shaking with emotion. “I can't even give you a fraction of that. Not in the way that another could…”

“What are you talking about?” His hands came to cup your cheeks softly and you leaned into his warm touch, grabbing onto his wrist like a lifeline, the only tether left to your self-control. “You've already given me the world; it's standing right in front of me, the love of my life. I often feel like the colours around me are so vibrant simply because of your radiating presence. What have I done to make you think otherwise?”

You shook your head quickly, noticing how doubt and sorrow settled in his expression. “No, no, it's not that! You didn't do anything, I just…” Wyll remained quiet, waiting for you to take in a small breath and continue. “I know you've noticed the way the other nobles look at you, the way they talk about our union. Despite everything that happened, they see me as less than, or perhaps a threat to a potential opportunity to get closer to you.”

“Surely you wouldn't want me stuck in a loveless marriage with a pompous noble whose most interesting attribute is a stick they keep hidden where the sun doesn't reach.”

“Of course not, Wyll.” You frowned and Wyll fell silent. “I feel like I don't belong. These people kept you away from me all night and kept throwing mean glares my way. I didn't want to complain because I know you're dealing with a lot, but I don't like the way they kept sticking to you like leeches.”

“So you're jealous? Is that it?”

“Well maybe I am jealous!” you suddenly burst out. “Maybe I am, because you're just so perfect that I don't understand how you chose me when you could've had anyone else in the world!”

You breathed out and finally registered the surprised face of Wyll. He opened his mouth, but before any words could spill out, you pulled yourself out of his grasp and turned away, ashamed at your irrational outburst. Gods, maybe you had too much to drink, maybe a single sip of draconic alcohol was enough to have you getting dizzy in embarrassment and frustration. How childish, to just spill out your insecurities in anger. Perhaps this was why others deemed you unfit to be one of the rulers of Baldur's Gate.

“My love,” came Wyll's soothing voice, but you dared not turn to look him in the eye. “Would you believe me if I said that every morning when I wake up and I'm greeted with your sleeping face on the pillow next to mine, I tell myself I'm not worthy of this?” You sighed and crossed your arms, unsure if you could even believe such a thing. “You're… incredible. You're more than I could have ever asked for and you have no idea how lucky I am to be by your side. The fact that I get to call you my spouse is honestly a dream come true.”

He took a step closer to you and gently placed his hands on your arm, turning you around slowly and searching your eyes. Your shoulders relaxed when you felt his warmth close and you allowed yourself to look back at his loving gaze. One of his hands came up to caress your cheek once again, a gentle smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“We've endured many dangers in our adventures. I'd do it all over again for you. I'd traverse the flames of Avernus, I'd fight any monster in Faerûn, I'd endure any pain so long as I get to see you smile. Those posh people from high society don't know you like I do. They don't know me like you do.” Softly, he placed his forehead against yours, his other hand moving up your arm to rest on the other side of your face as you placed your hands on his waist. “I could never love anyone else like I love you, my heart. The flaws that you see in yourself, they only add to your perfection to me.”

“Wyll…”

“Don't push me away, please,” he said, a hint of desperation lacing his voice. “I love you. Let me love you.”

His lips brushed against yours, pulling back slightly, and when you chased his kiss he fully gave in to you. He pulled you close, one hand falling to wrap around your waist and press your body against his as you got lost into the sweetness of his mouth. The way he kissed you was loving, sensuous, but you were hungry, greedily craving more of his love and touch. You parted your lips and swiped your tongue on the bottom of his lip, and with a grunt of pleasure, he granted you access to deepen the kiss.

Your hands moved from his hips to his chest, fingers finding the buttons of his satin shirt and unbuttoning them with urgency. When your hands dipped beneath the fabric to feel his skin, he let out a soft moan and pulled back slightly, only for your lips to trail down his jaw and to his neck, kissing every bit that you could reach.

“Slow, slow, my love, slow,” he muttered, breath hitching when you kissed the spot right under his ear. “Let me take care of you. I want us to take our time.”

He placed his hands on your arms and pulled you away just enough to look at you. You finally took your time to admire him, his clothes that up until that moment had been neatly covering his body were now rumpled from your hands pulling at them. You hadn't had time to light any of the candles around your bedchamber, but the large windows allowed enough moonlight to fall through the room to see the details of his appearance, the angles of his face. His chest was slightly exposed, a thin layer of sweat already forming over his skin. His lips were swollen from your kiss, still wet and parted to allow shallow breaths to pass through. And his eyes… Despite his gentlemanly words about taking his time to make you feel good, they were positively burning with lust. But even so, the love he held for you managed to shine through when his expression softened as he took in your dishevelled look.

“Okay,” you responded, nodding your head. “Let's take it slow then.”

He smiled at your words and leaned in to kiss your forehead, his hands moving to the laces and buttons holding your shirt together. “May I?”

You nodded and moved closer, capturing his lips in a kiss once again but letting him set the pace this time, slow and loving, melting into him as his fingers pushed away the fabrics from your body. Your hands grabbed the silky material of his shirt, pulling it from his trousers and working in tandem with him to undress each other. Eventually, you were both nude before each other, your expensive clothes scattered haphazardly on the floor.

His hands were gentle as they traversed your skin, slow and graceful as they traced each curve and edge of your body, your own exploring the expanse of his back, moving to his sides, abdomen, then travelling higher up to his chest. He moaned softly in your mouth when your palms grazed his nipples, one of his hands twitching against your hip while the other found its way towards your chest.

Without breaking the kiss, you guided Wyll to your bed until his legs hit the frame and he pulled away to lay down. You took your place on top of him, lowering your head to pepper kisses across his face that had him chuckling. You smiled, trailing your lips back to his jaw, this time slower than before, kissing down his neck and collarbone. He sighed at the feeling, your hands moving across his body to feel each ridge and bump on his skin—courtesy of his demonic attributes—only serving to pull him deeper in a trance. His skin felt hot beneath your fingers, his breathing getting heavier with each soft kiss you planted on his body, your lips eventually reaching his nipple and wrapping around it as you swiped your tongue against it. Wyll gasped, placing one hand to the nape of your neck, feeling goosebumps spread on his skin when your fingers found his other nipple.

“My love,” he began, followed by another soft moan. “I'm supposed to be taking care of you.”

“Please, Wyll, I need this.”

He didn't argue further, the hint of desperation in your voice not lost on him. You shifted lower on his body, pressing close to him while your abdomen brushed against his hardness, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. The sound only served to spur you on as you continued your journey down his stomach, your hands drifting to his hips while you felt him melt under your kisses. Eventually, when you were satisfied with how breathless he seemed to be from the smallest of touches, you caressed his thigh with one hand, going higher and higher as his muscles tensed under your palm, then twitched when you finally wrapped your hand around him.

“My heart!” Wyll gasped, his wrist quickly finding yours and touching it gently. “You don't have to-”

“Will you be good for me, my dear?”

Wyll looked down and was reminded why he was so thankful of the darkvision that his good eye offered, perhaps the only positive from his curse, for as soon as his gaze landed on you he was sure he was enchanted. Your eyes were looking back at him, shadowed by lust, commanding submission to your will, with your hand firmly wrapped around him, your lips inching closer to the tip of his cock.

“Yes,” Wyll answered, his voice barely a whisper. Although his tongue felt like lead in his mouth, he was willing to agree to whatever you suggested, if only you'd keep looking at him like that. “I'll be good.”

You offered him a smile, your tongue darting out to lick gently at his tip, relishing the way he gasped out your name with a trembling voice. You shifted your hand slightly, pressing your tongue flat at his base then dragging it upwards, the simple movement already having Wyll throw his head back in pleasure, but even so, some shakes of excitement and a few soft moans were not enough. You needed more, you needed to see him crumble beneath you, begging you to push him right over the edge. You needed him to chant your name and sinful declarations of love and devotion until it was the only thing you could hear falling from his sweet tongue, until the image of those bastards putting their hands on him and keeping him away from you all night was replaced by the one of Wyll coming undone and looking up at you in adoration.

You groaned at the thought, opening your mouth and finally tasting him fully, hollowing your cheeks to make sure you fit as much of him as you could. The choked moan that slipped from Wyll's lips only further sent you deeper into desire, your tongue swirling around him as your hand worked him in tandem, making sure that whatever part you couldn't take would not go neglected. Your free hand rested on his thigh for support, feeling the muscles flex with each bob of your head, each suck and lick, as your fingers dug into it. Wyll's moans became more constant, falling from every other breath and beckoning you like a siren's song. You moaned as well, the vibration of your voice reverberating through his length and making his mind melt.

His fingers found your head, placing his palms on it gently but not daring to make any move to push you lower, cautious not to hurt you even while lost in the throes of pleasure. Instead, he tried to distract himself from the urge to thrust into your mouth by muttering sweet praises under his breath, shivers cascading down his body with each beat of his heart, each pulse of arousal. He was approaching the sweet precipice at a dizzying speed, with how you were licking and sucking at him, swallowing every drop of precum leaking from his tip. His body was hot, trembling beneath you, and soon enough his mind was so far gone in a fog of lust that he began to mindlessly string together words he hoped made sense.

“P-please, my love,” he uttered breathlessly, a whine escaping him. “Gods, please! Please, I'm so close!”

You hummed, earning a grunt from him at the vibration coursing through him, and when you felt the muscles in his thighs tense up, you raised your head. Wyll groaned, throwing his head back, your tongue teasingly tracing the length of his cock again. His fingers twitched on your head, palms pushing you down slightly in a silent demand for more before he stopped himself and gripped the sheets instead.

“Hells, why did you stop?” he asked, looking down at you with a disappointed frown only to be met with a serious expression. “Love? What's wrong?”

You gently caressed his thigh, tilting your head slightly as you watched him try to catch his breath, concerned clearly written on his face. You shifted, slowly crawling higher on his body.

“Remember when we took a vow?”

Confusion glinted in his eyes, but still he regarded you with sincerity, raising his hand so he could caress your cheek.

“How could I forget? It was the happiest day of my life.”

Satisfied, you lowered your head to press kisses up his chest, speaking between each one, “What did we promise each other?”

“That we'll be together, come what may.”

You hummed, kissing his neck, then his cheek, while your hand slithered lower to wrap around his cock again, revelling in how his breath hitched. Your lips shifted to his ear while Wyll placed his palms on your hips, guiding you closer to where he needed your body.

“And who did you vow to belong to?” you continued, your teeth grazing against the edge of his earlobe.

“You,” Wyll responded right away, almost eager to proclaim it. “I belong to you.”

You smiled at his answer, positioning yourself on top of him so the tip of his cock would line up with your entrance. Your thumb caressed his cheekbone affectionately as you lifted your head to look into his eyes, the adoration you held for him clearly visible through the specks of lust still swimming in your gaze.

“And who do I belong to, forever and always?”

Wyll raised his hand from your hip to run his knuckles against your cheek gently, regarding you like you were the embodiment of peace and beauty, washing over him like sunlight, your every touch akin to the summer breeze. Refreshing, calming, hot.

“You're mine,” he answered, eyes darkening once he felt you rub against him, so close to finally enveloping him in your warmth. “All mine.”

You leaned down and pressed your lips against his, your tongue swiping across his bottom lip as he opened his mouth to taste you in return. You lowered your body slowly, both of you moaning in each other's mouth as he entered you at last, your body adjusting to him and wrapping around him like the Gods themselves carved the shape of you to match his. It didn't take long for the embers within him to reignite, raging deep into the pit of his gut like the flames of Avernus, sending rivers of fire through the very marrow of his bones with each thrust.

You broke your kiss to watch Wyll as his mind began to slip, drowning in the passion you both shared. His body was glistening with sweat, muscles shaking as he grasped at whatever part of you he could reach, your hips working in a hypnotising rhythm that had any coherent thought evaporate from both of your minds. To him, you looked divine, your muscles flexing with each movement, mouth slightly agape to let out short breaths and delicious moans, your brows frowned in concentration. It only took you muttering a sincere “I love you” for Wyll to tumble over the edge earlier than he had hoped.

“Hells below,” he whispered, a groan following shortly after when you continued moving even as he came down from his high, his senses going into overdrive at how sensitive he was. “My love, I- Gods, you're still-”

Looking up at you was a mistake on his part, the sinful sight of your eyes gazing at him with such desire overwhelming enough that he thought he'd either come again or have a heart attack. He writhed beneath you, not wanting to stop you when you felt so incredible, like you were guiding him up to the summit of Mount Celestia itself. Wyll discovered he was grateful for one more demonic trait he had been punished with: his stamina. He was sure that was the only thing keeping him from losing his grip on his last thread of sanity.

“You can take it for me, Wyll, can't you?” Gods yes, he could take whatever you wanted if you continued to speak to him like that, the demand in your voice hidden underneath a honeyed tone. “You can give me one more.”

Goosebumps crawled up his body and a choked moan got stuck in his throat as you sped up the pace, watching intently as he fell apart beneath you and began chanting your name like a delirious prayer. Your name, none of those heartless nobles who dared keep him away from you.

“Should've done this sooner,” you said, breathless. “Should've come up to you on that ballroom floor and showed everyone that you're well and thoroughly taken.”

You gripped the headboard, focused on chasing your own release knowing that Wyll was close again. He felt so good, the angle at which you were lowering yourself on him ensuring that he hit every spot you needed him to, until your moans got louder, until your sweet praises and filthy declarations became unintelligible. Before you knew it, you came over him, pulling him right after you into the deep end of white hot pleasure, his hands gripping your hips in an almost bruising manner, while yours dug into the headboard so hard you were surprised you didn't break it. After a moment of catching your breath, you pulled away, groaning at how his softening cock dragged against your walls at the motion, before you collapsed next to him.

It only took a second for Wyll to reach out for you, pulling you close to him, the shaking in his limbs beginning to subside as he pressed loving kisses on the crown of your head. You hugged him back, tracing aimless patterns on his back as you got lost in the scent of him, closing your eyes in bliss.

“Thank you, Wyll,” you uttered, your voice muffled from how your lips pressed to his collarbone.

Wyll pulled away slightly to look at your eyes, the moonlight bleeding through the windows bathing you in an ethereal glow. He almost lost track of what you had said, too preoccupied focusing his entire being on how gorgeous you looked, naked beside him, your tired eyes holding so much love it had his heart skipping several beats. And to think you'd ever believe he could love someone else, when not even the greatest wizards and sorcerers in the Forgotten Realms could have one this enchanted with the love of their life.

Wyll finally remembered what he wanted to say, the back of his palm brushing against your cheek.

“What for?” he asked.

“Reassuring me.”

He chuckled, squeezing you close to his heart, one hand rubbing against your arm.

“You don't need to thank me for that. What kind of husband would I be if I didn't shower my dear spouse in all the affection I can offer?”

You smiled at that, allowing your body to relax in his arms, your breathing evening out as you listened to his heart steadily beating in tandem with yours. You relished how he kissed you so gently, how his hands banished any sort of tension from your muscles, how his presence finally silenced the awful voice in your head that dared to make you think even for a second that Wyll would ever have eyes for another.

Just as you were about to fall asleep, completely at peace enveloped in his warmth, Wyll spoke up:

“I also wouldn't mind repeating myself, if you ever get jealous again.”

You smiled, pinching his side playfully as he laughed and threw the covers over both of you, finally settling into a deep slumber.

[misfitwashere]

The American oligarchy is back, and it’s out of control

It’s the third time in the nation’s history that a small group of hyper-wealthy people have gained political power over the rest of us. Here’s what we must do. 

ROBERT REICH

DEC 20

Friends,

Today we don’t know if the United States government will shut down tomorrow because, first, Elon Musk followed by his co-president Donald Trump, persuaded House Republicans to vote against a compromise bill, and then, last night, Republicans couldn’t summon enough votes for a stripped-down continuing resolution because Trump insisted that it contain a measure lifting the debt ceiling. 

This is not governing. Trump and the Republicans are not a governing party.

What’s the back story to all this? It’s the oligarchy that put Trump into the presidency.

A half-century ago, when America had a large and growing middle class, those on the “left” wanted stronger social safety nets and more public investment in schools, roads, and research. Those on the “right” sought greater reliance on the free market. 

But as power and wealth have moved to the top, everyone else — whether on the old right or the old left — has become disempowered and less secure. 

Today the great divide is not between left and right. It’s between democracy and oligarchy.

The word “oligarchy” comes from the Greek words meaning rule (arche) by the few (oligos). It refers to a government of and by a few exceedingly rich people or families who control the major institutions of society — and therefore have most power over other peoples’ lives. 

So far, Trump has picked 13 billionaires for his administration. It’s the wealthiest in history, including the richest person in the world. They and Trump are part of the American oligarchy, even though Trump campaigned on being the “voice” of the working class. 

America’s two previous oligarchies

America has experienced oligarchy twice before. Many of the men who founded America were slaveholding white oligarchs. At that time, the new nation did not have much of a middle class. Most white people were farmers, indentured servants, farm hands, traders, day laborers, and artisans. A fifth of the American population was Black, almost all of them enslaved.

A century later a new American oligarchy emerged comprised of men who amassed fortunes through their railroad, steel, oil, and financial empires — men such as J. Pierpont Morgan, John D. Rockefeller, Andrew Carnegie, Cornelius Vanderbilt, and Andrew Mellon. It was called the Gilded Age. 

They ushered the nation into an industrial revolution that vastly expanded economic output. But they also corrupted government, brutally suppressed wages, generated unprecedented levels of inequality and urban poverty, pillaged rivals, shut down competitors, and made out like bandits — which is why they earned the sobriquet “robber barons.”

World War I and the Great Depression of the 1930s eroded most of the robber barons’ wealth, and much of their power was eliminated with the elections of Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1932 and Democratic majorities in the House and Senate. 

America demanded fundamental reforms — a progressive income tax, corporate taxes, estate taxes, limits on the political power of large corporations, antitrust laws, laws enabling workers to form unions and requiring that employers negotiate with them, Social Security, the forty-hour workweek, unemployment insurance, civil rights and voting rights, and Medicare. 

For the next half-century, the gains from growth were more widely shared and democracy became more responsive to the needs and aspirations of average Americans. During these years America created the largest middle class the world had ever seen. 

There was still much to do: wider economic opportunities for Black people, Latinos, and women, protection of the environment. Yet by almost every measure the nation was making progress.

America’s current oligarchy

Starting around 1980, a third American oligarchy emerged. 

Since then, the median wage of the bottom 90 percent has stagnated. The share of the nation’s wealth owned by the richest 400 Americans has quadrupled (from less than 1 percent to 3.5 percent) while the share owned by the entire bottom half of America has dropped to 1.3 percent, according to an analysis by my Berkeley colleagues Emmanuel Saez and Gabriel Zucman. 

The richest 1 percent of Americans now has more wealth than the bottom 90 percent combined.

The only other country with similarly high levels of wealth concentration is Russia, another oligarchy. 

All this has been accompanied by a dramatic increase in the political power of the super-wealthy and an equally dramatic decline in the political influence of everyone else. 

While the Biden administration sought to realign America with its ideals, it did not and could not accomplish nearly enough. Trump’s lies and demagoguery exploited the anger and frustration of much of America — creating the false impression he was a tribune of the working class and an anti-establishment hero — thereby allowing the oligarchy to triumph. 

In 2022, Elon Musk spent $44 billion to buy Twitter and turn it into his own personal political megaphone. Then, in 2024, he spent $277 million to get Trump elected, also using Twitter (now X) to amplify pro-Trump, anti-Harris messages. 

These were good investments for Musk. Since Election Day, Musk’s fortune has increased by $170 billion. That’s because investors in Tesla and SpaceX have pushed their value into the stratosphere. 

Trump has put Musk (and another billionaire, Vivek Ramaswamy) in charge of gutting government services in the name of “efficiency.” Musk’s investors assume that Musk will eliminate the health, safety, labor, and environmental regulations that have limited the profits of Musk-owned corporations, and that Trump will put more government money into SpaceX and xAI (Musk’s artificial intelligence company). 

Unlike income or wealth, power is a zero-sum game. The more of it at the top, the less of it anywhere else.

The power shift across America is related to a tsunami of big money into politics. Corporate lobbying has soared. The voices of average people have been drowned out. 

The American oligarchy is back, with a vengeance. 

Not all wealthy people are culpable, of course. The abuse is occurring at the nexus of wealth and power, where those with great wealth use it to gain power and then utilize that power to accumulate more wealth. Today’s robber barons include Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, Peter Thiel, David Sacks, Charles Koch, Jeff Yass, Ken Griffin, and Rupert Murdoch. 

What the new oligarchy wants

This is how oligarchy destroys democracy. As oligarchs fill the coffers of political candidates and deploy platoons of lobbyists and public relations flaks, they buy off democracy. Oligarchs know that politicians won’t bite the hands that feed them. 

As long as they control the purse strings, there will be no meaningful response to the failure of most people’s paychecks to rise, nor to climate change, nor racism, nor the soaring costs of health insurance, pharmaceuticals, college, and housing, because those are not the main concerns of the oligarchy.

The oligarchs want lower taxes, which is what Trump, Musk, and other oligarchs are planning — an extension of the 2017 Trump tax cut, with an estimated price tag of at least $5 trillion. 

They want no antitrust enforcement to puncture the power of their giant corporations. Instead, their corporations will grow larger, able to charge consumers even more. Trump is replacing Lina Khan, the trustbusting chair of the Federal Trade Commission, with a Trump crony. 

There will be no meaningful constraint on Wall Street’s dangerous gambling addiction. The gambling will only increase. 

Wall Street is already celebrating Trump’s victory. The stock market has reached new heights. But the stock market is inconsequential for most people, because the richest 1 percent own over half of all shares of stock owned by Americans while the richest 10 percent own over 90 percent. 

There will be no limits to CEO pay. Wall Street hedge fund and private equity managers will also rake in billions more. Government will dole out even more corporate subsidies, bailouts, and loan guarantees while eliminating protections for consumers, workers, and the environment. 

It will become a government for, of, and by the oligarchy.

The biggest divide in America today is not between “right” and “left,” or between Republicans and Democrats. It’s between democracy and oligarchy. The old labels — “right” and “left” — prevent most people from noticing they’re being shafted.

The propagandists and demagogues who protect the oligarchy stoke racial and ethnic resentments — describing human beings as illegal aliens, fueling hatred of immigrants, and spreading fears of communists and socialists. 

This strategy gives the oligarchy freer rein: It distracts Americans from how the oligarchy is looting the nation, buying off politicians, and silencing critics. It causes Americans to hate each other so we don’t look upward and see where the wealth and power have really gone. 

The necessary agenda

The way to overcome oligarchy is for the rest of us to join together and win America back, as we did in response to the oligarchy that dominated America’s last Gilded Age. 

This will require a multiracial, multiethnic coalition of working-class, poor, and middle-class Americans fighting for democracy and against concentrated power and privilege. 

It will require that the Democratic Party, or a new third party, tell the truth to the American people: that the major reason most peoples’ wages have gone nowhere and their jobs are less secure, why most families have to live paycheck to paycheck, why CEO pay has soared to 300 times the pay of the typical worker, and why billionaires are about to run our government, is because the market has been rigged against average working people by the oligarchy. 

The agenda ahead is simply stated but it will not be easy to implement: We must get big money out of our politics. End corporate welfare and crony capitalism. Bust up monopolies. Stop voter suppression. 

We must strengthen labor unions, give workers a stronger voice in their workplaces, create more employee-owned corporations, encourage worker cooperatives, fund and grow more state and local public banks, and develop other institutions of economic democracy.

This agenda is neither “right” nor “left.” It is the bedrock for everything else America must do.

It may seem an odd time in our history to suggest such reforms, but this is the best time. Trump and his oligarchy will inevitably overreach. The lesson from the last Gilded Age is that when the corruption and ensuing hardship become so blatant that they offend the values of the majority of Americans, the majority will rise up and demand real, systemic change.

It’s only a matter of time. A government shutdown that hurts average people, engineered by the richest person in the world, might just hasten it. 

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Robert Reich:

Friends, Today we don’t know if the United States government will shut down tomorrow because, first, Elon Musk followed by his co-president Donald Trump, persuaded House Republicans to vote against a compromise bill, and then, last night, Republicans couldn’t summon enough votes for a stripped-down continuing resolution because Trump insisted that it contain a measure lifting the debt ceiling. This is not governing. Trump and the Republicans are not a governing party.

What’s the back story to all this? It’s the oligarchy that put Trump into the presidency.

A half-century ago, when America had a large and growing middle class, those on the “left” wanted stronger social safety nets and more public investment in schools, roads, and research. Those on the “right” sought greater reliance on the free market. But as power and wealth have moved to the top, everyone else — whether on the old right or the old left — has become disempowered and less secure.

Today the great divide is not between left and right. It’s between democracy and oligarchy.

The word “oligarchy” comes from the Greek words meaning rule (arche) by the few (oligos). It refers to a government of and by a few exceedingly rich people or families who control the major institutions of society — and therefore have most power over other peoples’ lives. So far, Trump has picked 13 billionaires for his administration. It’s the wealthiest in history, including the richest person in the world. They and Trump are part of the American oligarchy, even though Trump campaigned on being the “voice” of the working class.

America’s two previous oligarchies

America has experienced oligarchy twice before. Many of the men who founded America were slaveholding white oligarchs. At that time, the new nation did not have much of a middle class. Most white people were farmers, indentured servants, farm hands, traders, day laborers, and artisans. A fifth of the American population was Black, almost all of them enslaved. A century later a new American oligarchy emerged comprised of men who amassed fortunes through their railroad, steel, oil, and financial empires — men such as J. Pierpont Morgan, John D. Rockefeller, Andrew Carnegie, Cornelius Vanderbilt, and Andrew Mellon. It was called the Gilded Age. They ushered the nation into an industrial revolution that vastly expanded economic output. But they also corrupted government, brutally suppressed wages, generated unprecedented levels of inequality and urban poverty, pillaged rivals, shut down competitors, and made out like bandits — which is why they earned the sobriquet “robber barons.” World War I and the Great Depression of the 1930s eroded most of the robber barons’ wealth, and much of their power was eliminated with the elections of Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1932 and Democratic majorities in the House and Senate. America demanded fundamental reforms — a progressive income tax, corporate taxes, estate taxes, limits on the political power of large corporations, antitrust laws, laws enabling workers to form unions and requiring that employers negotiate with them, Social Security, the forty-hour workweek, unemployment insurance, civil rights and voting rights, and Medicare. For the next half-century, the gains from growth were more widely shared and democracy became more responsive to the needs and aspirations of average Americans. During these years America created the largest middle class the world had ever seen.

Robert Reich wrote a solid piece that the American oligarchy is back in full force.

[travelerofthetimestreams]

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one. Given this logic comment by Spock, it's not hard to imagine why we ended up where we are.

The general consensus of those who voted for Trump, is that they feel left behind by the current (and repeated in their mind) status quo in DC.

Trump, despite being morally bankrupt, a fraudulent business man, a misogynist, a sexual predator, a science denier, a communist loving puppet, and not having the mental capacity to form intelligent sentences, is somehow the hero to the "working man".

They are ignorant to the reality that he hates them; that he looks down on with absolute disdain and disgust.

Trump loves Putin. Therefore, it would not surprise that aid to Ukraine is cut off and Putin gains control of the country.

Trump hates brown people. Therefore, it would not surprise that aid to Israel is cut off. Nor would it surprise me that he intervenes with Israel's fight to defend itself because received a heft donation from a wealthy Hamas supporter.

Side note: The argument that our inflation is due to money being sent to either of these causes is bullshit and equally ignorant. Putin must not be allowed to invade any sovereign nation. The Iranian backed Hamas/Houthi/Hezbolah radical terrorist groups only seek to eradicate all Jews everywhere. Secondary side note: Israelis are NOT oppressors or colonizers. They are living on their ancestral homeland. A homeland they have ALWAYS shared with Syrians, Jordanians, Palestinians, etc. Because they are genetically Middle Eastern.

Trump is intellectually retarded. Therefore, any science that backs environmental progress will most likely be de-funded.

Trump is a fraudulent businessman. Therefore, any progress we've made and reducing the deficit we disappear. He will most likely create the highest deficit ever. He already did it under his first presidency. Furthermore, giving tax breaks to the wealthy 1% will do nothing to help the working class. Just like his first term. With regards to tariffs, your Shein, Temu, and any other shit product from a shit website such as those will suddenly become more expensive.

Trump hates women he can't control. Therefore, women will continue to suffer and be denied autonomy over their own healthcare.

Trump hates LGBTQ people. Therefore, it would not surprise me that freedoms and rights we currently enjoy, will be slowly eroded.

[unpluggedfinancial]

The Higher Calling: Why Bitcoiners Must Spread the Word

In a world teetering on the edge of economic instability, there has never been a more critical time to embrace and advocate for Bitcoin. As traditional finance falters under the weight of inflation, debt, and monetary mismanagement, Bitcoin emerges as a beacon of hope—a revolutionary alternative that promises financial sovereignty and transparency. But Bitcoin’s potential can only be realized if it reaches the masses. This is where Bitcoiners come in. As torchbearers of this financial revolution, we have a responsibility—no, a duty—to spread the word and help others unplug from the flawed systems that have kept them shackled for too long. There is no higher calling at this moment in history. The world needs us now more than ever.

Why Bitcoiners Must Be the Voice of Change

Bitcoiners occupy a unique position in the global financial landscape. We have seen firsthand the flaws in traditional finance, and we understand the liberating power of Bitcoin. This knowledge places us in a pivotal role: we are not just participants in a new financial system; we are the educators, the advocates, and the voices of change.

It’s easy to underestimate the importance of spreading the word. Some might think, "I’m just one person; what difference can I make?" But the truth is that every conversation, every piece of content, and every interaction has the potential to change minds and open eyes. By sharing what we know, we empower others to take control of their financial futures. And in doing so, we move closer to a world where financial sovereignty is the norm, not the exception.

The Urgency of Unplugging from Traditional Finance

The current financial system is on an unsustainable path. Central banks continue to print money at an unprecedented rate, devaluing currencies and eroding the purchasing power of ordinary people. Inflation is no longer a distant threat; it’s a reality that affects every aspect of our lives. Meanwhile, economic inequality continues to widen, with the rich getting richer while the middle and lower classes struggle to keep up.

Bitcoin offers a solution, but it’s a solution that requires widespread adoption to be truly effective. The more people who understand Bitcoin and embrace it, the more robust the system becomes. This is why it’s so important for Bitcoiners to actively engage in spreading the word. We are not just advocating for a new kind of money; we are advocating for a fundamental shift in how we think about value, ownership, and freedom.

Strategies for Spreading the Word

So how can we, as Bitcoiners, effectively spread the message? The answer lies in both our actions and our words.

Engage in Conversations: Start discussions with friends, family, and colleagues. Share your experiences with Bitcoin and explain why it matters. Be patient and willing to answer questions, even if the same ones come up repeatedly.

Create Content: Whether it’s writing blog posts, recording videos, or tweeting, use your platform to educate and inspire others. The more content we create, the more we can counteract the misinformation and fear that often surrounds Bitcoin.

Participate in Meetups and Communities: Join local Bitcoin meetups or online communities. These are great places to share knowledge, exchange ideas, and build a network of like-minded individuals.

Lead by Example: Actions often speak louder than words. Show others how Bitcoin has positively impacted your life, whether through financial gains, increased security, or a newfound sense of financial independence.

The Higher Calling: Building a Better Future

At its core, advocating for Bitcoin is about more than just promoting a new technology; it’s about building a better, more equitable future for everyone. The current financial system is designed to benefit the few at the expense of the many. By spreading the word about Bitcoin, we are challenging that system and laying the groundwork for a world where financial freedom is accessible to all.

This is not just a financial movement; it’s a moral one. We have a responsibility to contribute to this global shift, not just for ourselves, but for future generations. By helping others unplug from traditional finance, we are helping to create a world where fairness, transparency, and freedom are the cornerstones of our financial system.

Conclusion: The World Needs Bitcoiners

The world is at a crossroads, and Bitcoiners have a crucial role to play in shaping the future. There is no higher calling at this point in time than to spread the word about Bitcoin and help others break free from the constraints of traditional finance. The world needs us—now more than ever.

So, let’s take up the mantle and lead by example. Let’s engage, educate, and inspire. Because in the end, the success of Bitcoin doesn’t just depend on price movements or market trends; it depends on us—the Bitcoiners—spreading the word and helping to build a better future for all.

Take Action Towards Financial Independence

If this article has sparked your interest in the transformative potential of Bitcoin, there's so much more to explore! Dive deeper into the world of financial independence and revolutionize your understanding of money by following my blog and subscribing to my YouTube channel.

🌐 Blog: Unplugged Financial Blog Stay updated with insightful articles, detailed analyses, and practical advice on navigating the evolving financial landscape. Learn about the history of money, the flaws in our current financial systems, and how Bitcoin can offer a path to a more secure and independent financial future.

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👍 Like, subscribe, and hit the notification bell to stay updated with our latest content. Whether you're a seasoned investor, a curious newcomer, or someone concerned about the future of your financial health, our community is here to support you on your journey to financial independence.

[goldinvest-edelmetalle]

Will 2024 Be the Year for Precious Metals?

As we move into 2024, the global economic landscape is prompting investors to take a closer look at precious metals like gold, silver, and platinum. With the ongoing uncertainties in financial markets, the appeal of these metals as a safe haven remains strong. But will 2024 be the year where precious metals shine brighter than ever? The experts at Gold Invest Germany believe that it very well could be.

Economic Factors Driving Interest

The world is currently facing a range of economic challenges, including inflation, currency fluctuations, and geopolitical tensions. These factors have historically driven investors toward precious metals, which are often seen as a hedge against instability. In 2024, inflation concerns are particularly pronounced, as central banks around the globe continue to grapple with the impacts of expansive monetary policies. Precious metals, especially gold, offer a way to protect purchasing power when inflation erodes the value of fiat currencies.

Another key factor is the ongoing uncertainty in the stock markets. After years of robust growth, many analysts are predicting a more volatile environment for equities in 2024. As investors seek to diversify their portfolios and reduce risk, precious metals become an attractive option. Gold and silver, in particular, have a long history of providing stability during market downturns, making them a preferred choice for those looking to safeguard their wealth.

Geopolitical Tensions and Market Volatility

Geopolitical tensions are another reason why 2024 might be the year for precious metals. Conflicts in regions such as Eastern Europe and the Middle East, combined with trade disputes between major economies, are contributing to an unpredictable global environment. During times of political instability, precious metals like gold often see increased demand, as they are viewed as a reliable store of value when other assets may be at risk.

Market volatility, driven by these geopolitical factors, is likely to persist throughout 2024. This volatility makes precious metals an appealing option for risk-averse investors. Unlike stocks or bonds, which can be influenced by corporate earnings reports or government policy changes, the value of precious metals is largely independent of such factors. This independence provides a level of security that is difficult to find in other asset classes.

Sustainability and Ethical Considerations

In addition to the economic and geopolitical factors, there is a growing awareness of sustainability and ethical considerations in investing. Gold Invest Germany is at the forefront of this trend, offering products that meet the highest environmental and ethical standards. As more investors seek to align their portfolios with their values, the demand for responsibly sourced precious metals is expected to rise.

This trend is particularly relevant in 2024, as consumers and investors alike are placing greater emphasis on sustainability. Precious metals, when sourced responsibly, offer a way to invest in a manner that is consistent with these values. Companies like Gold Invest Germany are leading the way by providing options that allow investors to support ethical practices while still achieving their financial goals.

A Promising Outlook for 2024

The combination of economic uncertainty, geopolitical tensions, market volatility, and a growing focus on sustainability all point to a strong year for precious metals in 2024. As investors look for ways to protect their wealth and invest responsibly, gold, silver, and platinum are likely to play a central role in their strategies. Gold Invest Germany is well-positioned to meet this demand, offering high-quality products that align with the evolving needs and values of today’s investors. Whether you are seeking stability, ethical investment options, or a hedge against inflation, precious metals may be the key to achieving your financial objectives in 2024.

[deninvestiment]

Investing in Gold : A Solid Foundation for Your Financial Security

Throughout history, gold has stood as a beacon of stability and security amidst the ever-changing tides of the global economy. Its inherent value, unscathed by inflation, currency devaluation, and geopolitical strife, has made it a favorite for investors looking to safeguard their wealth. Whether during periods of economic boom or the depths of a recession, gold has proven itself time and again as a resilient asset that can bolster one's financial foundation. In this article, we will delve into the virtues of investing in gold and how it can fortify your financial security amidst a world of uncertainties. Keep reading to uncover why gold remains one of the most trusted investments and how you can incorporate it into your portfolio.

A History of Holding Its Value

Gold's shining legacy as a vessel for maintaining value isn't just a tale of modern finance but a testament echoing through the annals of history. Civilizations across epochs have revered gold not only for its luster but its ability to safeguard wealth, transcending fleeting currencies and volatile markets. Unlike stocks, bonds, or digital assets, whose fortunes can wax and wane with economic winds, gold's intrinsic value has stood the test of time, offering a bulwark against inflation and economic downturns. As we delve deeper, we'll explore how gold distinguishes itself from other assets in preserving wealth, its pivotal role during times of financial crises, and why its storied past enriches its appeal as a cornerstone for robust personal finance strategies today. Understanding Gold's Enduring Value Across Civilizations Delving into the annals of history, gold's allure is unmistakable across civilizations, acting not merely as a symbol of wealth but as a linchpin of economic stability. From the ancient Egyptians to the Roman Empire, and through the Middle Ages in Europe, gold has served as a bedrock of prosperity, underpinning currencies, adorning monarchs, and fueling trade across distant lands. Its permanence and scarcity ensured that gold was inherently valued, making it the ideal medium of exchange and store of value. This intrinsic worth made gold a universally recognized asset, capable of crossing cultural and geographical boundaries: a testament to its enduring appeal and versatility as an investment option: CivilizationRole of GoldImpact on EconomyAncient EgyptMonetary standard, jewelryFacilitated trade across regionsRoman EmpireCurrency, wealth symbolSupported extensive trade networksMedieval EuropeReserve asset, coinageStrengthened financial systems Comparing Gold's Preservation of Wealth to Other Assets When I juxtapose gold's wealth preservation capabilities with other assets such as stocks, real estate, or bonds, its unique resilience becomes starkly evident. While the stock market can offer high returns, it's also subject to significant volatility, which can erode the purchasing power of your investment during downturns. Real estate and bonds, on the other hand, while providing a steady income, are often affected by changes in interest rates or the broader economic climate, making gold a more stable store of value over the long term. Another aspect where gold stands out is its resistance to inflation and currency devaluation. In times when fiat money loses its purchasing power due to inflation, gold's value, by contrast, tends to increase, protecting my wealth. Unlike fiat currencies, whose supply can be increased at will by central banks, gold's supply is limited; this scarcity underpins its lasting value. This makes investing in gold an attractive option for preserving capital in uncertain economic times, providing a safety net against the erosion of wealth. The Role of Gold During Financial Crises Throughout the multiple financial crises I’ve witnessed, gold has consistently emerged as a beacon of stability amidst uncertainty. Its value endures while different asset classes might slump in response to economic shocks: a testament to gold's role as a hedge against both systemic risk and inflation. As an investor, I've observed gold's performance during downturns like the Great Recession, where it not only retained its value but appreciated, while most portfolios suffered. This behavior underscores gold's utility in providing insurance against market volatility and safeguarding capital when other assets falter. It's these moments of crisis that highlight gold’s irreplaceable position in a diversified investment strategy: Financial CrisisImpact on Other AssetsGold's PerformanceGreat Recession (2007-2009)Massive downturn in stock markets globallySignificant appreciation in valueCOVID-19 Pandemic (2020)Initial sharp decline across asset classesIncreased in value as a safe haven asset As we journey from the longstanding stability of gold, brace yourself for a pivot to something more contemporary. The saga takes a dramatic turn, exploring the U.S. dollar's vulnerabilities — a storyline you won't want to miss.

Weakness of the U.S. Dollar

The relationship between the strength of the U.S. dollar and the appeal of gold as an investment is more than just passing financial wisdom; it's a dynamic that has consistently offered intriguing insights for those keen on preserving their wealth. Observing the fluctuations in the dollar's value offers a vantage point from which to assess gold's steadfastness. This correlation, or often inverse relationship, between a weakening dollar and strengthening gold prices paints a vivid picture of how shifts in currency strength directly impact my decisions to increase gold holdings. It's a narrative supported by historical data that not only elucidates past financial trends but also aids in predicting future movements. As we navigate the complexities of these financial interactions, it becomes evident how a declining dollar serves as a catalyst, enhancing the allure of gold investments as a bulwark against inflationary pressures and currency devaluation. How the Declining Dollar Strengthens Gold Investments In the landscape of investment strategies, the declining strength of the U.S. dollar has a particularly telling impact on the allure of gold investments. As the dollar's value diminishes, I find that gold consistently offers a compelling counterbalance: its price often moves inversely to the currency's performance, making it an attractive option for protecting my capital. The story unfolding between a weakening dollar and stronger gold prices is not merely anecdotal but grounded in tangible financial principles: - A declining dollar diminishes the purchasing power of my cash reserves, urging me to seek refuge in assets that historically have retained value. - Gold, with its inherent value and limited supply, emerges as a beacon of stability, drawing increased demand in times of currency devaluation. - As more investors flock to gold as a safe haven, its price often surges, reinforcing gold's role as a hedge against the dollar's volatility. Historical Perspective on the Dollar vs. Gold Performance Tracing the performance of the dollar against gold over the years offers a fascinating insight into the resilience of gold as an investment. While the dollar has faced periods of weakness due to various economic pressures, gold has consistently demonstrated a remarkable ability to hold its value, providing a compelling narrative for investors seeking stability. For instance, during times of significant dollar devaluation, gold's prominence as a secure investment option becomes increasingly apparent: - Gold's price frequently ascends as the dollar's value declines, underscoring the metal's role as a safeguard against currency weakness. - This inverse relationship highlights how gold serves as an effective hedge, attracting investment when confidence in fiat currencies wavers. Predicting Future Shifts in Dollar Strength and Gold Value Forecasting the interplay between the U.S. dollar's strength and gold's value involves a nuanced understanding of global economic indicators and geopolitical events. Given the historical inverse relationship between the two, shifts towards economic instability or inflation often signal a rise in gold’s appeal as a protective asset, hinting at its potential to thrive as the dollar weakens. My approach to anticipating these shifts rests on diligent market analysis and staying informed on central bank policies, as these institutions greatly influence money supply and interest rates, affecting the dollar's value. By carefully monitoring these trends, I position myself to make informed decisions about bolstering my investment in gold, ensuring it remains a cornerstone of my financial security. Navigating the tumultuous waters of a weakening U.S. dollar, we now chart a course towards the safe harbor of inflation hedging. Brace yourself as we explore how this age-old strategy can be your beacon in stormy financial seas.

Inflation Hedge

In the realm of financial security, situating gold within your portfolio as a shield against inflation is more than a mere stratagem; it's a proactive approach to preserving your capital's purchasing power. Diving into analysis, I've scrutinized gold's robustness during inflationary cycles, contrasting its steadiness with other conventional inflation hedges. The forthcoming sections will explore gold's unrivaled performance amid rising prices, pit it against other assets traditionally deemed as inflation safeguards, and unveil strategies that leverage gold effectively. This exploration is not just academic; it's rooted in my commitment to ensuring that gold anchors my financial wellbeing against the erosive forces of inflation. Analyzing Gold's Performance During Inflationary Periods Examining gold's historical performance during inflationary times, it's apparent that its value does not merely remain static but often appreciates. This pattern provides a clear indication of gold's potent role as an inflation hedge: a tool for investors to protect their purchasing power when currency values plummet. This ability of gold to not just sustain but grow in value during periods of high inflation is pivotal. It distinguishes gold from many other investment vehicles which tend to suffer under the weight of rising prices and eroding currency value: Inflationary PeriodGold's PerformanceComparison With Other Investments1970s Oil CrisisSignificantly appreciatedOutperformed stocks and bondsEarly 2000s Commodity BoomSteady increaseMore stable than volatile equity markets The data encapsulated in the table above underscores gold's resilience and capacity for capital preservation during times when traditional investments falter. This reinforces the wisdom of incorporating gold into an investment strategy focused on long-term security and inflation protection. Gold vs. Other Inflation Hedges: A Comparative Study In comparing gold with traditional inflation hedges such as real estate or Treasury Inflation-Protected Securities (TIPS), I've discovered a distinct level of reliability in gold's capacity to hold and often increase in value amidst inflationary pressures. Real estate, while tangible and potentially yielding passive income, is subject to market fluctuations and geographical risks, contrastingly, TIPS offer an inflation-linked return but often with lower yields. Gold, therefore, stands out for its universal acceptability and historical performance as a robust safeguard against currency devaluation. Another noteworthy distinction involves the way gold interacts with global economic dynamics versus other hedges. Stocks and commodities may offer inflation protection to an extent but are deeply influenced by corporate performance and market sentiment. Gold, conversely, responds more directly to shifts in global monetary policy and inflation forecasts, often gaining value as investors seek a stable store of wealth during uncertain times. This unique attribute reinforces my conviction in gold’s essential role within my diversified portfolio for comprehensive financial security. Strategies for Leveraging Gold to Protect Against Rising Prices To fortify my financial stronghold against the incursions of inflation, I integrate gold into my portfolio, not as a mere addition but as strategic ballast. This metal's unrivaled steadiness in face of the dwindling purchasing power of fiat currencies like the dollar compels me to allocate a portion of my investment capital towards its purchase. By doing so, I leverage gold's intrinsic capacity to act as an inflation hedge, effectively insulating my wealth from the erosive effects of rising prices. Embracing gold's versatility, I explore various investment avenues, from bullion and coins to gold IRAs and mutual funds that focus on gold mining companies. This diversification within gold investments allows me to tap into different aspects of gold’s value, from direct ownership of physical gold, which offers a tangible sense of security, to equity positions in the mining sector that carry the potential for growth alongside gold's price ascent. Engaging with these varied options enhances my arsenal against inflation, ensuring that my portfolio is well-equipped to sustain its purchasing power over time. Now, let's pivot from guarding your wealth against inflation to safeguarding it in deflation's grip. Prepare to explore how your investments can stand resilient, even as markets descend.

Deflation Protection

In the landscape of investment strategies, leveraging gold for deflation protection is a maneuver grounded in both historical precedent and practicality. It's well understood that during periods of deflation—when prices decline, consumer spending retracts, and economic stagnation looms—gold's stability becomes a beacon for those seeking to preserve their wealth. Reflecting on history, we can pinpoint several junctures where gold not only held its ground but actually flourished, offering insight into its mechanics as a deflation shield. By dissecting these instances and unraveling how gold counteracts deflationary pressures, we string together a coherent strategy for safeguarding our financial futures against the less-discussed but equally devastating cousin of inflation: deflation. This exploration will navigate through gold's appeal during deflationary economic times, spotlight historical instances of gold's outperformance in such conditions, and decrypt the underlying mechanics qualifying gold as an effective deflation shield. Gold's Appeal During Deflationary Economic Times In the labyrinth of economic phenomena, deflation presents a unique landscape, and within this, the allure of gold shines brighter. The metal's reputation for holding its value becomes particularly compelling when prices across the board are falling, consumer spending is retracting, and panic often dictates market movements. Gold's stable presence offers a reassuring counterweight to these deflationary pressures, affirming its status as a secure harbor for my investments during such turbulent times. Drawing from historical wisdom, gold's performance during deflationary periods has bolstered my confidence in its value as an essential component of my financial strategy. While other assets may suffer from declining prices and decreasing demand, gold's intrinsic value and limited supply ensure that it not only retains its allure but often sees an increase in demand. This dynamic amplifies gold's appeal, presenting it as an unequivocal choice for protecting wealth when deflation looms on the economic horizon. Historical Instances Where Gold Outperformed During Deflation Reflecting on the Great Depression, a period characterized by prolonged deflation, gold emerged as a beacon of stability. During these challenging years, when prices plummeted and economic activity ground to a halt, gold maintained its value, and indeed, its price was revalued upwards in 1934, providing investors with a rare beacon of financial hope amidst widespread monetary despair. Another noteworthy instance is the economic downturn that Japan faced in the 1990s, often referred to as the Lost Decade. Despite a global trend towards falling prices and minimal economic growth, gold upheld its reputation for resilience. Its performance during these years further cemented my trust in gold's ability to stand as a robust defense mechanism against deflationary pressures, safeguarding wealth when other assets faltered. Understanding the Mechanics of Gold as a Deflation Shield Understanding how gold acts as a shield against deflation hinges on recognizing its unique position as an asset that doesn't depend on a counterparty's obligation for its value. Unlike debt securities or currencies whose worth might diminish in deflationary periods, gold's intrinsic value offers a steadfast alternative. This grounding in physical wealth, as opposed to value assigned by market confidence or creditworthiness, makes me rely on gold to hold its ground even as deflation erodes the purchasing power of paper money. In the midst of deflation, when prices drop and economic stagnation takes hold, gold distinguishes itself again by its scarcity and worldwide recognition as a store of value. This creates a natural demand that often leads to its price stability or increase, even as other investments falter. Read the full article

[business-around-the-globe]

Business around the world

In today's interconnected world, the realm of business transcends geographical boundaries, intertwining cultures, economies, and technologies to create a truly global marketplace. From bustling metropolises to remote villages, entrepreneurs and corporations alike are navigating the intricate tapestry of international commerce. Let's embark on a journey around the world to explore the diverse landscapes of business and uncover the trends shaping economies worldwide.

1. The Rise of Emerging Markets

Emerging markets, once considered peripheral players in the global economy, have now taken center stage. Countries like China, India, Brazil, and Indonesia are experiencing rapid economic growth, fueled by urbanization, technological advancements, and burgeoning middle-class populations. These dynamic markets offer immense opportunities for businesses seeking growth beyond traditional Western hubs.

2. Innovation Hubs and Tech Clusters

Innovation knows no bounds, with technology hubs sprouting up in unexpected corners of the globe. Silicon Valley may have long been synonymous with innovation, but cities like Tel Aviv, Bangalore, Shenzhen, and Berlin are challenging its dominance. These vibrant ecosystems foster collaboration between startups, investors, and established firms, driving breakthroughs in fields like artificial intelligence, biotechnology, and renewable energy.

3. Sustainable Business Practices

As the world grapples with environmental challenges, sustainability has become a top priority for businesses worldwide. From renewable energy initiatives to eco-friendly supply chains, companies are embracing sustainable practices to minimize their carbon footprint and meet the growing demands of socially-conscious consumers. Leading the charge are Nordic countries like Sweden and Denmark, renowned for their commitment to renewable energy and green innovation.

4. E-commerce Revolution

The advent of e-commerce has revolutionized the way we shop, transforming traditional retail landscapes and creating new opportunities for entrepreneurs. Platforms like Amazon, Alibaba, and Shopify have democratized access to global markets, allowing businesses of all sizes to reach customers across borders. The rise of mobile technology has further accelerated this trend, with mobile payments and digital wallets reshaping consumer behavior in emerging economies.

5. Cultural Adaptation and Localization

In a world of diversity, cultural sensitivity is essential for businesses seeking success on a global scale. From marketing campaigns to product design, understanding local customs and preferences can make or break a venture in foreign markets. Companies like McDonald's and Coca-Cola have mastered the art of cultural adaptation, tailoring their offerings to resonate with consumers from Tokyo to Buenos Aires.

6. Geopolitical Uncertainty

Despite the promise of global integration, geopolitical tensions pose significant challenges for businesses operating across borders. Trade wars, Brexit, and regional conflicts can disrupt supply chains, increase tariffs, and erode consumer confidence, forcing companies to navigate a complex web of regulations and diplomatic relations. Flexibility and agility are paramount in an era defined by geopolitical uncertainty.

7. The Future of Work

Advancements in technology are reshaping the future of work, blurring the lines between physical and digital environments. Remote work, gig economy platforms, and automation are transforming traditional employment models, offering both opportunities and challenges for businesses and workers alike. Countries like Estonia and Singapore are pioneering digital nomad visas and flexible work arrangements to attract global talent in an increasingly interconnected world.

In conclusion, the landscape of global business is dynamic and ever-evolving, shaped by economic, technological, and cultural forces. As businesses navigate this complex terrain, adaptability, innovation, and a deep understanding of local dynamics will be key to success in the global marketplace.

Whether you're a seasoned multinational corporation or a budding entrepreneur, embracing the diversity of our world and harnessing the opportunities it presents will be essential for thriving in the interconnected economies of tomorrow

[probablyasocialecologist]

When Labour was elected with a big majority, there was a great sense of expectation of a sea change, and that the historical debt of the Labour Party to the miners would be redressed. There would be a serious program of social and economic regeneration for the former coalfield areas, hinging on the provision of decent, well-paid manufacturing jobs, not only for the current miners but also for the future generations. Then, it became clear that Blair’s view of regeneration was to sell these areas to mobile international capital. Some of it originated from the United States, some from Southeast Asia. Blair’s policy didn’t produce enough jobs, and the jobs that it did produce bore no comparison, in terms of wages, to those that had been available in the mines. Many of these jobs were not in manufacturing, but instead in call centers — they were poorly paid, part-time, and often precarious. The new economy that Blair’s government built up was not at all what people had expected, and it did not fit with what they were led to believe was Labour’s commitment to the coalfield areas. Having hit a high point in electoral support for Blair in 1997, the Labour Party had its support progressively eroded after that, as people became more and more disillusioned with the Thatcherite policies the Labour Party had pursued and the party’s inability to effectively combat the austerity politics of the Tory coalition in 2010. The opportunity to express disillusionment came with the Brexit vote. Those who had suffered as a consequence of industrial decline and the subsequent austerity policies of the previous two or three governments could voice their opposition to the political establishment. The Conservatives were largely in favor of Brexit. Senior figures in the Labour Party wanted to stay in Europe. In a sense, staying in Europe was seen as a sort of a class project — a certain fraction of the educated, middle-class political establishment had an interest in remaining in Europe. Brexit provided an opportunity for those in the areas that had suffered as a result of the previous thirty or forty years of economic policy to say, “If you’re in favor, we’re not. We’re not necessarily against our brothers in Europe, but we’ve had enough of being treated this way, and both major political parties have ignored our legitimate demands for decades.” This trend manifested in the subsequent election results. In 2019, Boris Johnson returned with a massive majority. In the North East, sometimes for the first time ever, conservative MPs were returned in districts like Blair’s, which had been solidly Labour for as long as anybody could remember. Something similar happened in South Wales: The Labour vote declined, but the opposition vote was split between the Tories and Plaid Cymru, the nationalist party. Labour held onto the seats, but Brexit was a turning point in Labour support in these areas. People wanted something different.

[togglesbloggle]

The Master Speed

There’s a neat feature in the natural sciences that I think about sometimes, one of those times when a stark binary emerges from a smooth gradient.  In hydrodynamics, bodies of water can be divided into two classes: subcritical, and supercritical.

It’s caused by a gee-whiz feature of water, which is that under earthlike conditions (that is, holding gravity constant and such), forces propagate through deep water at about the same speed no matter what.  Toss a rock in a still pond, watch the ripples expand outwards as the billiard balls of water molecules bounce and bounce against one another- that’s the speed that force, and of information carried therein, is propagated in water.  You’ll note it’s rather slow, actually.

(Though it’s a common mistake to make, keep in mind that ripples do not represent the outward motion of water molecules themselves- water isn’t zooming outwards in a circle away from our stone.  Ripples are lines of disorder and force moving through the medium of water, like sound waves in air or the compressed section of a slinky.)

Now let’s complicate the picture slightly.  Instead of a still pond, let’s imagine that we’re now in a slowly moving brook.  You toss in your stone, and the ripples spread around it in a circle as before.  Only this time, the center of that circle is moving downstream at a speed set by the flow velocity of the brook.  Relative to where you’re standing on the bank, the ripple of force is now moving upstream slower than it would otherwise, and the downstream front is moving faster.

Now speed up the brook a little more.  No, more than that.  Real fast now.

Do you see what happens?  The water itself is now going faster than the ripples!  In other words, ripples cannot travel upstream at all, they’re only ever moving downhill.  This thing is going to behave in fundamentally different ways.  

In a slower (subcritical) river, water flows in a certain way around rocks and other heavy obstructions- the water can ‘know’ about the irregularities before they happen, because they send ripples upstream, and the state of flow reflects that as it bends fairly smoothly around the thing.  Pay attention next time you see some rapids, and notice how the choppy water actually starts slightly before the first rocks.  

But in a really fast (supercritical) flow, either in a really fast river or just in localized high-speed zones like waterfalls, information about the environment simply does not propagate upstream at all, so the water just slams into obstructions with no warning.  These things splash differently, erode banks differently, and flow differently- it’s an entirely different species.  It’s super obvious which one you’re looking at, even just in the fossil record when the water itself is long since gone.

(This picture contains a narrow band of supercritical flow, right along the shelf in the middle at the little waterfall.  The choppy region downstream and the smooth region upstream are both subcritical; you can see ripples bouncing every which way.  Notice how that band ‘insulates’ the smooth upstream zone from the choppy waves below. No matter how rough the whitewater waves get, they never propagate up the waterfall.)

By smoothly changing the conditions of our little brook, we discovered a weird binary state encoded in the ratio of two values: the speed of the medium, and the speed of the force within it.  It really matters which of these is bigger, and creates a radically different environment.  As we smoothly move one of these values past the other, the continuous begets the discrete.

This happens a lot in nature, actually, but this is a helpful case study because it’s ultimately pretty simple and pretty accessible.  You can replicate this in your sink, even.  But it keeps coming in handy for me as a metaphor, in all kinds of weird situations.  It is not, really, a lesson in wider phenomena, it doesn’t provide new information that you don’t already have.  But it’s a framework that ends up being really handy, a kind of alphabet that helps me articulate my thoughts.  I present it here for your perusal.

One story here is just that a spectrum does not imply continuity.  Small, continuous change can cause systems to abruptly and radically leap from one state to another.  I don’t mean this in a shallow political way or anything like that- there are a few lessons here about climate change and such, but I don’t really mean it in that narrow of a sense.  It’s more philosophical than that, about the origins, utility, and reality of the distinctions we make.  Sit with it a while, if you're so inclined, and maybe you’ll find it as rewarding as I did.  Maybe not, brains are weird.

But there’s another analogy lurking here, one that’s harder to articulate.  Rivers, of course, have been a metaphor for time since… well, since forever.  In a moving river, no given particle actually moves upstream, but information does.  A few paragraphs back, I talked about the river ‘knowing’ what was coming, right?  And just as rivers send information upstream, the consistency and ordered nature of the cosmos allows the future to affect the present, at least to some extent.  This is the whole trick that makes brains work (and in a subtler way, DNA too); brains are the eddies and whorls in the flow of time where events downstream propagate upwards, where the flow of atoms in the present is dictated by our predictions, by our anticipations of future events and by the information that the present carries about what has not yet occurred.

In a real river, a relatively simple mechanical system, there’s only a modest amount of information moving upstream in time.  Add in natural selection, you get a bit more, add in intelligence, you get a LOT more.  In our wider supra-fluvial reality, the development and propagation of these brains has a lot to do with whether time itself is, in a sense ‘subcritical’ or ‘supercritical’, whether the present is in the shadow of the future or whether it is merely itself.  And, in turn, it becomes a different type of environment- a biosphere, an Anthropocene, a living world.  It’s a fascinating way to think about myself.

[hanayumi]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬

— timeskip!sano manjirou x reader || 2.3k wc.

after the dust settles; after the battles have been fought, and after the fog clears in sheets, you can only see him for who he is, and can’t help but love him all the more.

contains lots of comfort + smut !!🔞!!

note: mikey is not in bonten but instead living a normal life with you // spoiler he proposes <3 tHIS IS MY FIRST TOKYOREV FIC EVER ABWJAJWJAHA

snapshot ;

And, you could never forget his disheveled form when he came to you that night — breathless and with flushed cheeks — when it was years later and he held out a bouquet of your favourite flowers to you, asking you to be his girlfriend. Perhaps it was more like shouting — shouting to everyone within a ten-mile radius that you were the only one he loved and would love for eternity. (You couldn’t refuse. Not when you loved him too.)

Sano Manjiro is the fire gliding through your veins.

He is the boy who bore angel’s wings through his sorrow — a child, who’d been cradled in the arms of an invisible darkness since birth, who’d learnt how to crawl his way out of it. Taught himself how to crawl, with baby steps, out of the savageness that he was moulded by.

All you know of him is the kindness that glittered across his eyes when he saved you from those brutish delinquents looking for trouble in your first year of middle school. And you remember the silent way in which he’d trail after you in the days that followed just to make sure you wouldn’t get harassed again. His bold stature whenever he picked fights with those about thrice as big as him as if it were a gifted instinct to provoke. To challenge. To win.

There had been a subtle way in which he fell into your routine, day after day when you heard him greet you in a cheery voice as you padded into class a mere half-a-second before the bell rang. You heard that the only reason he went to school in those days was to see you. A spark, and then a flame. It was mesmerising. He was mesmerising — in every piece of vulnerability that he offered you under a meek candle flame, in every thread of sincerity that you saw woven into his words; when he stayed behind almost every day after class to watch you clean up the teacher’s desk. And when he spoke it made you feel warm inside.

And, you could never forget his disheveled form when he came to you that night — breathless and with flushed cheeks — when it was years later and he held out a bouquet of your favourite flowers to you, asking you to be his girlfriend. Perhaps it was more like shouting — shouting to everyone within a ten-mile radius that you were the only one he loved and would love for eternity. (You couldn’t refuse. Not when you loved him too.)

Memories of that scene still remain crystallised in the back of your mind, like a wobbly photograph that won’t fade no matter how much time has eloped.

Your first date is now a distant recollection. He hasn’t quite left his old ways behind, and now his smiles eclipse a darkened past — one that’s fraught with heart-rending loss and sacrifices. But there is nothing fabricated in the smile he still gives to you, the one that’s reserved for you and you only because though it tried, even fate couldn’t erode the cornerstone he dedicated solely in your honour.

You can tell, from his childlike laughter when he hobbles to you — with puffy cheeks stuffed full of the taiyaki that you’ve hand-baked for him on your tenth? eleventh? anniversary together — beckoning you to come over to his side (“A fun-filled date night awaits!”) and you can tell, that when he grins at you like this, he’s happy.

Even though fate loves to kick him in the ass when it matters most, where it hurts the most; he’s happy, because your warmth is the one thing that hasn’t been swallowed up and torn from him. (And god help whoever tries.)

∗

“The sea breeze sure does feel great, doesn’t it?”

Soft vibrations from his voice reverberate in his chest, and you grip him a little tighter feeling his heartbeat accelerate against your eardrums. You nod lightly. You can’t see his expression when you’re half-buried into his chest, but something feels off about him tonight. You’re just not sure what.

A silent rendezvous alongside city lights, with gentle waves brushing against the shore when you stand barefoot on the sand clinging to your lover — it’s warm. You want to melt into him. It feels like home.

It’s the same beach that he dragged you to when you were still kids, carving soft, sentimental dreams into the sand with washed-up twigs — and who would’ve guessed that more than a decade later, you still have him wrapped around your tiny finger?

Only this time he hopes — prays, really — that one day he’ll get to put a ring around it. (Not that he’ll tell you that.)

He rarely gets insecure. Not since you’ve spent the better part of your life supporting him through thick and thin, sweet and sour — but there’s something about the nightmares that have their ways of clawing back to him. Whispering doubt just as the sun rises and splays gold all over your slumbering form, whilst he watches your shallow breaths with a melancholic smile.

A small, minuscule, infinitesimal shard of doubt sinks into his chest. His jacket is warm; you gifted it to him. Your body’s warm.

If you’d left him all those years ago, who’s to say you wouldn’t be living out your dreams now?

Untethered. Free. Able to do whatever you wanted without having to be glued to his side. Because he’d been so reluctant to let you go that he snatched you up for himself the second he saw the chance. Perhaps he were more of a burden than he realised. (His memories always seem to remind him that.)

Perhaps you’re both walking hand-in-hand on thin ice, a pair of star-crossed lovers destined to plunge into the frigid depths someday.

He sucks in a breath through his mouth, ashen eyes unfaltering from the pinpricks of neon lights over the horizon. Cargo ships that flicker on and off belying hidden messages to those willing to decipher them.

You know, and he knows that you know.

“What are you frowning about?” you say.

“I’m not,” he says, not missing a beat. Liar.

You’ve seen enough of the same denial, the same desperation hidden so covertly between the lines and between his carefree smiles. His voice has a gravelly timbre, a slight edge, and he’s trying to mask it as exhaustion. You know it.

You’ve learnt firsthand how to pull him out of it, snap him back to reality, out of the fog and back into your arms. And it wasn’t pretty. And it took a whole lot of effort and struggle. (Everything worthwhile takes a whole lot of effort and struggle.)

“I love you, you know.”

But love is a hungry hungry, undying flame. You reassure him, just like always, head tilting up to capture his gaze with liquid, warmth-filled eyes as if he were the centre of your universe. And he feels a heavy weight pried off his core. Your body’s warm. He feels the off-chance that maybe, he might’ve just landed on the slim chance at finding his soulmate.

A tiny pinky promise is made, between himself and the velvety box that’s tucked away in his pocket. It’s there for moral support now — but the time will come when it will shine. For now, for once, he lets his actions show you his gratefulness where his words would fall short.

Lovingly he grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger. Chuckling lightly as he leans in closer.

“Got it,” he murmurs against your lips. So, so warm. “Love ya too, darling.”

∗

Sometimes, when his muffled groans and pained whimpers rouse you from slumber, you blink through the bleariness of sleep and your fingers instinctively reach out to him, entangling in his dusky hair. Carding through each strand. Rubbing small circles into his scalp.

His body will tremble and his jaw will clench from this sleep-induced agony and it will tear your heart in two, but only with your touches will he find a scrap of solace in his dreams, and slowly, slowly his arms will release their death grip on the sheets — he will hold you tighter unconsciously when you press yourself into his chest, willing the anguish away. Bit by bit.

Tonight his eyebrows are furrowed and dishevelled dark hair clings to his sweaty forehead. You’ve seen him have nightmares before but every time it still leaves a wretched feeling festering in your stomach.

Gentle whispers of his name coupled with light kisses to his neck serve to bring him back to you, his jagged breaths growing calmer and his scrunched-up expression unscrewing with every stroke. “(Name),” your name leaves his chapped lips, his eyes cracking open to meet yours.

“I’m here, baby,” you whisper. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

He doesn’t reply — stays silent as you coo soft reassurances in a scratchy voice, but his grip is as firm as steel and he lets out tiny, inaudible whimpers.

“Had a dream,” he mumbles into your hair. “You were gone and I—” his voice cracks, and you feel your heart constrict. “I can’t lose you,” he breathes.

“You won’t lose me,” you say. “Never ever. I promise.”

∗

In the morning you wake up with him still clutching you like a lifeline. Like how he used to (and sometimes still does) cling to his old and frayed childhood blanket.

From his soft, almost purr-like snores, you can tell he’d most likely fallen asleep close to sunrise. You wanted to stay with him the whole night but he kept shushing you softly and telling you to go back to sleep — and he is never selfish. He was ruined and battered with worry and the hazy fog of sleep greatly numbed his ability to tell his dreams from reality, but he didn’t want you to get less rest because of him. Just want you to be here, just want to hold you, he said. That’s enough for him.

Breakfast turns into brunch by the time his sleepy groans infiltrate the silence, his bleary state and awful bedhead drawing small giggles from you as you beam, “Had a good sleep, darling?”

He mumbles something under his breath before nuzzling his face into your neck, resolutely declaring his craving for your homemade pancakes. You huff, because it’s the fifth day in a row he’s wanted pancakes for breakfast, but you always give in anyway. You poke at his cheek looking for your goodmorning kiss, while his eyes are half-lidded and a lazy smile graces his features.

“On second thought,” he says between pecks. “I want breakfast in bed.”

You raise a brow; he merely winks before throwing the covers off of you, ignoring your puzzled expression as his fingers begin to trace your supple skin from your collarbone slithering down to your bare stomach. Oh.

He sighs dreamily at the goosebumps feathering up on your skin, before leaving tiny, open-mouthed kisses along your neck. His hands travel lower and lower, until he grips the soft flesh of your thighs, edging them apart slowly and hiking your knees up so he can settle between them. Now you know why he always insists you sleep naked. (It wasn’t because of the summer heat after all.)

“Gonna be good for me, baby?” he purrs, the pad of his finger lazily toying with the hood of your clit, gentle prodding that increases in fervency when he hears the breathy gasps tumbling from your lips.

His mouth slides onto yours, muffling your mewls as his finger drags up and down languidly, gathering up the slick leaking from your cunt and smearing it all over your hole. One finger dips in, and then another. He all but swallows up your whines as his fingers curl, looking to scrape against every inch of your pliant walls.

His pupils are blown wide when he pulls away, a deep grey engulfed by inky black. A devious smirk tugs at his lips when he sees the sheen of saliva coating your bottom lip. “Please,” you whimper, fingers clutching at the sheets and looking to him with teary eyes. “Faster, a-ah—please, baby.”

But all you get from him is a click of his tongue.

“Ah ah. You want to feel good, don’t you sweetheart?” he mutters, low and threatening against your neck, teeth grating at the tender skin where he loves to stake his claim on you. “Let me take care of you, okay?”

He nips and suckles, refusing to pull away until your neck is mapped out with love bites that he knows won’t be going away for a while. His fingers pump in and out of you in a steady motion, brushing up against your sensitive nub as your pussy sucks him in at every thrust. Praise after praise of his name leaves your reddened lips. You buck your hips to meet his hand, a heavy knot tightening in your gut.

“Gonna cum,” you cry, feeling the pleasure build up higher and higher, a warm, sticky heat pooling in your core. “Gonna cum on your fingers, a-ah—Mikey, ‘m gonna cum.”

“You look so pretty,” he coos. “Cum for me, baby. Make a mess for me.”

Your toes are curling, back bowing off the bed as searing pleasure ripples throughout your core in tandem with his fervent strokes. A soft, strangled cry wrenches from your throat as you gush all over his fingers.

His movements slow as he watches you pant, watches your tits heave with half-lidded eyes, fingers still pushing in and out of your clenching hole. Then he sighs, bringing his fingers to his lips as he sucks them clean one by one, his eyes never leaving your form.

“You taste like heaven, baby.”

Your chest still heaves, your eyes still glossy and your skin now littered with implants of his love. Something hard presses against your thigh — he whispers just how much he loves you as he presses his lips to yours, greedy and hungry for more.

And he knows, and he hopes that you know.

Ten, eleven, twelve years will not change a thing — for as long as his lungs continue to suck in oxygen at every breath, he will be irrevocably, irreversibly, inexplicably in love with you.

“Got an idea,” he grunts, when his cock bumps against your cervix and he’s bottoming out in your spent hole, warm breath tickling your neck. You brace your hands against his broad shoulders, feeling as if cotton were stuffed in your ears. Colours spin around in your vision as you cry out through clenched teeth, feeling your walls tighten around his length and convulse in yet another orgasm.

“Let’s get married tomorrow, okay?”

Tears flutter like stardust beneath your lashes. Your eyes snap open in shock — there’s a ring sitting pretty on your finger where he slid it on.